When your life is hanging in the balance, there is little distinction between fog and smoke. The thick tendrils curling upward and shifting about only add a layer of morbidity to the event.
Fortunately, I am a man built for smoke and blood.
As the battle raged on, the scorched carapace of one of our vessels lying discarded and emitting dark smoke in the midst of the sea, I unsheathed my sword.
Like Piruzan, it was Persian, curved and gleaming with inscriptions in the Persian tongue engraved on the steel. It whistled as it departed the baldric that was its home; the sweet scrape of steel against leather that was the sword song. Strapped to my left arm was the complimentary wicker wood shield, one that had belonged to me since my days in Madinah, the thriving capital city of the Caliphate. A token of 'Umar's patronage.
The approaching Roman ship was close enough that I could make out the snarling features of the enemy soldiers and sailors, the resplendent gleam of the enemy officer's scaled iron plates that made up his elaborate suit of armor.
The ship sliced through the water, looking to crash into the flank of our own and sink it as it had torched another. To one side, Mundhir hefted his twin short swords, falling into battle stance. On the other, was my son, 'Abd al-Ka'aba – known to the Muslims as Muhammad the Morbid. Piruzan the Persian slave soldier would not be too far behind.
The sailors heaved on their oars and strained themselves to meet the incoming collision head on, but I would not dally behind, muttering my final prayers as better men risked their lives in the melee.
I would be at the thick of it. As the gods meant it to be.
With a quick prayer to the gods and goddesses of war and fate that 'Abdullah ibn Abu Sarh, the useless governor of Egypt, would meet a slow and painful death in the coming battle, I bellowed at the top of my lungs and sprang forward, hopping off the rail of our own ship and into the vacant air beyond.
Resting atop two ships in the midst of carnage on the shores of Cyprus that day, I experienced a moment of euphoria. Much needed clarity. I hung in the air for a brief moment, as though mine was the weight of a feather, my screams ringing against the ears of foemen, the steel of my blade gleaming bright beneath the sun, the iron boss of my shield glinting softly and spelling doom for any who dared obstruct my path. I registered the beauty of it all. I wished to be nowhere else.
The moment of epiphany passed. The screams of the dying, the crackling of fire and the shattering of wood resumed. My weight reoccupied my body and I found myself plunging down into the enemy vessel. I landed on a terrified looking young man, the tip of my sword painting his face and neck red with his own blood.
I buckled my knees at the impact of landing on deck, as several Roman warriors charged forth in order to intercept my streak of death. They raised their swords and their axes high above their heads, and in that moment, I felt my stomach churn with pure energy.
The enemies' movements became predictable and laborious, their mouths freezing open in a snarl or a bellow. It was as if time was stopping and not even a god could intercede on their behalf.
It was the drunkenness of battle.
The thrill.
The rush all men wish to experience in the thick of an onslaught. It was the key to survival and only the most skilled were able to temper it.
My adversaries came crashing in on all sides in a raging storm. I put all my weight into my right shoulder, shoving the Romans aside and sending one splashing into the water. Swords sang against thin air and axes splintered the wood of the deck.
I was past my thirtieth year, yet I was dexterous as ever. I spun on my ankles and lunged at someone's throat. Just as quickly, I slammed my shield into an assailer's face, the iron boss crushing his nose and destroying his cheekbones. There was a loud, satisfying crack but I spared no time to enjoy the brief victory. I yanked my blade free and swept it in a wide arc, either slashing through mail and cloth or forcing any attackers away.
Mundhir, Piruzan and 'Abd al-Ka'aba had hopped onto the ship by then and were relieving me of some of the pressure. More men hopped off our ship to wreak havoc upon the Romans here. Before long, I was wading in a lake of blood, knee-high, seeking out my next enemy.
Instead, I came face to face with my son. We were both panting and drenched in blood.
"This is your first taste of battle," I realized aloud.
He shrugged. "There were bandit raids against the Asad."
He was referring to his time among the Banu Asad, a Bedouin tribe that roamed the desert and lived in tents. I entrusted my children to their custody so that they may grow with strength and fortitude and uncorrupted principles. 'Abd al-Ka'aba's brother and sister yet dwelled among them.
Alas, at the height of battle, there is not much time for chatter.
