Two halls in the Green Palace were reserved for this...joyous occasion. The guests were partitioned to the hall for males, where the groom resided on a massive rectangular table on a raised platform. The hall itself was filled to the brim with guests – men of note, men of state, men of the battlefield and of palace hallways.
Underneath the dais that hosted the groom's table were a plethora of round tables neatly arrayed about the vast expanse of the lavish hall adorned with all manners of ostentatious decoration.
There were vines carefully placed on the walls, snaking around pillars at the edge of the chamber or rising to the colossal ceiling above. Attached to them were palm tree leaves.
Dotted about the hall were tiny items emitting faint, moth-like light. But there were no mosaics or carved images or paintings or sculptures to be seen, for these were un-Islamic items left behind in 'the age of ignorance'.
I smacked my lips as servants barged in through the massive doorway carrying a large plate of roasted lamb overhead. A great roar washed over those present in their seats, and they began banging their fists on tabletops in anticipation of the great feast that awaited them.
Men abruptly rose to their feet, heads lowered as loud bellows dwindled down to hushed tones, swept away into a stretching silence, the air heavy with the sense of yet more anticipation.
And then the man in question would raise his head, meet the groom in his eyes and begin reciting a meticulously crafted poem, singing to the groom's praises, speaking of his great deeds, his valor, his benevolence, his honesty, his hospitality, strength and piety. All things valued by Arabs for generations.
And then the poem would be concluded with a tongue-in-cheek jab at the groom that would send the chamber riling with echoing guffaws and raspy voices again, the usual raucous and loud joviality that was characteristic of Arabs in special occasions.
"For the groom most valued, I offer thee fifty camels!" one man declared his wedding gift after the conclusion of his poem. "And for the chaste bride, fifty more!"
Studious gasps would follow the bold proclamation, loud howls and cheers were not in short supply. And then another would find his feet, seeking to top the previous man's eloquence of words and the generosity of his gift.
"A hundred brocades of the finest silk!"
"A dozen fur-trimmed riding trousers and just as many sandal-boots!"
"A Turkic horse and a sleek, double-curved Chinese bow of the finest oak!"
"A Persian blade with a silver pommel and emerald encrusted crossguard!"
It was Ramla's wedding.
And I was the one in charge of organizing the event. The irony of fate.
***
"You are a man of great courage, I hear," Marwan ibn al-Hakam initiated a conversation with me as I lounged on a wall in the corner of the great chamber. "You possess prowess unmatched by many."
Marwan ibn al-Hakam was a plain-faced man with a hooked nose, full lips, clean-shaven cheeks and silky brown hair that tumbled neatly to his shoulders. He was of the Banu Umayya clan, an Umayyad, which made him close kin to the likes of Mu'awiyah ibn Abu Sufyan and the Khalifa himself, 'Uthman ibn 'Affan.
And like all Umayyads, he possessed the undeniable charm, wit and a natural competence that were essential to matters of politics and backstabbing.
The Umayyads were among the wealthiest of clans among the Quraysh – the hegemonic tribe of Makkah – prior to the advent of Islam and their fortunes continued to soar with the rising hegemony of the Caliphate. They were no strangers to political machinations and intrigue.
In short, they were snakes, charlatans and conniving bastards. Even Ramla was extraordinarily shrewd.
But then there was Marwan ibn al-Hakam. He bested them all.
You wouldn't know it just by looking at him. He was all smiles and bristles; his fine silk garments were powdered, his hair exuding a pleasant aroma, a scent born of perfume of the rarest delicacy. Yet, behind his joviality and mild manners, he was conjuring a thousand different ways to part your head from the shoulders upon which it rested.
He favored me with one such smile at Ramla's wedding; a lavish occasion held at Mu'awiyah's impressive palace in Damascus. Men of note from all over the Islamic state attended to pay their respects to the governor of greater Syria.
His eyes flickered in the reflected light of a thousand tiny lights. They were quick, dancing and intelligent, seeking to discern the man before him. There was a hostility to them, a mocking vibe that contradicted the warmth of his smile and the generosity of his praise.
I grunted in response, folding my arms. I was in a foul mood as it was.
It was Ramla's wedding, after all. I was not in the state of mind for tricks.
