The Master and The Maiden

Chapter 3

*

"What were you carrying in that box you came back from the market with, Noor?" Safiya asked her daughter. Noor, who was cutting up the vegetables jumped, dropping the knife on the floor clumsily. Her mother watched her coolly, passing her the knife.

"It was nothing." she said a little too quickly.

"So you mean to say you were carrying an empty box all the way from the market?" she pressed on.

"Mother, I'm telling you it's nothing. Just forget about it." she said, cutting the vegetables with renewed force.

"Did it perhaps contain a letter from a secret admirer?" her mother asked hopefully.

"Something like that." Noor replied, smiling sheepishly. Safiya's eyebrows rose infinitesimally. "Are you serious?"

Noor bit her tongue, trying so hard not to laugh. Her mother's interest was always piqued anytime a potential suitor was mentioned. She had made it very clear a long time ago that nothing would make her happier than to see her only daughter finally married.

"Mother, it's nothing." she said quietly.

"Oh Noor," Safiya said in a quivering voice. Noor looked up to see tears in her mother's eyes.

"Mother, why are you crying?" she gasped, placing the vegetables aside. She wrapped her arms around her mother's shoulder, as tears began to cascade down her cheeks. She placed one hand on Noor's elbow, patting her softly. Ummayma and Aisha looked away hastily, pretending they weren't paying attention to the mother and daughter.

"I just want to see you happy." Safiya said in-between sobs. "I want to see you happily married before I die, Noor."

"I will get married mother, when the time comes Insha Allah (when God wishes)." Noor said feebly, hating herself for lying to her mother.

In truth, Noor hated the very topic of marriage. Though her mother insisted on talking about it at least a dozen times in a single fortnight, she always pushed the topic to the back of her mind.

No matter what everyone said, marriage wasn't as enticing as it was made out to be, in her opinion. To be married was synonymous to being tied down; like putting a shackle on one's legs and remaining in that spot for the rest of eternity. Who would want to be tied down like that? Her heart yearned for adventure; for the thrill of the unknown. How could her mother understand? How could anyone understand that she wished, not to be married to someone whom she may or may not care about, but to travel the world? To see the places of which she could only dream of.

If only...

"Please, Noor." her mother cried. "I want to hold my grandchild before I die."

"Don't talk like that, mother. Of course you'll live to see your grandchild Insha Allah." she replied, shaking her head.

"You're all I have in this world, Noor. And you're not getting any younger. You know your father more than anyone else. If you continue to delay, he will marry you off to the highest bidder in the twinkle of an eye. I don't want you to end up in a forced marriage." she said.

Noor shut her eyes forcefully, trying to fight back her conscience. How could she tell her mother that she'd deliberately been sending prospective suitors away as regularly as they came? She couldn't bring herself to break her mother's heart like that.

"I'm waiting for the right one, mother. I'm waiting for the right man." she said.

"I hope he comes soon." Safiya said, attempting to laugh. The sound came out like a croak.

"Go and get ready." she said. "It's almost time for the prayer. I'm sure your father will have built up an appetite by now."

"But what about the vegetables?" Noor asked, releasing her mother.

"We'll handle it." Ummayma said, grabbing the tray and knife. Sighing, Noor stood up and headed to her room so she could change. She felt Aisha's eyes on her as she stepped out of the kitchen, heading for the bedroom.

Her clothes were arranged neatly in a drawer facing the bed, sorted from bright to dark accordingly. Her shoes were kept underneath the drawer, while several bottles of perfumes were placed in a much smaller drawer on the other side of her bed. The closest drawer contained her everyday items such as hairpins, a brush, a bottle of scented powder which her father bought for her from his pilgrimage to the holy city, some quills, several rolls of parchment and - though no one knew - a secret map of the continents hidden underneath everything inside the drawer.

Noor slipped off her shoes and placed them beside the bed, underneath which Ummayma and Aisha's sleeping mats were kept. She opened her drawer and began to choose her clothes absentmindedly, her mother's words echoing in her head.

