I lay on my back in bed, breathing heavily, my mind distant. The supple form of a concubine lay motionless at my side.
I'd seen my boy die before my own eyes.
Nothing could erase the memory from my mind. Not all the beer, fights and women in the world.
Hafsa had asked for a divorce me some days after slightly recovering from her shock at the loss, and I was quick to grant it. It is true, I have no luck with women.
But in those days, I was blinded by grief, drinking myself into a stupor. For a moment, on that hill gazing upon the sunset, my son beneath arm - it was euphoria. I felt as though I had the world beneath heel, an invincible man who rides with his sons to bring death and calamity to the enemy and was rewarded with slaves and plunder in return. But instead, it was the enemy that was a hundred steps ahead all along, and my only reward was devastation.
It is no easy thing for a parent to see their child die. For weeks, I wallowed in Mu'awiyah's palace, indulging in forbidden beer and women, becoming the very thing I despised on the Syrian mountain peaks.
I languished in my weakness; years of discipline hammered into me forgotten. If it wasn't for the pits I frequented at night – my primary outlet for the overwhelming grief and self-pity – I would have grown soft and fat.
The very individual I ridiculed as I horded heaps of goods and riches in my tent for months on end.
My mind was racked with slurred thoughts and I succumbed momentarily to darkness before I woke again with a fright. The sun was not yet up. Not even dawn. The candles still burned bright in and about the room.
Yet, a warrior was never truly slumbering. Like a rabid dog, there was a part of me that remained alert at all hours; seeing, sensing, smelling. The girl at my side had barely made a noise in the gloom, but I woke all the same. And with years of studious reflexes on my side, I managed to grab the dagger I subtly hid next to my bed.
But I was safe. I was in Damascus. Inside the Green Palace. Zayn ibn Yazid the monster was nowhere to be seen.
Or was he?
But then the door to my chamber slammed open.
I cursed myself for my negligence. Had I been of my wits, I would have at least heard the footsteps approaching outside and bought enough time for myself to fall into stance. I barely sat up, my vision swimming, my head throbbing, belly hollow, thoughts sluggish.
There was a sound, a man's voice but the words did not filter through my ears. As my vision steadied and my stomach ceased lurching, I was astounded to find Muawiyah standing tall and scowling before me, the very picture of a pathological authoritative figure.
He wore a flowing silk robe of purple embroidered with gold on the sleeves and cuffs, a pattern he was taken with. The sprawling fabric that spilled from the tail of his robe obscured his feet and footwear. By his side was a timid young man, perhaps a scribe. I was reminded of Anas ibn Malik who had enjoyed a similar position under the old Khalifa 'Umar, and had been a companion of mine in Madinah.
"I do not enjoy repeating myself, ibn Ka'b," I managed to strain in order to listen to Mu'awiyah's harsh voice. His scowl deepened when I only gaped at him blankly. "Get your arse off that bed and do your duty before I have the skin whipped off your back. I've arranged for your belongings be packed in your saddle bags. You leave for your mountain at the break of light. Only after I have you whipped for drinking."
He paused, leveling me with a glare of contempt.
"Abu al-A'war plans on raiding Rhodes in some weeks. He has expressed need for more ships and a greater number of men. I will be supplying him with both. There is a Ghassanid tribe some miles south of Damascus. Their chieftain is rumored to have apostatized – reverted back to idol worship. You and ibn Qays are tasked with uncovering the truth of this rumor with discretion; if proven true, the successful general must use force to restore order and the rule of Islam. That general will be rewarded by joining Abu al-A'war in his expedition."
And reap the spoils, I thought.
With that, Mu'awiyah stalked off, his step sure and brisk even though he seemed to be accumulating more fat by the day.
The miserable city life does that, I thought grimly to myself. I won't be like that. I can't.
Determined, and with a renewed vigor, I hopped off the bed. Of course, my stomach lurched, and my vision swam again. I vomited but I do not remember my fall to the ground. I did not wake again that night.