"Yes," he continued. "Men of strength are always sullen, brooding. It is a characteristic I find most dear to my heart. You are the kingmakers, the true hegemons of this world. Paradise does lie at the tip of the spear, after all."
He swept a hand in an encompassing gesture at all those present. The chamber was vast, reinforced with wooden beams and columns of thick pillars lined either side. Between them was a horde of polished tables, filled to bursting with a feast so great, it must have starved the entirety of Damascus and the area it curtailed.
Of course, that was an exaggeration. Mu'awiyah was not so careless as to beggar his own hub of power.
"Who else do you think controls our fates? These men? Men of gluttony and deceit, operating in the shadows to serve only themselves. Without the warriors such as you, we would not be in this very hall, blessed with the finest of meats and the most tender of delicacies. This land was won not with words. But with swords."
"What is it that you want from me?"
"These men lie through their teeth," Marwan ibn al-Hakam continued as if I had not spoken. "For their own interests. They promise the world to those who saw them to their perch. Women, glory, plunder. Yet they are the ones garnering the most profit from the acts of men such as yourself. While the fierce warrior, the thousands of Hanthalahs, are left scraping the barrel, with only meagre reward for their services."
"You intend to lecture me on battle spoils? Cease your roundabout tales and speak brazenly."
"Yes, my dear Hanthalah, brazen speech. All these men before you lack this crucial quality. Transparency. Yet, it is men such as you, the warriors plunging into the lethal embrace of the foe, that speak most bluntly. Those who are not afraid to express themselves in the most honest of manners. It is men such as you that ought to call this palace their own. Men such as you. Men such as myself."
"You?"
Marwan chuckled. "You do not flatter, dear Hanthalah. Reinforcing my point, indeed. Yes, men such as me. Surely you have heard of my own courage and prowess in battle, as I have heard of yours."
I did not respond.
"Dear Hanthalah," he maneuvered his way to face me now. "How long have you been in service to my cousin? Five years? Six? More? I do not know. Has your reward been an ample one, befitting your years of service?"
My temper pricked at me and I unfolded my arms, took a step forward so that we were close enough to kiss.
"I want for nothing. I hold a position of influence in this palace. I have been rewarded with a roof overhead, a wife and a son, abundant clothing and food. Most importantly, respect."
Marwan ibn al-Hakam did not seem intimidated by my tone.
"You want for nothing, Hanthalah? Take a step back and inspect your life. Is this what you want? Is this what you have labored years for? Adequacy? The lowliest of provisions? And respect, Hanthalah? Honestly, you are the most loyal and most capable of all of Mu'awiyah's commanders. Yet others stand head and shoulders above you in rank. Look at you this night, my friend. Why do you stand lurking in a corner, and not on a bench enjoying the feast?"
"Watch your tongue."
Marwan held up both hands and feigned an innocent expression.
"Far be it from me to imply anything. It was an innocent inquiry."
I pursed my lips, drummed a finger against my arms. I refused to meet the man's eyes. "I'm...I'm to organize the event. To prevent any brawls or misconduct."
Marwan took a step back, his eyes wide, his expression theatrically appalled. He put a hand against his chest, adequately offended on my behalf with his dropped jaw.
"You?" he strained on the word. "You, of all people, dear Hanthalah? Your skills are being wasted as...as, forgive me, as a common chamberlain? The greatest of Mu'awiyah's generals...reduced to..."
Finally, Marwan sighed, shaking his head.
"Is this truly the respect that ought befit you?" he prodded me further. "Should your loyalty and your superior qualities be squandered in a life of unrewarded servitude? To live and die at the whims of an overlord. Or do you wish to be master of your own destiny? First among equals."
I opened my mouth to argue, but he had already started inching away. He hushed me with an upraised finger.
"No answer now. When you reach desired conclusion, seek me out. In Madinah."
And with that, he was gone, striding back through the busy throngs of dining guests, lost in a crowd of people as numerous as specks of sand in a plain. He left me alone with my thoughts and rising insecurities.
***
Respect is an odd thing. We yearn for it, seek it, demand it even. Whether we earned such a privilege or not. Earning it is irrelevant to us. It is more than simply being accepted by others. It extends to a feeling of appreciation, sufficient reward and perhaps simple gratitude.
The notion tugged at my mind the months following Ramla's wedding and Marwan ibn al-Hakam's words.
