(Cover image is the ruins of the ancient city Gortyn)
Umaymah bint Hanthalah gripped the hilt of her sword as she finally donned her clothes once more and buckled her scabbard. To avoid discovery, she swept the tail of her turban across her face, obscuring her features.
She stalked out of this densely wooded area she meticulously chose for this specific...task she had just completed.
The challenges she faced masquerading as a soldier in Father's army were monumental. More daunting than she had ever expected. Every day, every minute, every moment, she needed to be conscious of every move and every word and every eye upon her. It would not do to be discovered. Not at all.
The voyage via sea had been the worst of it; an absolute nightmare. All the Arab soldiers were cramped together in a confined space. The entire journey, she had to deal with the same individuals, see the same faces, perform the same duties. All while keeping her head down and trying to blend in lest she risk discovery from any superior officer.
It had been a miracle she had not been found out and thrown overboard. She managed to sneak onto a ship in the port city of Beirutus after stalking the marching column of the army from Damascus. She got lucky, Allah be thanked. As it turned out, Father had been entrusted with fresh batches of men unfamiliar to him. Men who had never trained with him beforehand. Therefore, they were complete strangers to Father's army.
On the ship, whenever her face was bare, the others paid her unfamiliarity no heed. They just assumed she was from the other group of soldiers.
Not that it made her quest any easier. Once they landed on the shores of this island, Umaymah fell on her knees and prostrated on the ground, giving thanks to Allah that the nightmare on wood was over. Fighting her churning belly all the while.
Now, she was faced with new challenges by the day. She needed to share a tent with several others as well as interact with any comrades as her camp duties saw fit. Once, she was selected as part of a group dispatched to the woods in a foraging mission.
And the greatest hurdle of all was the one she was performing right now...
Taking a shit.
All while trying to preserve her sanctity as a woman, as ordained by the Creator himself. There were limits to how a man should interact with a woman, even if she were one such as Umaymah bint Hanthalah. These were divine edicts that she knew that she must follow. Her sword would do her little in that regard.
But it served her well elsewhere. Very well.
She didn't know if she could have survived all these ordeals, this constant state of panic and anxiety, if it hadn't been for the combat. They would descend upon the villagers and the townsfolk with a fury, displaying the might of their arms as well as that of their religion.
Every night before she drifted off to sleep, her sword arm aching with the tension of hours of exercise, Umaymah would grunt in satisfaction at the promise of more to come.
To fight once more at the side of Father. It had been her dream since she was only a little girl. Now, a woman grown, she had finally realized that dream. On this island of Crete.
Umaymah fought back tears as she gently placed the bundle of logs on the earth where the campfire was set to be lit. The sky turned a deep red, the color of pomegranates. The setting sun a distant figure, only half-visible, with a lovely golden tint as well.
All praise be to Allah. He takes as He pleases and He gives as He pleases.
Then, there was the sound of steel scraping against leather. The sound of a sword being unsheathed.
Umaymah jumped, dropping the logs and immediately finding the hilt of her sword and falling into studious stance. The camp was infiltrated? How? Were they being ambushed? Her eyes darted this way and that, blade only half-drawn, her senses pricking...
Only to find Father standing proud before his tent. A crowd was gathering before him.
"I earned this off the body of a pirate, many eons ago, on the shores of this very sea," the great general spoke in a calm voice, yet it was enough to silence any noise in the camp that existed only moments before. He ran a hand through the cold flat end of the blade, toying with the inscriptions engraved. He was cradling the weapon as though his own child. "It feels like a lifetime I've gripped this hilt. Perhaps it has been. Nevertheless, from the moment I plucked it off the poor ruffian's corpse, it's served for only one purpose. And it's served well."
His eyes never parted the sword. He shifted from one foot to the other. The entire camp of thousands was watching.
Umaymah could not help but admire the sheer charisma of a man. She could not imagine standing before so many people – thousands – and talking so gently, yet still enticing them enough to quiet down and listen.
"My bow is just as storied, if not more so," he continued. "I'm sure every Arab wields his weapons with just as much pride. Yet, we forget that, at the end of the day, a sword is only as good as the man who wields it. The Romans do not fight us with sticks and stones. They come at us with blades, much like our own. I need not lecture you on that reality. Yet, we've battered them at every end, sent them scurrying away from their precious cities of stone and timber with their tails between their legs. Why do you think that is?"
"Because ours is a weapon unlike any other," 'Amr answered immediately with a vehemence Hanthalah ibn Ka'b rolled his eyes at. "Ours is the will and support of Allah. We tread upon the righteous path."
