Jabiya, Ghassanid Syria

There was a profound quiet over barren Syria. In the moonlight, the hills were blue, and it was so pretty that the idea a war should ever be fought here seemed blasphemous.

"Duke." Anastasius heard himself called by his title. He looked around and saw a nervous Cataphract - a Roman knight - approach. He was dressed for sleep, wearing a simple red tunic and a single dagger at his belt. "If you think we're are to fight tomorrow, then you should get some sleep."

"Yes." Anastasius replied. He was dressed for battle, with a heavy coat of chain-mail covering much of his body and the red cape of office flowing from his shoulders. At his hip was a Spatha, a kind of long sword. "I cannot sleep. Not with the Saracens out there, and Arabicus."

"Arabicus." the Comes mouthed. "Yes, but you cannot see anything at night. How can you help the young prince this way? Surely what he needs is a second in command that is capable of action when it comes time to rescue him. Tomorrow. That is when it will happen."

"I cannot sleep. I do not say this out of duty, I say this out of ability. Sleep will not come to me tonight." His breath felt cold in his throats, and his lips trembled. "The augers are not in order."

For a moment, there was nothing but the silence of that desert, the thin clean air, and the light of the moon.

"Do not blame yourself for what has happened to Arabicus." the Knight finally replied.

"I do not blame myself." Anastasius snapped. "What are the men saying? What do they think?"

"They don't blame you, sir." the Knight replied quickly. "They do not think that... honestly, they do not know what to think. The Saracens... they fought like Huns. It was unnatural. They kept coming."

It was true, Anastasius agreed with everything the young Knight was saying. Before yesterday, Saracens had always fought like dogs at a garbage heap. When their enemy first gave way, they would help themselves to whatever morsels of treasure they could find in their camps, and then they would ride off into the wasteland from whence they came. They were fierce warriors, and like most barbarians always loyal to their ancient family names, but they were not soldiers. There was no discipline aside from loyalty, and victory to them was only booty.

But these new Saracens, this tribe that was springing endlessly from the desert, were a different breed. They were not raiders. This was a war. They were fighting for domination.

When the enemy was first turning back the Roman line, Anastasius had pleaded with Arabicus to fall back behind the camp and wait for the enemy to lose their cohesion, but Arabicus refused. Cowardice is what he called it. He was the classical arrogant princeling, another Commodus or Domitian, and he thought in terms of perceived strength rather than tactics. However, when Arabicus did finally agree to the ploy, it did not work. The Romans fell back, and the Saracens continued the chase. A tactical fall-back became a route. And in the chaos, Arabicus disappeared.

"Can you find the Empire of Attila today?" Anastasius grumbled. "These nomads, they are not like the Germans. No. They are not looking for a place to settle anymore than the Huns were. They want riches. What matters is how we carry ourselves. God has saw fit to test our resolve, and I assure you that the Christendom will come out triumphant."

"Yes." the knight answered humbly. "If we have gave the Lord no reason to punish us."

As they stood there talking, an arrow landed in the sand at Anastasius' feet. It came so softly that he did not fear at first, as if it were a songbird that had chose to nibble at the ground beneath his shadow. But realization came quickly, and as he understood, horror set in. A second arrow whistled through the air between him and the knight.

Then they ran.

They ran across the dunes, shouting at the top their lungs to wake the soldiers. The Romans were encamped on a hill overlooking the tent-city of the Ghassanids. Their camp was surrounded by a ditch, behind which stood a wall of thin stakes carved from the wiry desert trees that grew nearby. They had not been able to find the wood to build the watch towers or gates, so the men would have to fight them hand to hand at the entrances. This place was as defensible as they had time to make it, but it was manned by the battered soldiers that had survived the disaster of the first battle.

When they reached the camp, men were beginning to stir. Torches filled the blue night with an orange glow. When Anastasius saw a boy, one of the servants that followed the army to aid with supplies, he grabbed him by the shoulder and turned him around.

"Boy, do you know how to ride?" he asked. The boy nodded. He took him to where the horses were kept and placed him on top of his own white stallion. "Go to the Visigothic Camp and rouse them, and then go to Jabiya and warn the Saracens there that their faithless brothers are on the attack. Bring them quickly, because without them we are doomed."

The boy, too stunned to speak, nodded and rode off into the darkness.

Whistles were being blown and lines formed. The Cataphract knights were putting on their scale mail and being helped onto their horses by their servants. The only signs of the enemy were the distant thunder of hooves and the few arrows that fell on the camp. As the men came together, Anastasius could see the fear in their eyes. They had seen this enemy before, and they were terrified.

These Roman soldiers here were not the soldiers of Julius Caesar's Empire. These men wore coats of chain-mail and held oval shields painted with christian symbols and the likenesses of saints. Some wore long beards in the Persian style, or long hair in the Hunnic style. They came from all over the Empire; Greeks and Italians, blond haired Germans, olive skinned moors, and pale faced Slavs, all brought together to fight in the names of Christ and the Emperor. They had traded their ancient javelins for small lead-weighted darts, which they hung from loops built into their shields. The professional training and pride that went into the old armies was not completely present in the modern ones. Many of these men were conscripts, while others came from beyond the Roman borders. Rome had vassals amongst the Slavic and Moorish tribes, and some German Kings around the Alps still payed tribute to the Empire in terms of both gold and fighting men.

Anastasius had sent his horse away with the messenger boy, so he elected to lead on foot. He pulled his sword, and torchlight played across the polished steel as he faced his men.

"No Saracen army has defeated a Roman force twice in a row!" he shouted. His voice sounded more angry than comforting, and though this came from frustration it seemed to have a good effect on the men. He could see in their eyes a stirring rage as the indignant passion of fear was switched for the other extreme. "They fight under the light of a full moon, because they are Pagans and witchcraft rules nights like these. So pray, and hold fast to the powerful signs of Christ that surround you now, and the banners that show the angels and the faces of the saints, because no witchcraft can harm a faithful army of the Lord!"

The Romans formed along the palisade walls and looked out at the coming foe. Shadowy riders circled the camp from afar, firing arrows or shaking swords that gleamed in the moonlight. From the side where the enemy footmen approached, it looked like the desert itself was shifting toward them, as a wave moves across the sea. Anastasius stood at an entrance to the camp and waited. From the far end, the Cataphracts thundered out of the camp to do battle with the horsemen.

The Saracen footmen stopped short in their charge, and they mulled around uncertainly. These were dirty looking men, bearded and covered in dust from a hard march. Archers shot arrows at the Roman line, and they bore into shields and buried themselves in the bare earth. One of the men were hit in the neck by a chance shot, and he fell to the ground gasping as his life-blood soaked into the dirt. The Romans did not reply. Some of the men in the back of the line fingered the fletching on their darts. Soon more arrows came, and then more. They were burning now, and they fell on most of the camp. Canvas tents were set ablaze, and the crackling of fire mingled with the other battle sounds. The Romans, helpless, held their shields above themselves and waited.

