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His Beauty Queen Obsession
AN AGE-GAP ROMANCE
GIA BAILEY
Copyright © 2022 by Gia Bailey
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or
mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without
written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a
book review.
Contents
His Obsession Series
1. Stone
2. Bella
3. Stone
4. Bella
5. Stone
6. Bella
7. Bella
8. Stone
9. Bella
10. Stone
11. Bella
Five years Later
Gia Bailey
Also by Gia Bailey
His Obsession Series
His Obsession series features obsessed heroes who will stop at

nothing to win the object of their obsession. If you love OTT
possessive heroes chasing the bad-ass, sassy women who torment
them, then you’ll love His Obsession series. Extra OTT, extra spicy
and always HEA.
His Student Obsession

His Au Pair Obsession
His Assistant Obsession
His Beauty Queen Obsession
His Ballerina Obsession
CHAPTER 1
Stone
G amblers are predictable. They borrow money; they lose the

money; they show up at my door again. Predictable, stupid, and
doomed.
Alfie Moore was no different. Predictable, stupid, and doomed.
The man didn’t have a single redeeming feature about him, except
for the new depths he allowed himself to sink to, which, I suppose,
was a loan shark’s dream.
I wasn’t a real loan shark, though. My money came from my
investments, human or otherwise. Alfie Moore was a personal favor.
When my father had been alive, Moore had been the estate
manager for Thorn Hill, the crumbling gothic manor I now lived in.
Perched up on the hill. It overlooked the town and had a long,
intimidating driveway that kept the rabble away. Not even Jehovah’s
witnesses dared the winding path through the dark woods to my
door.
I had let the staff go when I took over the estate. I didn’t need
snooping townspeople in my business, except Samuel, who was
different. The secrets buried in the gardens of Thorn Hill needed
constant tending. I couldn’t be without Samuel.
Tonight was the last night Moore had for payback, and he was
avoiding my calls. How predictable. It was raining outside. Gray
afternoon was shuffling into a stormy evening, and it was perfect
weather for a drive. Let him avoid me in person.
I donned my overcoat and glove, just the one as I usually did,
and left my lair.
I drove through town and stopped across the street from the
bookstore that Moore ran. Considering his rate of money borrowing,
the joint seemed to be more of a charity than a business. The old
bastard never had a penny to his name. Who made money selling
books nowadays? The shop was a relic, just like its owner.
As I shifted in the seat to settle in and wait for Alfie to leave, the
door to Joanie’s bookstore opened, and he stepped out. The cover of
darkness would be better for a brief lesson in respecting the terms
of a loan agreement, but the gray sky would suffice well enough. I
just had to follow him wherever he was going.
I started the car and idled at the curb, watching as Alfie went in
and out of the shop, ferrying boxes. What the fuck was the man
doing? Skipping town with books in tow? That didn’t seem likely.
Besides, I’d heard he had a daughter, though I supposed she’d be
old enough to live on her own by now.
Alfie paused in the doorway, opening a huge, yellow umbrella
and holding it out for someone. I waited impatiently as another
figure stepped through the doorway of the shop.
I felt the air grow still and the sounds of traffic faded as I
watched her. She was dressed in a pink puffball of a gown, like a
princess from a fairy tale who had accidentally wandered off-set and
ended up in the real world. She didn’t belong here. That was my gut
instinct.
She was wearing elbow-length gloves, white and dazzling against
her olive skin, and her hair, dark and rich as midnight, tumbled in
waves around her shoulders. She was laughing. I couldn’t make out
all of her face, only the bottom portion, but it was enough to know
that she was the most beautiful woman I’d ever seen.
The umbrella dipped, hiding her from view, and my hands
tightened on the steering wheel, the fine leather covering my ruined
left hand creaking. Alfie had his arm behind her slim waist, drawn in
tight in her corseted dress, and was guiding her toward his car. The
rundown banger of a vehicle wasn’t good enough for this vision to
ride in, I thought scathingly as I watched them. The damn umbrella
blocked my view until she was in the car and gone from sight
completely. Alfie hurried around to the driver’s seat and got in,
pulling out quickly as though he was late for something.
I realized my hands were clamped like manacles on the
expensive hand-stitched leather wheel and pried them off with
effort. This car was my current favorite of the toys that sat in my
enormous garage. It wouldn’t do to mark it.
I followed the taillights of Alfie’s car.
As I drove, I realized that my urgency now had nothing to do
with shaking Alfie Moore down and getting my money back, or at
the very least, making him understand it wasn’t a gift. No, that had
lost its importance now I was faced with the mystery woman on his
arm. I had to know who she was, and I had to know now. She
looked so young to be his daughter. Young, but old enough.
He parked in the lot of the local theatre. Brightly colored signs
and posters were tacked up, fading in the drizzle, a paradox of hope
and youth running its ink onto the gray concrete of reality. They got
out and headed inside. Again, all I could make out for sure was that
dress. A marshmallow dress.
I wanted to eat the woman inside it.
The instinct was suddenly, startlingly strong, yet, undeniable. It
had been a long time since I’d had a woman. I’d had nothing but the
comfort of my hand since I’d withdrawn from society. I hadn’t always
been a reclusive rich man, living in a mausoleum on the hill. Once,
I’d been a prince of the city, rich, daring, handsome, and wicked.
That had all ended the day that father had died. The evil old
demon.
I rarely thought about the old days. It wasn’t wise to dwell.
Alfie disappeared inside the theatre, and now that the mystery
woman was out of sight, I could focus on the rest. I looked at the
posters. A beauty pageant. How quaint. All ages could apply. Small
towns were where good taste went to die.
A line had formed to the front doors of eager spectators. I’d bet
my life that the only people paying for tickets knew a competitor
personally. An older sister who’d never fulfilled her dreams of being
the prettiest of them all, giving it one more chance. A young girl
pushed to the front by a bossy mother, desperate for her kid to be
the chosen one, special, above all others.
Yes, it seemed only relatives of those competing now stood in the
cue for the rundown theatre.
Relatives and me.
I had to see her face.
CHAPTER 2
Bella
“I sabella! You’re nearly late,” Tori

managing the show and was the
snapped at me. She was
dance director at the local
ballet studio. I’d been a student there as long as I could remember,
and Tori was practically family.
“I’m here. Keep your hair on,” I muttered to her, resisting the
urge to bite my nails. My father hovered anxiously by my side. “You
can go watch, Pa. It’ll be a while, I’m sure.”
“Are you nervous? Your mother was always nervous,” my father
rattled. He wasn’t looking so good, frailer by the day. He didn’t take
very good care of himself, and considering he was all I had left, it
broke my heart.
“I’m good, seriously,” I tried to reassure him, finally sending him
off toward the audience.
I peeped out at the crowd. Yikes, it was filling up out there. How
embarrassing. I felt my hand return to my mouth before forcing it
down again. I hated pageants. I hated competing in something so
vain, but I wasn’t doing it for myself. It was for dad. Alfie Moore’s
wife, Joanie, had been the loveliest woman in town, or so everyone
had told me about a million times. They’d been childhood
sweethearts, and my father’s proudest moment had been when
she’d won a regional beauty pageant right before getting pregnant
with me. That had been her last contest because the night I entered
the world, she left it.
Now, when my father brought me a flyer about another pageant,
I couldn’t say no to him. He wanted me to follow in her footsteps.
God knew why. I couldn’t refuse him. I wasn’t very good at saying
no to the people I loved.
I smoothed my dress and fought my internal cringe as I took in
the other competitors. I’d told Alfie that this was it, my last show. I
couldn’t possibly continue it as I got older. Twenty-two was old
enough to be trotting out in a princess dress, slowly followed by a
bikini. This was my last, and afterward, I’d gladly hang up my
hairspray and false eyelashes and retire. I couldn’t wait.
The pageant got off to a slow start, with competitors grouped
into age brackets. I was one of the oldest, along with an elderly lady
named Beverly, who competed every year and never won. I lingered
at the curtain, watching the audience sit and chat to each other,
wishing fervently I could be out there watching instead of parading
around on stage.
In the crowd, I could see Alfie sitting near the front. He was
talking to those around him, and I could practically hear my name
on his lips, along with my mother’s.
That’s right, she loves to compete, just like Joanie. Like mother,
like daughter, I always say.
I’d heard those words from him countless times. I stuck them
inside me, pasted them on the endless wall of guilt and obligation I
felt toward my only living relative. Alfie’s life had turned to shit when
I was born. His wife died, and he had to bring a tiny baby home
from the hospital and take care of her alone.
I shifted my eyes around the crowd, ignoring the pinch of tears
that always welled up at the guilt trip I put myself through whenever
I thought of my father and his sad life. It was my fault he drank too
much. My fault he was in debt, and the bookstore—my mother’s
business—had always struggled. It was my fault he gambled. It was
all my fault.
In the audience, someone entering the hall was causing quite the
stir. Whispers rippled like wildfire around the room, and people
stopped where they were or twisted in their seats to stare.
The object of such fascination was a man. Dressed entirely in
black, with a towering physique, he drew the eye. He was wearing
one leather glove, the kind you wore to drive a sports car, and a
heavy black coat. His hair was the same jet-black as his coat and
sprinkled with grey at the temples. That should’ve made him seem
old, yet his face held such vitality and energy that I couldn't think of
him that way. My father was old, with his sloping shoulders, beer
gut, hopeless eye bags, and jowls.
This black-clad stranger was the opposite of my father in every
way. His dark, eagle-like eyes surveyed the room and fixed on Alfie.
Alarm crept up my spine at that look. It was dangerous. The black
slash of his strong eyebrows drew into a line, and his full mouth
pursed into a considering scowl. I wanted to rush out and protect
my father from that look, but what good would that do? How did he
know my father? Who was this man?
A chime sounded overhead, a warning that the show would start
soon. People shook off their stupors and hurried for seats. The man
in black went to sit at the back, alone. A natural oasis of calm
surrounded him, like nobody wanted to get too close. He fixed his
eyes on the curtain where I was, and I drew back, feeling like I’d
been stung. I dropped the curtain and left the stage, heading for the
wings and preparing to strut my stuff on stage. Somehow, knowing
that the black-clad stranger was there made it even more
embarrassing.
I n the introductions , as I sweated under endless stage lights and

