Ibn Qays was a dull man and sour. I don't think I ever saw him smile before. Yet the sparkle in his eyes betrayed a hint of amusement as he trotted toward me to gloat in his victory. I regretted not battering 'Abd al-Rahman to a bloody pulp.
It was the morning after our failed attempt to capture the Ghassanid chieftain and no one in the dwelling had slept. Mundhir reported two Ghassanids accidentally killed on his hill, Piruzan only one. The sentries in the woods were all ambushed and captured without casualties, courtesy of Sufyan and Mahmud.
Throughout the night, I'd sent search parties out into the plains past the gorge to scour the land for the bastard who ran. I decided to reprimand 'Abd al-Rahman some time else. For now, I sulked in the chief's tent, the soothsayer who called herself Amina by my side.
"You said I would not go to Rhodes."
"Not yet," Amina replied.
"So...I will."
"Not yet," she repeated.
For 'Abd al-Rahman's incompetence, I had to suffer the boasting of a lesser man. I sighed, resigning myself to whatever was to come. Ibn Qays dismounted and pushed his way into the tent, his arm extended. I rose to my feet in a display of respect and clasped his arm.
"As-salamu 'alaikum w rahmat Allah," he spoke the Muslim greeting in the faintest of whispers. A miracle was about to happen then as the edge of his mouth curled up ever so slightly in what seemed to potentially blossom into a smile. But it evaporated as abruptly as it appeared.
"Wa 'alaikum," I answered gruffly and shortly. There was no mirth to my tone nor my face. I barely contained hostility. "Where is he?"
Ibn Qays slithered his arm away from mine and turned to the open slit in the tent. He put two fingers to his lips and blew; the whistle was some sort of signal, as two men came forward, dragging an old man in a pitiful state. His dusty face and clothes were besmirched with mud and muck. Was that blood? I noticed how he clutched one leg in agony every once in a while. There was no hatred in his eyes, only resignation.
"This is how you treat the elderly?" I demanded, waving a hand.
"This is how I treat the infidel," ibn Qays replied, the sparkle returning to his eyes. When he said that, his eyes were fixed on me, as though he were implying something.
"Speak freely, ibn Qays. Speak your mind or are you too craven to do so?"
Ibn Qays did not reply. Instead he snapped his fingers at his men.
"Get the other one and leave us in peace," he ordered them.
"Other one?" I asked.
"One of your men, I presume," the glimmer in his eye made me want to punch him in the fucking throat.
When they returned, they were dragging a much younger, fitter and more powerfully built man. His clothing and the mail beneath were in a far better state, his jaw set and his eyes proud and defiant. A stark comparison, it seemed...only the young man was no man at all.
"You petulant little shit," I spat at my daughter. "You disobedient, sparrow-headed moron."
You could pinpoint the exact moment her heart shattered into pieces. The pride and defiance in her gaze were replaced with agony and hurt. Her shoulders slumped and she was visibly fighting back tears.
"What are you doing here?" I bellowed at her.
She flinched and shut her eyes tight. The Ghassanid chief shot her a sympathetic glance. Ibn Qays was only watching the interaction unfold with unrestrained amusement.
"Not one of your men, then? A woman?" he snorted. And that was when I made up my mind.
I sighed, calmed my breathing and snuck a glimpse at Amina the witch, huddled in a corner.
"Go," I wagged a finger at Umaymah. "I want you gone."
My daughter raised her head and opened her mouth, but I was having none of it.
"Just go!"
My roar silenced whatever protest was about to escape her mouth. She rose from her knees and walked out. Ibn Qays' men had retreated some time earlier, on his orders. Now, the tent was empty but for myself, Amina and two dead men.
I began chuckling. It was worth it, just to wipe the smugness off the bastard's face.
"How did you find him?" I asked.
"We stumbled upon him, on our way here," he replied. "I don't think we would have spotted him if it weren't for the woman killing his horse and crushing his leg."
Umaymah did that? I thought. Maybe she did have some of me in her.
I nodded.
"Wouldn't have known who he was either if it weren't for Suhaib."
"Suhaib?"
"Ah. Yes. Suhaib used to be Christian. He is a Ghassanid of some other minor clan. Yet he is aware of this one. He immediately identified this lout upon seeing him."
Ibn Qays kicked the chief in the ribs, sending him toppling sideways with a grunt.
"How is it that you have a Ghassanid in your ranks?" I asked, though I thought I already knew the answer.
"Oh? Mu'awiyah did not provide you with an informant? Not even a similar individual to make this expedition easier for you?"
I scoffed. I didn't need someone else making things easier for me. But I did not prod him on that slight.
"So, you're going to Rhodes now?" I asked instead.
Ibn Qays nodded, eying the sprawled chieftain at his feet as though he were a vulture eying prey.
"Rhodes. Crete. Perhaps Sicily," he pondered. "Maybe Kos again. The Mediterranean is a hotbed for wealth, is it not?"
I nodded, smirking.
"It is. Fortunately, you will be enjoying the splendor of a place far greater than any isle in the sea."
Ibn Qays craned his neck toward me with a perplexed look.
"And where would that be?"
I studied the chief struggling to ease himself back on his knees. He was also wearing a confused expression. My hand was tucked into my robes, fumbling beneath heavy layers of cloth.
"Heaven," I answered calmly.
And I stabbed him.
In a split second, I conjured a dagger I always kept hidden from plain sight.
And I stabbed him.
I stuck it right into the side of ibn Qays' head; and I was reminded of a horrid morning much like this, of a similar wound and blood spattered on the walls. Long ago, when I was a child.
Only this time, the blood spattered everywhere on the tent. I was drenched in it, as was Amina and the wide-eyed chieftain. Ibn Qays' breath caught in his throat and he began fumbling at his waist for his sword. He found his hilt, but he did not have the strength left to draw it.
He began gasping, his mouth wide and his eyes watery. I twisted as the blade sunk deeper into his skull and he began gurgling. Blood poured out of his mouth like the fountain back at Mu'awiyah's palace. A pretty sight. Finally, he began choking on his blood and fell to his knees, clutching his wound.
I yanked the dagger free so he could bleed out. On his knees, a plethora of blood spurted from the gaping hole in his neck; finally, he toppled over face-first into the ground, unmoving and unbreathing. He did not rise again.
My hands were sticky and slick with his blood. Amina's face and garments were splattered with it yet she remained unfazed. I was beginning to take a liking to her. The chief, on the other hand, was horrified. He struggled to suck in breath as droplets of blood dribbled down his face. He attempted to crawl away from the bloodbath, his eyes wide in horror; he was unable to remove them from the still bleeding corpse, drowning in a red pool.
I shushed him. But when he failed to calm himself, I placed a foot on his broken leg and delighted myself in the resulting crunch. He began shrieking, wailing with a surprisingly high-pitched voice. I shushed him again.
"Keep it down," I told him in a calm voice. "No amount of howling will save you now. You're a dead man charged with apostasy ... and murder now as well."
For the first time, he shifted his bewildered eyes from the corpse to me. I smirked as they widened further, realization dawning on him. I hunched over and cut his bonds with the dagger. I put a finger to my lips as he attempted to scramble away from me, the pressure on his leg firm all the while.
I grabbed his right hand and placed the dagger in his palm. I shushed him again as he began weeping and screaming. I folded his fingers into a grip on the dagger's hilt. There were cries of alarm and the sounds of footsteps coming from beyond the tent flap. Men were coming. Hopefully ibn Qays'.
"I'm going to Rhodes," I informed the shocked man that I sentenced to die.
And I smacked him across the face to still his cries.