Soon enough, the enemy charge was resumed. They came at the Romans with swords and spears, with rounded shields and stolen pieces of armor, and they shouted in their incoherent, crude language. The Roman line held at the entrance. Where the Saracens charged the Palisades, Romans awaited their approach and pelted them with darts when they tried to cross the ditch.

It was a bloody affair. The Saracens did not fight in neat shield walls tonight, but they fought fiercely, and the Romans were severely outnumbered. More fire arrows fell on the camp until everything was burning, and Anastasius realized that they could not hold this ground.

"Push forward!" he ordered. "Push!" The Romans responded, smashing the weight of the Saracen charge against itself. The goal was to break out, to cause a temporary retreat amongst the enemy so that the Romans could regroup. Along the wall, the Roman soldiers broke out of the palisades and ran shouting at the stunned Arabs in the ditch. It seemed to be working. The Saracen charge had came too fiercely, and now the pressure of their attack was hindering their ability to move or fight. They were dying quickly now, sliced down easily by the Romans. The confusion caused the enemy line to break, and Anastasius rejoiced.

Outside of the walls, he could see that the Roman Cataphracts had been joined by the Visigothic Knights. They were outnumbered by the enemy, and the Arab riders moved quicker than their heavily armored counterparts. Anastasius could not see how their fight was playing out.

Where the Arabs broke, the Romans began to reform. They pulled out of the camp, now an infernal bon-fire who's vicious heat caused nearby brush to burn. The open desert would not bake them alive, but there was another obstacle out here. Without the walls, they were truly outnumbered, and there was no way to protect their flanks. The Roman army began to take the shape of a bow who's ends were kissing the burning palisades of the former camp.

Anastasius walked the line and joined in the fight wherever his men looked like they were weakening. At the edges, the Romans were beginning to recoil. If this line was a bow, it was beginning to look as if it were being pulled.

Out of the hateful Saracen darkness, an arrow came at Anastasius. He watched it suddenly appear until it was on him, and when it imbedded in his eye it felt as if he had been kicked by a mule. Before he could think, his face seered with agony. It was a horrible, burning pain, and he fell back rubbing his face. Blood trickled down his cheek, and he began to scream

The Roman line was starting to collapse. He felt faint. Along the distant hillsides, he could see the horsemen riding. At first, he thought the enemy riders had begun to fight amongst themselves, and then he remembered the Ghassanids. They had arrived on Saracen steeds just as swift as those belonging to their pagan brothers. His vision grew darker. The horsemen's swords glowed so that the battle of the riders look like two glittering streams of silver stars converging upon each other in the moonlit sky. It was beautiful, like... music.

And with that thought in his mind, Anastasius perished.

Constantinople, Roman Empire

"How much have we made so far, Helgi?"

Helgi Svartönnar, so named for his wonderfully decaying teeth received due to a mouth injury in a raid on Ireland so long ago, turned to face his leader and partner in this incursion to the great city of Miklagarðr, Sigbjörn Bláserkr himself.

Not more than 3 months ago, the Blue-Shirts conducted a sucessfull raid on Eoforwic, taking with them more than enough loot to get what they needed from the merchants here in Roman Territory. Whatever they could provide would be much better than Saxon crafts. The nice little pay they got for joining the Romans in the battle they've been having with some eastern powers helped in getting nicer armor and weapons too.

"I was able to get us some mail armors and very nicely crafted swords", the older Helgi spoke, handing over one of the two steel blades to his leader, who inspected the sword and smiled at Helgi's well picked merchandise.

"I take it we have an offer?" Helgi asked to his companion

"Yes, we do", Sigbjörn replied, affixing the new sword and scabbard to his belt. "The Romans, they have a little problem comming from the east,"

"Oh? A little problem? I don't think Romans get little problems", Helgi replied as Sigbjörn chuckled a bit

"Indeed, but I don't think it will be too much for us anyways." he remarked as the two made their way towards the docks to meet yet another Norseman in the city. Egill of Uppsula, who truly lived up to his namesake; the greatest archer in all of the Blue-Shirt Army.

"Egill, We should begin moving further south, towards the Levantine Area. That's where the fighting is going on."

"Alright, Ivarsson." Egill said as he and the others went over to get the rest of the army, most of whom had already begun making their ways to the boats but some who had to be tracked down and brought back from the wonders of Miklagarðr and her exquisite buildings and sights.

The Blue-Shirts came from all walks of life. Most were Rus, a tribe that had carved its way into the high social places of the Baltic, yet others were from the other Swede tribes, some were Geats, Finns, Balts, Danes, Slavs or even Germans. Men and Women alike were on the longships, though men did indeed outnumber their female raiders by a great bit. Bound by Loyalty, Oaths, the search for Glory, Valhalla, or just money brought them here, and they all served under the great Sigbjörn Ivarsson; some even serving under his father Ivar Geirrson the Blue-Shirted before he was slain by the Slavs of Kiev in a failed raid.

This would be Sigbjörn's glorious campaign, with the blessings of the Allfather upon him and his army they would return the greatest among all the Swedes. This would be were the name Blue-Shirt would be made or broken.

On his signal, the Longships of the Blueshirts took off and out to the Mediterranian, to meet their destiny in Antioch and beyond. A cachophony prayers to Tyr, Thor, Odin and Freyr echoed across the various ships as they began their journey across the wine dark sea to meet their fate in a far away land.

The blood had soaked into the sand until it become much like red clay that lay out to bake atop the potter's table. Dashed across the golden sands of Syria the blood-stained desert warped and whirled in a stormy dance among the ocean waves of sand. Clear into every direction marched the desert, disappearing into the horizon before the very eyes of man. A wispy sooty cloud of silvery smoke plumed up into the clear blue sky from the tent city of the Ahl al-Kitab. And in the rising heat of the desert, the smell of corpses was smoldering among the ash into the early putrid stench of decay.

Among the heat and the sands the bodies that lay here in the desert would ferment and dry, turning into withered husks of man and camel and horse. In time, the dunes would cover the battlefield and hide it from view. But until then the vultures taunted from over head as they came to the stench of war. And below the jackals had come to pick apart the bodies. To loot the purses of the dead and unburden their shoulders of their armor and their swords. They would collect the living with the horses and the implements of war.

Unshaken at the aftermath of battle the Sword of God sat in unshaken poise from atop his horse as he surveyed the battle at its end. Sour and sullen, the face of Khalid ibn al-walid scanned the battlefield in a undaunted poise. Firm and confident in his victory here today. His brow narrowed at the glare of the sun as its arms reached out to scorch the sands and the glints of a hundred weapons shone with the ferocity of the stars.

Khalid was a man of war. Having once fought the glorious prophet. With the dry leathering of the sun came scars. Pronounced of which were the sunken dimples on his left-cheek. A artifact of being stricken with smallpox. He had survived this, as he had survived many things. His duty was to the Caliph and to Islam. He pretended to not be a moral or an immoral man, held no convictions of chivalry. His moral poise was carried on his shoulders and his confident stride as he dropped from his horse to walk the field. His only affirming ethics were to his duty as commander. It was to practice war in the most efficient way possible. He was called the Sword of God for his prowess and his strength. And not one iota of this would be held back from those who challenged it. And the Romans were the greatest challenger.