heavy makeup, I fancied I could feel that man’s eyes on me. I
shifted from one foot to the next, waiting for my turn to make a
lame introduction. Finally, it was over, and I scurried backstage. One
bit down, only a million to go. I changed into my swimwear and
lined up to go out again.
Back on the stage, I knew I was one of the few contestants
wearing a modest one-piece. Well, Beverly and me. I might as well
be in my seventies, too, for all the use I made of my youth. Twenty-
two and never been kissed. Twenty-two and working for less than
minimum wage at not one but two crap jobs. Twenty-two, and
without even a best friend to call, never mind a boyfriend.
I walked across the stage, feeling self-conscious. Under the harsh
lights, I felt sure everyone could see every lump, bump, and ingrown
hair from their seats. I wanted to sink into the floor and die. The
embarrassment was so excruciating. Minutes ticked by painfully
slowly, and I couldn’t have gotten off the stage faster at the end.
The rest of the show passed, and my face was tired of the cheery
rictus grin I had slathered on.
Finally, it was the time for judging. I stood next to Beverly and
waited for the results of my category. There were only five of us in
it, and utter disbelief filled me as I came in first place. My father
stood up in the crowd and cheered me on with a raw yell of
encouragement. I lowered my head for the cheap crown to be
placed on it. Well, it was a good place to stop. At least my father
might be more accepting now I’d finally won something. I was a
beauty queen.
Just like mom.
CHAPTER 3
Stone
A lfie was in a celebratory mood. He had clapped and cheered

himself hoarse as he watched his daughter parade around on
stage like an uncomfortable greyhound at Crufts. Her awkwardness
and discomfort went unnoticed as Alfie applauded his daughter’s
victory.
I couldn’t tear my eyes from her.
Isabella Moore.
The only difference between Alfie and me was that I didn’t care if
she won or lost. I saw her discomfort and awkwardness. I saw
everything, and nothing distracted from her loveliness. I liked every
single sigh and tremble. I more than liked it.
I wanted it.
I wanted Isabella Moore for myself.
It was the first time I’d wanted someone for myself in longer
than I could remember.
They drove home after stopping at a cheery diner for celebratory
milkshakes. I watched Alfie pour cheap bourbon in his when his
daughter wasn’t looking. Considering she insisted on driving home, I
guessed his drinking problem was no secret.
I took a shortcut and beat them home. Isabella Moore was a
safer driver than I was. I entered the Moore house through the
backdoor, with its laughably flimsy lock. A swift kick from my boot
bust the door wide open. Alfie Moore should be more careful with his
stunning daughter. Any kind of monster of the night could creep in
and take her.
It was too late for that now, though.
I was the monster, and I was already here.
I took my gun from my holster and a knife from my boot and sat
in the creaking armchair to wait. I wasn’t going to carve up Moore. I
had some morals, but sometimes a shock to the system is needed
for a man like Alfie. The man was taking his life and his daughter for
granted, and that was a mistake.
When they came in, the effects of Alfie’s Irish milkshake were
already making themselves known. He stumbled, sighing and
hiccupping, while Isabella tried to guide him. Though her weight and
strength were no match for his bulk, she was an expert at directing
his drunken stagger. I wondered how often she’d had to do so.
This was a man undeserving of his precious daughter.
Thankfully, I was here to relieve him of her.
They made it to the living room, stopping only meters from me
but not seeing me until Isabella switched on the light.
“Good evening, Alfie,” I said quietly.
He let out a startled grunt while Isabella spun around and stared
at me. She didn’t scream. Interesting.
“What the fuck? Why are you here?” Alfie blundered, pushing
away from his daughter so hard that she nearly fell.
Anger built in my chest at the pathetic display. “You know why
I’m here, or you would if you’d answered any of my many calls.”
“Pa, who is he?” Isabella asked, her eyes never moving from
mine.
“The devil, that’s who. Don’t worry. I’ll deal with it. Go upstairs.”
“No, I’m not leaving you alone with an armed man,” Isabella said
resolutely. Her eyes dipped to my hands. The gloved one held the
pistol, and my other the knife.
Alfie tutted and turned to her. “Go, I said!”
“No. Tell me what business you have with my father,” Isabella
said, approaching me as her shock wore off, replaced by indignant
anger.
I stood, straightening to my 6’5 height. Isabella wasn’t short. She
was above average for a woman. She fit me perfectly. However,
given my giant stature, I towered over her.
She craned her neck, her olive skin flushing lightly pink. “You
were at the pageant,” she said stiffly.
“I was. Congratulations on your win. My name is Stone Preston,”
I said, fighting the maddening urge to kiss the back of her slender
hand like I was in a fucking period BBC adaptation. This woman,
with her quiet strength and intriguing eyes, was sending me
spinning.
“What do you want with my father, Mr. Preston, and how does it
entitle you to enter our home without our permission?” she asked,
crossing her arms over her chest.
Oh, my girl was feisty. She might be quiet and reserved on stage,
but if looks could kill, my skin would be flayed from my bones. “I
believe your father can explain.”
“Please–just tell me. Does he owe you money?” she demanded,
her brave girl act faltering. Her voice cracked, just enough to give
her away. Isabella Moore wasn’t fooled by her father, not one bit.
She’d dealt with his mess before. “How much?” she asked, stepping
forward so Alfie’s grasping hand fell as he attempted to force her
away.
“Perhaps I should speak with him alone first,” I suggested,
feeling an uncharacteristic pang of regret for the damage I was
about to do to this girl’s relationship with her father.
“So you can use one of those on him?” Her eyes were on the
weapons in my hands.
Hell, I could hardly tell her that the kit was mostly for
intimidation. I hadn’t shot someone in the knee in a long time, but
the fire in her eyes and the building tension in the room didn’t suit
the confession. Let Isabella Moore think I was about to stab or shoot
her father, and then we could see what she planned to do about it.
“Our agreements had terms. He’s ignoring them,” I said mildly.
“How much does he owe?” She pushed again.
“$10,000, principle, without interest.”
She paled, her eyes widening and her nostrils flaring. Sure, it was
a hefty sum, but surely not that grave. For me, it was more about
the principle of the thing, added to the fact that it pissed me off
when Alfie didn’t answer my calls.
“He doesn’t have it, and neither do I,” she muttered and gestured
around the house. “As you can tell.”
I looked closer at the furnishings. Now the light was on, I could
see the sad, faded quality of the room, the aging curtains, and
shabby furniture I hadn’t noticed before.
“That’s not my problem,” I heard myself say. Being cruel was
almost a reflex for me lately, and I had to attempt to stop it. But
tonight, I wasn’t punching down for no reason. I needed to exert
careful pressure on Isabella Moore and see where she cracked. “He’s
beyond late. He owes me a debt, and one way or another, it has to
be paid.”
Isabella turned to look at Alfie, who was staring at the gun in my
hand, his face pasty and unpleasant to observe. He turned
anguished eyes to his daughter. Fucking twenty-two years old, and
her father had settled the weight of the world on her shoulders.
Asshole.
“Do you accept means other than money for the repayment?”
Isabella finally asked, turning back to me.
My entire body stiffened at her soft question, like a lightning
strike hitting my head and passing through my body into the earth. I
tried to remember how to breathe. “Such as?”
“Labour… manual labor. Cooking, cleaning, whatever you need…”
She sucked her bottom lip into her mouth and chewed on it as she
waited for my verdict.
“I don’t know that I want food cooked by Alfie,” I started.
She let out a frustrated sigh. “Not him. Me.”
“Bella, no! I won’t let you work for that man—” Alfie began,
moving toward her.
I could see his actions for what they were—a token resistance.
The man was practically salivating at the thought that his beautiful
young daughter was going to make his problems disappear.
“Take the debt from me, instead,” Isabella said, raising her chin
defiantly and meeting my eyes finally.
I closed the gap between us. I couldn’t help myself. “From you?”
I repeated, knowing the front of my pants was tenting at the words.
Fuck, there was a whole host of depraved things I wanted to visit
upon her willing, supple flesh. “In what ways am I to take it?”
“In whatever way satisfies your need for your pound of flesh,”
she said, her eyes showing more fire and excitement than when she
was onstage winning her title.
I savored her offer and her resistance. She was perfect.
I was so close to her that the skirts of her gown brushed my
pants. If I reached out, I could cup her jaw. I stared at her for a
long moment, letting time play out, waiting to see if she would
elaborate on that tantalizing offer. She held firm and let my
imagination do the work for me, and fuck if it didn’t run wild.
“Fine. Manual labor, cooking, and cleaning at Thorn Hill. A live-in
housekeeper until your father’s debt is paid.”
As much as the idea of this woman sinking to her knees before
me at my command appealed to me, I wouldn’t force Isabella into
anything. I wanted her to want me, as I did her. I wanted to be her
savior and ruin, all at once. Keeping her close was a start. Hell, it
was practically a necessity, given my growing obsession with her. In
only a few hours, she had consumed my attention like nothing else.
“Oh, Bella,” Alfie muttered.
I could hear his relief, and Isabella could, too, from the flash of
annoyance that lit her beautiful features. She nodded decisively and
stuck her hand out to shake on it. I stared at that small hand,
unwavering in the air between us, before engulfing it in mine.
Thankful it was my unmarked one, I shook her hand and enjoyed
the feeling of her soft, unblemished flesh against mine.
“We have a deal, princess,” I told her, rubbing my thumb across
the back of her hand. She raised an eyebrow at the nickname, and I
looked pointedly at the crown on her head. “Now, get ready. We’re
leaving.”
“Tonight?” She suddenly sounded panicked.
I released her hand. “Of course, tonight. I’m not giving you the
chance to skip town.”
“I’d never,” Isabella protested, not even trying to cover for her
father.
“Excuse me if I don’t believe the word of thieves,” I said curtly.
She flushed, her dark eyes boring into me. “I’m not a thief,” she
ground out.
“Maybe not, but you’re on the hook for his debt now, as you
wished. Get ready. We’re leaving.”
CHAPTER 4
Bella
S o,every
tonight hadn’t gone as planned. I’d imagined it would be like
night, but I hadn’t expected the strange, black-clad man
from the theater to be sitting in our living room, holding deadly
weapons like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Stone Preston. His name suited him. It was cold and hard, like
him. Yet, there was something about him that drew my eyes
wherever he went. Like a magnet tugging at my attention, I couldn’t
quite look away.
We sat in silence in the car as he drove through town. I stared
out the window at the familiar shop fronts and shivered. What had I
done? Had I just agreed to disappear to the secluded and spooky
manor on the hill, perhaps never to be seen again? Would my father
even care if I never came back? Of course, he will. Don’t be
dramatic. I shut down that depressing line of thinking and focused
on the road.
Everyone in town knew of Thorn Hill estate. When I was young,
kids had dared each other to go through the gates at the bottom of
the long, winding drive, but few ever did. There was an air of
caution about the place, a warning implicit in the air but never
spoken aloud. I didn’t know when it had started, but Thorn Hill had
become a place of local legend, and now I was more than a little
scared to be driving up the road that wound through the woods
toward it.
“Is Thorn Hill haunted?” I heard myself ask. “That’s what people
in town say.”
Stone glanced at me. “Is it? I suppose it could be. There is plenty
of history about the place. It’s over two hundred years old.”
“Really?”
“There are some books about it in the library if you want to read
them,” Stone said.
“You have a library?” Forgetting my awkwardness, I turned
toward him.
He nodded. “Yes. A private collection dating back a good while,
though I’ve added to it over the years.”
“I love books,” I confessed, and the awkwardness of this
situation flooded back.
This man was dangerous, a criminal. Someone who had come to
my house tonight, meaning to threaten my father. I should be afraid
of him, not getting to know him.
I turned back and folded my arms across my chest. I didn’t know
why, but my father was the one I was mad with. He’d borrowed 10k,
and yet the bookstore hadn’t seen a dime, which meant he’d
gambled it away. Thousands of dollars we couldn’t afford wasted on
a temporary high. My respect for the man who’d raised me was
slipping through my fingers like sand. Don’t forget. It’s your fault his
life is shit. Right, I shouldn’t forget that.
“What do you do, Isabella?”
“Nothing much. I work at the bookstore, the diner, and O’Malley’s
over on Peach Street.”
“That’s it?” he asked, making me bristle.
“What? Three jobs aren’t enough?”
“They are, of course. What I meant to ask, I suppose, is what do
you want to do? You’re twenty-two.”
“So?”
“So, twenty-two is the time for dreaming, studying… passions.”
“Is that what you did at twenty-two?” I asked Stone, trying to
change the subject from my own pitiful life.
He thought for a moment and then nodded. “Touché. Not all
twenty-two-year-olds do that.”
“How old are you, anyway?” I wondered. The slight graying at his
temples made him look distinguished, but his tanned face was
unlined, and he was so broad and virile looking, I couldn’t imagine
he was that old.
“Thirty-seven.”
I nodded, relieved. Not too old. The unbidden thought made me
pause. Jesus, Bella, get a grip. What was I even thinking about?
Sure, he was handsome and charismatic as hell, but he was a
stranger and one who had entered my house illegally without
breaking a sweat. The man was trouble. I felt it in my bones.
“And what do you do? Apart from threatening aging widowers
and taking their daughters captive?” I blithely asked to stop my
disturbing thoughts about how sexy this man was.
“Captive?” he repeated, turning the car effortlessly up the
winding curves that tucked in against the hill where the manor sat.
“You offered yourself, princess, even before I threatened your
father,” he said easily.
His words made me flush. I kind of did, didn’t I?
“We’re here,” he said before I could think of a comeback. He
pulled the car to a stop in a huge forecourt. A large fountain sat in
the middle before the impressive façade of Stone’s home.
“Welcome to Thorn Hill, Bella.”
CHAPTER 5
Stone
I fattempted
I’d known I would be bringing back Bella to the manor, I’d have
to light a fire or make it a fraction more welcoming. As
it was, it was cold and dark, its usual state, like me. After all, I was a
product of Thorn Hill, and whether it had made me this way, or vice
versa, who could say.
Bella shivered as she followed me, looking over her shoulder now
and again as if waiting for those ghosts that lived in the town’s
urban legends to pop out and eat her. There was only one man who
was going to eat Bella here, and that was me. I planned on eating
her alive every chance I got until she broke with pleasure.
We went up the stairs silently and reached the first floor.
“Here, you can stay in these rooms,” I told her, heading to the
north wing of the house.
Her rooms would be directly below mine. They were the nicest
that Thorn Hill had to offer. However, as soon as I opened the doors,
I realized that my lack of use had let the dust pile up in the last few
years. Bella coughed, covering her mouth as she looked around. The
furnishings were fine, if dusty, the ceilings high, and an immense
bay window sat before the fourposter bed, which, on a brighter day,
had views out across the rolling hills beyond. She touched the
curtains around the bed, a remnant of the past, and yet, the antique
style suited the house. She was a fine old madam, wearing her
Sunday best, and I didn’t dare change her.
“This place is like a museum,” she remarked, looking at the
candles lining the mantlepiece.
“Sometimes, we lose power up here. Not for long, though,” I told
her, switching on the low lamps that bracketed the bed.
She was standing in the middle of the space, holding a backpack
to her chest like it was a lifejacket. I put her small wheelie case on
the bed and reached for the backpack. She gave it up after a few
tugs.
“Relax, Miss Moore. I’m not going to hurt you. We have an
agreement, don’t we? As you can see, this place could use some
cleaning, so it’s a fair trade,” I told her.
She looked like an unbroken filly about to bolt, but I knew she
wouldn’t get far. She had no car, and getting out of the Thorn Hill
estate wasn’t simple.
She collected herself, taking a deep breath and setting her
shoulders. “You give me your word that you won’t hurt me when I’m
here, alone with you,” she whispered.
“If that worried you, it’s something you should have brought up
before you came here with me… alone,” I pointed out, making my
way toward her. As I got closer, she straightened more, trying to
match my height, though that was impossible for her.
She considered my words. “Does that mean you won’t give me
your word?”
“If I don’t, what will you do?” I wondered, genuinely curious. I
had no intention of hurting Bella. I’d put myself in harm’s way before
anything came close to harming her, but I was intrigued by her
pluck. Pluck was in short supply these days, and it was utterly
captivating.
“I’d hurt you first,” she warned me.
An involuntary laugh left my chest at her words. It wasn’t that I
didn’t think she could. Of course, she could. If she wanted, I’d let
her sink a knife into me, but it was her honesty. She was utterly
beguiling. “Is that a threat?”
“Yes.”
“Noted. I give you my word if you give me yours.” I stopped just
in front of her.
She stuck out her hand. “Fine. Let’s shake on it,” she said
smartly.
I wasted no time in taking her hand again. I wanted to feel her
skin against mine. “Very well, we have a deal.” The shake went on
forever. I was reluctant to let go of her hand. “I suppose I will leave
you to make yourself at home. I’ll see you in the morning, Isabella.”
“Bella is fine. Just call me Bella.”
“Very well. Sleep well, Bella.”
S leep was hard to come by at the best of times . B ut sleep when a

