Friday, 30th November 1545
Ottoman Territory, Arabian Desert
The sky stretched pale and blue, fading into the haze that drifted across the horizon - dust stirred by the restless desert wind. A pin-tailed sandgrouse cut through the air, wings glinting in the waning light, its eyes scanning the ground below for the way home after a long day of flight.
Soon, the endless dunes gave way to firmer soil, the air carrying the scent of earth instead of sand. At the border where the dunes met the clay, an oasis shimmered - its surface rippling like polished glass. Around its banks rested a caravan of men, beasts, and tents.
On the far side, where the waterline had dried into cracked mud, the sandgrouse's nest lay hidden. Finding what it sought, the bird descended swiftly, gliding over the resting caravan. It cried out as it passed above them - a sharp, melodic call echoing through the still air.
Kattar-kattar!
The sound startled a child sitting among the travellers. She leapt up, her eyes bright with excitement.
"Umi! Umi, can I go play? Did you hear it - the Qata' bird? Pleeease, I promise I'll finish dinner after seeing it!"
Her outburst drew laughter from the family gathered around her. Her mother gave her husband a knowing look, silently asking him to handle their daughter's plea. The man chuckled, setting down his cup, and turned to his daughter with amused patience.
"Raeya, habibti, do you know what your name means?"
The little girl tilted her head, pressing a finger to her lips, thinking hard. The gesture melted the hearts of her siblings, who giggled softly at her confusion.
"I don't know, Abi. But what does that have to do with Mr. Qata'?" she asked, already giving the bird a name.
Her father's eyes gleamed as he began, his voice rich and rhythmic - a storyteller's cadence.
"My dear, your name has many roots. It springs from our own home, Arabia, where the sand dances with the wind under the gaze of the moon. It drifts from the land where even the humblest branch finds purpose - Al-Hind. And it flies from the tongues of those who learned much from us but give no thanks - the Franks."
Raeya listened intently, her small hands clasped before her as the fire crackled softly nearby.
"Here in Arabia," her father continued, "Raeya means a ray of sunshine - a light that brings joy and hope to all who see it. Among the Franks, it means 'sensitive,' one who listens closely to the world around her. And in the ancient tongue of Al-Hind - Sanskrit - Raeya means a singer. One whose voice binds the hearts of others, whose song drives away sorrow."
He paused, glancing at his daughter, waiting for her to understand.
"A singer!" she exclaimed at his words. "Just like Mr. Qata'!"
Her father laughed softly, his eyes warm.
"Yes, habibti, just like Mr. Qata'. He too is a singer - he soars across the desert, flapping his wings and filling the air with song. Now he returns home to rest with his family."
Raeya nodded, her excitement dimming into gentle understanding. "Oh... so Mr. Qata' is tired, and he wants to be with his family."
Her mother smiled tenderly and reached over to brush a stray lock from Raeya's face. "That's right, my love. Just like your father said and just like Mr. Qata', you're our singer - the voice that fills this family with warmth. The sun is setting now. Stay with us, and sing a little too."
With a soft hum, she began a melody - slow and warm, carrying the rhythm of the desert wind. Her voice rose and fell in gentle waves, and soon her elder daughters joined in. Their tones blended - one bright as dawn, another steady and low - weaving a harmony that felt ancient and familiar.
Raeya listened, her lips parting in wonder before she joined them, her voice shy but pure. The song was one their mother had learned from her own, an old tune about the desert stars guiding lost travellers' home. The father leaned back, eyes half-closed, letting the sound wash over him. The notes mingled with the crackle of fire and the distant murmur of camels settling for the night.
When the song faded, a comfortable silence settled. The fire crackled softly, sending sparks into the cooling air.
It was Farid, Raeya's brother, who finally spoke. "Abi," he said, leaning closer to the firelight, "tell us a story... about the Sultan. Is it true he is mightier than any king of the Franks?"
Their father smiled at the question, his gaze drifting toward the dark horizon. "Ah... Sultan Süleyman," he murmured. "Yes, my son, he is mighty - but not because of his crown. Because of his vision. Because of what he stands for."
Farid's eyes gleamed in the firelight. "Have you seen him?"
The man's lips curved into a faint smile. "Once. Many years ago. At Mohács."
At the mention of the event even the wind seemed to still. The older sisters looked up, and Raeya leaned forward, eyes wide.
"The Battle of Mohács," their father began, his voice quiet but heavy with memory. "It was the summer of 1526. I was not much older than you, Farid - a foot soldier in the army of the Sultan. We had marched for weeks through the lands of Rumelia, thousands upon thousands of us, until we reached the green plains of Hungary."
