Fury is Born (Book 1 of Hanthalah)

Chapter 2

June 622 AD, Dhul Hijjah 0 AH

I couldn't see between the legs of the onlookers, so I shoved my way through the crowd until I found a boulder I could stand on. I think I smacked my fair share of groins on the way to the vantage point.

I was disappointed at what I saw standing tiptoed on the boulder. The visitors were a ragged bunch; their mounts were white with a thick sheen of sweat, which suggested they had been riding long and hard. The strangers that had roused the curiosity of so many could not have numbered more than five or six. Yet with them, rode three familiar faces on healthier mounts. This ragged band of men were what was known as Muslims.

In those days, Islam was a novelty. It was a new creed, similar to my hereditary Judaism. Some treated it either as a matter of curiosity, others as a joke, yet most in Yathrib were indifferent. There was already a tiny community of Muslims in the city by the time I was born. Those who were curious about the religion or otherwise encouraged by friends and family members who recently converted would seek out a burly man called Mosa'b ibn 'Umayr, a Muslim who migrated from Makkah years before all the rest.

Mosa'b was genial, friendly and ever ready to crack a joke. He had crooked brown teeth, short dark hair that was greying at the temples and a messy gray stubble. His hands were greasy and calloused, beefy and dexterous. They either rested on his belly or were used to clap the shoulders of a man in amiable conversation. He seemed to own a single gown that he would wear every day; it was patched and dry, yet he paid its poor state no attention. He lived in near isolation in a stout thatch and mud hut to the north of Yathrib, on the very fringes of the city where the tall reeds of farmland gave way to seemingly boundless clusters of palm trees.

Yet for all his friendliness and humility, there was a keen intelligence and a fierceness in his eyes, evident even to a five-year-old. My uncle and father did not trust the man, though we had limited interaction with him. Then again, they had not taken kindly to the advent of this alien, heretical faith.

I did not know what to think of these men who called themselves Muslims, yet one in particular stood out. He was a close acquaintance of Mos'ab and a native of Yathrib belonging to the Banu Khazraj tribe. Mos'ab, in his years of residence in Yathrib, had successfully converted dozens. Some were stauncher in their faith than others; foremost among them was As'ad ibn Zurarah, a man who managed to rise through the ranks to become the right hand of Mosa'b through sheer zealotry. Where Mosa'b was a man of pleasantries and quips, As'ad was utterly humorless, cynical, and he wore a perpetual frown. He was thin and lithe with a faint wisp of a beard and short cropped dark hair. He was usually quiet, yet his sharp eyes did all the talking. They exuded a certain disdain, as though he simply deemed others below par.

As opposed to Mos'ab, As'ad would actively take to the streets of Yathrib for his preaching. For all his faults, he was energetic and determined, going as far as knocking on people's doors to discuss his creed with them. One day he shuffled toward our shack. My father and uncle met his glare as one and strode toward him, their deep voices threatening and hostile as they stood shoulder to shoulder. As'ad spoke so softly, I could not hear what was said, yet my father would have none of it.

"You are a liar and a turd," my uncle spat. "Begone before I feed you to my goats, foul heretic."

As'ad gave them a look of indignation; he looked as though he would respond to the slight, but eventually thought better of it. I giggled, clinging to my father's robes; I shrunk away when he shot me a sharp glance full of hatred. It lasted only a second, yet it made me shiver. He turned and never visited again, but I would spit in his direction on more than one occasion as I saw him walk by.