woman like Bella was downstairs, snug in bed, was impossible. I
started my morning like I always did. A three-mile run around the
estate grounds and then into the basement gym to pound my
frustrations out on my heavy bag.
Boxing had always been a passion, and fuck knows, I had the
physique for it. I could take a hit and had in the past. I missed
boxing with others since I’d moved back to Thorn Hill, but taking my
frustrations out on my heavy bag once a day, sometimes twice,
dulled the need. Slowly, bit by bit, I closed down any part of myself
that needed others. Like lights going off in a tall apartment block,
one by one, soon, they would be all extinguished.
I headed upstairs after my workout, sweat soaking through my
black t-shirt and shorts. I was ripping my gloves off, using my teeth
to pull the velcro wrist bands, when I heard it—the sound of music
and singing.
It was so jarring and out of place; I stopped in the hall and
wondered if there was a ghost here. Shaking off the fancy, I walked
down the hall, entered the kitchen, and saw her.
Bella in the morning was a sight to see, but then, I was learning
that she was constantly lovely, unendingly surprising, and precious. I
was struck by the sight of her in my kitchen, dancing and singing as
she cooked. The smell of eggs, only slightly burnt, and singed toast
filled the air.
“Oh! You’re up already,” she exclaimed. She stopped stirring the
mixture in the frying pan that looked somewhat like scrambled eggs
but also not.
“Yes, I usually get up around six,” I told her.
She was still wearing pajamas, and my eyes had glued
themselves to the sight of her delectable body clad only in shorts
and a t-shirt, with a thin robe over the top.
She noticed my stare and flushed. “Sorry, I didn’t get dressed
yet. It’s so warm here… I’m usually freezing in the morning, and put
as many layers on as possible,” she said, forcing a laugh.
I made a mental note to keep the thermostat at the higher end
of the spectrum. “It’s fine. I’m hardly dressed myself.” I gestured to
my shorts and t-shirt.
Her eyes ran over me, widening as they traced over my muscled
arms and hard torso. My workout t-shirt left little to the imagination,
given how it clung to me, and something that wasn’t revulsion
moved in Bella’s eyes. Her cheeks flushed harder, an innocent pink I
wanted to lick.
She blinked and looked away. “You have a gym here?” she asked,
changing the subject.
“In the basement. You’re welcome to use it,” I told her,
wandering into the kitchen and pulling up a chair at the breakfast
bar.
She plated up her odd-smelling cooking. “Maybe. I’m so sick of
cardio. I need a break. Before the pageant, I worked out like crazy
for a while and it became so tedious.”
“Have you tried martial arts or boxing? That’s not tedious at all,”
I told her, reaching for the glass of water she had set down in front
of me.
“Me? Fighting? I don’t have the build for it,” she said with a self-
conscious laugh.
“It’s not about build,” I told her, watching as she put a plate
before me. “Aren’t you eating?”
“I don’t eat breakfast,” she said airily. “You were saying?”
I picked up my fork and speared some eggs. “Boxing, or martial
arts, aren’t just about build. They’re about feeling strong. Powerful.
It’s about releasing your emotions… There’s something ancient and
primal about hitting something with all your strength and being hit
back that feels good. We’ve forgotten it as society has become more
civilized, but human beings… are animals at the end of the day. It
feels good to act like one, now and again.”
The eggs were–something. Something I’d never tasted before.
Bella narrowed her eyes at me as I took the first
mouthful. “Animals? Wow, your entire loan shark persona is making
more sense,” she said before nodding toward the plate. “Is it okay?”
she wondered.
I wasn’t sure if she was fucking with me. Deliberately making
something borderline inedible out of protest. “Is it supposed to be?”
Confusion tinted her dark eyes, and her brow scrunched up.
“It’s fine. Thanks for making it.”
I was rewarded with relief smoothing across her brow, and she
smiled. “I’m not the best cook, so I wasn’t sure if I could do it, but
maybe I’m better than I thought.”
I didn’t have the heart to ruin her satisfied grin, so I merely
nodded. “Maybe. And while we’re on the topic, I’m not a loan shark.
I lend money to people who I believe are worth the investment. I’m
a private investor with the capital to change people’s lives.”
“As long as they pay you back on time,” she pushed.
I couldn’t help but chuckle at her accusing tone. “Princess, do
you know how loans work? Would you accuse a bank of being an
evil loan shark for demanding repayment?”
“A bank wouldn’t physically hurt someone for not paying,” she
said.
I shoveled down more unpleasant eggs. “Okay, you have me
there. A bank wouldn’t hurt someone. They’d just take you to court,
take your house, bookstore, car… whatever they could to recover the
debt. They certainly wouldn’t let Alfie’s beautiful little daughter come
and work it off,” I told her.
Her mouth snapped shut and she looked conflicted. “Beautiful?”
“You are a crowned beauty queen, are you not?” I asked, feeling
exposed by her stare.
It wouldn’t do to show Bella how much I wanted her, not yet. It
was too soon. I was too unknown, too dangerous, too old and
jaded. She was like a ray of sunshine, pure and unspoiled. If she
knew what I wanted from her, how I wanted to own her, keep her,
and make sure she was mine forever, she’d never stay, and I’d have
no recourse. I could hardly beat up her father when I was obsessed
with his daughter. I wanted her to be happy. I wouldn’t hurt her, not
in any way.
“I guess. It doesn’t feel like I thought it would,” she said, turning
to stare out the window at the garden. The early morning sun
filtered through the trees, casting light on her face.
“How did you think it would feel?”
“I thought it would feel good. I thought I’d feel more beautiful…
like my mom,” she confessed quietly.
I gripped my fork and let the silence play out for a moment. I
had a feeling that Bella was sharing a quiet, seldom seen part of
herself, and I treasured it. “How do you know she felt beautiful?
Maybe she felt just like you.”
“I don’t know. Maybe she did… I can’t know for sure,” Bella said.
“Ask Alfie,” I suggested.
She shook her head. “No, I could never. The question would
upset him.”
Ah, I got it. Her widower father had spent his only daughter’s life
telling her all the wonderful things about her mother and set an
impossible ideal to live up to. “Upset isn’t so bad. Sometimes people
upset each other. No big deal,” I told her as I ate my last bite of
eggs, thankful the meal was over.
She laughed and turned around, folding her arms across her
chest. “Why am I not surprised you don’t mind upsetting people?
That’s alright for you, but I don’t upset my father. Ever.” Her words
were delivered with such finality I knew that she truly believed them
and tried to live to that standard.
“That sounds utterly exhausting… and lonely,” I told her, getting
up and going to the sink to refill my glass of water.
She watched me, her eyes on my left hand, free of a glove since
I couldn’t wear one while boxing. In all honesty, I rarely wore one at
home, alone, or with Samuel. Only when I went out. I didn’t like the
stares and whispers when I went bare-handed in public.
Bella’s eyes lingered on the ruined skin of my left hand like
melted wax. It was ugly, I knew it, but I was surprised not to see a
flare of horror in her eyes.
She frowned slightly, but then her eyes went back to
mine. “What would you know about it?” There was wonder and a
hint of challenge in her tone.
I shrugged. “More than you, princess. I have to get to work. I
have a zoom call at nine.”
I pulled myself away with an effort. I wanted to stay and tangle
with Bella all day. I wanted her eyes on me, her attention. I wanted
to hear her voice. But there was work to be done, and truthfully, too
long in her beguiling presence threatened to unravel me. I was a
man obsessed, and I could only take so much before losing my
head.
CHAPTER 6
Bella
A zoom meeting? The scary, demon-like specter who had taken me

