The situation in the refugee camp had festered, though it had not progressed to the point of mass starvation. Within days, we managed to distribute our supplies evenly upon the people and the tribesmen within Yathrib and without, the Bedouins and the city people, were once again reinvigorated and would boast of a great relief.

However, it was on my first day in the refugee camp on the outskirts of the city that I struck. It was the perfect opportunity. 'Amr and I walked side by side, encumbered by heavy sacks. There were dozens of other volunteers to the expedition accompanying the carts heavy laden with precious food and beverage.

And 'Umar was among us. His beefy arms overflowing with sacks of grain and other such supplies, his massive back arched under the strain of yet more. He was an admirable ruler indeed.

The place smelled of horse shit and death. The streets were empty and bereft of the din of life one was well accustomed to in city life. After our arrival, we split ourselves into separate groups, bound for different corners of the camp, before regrouping and moving along east, distributing our remaining supplies to tribesmen elsewhere.

Those I blackmailed in the city proper claimed this son of Mas'oud was a drunk and a lout, a failed merchant turned blacksmith, turned beggar. Further investigation on my part discovered the exact tent he occupied in the mist of this shambles. I split my contingent further when we neared the tent; I saw to it that each individual would carry an armful of sacks of grain to the eventual recipients.

I learned from my mistakes in Yathrib. I decided to remain inconspicuous to these people, an unassuming stranger rather than a shady character. Qasim did not stop me; he merely helped me see my shortcomings.

"I hear there is a blacksmith residing near you," I informed a woman when I handed her a sack of grain. "I would see him well fed."

I did not beat the information out of her, nor did I mention the man's name. In addition to her gratitude for the much-desired grain, I doubted she would bat an eyelid at what was about to happen.

Mas'oud's son was a haggard individual; like many I had encountered in the refugee camp, his bones were jutting out of his chest, his arms two sticks protruding out of his body. His cheeks were sunk deep into his face, and his eyes drooped, two black pools dug beneath them, as though they were shadows.

The famine had taken its toll on him. But it would not be hunger that would spell the end of him.

"I thank you, brother," he steadied himself against his tent pole, as I stepped inside. "I thank you. How can I repay your kindness?"

"Die," I replied.

I took great satisfaction in how his head bobbed from the sack to my face. His expression was one of sheer shock, his jaw dropped, his mouth wide. I laughed despite myself.

I grabbed him by the collar and yanked him toward me.

"Who are you?" he spoke in a hushed tone. "I have done you no harm, I assure you."

"A woman once called me the Devil. Your father called me worse."

The man raised his scrawny hands, a feeble attempt to shield himself from me. He backed up against a wall and gulped. It reminded me of Martha, and I felt the rage rushing through my veins, powerful and venomous as ever.

"My father?" he wheezed. "My father was a good Muslim. He is a martyr!"

"You had a slave boy when you were but a child yourself. Remember him?"

There were tears in ibn Mas'oud's eyes as he sniffled. "By what right do you kill me? I did you no harm! Not then nor now."

"I care not."

I yanked him by the hair toward me; his skeletal frame rendered him weightless. It was an effortless endeavor. I put one hand to his mouth and another over his nostrils. It would not do to throttle him; that would leave a mark.

"Please," he wheezed. "Please."

But I squeezed anyway. His struggles were feeble, his efforts to yank my arm away from his mouth and nose fruitless as I choked the life out of him. When his pathetic attempts ceased, and he kicked and groaned no longer, his lifeless body lay discarded on the floor.

"Poor fellow," I spoke to his corpse, rising to my feet. "He died of starvation."

_________________

Late 639 AD, 18 AH

"The gods appreciate strength," I told my son, who was sitting on my knee. "They appreciate bravery. But they also expect hospitality for those who take shelter beneath your roof. However, should they turn against you, they are guests no longer, and should be shown no quarter. Slaughter your enemies mercilessly, 'Abd al-Ka'aba, for there is no respite in this life. The strong devour the weak."

"Stop filling Muhammad's ears with the words of the Devil," Zaynab shrieked, snatching 'Abd al-Ka'aba away from my clutch.

I felt my rage pricking against me. "His name is 'Abd al-Ka'aba. My son's name is 'Abd al-Ka'aba!"

Zaynab gave me a venomous look. "He serves none but Allah."

"He serves Allah," I agreed. "He also serves Hubal, Shams, Allat, al-'Uzza, al-Manat and many others. And I will send him to the Bedouin!"

