Golden King

In the heart of Taif, that peaceful mountain city under the sun, Al-Hajjaj ibn Yusuf was immersed in books of language and poetry, devoting himself to the teachings of the Qur’an and the eloquence of the word. Little did he know that his life would be turned upside down the moment he was invited to deliver a sermon before a council of leaders in an Umayyad palace. It was an opportunity that would leave a profound impact on his destiny. "Come, people of Taif!" Al-Hajjaj's resonant voice was one rarely heard by the city's scholars, but those words illuminated the space between the palace's lavish walls. Al-Hajjaj stood confidently, his eyes staring at the audience as if they were a blank page on which he was writing his words. The words flowed like a torrent from his mouth. Listen to what I say, for you have slept too long, your consciences have hardened, and the fire of determination in your hearts has died down. O people of Taif... Are you a people who, when the ignorant are enraged, remain silent? And when the weak are attacked, they kneel?! You were known for your intelligence, and now you are known for your silence... By God, silence in a time of strife is like cowardice when war rages. And silence about the truth is like accepting humiliation, a crime that history will not forgive! I say this—and I am not delirious—that a nation that does not control its tongue will break its back. And a country ruled by reckless tongues, not by experienced hands, will perish. Are you ignorant, O dignitaries, of what is happening on the outskirts of the Levant? Has it not occurred to you that Iraq is in a state of turmoil, and that strife is raging in Kufa, multiplying like worms in a wound? Do you think that the caliphate is governed by visions and protected by dreams? No, by the letter, no, by the sword, no, by the word if it explodes! I see a time coming... ruled not by nobles, but by wise men. Not by lineage, but by prestige. And if you hope for justice, then it is in the unsheathed sword against the oppressors. And if you fear the sword, then unsheath it. I am Al-Hajjaj ibn Yusuf, and in my tongue is fire, and in my tongue is sharpness, and in my chest is a mind that does not rest. I have not come to you seeking favor, nor the approval of a sultan. Rather, I have come to awaken your sleeping eyes and stir up rust in your hearts. Hear this from me—and write it, if you wish, on the walls of this palace— Whoever people did not respect in life, kill him. I see necks ripening... and the time has come for their harvest. I see thrones trembling... waiting for someone to hammer nails into them. Who among you, O masters of Taif, has the courage to say, "I am with them"? Or are you waiting for a man called the Golden King on the pulpits of tomorrow? Know that this name... was written tonight, in the shadows of this assembly. And peace... be upon those who have awakened. Woe to those who turn a deaf ear to these words, for history will close a door on them that cannot be opened. The hall was silent like a stone in a deep well. No one cleared their throats, and no one dared even cough. The men's eyes stared at that thin young man—Hajjaj—as if they saw something in him they had never known before... something that frightened them without threatening them, something that fascinated them without befriending them. The Umayyad leader, sitting at the head of the group, slowly raised his glass, then stopped mid-stride. His hand trembled slightly. Not only from awe, but also from the certainty that the words he had just heard would not be easily erased. An old sheikh beside one of the princes muttered in a low voice, "Is this... a poet? Or a magician?" Or has a demon whispered in his ear? A large man from the bodyguards stepped forward, his eyes shining with a respect he had never shown to any preacher before. He stared at Hajjaj like a glass emerging from a cave, refusing to return. Then the voice of Prince Abd al-Rahman ibn Hakam, one of Abd al-Malik's followers, was heard: "This man... is not from Taif. He is of royal lineage, even if he is not of their lineage." Some of the leaders nodded in agreement, while others sat anxiously, as if afraid to say a word that might be considered for or against him. But what was even stranger was the silence of a man in the corner... a bearded sheikh wearing a simple jalabiya. His name was Saad ibn Na'il, a simple scribe who paid no attention to his words. He looked at Hajjaj with a distant gaze... as if he could see beyond this day, seeing the gallows, the blood, and the sermons shaking the earth. He approached his master and whispered: "He is not a preacher... he is a flood." In the Shadows... While everyone was engrossed in the sermon, and the pilgrims were busy standing in front of the hall, there was a man who didn't specify the preacher's affinity, but rather watched the two advances. His face was unfamiliar, with a light beard, and he wore a gray-white coat, as if its color had been specially