Shadow of Death (Book 2 of Hanthalah)

Chapter 31.1

Divine justice was served the following morning. I was not sorry to see Zaynab go, but I spared myself the ordeal of attending the spectacle of her stoning. It would remind me of Ruqayya too much, I knew. 

Instead, I lounged with 'Amr and Mundhir in my home. The latter managed to smuggle some top-notch beer into the city, apparently brewed in the style of the Romans in Egypt.

It remains a dazzling concept to me how 'Amr tolerated our plentiful sins and how Mundhir never gave it a second thought. He seemed to lack the conscience that plagued most Muslims; his was only the monotheistic belief of Allah, but he seldom adhered to most of the basic Muslim principles. He was an odd fellow; I adored him for that.

"What's the difference between a Roman whore and Ka'b ibn al-Ahbaar?" Mundhir asked.

"Need all your jests be so foul?" 'Amr pursed his lips.

"Can you repeat that? Every time you speak, I instantly imagine myself breaking your nose."

'Amr sighed in exasperation.

I was paying them no heed. Instead, I was stroking my chin, thinking about what the future held now that all my children were orphans. I felt as though my life was aimless now, that I was wandering about.

My thoughts wandered to that day in Hims. The sight of Sumayya's sprawled, headless body. Her severed head, mouth agape, lying in a pool of its own blood on the bed. My heart sank and a coil formed in my chest. I fought back tears lest I display weakness openly, in public.

I remembered I had a blood feud with these dark-robed, mysterious villains. These people who had abducted my dearest of friends and murdered the woman I held close to heart. Something about a boy who yet lived.

Then, I had an idea. I would start on a smaller scale.

"Anyone up for a killing spree?" I asked them.

Mundhir perked up at the suggestion, but 'Amr only rolled his eyes.

"I am surrounded by morons," he sighed.

"That's a sin," Mundhir pointed out.

I wasted not a minute. I strode out of the house and onto the streets, where 'Abd al-Rahman would be publicly flogged in a public square.

'Abd al-Rahman was topless, revealing an impressive physique. The preparations had not yet been set in place. Perfect.

I approached him and stopped before him. He opened his eyes and gave me a reserved look.

"What would you have of me now, widower?" he demanded.

"You asked me a question earlier," I replied, betraying no hint of my intent. "No, I do not know whose son you are."

'Abd al-Rahman spat at my feet. "Not telling you either. Mother warned me about this."

I looked around and made sure no one was near enough to eavesdrop. I leaned in and whispered in his ear.

"What if it meant sparing you the public humiliation of this spectacle?"

'Abd al-Rahman stiffened. "I care not for the views of lesser men. Let them watch."

"I can spare you the flogging. All I need is a name."

'Abd al-Rahman hesitated then, shuffling in his place, pondering the offer.

"You have naught to lose. All to gain." I pressed him further.

I needed this name. There was an incessant sensation gnawing at me, a bloodthirst that called out for the delight of dishing out pain and suffering rising inside me by the minute. I had suppressed my goals for vengeance and bloodshed ever since I adopted Islam as a religion. However, it was an impractical choice. The rage was a part of me. Relinquishing it would prove me weak. And there is no place for the weak in this world; my enemies deprived me of much, most recently Sumayya. I would see them suffer in return.

"I would spare you the flogging, dear brother," I laid a hand on his shoulder, an affectionate gesture. "The pain and the humiliation. There is no need to hide your apprehension. It need not happen."

Finally, he nodded. He stood straight and raised his head in indignation. He had always been proud of his ever-elusive lineage.

"I am 'Abd al-Rahman ibn Talha ibn Khalid ibn Nasr, of an extensive lineage that can be traced back a further thirty generations. I am of the Banu Namr, a branch of the illustrious Ghatafan."

He clenched his jaw and there was sparkle of sheer pride in his eyes.

Pathetic.

I scoffed. "You are 'Abd al-Rahman son of no one, bastard belonging to no tribe. You are the irrelevant filth, the produce of the loins of a minor Bedouin shaykh that shits himself with pleasure at the sight of a Turkic horse."

'Abd al-Rahman started, his pride soiled, his face slowly twisting to a look of aggravation. He had the body of an ox but a brain the size of a pea. That played out in my favor.

"I would see myself free of this punishment," he barked.

I smacked the back of his head. The clapping sound rang against my ears.

"You are 'Abd al-Rahman of no one and nowhere. This is a punishment instituted by the Khalifa himself. I am afraid I have no power to interfere."

I turned my back on him and made my way to his house. I grinned as I heard the first crack, followed by a surprisingly shrill cry of pain. The first of a hundred.

In 'Abd al-Rahman's shack lay the huddled husk of what had once been a warm and pleasant woman. It was what remained of my mother. She no longer spoke, seldom moved a muscle and was force fed in order to preserve her life. Only her eyes betrayed the semblance of life that remained in her. They fluttered open to examine me once I crouched down by her side and held her hand firmly in mine.

It was a bony thing and a third of the size of my palm. Her face was shriveled and leathery, resembling the scales of an old lizard. Her eyes studied my own but betrayed no recognition. Beyond the walls, I could hear the unrelenting cracking of a whip followed by the haunting screams of a man.

I held my mother's hand in a firm grip and listened intently to the melody of pain that ringed the streets of Madinah.

The city that had once been Yathrib. Yathrib, a relic of the past. A concept I needed to bury deep within my mind. A mercy-kill. To put it at ease.

As was the woman before me.

My mother began moaning, as though she was aware of the situation her son was in, but I hushed her and ran my fingers through her rigid, coarse grey hair.

I attempted hushing her to no avail and placed my palm against her mouth, but I was only met with a bite. Eventually, her twitching and screaming began to dwindle in harmony with 'Abd al-Rahman's own increasingly diminishing howls.

I removed the pillow she rested her head on and averted my gaze from her own.

'Abd al-Rahman howled in agony from without the walls and it seemed his mother was mirroring his pain. Her ancient face curled into the image of torment, suddenly afflicted by overwhelming pain.

It was then that I pressed the pillow against her face. I did not know whether to seek forgiveness from Allah or from Hubal. All I knew was I needed to put her out of her misery. She would not survive the journey away from Madinah, anyway. This was a kindness.

She began groaning and grunting, her feet twitching beneath the skins and furs that were draped about her.

'Abd al-Rahman's voice broke but his screams did not cease; instead, Mother took up the cry and began her own tirade, an unabating series of shrieks that were more akin to a man set on fire.

"I swear to you, I will bring your slavers to justice," I promised her with her dying breaths.

Death is all around us. I planned to further expand its dominion.