***
I did leave Damascus and all its vices behind the very next morning. I had to endure eighty lashes first, of course, as was the Islamic penalty for consumption of alcohol.
My hangover was fierce, and I could barely gather a coherent thought. My head was pounding as though an enemy were smashing my skull with an axe over and over. I tried shaking my head as I walked to the open courtyard where such affairs were usually conducted, but I ended up doubling over and clutching my head as the pain only worsened.
"What?" I growled at a guard that barred my path through the narrow hallway leading to the courtyard, stopping in my tracks. I was in no mood for formalities.
"You have visitors...sire."
He briskly spun on his heels and started walking firmly down the hall. I assumed I was to follow. I grunted in approval at his discipline, his powerful, long strides, his firm and steady posture as he walked, head held high, eyes never resting in one place, hand clasped to his belt, ever ready to draw his sword. Perhaps not all of ibn Qays' men were useless louts.
He stopped abruptly before a door; his movements stiff. I was about to ask him if he wished to relocate to the northern mountains, but he shoved the door open before I could speak, and with a sharp gesture, invited me inside. He broke off in a quick stride, leaving me with these guests. I would inquire after him, I supposed.
I stepped into the dim room, pausing for my eyes to adjust to the gloom. The shutters were closed, so there was no sunlight washing in as opposed to the sunlit hallways.
I grunted, recognizing three Asadi chieftains moments later. There were other boys with them. One was tall, proud, daring. He had the graceful build of a swordsman rather than the obtuse look of a solid warrior. I smiled, assuming this was my son, 'Abdullah. He would fight side by side with his brother, 'Abd al-Ka'aba, if the gods willed it.
Look how he meets my gaze without tremble, defiant and fiery, I thought to myself, eyes shifting to the others in the room.
There was a massive boy with powerful shoulders, clad in a flowing white gown not too dissimilar from the one I favored, and a white turban wrapped around his head. He had full lips, a prominent nose and a strong, shaved jaw. His skin was of a dark brown, similar to the shade I shared with 'Abd al-Ka'aba. A sword and a dagger would have rested on the baldric strapped around one shoulder, but they were doubtless confiscated outside of palace grounds.
I raised an eyebrow in confusion. I had sent a boy and a girl to the Assad – Abdullah and Umaymah. And I assumed the latter was Abdullah; so, this must have been some Asadi tribesmen. A sturdy warrior with an impressive build.
"Where is my daughter, ibn 'Abd Shams?" I demanded of one of the senior chieftains, inclining my head to him in respect.
He returned the gesture before raising a bushy white eyebrow.
"She stands before you, friend," he answered, waving a hand toward the beefy dark-skinned warrior.
I gaped at the warrior, who was now grinning at me. His teeth were very white, in peak condition. I narrowed my eyes, returning my gaze to the tribal chieftain in irritation. I felt my anger swell.
"I have no time for jests, ibn Abd Shams," I replied. "Show me my daughter."
I moved toward my son, Abdullah, the lanky warrior with a fiery gaze.
He has my dark curls, I thought, grasping him by the wrist. With a yell of alarm, he yanked his wrist free and took a step backward, hand falling to a sword hilt that was not there.
"You dare disrespect me, boy?" I bellowed at him, ready to unleash my sour mood on this undisciplined, petulant child. "Come, 'Abdullah. I will teach you something you would never have learned in a thousand years among these strangers."
The chieftain chuckled softly. His jubilant expression retreated as I redirected my gaze of anger at him.
"Hanthalah," he addressed me in a soothing voice. "This is not your son. This is the esteemed Ja'afar ibn Sa'ad. That is your son."
He gestured toward the far end of the room. I shifted my gaze sharply and my eyes fell upon another party I did not initially take note of.
And no wonder I did not.