back to his castle on the hill had a zoom meeting to get to?
I cleaned the kitchen as I pondered the enigma that was Stone
Preston. I had taken a leave of absence from the diner and the bar,
where I worked a few shifts a week. I wouldn’t be missed, as they
had enough people needing hours on the rota, though I had no idea
if I’d get any hours back when I returned. That stung a little, but
who was I kidding? Anyone could waitress and pull pints. I was
utterly replaceable. Not like I hadn’t already known that. I couldn’t
afford to worry about it. Repaying my dad’s debt had to come first.
After I cleaned the kitchen, I explored the rest of the house. In
the light of day, Thorn Hill was beautiful. Stained glass windows
were dotted here and there, and period features that would make a
Good Living home goddess weep were in every corner. The whole
place had the wealthy feel of what I imagined an English manor
from a Jane Austen movie would look like. The one thing about it
was the gloom, but that was easily fixed. I went around the house,
opening windows and pushing open the heavy curtains. The dust
was on another level. How could Stone live in it? Most of the rooms
seemed untouched as if he lived between his office, kitchen, and
bedroom.
How was a man who looked like Stone Preston alone in this big,
old house? He couldn’t be hurting for female attention. I mean, he
was a little eccentric, with one glove and a gruff exterior that some
might find off-putting. Not to mention he was comfortable carrying
weapons around with him to threaten people. Who was I kidding,
though? That probably wouldn’t put anyone off. It was a tale as old
as time. Women were drawn to those wicked bad boys—the fixer-
uppers they could never quite mend. My mother had been one of
them.
I headed upstairs to my room. The dust in there was itching my
nose, and if I was going to be sleeping in there for a while, I had to
fix it. I decided that every room in the rambling old estate should be
cleaned, one by one. That, plus seeing to Stone’s meals three times
a day for a few months, and maybe the debt would be cleared. It
was wishful thinking. I’d never earned $10,000 in two months, yet I
had to do something. I’d agreed to this, and besides, there was
something peaceful about Thorn Hill. It was quiet, and the
surrounding gardens were beautiful. The house was stunning but
needed a little TLC, and its owner… was intriguing, if not a little
intimidating. My life, which was usually muted, or paused at a boring
section, was suddenly moving again. I didn’t know how to label
everything I was feeling, but I certainly wasn’t bored.
I ended up unpinning the dusty drapes from my room and dragging

them outside. I was surprised to find a swimming pool at the back of
the house and a nice clean area to hang the heavy material.
“Does the master know you’re poking about upstairs?”
A voice from behind me made me jump and screech. I whirled
around to see an elderly man, white tufts of hair sticking out from
under his hat, watching me with narrowed eyes. He was wearing
overalls and had green rain boots.
“Jesus Christ! You scared me,” I muttered, clutching my chest.
My heart felt overly excitable here at Thorn Hill.
The older man smiled. “Thought I was the ghost, did you?”
“Maybe so. I’m Isabella Moore, but you can call me Bella. I’m
working here for a while,” I said, starting across the patio and
holding out my hand.
He looked at it like I was playing a joke on him. He wiped his
soil-stained palm on his overalls and quickly shook my hand. “I’m
Samuel, the gardener.”
“The gardener, eh? I didn’t know there was other staff here. I
guess you know where the bodies are buried, right?” I teased.
His face remained blank but curious. He tipped his head to the
side. “Moore. Any relation to Alfie Moore?”
“His daughter.” I laughed. “How do you know my dad?”
“He worked here a good long spell. Didn’t he tell you?” Samuel
asked.
I blinked at him. “No, he didn’t.” That was odd, wasn’t it? Why
wouldn’t my father have told me he used to work for Stone?
“Well, the master let him go after Preston Snr passed. What does
he do now? Still getting into trouble?”
I grinned again, but my heart wasn’t in it. “Yeah, he has a talent
for it.”
Samuel nodded. “Some people never change,” he said quietly, his
tone somber.
I shivered, suddenly feeling cold. “Well, I confess, I’m relieved
you’re here. It was a little intimidating coming here to this enormous
place with Stone.”
Samuel took me in, his eyes running over me. It wasn’t
lascivious. He looked sad more than anything. “Don’t worry about
the master. He won’t hurt you.” Samuel’s voice dropped to a murmur
as he turned away. “He’s not his father.”
He said the last part so quietly, I couldn’t be sure I’d heard him
right.
“It was nice meeting you!” I called to him. Apparently, our
conversation was over.
He nodded, waving a hand behind him in farewell. Okay, well,
now I saw why Stone felt lonely up here, even with a staff member
around. Samuel didn’t seem like the chatty type.
CHAPTER 7
Bella
S tone hadn’t been lying or exaggerating about there being a library

