November 639 AD, Shawwal 18 AH

I bid farewell to my family as I left the shack. I gathered my wicker wood shield, curved Persian blade and the bow that had served as my constant companion for the better part of my life. Outside of the shack waited 'Amr and the Nubian.

My knowledge of Egypt, its political climate and the affairs of its people would be milked soon enough, but first, I was tasked with contributing to the completion of the conquest of Palestine.

But war spoils, reputation and prestige were not my motivation in this task.

I was going to rescue Mundhir.

_________________

I knelt and lay both hands on 'Abd al-Rahman's shoulders. My half-brother had a squinty face that was shaped for punching. I yearned to do just that.

"You're the man of this house now, may the gods forgive me," I told him. "Try not get my children killed."

I leaned in and whispered in his ear. "Make sure 'Abd al-Ka'aba is sent to the Banu Asad this summer. Make sure to seek out a man called Nawfal. He'll know what to do. And if I don't make it back here in time, have 'Abdullah follow suit."

Nawfal was a tribesmen of the Asad, a connection I maintained from the time I was among Tulayha's horde.

Then, I moved onto 'Umar's house.

"I wish to prove instrumental in the spread of Allah's religion, Commander of the Believers," I told him on my last day in Yathrib.

I spent four years in this city, masquerading as a Muslim for my own self-preservation and for that of my mother and children.

I once hated this ibn al-Khattab for his contribution to my misery, but the years had softened my heart toward him, and resentment was replaced by admiration and irrevocable love. I was slave to this man, yet I was never referred to as property nor treated as such; it was in stark contrast to my prior experiences as a slave.

'Umar, for all his stiff words, rigid appearance and short temper, was the closest thing I had to a father the past few years. He restored me a family, insufferable as it was; he sheltered me, protected me and clothed me. I owed the meat of my shoulders to this man.

Where my loyalties had once rested purely for my own preservation, to serve my own greed and reputation, they were now utterly undivided toward the Khalifa of the Muslims.

This sovereign of the most powerful empire in the world that lived not in a palace nor cowered behind a great horde of guards or a courtly retinue.

Once, I would have leapt at the opportunity to topple this empire they called a Caliphate, but on the day of my departure to Palestine, I knew that in my heart of hearts, I would gladly fight, bleed and die in the name of 'Umar ibn al-Khattab.

No man had treated me in such a manner before.

Yet, all I repaid him with was deceit and conning.

I had long since shaven my moustaches, leaving the area above my upper lip vacant. My once clean-shaven cheeks were now overgrown with coarse hair. Yet, in my heart lingered Hubal and al-'Uzza and al-Manat. My son was named after 'Umar's apostle and friend, Muhammad, yet within my walls, he was 'Abd al-Ka'aba.

To 'Umar, a man so strict and unforgiving in the ways of his religion, I was a Muslim like any other, and he treated me as such, as though I were his flesh and blood.

When my youngest son, 'Abdullah, born sickly, frail, ghastly pale and bedridden, it was 'Umar who provided for his treatment. It was 'Umar who procured for us a wiseman to treat him. It was 'Umar who would visit his bedside nearly every day, both hands resting on his cane as he whispered prayers to his god for a quick recovery.

And so, during the long trek from Yathrib – no, Madinah now – to Caesarea, I reached within the depths of my heart and came to a conclusion.

A liar I would be longer.

I would attempt to reconcile with the Allah of the Muslims.

I would become a genuine convert.

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I had heart stories of 'Amr ibn al-'Aas. He would later become a legendary figure to Muslims in all corners of the Caliphate, but at the time, he was only a warrior of superb reputation and a top-ranking general in the Muslim armies.

His contribution to the conquest of the Levant was immense, and now with the deaths of Yazid ibn Abu Sufyan and Abu 'Ubaidah ibn al-Jarrah a year prior to the plague, as well as the dismissal of Khalid ibn al-Waleed at the order of the Khalifa, ibn al-'Aas had seen his role elevated.

