"She's your daughter, Hanthalah!" Ramla proclaimed, removing her head from my chest. "One that you haven't seen in years!"
I sighed, rolling my eyes. "Your point?"
"My point," Mu'awiyah's daughter went on, drawing that alluring smile on her face before nudging my shoulder. "Is that she's your daughter and you are obliged to take care of her."
"Obliged by whom?" I demanded. "Or what?"
Ramla raised an eyebrow. "Spare me the act of manliness. You know very well what I speak of."
She had a point. A man was required to tend to his own, like a shepherd unto his flock. And it wasn't some religious drivel either, it is the way of the Arab, embedded into our blood, a lineage that extends to the legendary ancestors of the Arabs.
But I hadn't the heart to lay eyes upon Ruqayya, my daughter by Sumayya.
Andronicus had sent word for years, beseeching me to pay attention to her. Now, he was forcing me to face reality; the man that raised my daughter, the former ship captain that spirited me away to Alexandria all those years ago, sent a message some days prior that he would journey to Damascus so that Ruqayya could meet with the man who spawned her.
I dreaded the ordeal. I had all but erased memory of this forgotten daughter of mine. Whenever she crossed my mind, the memory of that horrid sight in Hims was restored, vivid as the day itself.
The severed head of Sumayya, the woman who had been my lover, wife and the mother of my child. Worse, it was a damning reminder of how helpless I was in the face of the looming threat of this organization so tenacious in its desire to destroy me piecemeal.
Each time they struck devastating blows that crippled my confidence, and I was none the wiser. And I had nothing to show for it. I knew naught of this clandestine organization that put those I loved in jeopardy.
Ramla bint Mu'awiyah was the one person who knew precisely how I felt, evidently, as her expression softened, and she laid a hand on my shoulder. She was a smart woman.
"You will not weather it alone when they come."
"Oh, but I will. They know when and where to strike. No army can withstand them. They're cowards, Ramla. They are molded by the darkness, embraced by the shadows. They hide in plain sight like the djinn of legend. They bide their time to strike at the opportune moment like the viper of the desert. We lack knowledge of their identity, their whereabouts. Everything but their motive."
"'Abd al-Rahman has not provided valuable information as you had hoped?"
I snorted. "'Abd al-Rahman is past his twentieth year, yet he is but a boy. A foolish one with delusions of grandeur."
My half-brother had re-emerged the night my son was deformed. Qasim had stabbed him in the back for attempting to murder me; an act that would have undermined the efforts of the guild, as my foolish half-brother later claimed. We managed to salvage 'Abd al-Rahman and nurse him back to full health. He offered little in terms of solving the al-Khalidun enigma, but he proved a respected officer in the ranks of Mu'awiyah.
"It's an enormous worldwide organization, spanning all the lands touched by the sun," was what he said when we prodded him for information of the guild he had been affiliated with. "There are members from all over. Men both dark and pale, with eyes slanted or wide. Men of a thousand different backgrounds! There are even women among them! Believe it?"
"I'm less interested in their diverse membership," I prodded him further. "What of their hideouts? Their leaders?"
'Abd al-Rahman only shook his head. "No headquarters. We don't know the names of leaders. Only their epithets. The Crow. The Raven. They are unlike anything you've ever seen or will ever see. I was swept from the sands after...you know. After...what you did with the Banu Namr."
He lowered his head at the memory. I prodded him further.
"Then, I was brought to this cave where the Raven appeared and told me I was a novice of sorts," he continued.
The Raven, I thought. The epithet for Qasim ibn al-Aswad. The brother of my former master, Mas'oud. Qasim would also then be the uncle of Yazid ibn Mas'oud. And therefore, the great uncle of this new individual in my life. This new foe. This...Crow. Zayn ibn Yazid. Half man, half monster.
"No further explanation. I was isolated in this cave with only the Raven as company for weeks, only emerging into the sunlight to train. And train we did. Meticulously in the dark arts of al-Khalidun. But he never promoted me to the rank of member."
"What are the motives of this creed?"
"None. Members are everyday, run of the mill individuals. They forsake the identities of their past lives following their passage into the guild, taking on epithets of birds, like the Pelican, or the – "
"Raven." I grunted.
"Right," Abdelrahman raised an eyebrow. "But a member is as far as you can go in the hierarchy. It's the highest and lowest ranking. There is such a rank as Overseer, but it's only temporary.
And there is no collective motive. Only the desires of the individual. Each member is required to assist their brothers or sisters in their quests if called upon. Otherwise..."
He made a cutthroat gesture with one finger.
"Where is this cave, then?"
Abdelrahman shook his head. "Don't know, and it wouldn't matter. The cave was a random location. Al-Khalidun aren't a band of raiders residing in the ruins of a fort. There are no commanders, no officers. They prowl among the people, as though they were of the flock, but they have long forsaken this identity. That is their strength. You cannot pinpoint them to a single location. They are dispersed yet united. Divided yet strong. Before your eyes. Yet..."
