With the shutters barred, the night's breeze was denied the disturbance of this fledgling new family of mine; it was more effective now that my years of service to Mu'awiyah were rewarded with relocation to a more prestigious wing in the palace and quarters of greater space. The superior quarters were not the only gift bestowed upon me by the master of the household, however.
I traced a finger through my boy's thick dark hair, but he shied away. Sa'ad, his mother called him. Mine was a recurring fear that Sa'ad would emerge soft and weak, sheltered within palace confines and indulging in the trappings of luxury and docility. Indeed, he seemed to be intimidated by me. He would rarely meet my eyes or answer to my call and touch, preferring to shy away or cringe at my instructions.
Those were not traits shared by his mother, however. Hafsa, she was named. Mu'awiyah had us wed four years prior, a sort of consolation to 'Abd al-Ka'aba's unfortunate...mishap. She was said to be of fine stock; a chaste Muslim woman of fine lineage. A noble match indeed, a most generous one offered by Mu'awiyah. He even paid her family the dowry for the marriage.
However, the woman turned out to be far too opinionated for her own good. Unlike Zaynab, she would not be easily cowed. Though she did share her piety, hers was more rigid, less prone to reducing her to pathetic tears. Hafsa's brazen glare defied all attempts to subjugate her or to impose my own authority. There was an intelligence to her eyes that reminded me of Sumayya; that made me resent her all the more.
"You've taught the boy to fear me," I accused her now. We barely spoke but to reprimand one another. "He flinches at my touch."
Hafsa scoffed. "Your own actions reflect you as a monster even in the eyes of those dearest to you."
"No. You've turned him weak and soft. He ought not show fear. He is a man."
"He fears only his creator. As is proper."
I shook my head, weary from the weight of this world. We had returned from Cyprus days before, but that night long ago, the sudden reemergence of Qasim and his band of dark robed men yet haunted my thoughts. It triggered the nightmares once more.
Foul dreams of the night I was forced to watch the half-beast Zayn ibn Yazid, the boy they called the Crow, hurt my son. 'Abd al-Ka'aba's eyes in the dream were accusing, overflowing with disappointment that I put him in harm's way. I was consumed with the prospect of capturing Qasim that I paid not heed to the safety of my own flesh and blood. And now he was short two ears for it.
There were other dreams as well. The severed finger, pale and rotting, wrapped in cloth. Who did it belong to? It made no matter. My children were suffering for my very being. Perhaps I ought to drive a sword through my heart to spare them the life of cruelty and constant ache that was forced upon me. That would certainly count as outmaneuvering my enemies. Qasim and Zayn would not be expecting that.
I wiped the sweat off my brow, remembering another nightmare that left me sleepless on the journey back to Damascus. The shrill screams of the villager I burned echoed in my head, the gruesome crackling of the flames as they consumed his chin and face, finally succumbing to a brutal end. The pleading eyes of helpless men and women that were shown no succor, the blaze and blood reflected off them as their final words were those begging for mercy.
I would wake from my dreams sweating and panting. When my breath calmed and I regained my wits, I would look around, surveying the chamber I shared with Hafsa, wearing a scowl on my face.
I was yet in Damascus, the seat of the governor of the Levant. Serving a man who did not trust me. A man most untrustworthy. A man who betrayed me.
Each night after the nightmares, I would remember the campaign in Cyprus. Mu'awiyah had told me to assault a fort that could reinforce the city we were besieging. My orders were to raid. To hit and run. To weaken the garrison enough that they could not mount a full-scale assault on the land army.
And carry out my orders, I did. But then, the governor of Egypt showed up, in all his smug ostentation, his insufferable swagger.
'Abdullah ibn Abu Sarh finished off the Roman defenders of the fort and took the villagers captive. During the aftermath of the fort's capture, the bastard had acted as though I did not exist. He would wag one finger, undermining my authority, and his men would scurry away to see his wishes fulfilled. He swept in at the last moment of an ensured victory, claiming the credit for his own. Like a vulture.
"It was supposed to be a raid!" I had barked at Mu'awiyah once I returned to the siege by the sea. "Hit and run, you said. Hit and run!"
"You did hit," Mu'awiyah answered in a level tone. Shadows were cast on his placid face. "And you did run."