That sorry excuse of a boy was no son of mine. He was not fit to be anyone's son. He was round-shouldered. His ghastly pale-yellow skin had creases in it and odd white spots on his chin that stood out like a raven among eagles. He was bug-eyed, stooped, with a bald spot to the back of his head. His arms were tiny, thin as a bowstring. I doubted he lifted so much as a clay pot in his entire life. His legs were pathetically short; his eyes were barely on the same level as my chest.
"Father," he greeted me curtly. There was no friendliness in his tone, though I did let out a scoff at his curiously high-pitched voice.
"This is not my son," I pointed at the odd creature before me. "And this is not my daughter." I pointed at the dark-skinned warrior.
Ibn 'Abd Shams shrugged and began moving, waving for the man they called Ja'afar to follow.
"We have fulfilled our promise to you, Hanthalah," ibn Abd Shams said, pushing the door open. "We are weary from our journey and wish to rest. Speak with your children."
He shut the door behind him as the others trailed behind, leaving me alone with these odd beings. A masculine woman and a...I did not know what the other one was. I stared blankly at them.
"Father," the warrior that was supposed to be Umaymah began. Even her voice was gruff as that of a man. "I..."
She licked her lips, her hands beginning to tremble. Tears began to form in her eyes. But as easily as Arslan, my elegant warhorse, would shift from a gentle trot to a sure-hooved canter, she steadied her hands and quivering chin, establishing a measure of certainty to her tone. She inclined her head in respect.
"It is an honor to stand before you, Father. I look forward to making you proud."
I wagged my index finger at her in disgust.
"Remove the man's clothing that contaminates your skin. Wear proper garments. Clothes that befit a lady."
I shifted from one foot to another, caressing my pounding head.
"The Banu Asad are desperate enough to arm women," I said under my breath. "If they have a shortage of men, they could have asked me to lend them some."
Her façade of confidence immediately evaporated, as soon as it appeared. Her jaw hung open and there was vulnerability in her eyes. The...thing by her side sniffed in disgust, his eyes full of contempt. I ignored it.
"Father, I...I am a warrior battle tested and hardened. I wish to serve under you and make you – "
"Get out of the men's clothing," I instructed her with patience I did not have. My head was pounding, my temper shorter than usual. I wagged my finger at the thing next to her. "And you...find something to do. If you wish to be a proper man, ride with me to my camp."
Umaymah opened her mouth as if to protest, but I had already spun on my heels and opened the door, eager to be away from this joke of a reunion. I give offerings to the gods, sacrifice spoils and precious cattle to them and they spit on me in return. A daughter who was a man and a useless creature that I did not deign to refer to as a son. I stepped out of the building and into the bright courtyard.
With a growl that sent the servant entrusted with the task cringing away in fear, I removed my gown as well as the tunic and all the layers beneath. There was a small crowd gathered forming a ring about the courtyard.
I was in a sour mood, dampened further by the incessant headache and hollow stomach. My knees seemed too weak to support me, but I held firm, determined to show strength and discipline in this pitiful endeavor. I knew Mu'awiyah would be watching from somewhere. I was whipped before, I remembered. As another man's property. My back still bore the scars, and my mind yet registered the memory.
The crowd was mainly composed of servants and the odd Umayyad who had taken up residence in the palace. There were large windows reinforced with iron bolts to obscure any passerby's view of those inside. The women's quarters. Doubtless they would be packed against those windows, watching the ordeal. Perhaps Ramla would be watching as well, I thought. That only strengthened my resolve.
With a snarl, I flexed the bare muscles of my abdomen and arms, widening my eyes and taking a step forward. Those gathered to spectate gasped and took a cautionary step backward. I enjoyed a private chuckle to myself, but that too was cut short by the insufferable banging in my head. I growled again at the servant, clutching my head against the effects of that damned hangover.
"Be done with it, damn you."