"Hidden," a shiver went through my body, then, but I refused to display my fear of this mysterious band of assassins.
And that is all we knew of al-Khalidun. Abdelrahman never spoke much of his time there, and I cared not for the adventures of my half-witted younger brother.
It had been nearly six years since the incident where Yazid's son, this Zayn, this...Crow, appeared.
In the meantime, 'Abd al-Rahman rose through the ranks of Mu'awiyah's forces rather quickly, any past quarrel between us or any affiliations with a secret brotherhood of assassins, seemingly forgotten.
I treated him warmly, yet I harbored resentment in my heart toward him. In my eyes, he was an asset, and that was the only reason I did not chuck his corpse down a gutter.
I knew that this secret band of assassins hell-bent on my torment, this al-Khalidun, would target only those nearest to me. Those I held closest to heart.
Perhaps if I treated him well enough, giving the impression of brotherly affection... 'Abd al-Rahman would be their foremost target.
It was a desperate hope I clung to. I could not bear seeing another of my loved ones suffer for my deeds. It did not help that I was sharing a bed with another of them.
I studied bint Mu'awiyah's young, delicate features and traced a finger through her hair. What had begun as a harmless friendship had evolved into a courtship of sorts, unbeknownst to anyone else, of course. It was certainly not a romance. And yet, I cared deeply for Ramla.
"This is a mistake," I proclaimed, hopping off her bed.
Ramla rolled her eyes. "How cliché. This is what you say every time."
"Only because it's truth," I shrugged into my clothes, searching for a missing sandal.
"I can take care of myself."
"No, you can't. No one can. Sumayya couldn't. 'Abd al-Ka'aba couldn't. Mundhir was at their mercy, back when they kidnapped him. What makes you think you would fare any better should they target you? That your father is cousin to the Khalifa? Even that wouldn't help."
"I know the risks."
"Do you?"
"Yes," she replied firmly, setting her lips and folding her arms. "And I accept the consequences."
I ceased searching for the sandal and looked her straight in the eyes.
"If you're so determined to keep this going, why are you to be wed?" I asked with perhaps a little too much vehemence.
I did not realize the marriage arrangement irked me so much.
That gave her pause. I began shrinking away at the weight of the silence that stretched for moments after the words parted my mouth. I began to regret uttering them.
Finally, she smiled mischievously.
"So, it isn't a casual affair," Ramla pointed out sheepishly. "I was beginning to think you don't care."
"Hmph. Don't think too much of it."
"Jealousy," Ramla scoffed. "Frankly, I think it's rather pathetic."
"Says the woman hiding my sandal so I stay a few minutes longer."
Ramla looked away and rubbed her eyes wearily. She looked from me to her feet, then back at me.
"What you said about the marriage..."
I stiffened. "It wasn't...it was..."
"You do realize I have no say in this?"
"Didn't see you balking at the choice."
"No. Because what good would come of it but a scolding by Father? The groom is the son of the Khalifa himself, after all. And you...you're equally to blame."
It was my turn to raise an eyebrow. "My fault?"
"You could have asked for my hand," she declared.
"You may be young, but you're far from naïve. You know it would not be feasible to overextend myself. You would have me demand of Mu'awiyah an Umayyad woman to wed? And his daughter, nonetheless! Who am I to make such requests?"
"Yes," Ramla agreed, nodding slowly. "It is unfair to pin this on you."
Finally, she craned sideways, her supple hips twisting in the movement. I bit my lip. She rummaged behind the pillow and emerged with the missing sandal. She extended her arm to me, offering the piece of footwear.
But then, I looked into her full, round eyes and her almond skin glowing in the faint light as if woven through with copper. The slaughter of battle and the underground pits was not all that saw my worries flee, nor was my wanton desire for blood my sole lust.
"Put the sandal away," I swept a hand at her, suppressing the hint of a smile. "The fresh recruits can wait."
And I began undressing once more.
***
I strode through the field, hands clasped behind my back, inspecting the raw recruits levied from the northern Arab nomads to swell the ranks of Mu'awiyah's forces.
Under the previous Khalifa, 'Umar ibn al-Khattab who had been as a father to me, state officials and provincial governors had relatively limited power. They were under strict orders not to engage in trade, not to reside in lavish palaces or mansions, not to provide their men with fine Turkic steeds. They were not allowed to own land; in fact, all land belonged only to the state – the Caliphate. Governors were not allowed to own a standing professional army either, lest the men prove themselves loyal only to master instead of Islam.
And as I witnessed, the repercussions for going against these restrictions were enforced diligently and without corruption. There was even an inspection department back in Madinah entrusted with holding these individuals accountable for what 'Umar had deemed as 'tyranny'.
But 'Umar ibn al-Khattab was dead.
Struck down by a cowardly Persian slave in the midst of dawn prayers.
