637 AD, 16 AH

Through

638 AD, 17 AH

Alas, my sojourn at Jerusalem, though fruitful and was bound to come to an end. I shared one final meeting with Sumayya on my last day. We had announced our union, the marriage now legitimate in the eyes of all.

"To a fruitful alliance," I pecked her on the lips. Every time I closed my eyes when I lay with her, I saw only Martha.

"You refuse to name it a marriage," she replied, smirking and tracing a finger through my hair.

"I thought you had no need of a husband."

She was not Martha.

"Yet you've managed to convince me into entering this mutually beneficial alliance. You've a tongue of silver in more ways than one."

Next, I bid farewell to Mu'awiyah ibn Abu Sufyan, my latest acquaintance. Mu'awiyah's brother, a prominent Muslim general by the rotten name of Yazid, gifted me a camel the night I saved his brother. I would have deemed it an unworthy recompense had I not befriended the extroverted Mu'awiyah. It never hurt to have powerful friends.

Still, a camel for his brother's life. How stingy can one be?

"When we have the entirety of the Levant within our grasp, I pray you would seek me out, brother," Mu'awiyah told me, as we embraced at the gates of Jerusalem.

Jerusalem and the big cities of the Levant were places of dust and clamor, but to be honest, I much preferred anywhere to Yathrib. It was where my wretched pious wife Zaynab resided, as well as my pain of a stepbrother, 'Abd al-Rahman.

And my mother.

It pained me seeing her the way she was. The husk of the woman she had once been that the years of abuse forged her into. Just the sight of her was enough to boil my blood and rouse my temper. The beast would speak then, in great length, of my failings. That I was a man past his twentieth year now with no reputation of note, no deeds of valor to speak of. Even when I succeeded in freeing my mother, I failed spectacularly. And no matter how I looked at my current standing, I remained slave.

It was around the year 17 AH that 'Umar created the Hijri calendar. The months of the calendar were already in widespread use prior to the advent of Islam, but it was 'Umar who introduced this new system of digitizing the years by setting Muhammad's migration to Yathrib as the milestone.

And it was in the year 17 AH that I stood on trial for murder.
_____________

"I cannot be without him, yet I cannot be with him," 'Amr said, as we walked the streets of the city. The air was still and humid, the sun pestering. All phenomena that led to the crisis Arabia was facing now; a crisis we were aiming to resolve.

"Why can't you be with him?" I asked.

Amr gave me an exasperated look. "Hanthalah, why do you torment me so? You know it is Allah's will."

"Your god's will is to keep you from happiness? What does a god care for who you fuck?"

'Amr was an exceedingly strict Muslim. Of course, he was not without considerable sin, a fact that racked him with constant guilt, but he remained a rather judgmental individual. The thought that he would not approve of my true self, my true beliefs that I kept shrouded, troubled me deeply.

"He is most merciful," 'Amr continued, his eyes fixed on his feet. "I seek only forgiveness for my sins."

"Breathing is a bloody sin to you."

'Amr and I were partaking in the distribution of supplies to the famine ravaged Arabian peninsula. The year of 17 AH was marked by what became known as the great famine, an epidemic of consequence to a drought that afflicted us. The skies were clear, the sun radiant and relentless as ever, but the gods saw fit to deny us rain for many a month, subsequently hampering the year's harvest. Worse still, nomads seeking shelter from plentiful sandstorms or aid in the midst of the famine flocked to Madinah, dwindling our scarce supplies further.

'Umar's method of combatting the famine and preventing widespread starvation in the region was importing an abundance of supplies from the newly conquered regions in the Levant and 'Iraq to Yathrib, where it could be distributed to those in need.

We were part of task force headed for the outskirts of the city, where a refugee camp of starving Bedouins and beggars alike pitched their tents near the mosque of Quba'.

"Where are you going, Abu Muhammad?" Zaynab asked before I left home.

I winced at the shrillness of her insufferable voice. "I thought I told you not to call me that."

"Is your son not Muhammad? Are you not his father?"

I groaned. "My son is 'Abd al-Ka'aba. I know no Muhammad."

"I do not approve of either name," Mother chimed in, scowling, clutching 'Abd al-Rahman so hard I thought his ribs would shatter.

No doubt you'd like to call him Moses or some crap, I thought, walking out the door. For I was answering 'Umar's summons. I needed to tie some loose ends.

'Umar was a shrewd man, efficient in his duties and sharp of mind. I was aware of that. I had seen how he personally supervised the caravans of supplies imported from Syria, Palestine and 'Iraq; how he roamed the streets of Yathrib himself at night, distributing sacks of grain and butter and meat to those in need.