She was right, though. Noor wasn't getting any younger. The sooner she got married, the better for her. She knew her father was bidding his time. It was only a matter of time before he sprung a suitor on her. And if he ended up doing just that, then that would be the end of the topic. No amount of argument of coaxing will change his mind.

Lost in her own thoughts, Noor hadn't noticed that Aisha had into the room.

"When are you going to tell her?" she asked simply, startling her.

"What do you mean?" she asked.

"When are you going to tell her that you have no intention of getting married?" Aisha asked, narrowing her eyes in an accusing manner.

"Don't look at me like that. You of all people should know that I can't tell her that. It'll break her heart." Noor said, hastily pulling out her grey abaya (a long black cloak that covers all, but the hands and face). "I can't break my mother's heart like that."

"You're doing more harm than good by hiding this from her. She will be devastated when she finds out." Aisha said calmly. "Put yourself in her shoes, for once."

"I can't. My feet are smaller than hers." said Noor, making an attempt at humor.

"This is serious, Noor. If your mother finds out you do not wish to get married at all, she'll be destroyed. Besides, have you forgotten what the prophet (S.A.W) said?" Aisha said.

"Of course I remember." Noor snapped. "But marriage itself is not obligatory. It's a choice."

"A choice which you refuse to consider." said Aisha.

"I don't want to talk about this again. Leave me." Noor turned her back on her.

"Fine." Aisha said, leaving the room. Noor placed the abaya on her bed, pulling out her grey slippers from underneath the drawer.

Who was she to correct her? How dare she try to tell her what to do? Did she think that she hadn't thought earnestly about her choices?

Noor snorted as she grabbed her hairbrush and began to brush her hair in a furious manner. It didn't really need to be brushed, but she wanted to distract herself. She would not pay attention to Aisha's warning, nor would she pay attention to the tiny voice in her head telling her that what she was doing was wrong on so many accounts. In the distance, the adhan began to call the iqama (the final call to prayer).

*

Meanwhile on the other side of the city, several men were pouring into the mosque rapidly, trying to find a spot before the prayer commenced.

The great mosque was built upon the site of the Ghumdan Palace, between the two areas of Sana'a, Al-Quati and Al-Sailah.

According to the authentic Islamic scriptures, the Prophet Muhammad (S.A.W) was associated with the mosque's planning and construction around 630 AD (6 AH). Sana'a was central in the propagation of the Islamic religion in the post-Hijra period. Many of the archaeological findings discovered in the Great Mosque substantiate its construction to the era when Muhammad was alive.

Its confirmed history dates from 705 to 715 (86–96 AH), when the Umayyad caliph al-Walid I expanded the mosque to much larger dimensions. The interior stone arcades of the flat roofs of the mosque are stated to be of the Byzantine architectural features of the Axumite Empire. An inscription in the pre-Islamic language of the region, in a stone arch support, a reused piece, connects it to Byzantine architecture. Another inscription which could found in the courtyard of the mosque dates to 753 AD, of the Abbasid period.

The male residents of Sana'a thronged into the mosque, as the Jumu'at prayer began. Several latecomers clamoured to get spaces before the ruku (the intermediate bowing before prostration during Salat). In Islam when praying in congregation, whoever misses the ruku is deemed to have missed that particular unit of prayer. Therefore, everyone rushed to find a spot as the first ruku was reached.

However, five men in the city had no intention of praying. They were standing outside a tall, dilapidated building, their fingers wrapped around the hilts of their swords. Their leader stepped forward, glancing across the street. No one appeared to be watching them. He motioned for the others to follow, and together they knocked down the door in one swift motion. There was no need for lurking; the inhabitants of the building already knew they were coming.

Filing into the room, they were surrounded by several boxes piled high against the walls, and old broken down cart in the middle of the room. Dust and cobwebs were visible throughout the length of the room, but looking closely, they could make out several irregular footsteps leading from the entrance to the staircase at the other end of the room. A single window was beside the staircase, hanging on its hinges.

