Fury is Born (Book 1 of Hanthalah)

Chapter 8

         Quba' was the first mosque the muhajireen built during their stint in Madinah. When the Prophet first arrived, he lingered to the south of the city, on the outskirts of Yathrib, and with his companions erected the temple that would later serve as a gathering point for the raiding parties.

          After the return of the Muslims from their miraculous victory at Badr, the mosque of Quba' acted as the scene of celebration for unlikely triumph. Hundreds of tribesmen, Muslim and Jew, flocked to the mosque built in the shade of dozens of palm trees to listen to the tales of the survivors, compose poems and reunite with loved ones, be they corpses, wounded or the select few that emerged unscathed. There were tents ringing the mosque on all sides, where the wounded were being nursed by the women.

         "The polytheists outnumbered them more than ten to one!" 'Amr exclaimed, giddy with enthusiasm between mouthfuls of dates. "Yet, Allah granted them victory by planting fear in the polytheists' hearts and dispatching angels to fight alongside the believers!"

          The three of us were sat reclining in the midst of the vast throngs of gathered peoples. 'Amr was recounting the tale of the so-called Battle of Badr that someone had passed on to him. Naturally, he lapped up at the flair in the religious aspect of it.

          "Angels?" I asked, unmoved.

          "Angels!" 'Amr hopped to his feet, his hands in the air. "Beings created of light with the sole purpose of worship!"

         I plucked a date into my mouth.

         "Sounds like a dull existence," I replied nonchalantly.

          "Yours is a dull existence," 'Amr growled back. "What purpose do you serve anyway? All you're good at it is filling that belly of yours."

          "I wouldn't go that far," Mundhir chimed in, his characteristic grin drawn on his face. "He's gotten quite creative with making Bilal contemplate drinking himself to a stupor."

          At least I don't believe in beings of light running down from the sky, I thought to myself, tossing another date inside. What a ridiculous notion. Angels. I scoffed.

          The gathering men and women carried a thick stench of sweat that was only further augmented as the crowd swelled with new arrivals. Despite the Muslims' best efforts to pacify the quarrelsome tribes of Yathrib, I noticed a brief scuffle force a pocket of gatherers to part as the men involved shoved and hurled insults at one another.

           The raucous quieted with the advent of three men from Quba' mosque. I recognized Hamza, the Prophet's uncle who was dubbed the Lion of Allah, emerge. His lengthy grey hair was left free to flow, ending in curls at his shoulders. His mail coat was soiled with patches of crusted blood and tattered metal links.

          There was also the willowy 'Ali ibn Abu Taleb, his face stern and his beard so well-cropped that the strands of hair seemed to cling to his cheeks. 'Ali was a renowned swordsman, a man with a strict code of honor. He was a role model to any aspiring Muslim youth; he was the pinnacle of piety and honor that those yet seeking to carve a name for themselves in the world strived to emulate. I will admit that sitting there, watching his head raised his high, his caved in helmet tucked beneath one shoulder, that I was awed by his splendor as well.

          "He killed thirty-five," 'Amr's eyes were fixed on 'Ali as well, infatuated. "All on his own."

         "Thirty-five?" Mundhir asked.

         "Thirty-five polytheists," 'Amr replied. "All on his own. It must have been a fearsome display. No wonder they ran."

          "How many casualties for the polytheists?" I inquired. It seemed 'Amr was well-informed about this battle.