Chapter 37
One needed only to look at the contrast between Mu'awiyah and 'Umar's abodes to know the difference between the two men.
'Umar resided in the same simple shed in Medina he called home before his ascension to the Caliphate; it was an exceedingly underwhelming residence for a man that put the two greatest empires in the world to their knees.
Mu'awiyah, on the other hand, was but a governor.
Yet, he lived like a king.
His palace complex was perched upon a hill to the far west of the city, overlooking the sprawling metropolitan life beneath. The structure of the palace life was similar to that of the tribunos, the prime officer of my tagma in Alexandria whom I visited to collect a reward.
There was a front gate of polished limestone draped with vines and reinforced with two heavy oak doors studded with iron. Standing vigilant before these doors were two guards gripping spears, clad in mail shirts, each with a turban beneath a helm.
Beyond these doors was a courtyard with a fountain spurting clear water in its midst. The fountain was circled with a cobblestone path surrounded on either side by neatly cultivated fields of green. The path led to a heavy series of stone steps leading into a cavernous hallway supported by stone beams and sturdy pillars forming a portico.
The plastered walls were etched with a dozen different mosaics displaying Roman military discipline or religious depictions of the Christian god.
It was easy to feel small and unwashed in the midst of such splendor, even though I was clad in full battle gear. I wore my mail shirt at all times in order to get used to the weight of it; now, it was as second skin to me. On my head was a turban that tumbled down to the small of my back crowned by a simple bronze helm with no cheek pieces, revealing my clean-shaven cheeks and drooping moustaches tinged with red dye. Rings of silver and bronze were woven through the tips.
It was a symbolic return to the gods of old, who no matter how hard one tried, would never fade. I kept that in mind, studying the setting sun, remarking at the beauty of Shams.
I had only embarked on a spiritual path to find faith in the Islamic religion for 'Umar ibn al-Khattab. And 'Umar ibn al-Khattab was dead. The Muslim god did display immense power, I had to admit; he had all but eviscerated the Arab gods from existence, any adherents of such heavily persecuted and put to the sword. He had vanquished the followers of the Persian god, who my people called the majus, or fire worshippers. He pushed back the powerful Christian Romans to the peripheries of Anatolia. But, for all his victories, he had failed to conquer my heart.
Mu'awiyah's men had dispersed into their own quarters and barracks within the city outskirts. Only a handful of his entourage were allowed beyond the palace gates, a company that included myself and my friends, all barring 'Abd al-Rahman. The boy had disappeared following the massacre of his tribe, and only the gods knew where he was off. He would not survive long in the harsh sands all by his own, without supply nor succor.
'Amr also spirited himself away to Madinah after the demolition of Banu Namr, and with him, the Nubian.
"Umar allowed you to live in such luxury?" I asked Mu'awiyah as we ascended a set of spiraling stone stairways in a tour of the palace.
I recalled 'Umar dismissing a governor for residing in a palace and scolding another, demanding his evacuation or the palace's demolition.
Mu'awiyah began wheezing with laughter. "Of course not. He would only preach of tyranny and the rest of his nonsense. I had this one purchased when I received word of the attempt on his life."
"You ought to show him more respect."
"You are bold, ibn Ka'b. It is why you have a place here."
And you lack gratitude, I thought, recalling our first encounter in the streets of Jerusalem. That put me in a melancholy mood, as I remembered Sumayya and what could have been.
My spirits were lifted at the splendor of the palace interior, however. Lavish Persian rugs of the finest fabric sprawled at extraordinary lengths from one wall to the other in the simplest of hallways.
The collision of the sun's rays on the polished glass windows sparked a brilliant amalgamation of hues that resembled that of a rainbow adorning the skies. To the side of the hallway were a number of doors leading into adjacent chambers, each one cultivated of the smoothest wood, doubtless imported from the regions about Mount Lebanon that were rich in such materials. The knobs of polished gold gleamed gently as we strode past, winking brilliantly as I narrowed my eyes.
My open gaping at the mesmerizing sights of Mu'awiyah's palace was interrupted by something colliding with my knee. It startled me and I jumped, expecting to find Qasim with a dagger at my throat, or worse, another severed finger as a gift. I put my hand to the hilt of my sword, but my grip eased when the assailant revealed herself to be a girl of ten or so years.