Taken his side the armies champions – Mubarizun – followed in his step. Cloaks of chain mail dragged against the sand. The buckles that closed the chest were allowed to hang open to reveal the boiled leather lamellar behind the heavy chain. Hanging from their rounded helmets a heavy veil of chain obscured their faces as they scanned the corpses they walked over.

There was a tense silence over the battlefield as if all men – living and dead – waited to be commanded to speak. Khalid walked to the side of such a man as he knelt over a gravely injured Roman. He spat and sputtered under the weight of his armor. Blood caked his face from where a sword had cleaved clear through his face and took out his eye. The tangled remains of his cheek hung off his cheek bones. The Muslim, young and naive sat crouched by his side, shakily holding a canteen made of a camel's stomach as he tried to foster some sort of care to the incapacitated soldier.

Seeing the shadows of his commander stretch over the two, the Arab hesitated. He turned to look up at Khalid with wide shaken eyes. He did not look to want to admit it, but deep behind his dusty eyes Khalid could see the youth bore a great deal of guilt. The youth stuttered behind the cloth of the turban that guarded his mouth from the dust of the restless desert. The Roman choked between painful breaths to try and curse Khalid, but his contempt merely choked out between chapped lips in a dry, inaudible bubble.

Khalid saw the Roman, and measured him. The extent of his battle-won injuries were extensive, but not fatal. He would live, but as a cripple. This was promised if the generous Bedouin boy at his side continued to try and clean the Roman's injury. Khalid's face remained narrow and flat. The fringes of his beard waved in the dry desert wind.

“In- Insha...” the young Bedouin began weakly.

“Inshallah he will survive his wounds.” Khalid interjected before the young man could finish. “Inshallah he is a survivor. And with all he will stand in chains to be delivered unto Medina.” the commander demanded. It was not a death sentence, and the young man seemed to loose his tension. Better to live a slave, then to be tortured in this heat.

“Y-yes, Inshallah!” the young man cheered, if hollowly as he stood up, dragging the Roman to his feet. With his arm slung over his shoulders he carried the limping man from where he had laid bleeding in the sand. Too weak to do so, he did not fight. And if he could, he was too looted to put up a contest.

Khalid and his retinue made way to the flimsy wooden palisade that had made the defenses for the Ghassanid Arab camp where the Romans they had been playing host to the Roman force. It was here that Khalid looked on at the stream of bodies laid out in defense of the gate that he could pry from the scene the same battle he had directed from the very light of the moon and the fire of the tent-city. To the side beyond the camp upon a dune the newly made widows and orphans of the camp's defenders stood under watch and keep of the Rashidun army.

It was not much their fate he was worried about. Some dictation from Medina would no doubt determine the fate of these remnants. The women may find themselves new husbands, the children guardians or foster parents. If any were too old, perhaps they would enter into bondage in someone's house or camp. They would continue to live, and they'll find acceptance.

But of the commander's immediate concern were the corpses of the Romans and of the martyrs who died here. The Roman force had gathered here on Khalid's first test. The night and nature of the fight had denied them any ability to challenge their best in a duel, and so it was. Moving through the field men gathered up the arrows they had fired upon them in the early stages. The same fire that had drawn the army out from the camp so it may burn with a blinding light to obscure Khalid's men as they made through on their rear flanks.

With the Roman and German cavalry that had come as allies drawn deep into the desert to be lost, the infantry that had assembled so tightly became trapped between the clenched prongs of Khalid's will. Many of the Romans had come to be stabbed in the back before they knew what had happened. And when they did there was no escape.

“Sayf Allah al-Maslul!” cried a pair of soldiers as they noticed their commander inspecting the battlefield. Khalid looked over as the two men hoisted from the ground the heavily armored corpse of what looked to be a affluent and well-equipped man. His bloodied face held host to an arrow that had pierced the man's eye so deep it was no doubt it was that which ended his life. His crimson cape was soaked with the blood of defeat, and soiled with the sands of desert. “The khafir's commander!”

Khalid watched as they threw down the man's body to Khalid's feet like an offering. They stepped back and bowed respectfully to him as he inspected the battered, twisted, and bloodied body of the Roman officer. His face stared blankly up at him, with only one good blue eye to behold the desert sky in a blank expression of awe and wonder. His pale face sunken as his mouth hung agape, frozen in a perpetual state of pain.

“He is not their commander.” Khalid exclaimed flatly, “He is merely another pet, hardly in the claws of the Roman Emperor.

“Truly, he is just a pawn in the ownership of one of Augustus' pets.” he snarled grimly.

“But then, if it is not the man who would have commanded them, who does?” asked one of the soldiers.

“Don't be daft, he commanded him here but he is not their commander.” Khalid barked, waving a gloved hand to the sky above, “He is the weak regent to the true commander of this band of brigands. The one who really held command is in our custody now.”

The two men starred agape. Confused by their commander's statement. “Prepare this body to send as a statement to the Roman governor in Syria.” he demanded, “Cut off his head and find a rider who was a friend to him and dispatch him to Damascus. May it serve as a warning to him, that the era of Rum in Arab land is at an end.”

“Go! Yallah!”

The martyrs were buried, one by one, and the funeral prayer was conducted, that God most high would forgive them their sins and allow them entry into the highest gardens of paradise. It was painful to part with those who walked and laughed with them but a day before, but the Muslims, if they wept, wept silently. Hudhayfa put his hand upon Harith's shoulder in an attempt to comfort him.
'Come Harith, weep no more. We are all destined for death and there is no better way to depart this world but in the cause of Allah,' Harith took a deep breath and nodded slowly, wiping the tears from his eyes.
'You are right, oh Hudhayfa. But my hearts is saddened greatly by Urwa's death. Our mother will weep rivers at losing him for he was always her favourite and she doted on none as she doted on him,' Hudhayfa was silent for a while before he shook his head and spoke once more.

'No, Harith. Remember the words of Allah and when he did say in his most holy book: 'And say not of those who are slain in the way of Allah: "They are dead." Nay, they are living, though ye perceive (it) not.' Indeed Urwa and all the martyrs are yet alive though we know it not. So weep not, and tell your mother not to weep, she is a mother of a martyr, should she not be happy to know that Urwa has been promised eternal bliss and gardens where he will feel neither illness nor death?' Harith's tears suddenly returned and he let out a few sobs.
'It pains us even more that he has beaten us to that reward while we yet remain upon this earth. It is almost as though Allah does not wish to see us or take us into his mercy. Would that Urwa and I were taken together,' at this Hudhayfa allowed a sigh to leave him.
'Weep not, oh Harith, for you fill my heart with sadness to see you in such a state,' and they two stood together for a while before Urwa's simple grave, and Hudhayfa soon tore the grief-stricken man away and they headed towards the tents.