Their leader raised his clenched hand, and his men stopped instantly. He waited for any sound of movement, but he heard nothing. They must know they were in the house. The silence was pregnant with tension, causing a bead of sweat to slide down his back. This was the kind of silence he hated; the silence that gnawed slowly at your conscience.

Taking a step forward, he motioned for the others to follow. They each stepped forward slowly, their hands clenched on their swords so tightly that their knuckles had gone white.

"Do you think they know?" one of the men asked in a low whisper.

"Of course they know." the leader hissed. "They're waiting for us."

Suddenly, a lizard scurried across the dust covered floor toward the window, making the men jump. One of them pulled out his sword quickly.

"It's nothing." their leader said quickly, trying to hide his brief moment of incompetence. "Be more quiet."

They each nodded in turn, heading towards the staircase. One by one they began to climb the stairs, cursing under their breath whenever a particular floorboard creaked too loudly. One of the men remained at the bottom of the stairs, standing guard. The rest of them, their leader in front, climbed up to the floor above. Like the floor below, it too was full of partially or carelessly opened boxes. The window at the other end of the room overlooked the street below.

Careful not to step on the place where he'd slipped previously, their leader proceeded to the secret room he knew was hidden behind a large box which blocked a dusty old curtain from view. Pushing the curtain aside, he and two other men stepped into the room while another man stood beside the dusty curtain as a lookout. In the distance, they could hear the Jumu'at prayer being concluded. They needed to hurry.

Unbeknownst to them, the man who'd ordered them to carry out this mission had just concluded his prayer as well. He stood up slowly, adjusting his keffiah.

"How are you, Kabeer?" his friend Jamal beamed at him, stretching out his hand. "Assalamu alaikum (Peace and blessings be upon you)."

"Wa alaikum as salam (Peace and blessings upon you too)." Kabeer smiled at him, clasping Jamal's hand in both of his. "How are you today?"

"I'm fine, Alhamdulillah." Jamal smiled. "I expected you to be in the front row, like always."

"Unfortunately, I was a bit... caught up on my way here." Kabeer replied.

"Caught up by what?" Jamal smiled mischievously. "Is it that package you've been expecting to be delivered for weeks now?"

"Nothing of that sort." Kabeer smiled. "How is business?" he asked quickly, trying to deflect the topic.

"Oh, business is business. I don't enjoy it, but what can I do?" Jamal sighed.

"I know how you feel." Kabeer said. "All for something as fickle as money."

"Well said." Jamal said. "Come, I wish to introduce you to one of my friends. He just returned to the city, you see."

"Oh really? Who is he?" Kabeer asked curiously as Jamal began to pull him toward the exit.

"Oh, I'm not sure you've heard of him. He rarely stays in the city actually. Heart of a wanderer, bless him." Jamal chuckled as the walked out of the mosque. Several groups of three or four men were gathered in the courtyard, talking excitedly. Jamal headed toward two men talking in whispers. One of them was fidgeting with a gold coin in his hand, while the other was standing as rigid as a metal pole.

"Fahad, I'm glad I caught you." Jamal smiled, stopping beside the two men. "I must introduce you to my friend, Kabeer. He's a trader in the city as well."

"Assalamu alaikum." Kabeer smiled, extending his right hand to the man fidgeting with the coin. He was short and stocky, with a generous amount of facial hair. His eyes were small and watery, and his nose was crooked. He wore a long white robe, with a white keffiah on his head, held in place by an agal (an item of Arab headgear constructed of cord which is fastened around the keffiah to hold it in place. The agal is usually black in colour). He was younger than Kabeer by far, probably in his late twenties. Fahad slipped the coin into his pocket, shaking Kabeer's hand earnestly. "Wa alaikum as salam." he smiled. "It's a pleasure to meet you."

"The feeling is mutual." Kabeer replied, pulling his hand away. "Are you by any chance the son of Ahmed al-Walid?" he asked.

"Yes." Fahad smiled. "You knew my father?"

"He made the plan for my house actually." Kabeer said, shaking his hand once again. "I didn't know he had a son."