During the lifetime of Muhammad, he had conquered the region of 'Oman with a brief stint as governor there, while more recently he occupied the office of governor of the conquered territories of Palestine.

Ibn al-'Aas was a warrior to the bone. His square jaw was forever clenched and ornamented with a salt and pepper beard. His head was covered with a cloth headgear that draped down to the small of his back. He had a prominent nose and bushy eyebrows atop squinting eyes. He towered over most men, a hulking mass of muscle and meat, a no-nonsense figure exuding authority and power.

I was assigned to partake in the ongoing siege of Caesarea, a major port town in this western strip of Palestine and one of the final settlements that yet boasted of a Roman garrison within.

I was to march to Caesarea as part of a contingent of reinforcements to ensure the capture of the city. Once the city was taken, 'Umar claimed, the conquest of Egypt would begin.

My time to shine. My time to save Mundhir. I remembered the note left at ibn Mas'oud's bed. The confusion of scurrying men outside. A man had been abducted from their midst.

It was Amr ibn al-'Aas that was the general field commander at the siege of Caesarea, but I was assigned as a close confidant to none other than Mu'awiyah ibn Abu Sufyan – my rich friend who owed me his life. He was not only the governor of the better part of Syria, but a subordinate general to 'Amr ibn al-'Aas on the campaign. No doubt I was assigned to Mu'awiyah's troops at his behest.

Outside the walls of Caesarea, smoke drifted upward to pierce the night sky, heaven-bound, in thick columns, born of the warmth of hundreds of campfires. Arrays of tents clouded the vision of the horizon to north, east and south, the dwellings occupying the lush landscape for as far as the eye could see.

The city walls loomed over us, casting long shadows, absolute and foreboding. The sentries on the ramparts had lit their own fires as well, to shield themselves from the biting wind and the dark alike.

I wondered if Mundhir felt the bite of the cold, wherever he was. We had not yet managed to entirely decipher the contents of the letter.

"Far on the borders of the nation that housed 'Isa, Moses, Yusuf," the poem began. "Consider it to those immortal, a tariff.

High in the clouds he dwells among the birds,

In the midst of flames, he resides where the lost are guided with no words,

Wallowing and whimpering, high above,

Waiting in his misery, for when he is found,

He will topple down to the cove."

"This must be referring to Egypt," 'Amr declared, reading the poem. "Moses, Yusuf and 'Isa were all prophets that found succor in Egypt. 'Isa, running from the infidel. Yusuf; betrayed by brothers. Moses, raised in the court of Pharaoh."

"So, he's in Egypt," I boomed that night in Hims. "That gives us nothing!"

"High in the clouds it says," 'Amr mused aloud.

"How can you be so calm, you demented bastard?" I demanded. "What kind of sick shit would kidnap a man only to reveal his location in riddles?"

"Mountain?" the Nubian guessed.

"Cove suggests it is near water," 'Amr pointed out. "Birds as well. Are there mountains by water in Egypt?"

"Of course there is!" I roared. "Fuck!"

For months, we had been chafing ourselves with guilt and worry over the loss of our friend. Mundhir, so care-free and whimsical. Mundhir who took everything for a joke. It was difficult to imagine him terrified and in great peril.

But doing something was better than sitting on our hands.

And so, we were in Caesarea. On our way to Egypt, where he presumably resided.

I shared a tent with the Nubian. At Caesarea, I donned a mail shirt. During my youth, when Arabia was home to thousands of disparate clans and tribes, skirmishing with one another and sidelined by the rest of the world as barbarians, such a commodity was a great luxury, reserved only for the warriors who earned it. During my time with the Romans as an auxiliary troop, I was not afforded chainmail or any other ornament. Yet, it seemed as though the conquests of Roman and Persian lands had procured an abundance of plunder for the Muslims.

"Does it fit?" Mu'awiyah asked after I draped it over my head.

"A lot heavier than I'd anticipated," I replied. I was already encumbered with the weight of it. "It won't restrict my movement in battle?"