"You tread upon horseshit, 'Amr, keep quiet," Father bit back. "We swing swords, the Romans jab at us with blades much the same. We draw arrows to our bows and the Romans follow suit. Yet, there has only ever been one victor.
The Arabs.
Because the Romans, for all their talk of might and civilization, are a sorry looking, soft bunch. Their lords and their emperor, they all cower within their stone walls, in the safety of their hearths behind the blades of their generals. They field rows upon rows of terrified boys that were required to abandon spade and home in favor of dirt and tent.
They prod them forth to meet us in battle. A people accustomed to that reality since we were yet clinging to our mother's teat. The Arabs have taken on many a mantle. We are shepherds, we are merchants. We are smiths. And now, we are sailors. We were pagan, Christian, Jew. Now, most stand Muslim. Yet, at the heart of the matter, when you really come down to it...ours is but one identity.
Warriors.
From the moment you learn to tie your knots and cinch a saddle, or wrestle with stray dogs and vicious children, until the day comes and you face a shrieking, bearded enemy calling for your death with blade and shield. Some of us have been nurtured in tents among the bleating of lambs with only the most meagre of morsels being afforded to us, as the sun offers no succor overhead. Others have dwelled in the cities of Arabia, yet our lives were not much more forgiving. All of us have had to contend with packs of wolves, bony foxes and slithering serpents. Faceless bandits emerging as if from nowhere. The fearsome sandstorms and the bolts that come before the thunder. We are a people of harshness. We are a people who have weathered much.
We are survivors.
And we have done the impossible just by uniting as one and setting our minds to the task. We have toppled the two greatest kings of our generation and the generations of those who came before us, with nothing but the might of our arms and the sharpness of our swords.
And you dare stand in my way and speak of the impossible?"
Awestruck and dumbfounded by the sheer magnitude of the speech, Umaymah could not only watch on in silence as the hero she called father paused to take a breath. He was everything the stories said about him and more. What a privilege it was to be under his command!
"Are you going to tell us what your fancy speech was all about?" Mundhir disturbed the majestic silence. "Or do I have to clap first?"
Father growled at him, scowling. "I'll clap on your fucking cheeks, midget. I mean, we're going to the city with walls. Gortyn."
"You're a fool!" 'Amr barked before waving an arm in frustration and turning his back on Father.
"A fool with a plan," Father replied, his face flushed a deep red in rising anger. "Turn around, now. Don't give me your back."
The other man stopped in his tracks, though he did not obey the command right away. 'Amr ground his teeth, whispering prayers to God as Father stared daggers at his back. The air was still. Time froze. Umaymah could feel the tensions rising between the two men. Hostilities commencing. An altercation was nigh. 'Amr was beginning to turn back toward Father.
It would not do to have Muslim fighting Muslim, Umaymah thought with horror, a dozen different possibilities racing through her mind. She knew if these two men clashed, if their relationship reached a boiling point right here and now in the midst of all these troops...that they would all be doomed. The Romans would be looking for the slightest weakness. Anything to exploit.
And it would not please Allah! It was the fitna. Discord in the community of the believers. If they descended into this state of infighting, it would only be to serve the whims of the cursed Devil.
It was in that moment, against every voice of reason in her head, that Umaymah stepped forward almost thoughtlessly, rippling through the silence as an oar among the waves.
Almost immediately, she realized the foolishness of her brief action. She had put herself in between 'Amr and Father. She was at the center of this entire spectacle.
All eyes on me. It is a test from Allah. I will not fail Him this day.
She would preserve the ranks of the believers.
Umaymah swept the tail of her turban away from her face and fell on her knees before Hanthalah ibn Ka'b. She caught sight of something, someone, pushing past Father's tent flap. A woman with skin so bright, it radiated under the sun's rays.
Amina. The woman that disconcerted Umaymah to her bones.
I seek refuge from the accursed Devil, she thought, preparing her words.
"Father," she finally managed, her voice clear and resonant. "Take me as a sacrifice in the name of Islam. I will infiltrate the city on my own."
Umaymah winced as the air grew still once more, Father as unsure and unresponsive as his troops. As Umaymah herself.
Umaymah's eyes darted from one man to the other, searching for any hint of emotion. Searching for a set of eyes bereft of any confusion.
Only one set of eyes fit her criteria. Only, they did not belong to a man.
They were cold and red and malicious.
They were smiling.
***
"Hallelujah!" Haitham, who was one of Father's troops, roared, whipping the mules forward as the cart rumbled past the green landscape, the towering city walls of Gortyn now in full sight. "Hallelujah! God is great!"
The massive man wore a large silver cross on his neck befitting his size. And on the cart that he drove sat four nuns huddled together, their shawls over their faces, their eyes fixed on their sandals.