On the way, they passed by some of the yet unburied bodies of the Romans, and Hudhyafa overheard the men standing over them mentioning what had been done to their commander. He stopped and looked towards them.
'Did Khalid truly do such a thing?' he asked them. They turned to him and one of them nodded.
'Indeed he did, I was there. He demanded that the man's head be cut off and that it be sent, along with the body, to Damascus. He said it would serve as an example for the others and a warning that in Arabia, Rum no longer rules,' Hudhayfa shook his head sadly.
'May Allah forgive Khalid, did he not hear the words of the Caliph of the Messenger of Allah before we set out?' the men looked from one to another and questioned Hudhayfa one what the Caliph had said.

'Indeed, he did stand up amongst us and call us all to him, saying:

I was most certainly there when he said it, and so too was Harith and many others. Did not word reach Khalid? He has most certainly erred greatly by mutilating their commander's body, even if he saw in so doing an advantage for the Muslims,' and with that, Hudhayfa delivered the salam to the men and went on his way with Harith.

Once back in their tent, Harith and Hudhayfa talked briefly about the events of the day and the significance of the fall of the Banu Ghassan capital of Al-Jabiya.
'Al-Jabiya is the heart of the Banu Ghassan kingdom, with its fall, the tribe will most certainly be inclined towards joining us. Indeed, when they see the beauty of Islam and our good treatment of them, they will most certainly be more willing to join us, and what a boon they will be. The Prophet, may the the prayers of God and peace be upon him, was indeed an example for us in this regard. How many were his bitter enemies who, upon seeing his good nature and his treatment of others, became his most willing allies?' Hudhayfa lay down, tired after the long day of digging and burying the martyred.
'And what is more, the Banu Ghassan are of us; they are Arabs and their loyalty must be to their blood. We have removed from them the yoke of the oppressive Rum and now they are free, certainly they have none to turn to but their own, honour is theirs today, for the Arabs have awakened from their ignorance and sleep and have come to deliver them from the hands of their overlords. May Allah guide their hearts and may this victory be another step forward for the Ummah of Mohammed,' Harith smiled slightly, glad to know that his brother had not only died a martyr, but that his martyrdom would had opened the doors of freedom for their Arab brethren.

'Now it remains for us to free our enslaved brethren in the east, for indeed, the Furs have a most powerful hold on the Banu Lahkm,' Harith said. Hudhayfa nodded slightly before he closed his eyes to sleep. The Adhan for the morning prayer would soon sound, and he wanted to get what little rest he could before then.

High above them the lingering sun burned with a bright fury on the backs of the camels. A small train coursed over the dusty, dry landscape as they snaked through the dunes on their course. The glint of weapons shone in the high desert sun, reflecting clear its golden light. The dusty robes and shemagh of the Bedouin travelers hung stiff and heavy from their shoulders in the still desert air.

Alongside them the camels gave grunts of annoyed discomfort. Piled over their backs the weight of loot throbbed into their chest at every step they took. The regular comforts of padding and bedding and of clothes and wrapped supplies doing little to mask the prodding and stabbing of sheathed swords and loose armor as they continued their course. Ahead of them, a single black-robed rider sat atop a night-black mare as he lead his men on through the sands.

With their heads held high they continued their proud journey without a word from their mouth. Save for the man they had as company.

Sat atop a captured white war-horse, slouched over the horn of his saddle a crumpled and bloody Roman leaned against the neck of his mount. The short-cropped hair of its mane scratched and tickled his bruised and cut cheeks. He starred at the passing sand under-him through tired, swollen eyes. In the insurmountable heat of day all things felt blurry and fuzzy. By the very fires of Satan himself he had been dragged into Hell itself.

His captors had bound his hands at his chest, they weakly gripped his horse's hide as he bounced along at a regular clip on the horse. His legs were tied tight to the saddle, strapping him to the back of the horse. And if he could kick it to spur it into a gallop he was sure he would fall to flop at its side like some full-bodied whore through the streets of Ravenna. But even he couldn't do that, not that the straps were so tight they held his ankles firm against the side of the horse but one of the barbarian captors pulled him along with his own reigns.

Sweat beaded off of his brow as much as it coursed through the fur of his white mare. The smell of the two lingering and mixing scents was powerful and ripe. It smelled of fear from him, and discomfort from the horse. Through all the smell of putrid blood and the vile desert pierced it like the shaft of a spear. It swam in his head, masking out even the vile smell of the Bedouin barbarians.

He had been taken prisoner, and he had been rode out with these Arabs for far longer than he cared to remember. Though he was sure it couldn't have been a day. But as the blistering high-heat sapped him of his composure he was becoming stiffly unsure where he was and when he was. He could only recite his name in his head.

'I am Priscus Caesar, Arabicus.' he told himself over and over. His thoughts as dry as his voice, 'I am Priscus Caesar, Arabicus. Noble of Rome, servant of God. I am a proud Christian man.

'I am Priscus Caesar, Arabicus. Son of Rome.'

“You pagan barbarians, Rome shall smash your temples, and burn your people for my rescue.” he groaned from the saddle. Sneering around every word in the sentence. His very tongue felt numb from the heat, and sapped dry as his lips. He knew not if he could even speak correctly, let alone if these Bedouins would understand Latin, let alone discern it from Persian.

“You steal off with a Roman prince, like he his some cattle. But I tell you here and now, I am not that!” he roared. His chest ached in pain as his heat-stricken chest retched to belt out the words, “I AM ARABICUS, I AM SON OF ROME! MY FATHER IS AUGUSTUS MARCELLUS! EMPEROR!”

For all his protest and his taunts, the Arabs did not so much bat an eye. They didn't turn, they kept moving into the infinity of Hell. How long would they drag him around? Until God saw fit to retire his soul from his body and he expired in this vile heat? And then what would these strange zealots do then? He shuttered at the idea, and it only made him more angry.

“Your people are a barbarian scourge, they are ones to be civilized. And it was I who should have done that!” he cried, “Not my brother, not my father. It was I who was to come and bring civilization to you as we had the Franks. It was I who was to come and punish you as we did the Zealots of Masada.”

His host continued to maintain muteness to Arabicus. Choosing instead to continue his long march. But from ahead, the man atop the black horse turned his horse to the side, and slowed to a stop until he and Arabicus were side-by-side.

“You speak of funny things.” the man crooned, smiling wide as he looked down at Arabicus. He squinted against the heat of the sun as the two mens' eyes met. His Latin was impeccable. Although mired by the alien accents of the negroes.

The leader rider was as black as his robes and his horse. A narrow and sullen face of an Abyssinian smiled down at him. Not out of any true humor, but of pride in himself.

“There are certain fires in hell that are reserved for people such as yours.” Arabicus cursed.

“Oh is there really?” laughed the Abyssinian, “I would dare say not, having lived in the excess heat of Arabia for so long, sadiq. But I doubt that this is the hottest land that Allah has created.”

