Daggers in the Dark (Book 3 of Hanthalah)

Chapter 16

June 654 AD, Dhul Qi'dah 33 AH

At the head of more than three thousand, I stood at the ship's prow beneath clear skies and in the midst of favorable winds. Far and wide and to every horizon, there was nothing but the pale sparkling shimmer of the Mediterranean's endless waves. We were at the heart of the sea, long since setting sail from the shores of the Levant.

"Haul the main sheet!" I heard Abu Musa bellow for the hundredth time that afternoon. I was entirely ignorant of these nautical terms or the ways of ships. I was a man that knew the deserts and the peaks. I did not see water until I was a man grown. At first, sailing felt uneasy. My stomach rumbled and lurched, I heaved whatever I shoved down my gullet over the rail. It was nauseating and beyond frustrating having the very ground betray you; never standing still beneath your feet.

But I was taking a liking to it. It brought back memories of the glories in Cyprus. I had single handedly crippled the mini Roman fleet docked there. Abu Musa could handle the day to day issues of the sheets, the sail, the rigging, the larboard, the starboard and all the terms that meant naught to me. All that mattered was that he got us to our destination in one piece. I would take it from there.

In truth, his name was not Abu Musa. Nor was he Arab. The man was a Roman native of Syria. He was portly and stout; his beard was frizzy, yet he wore it with a moustache for he had not converted. The cross hanging at his neck was further testimony to that.

Abu Musa's real name was Cornelius or something of the sort. His father was Syrian, his mother Greek. He served for years as sailor in the Roman fleet and rose through the ranks to become an admiral. His years of experience at sea distinguished him from anyone else. Following the Arab conquests, he lapped up at the chance to prolong his career by recognizing Muslim hegemony over the territories that had once been Roman.

Though he was not favored by Mu'awiyah for his faith – he was demoted from admiral for the Romans to a mere helmsman on my ship – the men had taken a liking to him. He was endearing, indeed, with his ready smile and jovial personality. Always ready to offer a compliment and jump in with a hilarious quip. The men called him Abu Musa because they felt that he was one of them.

I did not trust him; I trusted no one. But I would let him be the master of this ship and dish out commands for the sails and the oars and whatnot. A leader must learn to delegate.

We did not linger long in Kos. I spent some nights in the fort Abu al-A'war had occupied, planning for the glories to come. Crete would be our next destination, and from there we would head off to Rhodes. Mu'awiyah wanted the Roman emperor's head on a pike and the Khalifa approved of the ordeal. We would attack by sea and Mu'awiyah himself would brave the expedition by land.

So, our little endeavor among these waves would culminate in a two-pronged attack of Constantinople – the city renowned for grandeur, civilization and centuries of Roman imperialism. It was the second Rome. And I was hungry to see it succumb to the same fate as its predecessor.

Our galleys were sleek, supple and long. We made adequate progress, slicing through the waves on these camels of the sea. Our ships were designed for just that purpose; to be nimble and quick – a tactic favored by Arabs on land, that was now reflected on water. It concerned me on many an occasion that our rails may be too low to board a Roman ship. However, I had experienced naval engagements before, and that never proved to a problem. Some of the Roman ships were large, clumsy and lumbering, but the majority were captured easily enough.

The Arabs, however, were not accustomed to life on deck. We are not a seafaring people. We belong to the simplicity of the inhospitable plains and the relentless pounding of the sun. Ours is the feel of a saddle underneath and a bow or a blade in hand. As a result, my boys swayed unsteadily on deck; more often than not, they clung to the mast or the rail to steady themselves against the treacherous footing beneath foot. Pale faces were a common sight as were soldiers lurching over the railway to empty their stomachs' contents overboard.