"No! You sent the bastard apostate to override my glory. To rob me of my victory! And he slaughtered the majority of the garrison and took off with dozens of civilians."
He sighed, burying his face in his palms. I fumed at his lack of reaction. My hands coiled into fists.
"He took off with my spoils," I screamed. "My captives. My victory. You could have told me of your plans while you sat in the comfort of your own ship, while I was risking my life and that of my son for your bloody war!"
Mu'awiyah nodded, leveling his eyes with mine.
"I apologize for my lack of transparency. I assumed you would perform better without the weight of diplomacy and the success of this campaign resting on your shoulders. Besides, 'Abdullah insisted he would follow you once you set forth. He is prone to such swings in his mood. And I could not say no. I have no authority over him. He is a governor in his own right."
I ground my teeth at the disrespect. "No. There was no way his men could have prepared themselves for battle so quickly. This wasn't a spontaneous lust for slaughter on ibn Abu Sarh's part. You wanted me to go first, thinking I was the man for the mission. You wanted me and mine to screen the main attack. To soak up the arrows and blades for your precious governor, to die if need be!"
Mu'awiyah's smirk sent venom coiling up my gut, like a snake wrapping its vile body around my chest in a tight embrace. "It worked, didn't it? The reinforcement threat has been neutralized. Ibn Abu Sarh's vanity has been satiated. And the Romans have agreed to negotiate a surrender."
I raised an eyebrow. "Negotiate? If you were negotiating with the Roman general, then why initiate a simultaneous conflict? Would that no be a breach of trust either way?"
Mu'awiyah shook his head. "The attack was meant to be a display of power. That we could have razed the fort and village to the ground, or occupied them if we liked, but we only withdrew because we had no intention of annexing the entire island. We only want the city to surrender and pay tribute."
"Why not?"
"We simply do not have the men nor the resources to organize a full-scale settlement of Cyprus."
"The Romans are weakened. We can easily wrestle Cyprus away from them."
"Perhaps with the sufficient support from Madinah, which as I previously mentioned, we do not currently possess. 'Uthman wishes not for vigorous warfare; he is setting his eyes on consolidating the rule in the new lands. And thinks that Cyprus is not worthy besides."
He sipped from his cup again, the insufferable bastard. His distrust of me still stung, though my fury waned in the face of the success of his plan.
I paused, suppressing my agitation.
"What of Allah?" I finally spoke.
Mu'awiyah choked on his wine. "I'm sorry?"
"What of Allah? Why is he not funding your war effort? You claim you haven't the necessary resources nor the freedom to take over the entirety of Cyprus. If He intends to expand his dominion so much, why not give it to you?"
Mu'awiyah blushed, looked away and waved a hand. "I'm sure He has his reasons."
I smiled again, taking some measure of satisfaction from this one subject of torment I held over Mu'awiyah. I had been in his services for six or so years so far, and the man was yet shrouded in mystery to me.
He was far too intelligent for my kind. What I did know, however, was that he was not entirely secure about his so-called faith. I had my doubts that he was not the pious Muslim he made himself out to be. Perhaps he was not one at all. I knew that his clan did not embrace Islam until their home city of Makkah fell to the Prophet.
I took great delight in his nervous reactions whenever I prodded him on the matter of religion. He did not seem to know a great deal about it.
Alas, teasing Mu'awiyah in matters of faith offered me little solace in the face of my crisis of the mind. I could not faithfully serve a man who did not trust me entirely. A man who disrespected me, embarrassed me in front of my men and those of the wretched governor of Egypt.
There was only one way to combat these demons. To empty my mind of the horrors that haunted it. I plucked my baldric off the bed and strapped it over a shoulder. I gathered my shield, dagger, and donned my sandals. I was already clad in my mail shirt beneath a white tunic, for I never parted from it. Years ago, Mu'awiyah advised that I wear it at all times lest the weight of it hinder my ability in battle. Now, it was as a second skin to me; yet it was not the chainmail that weighed me down.
"You're off to sin again, then?" Hafsa's icy tone was more accusatory and snappish rather than inquisitive. "Death and blood are all you know."
I refrained from meeting the contempt in her eyes. I groaned rather than respond to her insolent jab. Perhaps it was because my mind was too clouded and my body all but crippled, burdened with all the trappings of anxiety and guilt. Perhaps it was because I knew that she spoke only truth.