The echoing of bells rang through the streets of the city. The capital city of Crete. A flock of birds took flight, voicing their cries of protest, disturbed from their place of shelter on the shores of the great sea by the deafening, foreboding chants of false belief.
Umaymah did not know how the Nazarenes could stand the raucous of church bells. Her short life had been a quiet one thus far. A life on the desert plains with only familiar faces in sight. Her entire world a stretch of flatland disturbed only by the occasional dune. The abode of her tribe would change every season as they packed up their belongings and wandered for a more favorable site, more convenient for water supply. Yet, the landscape had not changed.
She had never heard the like of this. She winced despite herself, restraining her hands from falling to her ears. She yearned for the sweet melody of the call to prayer.
Thank God for the blessing of Islam, she thought, as the sun's final beams retreated from the darkening sky. Umaymah silently sought forgiveness from Allah if she were unable to perform the night prayers.
Haitham, on the driver's seat, abruptly turned a corner, sending the passengers behind bouncing in upheaval before finally rumbling the cart to a stop. They'd halted in a dark street, broad and paved with cobbled stone.
There was no sound but the distant whistling of a grasshopper. The crackling of nearby flames. The panting of the mules. It was a bizarrely serene and enchanting moment. One would have never known they were in the jaws of the lion.
But then Mundhir spoke.
"Where are all the nuns?" he blurted out.
'Amr smacked him on the side of his head.
"Quiet now," he whispered, pointing down the street and straining as if struggling to listen.
Umaymah tensed as she heard the sound of approaching footsteps. Her fingers coiled around the hilt of her hidden dagger, preparing to bolt off the cart and into combat at any moment.
"Can I have a blessing, if it please you, sisters?" a high-pitched voice called out from behind Umaymah.
She cocked her head sideways from beneath her shawl to make out the figure of a sniffling child, shuffling from one foot to the other.
Blessing? Umaymah thought, arcing her eyebrows. What did this child want? Her mind raced as it never had before and her heart beat to the rhythm of war drums as she'd heard in the battle tales. She realized then how out of her depth she really was. Who was she and what reputation did she have to her name to come frolicking to the middle of nowhere demanding a mission out of a man such as Hanthalah ibn Ka'b?
She thought herself Umaymah the storied warrior, the victor of Islam. She thought she would take the Roman islands by storm, cutting down their soldiers and sacking their cities.
Instead, she was Umaymah the goatherd. Umaymah the freak, more boy than girl, the laughing stock of Banu Asad. The shame of her father, a failed daughter.
A failed guardian, she dropped her head in misery, remembering how she abandoned her own brother, 'Abdullah, in favor of chasing wild fantasies in far away lands among people who did not welcome her.
She was only good for fighting back highwaymen and bandits. She was no warrior. Perhaps she ought to heed her father's advice and abandon man's chainmail for a proper gown. Toss away her sword in favor of a swollen belly.
But it was far too late for that now. She would be discovered for the fraud she was now. By this child. And then the Romans would –
"Of course, child."
Umaymah jumped at the shrill voice that came out of the man sat next to her.
Tariq? Umaymah gaped openly as the child advanced to the side of the cart, and Tariq lay a hand on the top of his head, mumbling incoherently.
Umaymah stared in awed silence as the child gave thanks to the shawled Tariq with a wide grin before darting down the street, lost to sight in an instant.
Almost immediately, a Roman guard holding a torch took his place.
"A blessing, my ladies," he spoke gently, his eyes fixed on his sandal boots.
"Come, child," Tariq spoke in his absurdly high-pitched voice again, disturbing Umaymah to the bone.
The Roman guard lowered his head and Tariq twisted in his seat to –
Umaymah gasped, jumping again, but this time tripping on her gown to trip and fall face-first off the cart and onto the road beneath them.
The Roman guard's neck spurted with a fountain of blood, bright in the torchlight, as he gasped and took a step backward, his hand clutching the wound where Tariq's dagger had bitten him a moment before.
