Azzam: The Sword of Samarkand

Chapter 4

Five hours of galloping across the northern planes of Siwak had taken its toll, Salasil hung his head with fatigue - stumbling, snorting and unsteady on his legs.  Azzam guided the steed off the main track and onto the loose desert sand.

“We’re almost there,” breathed Azzam.

Omar rubbed his eyes, they were still red from both sleeping and sobbing. He spied the fantastically large wrought-iron gates of Kareemiya looming in front of him. A lone guard stood outside, face covered with a white cloth to keep the sand particles out.

Azzam climbed off Salsabil leaving behind Omar, still drowsy, hugging the horse’s mane. He hid his sword under the large shawl wrapped around the boy.

The guard at the gate called out, “Who goes?”

“Asaalam alaykum,” bellowed Azzam in his most respectable voice.

“Walaykum assalam,” replied the guard.

“I am a humble traveller with my son, hoping to avail the famous hospitality of your city.” Azzam bent over as if he were an old man to discourage the guard from perceiving him a threat.

“Where are you coming from?” asked the guard.

“From Ashmunein.”

“How long will you be here?” enquired the guard, eyeing the boy and the tall figure of Azzam cautiously. 

“A few days, and we will be on our way inshallah,” replied Azzam.

“Hmm.. a poor wayfarer, with a magnificent horse,” the guard felt uneasy.

“He belongs to the Emir Mujtaba of Ashmunein,. I am his mameluke.” Azzam was getting nervous.

“Ah.. why didn’t you say so?” beamed the guard, his demeanor abruptly changed. 

“He is a kind and generous man. Any mameluke of his is welcome in Kareemiya.” 

The guard rapped loudly on the gate and a large door opened. Azzam grabbed the reins of Salasil and led the horse in to the city.

Kareemiya was nothing like Samarkand. No paved roads, street lighting, perfectly manicured gardens and shining marble edifices. Kareemiya was dark and smelly, well trodden dust tracks lead to the center of the city where a tall date palm stood proudly as if it symbolized the city. 

It was approaching dawn, the call to the early morning prayer was due any moment. Once it was time, the muezzins from all the mosques around kareemiya would cry out to the faithful to rise and pray. The cityscape would reverberate with their exhortations. And the faithful would wake, wash and make their way to the mosques.

Azzam needed to find shelter before anyone recognized he was out of place.

“Now where was that house?” Azzam wondered.  He began to doubt his memory - a symptom of the aging process, of course.

His eyes darted left and right, the houses were not altogether that similar, but there was relatively little light which made them look different from the last time he was here  on official business. 

“Yes, that’s the one,” exclaimed Azzam. It was the large house with the blue door, a bronze knocker and stables in the back.

He led Salasil to the back of the house and carefully opened the stable door. There were stalls for four horses but only one stood there, nervous from all the foreign noises and the smell of a strange horse. Azzam helped Omar climb down, retrieved his sword Furqan, and tied Salasil to a post.

Salasil dipped his nose in the pail of water and began to drink, then lay down panting. Azzam led Omar towards the house.

“Rat-a-tat-tat”, Azzam didn’t want to alarm the neighbors.