"Well, I don't stay in the city often. I schooled in Riyadh ever since I was a child, and I've stayed there since." Fahad replied. "You must be Kabeer ibn Hamza then?" he asked.

"The one and only." he smiled.

"Delighted to meet you." Fahad smiled. "I've heard all about you from my father."

"All good things, I hope?" he guffawed.

"Oh, simply wonderful things. My father speaks highly of you."

"I'm honoured." Kabeer said.

All through their exchange, the man whom Fahad had been speaking to was watching them closely, his stormy-gray eyes moving from Fahad to Kabeer without comment. Fahad noticed him looking at Kabeer, and he smiled. "I believe you know my friend already, Fareed? I daresay you've heard of the Al-ghala family?" he gestured.

Kabeer froze, a chill running down his spine suddenly. His heart, which had leapt to his throat as he turned his gaze to the man Fahad was gesturing to, dropped somewhere in the pits of his stomach. It was as though someone had poured a bucket of ice cold water over him.

Fareed watched him closely, noticing how he frowned as he extended his hand. He shook Fareed's hand once, then let go quickly as though he'd been burnt.

"You... You're Fareed Al-ghala?" Jamal sounded astonished.

"Delighted to meet you." master Fareed inclined his head a fraction of an inch, shaking Jamal's hand briefly. There was a cold, calculating look in his eyes as he pulled away, turning his gaze to Kabeer.

"I must say, I'm pleased to finally meet you, Kabeer. I've heard all about you." Fareed smiled at him.

"You... You have?" he stammered, quickly clearing his throat. "Well I... I um... I'm pleased to meet you as well."

"Such a shame, isn't it? Living so close to each other and never meeting." Fareed smiled. There was a wicked glint in his eyes as he smiled. "Your name is very popular, isn't it?"

"Don't be modest, Fareed." Fahad smiled. "If there's anyone who's famous in Sana'a, it's you of course."

"Rightfully so." Fareed said quietly. "Rightfully so."

There was a minute of silence, in which Fareed continued to stare at Kabeer as though curious. The latter shifted uncomfortably, trying to avoid eye contact with the man whom he was trying to steal from at this very moment.

"So, what brings you back to Sana'a, Fareed?" Jamal asked. "I've heard you were out of the city for a very long time now."

"Business." Fareed said.

"Oh, you're a trader as well?" Jamal pressed on.

"Not strictly speaking." Fareed replied, never taking his eyes off Kabeer. "A little bit of this and a little bit of that. I like to keep myself busy."

"Actually, Fareed and I were just talking about a new business venture we wanted to try our hands out." Fahad said, bouncing on his heels.

"Now now Fahad, don't go presenting my ideas as though they were yours. That's stealing." Fareed said, putting much emphasis on the last word. Kabeer tugged at his collar, beads of perspiration lining his forehead.

"I never said it was my idea, Fareed. I was merely suggesting." he chuckled.

"This is hardly the place to discuss business." Fareed said. "Why don't we all move to my mansion? It's not far from here."

"That's a splendid idea." Fahad clapped his hands earnestly. "Shall we?" he gestured towards a stagecoach.

"Well, um," Kabeer cleared his throat. "I'd love to, but I need to get back to the market as soon as possible. I'll have to open up the shops once again." he said, his eyes shifting nervously towards Fareed who smiled at him as though they were best of friends.

"Surely you can send one of your slaves to do it." Jamal said as they stepped out of the mosque. "Look here they come now."

Sure enough, two young men who had been standing in the shade before rushed towards them when they saw their master.

"Of course." Kabeer said, fumbling with his pocket. He pulled out a bunch of keys, handing them to the first slave.

"Keep the shop open until I return. I'll be back in a short while." he said.

"Oh, I believe this is going to take some time." Fareed said. "You might stay for a very long time."

"Oh alright." Kabeer said. "You then," he pointed to the other slave. "Go back to the house and tell them not to bother with lunch. I shall eat when I return."

"As you wish, master." they both said, hurrying away.

"I hope this won't take long." Jamal said. "I must say I do not wish to stay too long."

