Prologue
530 CE
Abdulmalik ibn Harith al-Hamdani, the first Bedouin man to have settled in that area migrated from Yemen when the great flood happened and destroyed nearly everything he had. He left with his wife and two surviving sons, carrying only a skin bag, two lambs and single piece of gold that hadn't been carried away by the flood or buried under the catastrophe it left behind. On his famed journey of forty days and nights, he was faced with a barrage of obstacles. He lost one of his sons to a wild animal attack in the desert. A sandstorm took out one of the animals he carried, his only son fell sick on the way. But that didn't deter him. He journeyed as the sun rose and calculated as night fell. That was the thing about him, he was a shrewd businessman. Life might have swept him off his feet with a single blow, but he wasn't cut out for the path of mediocrity or beggary. That was why he had refused to follow his fellow merchants to the neighbouring cities, where they sought shelter under the apprenticeship of others when he was once a revered merchant. What in the world? The Arabs have lost their pride and valor, and he wasn't about to follow their lead.
Once, while on a business trip, he had heard about the islands of Arabia, and of particular interest was a desert strip sequestered between the mountains and the sea. It was an isolated, vast barren land of endless sand dunes frequently interrupted by lush green oases and magnificent mountains with a whole lot of rain. It had the date trees, the gum, the pomegranate and all the treasures of Arabia, but also allegedly inhabited by spirits.
A merchant had once ventured into the strip, hoping to witness its wonders and perhaps claim some of its riches. Instead, he was said to have encountered a ten-eyed supernatural being and went crazy before reaching the next town. People had steered clear of it ever since.
But Abdulmaalik was undeterred. Just because someone had mentioned to the kids in one of the night-time campfire stories that the land was haunted didn't mean that it was true. He would see for himself. And if at all it was haunted, then he had already lost half his mind along with his wealth in the great flood, so that shouldn't be a problem.
So he chased the sun across the desert and after forty days and nights, he started spotting tall date trees rising above the dunes. The scorching heat of the sun gradually became cooler, the air was gentler, and that was when he knew he had reached the Promise Land.
He pitched a small tent for his family before setting out to scout the area. But it had been a long journey, and his weary back needed respite, so he lay beneath a tree and closed his eyes. Just as he was about to sleep, something grazed his chest and yanked off his turban. His eyes flew open just in time to see a wild beast preparing to pounce. Before it could strike, an arrow shot out of nowhere and pierced the animal, ending its life instantly.
Turning around, his gaze settled on a tall, lean man with another arrow already nocked, ready to fire if necessary.
"Shukran, ya akhi. I don't know how to repay you," he thanked, rising to his feet.
"Who are you, and where did you come from?" Instead of the warmth he had expected from the man who had just saved his life, he was met with a direct, unwelcoming tone.
"I have just arrived from the flooded city. I came to this land to begin a new life," Abdulmalik replied sincerely.
"In isolation? Aren't you aware of the stories surrounding this land?" the stranger asked, lowering his bow as the suspicion in his eyes gave way to bewilderment.
"I am, brother, but I refuse to let hearsay dictate my fate."
"Neither would I. I am Hameed ibn Rayyan al-Rashidy. My people and I have just arrived from a clan far to the east. Like you, we came to explore this land and settle here. But now that we have both arrived, who shall be the guest of the other?"
"If you are speaking of the right to lead, then I have already accepted you as my brother. We'll share this land together, and I shall never forget the kindness you have shown me."
And so the two factions were born: the Hamdanis who were broad-shouldered, business-savvy, and unmatched with the sword. The Rashideens who were skilled artisans and exceptional marksmen.
Together they named the land Ramlat al-Sirr, the Desert of Secrets, aptly named for its famed secrets and bewildering encounters. And over generations, the two had lived not without differences, but with the same zeal that drove their forefathers out into the dessert in search of a new life.
Their lives were in sync, yet distinctly different. The Hamdanis were thicker, the Rashideen were slender. The Hamdanis never cooked a meal without olives, whereas the Rashideens revered olives and reserved them for special occasions. The Hamdanis built their tents facing north, the Rashideen built theirs facing south. One could tell that this was a Hamdani or a Rashideen by just looking at them or interacting with them. Arabs got pride from preserving their traditions no matter where fate carried them.
Yet, for all their differences, they were united by their kindness, hospitality, and unwavering support for one another. There were times when those differences threatened to overshadow their shared values, and conflict inevitably followed. But they always found their way back to one another and resolved their disputes.
Nor did the neighbouring settlements ever cease to disturb their peace. Once word spread that the strip was not a haunted recluse but a land rich in promise, many sought to conquer it. Others resorted to more subtle means, attempting to sow discord between the two factions. Several battles had been fought, but they had the savvy swordsmen and crafty marksmen, so they hadn't suffered much defeat since the wars started.
Instead, they conquered and expanded their territory, uniting the coastal cities, the mountainous settlements and much of the great sands beyond Zhofar. The region had grown beyond a desert strip full of secrets, and after much deliberation, the vast empire was renamed Bilad al-Sharq; the Eastern Lands.
It stretched across the southeastern parts of the Arabian Peninsula, from the scorching deserts to the thriving coastal cities that faced the Great Eastern Sea. Though the empire had grown vast, Ramlat al-Sirr remained its heart, serving as the seat of power under the rule of the Khalifah.
There had been issues with choosing the Khalifah after the founding fathers perished. They initially shared the responsibilities, but after their deaths, the people realized the need for a central power. And thus, Mahmoud Al-Mazhari I, grandson of the founding fathers and the firstborn son of Maryoum, a Hamdani and Zayd a Rashideen, became the first Khalifah. With his ascension began the Mazhari Caliphate, the ruling house that would govern Bilad al-Sharq for generations to come.
The empire continued to flourish through trade, agriculture, craftsmanship, and military excellence. Years into the Islamic Golden Age, centuries of coexistence and intermarriage blurred the distinctions between the two founding factions, making them nearly impossible for outsiders to tell apart.
Bilad al-Sharq became a vast, revered empire, one whose splendour drew travellers from every corner of the desert and whose stories were told for generations. It was a land where destinies were changed and legends lived on.
And it was in the heart of that flourishing empire that a young man would rise to glory, have ballads sung in his honour, and watch his life change... or slip out of his hands, forever.