He stirred the fire with a stick as he spoke, the sparks leaping like ghosts of that distant battlefield.
"The enemy was strong - proud men in shining armour, led by King Louis II himself. They thought we would tire in the heat, that we would fall to their cannons and cavalry. But the Sultan was calm. He waited. And when the storm came, he unleashed the thunder of his guns."
His eyes gleamed, reflecting the firelight as if seeing it all again. "The ground trembled, Farid. The sky grew dark with smoke. Our topçu - the cannoneers - tore holes through their lines. Their horses screamed. Their banners fell. And when the Sultan rode forward, it was as though the sky itself made way for him."
He paused, his tone softening. "When it ended, the field was silent. The King of Hungary had fallen. The Sultan prayed there, on the very earth that the battle had took forth - not in triumph, but in remembrance. He said, 'Victory belongs to Allah alone.'"
The family sat in silence, the fire crackling low.
Farid broke it first, his voice filled with awe. "So, father you fought beside the Sultan?"
The man smiled faintly. "I fought for him. That is enough."
Raeya, drowsy now, leaned against her mother's arm. "Did he sing too, Abi?" she murmured.
The man looked at her, eyes soft. "In his way, yes. Habibti, some men sing with their voices, others with their deeds. The Sultan's song was carved in the hearts of those who followed him, and on the parchment history itself is written on."
The mother hummed again, low and soothing. The daughters joined, their song now a lullaby. The melody wrapped around the camp like a blanket. The stars shimmered above, and the fire dimmed to gentle embers.
As Raeya's eyes fluttered shut, she thought she could still hear the distant cry of the Qata' bird - a soft echo, as if the desert itself were singing with them.
The night deepened until even the fire's glow had faded to embers. Around the oasis, the caravan fell silent - only the low murmur of wind against canvas and the distant snort of resting camels broke the stillness.
Raeya and her siblings were already asleep, their small breaths even and peaceful beneath their blankets. The stars above burned bright and cold, reflected faintly in the still waters of the oasis.
In the family's tent, the father and mother lay together on their bedding, the quiet warmth of the night pressed close around them. She rested her head upon his chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. For a while, neither spoke - the silence between them was the kind that needed no words.
Then, softly, she whispered. "Ya habibi, I know you like the back of my hand," she said, her voice barely above a murmur. "You are loyal - loyal to the Sultan, loyal to your duty. But tell me truly… why have we left the army, and why are we heading east?"
He smiled faintly in the dark and kissed her forehead, tightening his embrace.
"You know me best, habibti," he murmured. "If it were not for his orders, I would have gladly served until my bones turned to dust beneath his banner. But this-" he paused, his breath quiet against her hair, "-this journey is by the Sultan's will."
A brief silence fell again, filled only by the whisper of the night wind brushing against the tent. Then he continued, his tone low and deliberate.
"The Sultan has commanded that we travel to al-Hindia - the lands of the East. There, a young kingdom struggles to stand - a bastion of Islam surrounded by turmoil. His Majesty has ordered me to assist them. That is why this caravan travels not as merchants, but as a disguised envoy to the court of Sultan Humayun of the Mughal lands."
His wife's eyes widened slightly in the dim light. "The Mughal Sultanate?" she asked softly. "I heard, only months ago, that it had fallen into civil strife - that Sultan Humayun was driven from his throne."
He nodded slowly. "Indeed. Word from those lands travels slowly. But it is true - their kingdom has been fractured, their ruler in exile. Still, the Sultan's will is clear. We are to aid Humayun in restoring his rule and, through it, strengthen the bonds between our empires and align them with the Daulah's interest. Perhaps His Majesty hopes that, by securing friendship in the East, the Safavids will find their ambitions bound between two fronts."
"I see…" she whispered, her voice carrying both understanding and worry.
For a long moment, only the sound of the wind filled the tent. Then she shifted closer, resting a hand on his chest. "Habibi, promise me one thing," she said softly. "If danger ever comes to us - if this mission turns dark - you will send the children back to the Daulah, the nation. I will walk beside you through whatever awaits us, but the little ones must be kept safe."
He turned his head and looked at her - the light of the single oil lamp flickering faintly over his face. His eyes softened, touched with both love and melancholy.
"I promise, habibti," he said quietly, his hands brushing against her cheek. "Even with all my loyalty, our family means more to me than the Sultan's command. I have already written to the Palace before we departed. His Majesty has arranged an emergency plan should danger arise. If we fall or are cut off, the children will be placed directly under the Sultan's protection. They will be safe - even if we are not."
