Shadow of Death (Book 2 of Hanthalah)

Chapter 37

One needed only to look at the contrast between Mu'awiyah and 'Umar's abodes to know the difference between the two men.

'Umar resided in the same simple shed in Medina he called home before his ascension to the Caliphate; it was an exceedingly underwhelming residence for a man that put the two greatest empires in the world to their knees.

Mu'awiyah, on the other hand, was but a governor.

Yet, he lived like a king.

His palace complex was perched upon a hill to the far west of the city, overlooking the sprawling metropolitan life beneath. The structure of the palace life was similar to that of the tribunos, the prime officer of my tagma in Alexandria whom I visited to collect a reward.

There was a front gate of polished limestone draped with vines and reinforced with two heavy oak doors studded with iron. Standing vigilant before these doors were two guards gripping spears, clad in mail shirts, each with a turban beneath a helm.

Beyond these doors was a courtyard with a fountain spurting clear water in its midst. The fountain was circled with a cobblestone path surrounded on either side by neatly cultivated fields of green. The path led to a heavy series of stone steps leading into a cavernous hallway supported by stone beams and sturdy pillars forming a portico.

The plastered walls were etched with a dozen different mosaics displaying Roman military discipline or religious depictions of the Christian god.

It was easy to feel small and unwashed in the midst of such splendor, even though I was clad in full battle gear. I wore my mail shirt at all times in order to get used to the weight of it; now, it was as second skin to me. On my head was a turban that tumbled down to the small of my back crowned by a simple bronze helm with no cheek pieces, revealing my clean-shaven cheeks and drooping moustaches tinged with red dye. Rings of silver and bronze were woven through the tips.

It was a symbolic return to the gods of old, who no matter how hard one tried, would never fade. I kept that in mind, studying the setting sun, remarking at the beauty of Shams.

I had only embarked on a spiritual path to find faith in the Islamic religion for 'Umar ibn al-Khattab. And 'Umar ibn al-Khattab was dead. The Muslim god did display immense power, I had to admit; he had all but eviscerated the Arab gods from existence, any adherents of such heavily persecuted and put to the sword. He had vanquished the followers of the Persian god, who my people called the majus, or fire worshippers. He pushed back the powerful Christian Romans to the peripheries of Anatolia. But, for all his victories, he had failed to conquer my heart.

Mu'awiyah's men had dispersed into their own quarters and barracks within the city outskirts. Only a handful of his entourage were allowed beyond the palace gates, a company that included myself and my friends, all barring 'Abd al-Rahman. The boy had disappeared following the massacre of his tribe, and only the gods knew where he was off. He would not survive long in the harsh sands all by his own, without supply nor succor.

'Amr also spirited himself away to Madinah after the demolition of Banu Namr, and with him, the Nubian.

"Umar allowed you to live in such luxury?" I asked Mu'awiyah as we ascended a set of spiraling stone stairways in a tour of the palace.

I recalled 'Umar dismissing a governor for residing in a palace and scolding another, demanding his evacuation or the palace's demolition.

Mu'awiyah began wheezing with laughter. "Of course not. He would only preach of tyranny and the rest of his nonsense. I had this one purchased when I received word of the attempt on his life."