It was a common practice among sedentary Arabs; young boys would be sent to live among a nomadic tribe in order to garner the skills necessary to be a man. Bedouins lead hard lives, being exposed to the unforgiving sands, scorpions, the reptiles and deadly wildlife of the scorching plains.

Nomads were a restless bunch and their way of life required a constantly wary eye and alert mind, their rough callous hands never ceasing work. It was a healthy practice to lend one's children to live out their formative years in the desert.

Hard circumstances breed hard men.

But, of course, Zaynab wanted 'Abd al-Ka'aba and 'Abdullah, my other son, by her side, to grow soft and pasty at her side. It was an ongoing dispute between us.

My mother groaned from the corner of our tiny shack, and my two younger children, Umaymah and 'Abdullah began squalling, disturbed by the commotion.

This was a popular argument in our household.

No doubt Mother had something to say about her Yahweh and more religious drivel, Jewish rather than Muslim, but the years had seen her wither more by the day. Sometimes, she could barely speak, and she was no longer entirely aware of her surroundings. Often, she would mistake me for Ezra, other times for her brother or some other kinsman.

She only remembered 'Abd al-Rahman, her son she had born from a nomadic shaykh; 'Abd al-Rahman, haughty as ever, was now a man, boasting of four and ten years to his life. He had grown strong and willowy, with an impressive build.

I would be leaving Yathrib for the first time in what seemed like a lifetime soon. I despised mingling with my family. My mother was no longer the woman I had loved, the woman that sheltered me and took me in when all else rejected me. Now she was a tired hag, battered and broken by the fate of capricious gods.

'Abd al-Rahman would make a fine warrior someday, one that would not shame my name and the gods would watch him exhibit his prowess fondly. However, the boy was deeply disturbed and egocentric. He cared for naught but his mother, and he yet harbored delusions over being the rightful leader of his nameless clan, a sub-tribe of the vast Banu Ghatafan, dwellers of the region of Najd. He was an insufferable, spoiled brat that would not leave his mother's arms but for sword practice. I tried hammering him into a formidable Arab man, but he was rotten to the core. He did not seem to show interest in any particular religion or god; of course, Mother claimed he was no gentile, that his love and fear for Yahweh knew no bounds, but he did not pray to any deity nor did he profess any faith whatsoever.

'Abd al-Ka'aba, my firstborn, who was two years old then. I did not know how to deal with children. All they cared for was fodder and sleep. I was not a man to dish out affection or gush emotion. When the boy came of age, then I would shape him into a man desired.

Umaymah and 'Abdullah were a greater mystery to me.

They were twins, brother and sister, yet infants; the Arabs had their myths about twins, that they would transform into cats when the hour of the wolf struck, and all the world had gone to sleep. They would return to their tiny human form at the brink of dawn. I was not sure whether the stories were true nor did my curiosity rouse me to become a more active parent. Yet, for all my lack of understanding to the nature of children, there was a force that drew me to them, a certain affection that burned deep within that gave me certainty that I would gladly die in order for them to prosper.

I had another daughter, who resided with her mother, my second wife, in the provinces of Syria that the Muslims had captured. I bid Sumayya request that we name the child Ruqayya.

She was nearly of an age with 'Abd al-Ka'aba, yet I had never seen her. The last few years had been hectic in Yathrib, and I was not given the opportunity to depart.

But now, I was given opportunity to do so, under less than savory circumstances. For there was an outbreak of plague in the Levant, mainly in Syria.

Where my daughter and second wife resided.

Many a prominent Muslim had succumbed to the disease, including Abu 'Ubaidah ibn al-Jarrah, the designated commander of the Muslim armies and the governor of the Levant, but it was the death of Yazid ibn Abu Sufyan that most impacted me. I had interacted briefly with the man in Jerusalem, but I was good friends with his brother, Mu'awiyah, a man I kept close correspondence to for his influence and noble birth.

When Abu 'Ubaidah died, 'Umar split the Levant – Syria and Palestine – into several provinces among two different governors. Mu'awiyah's brother, Yazid was among those two governors.

"What have I done wrong?" 'Umar lamented one afternoon, shaking me by my shoulders. I stared back at him listlessly. He shook me again, more vigorously this time. "First it was famine. Now plague. Allah is punishing us. Is it because of my sins? What am I to do?"

"Perhaps you should stop shaking me," I suggested, voice quivering. "And after that, maybe quit beating people with that damned cane."