I flushed with embarrassment and averted my gaze to avoid offending Mu'awiyah, as the girl was dressed in fine silks, doubtless of his kin.
It turned out just so. Mu'awiyah's face turned red and his chin quivered as he waved his guards away in order to avoid continued shame.
"Must you shame me time and again, bint Mu'awiyah?" he chided her in a reverberating tone befitting that of a field general. "You are to be confined to the women's wing and dress in proper garments! Hurry off."
I snuck a peak and noticed that the girl was grinning from ear to ear, apparently unconcerned with her father's chastisement. She stuck her tongue out at Mu'awiyah and darted away; she was out of sight quicker than she had appeared.
Mu'awiyah squared his shoulders and visibly calmed himself.
"My apologies, Hanthalah," he forced a smile on his face. "I cannot have it said that ibn Abu Sufyan is a man without honor."
I scoffed. "That is your sole reason for preserving your women from the lusting eyes of men? You care not for the judgement of...Allah?"
Mu'awiyah pointedly avoided my gaze. "Allah ordered such restrictions for the preservation of honor."
I enjoyed prodding at him with matters of religion. Mu'awiyah, in the eyes of the masses, was a Muslim like any other. Yet, he skirted any discussions of theology or talks of Allah; he did not mention the god's name when exclaiming wonder nor did he praise Allah's greatness, as befit most men who sought to cultivate an image of piety.
I knew that many men yet harbored faith of the old gods in their hearts, or none at all, and my doubt that Mu'awiyah was among them was a recurring suspicion. His house, the wealthy and illustrious Banu Umayya, were among the last to convert following the sack of Makkah. For years, they had been among the most fervent opponents of Muhammad and Islam. Mu'awiyah's own father, Abu Sufyan, was the figurehead of the polytheist party – the foremost chieftain among the Quraysh.
Doubtless many of them were forced to utter the shahada in order to guarantee amnesty and avoid needless slaughter or exile.
"These are your quarters," Mu'awiyah gestured as he pulled to an abrupt stop before a confined space in the corner of a hallway.
"Might as well have me reside in a slave's quarters."
"A slave's quarters are grander than this. You ought to earn the path to privilege. Or do you want to share my bed instead?"
"Tempted."
Mu'awiyah put a hand on my shoulder. "Have you need of your children?"
I thought of them all the time, especially as of late. I suppressed a shiver as I remembered Qasim's gift.
"They need some more years in order to harden."
In truth, I was terrified to see them again, for the confirmation that the finger did indeed belong to one of my spawn. I prayed that it belonged to not one of them.
Ruqayya, who was with Andronicus, whom I left behind at Hims.
My twins, Umaymah and 'Abdullah, who shared the Bedouin dwelling with the eldest of my brood – 'Abd al-Ka'aba.
"Perhaps you are in need of a wife instead?" he suggested.
I shook my head. "I have no luck with women."
Ruqayya, Martha, Sumayya, Zaynab. Even Mother.
Fuck. What was wrong with the gods?
"Nonsense. I'll have you wed within the fortnight. Empty your balls."
"I'd rather fill my belly."
Mu'awiyah made his wheezing sound again as he began laughing.
He clapped my back and spun to return to his own quarters.
"You will have both, dear Hanthalah. With the proper service."
***
"How old are you again?" I studied my son, recently returned from his sojourn in the desert. "Eight?'
'Abd al-Ka'aba shrugged his massive shoulders and resumed wolfing down his venison. I studied him once more. He was much larger and taller than older boys; even I was not this physically impressive at his age. It was when I killed Habib, my cousin.
'Abd al-Ka'aba, my eldest child, a son of Zaynab. I had him sent away at the tender age of three, to fend for himself in the plains of Arabia, to learn the way of the nomad, the lifestyle the gods meant for us. The ways of the hard men, the true Arabs, the warriors of legend. However, the Asadi chieftains had personally sought me out and returned the boy, known to the world as Muhammad, without stating cause. They claimed he learned all that he needed.
I saw through their lie, of course. There was much to learn, many skills necessary to adapt to this capricious world. I noticed the way the Asadi tribesmen eyed 'Abd al-Ka'aba from the edge of their eyes. How they kept a distance from him and how their hands clutched the hilts of their swords whenever he swerved too near. I smiled fondly at him. Even as a child he strikes fear in the hearts of grown men.