“Even so, there are hotter fires for heathens. This I promise.” Arabicus continued in his protest. But his anger did not seem to impact the leader of this band who only smiled and laughed on his horse.

“That is a rich suggestion from the man who is a prince of a lost Empire.” he quipped back, “Rome, an entity so great but was swallowed in decadence all the same. It is you who will visit Hell for your whoring and your drinking. You all swim in palaces of gold, while you neglect the righteous of your lands.

“By the name of the prophet – blessed and peace be upon his name – and for Allah the most righteous it us not you who is the civilizer nor the savior. But it is us!” he talked with a beaming smile. His teeth shone in the sun, as yellowed as the sands were.

Raising his hand in the air he rode off down the line, shouting: “ALLAHU ACKBAR!” he cheered, “ALLAHU ACKBAR!”

His men responded in kind and the chorus was a loud explosion in Arabicus' ears. He flinched at the sound, his teeth clinched against them.

Riding back the Abyssinian looked down upon him, “That is the voice of the righteous!” he praised, “And what might would you offer to us that is not pure in devotion?”

“If I only had my men.” Arabicus jeered, “Then I shall show you a cheer to God louder than any you would hear!”

“Between the drunken hedonism and the whoring among your camp? I would dare to venture I would not hear it before the moans and the clink of wine!”

“And in the desert it's any better?”

“The dessert here is unpolluted and pure!” the African praised, “And though it may not be heaven on Earth, it is here where we wait for the purity, the awe, and the riches of heaven itself. When we die and are judged by Allah, we shall walk among a garden of honey and milk, where we shall drink sweet wine and never become too lost to think. Inshallah.

“It is the word prophet, blessings and peace be upon his humble name.”

“If you can not get drunk, then what is the point in drinking?” challenged Arabicus.

“A typical Roman if I ever laid eyes and ears on one. Trust me sadiq, when you reach a state of clairvoyance in your abstinence then you will see.

“I only pray it's in Allah's will you withdraw from the concept of your ennoble sin by time we reach Medina.”



“There are murmurs about the camp about you.” a soldier said, as he sat in the middle of the tent. Shaded from the sun, the cover of the heavy tent covering was almost an oasis of cool. Simple rugs covered the sandy floor. In the middle of the circle of commanders sat a clay bowl filled with dried dates. Each man took one to eat as they talked.

“Let them murmur.” Khalid responded dismissively, as he rolled a date between his fingers. He scowled at his compatriot.

The other, a thin man several years his younger leaned on one arm as he lounged across the carpets. Still in full armor, the blood having not been wholly washed up. Prayers had been conducted, and the next phases need to be continued.

The younger commander plunged the last bit of sun-dried date into his mouth, chewing. For a moment all was silent until he spoke: “They call you a corpse defiler, some do.”

“And I said: let them.” Khalid reminded, “Such men who would take such rumors into heart do not understand the full breadth of war, nor what was done to our brothers when they were arrested in Jerusalem.

“I'll allow the rumors to persist. Should the enemy spy on us, let these stories strike fear into their hearts as much as the infidel's head will to the governor. We are not simply raiders, we are an army here to sweep them away. Inshallah, I will have just that.”

“If Allah wills, yes.” the commander sighed, frowning. He brushed the few odd remnants of dates from his thin beard as he spoke, “But I do not know how much it will serve the men if they fear you are a hypocrite and an apostate to Mohammad's word.”

“There is a time and place for niceties and mercy, Hassan.” Khalid reminded with a sharp tone, “But when sword comes to sword not even the softest of touch can phase the best of soldiers. And it is here we have that.

“And they know it, and they know who I am. I who has lead them to victory and will still. So long as Abu-Bakr commands: I shall do.”

“Yes, commander.” bowed Hassan.

“Excellent.” Khalid grunted, “We should prepare to move soon. If any escaped the battle it is due time before they reach Syria and muster garrisons. With luck the desert will make them lost. But we shouldn't be sure. The soonest we can breach the Limes Arabicus the better it shall be for us. We will isolate the Roman armies, and we will decimate them.

“But we should also severe them from the remnants of their allies in the desert. Abullah,” he continued, looking to the side towards a stockier man. A heavy, full beard adorning his chin and lips. He stared at Khalid with a sure and steady gaze held in his emerald eyes, “I want you to go before Hudhayfa and request he rides to meet any Banu Ghassan. He's to eliminate their armies, drive them from the desert if need be. At best, convince them to convert or pay Jazya. But they are not to continue to swear allegiance to Rome.”

“Certainly.” bowed Abdullah, “When do you want them to leave?” he asked.

“Preferably: as soon as he can muster his tribe.

“The rest of us will make for Qasr Azraq and hold it to siege.” Khalid confirmed, “We will let the men further recuperate from battle, and let wounds be attended to. But we shall mount camels then and make for the fort immediately. We'll open a hole in their parameter, and then send for Abu Ubaidah.

“This is my word, and my command. Any questions?”

“What of the slaves?” asked Hassan.

“We will have to bring them to Qasr Azraq.” Khalid confirmed, “We will break their spirits as the walls fall and they know that the light of Allah illuminates their transgressions. Beyond Azraq, I am sure we can send them to Medina. But we mustn't tarry or devote any more troops to sending them south, not like after the first battle.

“We have Arabicus already, if Abu Bakr wills it, he will be a highly-prized chip.”

Winter had not yet fallen in Nahavand---after all, it was only a few days after Mehrgân---but already in the piedmont of the Alvand a light dusting of snow frosted the tops of the higher hillocks. In the rose gloom of dawn, the mists lay as thick as kashk on the heights; in that twilight hour, before the sun peaked over the imperious mountains, daevas were purported to roam unchecked, inciting mischief untold until the light of Ohrmazd the Lord forced them to flee into their furtive dwellings.

But the thought of daevas did not frighten the three figures who now penetrated those opaque mists.

Valash, the younger of the pair, had only nine summers to his name, and it was on his insistence (how endless had been his pleas!) that Bavand, his elder by nearly fifteen years, had finally yielded and decided upon taking the boy on his first hunt. Yet Bavand had been determined that he should learn the proper way---no grand escorts, no pageantry, no processions of eunuchs and concubines and glittering finery.

“This shall not be like the Shahanshah traipsing through the woods to the sweet pluckings of the palace musicians while his men roust the boar.” No, Valash would hunt in the manner that their forebears had hunted; and, eventually, Bavand had got his way, despite the ululations of the boy’s mother. The pair had risen while even the cocks still slept, and along with the laconic manservant Namvar, quietly mounted and rode out under the light of the stars.