I chose one man in the crowd to glare at. I meant to frighten him as well as fix my vision somewhere I could lose myself in thought, so that I could distance myself from the lash. The man did not meet my gaze and began shrinking away. I smirked. The sight of me must have been terrifying. Topless, I towered over every single one of them and I was a warrior in peak condition despite the weeks spent in indulgence.
Scars and gaping holes lined nearly every inch of my flesh; they were spoils of war in their own right.
There was a wooden cross in the middle of the courtyard, with iron chains to manacle the hands on either side. I shoved away the slaves that intended to force my hands through and eased them in myself. I spat at them and they scurried away in a hurry. The wood of the cross was cold against my abdomen, the sensation enhanced by my condition.
I heard the whip hissing in the air behind me and the men in the crowd begin to babble, eyes wide in equal parts anticipation, shock and bewilderment. I grunted, bracing myself, curling my hands into fists.
The first strike landed on my bare back.
I flinched but did not cry out. I would not give the bastards that pleasure. The crack also seemed louder in this state of hangover.
Another strike landed, this time mind jarring. Perhaps I should not have been so intimidating. Now the servant with the whip held a personal grudge against me. I stayed my body from shaking and set my jaw firm as the third strike hit home.
Twenty lashes in and I grit my jaw so tight, I thought my teeth would shatter. I had not yet cried out or expressed any form of pain. I winced despite myself as I heard the whip come hissing through the air like a vengeful viper. I felt the warm blood trickle down my back, my body weeping red, my raw flesh exposed to all.
Some men say that after the first few lashes, you cease to feel the whip on your back. That is not entirely true.
Forty whips in and I did not scream, nor did I roar. I merely grunted and shut my eyes tight against the rising pain, the burning sensation that rippled through me, cruising as rapidly and certainly as a hull in deep waters.
Sixty and my back was burning. I could feel the skin peeling, flaking off, compounded by the pounding of the sun overhead. I shifted my feet but did not lower my head. No weakness could be shown. I reminded myself that every spectator here was a sheep; and how the sheep flock around one another, desperate for the agony of the wolf.
But the wolf was not as weak as they and he would not succumb to pain. Pain was a thing for city people to use as an excuse to lounge around all day as slaves plucked grapes into their mouths while they sat reclining in steaming hot baths, their strength growing lax and their muscles flaccid.
I was breathing heavily by the seventieth strike and my anger was flaring. I thought to myself that once free of these shackles, I would grip the hilt of a sword and lop the heads off each and every one of these fuckers. No, a dagger would suffice. I would not see my blade grow blunt over unworthy flesh.
It was the seventy fifth lash that forced a yelp out of me. It was the briefest of sounds and I doubted anyone heard it, but it shamed me deeply all the same. My resolve withered and my fury retreated at my show of weakness.
The brief moment took me back to that day at the top of the cliff.
"I am Sa'ad ibn Hanthalah..."
The courtyard echoed with the cracking and hissing of the abominable thing and I grit my teeth once more, counting down the lashes until I was free to be away from this cursed place with its ridiculous rules and bans.
The eightieth came and went, and I remained in place. My body was spasming briefly despite my best efforts to cease the shaking, and my breathing was ragged. The slaves released the iron manacles from my wrists, and I turned away from the cross carefully, my steps small and deliberate. My palms were slick with sweat, and cramping as well for they had remained folded during the entire ordeal. Something primal had been activated inside of me as the whip crashed and landed on my bare skin. The effects of the previous night's drinking evaporated at the diversion.
There were droplets of blood staining the courtyard floor and I felt yet more ooze from the wounds and onto the cloth of my trousers. I cracked my neck as the spasms and cramps slowed to a grudging end. My jaw was quivering with the strained effort of grounding it tight for so long and my teeth screamed in agony. But I, myself, was silent as I stalked calmly forward to the terrified servant bearing the whip. His mouth fell wide open when he looked into my eyes and saw my advance. He turned pale as curdled milk and attempting scurrying off, but my legs were longer and more powerful. I easily caught him in two strides.
