Flames of Fitna (Book 4 of Hanthalah)

Chapter 5

          The bare-chested beast of a man skidded to a halt only a pace away from the much-detested pool of mud.

He outstretched both hands as we circled one another, focused, wary of any potential act of aggression.

It came immediately from the large man as he lurched forward, a forearm guarding his face, the other fist swinging for my face.

I had both arms clasped side by side in a makeshift wall, the fists protecting my face. As betrayed by his posture, the blow was a ruse and he swung low at the last minute, making for the small of my belly.

My meticulously selected defense posture served me well. His fist rebounded off my elbows, sending us both wincing as we disengaged.

His moment of incohesive surprise would be a point for exploitation, I decided, ignoring the flaring affliction in my elbows. I pressed him as he staggered away, swinging my right over one shoulder as he eyed it warily, vulnerable now.

He held up a palm to parry but I decided to give him a taste of his own medicine. At the last moment, I shifted to the other side, decking him on the chin with my left.

His mouth sprayed blood as he stumbled closer to the mud of pool that would spell his doom, and I gained on him as he gave ground.

Finally, I retracted only a footstep and rushed forward, half-crouched, favoring my right side.

I wrapped my left arm around his waist, my face beneath his arm, as we collided in a half-naked flurry of pronounced muscle.

In short, I speared him with all my weight, heaving him off his feet and knocking the wind out of him. He landed back-first into the mud, sending a splash of the vile thing exploding upward, and I landed with one knee on his chest, declaring myself victor.

The hoots and raucous of cheers intertwined with cries of dismay spelled the conclusion of this wrestling bout, my body covered in a thick coat of sweat.

I chuckled, finding my feet, and offering a hand to the fallen Banu Tanukh warrior to help him up – a gesture which he accepted.

The Bedouins gathered around exchanged goods or coin. Those that had bet on me readily holding out their hands for their reward; those who bet on their tribesman murmured in agitation as they would return to their tents only a tad bit poorer.

The gambling, quite an un-Islamic act, served as testimony to how some in the tribe retained their Christian faith, while most were either ignorant or ambivalent to their newfound Muslim one.

The tribe's chieftain, a kindly old man, walked over to greet me with a warm ear to ear grin.

"Quite the display, my son," he proclaimed. "I hope Mu'awiyah has procured for himself many a man such as yourself in Damascus."

"Only the best in all of the lands serve at Mu'awiyah's beck and call," I declared loftily, short of breath.

I felt invigorated, as though born anew. I'd forgotten the rush of battle, the relief that followed bout or brawl. As a trickle of sweat raced down my forehead and as the wind barraged my bare chest, all the uncertainty that plagued me evaporated but for a moment.

For the briefest of seconds, I felt myself again.

My delegation missions to the Syrian tribes had gone as expected. We were met with overwhelming positive acclaim in each dwelling, and we obtained all the promises of aid in any potential conflicts. As much as we needed.