Abu Mihjan by Aziza Zaman Abu Mihjan stood in the cell, his head aching from a hang over. He moved restlessly and his chains clinked against each other. To him, they sounded like the bells the Persians put on their war elephants, and he winced at the memory. The sound they made as they stamped the life from his friends echoed in his memory and had him turning and gagging, his wine sour stomach rebelling. He breathed deeply to settle his stomach, just to sneeze from the dust of his cell. His head throbbed and he groaned. Shuffling, the chains on his ankles restricting his movements, he moved to the small window of his cell. The sun felt good on his face; sharp contrast to his body, still in the cold shadow of the cell. Looking out from the cellar of the palace at Qadisiyya, placed high on a hill and near the edge of the city, he watched as the battle raged so close - yet so far. He leaned his broad shoulder against the rough mud wall and a tear of sorrow slowly trickled down his cheek. Here he was, chained and jailed, while his companions fought and died. It was more than any man should be made to bear. Was his drinking a little wine truly worth this pain? He admitted to himself, quietly, perhaps it was a bit more than a little. Drinking was against the Law of Allah -- yet was any man more entitled to a small sip than he? He had seen his cousins killed in battle -- one of them squished by a Persian elephant -- his friends cut in half. Was he not entitled, this time? This time... and the time before... and, yes, the time before that. He was a warrior - breed to the bone, muscle and sinew. His friends were dying, and here he was - trapped like a dog in a well, unable to help. Now was not the time for this nonsense. Whip him, punish him, let him fight again! "No, no...not like that, you fool!" He said softly to himself, as he watched the champions of each army fight each other, the two armies watching and yelling encouragement. He groaned and beat his head gently against the wall, as he saw another of his comrades fall to martyrdom. When the cavalry was released and then turned against the spears, he felt his heart contract; what madman gave that order? "O Allah," he prayed from his heart, his voice thick with tears. He raised his arms in their chains, so that the shadows of the links fell across his face. "Look at me! A great warrior, deprived of his freedom. Shackled and abandoned - here I stand in fetters, while others are fighting without me. O Allah, I was once a man of wealth and kinsmen, but all is gone, along with my freedom. I am alone! O Allah, I give this pledge: if freed, I will never drink again!" At that moment the slave girl Basheera stood before his cell door, a bundle in her hands. She had been to the cellar collecting dates for her mistress, Salma. She was not Muslim, and the ragged hem of her jubba reached only to her knees. She looked at the scab on her arm as she spoke shyly to Abu Mihjan. "Forgive me, Abu Mihjan al-Thaqafi, I heard your prayer, and it has moved me. Is there some way I may help you?" "Basheera, go you to your mistress, and tell her how sad I am that horse riders be riding against spears, whilst I be left behind tied up and with chains on me." He raised up his fettered hands, and rattled the chains. "As I stand my chains hold my feet and such doors are closed upon me which stifle my crying out; No one hears my voice, and if they did, do they listen?" "I hear and I listen; I will speak with my mistress." Basheera agreed, and went to Salma, the wife of Sa'd ibn Abi Waqqas, the leader of the Muslim army. Salma was now an elderly lady and had been previously married to Muthanna, a great warrior, but when he died, Sa'd had married her at Muthanna's death bed request. Muthanna was a war hero -- it was he who took command during the Battle of the Bridge, saving thousands of lives -- and when he made his request to Sa'd to care for Salma, Sa'd agreed. Sa'd knew without a husband to care for her, her chances of survival were slim. It was not only Abu Mihjan who watched the challenges of the two armies - every one in the city did. Salma stood at her bedroom window and watched as the two combantants faced off, groaning and beating her small, aged spotted fist on the wall in frustration when the city's champion was defeated. Unable to watch any more, she turned and after checking that her greying hair was respectfully hidden under her scarf, picked