643 AD, 22 AH

"I can get used to this," I said beneath my breath, standing at the prow of Andronicus' ship.

One leg on the railing and an elbow on its knee, I basked in the incessance of the breeze ruffling my hair, the sound of my cloak billowing behind me. The sight of clear waters parting before me, the specks splattering against my face.

Even the swaying of the deck beneath foot. I was a man built for the deserts and the hills, a man of harsh terrain and arduous lifestyle. But though it had not grown on me right away, the unsteady footing was a welcome change from mountain treks, the unremitting gusts a reprieve from the baking sun.

And besides, it was good exercise for my yet frail legs.

"Don't act like you own the fucking place!" Andronicus roared at my back.

But I only smiled into the horizon. We were on our way to the port city of Tripoli.

And from there was a short trek north and east to Hims.

To Sumayya and Ruqayya. My wife and daughter.

But before I bade one final farewell to Alexandria, city of ghosts, I got my affairs in order.

I hefted the Nubian's necklace, standing on the harbor of the now Muslim governed city. 'Amr ibn al-'Aas himself had gone west to the province of Cyrenaica and the lands past the Libyan Desert. Other branches of the conquering army went south to annex what remained of Egypt to the south.

"If I see him, I will be sending him your love," I told him. I was referring to 'Amr – our 'Amr – who had gone west with his namesake, and with him Mundhir.

The Nubian inclined his head.

"You wish to come with me?" I asked.

He shook his head. "I will take Nubia. For vengeance."

I chuckled and patted him on a shoulder. "So, you do have fire in you after all. Whenever you are in need of aid, brother, I will cross distant seas and weather fierce storms to fight and kill by your side."

We embraced and that was the end of it. I left it all behind. The final vestiges of Martha, a softer life in Alexandria and the horrid memories it entailed.

All of it.

I would forge new ones.

With Sumayya.

________________

"So, what do you get out of that ordeal?" Andronicus asked from atop his steed, the shining white walls of Hims visible in the distance now. In tow, was the Egyptian's caravan of goods to be traded in the city, primarily textiles.

"Ordeal?" I asked from atop a camel, raising an eyebrow. It was nice to have a mount between my legs again. There are few joys in life. Riding is at their head.

And not just horses and camels. Hehe.

"All this, uh, what do you call it?" he made a circular gesture. "The wars and sneaking into cities and the like."

"You mean a stipend?" I guessed. "Usually, there is a stipend for every troop out of the treasury. This is financed primarily by the jizya tax that you so kindly provide for us."

The sum afforded to each Muslim was based on precedence of conversion. It was another system 'Umar had established. The highest earners were those who were the closest companions of the Prophet in the earliest days of Islam, those who came to be known as muhajireen – migrants – for their journey that found them to Madinah. Then, it was the group known as the Ansar – the supporters. Those of the Aws and Khazraj tribes, natives of the city that had once been Yathrib. And then, all the rest.

"So, you owe me," he chuckled.

"I do owe you in more ways than one," I admitted. "But not this one. I earn no stipend. I'm a slave."

Andronicus raised an eyebrow, looking me over. "Chainmail, sword, dagger, helmet and shield. Don't look like a fucking slave to me."

"You're a man that has traveled well and far, yet you seem to have much to learn."

That earned another chuckle from the big man as we moved past the outer city and into the first checkpoint where a steady stream of caravans and individuals clogged past the open western gate.

Standing in that line, I mused to myself that I was not without substantial adventure either. I remembered a child long ago, one Qurayza Jew who had developed an almost unhealthy infatuation with a foreign religion. That boy's mind had raced with the possibilities the world beyond his family's shack had to offer. He would listen intently on his haunches to any who spoke to him of alien peoples, grand tales of far away lands.

As I trotted into Hims, I felt a pang of nostalgia, reminiscing days spent imitating the fabled Turkic peoples who were half man and half horse, picking up a stick and dubbing myself as Roman soldier, teasing any passerby, or imagining the splendid cities of China at the edge of the world.

