June 654 AD, Dhul Qi'dah 33 AH
At the head of more than three thousand, I stood at the ship's prow beneath clear skies and in the midst of favorable winds. Far and wide and to every horizon, there was nothing but the pale sparkling shimmer of the Mediterranean's endless waves. We were at the heart of the sea, long since setting sail from the shores of the Levant.
"Haul the main sheet!" I heard Abu Musa bellow for the hundredth time that afternoon. I was entirely ignorant of these nautical terms or the ways of ships. I was a man that knew the deserts and the peaks. I did not see water until I was a man grown. At first, sailing felt uneasy. My stomach rumbled and lurched, I heaved whatever I shoved down my gullet over the rail. It was nauseating and beyond frustrating having the very ground betray you; never standing still beneath your feet.
But I was taking a liking to it. It brought back memories of the glories in Cyprus. I had single handedly crippled the mini Roman fleet docked there. Abu Musa could handle the day to day issues of the sheets, the sail, the rigging, the larboard, the starboard and all the terms that meant naught to me. All that mattered was that he got us to our destination in one piece. I would take it from there.
In truth, his name was not Abu Musa. Nor was he Arab. The man was a Roman native of Syria. He was portly and stout; his beard was frizzy, yet he wore it with a moustache for he had not converted. The cross hanging at his neck was further testimony to that.
Abu Musa's real name was Cornelius or something of the sort. His father was Syrian, his mother Greek. He served for years as sailor in the Roman fleet and rose through the ranks to become an admiral. His years of experience at sea distinguished him from anyone else. Following the Arab conquests, he lapped up at the chance to prolong his career by recognizing Muslim hegemony over the territories that had once been Roman.
Though he was not favored by Mu'awiyah for his faith – he was demoted from admiral for the Romans to a mere helmsman on my ship – the men had taken a liking to him. He was endearing, indeed, with his ready smile and jovial personality. Always ready to offer a compliment and jump in with a hilarious quip. The men called him Abu Musa because they felt that he was one of them.
I did not trust him; I trusted no one. But I would let him be the master of this ship and dish out commands for the sails and the oars and whatnot. A leader must learn to delegate.
We did not linger long in Kos. I spent some nights in the fort Abu al-A'war had occupied, planning for the glories to come. Crete would be our next destination, and from there we would head off to Rhodes. Mu'awiyah wanted the Roman emperor's head on a pike and the Khalifa approved of the ordeal. We would attack by sea and Mu'awiyah himself would brave the expedition by land.
So, our little endeavor among these waves would culminate in a two-pronged attack of Constantinople – the city renowned for grandeur, civilization and centuries of Roman imperialism. It was the second Rome. And I was hungry to see it succumb to the same fate as its predecessor.
Our galleys were sleek, supple and long. We made adequate progress, slicing through the waves on these camels of the sea. Our ships were designed for just that purpose; to be nimble and quick – a tactic favored by Arabs on land, that was now reflected on water. It concerned me on many an occasion that our rails may be too low to board a Roman ship. However, I had experienced naval engagements before, and that never proved to a problem. Some of the Roman ships were large, clumsy and lumbering, but the majority were captured easily enough.
The Arabs, however, were not accustomed to life on deck. We are not a seafaring people. We belong to the simplicity of the inhospitable plains and the relentless pounding of the sun. Ours is the feel of a saddle underneath and a bow or a blade in hand. As a result, my boys swayed unsteadily on deck; more often than not, they clung to the mast or the rail to steady themselves against the treacherous footing beneath foot. Pale faces were a common sight as were soldiers lurching over the railway to empty their stomachs' contents overboard.
My own stomach churned every once in a while, though I ignored that gnawing sensation of weakness. It would not do to show it. I resolved that it would be best to keep the men at work, to busy themselves and take their minds off the nauseating voyage. My boys were fighters, not sailors, but under the apt and steady hand of Abu Musa, there was always a task at hand; one that they always excelled at, while I watched from afar with shrouded pride.