I also knew Qasim had an abundance of what he believed to be evidence. His sorry tale of a slave being part of Yazid's caravan in Damascus? Easily negated by the Nubian's testimony that I was in Alexandria at the given time.

The merchants in Yathrib I had bribed or threatened to extort information about Mas'oud's children may stand to testify as well, I knew. They could identify me from my frame. But that would be negated by a trick I had up my sleeve.

'Umar's shed was bristling with notorious men of state, conversing cordially with one another, ready to be about their business. They either flanked the Khalifa on his wooden bench, sat on pillows on the floor, or stood elsewhere in the audience chamber.

One of 'Umar's many reforms in newfound position was the establishment of majlis al shura – literally the council of advisors; an informal institution composed of senior men of rank in the city.

The majlis al-shura was not a council of fixed personnel. Rather, it was composed of individuals 'Umar saw fit to gather and discuss whatever issue was at hand.

Some of them were chiefs of other governmental departments 'Umar established.

There was 'Uthman ibn 'Affan, treasurer of state, his once auburn hair now heavily chased with grey, for instance.

There were judicial advisors, most prominent of whom was 'Ali ibn Abu Taleb.

And then there was Muhammad ibn Maslamah.

My blood boiled at the sight of him, standing there so smug, so dignified in his newfound position. Putting his skills of stealth and cunning deceit to use, the Khalifa had tasked ibn Maslamah with investigating officials, governors and troops that were rumored to be practicing some sort of misconduct or corruption. He was also given a say in matters of jurisprudence whenever 'Umar saw fit, as was evident in his presence in the majlis.

He turned to meet my eyes, and I barely suppressed a shudder of rage. The man that had murdered Qusayy in cold blood and never answered for the crime. He had relied on dishonesty and deceit, a true coward! He had asked for a whiff of the poet's fragrance before driving a dagger into the side of his neck. An image that persisted in its haunting of my dreams. An event that fueled me to become the man who I was that day.

An unapologetic murderer.

"I cannot say whether this calamity is because of the lapses of the Caliph or the sins of the people," 'Umar said as I settled in, referring to the famine. "Whosoever is to be blamed let us repent and pray to God to relieve us of this misery."

"Ameen," the men in the audience chamber rumbled, one after the other.

"For now, we must address the matter at hand," he continued, gesturing to a scowling Qasim ibn al-Aswad reclining on a wall. "This is an accusation of murder, a most heinous crime. Hanthalah ibn Ka'b al-Ansari stands accused of murder by Qasim ibn al-Aswad al-Qurayshi."

"Repeated murder," Qasim corrected him. "Of my nephews, Yazid and 'Ammar ibn Mas'oud, and my niece, Asma'a bint Mas'oud."

'Umar shot him a glower that left even me shuffling uncomfortably.

"Do you wish to conduct this trial in my place as well, ibn al-Aswad?" he demanded.

He received no response.

"In any case, the accuser claims he possesses evidence to support his claim," 'Umar waved a hand. "Show it."

Qasim nodded, sparing me a brief glance. "These are two merchants that wish to bear witness."

Two somber-looking men shuffled out of the corner of the chamber.

"One was threatened by a man that fits ibn Ka'b's appearance, and the other bribed," the wretched brother of my former master began. He pointed at me. "My good men, do you recognize this man?"

The chamber fell into a moment of awkward silence as neither man spoke, both hesitating. The merchant I had threatened was shaking visibly. I suppressed a smile.

"Perhaps if he spoke? Maybe I'll recognize his voice?" suggested the one I bribed. I paid that bastard good coin. It ached me like a rash unreachable on my back that I would not be able to kill him. It would garner far too much suspicion.

"I will speak freely, o Commander of the Believers," I puffed my chest, spoke clearly with no tremor, and stepped forward. I addressed 'Umar directly. It was vital for me to seem confident while these two fools looked like they shat themselves. "Because I have nothing to fear. Nothing to hide. Unlike these two liars who harbor doubts over their religion."

"Careful," 'Ali chimed in. "Apostasy is a serious accusation, and irrelevant besides."

I nodded respectfully. "I concede. But you are a wise ruler, my Khalifa, and far-sighted as well. Surely you can discern an honest man from one that lies through his teeth. Look at them!"

I boomed, spreading an arm toward the two shaking men.

"What are they nervous of, my commander? May Allah bear witness to my words, I have only known you to be a modest and humble ruler for the past two years I've spent in Madinah as your slave. It has been the greatest of honors! Whenever a man wishes to speak in regards to a personal matter, your door is always open. If one seeks clarity over a matter of religion – the interpretation of a verse or a question of the Prophet's habits, you are ever eager to lend support.