Mundhir burst out laughing as Tariq, ripped his gown off, revealing the chainmail shirt beneath. He hopped off the cart and onto the twitching body of the guard, wrestling the sword and scabbard off his hip.
"What's so funny?" Tariq demanded, brushing off the last remnants of his torn nun's gown.
Mundhir clambered off the cart, red-faced and wheezing. Finally, he paused and pointed behind Tariq.
Umaymah spun to find three Roman guards dashing toward them.
***
"You two take the left staircase," 'Amr pointed at Umaymah and Mundhir. "Haitham and I will take the right."
Umaymah huddled against the corner of a building, hidden within its shadow. There guards at the gate were roused by the commotion they'd caused when Tariq killed off one of them.
Umaymah managed to cut down one of the three others that came charging at them, but Tariq convinced them he could hold down the other two while the rest could flee to open the gate.
Her heart caught in her chest and a lump formed in her throat for the thousandth time that night. The plan had gone awry. They did not know whether Tariq had survived the ordeal. They could not be sure whether they would either.
But Umaymah knew that no amount of regret can change the past and no amount of worry will affect the future. It was within their hands to make the best out of this dreadful night.
Theirs and Allah's.
And so, with one last deep breath, she snuck off from the side of the building that had sheltered her a moment before. She sprinted away toward the enemy with dagger in hand, in the garb she found most comfortable. The mail and trousers that were a part of her.
They were her identity. Now was not the time to cower in a nun's dress.
Now was the time for slaughter.
Now was –
She stopped in her tracks as she felt a tugging sensation on her sleeve. She growled at Mundhir behind her, whose eyes were fixed on the gate ahead.
"What?" she demanded.
"I need to fart," he replied confidently. He paused for a moment as Umaymah was left dumbfounded by the sheer nerve on him, tempted to skewer him with her dagger. "There we go."
Mundhir shoved past her, falling into a half-crouch as he reached the foot of the stone stairs to the ramparts above the gate. Umaymah followed suit. The guards on the ramparts were still mumbling in Greek. Mundhir put a finger to his lips as they heard one voice coming closer. Heavy footsteps on the stairs behind them.
The guard reached the foot of the stairs, shaking his arms wildly in frustration. Mundhir found his feet and yanked the man by his cuff. The Roman opened his mouth to scream but Umaymah drove her dagger through his chest and Mundhir put his own to the man's throat.
And sliced.
Mundhir looted the sword off the Roman's body and tossed it to her.
"I'll make do with his dagger," Mundhir said with a grin, spinning both his weapons in his hands now. They heard the sounds of battle to their right. "I've always wanted to piss off the edge of a city wall."
Umaymah bellowed, taking three steps at a time, swinging her sword wildly in both hands as she reached the top of the ramparts. The bamboozled Roman guards had their attention fixed on 'Amr and Haitham to the other side, paying no heed to this stairwell.
She sliced the head clean off a man who had his back to her. Another by his side spun to face her, but she ducked beneath his blow and sliced his belly and side as she moved forward, carving a red curve on his body that leaked entrails.
Umaymah bint Hanthalah parried the blow of yet another foe, steel clanging against steel. The sweet song of swords. This was her purpose. This was who she was. The daughter of a great warrior.
Yet a warrior in her own right.
She slammed her forehead against her opponent's nose, painting his face an elaborate mosaic of red and green. He stumbled away, his back to the battlements as Umaymah gained on him. She swiped her sword in another great arc, drawing an ear to ear smile on his throat.
As the Roman choked on his own blood, Umaymah raised her leg and slammed the sole of her foot into his belly.
The Roman was sent tumbling down the wall, his useless body spinning in the air until it finally clashed with the ground, his bones meeting soil. No doubt Father's great army would see their work and –
"The great army!" Umaymah shrieked, pointing her bloodied sword at the barren field before the city.
Father and his men were nowhere in sight.
Only corpses and abandoned tents drowning in a pool of blood.