The largest of our galleys could host up to fifty troops, while others usually consisted of anywhere between thirty and forty. The vast majority of them working the oars on the benches to either flank of the ship. The others were just as vital to the progress of our advance. Working as sailors or performing a dozen other jobs while traversing the calm seas.
When the time came to harass any Roman ships, they would pluck javelins, bows, mail shirts from a heap below deck to rain down hell on the enemy. The oarsmen would join in on the slaughter should I see fit to board a ship, in which case melee weapons would be prudent. In close quarters combat, it would be wiser to use a simple shield and sword, perhaps an axe if one was a hulking brute like the Nubian. Spears would likely prove to be your downfall for the lack of mobility and space. I found that an orderly shield wall would be the wisest course of action in such circumstances, but it was difficult to coordinate a formation with the enemy brandishing a weapon on the other side. A shield wall would prove easier to organize when it was our vessel that would be assaulted, though that too would require a high level of discipline.
My boys were untested at sea, but I was confident in their abilities.
It was a confidence that would be shaken on the third night of the voyage.
We made for steadier pace in the dark and the boys were more sullen than usual at that time. Abu Musa roared no commands, the oars lulled in their holes and a number of sailors retired to corners of the ship, where they lay huddled and swathed in furs or cloaks to rest their bodies and minds.
Sleep was difficult for me to find, however. I needed to be alert in the case of an emergency, and the excitement for the spoils to come was simply too overwhelming. I usually spent those nights either silently stalking the helmsman's platform, lost in thought, or conversing with Tariq and Mundhir in hushed tones.
I had entrusted 'Abd al-Ka'aba with his first command; five ships deeper into the center of our formation of three hundred ships. The center was mine, while Abu al-A'war matched our pace to our left. The right flank was commanded by a third commander, a man from al-Fustat. The latter had the majority of the ships, somewhere around a hundred and fifty; all of them were Egyptian vessels.
'Amr and the Nubian were also entrusted with their own body of ships.
'Amr. He had been my friend since childhood. He was as a brother to me. But he did not accompany me to the court of Mu'awiyah in Damascus as Mundhir had. 'Amr had preferred staying behind in the capital city, Madinah, to pursue his duties as part of a police force in the city as well as maintaining already existing loyalties there.
But now, he was among us. He had joined our expeditionary force some days prior to our arrival in the port city of Beirutus along with the Nubian, and to my glee, they had been assigned to my unit.
But I had been away from him for long. I'd forgotten the tension that existed between us, the stark contrasts in our beliefs. The disagreements last we met.
Our reunion was distant rather than warm. Cold rather than jubilant. With a scowl on his face, his mouth moved in prayer as he flicked through the beads of a rosary in his hand. Ever the pious Muslim. He had a dark blot on his forehead where the skin cracked; the effect of extensive prostration during prayer.
"Brother," I greeted him with a wide grin, moving forward to embrace him.
My advance was halted by him taking a step backward with an offended expression on his face.
Mundhir chuckled at the sight. "What's wrong, brother? You look as though you've a finger up your arse."
"May Allah forgive me," 'Amr whispered, shoving past me to make his way onboard, the Nubian in tow.
Nevertheless, it was important to showcase a trust for 'Amr in order to make amends. No matter how strained our relationship, I would always remember the days of my youth. When all was cruel and heartless, pinning me down. Only my brothers, 'Amr and Mundhir, offered me a safe haven of fraternity and affection.
Which is why I assigned the Nubian command of a contingent next to that of 'Amr. I kept Mundhir and Tariq close at hand as my confidants. My trust for 'Abd al-Rahman had not yet been restored, and so, I kept him nearby as well, with no particular responsibilities attached. I stalked him from the edge of my vision at every waking hour, studying his behavior, mannerisms and the emotions his body betrayed.
"Could have just gone by land," Mundhir said on one such night.
"You want to travel to an island by land?" I asked, incredulous.
"I'd prefer swimming over sailing. A horrid experience, every time, if you ask me."
"That's the thing," I retorted smugly. "No one asked you."
"I find it fascinating," Tariq chimed in, my young scout.