It was bitterly cold. Valash wore a tight caftan of wool with a lining of rough silk, a mantle of Khotan ermine, thick woolen hose, fur-lined boots and warm leather gloves; yet even with these accouterments his teeth chattered and his face and fingers were going numb. Bavand fared little better, despite a cloak of fox fur that his father had gleaned from the White Huns, while Namvar, stoic and immoveable as always, stared on blankly---yet, even in the half-light, he could be discerned to be working his lips, gnashing his teeth, as if he was willing himself not to succumb to the cold. The Lurs were a proud people; far be it Namvar to prove himself weak to something as trivial as nature.

It had been a worldless affair. In the darkness, the gossamer thin oak leaves had let in, like the light of a candle behind a silken screen, the luminescence of the stars. It was autumn; the entire country had erupted into a conflagration of maroons, citrons, and shades of umber; in the town, they had smelt the aromas of the lavash bakers, who had risen even before they, at their tandoors; on the road, the trees had a perfume of their own, and more distant, there was the smell of ripe quinces that had been picked over for the Mehrgân feast.

They passed over silent streams choked with gilded leaves, through fields of winter wheat and sour barley. But those sweet sights, like dim vignettes in the gloom, faded as they came unto the foothills. Here there was only the must of grass and dung, and, like a dagger in the wind, the faint presentiment of snow.

Finally, as the Alvand came into view, Bavand held a gloved hand aloft, reined his mare, and, signalling his cohorts to halt, broke the silence that had hung between them, “We’ll breakfast before we hunt, and wait for dawn.”

He nodded towards Namvar, who brought his horse alongside the two princes and produced a parcel of the previous night’s lavash, cheese, walnuts, pickled quinces, apples, and tarragon---wilted in the ride---from his saddlebags. For the young prince, it was meager fare to be sure. On beholding what would be their breakfast, Valash exclaimed excitedly, yet also with a tincture of confusion, “We’re eating like peasants!”

But it was of no consequence to the two men, who rapaciously gnawed at the stale bread and let the thick quince juices dribble down their chins. Eventually, Valash too reneged on his prior skepticism; with a mouthful of cheese and bread and hunks of sweet nuts, he thought, dreamily, that he could not remember a better breakfast.

Through brief lacunae in their feast, Valash saw fit to satisfy the curiosity that plagues all youths in the form of an endless variety of questions.

“Shall we find many quarries today, brother?”

“Why does the Shah go to Susa in the winter?”

“Did our father give you your bow?”

“Have you ever seen a cataphract?”

“Is it almost dawn?”

“What will we catch today?”

“Have you ever heard of Eskandar the Roman? Farnod taught me of him yesterday. He said he lived came from Egypt and killed the Shah and burnt the Avesta! Did you know that?”

“Have you ever seen a daeva?”

“He also told me there’s a giant bird that lives in a tree in the middle of the sea! How can such a thing be possible?”

Each of these Bavand answered with half a grunt and half a word, but in good humor; Namvar, in a rare moment, seemed to wear a bemused grin, if it could be called that.

Their breakfast at end, and with the sun still hidden behind the curtain of the mountains, Bavand thought it high time to give the boy a sermon on the virtues of the hunt. With an air of mysticism, he produced his bow, curved in the style of the White Huns, nocked an arrow from his quiver, pulled, and, after a pause, aimed high and loosed. The arrow whirled and whistled through the air, flew in a great arc, and was lost to sight against the distant mountains.

With a smirk, he turned to Valash and asked, with an air of portent, “Do you know what this is?”

“Yes,” the boy answered bluntly. “It’s a bow.”

“It’s not just a bow,” Bavand answered, caressing the weapon’s lacquered curvature, “it’s my bow. And only my bow. None but me can use it. Do you know why?”

Valash giggled, “Because if just anyone used a prince's bow they'd be killed!”

Bavand smacked his lips, and continued, “Because, a man’s weapon is like his soul. It obeys him if his will is strong, and denies him if his will is weak. I am this bow’s master because my will is strong enough to gain its fealty. Yet if another endeavored to use it, they would be smote by Mazda. My sons shall wield this bow, if they are strong enough, just as Rostam wielded the Gorza like his father before him.”

“Take out your bow, brâdar.”

Valash brought out his bow, much smaller than his brother’s, but in the same style.

“Loose an arrow,” Bavand commanded, with no small amount of gravitas.

Valash, his small hands quaking, gingerly nocked an arrow, and although he had been thoroughly instructed since he was old enough to hold a bow, he, at least in the presence of his brother, faltered. Perhaps it was the cold that had made his arm stiff, for he could barely draw the arrow back, and when he finally did loose, it only flew to the crest of one of the nearby moors.

Dejectedly, he murmured, expecting rebuke, “I am sorry, brother. I was not strong.”

With affection, Bavand ruffled the boy’s woolen cap, “Nē, brād,” he began, “You are yet young, as I am.”

He nocked another arrow to his bow, and drew. “When I draw, I imagine myself as Freydun smiting Zahāk!” He laughed, high and clear, and loosed; again, the arrow flew far afield.

Bavand looked once more at his brother, shivering in his furs, and smiled, “I speak of serious things, my brother, and it is good for you to remember them. You may very well be spāhbed one day---but that is many years hence. Remember this only: do not be afraid. A raptor knows when the hawker fears it; it is the same for the bow and the man. Draw without fear and your arrow will fly true.”


They waited a while longer, in comfortable silence, while Namvar ensured that the two prince’s kits were in order. Finally, it seemed, a coral glow had risen dimly over the peaks of the Alvand, and the sky had faded to a pallid indigo flecked with stars and blushing cloudbanks, although the pre-dawn chill had not yet lifted.

Gathering the reins in one hand and with his bow, an arrow at the ready, in the other, Bavand nodded towards Namvar, and said simply, “It’s time.”

By the end of their excursion, they had caught five hares, and with great luck, a pheasant. A fine haul for Valash’s first hunt, and he had even loosed the quirrel that slew the pheasant.

“We shall have Mahbood make us a proper fesenjān from this pheasant, just for us, eh Namvar?” He smiled at the Lurish man, who looked him up and down with mild derision before urging his mare on.

Bavand reined in closely alongside the young prince, and whispered, nearly on the verge of laughter, “You might not think it, but Namvar loves rich khoresh and sweets. If you have a perceptive eye, you will see him reach into his robe and bring his hand out again, very discretely. He will look around to ensure that he is unseen, then in an instant, he will pop a piece of goz into his mouth. I've even seen him sneaking morsels from other people's plates at table, the little rat! Perhaps he never speaks in fear that his teeth will fall out!”

In the end, he did laugh, that high and clear laugh that one could hear even on the other side of the palace, and spurred his mount on to catch up with their mute companion.

The sun was at their backs, now high and lavishing the world in Mazda’s warmth from its cornice above the Alvand, enticing the autumn oaks to shimmering. Namvar had even saved an apple to reward Valash for a successful hunt. With his eyes on the fur-shawled back of his brother Bavand, the honeyed rays filtering through the leaves, and with the dulcet memory of the apple still on his tongue, Valash thought for the second time that day that he could not remember a happier time in his life.