"This won't be long, trust me." Fareed grinned once again. Kabeer didn't fail to notice that the smile didn't reach his eyes.

The four men set off towards the coach parked across the street, a large burly man sitting on the front with the reins wrapped securely around his hands. A footman stood at the door, opening it hurriedly when he spotted the men approaching. Master Fareed stepped in first, seating himself beside the door. Fahad stepped in next, sitting beside him. Kabeer and Jamal sat opposite them, Kabeer folding his hands in front of him as though wishing he could place a barrier between himself and Fareed.

"Tell me, Kabeer." Fareed turned toward him as soon as the coach began to move. "How long have you been trading in this city?"

Kabeer scowled at him, as though to remind Fareed that he was much older than him. The latter took no notice.

"Twenty seven years." he said, turning towards the window beside him.

"That's a very long time." Fareed smiled thoughtfully. "You must have been working very hard to attain such wealth in those years."

"Oh Kabeer is a very hard worker." Jamal beamed. "I've known him my whole life, and I daresay he's the most hardworking man in this city."

"Don't be ridiculous." Fahad said. "Fareed would easily give him a run for his money."

"Why are we sitting here discussing who is more hardworking than who?" Fareed said. "Hardwork translates to wealth. And as I'm sure we all know, Kabeer is very wealthy indeed."

"As are you." Fahad said.

"Indeed." Fareed replied, not trying to hide the smirk on his face. "That's the one thing that drives me, you know. Wealth. And power."

"There are more important things than those." Kabeer said coolly.

"I beg to differ." Fareed said, a vein in his temple throbbing. "Wealth is the measure of a man's might. He who is not wealthy is not fit to call himself a man."

"Come on, Fareed. You place too much value on such things. Wealth is nothing." Jamal said.

"On the contrary, wealth is everything." Fareed said. "Why else would men strive to attain it? Because they know it's value. He who is wealthy is powerful. And he who is powerful, needn't worry about anything in this life."

"True. True." Fahad said. "But power is a very fickle thing. The right to lord over others is something you are born with."

"Or something you take forcefully, of course." Fareed said.

"Taking what is not yours is thievery." Kabeer said, glaring at Fareed. "No matter how misguided you are, what is not yours will never be yours."

"It will be, if I say it should be." Fareed said. "But you will agree with me, Kabeer, that taking what is in the possession of someone else is still considered stealing, right?"

"Not if that thing which you intend to take was yours in the first place. Then, it wouldn't be considered stealing. Merely you taking that which is rightfully yours." he said.

"But how can you be sure, that what you speak of is rightfully yours? You could be misguided as well." Fareed smiled menacingly.

"Not when you have solid facts to back it up." Kabeer said.

"Then I believe the best thing for you to do, would be to present your facts to the owner and prove how it is that his possession should belong to you." Fareed said.

Fahad and Jamal watched the exchange between the two in confusion, unsure of what they were talking about anymore. The conversation seemed to have drifted away from wealth.

"One doesn't need to defend oneself before a thieving scoundrel." Kabeer said, a little too forcefully.

"Oh, but one does." Fareed c****d his head. "Otherwise, the punishment for theft is severe. Very severe indeed."

"Not unless you are caught." Kabeer chuckled. "Only a fool would allow himself to be caught while attempting to steal."

"My thoughts exactly." Fareed said in a cold voice as they pulled up at the gates of this mansion. Kabeer swallowed nervously, his gaze travelling up the high walls of the mansion. He wiped away a bead of sweat hastily as the gates were opened.

Far away from the mansion, in a very old and dilapidated building, four men had just been stabbed to death. One of them was decapitated already, his head lying several feet from his still twitching body. A dozen men were standing in the room, two of them holding another man in the center of the room. The man was the leader of the four.

"Tell us, who sent you?" Lukman barked at him, kicking him in the ribs. "Who dares to steal from master Fareed?"

"You will have to kill me to find out." the man spat, blood trickling down the side of his head.

"Trust me." Lukman sneered. "When I'm done with you, you'll wish you were dead."

*