O Commander of the Believers!

May Allah bear witness that you roam these streets as any other would. Unencumbered by a cluster of personal guards. Men approach you in the streets freely, without an ounce of fear in their hearts, for you are a wise and just ruler.

O Commander of the Believers!

May Allah bear witness to the fact you reside not in a grand palace when there are those in your state who have no abode to call home, nor do you indulge in the trappings of extravagant wealth when there are those in your state who boast of no coin. You do not wear silks nor fine embroidery when there are those in your state that own naught but the garments on their backs. In this time of great trial from Allah, you do not eat meats or butter, not even broth! You refuse to consume more than the poorest of Muslims in these times of hardship. You refuse to eat when your subjects starve!"

"This man is speaking nonsense," Qasim growled.

"My point is this man is 'Umar ibn al-Khattab!" I exclaimed. "He is the greatest servant of Islam. He is the man I strive to be half of. He does not turn away those who seek his aid, nor does he mistreat his people. He has not given cause to these two men for them to tremble so. Why, then, are they so nervous?"

"Has it occurred to you it is because they are embroiled in a matter you dragged them into?" Qasim suggested.

"Or perhaps it is because the last vestiges of their conscience gnaws at them. Attempting to break free from the clutches of the Devil. Because they know it is sin to lie. Least of all to the Khalifa of Muslims himself! In a matter of life and death! O Allah, I ask of you forgiveness and mercy."

I concluded my tirade by lowering my head and steadying it with a hand, feigning disappointment.

"Is this the man's voice?" 'Umar prodded the two merchants.

"I...I don't – " the more timid one started.

"I believe so," the other finally concluded.

Bastard got fat off my money and now stands to see me killed.

"This is your evidence?" I demanded of Qasim. "Two fools recognizing a voice? One doesn't know and the other isn't sure."

"The evidence is flimsy," 'Ali decided.

"This is no evidence at all," Muhammad ibn Maslamah agreed.

I'm still going to kill you.

"What of the witnesses in Damascus?" Qasim asked hurriedly. "There was – "

"A slave in master Yazid's, may Allah be pleased with him, caravan in Damascus? His corpse was never recovered?"

"He stands before me!"

"Commander of the Believers, I believe that my friend, the Nubian, has testified to my presence in Alexandria at the time of the alleged incident, leagues away from the scene of alleged murder!"

"Is this Nubian here to give his testimony?" 'Ali asked.

I shook my head. "He is in Palestine, doing God's work. But he has spoken to the Commander of Believers in great length of this matter prior to his departure from Madinah."

'Umar nodded. "He has."

"Another piece of 'evidence' has been trampled," I announced. "Commander of the Believers, I have a person of interest that will conclude the issue of Asma'a bint Mas'oud's, may Allah be pleased with her, death. I would like to present him, given your permission."

'Umar nodded, signaling that he had granted permission.

I stepped outside to find 'Amr handling a man in a tattered gown. I hauled him inside.

"I would see your family well fed and taken care of. They will be freed, allowed to live an honorable life. Your wife will, perhaps, will struggle to earn her own living, but at least your children will call no man master." I said as I approached him.

His name was Theodoros. He had been a Syrian Roman general, captured along with his family in the siege of Damascus. After a lifetime of luxury, his wife and three children found themselves in one of servitude and disgrace. They were slaves.

So, I approached him the night after Qasim's first visit to 'Umar's house.

He sighed and met my eyes with a miserable gaze. "What would you have of me?"

And I told him.

"Commander of the Believers," I addressed him. "This man has confessed to the murder of Asma'a bint Mas'oud."

"He has confessed," 'Umar exclaimed, stroking his cane.

"I was driven by madness," the Syrian slave announced, on his knees.

"Be silent," I barked at him, kicking him in the ribs. "Commander of the Believers, I would seek your infinite wisdom to bestow deserved justice upon this man."

Qasim gaped at me open-mouthed, a look of incredulity to him.

The man was never heard from again. Supposedly, 'Umar presented him to a kinsman of Asma'a's, probably Qasim, who presumably killed him in retaliation.

I promised Theodoros I would see his family freed from slavery, and subsequently taken care of. He only needed to sacrifice himself for their purchase and freedom.

I fulfilled my end of the bargain. I traded the camel Mu'awiyah's brother rewarded me with in Jerusalem for the Syrian man's family. I bought them from some Muslim war veteran that lost an arm at the siege of Damascus.

Three young boys and a wife. I was a slave that owned slaves. It was not certainly not legal – a slave could not own, but no one else was aware of this paradox.

And in any case, I did manage to fetch a good price for them at the marketplace two days later.

But first, I had people to feed. Others to kill