Mu'awiyah only laughed. "Don't remove it as to get used to the weight. It's a wonder you've survived so long without one."

Then, he handed me a flat-topped bronze helmet. Now I had a Persian blade and a Roman helm.

Our first days under the shadow of the foreboding city walls of Caesarea were relatively quiet and prosperous. Rations were plentiful and the army was of ample supply, courtesy of the food and drink 'Umar had dispatched with us, the reinforcements. The Nubian and 'Amr were solemn and melancholy. Their eyes were distant.

They both wore a wood and leather necklace that they would finger more momentarily, lost in their thoughts. We were all occupied of mind, setting our sights not to the city at hand, but those beyond. For one we loved.

An odd thing, love.

Caesarea is a coastal city, by the Mediterranean.

So, on the grass plains before it, I could smell the distinct aroma of the sea.

And I could not bear the scent of seawater or the lapping of waves without the thought of Martha crossing my mind.

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"The time is nigh," Mu'awiyah barged into our tent one evening.

"The time?" I asked.

Mu'awiyah's expression was stern and his jaw was clenched. He pointed at me and the Nubian.

"The hour of the wolf," he spoke with a tight voice. "When all the world is at bed. You are to form rank at my tent."

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All the world must have been roused from their beds by now, I thought to myself, wading through the stream, as the raucous of dozens of soldiers splashing flooded the night. Mixed in with the jingling of their mail shirts and their grunts, Mu'awiyah's force made a splashing noise to waken the gods themselves.

Yet, no Roman force sallied out from the city walls to massacre us, and it did not seem as though there was a single soldier on the ramparts above. The Empire was drained of manpower, and Caesarea must have been sparsely garrisoned. It was a lost cause, and they knew it. Pity they would not surrender.

The stream was narrow and filthy with animal dung and waste drained out from the city. It was to the side of the northern wall, far removed from any of Caesarea's gates or entrances. The main besieging horde was focused at the eastern gate, and it seemed that was where the bulk of the defenders were situated.

On my first day, I remarked at the section of the eastern walls that had crumbled, succumbing to the trebuchet and catapult fire the Muslim army bombarded the Romans with. Yet, brute force had failed to create an opening in the walls where the Muslim troops may charge and overwhelm the defenders.

And so, Mu'awiyah, an evidently shrewd man with a sharp mind for intrigue as I was discovering, had devised a plan of cunning and treachery to breach this final Roman stronghold in Palestine.

"There are Arabs within the city walls," he explained when I inquired after his plan. He would speak no further.

Now, this governor of the northern provinces of greater Syria was leading a foray of roughly seventy men to the foot of fortified Roman walls. He planned to take the city with a ragged band of noisy men where an army had failed as of yet.

My flat-topped helm clung to a scalp shielded by the coif of my mail shirt. A wicker wood shield and my bow were strung to my back, and my blade was sheathed in a baldric strapped at my shoulder. My sandal boots and trousers were soaked wet.

Mu'awiyah paused when we reached the foot of the wall, at the end of the stream. He held no torch nor any source of illumination. The night provided little guidance and the area about us was pitch dark. I could only see faint figures and the Nubian's bright teeth.

For Mundhir.

Mu'awiyah crouched, then lay down on his belly, his face fully immersed beneath water. I noticed then that there was a rectangular gap at the base of the wall, where the water flowed out of the city; perhaps a grate fallen into misuse, now without metal bars.

Mu'awiyah squeezed himself inside and crawled through the gap, his hands digging at the soil underwater, until his figure was lost to us. One man followed suit, crouching, then sinking his head deep into the foul water and crawling through the grate, sending ripples that shattered at our feet.

I sighed. The Nubian clutched the necklace at his throat and fingered it a long while; finally, he kissed it and squeezed through to the other side. I was not far behind.

The things we do for love.

Drenched in shit and refuse, the rings of my mail dripping water, I emerged to the other side, grateful for the breath of fresh air. I spat something vile tasting out of my mouth and prayed that it was not shit.

I looked about, surveying our surroundings.

We were inside Caesarea now.