I spun and raised my shield against an incoming attack. The man's blow found only wood and he resumed his barrage of strikes, coming at me again and again, only to find his efforts spurned by sturdy defense.
I ducked beneath one high-placed sweep, and rolled to his side, slashing his thigh along the way. I found my feet and he let out a cry of agony. He struck with his blade again, but I parried with my own, our swords crossed between us, the sound of the impact ringing out, steel scraping against steel.
I slammed my shield into him, and we found ourselves locked together in a struggle on the ground. His sword was sent sprawling beyond his grasp, but he maintained a grip on my arm, preventing me from ending his life.
I slammed my shield into his face again and again, blood splashing on my face as his bones snapped beneath me. Yet his grip remained firm.
Finally, I howled and tossed my shield aside. I hurled myself forward and dug my teeth into his bare neck and tore at it. He began shrieking like a child then, but he did not ease his grip. I twisted his skin with my teeth, chewing and munching away as I drew first blood, savoring its taste, the warmth of it overwhelming my tongue and filling my mouth.
I twisted again but my head was yanked away as his skin was torn. I headbutted him in his battered face, evoking another loud snap. The back of his head thumped against the wood of his deck and he lost consciousness, his grip on my arm finally tenuous. I wriggled it free of his fingers, rose and rammed my blade down, piercing his throat as he sunk in a pool of his own blood.
I paused to take my breath, steadying myself against the rail of the ship, restoring the strapping of my shield to my left arm. I quickly surveyed the state of the battle. It seemed to be dwindling on rather evenly. One of our ships had burned and another was sunken.
Our men at the harbor seemed to have gotten the upper hand. They captured one of the Roman ships and sunk another, while the last one was putting up a fierce fight. They seemed to have taken light casualties, few to speak of. They would soon rush to our aid here, where we were in poor shape against a more numerous foe.
We needed only to struggle as long as it takes for our own relief force, the remaining five ships trailing behind the main body of the fleet, to emerge from the mists to the east to crush the stubborn enemy once and for all.
'Abd al-Ka'aba had slain the Roman officer that had once stood proud in his armor. My son raised the officer's severed head high, holding him by the hair, roaring in defiance, challenging any Roman brave enough to face his wrath. He was only a boy of three and ten. I spared a moment of pride.
The sight of their commanding officer's head displayed as a trophy must have been a demoralizing one, and our own men were beginning to overrun the remaining Romans on the ship. Soon, we would come to the aid of our struggling comrades elsewhere.
The defenders atop the walls would offer little respite for the naval Romans, now that our land force must have commenced their own assault on the city. I needed some time to bolster our chances.
I hefted my sword and immersed myself in the thing I do best.
Kill.
Slaughter. Stab. Hack. Lunge. Kick. Smack.
I fell upon the remaining Romans with a fury, a storm unleashed, chopping off limbs or cutting down humans where they stood, in a frantic fervor to be done with the capture of this ship and move on to the next.
Mundhir always favored impossible odds. He was currently occupied with fending off three assailers all at once; I strode forward as Mundhir shouldered one of them toward me. He stumbled straight into the tip of my sword.
Mundhir ducked beneath one blow and parried the other. I kicked one of the Romans in the groin and stabbed him in the back of the neck when he bent over. In a brief second, Mundhir's swords were flashes in the air as he tended to his final attacker with strokes so quick, they were incomprehensible to the human eye. He grinned, stepping away from the dazed man, who only moments later began seeping blood from a hundred wounds. Mundhir stepped behind the man, placed one sword to his throat and sliced, while the other pierced his back and stuck out of his chest.
"Hanthalah!" I vaguely heard someone call as I hacked the corpse of a defeated Roman. I grinned, enjoying the surge of energy that accompanied the drunkenness of battle.
"Hanthalah!"
Was that Piruzan?
"Father!"
I snapped out of my trance and found a dozen or so Muslim soldiers gaping at me with mixed awe and terror. There were no remaining Romans on the ship. We took no prisoners.
I bent over the brutalized corpse and sunk my hands deep into the gash at his throat, filling them with blood. I washed them over my face, now crimson and dripping with the life force of fallen foes.
I raised my sword high and bellowed a cry of victory. The troops rallied to my side and took up the shriek as I hopped onto the next ship, my sword and shield a whirlwind that heralded the brutal deaths of dozens.