in Thorn Hill. I’d half expected a couple of Ikea bookcases in a
dusty room, but that was not what I found. A huge room, two levels
and open in the middle, housed thousands of books. Long windows
overlooked the swimming pool on one wall, and there was a large,
ornate stone fireplace on the other. The rest were just books, pages
and pages of escapism.
I wandered the rows, looking at the spines. Most were older,
leather-bound and somber, but I could see where Stone had added
more modern classics. Sure, there weren’t any rom-coms in here,
but there was a wealth of literary greats. Staying at Thorn Hill
suddenly didn’t seem so terrible.
I selected a slim volume of poetry and went to the fireplace.
There was a fire burning in the hearth, and I realized that this room,
more than any other, was free of dust. Here was a room that the
master of the house used. I wasn’t surprised. There was a cozy
otherworldliness contained in the library that was transportive. I
loved it.
I curled up in a green velvet armchair by the fire and was just
opening the book when Stone appeared beside me, making me
jump.
“Geez! What is it with the men in this place? I’m not usually so
jumpy,” I muttered, smoothing my hair back.
He was wearing black slacks and a black button-down shirt. His
deeply tanned skin glowed gold in the firelight, and his dark hair
gleamed. Christ, the man was attractive. The only odd thing about
him was the glove. Who wore one glove at home, anyway? It had to
be covering the scars on his hand. I hadn’t gotten a good look, but
I’d seen enough to know he had some significant scarring on his left
hand.
He noticed the direction of my eyes and lifted his hand, studying
it as if surprised to see he had the glove on.
“Do you usually wear that at home?” I wondered.
“No. Samuel is well used to the more monstrous parts of Thorn
Hill, me included.” He sauntered toward me. Despite hiding his hand,
he didn’t seem in the least self-conscious about it.
“So, it’s for my benefit?”
He nodded, sinking into the tall leather armchair opposite mine.
The firelight hit him, painting all the hollows of his face in shadow
and making him look almost devilish. “It’s the least I can do.”
I thought about that and then shrugged. “You don’t need to
bother. I’m not squeamish. I already saw it, remember?”
He nodded slowly, tilting his head to the side and studying me in
a way that made me conscious of every feature. It was like he was
cataloging me, memorizing me. I remembered when he’d called me
beautiful earlier and flushed.
His lip tilted into a smirk. “True. I suppose it’s not surprising that
the daughter of Alfie Moore would be made of tougher stuff. I don’t
see him winning any father of the year awards anytime soon.”
That rankled, and yet, it was true. I shrugged.
“You can’t choose your family,” I muttered.
“When you’re a child, you can’t. As an adult, you absolutely can,”
Stone disagreed.
“Is that why you’re here, all alone?” The cutting question came
out before I could help it. I felt vulnerable in front of this man. He
knew my father’s shame and, by proxy, my biggest embarrassment.
My father was a drunk and a gambling addict, and Stone was well
aware.
He shrugged off my implied criticism and offered me another
smirk. “I don’t play well with others.”
“You’ve talked about your father, but what about your mother?” I
asked.
“She died when I was young. A terrible accident,” he said,
turning to look at the fire. The flames danced in his eyes as he
flexed his gloved hand.
“An accident?” I thought about Samuel’s words in the garden and
the mysterious air of Thorn Hill. What had happened here? What
had turned Stone Preston, a rich, handsome, and charismatic man,
into a recluse?
“A fire. She died in a fire,” he said at last.
My throat went dry at the look in his eyes. He was staring at the
fire, lost in recollection. His left hand, shiny in its fine black leather,
was clenched tightly into a fist. My heart beat loudly in my head, and
my skin was oddly tight. I wanted to know more about this man. I
wanted to know everything. I wanted to know what made him tick,
what had shaped him… all the dark and secret things. He intrigued
me. He saw me. The first person who understood what I endured at
home with my father. The first person to notice me, not just as a
pretty pageant girl, but as me, guilty, lonely, damaged. Real.
I swallowed my questions. Now wasn’t the time. He wasn’t ready
to share it, and maybe I wasn’t ready to hear it. Perhaps the secrets
of Thorn Hill were scarier than any ghost could be. But scary or not,
Stone Preston was working his way under my skin like a splinter, and
I could barely tear my eyes off him. He was beginning to take up all
the space in my head, the air in my lungs, and I should be more
worried about that than I was. He was older than me, wiser, more
experienced, and a fuck ton richer, yet… his appreciative stare
revealed that he wanted me. To be wanted by a man like Stone gave
me a sense of power I’d never experienced before. It was addictive.
I wanted more.
CHAPTER 8
Stone
B ella fell asleep soon after we’d finished talking. Well, soon after
she’d finished trying to pry open the lockbox of the past. My
darling girl had no idea how firmly shut that was. Years of silence
and misery, of guilt and darkness, had glued the lock shut so firmly,
I feared it would never open. It would only continue to get heavier
to carry with every passing year.
I pretended to read for a while before setting my book aside.
How could I read when Bella was sleeping so sweetly beside me?
Her full lips had slightly parted, and her face was flushed rose from
the warmth of the fire. Her hair was spread around her shoulders
like a silk fan, and her eyelashes rested on her cheeks. She was
perfect like this, innocent and sweet and relaxed. I wanted her to
feel peaceful here. I wanted Thorn Hill to feel like home to her. I
never wanted her to leave.
As the grandfather clock in the corner chimed eleven, I knew I
should move her. Her neck would get sore, and besides, if I stood
any chance of sleeping, I had to closet myself in my room, away
from temptation.
I stopped beside her chair and crouched down, breathing in the
scent of her light perfume and that intangible something that was
just her. I wanted to drown in it.
“Bella, darling, time to go upstairs,” I murmured.
She shifted but didn’t wake. I let myself touch her, lowering my
hand to her cheek and then up, brushing a thick dark wave of hair
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Zohra, Beni, 289
Zomeil, 90
Zoroastrians, 72, 259, 260
FOOTNOTES:
[1] Manuscripts of the whole work have, however, been
procured, and are now being published on the Continent, but not
in time to be available for this work. They will serve hereafter to
correct, perhaps, some of the doubtful points of the history on
which, from the scantiness of the material, I may have gone
astray.
[2] Geschichte der Chalifen, 3 vols., Mannheim, 1846–1851.
[3] Culturgeschichte des Orients unter den Chalifen, Wien,
1875.
[4] The date ordinarily given as that of the Prophet’s death is
the 12th Rabi I. See note p. 280, Life of Mahomet, vol. iv.
For the term ‘Companion,’ technically used to signify all who
had a personal acquaintance with the Prophet, see ibid. p. 564.
The era of the Hegira was established by Omar, five or six
years after the Prophet’s death. The first Moharram of the first
year of the Hegira corresponds with 19th April, a.d. 622. The real
hegira, or flight of Mahomet from Mecca, took place two months
later (June 20). See ibid. p. 145, and C. de Perceval, vol. iii. p. 17.
[5] Al Siddîck; ibid. vol. ii. 102, 220. He was also called ‘the
Sighing one,’ from his compassionate nature.
[6] Meaning a palm-trunk left for the beasts to come and rub
themselves upon; a metaphor for a person much resorted to for
counsel. Hobâb was the chief whom Mahomet employed to
reconnoitre the enemy at Bedr.
[7] The Arabian mode of swearing fealty. The chief held out his
hand, and the people one by one struck their hand flat upon it as
they passed.
[8] It will be remembered that the native population of Medîna
was divided into the Aus and Khazraj, and Sád belonged to the
latter. Enmity and fighting had long prevailed between them
before Mahomet’s arrival (Life of Mahomet, p. 119).
[9] The followers of Mahomet were divided into the Muhâjerîn,
or Refugees from Mecca and elsewhere; and the Ansâr or
Helpers, the citizens of Medîna (Ibid. p. 189).
[10] The tradition regarding Zobeir and Talha, perhaps arose
from their attempt at the Caliphate, and refusal to acknowledge
Aly, five and twenty years afterwards. As to Aly himself, the
traditions vary. By some he is said to have been among the first to
swear fealty to Abu Bekr. But the more general tradition is that he
did not do so till Fâtima, who had a grudge against Abu Bekr for
her father’s patrimony, died (Life of Mahomet, p. 516). There are
other tales, but they all bear the stamp of Abbasside fabrication;
such as of Omar threatening to burn Aly’s house over his head;
Zobeir rushing out with a sword, &c. We are even told that Abu
Sofiân taunted Aly and Abbâs with allowing an insignificant
branch of the Coreish to seize the Caliphate from them; likened
them to a hungry donkey tethered up, or to a tent-peg made only
to be beaten; and offered to help them with horse and foot, but
that Aly declined his offer. These stories are childish and
apocryphal. There is absolutely nothing in the antecedents of Aly,
or his subsequent history, to render it in the least probable that
during the first two Caliphates, he advanced any claim whatever,
or indeed was in a position to do so. It was not till the reign of
Othmân that any idea arose of a superior right in virtue of his
having been the cousin of Mahomet and husband of Fâtima.
It is said that as the people crowded to the hall, where Sád lay
sick, to salute Abu Bekr, one cried out: ‘Have a care lest ye
trample upon Sád, and kill him under foot.’ ‘The Lord kill him, as
he deserveth!’ was the response of the heated Omar. ‘Softly,
Omar!’ interposed Abu Bekr, ‘blandness and courtesy are better
than curses and sharp words.’ Indeed, throughout this chapter
Abu Bekr appears to great advantage.
[11] See Life of Mahomet, p. 500.
[12] Life of Mahomet, p. 498.
[13] Some others of the chief Companions, Aly, Zobeir, &c.,
appear also to have remained behind; but they may possibly not
have originally formed a part of Osâma’s army ordered to
reassemble.
[14] The chronology at this period is uncertain, and the dates
only approximate. On the Prophet’s death we plunge at once from
light into obscurity. For the next two or three years we are left in
doubt, not only as to the period, but even as to the sequence of
important events and great battles. In the narrative of this
expedition, we only know that the army started soon after Abu
Bekr’s accession, but not before the spirit of rebellion had begun
to declare itself, which last, according to one tradition, was within
ten days of the Prophet’s death.
The length of the expedition varies, according to different
traditions, from 40 days to 70.
[15] See Life of Mahomet, chapter 32.
[16] Ibid. chapter xxx. Amru hastened home through Bahrein
immediately on hearing of Mahomet’s death. Corra ibn Hobeira,
Chief of the Beni Amir, took him aside, after a hospitable
entertainment, and advised, as the only way to avoid revolt, that
the tithe upon the Bedouins should be foregone. Amru stormed at
him for this; and subsequently, on Corra being brought in a
prisoner, advised his execution as an apostate.
On reaching Medîna, Amru made known the disheartening
news to his friends, who crowded round him. Omar coming up, all
were silent, but he divined what the subject of their converse was:
‘I think,’ he said, ‘that ye were speaking of what we have to fear
from the Arab tribes?’ On their confessing, he made them swear
that they would not discourage the people by letting the matter
spread, and added: ‘Fear ye not this thing; verily I fear far more
what the Arabs will suffer from you, than what ye will suffer from
them. Verily if a company of the Coreish were to enter into a cave
alone, the Bedouins would follow you into the same. They are a
servile crew: wherefore, fear the Lord, and fear not them.’
[17] Or Abrac. For the Beni Abs and Dzobiân, see Life of
Mahomet, vol. i. pp. ccxxiv. et seq.
[18] The riding camels had all been sent away with Osâma’s
army, and the only ones now available were those used to irrigate
the fields and palmgroves. The stratagem, was curious. The
Bedouins blew out their empty water-skins (mussucks), and when
thus buoyant and full of air, they kicked them (as you would a
foot-ball) in front of the Moslem camels, which, affrighted at the
strange sight, took to flight.
[19] The centre and wings were commanded by three sons of
Mocarran, a citizen of Medîna. These distinguished themselves
on many occasions in the Persian campaign. One of them,
Nomân, was killed ten years after in the decisive action of
Nehâwend.
[20] For the royal Fifth, see Sura, viii. 41.
[21] There is a tradition that when Abu Bekr issued, sword in
hand, to go to Dzul Cassa, Aly caught hold of his bridle,
exclaiming: ‘O Caliph, I say to thee what the Prophet said to thee
on the day of Ohod: Put up thy sword again and expose us not to
lose thee, for, by the Lord! if we were to lose thee, the prop of
Islam were gone.’ Whereupon Abu Bekr returned and went not
forth.
But this probably refers to the expeditions shortly after sent
out in all directions from Dzul Cassa, as narrated below, and to
Abu Bekr’s return to Medîna at that time.
[22] The notion given by tradition is that these eleven columns
were despatched on their several expeditions all at once from
Dzul Cassa, in presence of Abu Bekr. This of course is possible,
but it is very improbable. The arrangements could hardly have
been so speedily cut and dry as that supposes. It is enough to
know that, sooner or later, about this time, or shortly after, these
eleven expeditions started. Some of the eleven, as given by
tradition, seem hardly to have been separate commands.
[23] Meaning, no doubt, that as governors they would have
been immediately subordinate to himself, exposed to much
drudgery, and liable to be called to account for their stewardship.
[24] For an account of this marvellous system of oral tradition,
see the Essay in the Life of Mahomet on the Sources for the
Biography. The halo surrounding the Prophet casts something of
its brightness on the lives also of his chief Companions, whose
biographies are given by tradition in considerable detail; and from
them we can gather something of the early history incidentally.
[25] So uncertain is the chronology of this period, that Ibn
Ishâc makes the campaigns in Yemâma, Bahrein, and Yemen to
be in the twelfth year of the Hegira; whereas the received, and
manifestly correct, account, as ‘gathered from the learned of
Syria,’ is that the operations against the apostate tribes
throughout Arabia were brought practically to an end in the 11th
year of the Hegira. Only one exception is mentioned (and that
somewhat obscurely) of a campaign against Rabia, who was
beaten by Khâlid. Amongst the spoils of the expedition is
mentioned the daughter of Rabia, who, as a slave-girl, fell to the
lot of Aly.
[26] Life of Mahomet, p. 427.
[27] Ibid. p. 409.
[28] We have met Thâbit before as a poet of renown and a
chief of influence, especially among the Beni Khazraj (Ibid. p.
449).
The strength of Khâlid’s column is nowhere mentioned, but,
adverting to the great number slain at Yemâma (although he was
reinforced meanwhile from Medîna), it could hardly have been
less than twelve or fifteen hundred, besides the 1,000 men
contributed, as we shall see immediately, by the Beni Tay.
[29] Had there been anything else in Toleiha’s teaching, there
is no reason why we should not have heard of it, as Toleiha, when
he returned to the faith, became a distinguished champion of
Islam. There may, however, have been a disinclination on his part
to dwell on this chapter of his life. Al Kindy, the Christian, speaks
in his Apology with greater respect of Moseilama’s sayings as
calculated to draw off the followers of Mahomet. But I see no
evidence of this. See the Apology of Al Kindy, p. 31 (Smith &
Elder, 1881).
[30] A name familiar to us in the Life of Mahomet, see p. 323,
&c.
[31] The Beni Jadîla and Beni Ghauth.
[32] Abu Bekr means ‘Father of the young camel,’ and they
called him by the nickname Ab ul Fasîl, ‘Father of the foal.’ Adî
answered, ‘He is not Ab ul Fasîl, but, if you like it, Ab ul Fahl,’
‘Father of the stallion,’ i.e. endowed with power and vigour.
In the Persian version of Tabari, the surname is by a mistake
given as Ab ul Fadhl, ‘the Father of Excellence,’ and is applied to
Khâlid.
[33] Okkâsha was a warrior of renown and leader of some
expeditions in the time of Mahomet.
[34] The sub-tribe of the Beni Ghatafân to which Oyeina
belonged.
[35] Kahânat, the term used for the gift possessed by the
heathen soothsayers. The sayings ascribed to Toleiha are childish
in the extreme. For example: ‘I command that ye make a
millstone with a handle, and the Lord shall cast it on whom he
pleaseth;’ and again, ‘By the pigeons and the doves, and the
hungry falcons, I swear that our kingdom shall in a few years
reach to Irâc and Syria.’
[36] For the barbarous execution of Omm Kirfa, see Life of
Mahomet, chapter xviii. The malcontents here gathered together
were from all the tribes against which Khâlid had now been
engaged in warlike operations—the Ghatafân, Suleim, Hawâzin,
Tay, and Asad.
[37] It was a vain excuse, but was founded on the principle
that no bloodshed, treachery, sin, or excess of any sort, before
conversion, cast any blot on the believer; but that apostasy,
however, repented of, left a stigma which could never wholly be
effaced. At first the Caliph would receive no aid whatever from
any tribe or individual who had apostatised; and, though when
levies came to be needed urgently, the ban was taken off, still to
the end no apostate chief was allowed a large command, or put
over more than a hundred men.
Among the Beni Suleim was Abu Shajra, son of the famous
elegiac poetess, Al Khansa. A martial piece which he composed
in reference to an engagement at this time contains the verse:—
‘And I slaked my thirsty spear in the blood of Khâlid’s