He will make a formidable warrior, I thought with pride.
It was only my silent child and Mundhir that kept me company in those first days in Damascus.
"I'm never leaving this fucking place," Mundhir said as he drained an entire beer skin in one gulp. "Damascus has everything."
"You should have seen Alexandria," I spoke wistfully.
I thought of 'Amr then and smiled. I wondered what sort of quip he would have in response to Mundhir's unchecked debauchery. He would probably make a disapproving clicking sound, scowling all the while, studying Mundhir with the corners of his mouth wrinkled.
I feared for him. Being so far. I remembered the severed finger Qasim gave me and wondered again who it belonged to. I remembered Qasim's words in the tent. How his goal was to rob me of those I held dear, like I had him.
"Now that 'Uthman holds power and has expanded Mu'awiyah's realm of influence, let's just hope his fortunes soar and ours with them," I commented, lounging next to Mundhir who was gulping down a mouthful of beer, oblivious to the torment within me.
It was difficult to imagine that peace would hold sway over my life in Damascus. This gem of a city, one to rival any other in beauty and serenity. I had never known peace but in brief intermediates. It was hard to envision a life where I needn't struggle, where I need not chafe or plot for salvation or despair. The notion seemed almost surreal to me.
And then there was those who called themselves Immortals.
This secret band of criminals whose prime goal was my torment. They had nearly taken Mundhir from me. They killed my wife, whom I loved, severing my relationship with my daughter in the process. Could it be they killed 'Umar as well? The man who provided me with everything. They certainly had him die disappointed with me. And that was something I could never forgive.
And now, they were sending me my children in bits.
Qasim. I had murdered all his nephews, nieces, even grand nephews. And unbeknownst to him, his brother – Mas'oud, my first master.
Theodoros, the Roman slave I had cheated and nearly condemned to death.
And this boy. They all keep mentioning him.
'The boy who yet lived.'
Qasim said I was of prior acquaintance with him. Yet, for the life of me, I could not make the connection. Who was this shrouded individual acting behind the scenes?
Then again, my life felt peaceful and in order the following days in a manner in which I had never sensed before. But my peace of body was not mirrored in my peace of mind.
Those were the thoughts that whirled within my mind late one night. I caught myself fondling my beloved bow once more. This item has been there for me more than anyone else. I never saw it part my side since the day I earned it, a token of my victory. I formed a bond with the impressive piece of weaponry, a connection I did not have with friends, brothers or Arslan, the horse I'd grown fond of. I tended to the bow daily and caressed it as though I were a mother fawning over a newborn child. Yet this child of mine was deadly, a reliable tool to ensure those that wished me harm swept from the face of the gods' earth.
At the center of the courtyard where I stood, basking in the late-night chirping of invisible grasshoppers, paying my respects to the luminescent moon deities, was a shallow pool gleaming in the torchlight. Floating atop the surface of the water was a congregation of leaves mingled with roses and sunflowers.
I sighed, taking in the wonderful tranquility of a Damascus night. The star-spangled sky, disturbed only by the full figure of the moon like a blot, was truly a wonder one would never tire of.
My bow was cradled beneath one arm that held an inconspicuous cup that hosted Roman wine of the finest caliber. Beneath the arm, my son clung to me.
'Abd al-Ka'aba. My eldest.
I looked down on him with pride, taking a sip. He reminded me of myself at his age, with those burly shoulders, those tumbling shoulder-length curls and that complexion of the darkest brown. That fierce gaze within his eyes.
The wind whistled past, sending a pleasant shiver down my spine. I closed my eyes, a comfortable smile forming on my lips. One that radiated warmth and safety. Two things I had been sorely missing for years.
I could get used to this, I thought, as another gentle breeze passed me by.
I was about to open my eyes when something slammed into my side, knocking me over on my back and robbing me of the wind inside of me. I struggled for breath as a shawled figure loomed over me, one knee on my belly and a dagger to my throat.
"Kill me, you fucking bastard, if you dare," I spat at him.
The assassin used his free hand to toss away his shawl.
It was 'Abd al-Rahman.
Bạn đang đọc truyện trên: Truyen247.Pro