"I cannot say whether this calamity is because of the lapses of the Khalifa or the sins of the people," he continued as though I hadn't spoken. "Whosoever is to be blamed let us repent and pray to God for relieving us of this misery."

He walked away and resumed his usual place on the mundane bench.

"You're going to Syria, I would be rid of you," 'Umar announced, waving a hand. "I would see you relieved as a nuisance hovering over my shoulder."

"Syria? You would have me killed, Commander of the Believers?"

"I would see you save those who have not yet contracted the plague. It is an extraction effort. Spirit them away from the clutches of contamination and bring them here."

However, Yazid was also struck by the plague and fell shortly afterwards.

"The son of Abu Sufyan is dead, Commander of the Believers," I informed 'Umar.

He nodded.

"His brother, then. Mu'awiyah..."

"Is grieving," 'Umar said firmly. "One does not benefit from the death of kin."

I suppressed a grin. Mu'awiyah now ascended as the governor of Damascus and a number of other provinces in Syria that touched upon the border of Arabia. His political capacity was rising, and with it, my own fortunes.

Friends in high places.

_________________

"Abu 'Ubaidah ibn al-Jarrah, Yazid ibn Abu Sufyan, who were both governors and high-ranking generals," Mundhir listed the names of prominent men that fell to this plague; the three of us roamed the abandoned streets of Hims. A ghost city. "Suhayl ibn 'Amr as well. Casualties in the thousands. Thousands of troops dead, not at the hands of Roman or Persian. But this...illness."

I grunted. "Then let it stop at those troops who perished. Let us do our jobs."

We had journeyed ever north, rescuing Muslims residing Syrian towns and villages who had not contracted this curious illness that proved fatal to so many – Mundhir one of them. Now, we were in Hims, to the north of Syria. There were other task forces elsewhere by the Jordan and in Palestine who would travel further north into the fringes of Syria, where we would eventually rendezvous.

I specifically requested from 'Umar that I be part of the task force going to Hims. One reason was that Sumayya was trapped here in the midst of the outbreak. The other...

Someone would die here this night, and not to the plague.

"Back inside," I roared at two children lurking in an alleyway. "Stay fucking home. Stay fucking home, you imbeciles, or I will defile your corpses."

My litham was draped over my mouth and nose, and I wore a gown with flowing sleeves so that I would not handle or touch anything lest I risk contraction of the disease myself.

But there was one person I handled with my bare hands that night.

"Sa'id ibn Mas'oud," I knocked on the door of a home. I was in charge of the task force, so I managed to come here alone. After this, I would seek out Sumayya. She had borne me a daughter. I smiled. "We have come to extract you."

The door opened, revealing a finely clad man in an impressive woolen coat and a turban.

"Praise be to Allah," he gasped. "Finally, you have come!"

"You do not have the disease, do you?"

"Of course not!"

"During prayers, have you conformed to the instructions of the Khalifa to keep adequate distance between yourself and either brother in faith on both flanks?"

"Of course!"

"Have you limited your interaction with strangers?"

"Yes!"

"Do you have children? Wives?"

"I have the one son, on the bed," he replied, voice growing hostile. "I am a widower."

"Have you remained indoors as of late?"

Mas'oud's son's lips firmed into a thin line and he crossed his arms and lowered his head. "I thought you were here to deliver me to Madinah. Not to harangue me with pointless questions."

"Never hurts to be cautious."

I shoved him into the house and slammed the door shut behind me. He gasped and widened his eyes, but I placed one hand over his nose and another over his mouth. He struggled more vigorously than his siblings, managing to elbow me in the gut once. He squirmed away as my grip relinquished slightly, but I regained firm control of him once I slammed his head into the ground.

I shushed him and wrapped my legs around his waist to still his violent protests. His fruitless efforts waned and faded, dwindling down to twitches, and then to nothing. I maintained my position for a few more seconds to ensure the kill.

Then I heard the shrill cry of an infant on a nearby bed.

I found my feet and headed over. The babe was squalling and red-faced, bawling and kicking incoherently. Much like my own sons and daughter back home.

I grabbed a pillow off the ground.

But then I saw the note. It was skewered on the tip of a dagger lodged into the wood.

I started, catching a glimpse of movement. It was a man in dark robes. Gone now.

I restored my gaze to the piece of parchment again.

What does it mean? I could not read nor write.

But then I heard the screams.