troop.’
Some years after, he visited Medîna, while Omar was

distributing the tithe among the poor Arabs around the city: ‘Give
to me,’ said the stranger, ‘for I, too, am poor and needy.’ ‘And who
art thou?’ asked Omar. Being told his name, he cried out in anger:
‘Art not thou the same that said, I slaked my thirsty spear, &c.?’
and he beat him about the head with his whip till the poet was fain
to run off to his camel. A poem complaining of this treatment has
been preserved, in which he says:—
‘Abu Hafs (Omar) grudged me of his gifts,

Although every one that shaketh even a tree getteth at
least the leaves it sheddeth.’
Such poetical fragments, in the scantiness of the materials for

this early period, give at many points reality and fulness to the
story.
[38] The account as here given is from Abu Bekr’s own son.
According to other traditions, Fujâa employed the arms, &., which
he got from the Caliph, in attacking the loyal sections of his own
and neighbouring tribes, and was therefore a pure rebel. It is
more probable that he carried his marauding expeditions
indiscriminately against loyal and disloyal, wherever there was the
chance of plunder. Even in this view Fujâa deserved exemplary
punishment, had it been of a less barbarous kind.
[39] See Life of Mahomet, vol. i. chap. iii. Some of the sub-
tribes were great and powerful, as the Beni Hantzala, Mâlik,
Imrulcays, Dârim; and here the Beni Yerbóa.
[40] Ibid. ch. xxvii.
[41] The Beni Iyâdh, Namir, and Sheibân. We shall meet them
again in the Irâc campaign.
[42] Sajâh, it is said, lived quietly with her tribe after this in the
profession of Christianity, until with them she was converted to
Islam. There is a childish tale that on returning from the hasty
marriage, her army, scandalised that she had received no dower,
made her go back and ask Moseilama, who received her roughly,
refusing her admittance; but, in lieu of dower, agreed to remit two
of the daily prayers imposed by Mahomet.
By some of the historians the interview between Moseilama
and Sajâh is drawn (happily a rare case in these annals) in
language of gross indelicacy. The pruriency suggesting this, is the
more gratuitous, as we are told, almost in the same breath, that
Moseilama’s tenets were rather of an ascetic turn. His system
enjoined prayer and fasting, and prohibited (so the tradition runs)
cohabitation after the birth of a son, to be resumed only, if the
child died, till the birth of another. But our knowledge of the life
and doctrines of these pretenders to prophecy is really too scanty
to warrant us in pronouncing judgment upon them.
Belâdzori and Ibn Khaldûn are among the few who have here
kept their pages clean. Gibbon characteristically seizes on the
passage.
[43] In a passage of Tabari (vol. i. p. 188) it is stated that when
Amru passed through these regions with a column to clear the
roads, he and Mâlik had words with each other. It is possible,
therefore, that Khâlid may have had a stronger case against Mâlik
than appears.
[44] That is, the Ansârs, as opposed to the Refugees, i.e. the
men of Medîna, as opposed to the Coreish and men of Mecca.
[45] In the Kinânite.
[46] A full account of Mâlik and Motammim, with copious
extracts from their poetry, will be found in Nöldeke’s Poesie der
alten Araber, Hanover, 1864. Arab critics take Motammim as the
model of elegiac poets, both for beauty of expression and
intensity of feeling. For twenty years he had been blind of an eye,
and now he told Omar that grief for his brother’s cruel fate had
brought floods of tears from that eye, which all these years had
been bereft of moisture. ‘Verily this surpasseth all other grief!’ said
Omar. ‘Yes,’ replied Motammim, ‘it would have been a different
thing if my brother had died the death of thy brother Zeid upon the
field of battle.’ The noble mien and generosity of Mâlik are painted
in glowing colours. He used to kindle a great fire by his tent all
night until the day broke, in the hope of attracting travellers to his
hospitable home.
[47] The darker suspicion has been preserved by tradition,
both in prose and verse. See C. de Perceval, vol. iii. p. 368; and
Kitâb al Aghâny, vol. iii. p. 355. Leila, we are told, cast herself at
Khâlid’s feet, with hair dishevelled and unveiled face, imploring
mercy for her husband. The wretched man, noticing the admiring
look which the conqueror bestowed upon his wife, cried out, ‘Alas,
alas! here is the secret of my fate!’ ‘Not so,’ said Khâlid, as he
gave the sign for beheading him; ‘but it is thine own apostasy.’ All
the same, he took the wife straightway for his own. We may
dismiss the scene as unsupported by evidence. It is also
inconsistent with Abu Bekr’s treatment. His reproach of Khâlid
was based not on the impropriety of the act itself (which he could
hardly have avoided had the story been founded on fact), but on
its being at variance with the ideas of the Arabs to wed on the
field of battle. The example, however, was set by the Prophet
himself, who married Safia the night after the battle of Kheibar,
and at any rate it was not long in becoming a common practice.
Following the example of Khâlid (repeated by him again shortly
after), the Moslem warriors made no delay in the field to wed—or
rather, without wedding, to treat upon the spot as servile
concubines—the wives and daughters of their fallen foes. The
practice also now arose of taking their own families with them in
the field, and marriages were celebrated there among themselves
—on one occasion, we read, on the eve of an impending battle.
As to the tenor of tradition, there are two distinct versions of
the tragedy, one giving as its cause the misconception of Khâlid’s
order, the other Mâlik’s own disloyal speech. This last, taken
separately, is inconsistent with the admitted fact that Khâlid
justified himself before Abu Bekr by the former. In the text I have
endeavoured to combine the two narratives.
Mâlik had flowing locks, and (so runs the tradition) when the
skulls of the prisoners were cast into the fire under the cooking-
pots, his alone would not burn because of the mass of hair. The
story (true or false) shows the spirit of savagery rapidly fanned by
religious war.
I should perhaps mention that, though tradition is proud of
Khâlid’s heroism, he is not a special favourite with Abbasside
historians, as his son was afterwards a staunch supporter of the
Omeyyads.
[48] I.e. Shawwâl, or two months before the close of a.h. XI.
As already explained, the dates are arbitrarily assumed. The
Kâtib Wâckidi places the battle of Yemâma in a.h. XII. (which
begins March 18, a.d. 633), and even the engagement of
Bozâkha in the same year; but this would throw the campaign in
Irâc altogether too late. The cold which led Khâlid to order his
prisoners to be ‘wrapped,’ must have been on the approach of
winter, and corresponds with the chronology which I have been
obliged to assume on grounds admittedly vague.
[49] See Life of Mahomet, ch. xxxii. Moseilama is a diminutive
form of the adjective Moslem, and is supposed by some to be in
that sense a derisive epithet. He is described as of a contemptible
presence, a dark yellow complexion and a pug nose.
[50] Some say that he was deputed by Abu Bekr. He could
recite the whole of Sura Becr (s. ii.). Khâlid had not heard of his
defection, and looked for him to come out and join his army.
[51] The tales told of him are silly. He was desired to pray, as
Mahomet had done, for rain, but it only intensified the drought;
when he prayed for a blessing on young children, it made them
stammer, become bald, &c. He established a sanctuary, perhaps
in imitation of the Kâaba, but it became a mere rendezvous for
bandits. See also the ascetic doctrines ascribed to him, and the
opinion of Al Kindy, the Apologist, supra, pp. 23 & 32.
[52] Above, p. 18. Ikrima was the son of Abu Jahl, the arch-
enemy, cursed in the Corân by Mahomet, and himself an
inveterate opponent, until the taking of Mecca (Life of Mahomet,
ch. xxiv.). So completely was it all forgotten now under the new
dispensation of equality and brotherhood, that he had one of the
chief commands given him.
[53] If Ikrima and Shorahbîl were despatched from Dzul Cassa
at the general marshalling when Khâlid marched against Toleiha,
then Shorahbîl must have had long to wait. But it is probable (as
we have seen) that the popular tradition of the simultaneous
despatch of all the columns is a fiction, and that Khâlid’s
expedition preceded some of the others by a considerable
interval.
After finishing the Yemâma campaign, Shorahbîl’s original
orders were to join Amru in his proceedings against the Beni
Codhâa in the north.
[54] From the expression used, it would almost seem as if
Sâlim carried the Corân on the point of his flag-staff. This was a
common practice in after times, but the Corân was not yet
collected. Possibly some portion may have been thus borne aloft
by the leader, or the words may be metaphorical or anticipative.
[55] In some accounts of the battle, Khâlid is spoken of as
challenging his enemy to single combat, and slaying, one after
another, all who came out against him. But the circumstances
would hardly have admitted of this. These single combats are the
conventional drapery of all the early battles, and need not always
be taken as facts. Here they are specially introduced to give place
to an apocryphal story about Moseilama. He came forth to answer
the challenge of Khâlid, who, in reference to the offer made by
him to Mahomet, ironically asked whether he was now prepared
‘to share the Kingdom’; whereupon Moseilama turned aside ‘to
consult his dæmon.’ Khâlid then rushed at him, and he fled.
‘Where is that now which thou didst promise us?’ cried his
followers to the prophet, but all that he could reply was to bid
them fight for their honour and their families.
[56] The twelve Leaders at the Pledge of Acaba. Life of
Mahomet, ch. vi.
[57] It is said that 7,000 of the enemy were slain on each of
these occasions, but the statement is loose and, no doubt, vastly
exaggerated. One tradition gives the slain in the garden alone at
10,000.
[58] The greater loss among the men of Mecca and Medîna
was ascribed by themselves to their superior gallantry, but by the
