Shadow of Death (Book 2 of Hanthalah)

Chapter 20

November 639 AD, Shawwal 18 AH

I bid farewell to my family as I left the shack. I gathered my wicker wood shield, curved Persian blade and the bow that had served as my constant companion for the better part of my life. Outside of the shack waited 'Amr and the Nubian.

My knowledge of Egypt, its political climate and the affairs of its people would be milked soon enough, but first, I was tasked with contributing to the completion of the conquest of Palestine.

But war spoils, reputation and prestige were not my motivation in this task.

I was going to rescue Mundhir.

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I knelt and lay both hands on 'Abd al-Rahman's shoulders. My half-brother had a squinty face that was shaped for punching. I yearned to do just that.

"You're the man of this house now, may the gods forgive me," I told him. "Try not get my children killed."

I leaned in and whispered in his ear. "Make sure 'Abd al-Ka'aba is sent to the Banu Asad this summer. Make sure to seek out a man called Nawfal. He'll know what to do. And if I don't make it back here in time, have 'Abdullah follow suit."

Nawfal was a tribesmen of the Asad, a connection I maintained from the time I was among Tulayha's horde.

Then, I moved onto 'Umar's house.

"I wish to prove instrumental in the spread of Allah's religion, Commander of the Believers," I told him on my last day in Yathrib.

I spent four years in this city, masquerading as a Muslim for my own self-preservation and for that of my mother and children.

I once hated this ibn al-Khattab for his contribution to my misery, but the years had softened my heart toward him, and resentment was replaced by admiration and irrevocable love. I was slave to this man, yet I was never referred to as property nor treated as such; it was in stark contrast to my prior experiences as a slave.

'Umar, for all his stiff words, rigid appearance and short temper, was the closest thing I had to a father the past few years. He restored me a family, insufferable as it was; he sheltered me, protected me and clothed me. I owed the meat of my shoulders to this man.

Where my loyalties had once rested purely for my own preservation, to serve my own greed and reputation, they were now utterly undivided toward the Khalifa of the Muslims.

This sovereign of the most powerful empire in the world that lived not in a palace nor cowered behind a great horde of guards or a courtly retinue.

Once, I would have leapt at the opportunity to topple this empire they called a Caliphate, but on the day of my departure to Palestine, I knew that in my heart of hearts, I would gladly fight, bleed and die in the name of 'Umar ibn al-Khattab.

No man had treated me in such a manner before.

Yet, all I repaid him with was deceit and conning.

I had long since shaven my moustaches, leaving the area above my upper lip vacant. My once clean-shaven cheeks were now overgrown with coarse hair. Yet, in my heart lingered Hubal and al-'Uzza and al-Manat. My son was named after 'Umar's apostle and friend, Muhammad, yet within my walls, he was 'Abd al-Ka'aba.

To 'Umar, a man so strict and unforgiving in the ways of his religion, I was a Muslim like any other, and he treated me as such, as though I were his flesh and blood.

When my youngest son, 'Abdullah, born sickly, frail, ghastly pale and bedridden, it was 'Umar who provided for his treatment. It was 'Umar who procured for us a wiseman to treat him. It was 'Umar who would visit his bedside nearly every day, both hands resting on his cane as he whispered prayers to his god for a quick recovery.