"By the fig and the olive, by Mount Sinai, and by this safe city, we created man in the perfect form," 'Abdullah read out loud.
"What's that mean?" ibn Hubaysh asked, raising an eyebrow. "The safe city."
Ibn Hubaysh had been one of 'Abdullah's few childhood acquaintances. One of the only Banu Asad tribesmen not to torment him in his youth. 'Abdullah had been equally pleased and surprised to find him in Kufa.
'Abdullah sighed, leaning on the wall of the mosque, his version of the Holy Book resting on his lap.
"God here is swearing by the fig and the olive. This is in reference to the Prophet 'Isa, peace be upon him, who was born to the virgin Lady Mariam. His homeland was Palestine, also home to many figs and olives.
He swears by Mount Sinai. This is in reference to the Prophet Musa, peace be upon him, who escaped the tyranny of Pharaoh there.
Finally, He swears by the safe city. This is in reference to Makkah, the home city of the Prophet Muhammad, peace and prayers be upon him."
Ibn Hubaysh raised an eyebrow before finally nodding.
"You never read the Qur'an?" 'Abdullah asked, incredulous.
Ibn Hubaysh shook his head. "How many times have you read it?"
'Abdullah scoffed, puffing his chest with pride. "Too many to count. I've memorized it all."
In both versions, he thought bitterly. There had been many versions that differed according to dialect before the reign of the current Khalifa, 'Uthman ibn 'Affan. The Khalifa had abolished all versions but those of his tribe – the Quraysh of Makkah.
'Abdullah had grown up with among the Bedouins, the Banu Asad. He knew their version by heart. He believed that no matter the dialect, this was the unchangeable word of God. Resentment over 'Uthman's decision burned bright in 'Abdullah's heart. Frustration compounded by the fact that no one he'd met was too bothered by it.
But the past few months in Kufa in 'Iraq laid bare to 'Abdullah the true extent of 'Uthman's waning rule. The people in this fledgling city, still little more than a few tents belonging to troops and camp followers, were an increasingly disgruntled bunch.
"All you people here care about is wealth and materialism," 'Abdullah complained. "No one ever speaks of religion."
"You're in a city full of soldiers not desperate women," ibn Hubaysh replied.
"You think religion is only for women?" 'Abdullah demanded vehemently, his heartbeat racing with an elevated sense of chagrin. He could feel beads of sweat beginning to form on his forehead from the anger. "Have you any idea why you are here? Why you are warriors? This. Is. For. Allah!"
He half-screamed that last part, pounding his fist into the soil for emphasis. Panting and triggered, 'Abdullah struggled with the apathy he saw in his friend's face. He wanted to continue lecturing him on the importance of religion in one's journey, but it was not to be.
"What's that?" ibn Hubaysh perked up, listening to the sounds of commotion outside the mosque. He found his feet and bolted outside.
'Abdullah sighed, calming himself as he followed his friend to the source of the raucous.
"Once order has been restored, we can speak with one another," one man who seemed to be the center of attention said, raising his voice in an effort to be heard over the chorus of uncoordinated complaints. "I will be taking my leave."
"Then order shall be restored," bellowed one of the men swarming him. 'Abdullah gasped at the sight of him. Larger and far broader of shoulders than all the rest, the long-haired man had a scar running the length of his face from one eye to the opposite jaw.
'Abdullah watched in stunned awe as he quieted the masses with one thundering clap of his massive hands that sent shockwaves echoing off the fragile walls of the nearby mosque. The once chaotic crowd was now reduced to a dozen or so individuals looking up at the scarred man.
"There you are," he rasped. "Sa'id, you are the governor of this city. It is your duty to rule justly in the eyes of Allah. This can only be achieved by listening to us."
"This won't be complete without a conversation with Malik al-Ashtar," the man who was apparently the governor folded his arms in anticipation. "I won't be listening so long as I am harassed, Malik."
"If you deem this harassment, then what would you call the treatment of those not of Makkah under your governorship?" Malik al-Ashtar retorted.
"Uthman sees things in order of Umayyad first, Meccan second, everyone else last," another in the crowd blurted out. He was met with cheers of agreement.
"You know this not to be true," Sa'id the governor waved a hand in dismissal.
"Then why not install a governor from without the Banu Umayya clan?" another suggested. The proposal was met with positive acclaim.
"Then you will have to take the issue up with the Khalifa," Sa'id the governor answered. "In which case I will not be relieved of my duties. Because it is evident that all under my rule are treated with equal respect and dignity."
"If that were so, you would be listening to our pleas," Malik al-Ashtar pointed out.
"I have found your pleas to be without solution," the governor explained. "You want land like those from Makkah and Banu Umayya? It is not blood ties the Khalifa seeks in exchange for land in 'Iraq, it is either a worthy sum for it or a comparable swath elsewhere? Do any of you own land that you can exchange for the soil you now request?"
"In the era of 'Umar, the entirety of Muslim land was owned by us all," Malik al-Ashtar argued. "Owned by the Muslim ummah!"
"This is no longer the reign of 'Umar," the governor's voice was drowned out by the echoing sounds of agreement.