It was at that moment that the arrow struck him in the shoulder and convulsed his body with another kind of heat entirely. The ground came up to meet him, and he heard nothing but the bone clattering of the leaves in a freshly risen breeze from the west.

The glorious sun shone high in the sky and from his bench in the gardens Narsē breathed deeply, basking in its warmth and the colorful and pleasant smells of his gardens. Though not as sumptuous as those of Ctesiphon, the Surenas still prided themselves in what they had managed to build in the arid mountains of Makrān. After all the region was well known for being extremely arid and mountainous. And yet through hard work and Persian engineering, generations of the Suren clan had managed to create a beautiful patch of green on the otherwise desolate lands of Makrān.

Narsē himself was specially diligent in the maintenance and expansion of the family's walled gardens - the Bāḡ-. "Gardens are an integral part of our heritage son." His father used to say. "It's a way to bring order and symmetry to the chaos of the desert. Through our work we duplicate the divine paradise on earth. We show the others our power by painting the desert green. And it's a great way to just relax and forget your troubles when things get too overwhelming. Just a couple hours enjoying the smells and sounds of your own work and even the highest mountains will become easier to overcome." Now, decades later Narsē understood this more than ever. The strain of his duties never ceased to increase. But no matter how hard or frustrating the situation got, a couple hours in the gardens smelling the flowers and listening to the birds would always clear his head.

Narsē released another contented sigh. The gardens never failed. And to think that he could not stand the place as a child. Fortunately for him his sons were quick in learning to appreciate the value of the gardens. Even though not as enthusiastically as Narsē himself. Narsē rose from the bench with another sigh. It was time to return to work, there were letters to write, accounts to review, treaties to draft. His afternoon would probably be just as busy as his morning was and if he was lucky he would manage to finish his work in time to attend dinner with the rest of his family. Oh well, at least the Empire was at peace.

Narsē took the long route back to his rooms. A few more minutes enjoying the sights of his garden probably wouldn't make any difference in the long run. And as he was reaching the edges of the garden he noticed his firstborn -Khosraw- emerging from a nearby canopied pathway. Looking rather disheveled for some reason. His clothes ruffled and dirty and his hair a mess.

"My son!" He called out as he approached his son while Khosraw turned towards him. Surveying the state of his son, Narsē continued: "What happened? I thought you were taking the twins to the gardens after lunch."

"I did..." Khosraw replied with an annoyed huff. "I thought it would be a good way to get them off their mother's bedside. With the baby due at anytime soon Rokhsāna could use a day without worrying about them too. Besides, it would be good to spend some time with them too, teach them the basics of gardening."

"And judging by your state I guess that the twins decided to run around the grass instead of sitting still and listening?" Narsē asked with amusement clear in his tone.

"What was I expecting anyway?" Khosraw asked with a defeated sigh. "Of course they wouldn't sit still. They're barely six...anyway they're their tutor's problems now. If you excuse me father I'm going to change into something that doesn't has a layer of dirt and grass over it."

"Of course." Narsē replied with a wave of his hand. "I will start of the letters for your brother in court and when you're ready you will review the budget and plans for reparations of the Qanats in Tis."

"As you wish father." Khosraw replied, giving a shot bow and walking away. Calling out for the servants to prepare him clean clothes and a bath.

As Narsē made his way to his study he chuckled lightly to himself, apparently fatherhood had made Khosraw forget that his own twins were still not as bad as he and his brothers had been during his boyhood. And if Khosraw had managed grown into a proper and respectable adult then the twins should prove no trouble given enough time and attention. Though he should spare some time to spend with his grandchildren and teach them properly. about the joys of gardening.

Harith, known more commonly as Abu Qatada, and who was known among the Arabs as Al-Harith ibn Rabee' al-Ansari of the Banu Abs, stood before Hudhayfa, listening to his chief's orders. He had summoned him not long after the Fajr prayer, when a call had also been given out that the warriors of the Banu Abs should prepare themselves to march out with Hudhayfa. The Muslim force was not extraordinarily large, approximately fifteen thousand strong, and Banu Abs warriors made up a good three thousand of those.

'Abu Qatada,' Hudhayfa spoke, 'I have here a letter, for Jabalah ibn al-Aiham, one of the more influential chiefs of Banu Ghassan. Deliver it to him and return quickly. If he rejects our call, and you are able to gain any information on enemy forces, do not hesitate to do so,' Hudhayfa handed him the letter and put a hand on the shoulder of his kinsman, 'may Allah return you to us quickly and safely, ya Abu Qatada.'

Abu Qatada took the letter and nodded to his chief.
'Do not worry, Hudhayfa, you have entrusted this task to me and with Allah's will I shall be up to it,' with that, Al-Harith turned away and left the tent, making for his horse. Hudhayfa was glad that he had quickly gotten over his brother's death, for he knew that Al-Harith was an intelligent man, he had been among the close companions of the Prophet and was of moral and faithful character. But what made him more valuable to Hudhayfa, other than their close friendship and tribal ties, was his ability to lead men. As a right-hand man, Hudhayfa could ask for none better. For now, however, his was an important mission and could see the Roman severely weakened and the Muslim strengthened. Hudhayfa knew Jabalah ibn al-Aiham, however. He was not a man who liked bending the knee to others and convincing him to join them against the Romans, let alone embrace Islam, would be a most difficult task indeed. Nothing was too difficult for Allah though, and Hudhayfa had belief that only what was best for the Muslims would come about.

Within the hour, he had reported to Khalid and informed him that his men were ready and that he would be marching out, as ordered.
'Do not worry, ya Abu Sulayman, we will clear the desert of the warriors of Banu Ghassan and your flanks and rear will be safe with us scouring the area. With Allah's help, we shall bring them into the fold. Failing that, we will offer them peace and the jizya. And if they deny this and continue their war against Allah, then we shall break them and scatter them until they find no helper or saviour from His wrath. May your victory be swift, commander,' he paused for a few seconds, 'and may you be an embodiment of Allah's mercy just as you are his drawn sword.'

With that, Hudhayfa sent a few riders out to scout the region, and marched his three thousand warriors out. There were among them a good seven hundred riders, both Fursan (horse cavalry) and Rukban (camel cavalry), while the remainder were Rijal (infantry soldiers). They would circle round towards the Roman border with the Banu Ghassan, and march south towards the desert, preventing any enemies attempting to flee to Roman-held lands from doing so, while also acting as a watch on the border in case of a surprise attack by the Romans and their allies. It was certain that they would want to attack quickly in order to find their captured prince if he was still alive, before he was taken too deep into Muslim lands. Of course, it was already too late. The son of the Emperor of Rome was already far in the desert, going back to Medina, but the Romans would not know that.

One of his scouts soon returned, informing him of a sizeable Ghassanid force making for the western border with the Romans at speed. Hudhayfa had not expected an entire Ghassanid army to be fleeing, but either way, it had to be prevented. If it managed to get to safety, it would certainly be back with greater forces.
'Do you have an estimates of its size?' he asked the scout. The scout bit his lip and replied hesitantly.
'I cannot be certain, for they were kicking up much sand in their hurry to flee. It could have been anything from a couple of thousand to seven or eight thousand,' at this information, Hudhayfa raised an eyebrow.
'Kicking up a lot of sand, you say...' there was a gleam in the man's eye as he spoke, and a plan slowly formed in his mind.