And one of them was Umaymah bint Hanthalah.
God be with us, she thought as 'Amr nudged Mundhir. She did not know what to make of these men who were her superior officers in such close quarters. She did not approve of Mundhir's not so subtle stares at her.
"A woman's gown really compliments your figure, 'Amr," Mundhir whispered to his friend as the cart advanced, making for the city gates. "Perhaps in another life, we could have broken our vows together."
Umaymah did not share the man's mirth. They had taken the nun's clothing from a monastery in a village they had sacked. They wore these long grey gowns with their white shawls as well as gloves on hands resting on their laps. The men needed to shave their beards as well, just in case.
It seemed like a well thought out plan back at camp. But now, Umaymah was not so sure. It had taken a great deal of convincing for her father to allow her to venture to the city. If she had not been accompanied by Haitham, Mundhir, 'Amr and Tariq, she would have been almost certain Hanthalah had sent her to her doom, just to be rid of her.
She felt naked without her blade. At first, she'd balked at commands not to take any weapons with them save a dagger hidden beneath the nun's garments. But a dagger did little to put Umaymah at ease.
This was not how she'd pictured life among Hanthalah ibn Ka'b's band of heroes. This was not quite as straightforward as expanding the dominion of Islam and erecting the flag of the shahada high.
She was rumbling through a foreign land, unarmed and unarmored, chafing beneath several layers of uncomfortable clothing that were entirely unsuitable to the weather.
And now, her mood was further bogged down by these two grown man arguing with one another, shoving one another, like little boys. And Haitham with his incessant Nazarene prayers. She knew it was all to maintain the façade, but it disconcerted her all the same.
The only element of the quest that put her at ease was the calming presence of Tariq, Father's scout, among them. He sat motionless in identical garb by Umaymah's side, uttering not a word. He wore his own wooden cross, for he was a Nazarene in his own right. He was the model of a perfect soldier.
Umaymah tried calming herself by reciting verses of the Qur'an. But Mundhir's inappropriate jabs dampened any attempts at spirituality.
"Enough!" she screamed at Mundhir and 'Amr, who immediately quit their banter at the sharpness of her tone. "Are you children? You have a duty to uphold. Lives to save. A god to serve. Do your duty, or I'll throw you off the cart."
As the moment of frustration passed and the two men gaped at her in silence, Umaymah realized she had openly disrespected superiors. She flushed red in embarrassment and lowered her head once more.
But Mundhir burst out laughing. The cart heaved and shook with the force of his guffaw, and Haitham had to chant his prayers in a louder volume to cover up for the lapse in discipline.
A few smacks on the back of the head by 'Amr and a gut punch by Tariq restored Mundhir back to his senses and stayed Umaymah's beating heart.
What fools men are, she thought, resuming her recital of verses. They were approaching the gate now. She gripped the hilt of her dagger, struggling with ragged breath, her head down so low that it touched her lap.
Haitham started conversing with the guards atop the walls in Greek. The gate was barred in preparation for defense against the Muslim armies. No one would be allowed entry or exit. The plan was to feign refugee status by masquerading as holy women fleeing the raids inland. Haitham was the perfect figurehead for the ruse as he belonged to the Banu Kalb tribe that had close links with the Romans prior to the advent of Islam.
The conversation of gibberish seemed to stretch for a lifetime. Umaymah was certain they would be discovered. She felt a single bead of sweat race from her forehead down one cheek. She could not catch a proper breath. Her grip on her dagger was so tight, she felt the skin of her palm crack, a trickle of blood escaping down to her wrist.
We're going to die, her mind raced frantically, imagining all the horrible things the Romans would do to them. They were godless and knew no mercy. They would show no succor. She should hop off the cart and bolt away back to the camp while she still could!
No, she steeled herself, her grip on the dagger's hilt growing firmer by the minute. No. Allah provides. I need to prove myself to Father. To myself.
If she failed this mission, she would prove them all right. There would be no disappointment. Only mockery in their eyes and a look of confirmed expectation. They were betting on her failure. They were counting on her flight at the height of difficulty. They believed she was inferior on account of her sex.
But she was Umaymah bint Hanthalah.
She would not stand by and suffer the accusations of the ignorant.
"And the servants of the Beneficent Allah are they who walk on the earth in humbleness, and when the ignorant address them, they say peace," Umaymah recited beneath her breath.
And she would say peace to the ignorant. Those who doubt her abilities.
She would do so by taking this damn city. It was a solemn oath she promised herself. She would not shame herself this day.
Allah sustains, she thought. She calmed the beating of her heart and steeled her nerves with faith. With aching knuckles and a bloodied palm, she relinquished her grip on the dagger.
And the gates creaked open.