Her eyes glistened faintly, but she smiled, her hand pressing over his heart. "Then I fear nothing," she whispered. "As long as Allah and His mercy are with us."
He kissed her once more, gently, and closed his eyes. Outside, the desert wind moved across the sand, whispering through the night like a distant prayer. Within the tent, the couple lay in silence holding to one another as the Daulah's will carried them toward the unknown East.
Saturday, 1st December 1545
Ottoman Territory, Arabian Desert
The first light of dawn spilled across the desert like liquid gold. Thin threads of mist curled above the cool surface of the oasis as the world slowly awoke from its slumber.
Raeya stirred beneath her blanket, blinking against the soft glow filtering through the tent's canvas. She could hear voices outside - low, rhythmic, and purposeful. The familiar morning bustle of the caravan had begun.
She sat up, rubbing her eyes, and peeked through the small fold of the tent flap. The camp, which had been quiet and still the night before, now swelled with life. Men moved briskly about, rolling mats and fastening loads onto the camels. Smoke from cooking fires rose into the air, carrying with it the warm scent of flatbread and roasted chickpeas.
Raeya slipped out quietly, careful not to wake her sisters still sleeping. The cool sand - reminiscent of the night - tickled her feet as she stepped into the open. All around her, the world shimmered with the golden calm of morning.
To her left, near the largest tent the mess tent stood open. Inside, cooks ladled steaming bowls of porridge and distributed bread to the caravan guards and servants. Copper pots clanged, and the rhythmic scraping of wooden spoons mingled with laughter.
"Come, little bird," one of the cooks called with a smile as Raeya passed near her. "If you're hungry, there's honey for the children today."
She smiled shyly but shook her head, not hungry enough to stop.
Beyond the mess tent, at the far end of the camp, a circle had formed - the training ring. Two guards faced one another within it, curved sabres flashing in the morning sun. They circled, their boots leaving prints in the sand. With each movement, the crowd of onlookers murmured and cheered softly.
Raeya stood at the edge, her eyes wide. She had seen her father train her brother before, but these duels were different - sharper, faster, full of precision. The guards moved like dancers, their blades clashing with crisp metallic rhythm.
An older guardsman noticed her staring and grinned. "One day, little one," he said between laughs, "you'll sing the songs of warriors like these!"
Raeya giggled. "Maybe I'll sing of you," she said boldly.
The man laughed again, shaking his head as he returned his focus to the duel.
She wandered onward, drawn by the sound of splashing and laughter. Near the oasis, a group of children from the caravan were already awake, chasing one another along the water's edge. They skipped stones, splashed their feet, and traded small treasures found in the sand - smooth pebbles, coloured glass beads, and bits of date pits shaped like animals.
Raeya approached quietly, watching them with interest. A girl about her age noticed her and waved. "Come join us!" she called.
Raeya hesitated for a moment, glancing back toward her family's tent. Then she smiled and ran forward, her bare feet kicking up fine dust. The morning passed in bursts of laughter and splashing water.
Soon, the call of the caravan master echoed across the oasis:
"Mount up! Pack the beasts! We depart before the sun climbs too high!"
The playful chatter faded as everyone hurried back to their duties. Children were gathered, tents were folded, and the camels groaned as heavy bundles were hoisted onto their backs.
Raeya's mother called her name, waving from beside their camel. "Raeya! Quickly now, my sunshine - we're moving on."
Breathless, Raeya ran to her family, still clutching a small pebble shaped like a heart - a gift from one of the children. Her father lifted her onto the back of their camel and handed her a waterskin. Around them, the caravan lines began to form - merchants, guards, servants, and riders falling into their appointed places.
The caravan master rode to the front and raised his hand. A low hum of readiness rippled through the ranks. Then came his cry:
"By the will of Allah and under the protection of the ruler of the lands we walk - onward!"
The camels lurched forward. Sand shifted under their hooves as the long column began to move eastward.
Raeya looked back once more. The oasis shimmered in the distance, its surface glinting like a jewel in the desert. The laughter of the morning faded behind her, replaced by the rhythmic sway of the camel and the creak of leather harnesses.
Ahead lay the endless horizon - and the road to al-Hindia.
She rested her head against her mother's arm, her eyelids heavy. As the caravan pressed onward beneath the growing sun, Raeya hummed softly to herself, the song from the night before lingering in her heart - a child's voice carrying faintly into the desert wind.