Now, I needn't imagine or pretend. I had long since ridden forth from the tall reeds and crude fortresses of Yathrib. I'd seen the world. I'd seen the Mediterranean Sea, nay, knew its waves by heart. I'd seen the Nile River and the Red Sea that separated barren lands in Arabia from lush ones in Africa, the Dead Sea that the Ghassanids and Romans dwelled by.

That child had children of his own now.

What a flimsy thing time is.

_________________________________

I'd been to Homs before. It was a Syrian city that was a popular hotspot among Arab merchants, even when it was yet in Roman hands. The pathways were cramped and crowded like any other major city in these parts, the marketplaces even more so, with their stalls lining every corner, the insufferable murmuring of packed crowds and the pestilent whistling and howling of the merchants attempting to attract customers, but only succeeding in adding to the deafening din.

Andronicus and I shoved past the densely packed bodies of what seemed like a nation of people. The Nubian had read out for me an address Sumayya had added into her latest letter, and that was where we were bound.

"Cling to your possessions, lest you find yourself a cock short," I smiled at Andronicus. It was true; busy places like this offered golden opportunities for street urchins to earn a fortune.

"I don't need you to tell me how to behave in a marketplace," he spat back.

Sumayya's home in Hims was rather modest. I visited once before during the pandemic. It was removed from the busier districts of the city, but it was not one to give pause. It overlooked a wide street with a semblance of cobbled stone yet visible, sunken deep into the mud and sand. It was almost identical to the neighboring houses and offered no hint to the wealth of its owner.

I stopped at the door and took a deep breath. What would I say? I had not seen her in nearly four years. Our relationship had blossomed over long distance, and there were the seeds of sentiment now in what had begun as a mutually beneficial arrangement. But was it enough?

Would my daughter readily accept me, having been absent from her life so long? There was only one way to find out. Yet, a giddy tang of anxiety crept inside of me all the same. I shook my head to clear it of unproductive thoughts and rapped gently on the wooden door.

It was then that a sleek man in a dark robe slithered by. His features were shadowed by the hood drawn over his head. He shuffled to a stop next to me.

"The boy yet lives," he whispered. "The Raven sends his regards with a gift."

The enigmatic stranger shuffled away as quickly as he'd appeared. I paid him no mind. Many a man and woman that lost their minds would creep around the streets as glorified beggars claiming prophecy or skill in sorcery. It was a serious proclamation, for sorcery was very much real and he who practices it was despised by the gods; even in Islam, my religion now, works of magic were forbidden. I shook my head, remembering Tulayha and his false prophecy.

Yet, there was something to this shrouded man that sent a tingle down my spine. The boy yet lives, he said. Where did I hear that phrase before?

No one answered the door. I rapped again but I remained outside for minutes more before I sighed in exasperation and resolved to kick the door open. Sumayya had a head start of weeks to reach Hims before me.

And I thought I could hear voices emerging from inside.

I took several steps backward and charged forward, the sole of my right foot slamming into the wood. It immediately buckled and was sent crashing inside.

The audience chamber was bereft of any ornament, nor was it even complimented by rug nor pillow. There was a clay vase discarded in one corner. The room was entirely empty but for a little girl.

She was clad in a black gown that covered her entire body; she looked up at my intrusion, biting her nails, oblivious of what was occurring around her.

I paused for a heartbeat as our eyes locked. I darted forward and scooped her up in a tight embrace. I felt warm tears trickle down my cheeks as I buried my face into her tiny shoulder. She had her mother's skin and beady eyes.

"My daughter," I whispered, sobbing softly. "Ruqayya."

I gently let her down and wiped my face, ashamed at the display of weakness. I would not be a lenient and soft father, nor was I a weak man.

"Where is your mother?" I demanded of Ruqayya.

She only cocked her head and studied me with curious eyes, unsure of who I was.

"Your mother," I repeated. She continued biting her nails and studying this novelty of a stranger.

I sighed. There was a silk curtain at the far end of the chamber. I strode toward it and pushed past the silk, greeted by what seemed like the bedchamber. Above the bed was a square window, light flooding into the room from outside and momentarily blinding me.

Blinking, my eyes adjusted to the lighting, I stepped inside.

But then I gasped and took a step backward.

At the foot of the bed, there was a headless body.

And on the furs of the bed, resting in a pool of blood, was Sumayya's head.