"It is obvious you and the Khalifa favor the people of Makkah in all," Malik al-Ashtar was spurred forward by his supporters. "The stipend they earn is almost double that of anyone else."
"You speak of the days of 'Umar," the governor began. "Yet you forget that the system of earning more according to the precedence of conversion has been in force since the days of 'Umar!"
But his words fell on deaf ears as the crowd began harrowing him with accusations of tyranny and nepotism in favor of clansmen and tribesmen.
Amazed by the show of solidarity, emboldened by the collective discontentment with 'Uthman the Khalifa of all Muslims, 'Abdullah hurried forward, his Holy Book held close to chest.
"Uthman has planted the seeds of division within the ummah, brothers!" 'Abdullah interceded, grinding the arguments of the older men to a halt again. "It is the fitna that Allah and His messenger have warned against! The discord threatening the harmony of our community."
'Abdullah jumped at the positive effect his outburst had on the gathered mob of disgruntled Kufans. He had never had so many people agree with him on anything before.
But then again, he had never suffered the scrutiny of such a large group either, he thought, a tinge of anxiety taking hold of him briefly, wavering his voice slightly.
"He who has altered the words of God has brought the Creator's wrath upon us!" 'Abdullah raised his copy of the Book high overhead."
His focus was hindered for a moment as the sight of two little children wrestling over a scrap of meat caught the edge of his vision.
"The word of Allah should not be codified into one single version according to the Khalifa's will," 'Abdullah regained control of his mind, shifting his eyes away from the warring children. "If there is a man of jealousy and zeal over his religion among you, you will demand things return to the way they were! The Qur'an in the words of God, not in the accent of Banu Umayya!"
He braced himself for the cheers, the overwhelming roars of triumph that followed the rousing speeches of kings in the stories, to march into the plains as thousands yet unified as one in the name of Islam, demanding the victory of God.
But he was only greeted with a confused silence.
'Abdullah felt the eyes of those gathered weigh him down where he stood, judging him for every word and every moment he stood there, 'Uthman's version of the Book in hand.
The only sounds that existed in the world then were the grunts of the children, interlocked in their struggle for the meal.
'Abdullah gulped, lowering his head to the level of his feet. A thousand questions raced in his mind then, demanding immediate answers as his skin reddened in embarrassment, his head threatening to burst.
What had gone wrong? When had he lost them? What had he said wrong?
But in a moment, in a heartbeat, it was over. As if it had not been. As if he had not spoken to begin with. The men shifted their focus from 'Abdullah back to the governor, arguing over one another with a passion, frozen in the very image 'Abdullah had found them in the moment he stepped out of the mosque.
Dumbfounded, 'Abdullah watched the debate unravel, veering away from the topic of religion as he intended it, returning to concerns over earthly materialism.
"You've got the words. You've got the heart," Musa said with a warm smile, emerging from the group of dissidents. Musa had been someone 'Abdullah befriended back in Damascus, after Father abandoned him again. Musa had been the one to bring him to Kufa. "But you haven't the brains."
"Excuse me?" 'Abdullah huffed.
"You sound like quite the orator," Musa explained. "But you don't know how to touch your audience. How to become one of them. Look around you."
He swept an arm in a wide arc to encompass the scene before them.
"Does this lot look like they care about what you just said?" he asked. "Ask yourself what it is they desire. What they want to hear from an orator. Choose the right words to touch their hearts. To spur them into fulfilling your ends."
"You wish me to forsake my honesty?" 'Abdullah demanded, appalled. "You want me to slither between the people, masquerading as something I am not, in order to achieve my goals through them?"
"Precisely," Musa grinned. "Manipulation is the word. It's how you get things done. I'll show you how to play the game when this is all done. I've got quite the surprise planned."
And with that, he walked away from 'Abdullah's side, rejoining the group of dissidents walking after a fleeing governor, leaving 'Abdullah to his own devices.
Alone with the two children snatching the piece of meat from one another.
Curious, with a surprisingly devious thought in his mind, 'Abdullah walked toward the children. He knelt to be on par with them. They ceased their tug of war momentarily to inspect this newcomer.
"You both want that, huh?" 'Abdullah nodded toward the scrap.
The children nodded timidly.
"But only one of you can have it," he pointed out.
The boys looked at each other in incredulity before turning back to 'Abdullah, nodding again.
"What if I gave you both ten times more meat so that both of you can sleep with a full belly this night?" he asked. "Would you stop fighting then?"
The boys nodded vigorously, one of them grinning widely.
'Abdullah smiled sinisterly, pointing at a nearby sheep.
"That man is a herd," 'Abdullah told them, spreading both arms around either boy's shoulders. "He has many sheep like that one. That means he has a lot more meat inside his tent..."
'Abdullah grabbed the scrap from their hands, pointing at it.
"Than this," he finished.
The kids' eyes grew wide, their heads darting from the house to 'Abdullah and back and forth.
"Go get your meat," he shooed them toward the shepherd's tent.
The boys scrambled away from him, tripping over one another in their haste to burst through the tent flap.
'Abdullah pondered Musa's words, taking a bite off his hard earned meat, walking off.
Manipulation, huh?
Walking through the tents and sparse buildings of Kufa, 'Abdullah imagined 'Uthman in his hands in place of meat.