I swung a fist and struck his jaw. The blow landed true; so perfect that the crack of his bones breaking was louder than any his whip could have landed. Dazed and unconscious, the pitiful man sprawled on the courtyard floor, his whip lying at his side. I bent over stiffly, wincing at the impossible pain that flared from my back. I ignored it, gritting my teeth again, and picked the whip up.
I spun slowly in a circle, eying each and every one of the onlookers. I glared at the bolted windows as well for good measure. Whip in hand, I raised it high in the air and heard its now glorious hiss. Directing all the pain and pent up emotion that stemmed from the sight of a child tumbling to his demise, my roar was guttural and unbreaking as I cracked the whip on the courtyard stone.
Sa'ad...
Women shrieked and men yelped. I took a step forward to the throngs on the western side, raised my whip and sent them scurrying away inside the buildings. I cackled sourly, letting the whip fall and crack on stone. My grin was terrible as I turned to face any who dared linger in the courtyard. Even the armed men who were soldiers of ibn Qays, the general that remained at the palace, disappeared through the wooden frames of the doorways.
With Ramla and Mu'awiyah in mind, I retained my grip on the hilt and began flexing my upper body muscles again, ignoring the complaint of my aching flesh and the slowly returning headache.
***
Days later, I grunted in satisfaction, looking upon my reflection in the shimmering waters of a stream. I had shaved off the gruff coarse hair I began to develop on my cheeks and fashioned each of my moustaches with tiny lavish rings of silver. The moustaches pointed slightly toward the end as they drooped down. The edges were dyed a deep red, the color of blood. I wore my hair loose and long; it tumbled past my shoulders in dark curls, but they were obscured by the white turban wrapped around my head.
In the pits, I was the Desert Warrior.
Among my men, mine was a fiercer reality.
I was Hanthalah ibn Ka'b.
We filled three sacks with hunted rabbit. The prized carcass of a wolfhound was sprawled on the back of my saddle as my hunting party of ten men trotted back to the camp. I would have the wolf skinned, use its fur to adorn Arslan's saddle before my men feasted on the meat. The slave boys would be rewarded with the scraps and leftovers. I had a number of animal skins in my tent that I would use either by donning it over my turban as a shawl of sorts or sprawling it between Arslan's coat and the saddle. They were all the skins of wild animals that lesser men would fear. Bears, boars, foxes, enormous snakes. They all fell to my spear and their meat warmed my belly.
The whipping did not serve its intended purpose of disciplining me and keeping me a docile servant.
Despite the shock and grief, the loss of my son did not break me.
It dawned upon me the realization of who I am; it reminded me that mine was not to wallow in a pool of tears as my enemies prowled about, lurking, biding their time for the opportunity to strike, and theirs was a lethal strike indeed. It reminded me that I was a wolf in a world of sheep, an Arab in a world of Romans and Persians. Mine was not to weep myself into a stupor or grieve until the end of my days over the loss of a son or a brother; my duty was to pursue the ongoing blood feud like the man I knew I was. I would no longer remain idle, huddled in a corner, dimming my pain.
I was to embrace pain and suppress fear as any proper warrior should. I would use my wits and my arms to exact vengeance and cut down any who stood in my way of putting my son's soul at ease. The Arabs believed that those unavenged did not find succor in the hereafter; their souls prowled the barren plains, lost and mournful until their blood feud was settled. And I did not intend for Sa'ad's soul to stalk the sands of the Arabian homeland long.
I walked into my tent, catching sight of a woman huddled over a small dagger.
"Lan Mei," I greeted her with a grunt.
The Chinese woman who had once been a slave at my mercy deep underground in Damascus looked up from her work and wordlessly met my eyes.
Zayn killed my son in the effort of breaking me. But my plunge into the abyss only served to make me rise stronger than ever before, more merciless and more unbending. Who would dare stand in my path?