Fury is Born (Book 1 of Hanthalah)

Interlude

8 June 632 AD, 14 Rabi'a al-Awwal 11 AH

In the dead of night, 'Umar ibn al-Khattab stalked through the streets of Madinah with his two companions, seeking out the shed of the Banu Sa'ida clan of the Khazraj. They spoke not a word the entire journey. Not until they found themselves at the door of the shed.

Torchlight spilled out onto the street, betraying the presence of the secret gathering they knew was taking place inside.

And so, 'Umar and his companions took another step forward. They took another step forward when their grief over the Prophet was fresh still; when his body was not yet cold.

He had died only hours earlier, and the ummah was in stunned shock. He had been ill for long, taken with the fever. They suspected his jugular vein had been wounded when that vile Jewish woman poisoned him back at Khaybar all those years ago.

Yet they had never expected the man who had brought them together, the man that had been as kin to them for so long, would ever be taken from them. Even the messengers of divine will must eventually succumb to death's embrace, 'Umar thought gloomily.

The majority of the ummah was howling, sobbing, beating their chests. 'Ali was tending to the burial. Yet 'Umar, Abu Bakr and Abu 'Ubaidah did not allow themselves the luxury of grief. Not when the ummah of Islam hung in the balance.

Everything their beloved prophet and friend had devoted his life to. Not when the wicked plotted and schemed in their clandestine meetings, away from prying eyes. That night, they served Allah and his apostle.

Abu Bakr had gathered the two men once he received word of this gathering. No other muhajir, a native of Makkah, had been informed. Not even 'Ali.

Especially not 'Ali.

'Umar shoved through the door, swinging it open with a loud creak. He entered the chamber teeming with tribesmen of the Aws and Khazraj, his head held high in defiance, his chest puffed out and his eyes harsh and unforgiving, daring any in the room to meet his fiery gaze.

The Ansar had been conversing before the three muhajireen entered; 'Umar had heard the murmur of conversation from outside. However, they ceased their speech when the unexpected, perhaps unwelcome, visitors stepped through the door. The men in the chamber were all of Yathrib, the city the Muslims now called Madinat al-Nabi. 'Umar's temper pricked at the thought of treason, or perhaps apostasy.

"We have arrived to elect the successor," he announced in a loud voice that suggested any resistance would be met with hostility.

Yet there was none. Men either avoided his gaze, coughed uncomfortably, or suddenly found their sandals rather interesting.

"Please take a seat," one man at the far side of the room gestured to vacant positions at his side after a brief silence. 'Umar identified the man as an Awsi tribesman, though he could not put a name to the face.

'Umar, Abu Bakr and Abu 'Ubaidah ibn al-Jarrah sat down heavily on the ground next to the Awsi man. 'Umar searched the room with his eyes, recognizing faces of friends and comrades he fought side by side with against the polytheists. Not one of them met his accusing gaze, and every single one refused to acknowledge his presence in their shame.

"You wished to select a successor to the Prophet from among your people," 'Umar accused the Awsi man gruffly.

"No man can replace the Apostle of Allah, as we all know," the man began. "We were merely discussing the aftermath of his tragic passing and what the future holds for the Ansar. This is our city, after all."

"This city belongs to all Muslims," Abu 'Ubaidah chimed in, his tone hot with fervor.

Abu 'Ubaidah was a large man, nearly as tall as 'Umar, though his beard and hair were chased with white. His was a more willowy figure rather than a muscular one.