up a large tray of food and drink, which she delivered to her husband and the others who sat on the palace roof, directing the battle. The men spoke softly among themselves, politely not looking at the veiled woman who served them. She sat the tray down and passed out fresh water and dates, almonds and sweets. As she rose to her feet to leave, she glanced over at the battle, and spoke without thinking. "Oh, if only Muthanna were still here, my husband would show them! He would..." The sudden silence on the roof penetrated her impassioned and unthinking words. "My wife." Sa'd said evenly, his cheeks turning dark. "You are MY wife now, have you forgotten this?" He sat up slowly from the pillows that supported his body in the chair, face stern as he suppressed the pain from his sciatica. "I have not forgotten, no." Her eyes flashed a dangerous signal. "But he would have beaten him!" Sa'd, gripping the chair arms strongly, slowly propelled himself until he stood tall, facing her. "I would have beaten him as well! I would have beaten him faster than Muthanna." He thumped his chest with an open palm. "Perhaps!" She said from the loyalty to her previous husband. Sa'd's chest swelled in outrage, and his eyes made promises for later, when they were alone. With a soft sniff, Salma turned and walked from the roof. Although no one said anything, she could feel their attention following her down the cool, stone stairs, beating on her back like sunshine. So when Basheera came to her, and repeated the words of Abu Mihjan, she was moved, but she also saw a way to tweak her husband's nose. She took the sword that her husband was not using, and instructed Basheera to bring Balqaa, her husband's prize white stallion, to the back of the palace. She ensured her face and long grey hair were properlly covered with a scarf, then she went to Abu Mihjan in the cellar and found him chained tightly. The cellar was cool and she was glad for the leather sandals that protected her feet from the floor. Her cloe rimmed eyes measured the tiny cell. "Your words have moved me, Abu Mihjan. But what would my husband do to me if he returns and finds you gone? What would my life be worth then?" Her thin fingers, with their knobby joints, pleated her fine white jubba, under the scarf. "Release me so that I may go and fight." Abu Mihjan pleaded. "I promise that if I am not killed I will return to the cellar at night. Lend me a horse so that I may ride to the battlefield." And she believed him and released him from his chains. She led him through the halls and out the back, to where Basheera stood holding tightly to Balqaa's bridle. Balqaa danced with inpatients, and Basheera had to struggle to hold the animal. "Here is my husband's sword, and his horse. On your honor, be back by night fall if you are not martyred." Abu Mihjan put his spurs to the horse and with a cry of 'Allahu Akabar!' raced to the battlefield. Salma watched the horses powerful hind legs propel Abu Mihjan into battle. There was a sudden gust of wind, swirling the sand in the courtyard and into the women's eyes. When they looked again, Abu Mihjan was gone. "What have I done, Basheera?" Salma worried the hem of her sleeve. "If my husband hears of this, surely he will kill me." "Oh, surely not, mistress!" "Well, no, not really. But if he hears of this day's work, I suspect he will use it to win every argument we ever have." # The Muslims on the battlefield were losing and their hearts were heavy. Some had started to break away, abandoning the fight. Then just as things seemed their worst, with the enemy charging in triumph, a great wind came. It swirled the sand and dust, rushing onto the field with the typical 'patter-swoosh' that heralded a major storm. The men of both armies turned their heads a moment, those who wore them pulled their shimla's across their face, to protect it from the stinging sand. In that pause of the battle, a rider on a white horse came charging out of the storm. His green shimla protected his face and his identity. None knew who he was. Waving his sword over his head, screaming 'Allahu Akabar!', he drove his horse straight into the enemy lines. With great precision, he slashed right and left; and such was his vigor, such was the glare in his eye, such was his voice of command, the line fell back. "It is an angel!" said a boy to his companion in awe. "Yes, boy, it is!" crowed the warrior beside him. "But it's only one - how can he defeat this great army?" "One is all that's needed! Come, we're missing it - let's go!" and with a renewed heart, the Muslim army surged back into battle. Abu Mihjan fell back, and attacked the enemy from another angle, then again and again... and no matter where he fought, he killed his enemy. He seemed untouchable, none could harm him, and he surged deeply into enemy lines, yelling encouragement to his fellows. The Muslims were encouraged and they fought like madmen. Toward dusk, the enemy broke and ran. The Muslims did not give chase, as Sa'd signaled from the palace roof for them to keep their ground. Abu Mihjan stood on a small hill slightly away from the Muslim army; chest out, chin high, his shimla was still in place. Balqaa stood with tail bannering, slightly blown, and with his liquid eye ringed in white, he danced impatiently, wanting only to go back into battle. "Allahu Akabar!" Abu Mihjan yelled, raising his sword. The army yelled back, "Allahu Akabar!" Abu Mihjan turned and rode over the hill, away from the Muslim army and into the darkness. # Sa'd ibn Abi Waqqas sat on his cushion chair on top of the palace roof and watched his victorious army set up camp outside the city walls. His pain was lessened by the victory of the battle. He rubbed his grey streaked beard and narrowed his eyes, watching the rider and the white horse disappear over the hill, into the wall of dust. "Who is that horseman?" Sa'd asked his aide. "By Allah, I do not know." "That horse..." Sa'd murmured. "That white horse. Did it not have a gait like my treasure, Balqaa?" The aide agreed, yes, it did look like Balqaa. "Yet, Balqaa is in the stable, is he not, where I left him?" The aide agreed, yes, surely he was in the stable. "And the rider..." Sa'd looked out into the darkness. "Did he not ride and fight as Abu Mihjan fights? The sword falling back across his back, then swinging viciously to cut anything in its way?" The aide said, cautiously, yes, just like Abu Mihjan. "But is not Abu Mihjan in chains, in my very cellar?" # Abu Mihjan returned to the cellar, and locked the fetters back onto his wrists and feet. "They did not know me." he said in amazement to himself. "Or of my escape from the prison to the battlefield." He laughed out loud, and rolled his shoulder to relieve the slight ache from welding his sword for so many hours. He settled into a comfortable spot on his dirt packed floor and attempted to sleep, but the memory of the battle still held him, and he sat remembering his secret deeds. # Salma found she did not like arguing with her husband, and knew she would need to reconcile with him. That night she wore her best blue robe, and her sweetest perfume. She tipped her face down, and anticipated her husbands every need. She served her husband dinner with her own hands, motioning Basheera away. Salma asked her husband how the battle had gone. Sa'd was feeling magnanimous with the victory, and was expansive as he told her the details of the battle. Then he began to tell her how they were about to be defeated when Allah sent a man on a white horse. He said, "If I myself had not left Abu Mihjan in shackles I would have been certain that this was a feat of his." "By Allah, it was Abu Mihjan," she admitted trembling, and hoping she had softened him enough with her smile and honeyed almonds, told him the whole story. # Sa'd opened the cell door and stuck a flaming touch in ahead of him, as it was dark, and the cell had no lighting. He saw Abu Mihjan, wrapped in his chains, sitting in a corner. "So, you are here. Why did you not leave when you had the chance?" "Have you ever known the Saqeef without honor? I am the finest of them with the sword, and the most steadfast of them." Sa'd placed the torch in a scone, and with his own hands, he took off Abu Mihjan's fetters. "By Allah, after seeing what you did at the battlefield I will not whip you again." "But...but I must be punished!" Abu Mihjan said, blinking shocked eyes. "I will never punish a man by means of whom God has honored the Muslims." Sa'd threw that last chain down. Abu Mihjan hung his head for a moment, then looked up. "I used to drink because I knew I would be cleansed of the sin by means of the punishment -" He reached out and clasped Sa'd ibn Abi Waqqas wrist. "And now I have made a vow to Allah - if released, I would never drink again." And he did not. For are those of the Saqeef clan not without honor?