Was I a man that garnered respect from those around him?
My son certainly respected me, for he was forced to.
Perhaps some of my underlings did, such as Piruzan the Persian slave.
This new wife of mine, however, this Hafsa, did not. Neither did her son, by the looks of it.
Mu'awiyah certainly did not.
And he was the one who mattered most, for he could elevate me or destroy me at a whim. I depended entirely on the good graces of this one man. He could throw me to the streets to be gnawed at by rabid dogs, for it was his palace I occupied. It was his food I ate, his benevolence that warmed my belly. Even this wretched new wife and the runt of a boy I owed to him.
But then again, is reward for faithful service truly benevolence? Would he expect me to continue performing decent work without the pay or reward he gives me now?
I bled for him, killed for him, raided for him, conquered for him. I trained the hopeless louts he recruited from the nomads. Instead of elevation and deserved reward, I was shown disrespect in the Cyprus campaign where I was sent to the slaughter without sufficient information and forced to carry out the orders of lesser men such as ibn Abu Sarh.
Mu'awiyah was a volatile source of income. I needed to snap the cords that tethered me to him as a babe clings to his mother. I needed to depend solely on myself for shelter and safety.
I would not flock beneath Marwan ibn al-Hakam's banner either. I saw through the intent of his fancy speech; he meant to cultivate a thread, a common link between us in order to form a sort of kinship. That we were both unsung heroes, of the same mold. He was intentionally undermining Mu'awiyah, his own cousin, for some bizarre motive. He was attempting to lure Mu'awiyah's men to his side, a maneuver to weaken the governor of the Levant.
I knew this was some sort of twisted power play, but the words stuck in my mind all the same. Marwan cared not for my well-being or that I was amply rewarded; men such as him cared only for themselves. He was secretary to the Khalifa himself, a man deeply entrenched in the game of politics. He was of the same breed as the men he gestured at and seemingly held in such disdain.
But was there a semblance of truth to his words? Or was I simply succumbing to his venomous charm?
In any case, I would not trade one master for the other. I would not join Marwan.
Too long I have called other men my superiors.
No longer.
The palace life was never for me, vying for the approval of other men, dealing in deceit and daggers in the dark. Lurking in the shadows was the work of al-Khalidun and conniving politicians.
I was a man of sword and word.
And so, I abandoned the warmth and shelter of a palace for the adverse mountainous terrain and tribulations that elevated boys to men, the hardships that forged warriors that knew naught but blood and steel and death.
I managed to convince Mu'awiyah it would be beneficial to relocate the squadrons of recruits I was entrusted with to the northern mountains, rather than the comfort of palace barracks. As well as fortitude, bonds were forged between men that weathered hardships together. I was tied to the Nubian, Mundhir and 'Amr by fighting alongside one another, by smiting the enemy at one another's shoulders.
My resolve was to build a similar bond of loyalty not with mere individuals, but with hundreds. These recruits would owe loyalty to none but me. They would be my own private army on the desolate peaks of the Syrian mountains.
The last nail in the coffin was Ramla.
Most men are driven by either their cocks or their hearts.
I am no different.
For too long I had been convincing myself Ramla was naught but a passing affair, meaningless and purely carnal. But I could not fool even myself. I could not bear the palace life without sharing her bed. If she would have a husband in the sheets; I would have legions at my beck and call.
The dynamics of power were shifting.
Everything seemed to be on the rise. I was a beast unchained, a lion let loose from the manacles of palace docility that bound him and restricted the devastation he yearned to wreak. I was to prowl the wild lands of Syria and hammer these boys into an elite pack that would see fields run red.
But my enthusiasm ground to a grating halt when I saw Andronicus' face.
In my fervor to be away from Mu'awiyah's court, lost in my dreams of grandeur, I had forgotten the damned Egyptian had sent word that he was to pay me a visit with Sumayya's daughter in tow.
The logistics of the march north had proven cumbersome, the preparation for our endeavor slow-paced and sluggish. It delayed me just long enough for Andronicus to show his plump, pox-scarred face.
Andronicus found me in the field overseeing the carts to be laden with supplies and the necessary equipment for our trek north. I was bare-chested in the sweltering sun and wore a puzzled expression once I saw my old friend waddle his way on stout legs toward me.