Bedouins to their being raw and unused to fighting. We see
already the seed of the rivalry which afterwards broke out so
fatally between the Bedouins and the Coreish.
[59] The terms of the treaty, notwithstanding the alleged
artifice (which reads somewhat strangely) were sufficiently
severe. The Beni Hanîfa agreed to give up all their armour, their
silver and their gold; but they were allowed to retain half of their
slaves, and get back half of their own people taken prisoner.
Khâlid had already captured in the valleys and open villages so
many prisoners, that he had sent 500 to Abu Bekr as the royal
Fifth, implying a total number of 2,500. But Omar subsequently
freed all slaves of Arab blood.
Selma, one of the Hanîfa chiefs, sought to dissuade his
people from surrender, saying that the winter was not overpast,
and that the enemy must retire. Being overruled, he fled and
committed suicide.
[60] The sayings reported were such as these: ‘O croaking
frog, thou neither preventest the drinker, nor yet defilest the
water.’ ‘We shall have half the land and ye the other half; the
Coreish are an overbearing folk.’ But as I have said before, we
have not the materials for knowing what the real teaching of
Moseilama was, nor the secret of his influence.
[61] The Persian paraphrase of Tabari gives a highly coloured
version. Khâlid, it tells us, gave his bride the dower of a million
pieces out of the spoil, while on the marriage night the Moslem
warriors lay about hungry and in want. Verses banded about the
camp to this effect reached Omar, and put him in a towering
passion. He nearly persuaded Abu Bekr to recall Khâlid, but the
Caliph, reflecting that, after so great a victory, it would discourage
the army, contented himself with a reproachful letter. All this is
evidently gross exaggeration, founded probably on the dislike of
the Abbasside historians.
[62] See the previous history of the province, Life of Mahomet,
ch. xxx.
[63] The mission of Alâ must have been considerably later
than that of Khâlid. We have before seen reason to believe that
the various expeditions were not, as tradition represents,
despatched all at once from Dzul Cassa.
[64] The Beni Hanîfa, Moseilama’s tribe, was a branch of the
same Beni Bekr ibn Wail, mentioned in the text, as also the Beni
Temîm, who to this day (such is the tenacity with which the
Bedouins hold to their native soil) occupy the same pasture-lands.
Some details are given regarding the chiefs who had remained
tolerably loyal throughout. Thus Cays ibn Asim, Zibricân, &c., who
at first vacillated, though they kept aloof from Sajâh, now, as Alâ
drew near, came forth with the tithes which during the anarchy
had been kept in deposit, and fought upon his side.
We are also told of a staunch believer, Thomâma, who was
able to maintain his loyalty with a party of his tribe, until Alâ
appeared. He joined the force, but came to an untimely and
ignominious end. He was presented for his bravery with the spoils
taken from the person of Hotem (to be noticed below), and,
wearing them on a journey, was set upon by the people as
Hotem’s murderer and as such put to death.
[65] This is the solitary expedition since the death of Mahomet
around which tradition has gathered a halo of marvellous tales.
When they halted on that miserable night, the beasts of burden all
ran off wildly with their loads. Not one was left, and the army was
near perishing of hunger as well as thirst. In the morning, they
returned from all directions with their burdens, of their own
accord. The lake is likened to the water that flowed from the rock
in the wilderness when struck by Moses.
[66] Called Ebnâa. The traders from India settled (as they do
now) along the coast from the Euphrates to Aden, and so a
mongrel race sprang up.
[67] He bore the dynastic name of Mundzir, and, having been
freed at the instance of an Arab relative, embraced Islam. He had
the surname of Gharur (deceiver), but said that he ought rather to
have been called Maghrûr (deceived). The relations of these
tribes on the N.E. of Arabia, with Hîra and also with Persia, were
close and constant. Little more than twenty years before, the Beni
Bekr had beaten back the combined forces of Persia and Hîra.
The connection of the Arab tribes in this quarter with Persia
corresponded with that between the Syrian tribes and the Roman
empire. (Life of Mahomet, vol. i. p. clxxxii.)
[68] For the island Dârîn (or Dirîn) see an interesting article by
Sir H. Rawlinson, on the islands of Bahrein, Royal As. Society’s
Journal, vol. xii. p. 222, et seq. There were five bishops in this
province, and ‘the insular see is always named Dirîn.’ We have
here indirect evidence of the prevalence of the Christian faith in
northern Arabia, far down the shores of the Persian Gulf.
[69] Each horseman got 6,000 pieces. The tale is told with
such extravagances as we are accustomed to only in the life of
the Prophet, e.g. the strait was so broad that it took a day and a
night for a ship to cross, yet not the hoof of a camel was wetted. It
is remarkable that, with few exceptions, this expedition is the only
one, after the death of Mahomet, regarding which such childish
tales are told.
[70] There is a tradition that two chiefs Zibricân and Acra
obtained from Abu Bekr a patent appointing them collectors of
tithe in Bahrein, on condition that they made themselves
responsible for its loyalty. The document was shown to Omar,
who, angry apparently because Acra had been an apostate, tore it
up. Talha, who had negotiated the affair, went to Abu Bekr and
asked, ‘Art thou ruler, or is Omar?’ ‘Omar,’ he replied, ‘but
obedience is due to me.’ This (which illustrates the great influence
of Omar with the Caliph) may have referred to a part of the
Bahrein coast not under Alâ.
[71] He belonged to the Beni Shaybân, a sub-tribe of the Beni
Bekr.
[72] No dates are given. But as the battle which follows was
retrieved by reinforcements from the Beni Abd al Cays, and as
that tribe was only set free by the success of Alâ, the operations
in Omân must necessarily have been later than those in Bahrein.
[73] See Life of Mahomet, ch. xxx.
[74] They belonged to the great families of Azd and Himyar,
who inhabited that part of the Peninsula, and had therefore both
experience and local influence.
[75] Sohâr, still a mercantile port, lies above 100 miles west of
Maskat. The bazaar of Dabâ was probably near to it.
[76] Attâb had been governor ever since Mahomet appointed
him on the capture of Mecca. The rebels were headed by Jondob
of the Mudlij tribe. Penitential verses, recited by this rebel chief on
his submission, have been preserved (Tabari, i. p. 212). In the
paucity of trustworthy tradition at this period, such verses are
peculiarly valuable, amplifying as they do the meagre materials at
our command, and giving fixed and certain points.
[77] According to another account of this affair, Khâlid (who
had been appointed by Mahomet collector of tithes and resident
with the Beni Zobeid in the quarter south of Mecca), attacked Amr
ibn Mádekerib, and having taken his sister prisoner, obtained the
sword as her ransom. The sword came several years afterwards
into the possession of the Governor of Kûfa, who offered to give it
back to Amr; to show its marvellous temper, Amr took it, and at
one blow severed the pack on his mule’s back in two. Then he
returned it to the governor, saying that he could not retain a sword
of which he had once been despoiled. Among other poetry is
some by Amr himself:—‘The sword of the son of Dzu Cayfar (a.d.
475) was mine; its blade was tempered in the age of Ad. It hath a
grooved blade which cleaveth helmets, and the bodies of men, in
twain.’ See Caussin de Perceval, vol. i. p. 117; also Mr. C. J.
Lyall’s translations from the Hamasah. Journal As. Soc. of
Bengal, 1877, vol. xlvi. pp. 179, et seq. It is curious to remark how
many Arab warriors were also poets of renown.
[78] The tradition was preserved in the name of ‘the Villains’
(Akhabîth) road, by which this part of the coast was long known.
[79] Life of Mahomet, chap. xxxii.
[80] Yemen was, for a considerable period in the seventh
century, governed by a Satrap as a dependency of Persia; and
large numbers of Persians then settled in the country. These were
their descendants, and also the Ebnâa of mixed parentage. (Life
of Mahomet, vol. i., p. cxliv.)
[81] Dzul Kelâa and other semi-independent Himyar chiefs
occupying the neighbouring districts. Some of these remained
loyal, and distinguished themselves greatly in the Syrian
campaigns.
[82] Feroze was a poet, as well as a statesman; and his
verses lamenting the captivity of his family, and threatening
revenge, have been preserved. (Tabari i. p. 220.) Abd Yaghûth, or
servant of the idol of that name worshipped in the south of Arabia.
See Lyall’s translations from the Hamasah, quoted above. We
hear of him afterwards, but not much of Feroze.
[83] As usual, no date is given. But as only now he met Ikrima,
who had made a march of several weeks from Omân, after the
campaign in the East, the period must have been late in the year
a.h. XI., if not the beginning of a.h. XII. Tabari, as I have said
before, places the entire reduction of apostate Arabia within a.h.
XI.
Mohâjir was brother to Omm Salma, one of the Prophet’s
wives. He was one of the malingerers who absented himself from
the Tebûk campaign, and so incurred the displeasure of
Mahomet. (Life of Mahomet, chap. xxviii.) But Omm Salma, one
day, washing the Prophet’s head, made mention to him of her
brother, and, finding the opportunity favourable, called him in. His
excuse was accepted; and the government of Hadhramaut was
then and there conferred on him.
[84] The verses are quoted by Tabari, vol. i. p. 224. The Arabs,
and especially their poets, had the faculty of abusing one another
in the grossest manner. About the same time, lampoons were
bandied between Amr ibn Mádekerib and Farwa, a loyal chief of
the Beni Murâd, who maintained a constant check upon Amr’s
proceedings. As regards Farwa, we are told that when he first
presented himself to Mahomet, he explained how his tribe and the
Beni Hamdân had an idol which each kept alternately for a year.
The contested possession of this idol led in bygone time to the