***
I nudged the captive Roman, who was bound, weary and bleary eyed on the deck of our ship at the break of dusk.
The waters were littered with debris and stray planks of wood, scorched or shattered pieces of hulls. A ship's severed mast was gobbled up whole, to find itself forever beneath waves until the end of time.
The fighting had ceased with Roman surrender minutes before. The five lagging ships caught up with us and lent us much needed aid in destroying the Cypriot Roman fleet. All that remained was the fort and the city now. The defenders stared down at us from above their walls, the sun's glimmer off their helmets brilliant.
The siege would begin now.
The tedium of it was certainly not absent. A conspicuous breeze whispered past, tugging at the cloth beneath my shirt of mail, sending prickles running down my spine. Something chirped far away. The crackles of lit torches were the order of the day as night finally engulfed the world, painting the waves of the Mediterranean a dark shade befitting that of the sky.
As I had done a thousand times before, I stared up at the silver marvel perched in the sky and wondered at its elegant beauty. I whispered a prayer to Allah – the moon god, and Allat – the moon goddess.
"Be gentle with him," Mu'awiyah interrupted my thoughts. He was sipping some water from a skin. "We need not risk offending him. At least add some subtlety to your speech."
I spat some blood on the deck. "What? Him?"
I pointed at Abdullah ibn Abu Sarh, the governor of Egypt and the man who orchestrated the construction of the bulk of this fleet. An avaricious glutton and an incompetent fool. He was despised in all corners of the Caliphate, considered a hypocrite within the ummah by many.
During the time of Muhammad, he had reverted from Islam and resumed his worship of idols. But that was before he returned to the religion once more following the sack of Makkah.
It was 'Uthman that spared him then by interceding to the Prophet, and it was 'Uthman who bolstered his status now. 'Uthman ibn 'Affan, the new leader of all Muslims in Madinah, was milk brother to this newly installed governor in Egypt.
But ibn Abu Sarh's possible lack of faith in the Islamic religion was not what lowered him in my regard. On the contrary, it was perhaps his only redeeming quality. That, and perhaps the rumors of his drunken debauchery.
"The man wouldn't know which part of the sword to strike wit," I complained. "And he's in charge of bloody Egypt?"
"It is not my decision," Mu'awiyah's lips moved only slightly. "You know I would rather have ibn al-'Aas in his office."
"Ibn al-'Aas is a pompous shit."
"Ibn al-'Aas is a valued ally and trusted friend. Must you be so vulgar?"
"Then why are you defending this pompous shit?"
I pointed at ibn Abu Sarh again. He was swerving and swaying on the other side of the ship. There was a thick sheen of sweat on his forehead and I doubted that had anything to do with the fighting. The gods did not answer my prayers to sink the drunk bastard. Curse them.
Mu'awiyah was also a relative to 'Uthman – his cousin. But I did not see that as ample reason to excuse ibn Abu Sarh's incompetence.
"All I'm saying is at least give him the illusion that he's in charge," Mu'awiyah sipped at his drink again. "Only then will you be able to command this fleet more smoothly."
Mu'awiyah began walking, his eyes contemplative, the skin never far from his lips. He wagged a finger at me.
"You must learn the subtleties of politicking, the ways of the court life, Hanthalah. You are living among the Umayyads. I need not tell you how rough a bunch my kinsmen are."
The Umayyads were the members of the Banu Umayya clan, to which many governors belonged, also installed by their kinsman 'Uthman, another Umayyad.
"Your family is as savage as a pack of wolves," I growled. "Makes one wonder how old man 'Uthman turned out to be as dense as he is."
"Do you not think that it is perhaps unwise to disrespect the Khalifa in public?" Mu'awiyah raised an eyebrow.
"The Khalifa can take offense from his home in Madinah for all I care. I won him this victory. He's done naught for me. I'm afraid of no man or god."
Mu'awiyah sighed, dabbing at his wine.
"You have much to learn, Hanthalah. Or else your crass manner will be your demise someday."
I put a hand on my hilt, and unsheathed half of my sword from its baldric. I tapped the bare steel.
"This is the only demise I know."
Mu'awiyah scoffed, shaking his head. "Precisely my point."
He put the skin to his mouth and studied me as if I were cattle plucked for the slaughter.
Perhaps I was.