chosen to blend in with the walls. His name was unknown, but he was known in the catacombs as "The Crow." He was a spy from Basra, working under the umbrella of one of the advanced princes, a man who was not subject to prosecution. He stood by one of the distant pillars and took out a small leather sleeve from a path that had led him to it. He wrote the following: "Al-Hajjaj ibn Yusuf al-Thaqafi. Eloquent. Arrogant. Ambitious to the point of insolence. His weapon: the word. He must be isolated or contained; he must see himself as a prophet or a sultan. Send to Prince Zayd - urgently." Then he slipped the scrap of paper into the wooden recesses behind the wall, where his aides would later collect the letters. The criminal gave Al-Hajjaj a long look... not the long stare of a celebrity, but the look of a man who knew this mujahid... would be psychological. In the darkness, "The Crow" withdrew silently, just as he had arrived, leaving behind the first threads of revenge... his features would not be revealed until blood had been shed and thrones had been shaken. In the upper hall, the council was closed without anyone ordering it to be closed, and the assembly dispersed, something hidden in their hearts. As for Al-Hajjaj, he remained standing... neither smiling nor retreating. As if he knew that tonight... was the first door to glory, or madness... or both. Damascus - Palace of Prince Marwan ibn al-Hakam On Friday night, the Umayyad banners fluttered above everyone, but inside... a different wind blew. In a hall adorned with silk, a girl from the south, Boston, was quietly brought between two slave girls. Her eyes were black and unblinking, yet they saw the light. Her name was Ruqayyah bint Kinda. She arrived as a "gift" to Prince Marwan, as was customary among concubines in the United Tribes. But no one knew she was not what she seemed. She came from an obscure family in the Hadhramaut tribes, but she had learned their language from an ascetic scholar before he was killed in one of the revolts against the Umayyads. From that day on, she vowed to understand how this monster called the state worked. And now... she was at its beating heart. The First Night Prince Marwan entered the stagnant hall, drunk, laughing, waving his hand toward Ruqayyah: "Come on, Flower of the South... I heard you are poets. Do you sing? Or are you as adept at silence as you are at intention?" "We don't sing, sir," Ruqayyah admitted, then leaned closer. "We all understand, and then we will be immortalized in history." The prince laughed and said, "Well done, then?" But what he didn't see was that that night, when he fell asleep, she was flipping through his papers and letters... She noticed one of them signed "al-Ghorab" and smelled blood in the ink. One of the letters referred to a man named "Al-Hajjaj ibn Yusuf"... The letter said that he "will light a fire if left alone, and will burn Syria if he ascends." She blinked her eyes as if she understood the game before it began. Then she wrote in delicate handwriting on a small piece of paper: "Discord is being plotted here... and evil does not lie in Al-Hajjaj, but in those who fear his ascension." She hid the paper inside an ornate mirror in her room. After midnight, Prince Marwan's Palace Ruqayya stood on the balcony, silently observing the palace courtyard. Suddenly, she heard soft footsteps behind her, then a hoarse voice saying: "No one goes out onto the balcony at this time... except those who fear their thoughts being heard." She turned slowly, and immediately recognized the man: "Na'im bin Jabir" - the prince's scribe, a man known for his weak smile and his never-smiling eyes. She smiled at him and said in a calm tone, " "Sometimes, talking to the night is better than talking to people." He leaned closer, almost touching her shoulder, and said, "The night doesn't speak... but it does." So do I." She turned her head toward him and said quietly, "So you heard what was written in the letter that arrived from Taif?" His expression froze for a moment. Then he said, "What letter?" She answered in a low voice, "The one signed by someone called Al-Gharab... and referring to a man called Al-Hajjaj." There was silence. Then, as if testing her, he said: "You don't read... where did you get this from?" She answered, her eyes unblinking: "The mirror that doesn't reflect... sees what's hidden. And you... are afraid, Na'im." He laughed dryly. "Afraid? Of whom? Of a linguistic slave from Taif? Or of a slave girl who loves playing with words?" She approached him and said: "You are afraid of those who don't sleep... because they think." Al-Hajjaj won't stop at the sermon. And you, Na'im... won't stop at words. He didn't answer. She reached out quietly and handed him a small piece of paper - white, on which was written only what was unsaid. "A letter... from a woman who can't sing, but who memorizes the melody in the memory of stone." Then she left, leaving him there on the balcony, sweating, in the cold Damascus night.