And the ummah of Islam was now in Umayyad hands. The Khalifa was 'Uthman, not 'Umar. And under 'Uthman, policies were different.
Mu'awiyah now resided in a grand abode – the Green Palace in Damascus, where I shared his massive roof. Mu'awiyah owned land now, land of insurmountable wealth. Coupled with his great influence now that he governed the entirety of the Levant and even a small western portion of 'Iraq...perhaps he was a Khalifa in his own right.
This overwhelming clout allowed him to entice Bedouin tribes to flock to his cause. Acting as mercenaries of sorts, two tribal confederacies by the names of Banu Kalb and Banu Tayy had brokered deals with Mu'awiyah to both lend him young tribesmen to garrison his cities and swell his ranks, as well as provide aid in times of war. The deal was cemented by the governor's marriage to a woman of the former's tribe.
They were fresh young men, not yet hardened in the ways of war, mostly Banu Kalb tribesmen. At first, I had been surprised to see that many, if not all of them, had crosses dangling from their necks. I came to learn that, like the more renowned Ghassanids, these Arab nomadic tribes who dwelled the steppes of southern Syria, had long since been allied to the Romans.
As a result, a good number of them fluently spoke the Greek tongue. They had inherited Christ's religion. And most importantly to me, they were more disciplined, more accustomed to the ways of organized military, than one would expect of a nomad.
The yard rang with the grunts and cries of the men and boys exercising laboriously beneath the sweltering sun with weapons of wood or none at all. Commands from the men at arms complimented the noises and sights of the evening that would hopefully bear into fruition hundreds of capable arms for the Levantine province.
I studied the faces of these youngsters, characterized with deep lines despite their youth, hard eyes and a steady sense of composure borne out of a harsh life they led from the moment they emerged from their mothers' wombs, roaming from one suitable plot of land to another as the season shifted in the eternal struggle to simultaneously keep their people fed as well as fend off raids from neighboring tribes or rogue bandits.
The nomadic life was the default setting imposed upon man by the gods. A man's natural abode was within the canvas or hide shelter of a tent. One could not truly be a man without facing some hardships in his life.
Hard circumstances breed hard men.
It is known.
I, myself, have faced a myriad of misfortunes in my life that forged a warrior battle hardened in fire and blood, unflinching in the face of death or the shining points of thousands of blades aimed at my direction. It was why I sent my sons to the Banu Asad, so that they would grow unhindered by the vices that the sheltered nature of the city life had to offer.
The old ways were key in the forging of men.
Such men were sweating fiercely before me yet showing no further signs of fatigue or exhaustion. The sun pounding above no longer served as a barrier to these men. It was but a bare nuisance at best.
The Muslims had shown the world what a horde of such men could accomplish once unified. The Arabs had spilled out of their windswept plains and demolished one world superpower and humiliated the other, plunged into a calamity as their precious empires rapidly eroded.
What could these men do for me? I wondered. That was more important.
Mu'awiyah had entrusted me with the training of a large number of recruits, though I delegated much of the direct interaction to my underlings. Perhaps that ought to change, I thought to myself.
The Arabs had achieved much glory through faith and competent leadership. Their faith lay in a religion. Perhaps these tribesmen could achieve similar feats under the guidance of similarly competent leadership. And faith as well.
Faith in me.
No army could withstand al-Khalidun, I knew that. Their agents were of the darkness and in the darkness. They would bide their time. They choose the moment to strike – when the target is most vulnerable. The enemy that chose the terrain held a substantial advantage; it is known.
But perhaps with the right combination of guile and sheer force, they can be forced to their knees.
And then there was the matter of Mu'awiyah. He who liked to portray himself as the benevolent ruler. The pious, God-fearing Muslim. But I knew better. I knew that this son of Meccan chieftains had the deceit of politics running in his blood. The brandishing of daggers in dark hallways came second hand to him. The stealth of poison, a tool frequently exploited.
The only thing he feared was not God. It was to be outmaneuvered at his own game. Outsmarted.
Otherwise, a man like Mu'awiyah, so manipulative, so shrewd and diplomatic with his placid face and his false smiles, his sugar-coated words and honeyed tongue – he had no allegiances. No loyalty but the might of his arm and the jingling of his coffers.
He had demonstrated that in Cyprus to me in a rude awakening. He had kept me in the dark. Painted me the illusion that I was the field commander, the admiral, the man in charge. But that had all been a ruse to curry favor with the Egyptian governor. Mu'awiyah had been willing to sacrifice some of my men as an initial wave of attack on a Roman fortress so that his precious ibn Abu Sarh could claim all the glory of conquest.
No more, I thought. No more. No more deceit, no more lies. No more power plays in the dark like craven fools.
And then I thought of Ramla. Mu'awiyah's daughter. So fair and slight.
She was to be married within the fortnight. Married to the Khalifa's son. I would only ever see her in the arms of another man. I would only ever see her bearing children that were not mine.
It was in that pivotal moment that I decided loyalties would change.