His rust-colored beard was greasy, encrusted with breadcrumbs. His frizzy hair was disheveled and thick with lice, almost entirely grey now. His once jolly face lined with a dozen wrinkles, his lips were ghastly pale and there were dark pools beneath his eyes.
The only thing I recognized of him was the silver cross at his neck.
He walked toward me and sniffed; his eyes fixed on the palace structure behind him.
"A fine dwelling you've secured for himself," he said casually as though he was ignorant to the fact we'd been apart for nearly a decade. "It's a shame your children do not share in its luxury."
I hesitated, my thoughts wandering. I did not know what to say.
"Was leaving," I finally managed to stammer.
"Hoping to go before we arrived?" his voice was hostile, bereft of any warmth. "To have your daughter risk the journey to Damascus, only for her to discover the city empty of loving father."
Andronicus beckoned to a girl behind him, calling her forward.
My breath caught in my throat the moment I saw her.
Before me stood Sumayya.
No, I thought, shaking my head. This was not Sumayya. Sumayya, who had been my wife, was dead. This was Ruqayya.
Her beauty reminded me precisely why I avoided her so ardently, for years on end. She was the very image of her mother. Pale, smooth-skinned, willowy and slender. She had her mother's long fingers and round, beady black eyes. Her full red lips and her generous waist. She was clad in a simple dark gown and I was surprised to see that her hair was unbound, the dark curls tumbling freely beyond her shoulders. I was aghast to see that she wore a silver pendant at her neck, a cross identical to that of Andronicus.
She would have been twelve, three and ten perhaps, yet she was already tall as her mother, and towered over the stout Andronicus.
Seems she had her mother's intellect as well. There was no keenness to her that suggested she would throw herself at my feet or wrap her arms around a long-lost father. She did not come here to bawl her eyes out and recover lost years. She knew I'd abandoned her, and she knew exactly why. Perhaps it was curiosity that drove her to Damascus, to discern what this man she ought to call father was about.
And she did not seem to be enjoying what she saw.
Ruqayya bobbed her head slightly in acknowledgement.
"Father," her voice was full and strong, unwavering.
Even her confidence, she lent from her mother. It was as though I were speaking to a ghost. In flashes, the image of Sumayya's severed head laid out on furs were all I could see. A body at the bed's feet, lacking the essential head and the neck that usually supported it.
I froze and could only manage to stare at her, despaired. A lump formed in my throat and had I been a weaker man, perhaps a tear or two would have escaped. Ruqayya, my daughter, looked me up and down as though she were nobility and I was of common stock. Her grace and elegant poise...she nailed every characteristic that had once belong to Sumayya...
"No words for beloved daughter?" she demanded, her tone stiff and cold.
My mouth hung open and I continued to openly gawk.
"Father!" a rumbling voice called out from behind that mercifully broke the awkwardness of the moments.
'Abd al-Ka'aba. Gods be praised.
The young man strode toward me, his usual red turban draped over his head.
"The ox needs tethering and 'Abd al-Rahman is too sparrow-brained to – "
"This is your brother," I cut him off, ceasing the opportunity to salvage the situation. "Muhammad."
Ruqayya sniffed in disdain and 'Abd al-Ka'aba spared her only a glance before returning to address me. He opened his mouth to speak but I stifled it with a raised palm.
"You are almost of an age," I told them. "Perhaps you have much in common."
The awkward silence returned, and all parties were left nailed to their places, uncertain of what to say or do. Andronicus looked rather amused.
"You expect to be negligent all these years and have a fine young woman that could have been your daughter come crawling back into your arms?" the Egyptian broke the silence.
"She...she is my daughter."
"She's not your daughter," Andronicus declared, draping an arm over Ruqayya's shoulders. "She never will be."
Ruqayya only continued studying me with her raven-like eyes that were so like her mother's. Only Sumayya's had a measure of mischief in them. Ruqayya's were only cold and distant, of a calculating intelligence. I could not bear meeting them for more than mere seconds, so I tore my gaze away from hers.
"I've had my fill, Father," she spoke to Andronicus, completely disregarding 'Abd al-Ka'aba and I now. "I wish to remove myself from this...palace."
Andronicus grunted curtly and strode away from me and my perplexed son, his...daughter close at heel. She only looked back once, and her gaze was one of pity and derision.