famous battle of Al Razm.
[85] The Beni Sakûn were loyal throughout the rebellion, and
gave protection to the faithful refugees from other tribes. Among
others, Moâdz ibn Jabal, deputed by Mahomet to teach the tribes
of the south the Corân and the tenets of Islam (Life of Mahomet,
chap, xxx.), took refuge with them, and married a lady from
amongst them. He was so enamoured of this Sakûnite wife that it
used to be his constant prayer that in the resurrection he and she
might both be raised together. He died in the plague a.h. XVIII.
[86] See the account of their brilliant cavalcade and the
betrothal, Life of Mahomet, chap. xxx.
[87] A thousand women were captured in the fortress. They
called after Ashâth as he passed, ‘he smelleth of burning,’ i.e. he
is a recreant traitor.
[88] Her name was Omm Farwa. Their son Mohammed was
killed fighting in the army of Musáb against Mokhtâr. Some verses
by Ashâth lamenting the catastrophe of Nojeir have been
preserved by Tabari, vol. i. p. 248.
[89] She was the daughter of one Nomân, who, praising her
attractions to Mahomet, added, as the climax, that she never had
had sickness of any kind. After a private interview with her,
Mahomet sent her back to her home in the south, saying, ‘Had
the Lord seen anything good in her, it had not been thus.’
In the Life of Mahomet, I rejected as apocryphal this and other
accounts of the Prophet’s betrothal to certain females with whom
marriage was not consummated. In the present case, however,
the betrothal is certainly confirmed by the curious objection taken
by the army to Ikrima’s marriage on account of the inchoate
relation in which she at one time stood to the Prophet; and it is
therefore possible that other betrothals which at the time
appeared to me improbable may also be founded on fact. See
Life of Mahomet, chap, xxii., and Ibn Cotâba, p. 18.
It will be remembered that the widows of the Prophet, as
‘Mothers of the Faithful,’ were prohibited by the Corân from re-
marrying. Ibid. p. 303.
[90] See Life of Mahomet, chap. xxix.
[91] ‘The days of Ignorance,’ that is, the period preceding
Islam.
[92] Two such are named by Tabari, i. p. 248.
A light ransom was fixed for each Arab slave, namely seven
camels and six young ones. In the case of some tribes which had
suffered most severely (as the Beni Hanîfa, the Beni Kinda, and
the people of Omân discomfited at Dabâ), even this was remitted.
[93] Fadak was a Jewish settlement north of Medîna,
conquered by Mahomet at the same time as Kheibar. Portions of
both were retained by Mahomet for the support of his household.
(See Life of Mahomet, pp. 394 and 548.)
[94] According to most authorities she survived her father six
months; others say only three.
[95] Some say that Abu Bekr appointed Abd al Rahman to the
duty. The uncertainty on this (to the Moslem) most important point
is indicative of the confusion which still prevailed, and the
vagueness of tradition for the period immediately following
Mahomet’s death.
[96] Gibbon, chap. xlvi.
[97] Above, p. 50.
[98] By some accounts Mothanna appeared in person before
Abu Bekr and promised to engage the local tribes in carrying the
attack into the border lands of Irâc.
[99] Such are said to have been Abu Bekr’s orders; but
tradition here probably anticipates the march of events. It is very
doubtful whether he had yet the city of Hîra in view. The
campaign widened, and the aims of Khâlid became more definite
as his victories led him onwards.
[100] The pre-Islamite history of these Arab races is given in
the introductory chapters to the Life of Mahomet, vol. i.
[101] i.e. ‘Irâc of the Arabs’ as distinguished from Irâc Ajemy,
‘foreign’ or Persian Irâc.
[102] The mounds are, no doubt, not only the remains of
embankments but also of the clearances of silt, which (as we
know in India) become hillocks in the course of time.
[103] This, as well as the main stream, is sometimes called by
our historians Furât, or Euphrates; at other times by its proper
name of Bâdacla, and also Al Atîck, the ‘old’ or deserted channel;
but the streams have varied their course from age to age.
[104] The country suffers similarly in the present day at the
hands of the Turkish Government. A traveller writes regarding it:
‘From the most wanton and disgraceful neglect, the Tigris and
Euphrates, in the lower part of their course, are breaking from
their natural beds, forming vast marshes, turning fertile lands into
a wilderness,’ &c.
[105] These seem to have occupied a position similar to that
of the great Talookdars in Upper India.
[106] Beyond the general outline we must not look for much
trustworthy detail at the outset of these campaigns. The narrative
of them is brief and summary, often confused and contradictory.
For example, Hîra is said by some to have submitted at the outset
and agreed to pay tribute, which is inconsistent with the course of
the narrative. The summons to Hormuz as given in the text
savours too much of the set type of after days to be above
suspicion; so with the constant repetition of single combats,
without which the historians seem to think no Arab battle
complete.
There is one point of some importance. It is the call on
Hormuz to pay tribute. Now, tribute was permitted by Mahomet
only to ‘the people of the Book,’ that is, to Jews and Christians.
No such immunity was allowed to the heathen, who were to be
fought against to the bitter end. Zoroastrians (for such was
Hormuz) should strictly have been offered no terms but Islam.
They had not, however, yet been thought of, for they were
altogether beyond the limits and tribes of Arabia. Eventually,
Omar ruled that having ‘a Book’ or Revelation, they might be
admitted into the category of those to be spared on payment of
tribute. But, as I have said, the summons is no doubt cast in the
conventional mould of later days.
[107] Horsemen received three shares; the foot soldiers one.
This was the standing rule from the time of the Prophet. Two
shares were for the horse.
[108] The grade of Persian nobility was marked by the
costliness of the jewelled turban.
[109] No elephant had ever been seen before at Medîna, and
only one at Mecca—‘the year of the elephant’ marking the era of
Abraha’s attack (Life of Mahomet, p. xxvi.). The astonishment of
the women and children of Medîna was unbounded, and some
inquired in childish amazement whether it was an artificial thing,
or really was a work of nature.
[110] It is also called the battle of Kâtzima, a neighbouring
town reduced by Khâlid.
This tale of soldiers being chained together, or tied with ropes,
is commonly told both of Persian and Roman armies. How far it is
founded on fact it is difficult to say. We must ever remember that
the materials for our story are all one-sided, and that there is
much ignorance of their enemies displayed by the annalists, as
well as much contemptuous fiction regarding them.
[111] It will be more convenient hereafter (dropping the
Occidental forms of Ctesiphon and Seleucia) to speak of the
Persian capital by its Arabic name, Medâin.
[112] Cârin, they say, was the last noble of the first rank who
took the field against the Mussulmans. The slain are put at
30,000, besides those drowned in the canal. Such numbers,
always loose, are especially so in the traditions of this early
period. Among the prisoners was a Christian, father of the famous
jurisconsult Abul Hasan of Bussora (d. a.h. 110). Also Mâckia,
afterwards the freedman of Othmân, and Abu Ziâd, freedman of
Moghîra.
[113] Khâlid’s speech is quoted by Al Kindy the Christian
Apologist (Smith and Elder), p. 33.
[114] The iddat (or interval prescribed between divorce and re-
marriage, or before the cohabitation of a new master with his
slave-girl) is not observed in respect of women taken captive on
the field of battle. I can find no authority on the subject, but am
told by those versed in the law that the only exception is that of
women with child in which event cohabitation would be unlawful
till after delivery. In all other cases, in conformity with the
precedent of the Prophet’s marriage with Safia at Kheibar, the
captives, whether maid or matron, are lawful to the captors’
embrace upon the spot (Life of Mahomet, p. 391).
[115] Tabari tells us that every month it was the turn of a new
prince to rule as minister, and this was Bahmân’s month.
[116] The slain are given at the fabulous figure of 70,000. The
decapitation of the captives went on for a night and a day (so we
are told), and then they scoured the country for more. Cacâa, one
of the Arab captains, told Khâlid that ‘the Lord had forbidden the
earth to allow human blood to flow upon its face more than the
length of a man’s dress,’ and that it never would run in a stream
until water was turned on. Blood, as we know, soon thickens and
curdles of itself.
There is, presumably, great exaggeration in the story, and I
should willingly have put down the whole as a fiction growing out
of the name of the river; but the narrative unfortunately is in
keeping with the bloodthirstiness of the Arab crusaders, and
specially with the character of ‘the Sword of the Lord.’ The
tradition about the flour-mills comes from Moghîra, through one of
Tabari’s standing string of traditional authorities.
[117] She bore him children, or the circumstance would
probably have been too common to merit a place in tradition. Abu
Bekr was so charmed with his stalwart mien that he burst forth in
a martial couplet in the envoy’s praise.
[118] For the history of Hîra up to this time, see Life of
Mahomet, vol. i. introd. chap. iii. The Lakhmite dynasty sprang
from the southern branch of the Arabs, and, both on this account
and for the reasons stated in the text, their influence did not
penetrate deeply into the peninsula.
[119] Called also Manîshia. It never recovered the calamity; at
any rate we do not hear of it again.
[120] The escapes were opened perhaps as well to flood the
country and impede the enemy’s progress, as to lay the
navigating channel dry. These channels have greatly altered, so
that attempt at identification would be fruitless.
[121] The palace of Khawarnac was built 200 years before, by
Nomân I., for the reception of his pupil Bahrâm Gour, heir-

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