"Well, you've always been a freak," Mundhir replied.
"It's an entirely different world," Tariq continued. "A world of knowledge I can still learn. Experiences I have never been privy to."
Mundhir snorted. "What is there to like about unsteady footing and ground that jumps. It jumps! If I can't trust the fucking ground, what else is a lie?"
"That is...a unique take," I commented.
"I'll tell you what a unique take is," Mundhir continued. "You grab that bastard by the arms, I'll take the legs and we haul him overboard, so we don't have to listen to his drivel ever again."
"Maybe on our way back," I stole an amused glance at Tariq.
"That would work if I could see you over that grain of rice, midget," Tariq retorted.
Mundhir chuckled. "Kid's got a tongue!"
"And more than a few inches over you as well," I budged in, sending Tariq bawling with laughter and Mundhir fumbling for an appropriate response.
The banter faded as did the half-hearted complaints, eventually. Tariq and Mundhir retired to sleep, preferring a night's rest to preserve their strength for whatever was to come. The anxiety in me, however, did not retreat so easily. Not only was I worried for the outcome of this endeavor; the thought of al-Khalidun was ever a gnawing worry at my mind. I still suffered nightmares of the boy Zayn tossing my son over a cliff. So nonchalantly. As if killing a child was a thing to be taken so lightly. It sent a shiver down my spine.
"You will find glory in Crete. Do not worry."
I jumped at the unexpected intrusion. A moment before, the world was silent but for the whistling of the wind, the lapping of water against the hull and the sound of my own thoughts. The voice was smooth and emotionless. I turned to see Amina the pagan soothsayer approaching. Pale as the moon in its perch, and ten times as eerie. Enchanting, as befitted a witch. If we were to see Constantinople to its knees, I supposed the presence of the voice of the gods would not hinder the result.
"Crete," I replied curtly. "Yes. Crete. Rhodes. What else? Only the gods know."
I flicked a couple of glances at her. "And you."
She smiled tightly.
"You know my visions can only be triggered by..."
I raised an eyebrow. "By what?"
She did not reply, though her gaze was unflinching. I understood.
"Are you serious? The soothsayers were always virgins in the stories. They always lost their gift when they gave themselves to the base desires of men. You're telling me it's the other way round?"
"The stories were wrong," she answered confidently. "Is my trigger a problem for you?"
I snorted. "Not at all. That's another advantage to having you tag along."
Her expression dropped.
"I do not tag along," she replied vehemently. "I bear the voice of the gods."
I paused for a moment before replying. "Of course. So, whenever I need a vision. I just..."
"So now you're too timid to say it? Our first encounter was rather...blunt."
"Did it offend the gods?" I teased her.
"What do you think? You believe our gods so petty as to concern themselves with the petulance of mortal man? That is reserved only for the Muslim god."
I nodded. "You are but a messenger. Bear in mind, though, Amina, that more often than not, the messenger finds himself short a head when he missteps."
Amina remained silent for several long minutes. When she spoke again, her voice was taut and melancholy.
"You will find glory in this voyage. Yet, death and tragedy will also...tag along."
"I didn't fuck you. How did you come by that?"
"I've had that vision for a long while. Since I was with the Ghassanids."
I gulped, dismissing her with a wave of my hand. My head darted left and right, navigating the shimmering black waters of the Mediterranean that sparkled like jewels under the light of a half moon. Yet, to every horizon there was only a conspicuous darkness, a seemingly endless abyss of misery.
Where there had been eagerness and anticipation with only a hint of anxiety a moment before, there was now a feeling of dread and a looming sense of doom. Death and tragedy. Darkness all around. It could only be the work of al-Khalidun. I remembered Zayn's words before he killed Sa'ad. He revealed how al-Khalidun operated. They only spared so many in my life, the likes of 'Abdullah and Umaymah, because I bore no love for them in my heart. Seeing them hurt would not faze me. The moment the bastard saw a semblance of affection blossoming between Sa'ad and I, he murdered him in cold blood.
And for the first time in three nights, my shoulders slumped, and my body ached with exhaustion.