'Take me to Jabalah, for I have a letter for him from Hudhayfa ibn al-Yaman,' Al-Harith reined his horse in as he spoke to one of the guards of the encampment. He had come across a group of bedouins who had informed him that Jabalah had marched his men by not a day earlier, heading for a fortified town of the Banu Ghassan near the border with the Persians. It was clear that Jabalah had, for whatever reason, camped out in the middle of the desert until mid-day rather than continue the march to the fort.

The guard took Al-Harith's exhausted horse - for he and run it ragged - and told him to go on ahead, where two guards led him through the camp to a large tent. The messenger allowed his eyes to roam freely over the camp and made note of the rather small size of the force, which was most strange. He would have expected a chief of Banu Ghassan to have anything over seven thousand men at his command. This camp did not look like it could hold more than four thousand, if even that.

'My Lord! A messenger from the Muslim army,' the guard announced into the tent, before a voice commanded him to let the messenger in. Walking through the tent's entrance, Al-Harith noted the many carpets and cushions in the tent, with the undoubted figure of Jabalah reclining on a few such cushions towards the back. The scene reminded him of the likes of Abu Jahl and those other kuffar who had fought against the Prophet of Allah. They too had been mired in their decadence and love for this world. It seemed that Jabalah, even though he was a Christian and thus of the Ahl Al-Kitab, was not so different from them. What could Al-Harith say? He may have been Christian, but he remained an Arab of the times of Jahiliyya and that ignorance had mod certainly not left him. He prayed that Allah would open his heart to the light and truth.

'I am Al-Harith ibn Rabee' of the Banu Abs, and I come to you with a message from Hudhayfa ibn al-Yaman,' the messenger announced. The guard took the letter from him and handed it to Jabalah, who opened it and began to read aloud.



Jabalah looked up at Al-Harith once he had finished reading the letter, a scowl on his face.
'You wish for me, the King of Banu Ghassan, to submit myself to you? You southerners who are closer to beasts than you are to men?' he stood up, indignation apparent on his face.
'Oh Jabalah, will you be like those who rejected Jesus simply due to his low standing in their eyes? Certainly, he may have been low in their eyes, but he was of a rank most high with God,' Al-Harith said, his tone respectful but his eyes showing that he was unafraid to challenge the man before him, 'and what is more, the Banu Ghassan are not what they were. You may style yourself as the king of Banu Ghassan, but even now there is a self-styled king and warlord in every fort and village. Will you not join us and add your power to ours, and maybe you will find yourself a powerful man at our side, rather than weak and delusional alone.'

A gleam of anger sparked in Jabalah's eyes and he rose to his feet.
'You call me delusional? I am the king of Banu Ghassan! The Emperor of Rum himself has declared me as such! Who would deny me?' Jabalah clenched and unclenched his fists, 'I've just been...having a problem with rebellious subjects, that's all. And your attacks on my realms have not helped at all!'
'I would have much preferred that you and those 'rebellious subjects' join those who wish you well rather than fight us. Has the time not come to crush those who have enslaved you and your people for centuries, oh Jabalah? Even now you say that 'the Emperor' made you king. What kind of king must you be for a foreigner to appoint you as he pleases?' Al-Harith asked. Giving an irritated shout, the king turned away and spoke no more to Al-Harith. As the guard walked the messenger away, he spoke to Al-Harith.

'You are a very foolish man to speak to him like that,' they slowly came upon the entrance to the encampment.

'I have delivered my message of truth, but indeed, many are those who find in themselves a hatred for truth,' Al-Harith responded, and the guard gave him a pensive look.
'What did your Prophet tell you of Jesus and Mary?' he suddenly asked.

'He told us that Jesus was the son of Mary. He was the Word of God and his messenger, and it is obligatory upon us to believe in him and his miraculous birth and his message of truth. It is Jesus who promised the coming go the Final Prophet, and he has come, and we have followed in the path of Mohammed and Jesus and Moses and Abraham. We believe in the God they called people to, and we worship none beside Him,' Al-Harith approached the guard and smiled, 'know this, if your people come to us as Muslims, we shall embrace them with open arms and they shall be honoured among us, and all their sins will be forgiven for Islam wipes away all sins before it. And if they come to us as Christians, then they are of the Ahl Al-Kitab and it is obligatory upon us to respect and honour you and treat you with respect,' he backed away and mounted his horse before turning back to the guard.
'What is your name? For indeed I do see in your face the light of Iman, belief,' Al-Harith waited until the guard responded.
'I am Al-Nu'man ibn Zuhayr,' he said nodding to the messenger before the man turned his horse around and spurred it onward. Perhaps, Al-Nu'man thought to himself, this religion from the south was not so bad after all.



The Ghassanid force moved at speed, sand kicking up all around them as their commander pushed them on, promising them that safety was within their grasp. In Roman lands they would be able to regroup, prepare themselves and march back to free the capital from the Muslims. The sand dunes around them were a good place for enemies to hide, but the great cloud of dust they were kicking up hardly made that necessary.

The Muslim cavalry struck their rear, emerging from the sands they were kicking up like ghosts, their approach concealed by the cloud and its sound not recognisable from that of the fleeing Ghassanid force. As the cavalry ripped into them from behind, their commander ordered his men to turn and face the threat, only for the cavalry to withdraw and a hail of arrows to fall upon the Ghassanid forces as they gave chase through the cloud of sand.

'Allahu Akbar!' came a cry, and it was echoed by thousands more voices, 'lets get them while the main force circles around! They're completely trapped, Khalid has them now!' another shout sounded as more arrows fell upon the charging Ghassanids. Hearing this, many of the Ghassanids panicked and a few of the soldiers ran to their commander and told him of what they had heard. Terror eating at his heart, he commanded his men to put down their weapons and surrender.

'We surrender!' he shouted, 'put down your weapons men!' even as he spoke the Muslim force before them circled around and the clouds of sand their horses were kicking up did not help him see how many were surrounding them, but he guessed that the army must have been absolutely huge, for the sand cloud was rising up all around them, even as his soldiers put down their weapons and sat on the ground.

'Where is your commander?' he asked, 'we have surrendered,' the Ghassanid commander shouted. A bearded man with cold eyes approached him. The moment the Ghassanid commander saw him, he knew him to be their commander, and the coldness of his eyes frightened him slightly. Surely a man with such cold eyes would not know the meaning of mercy.
'May the Lord have mercy on us all,' he whispered to himself as he spurred his horse towards the man and announced their surrender. The man looked at him and nodded.

'We heard you. You have done well to put down your weapons. It is not right for Arabs to spill the blood of one another. Will you submit to the Lord of the Universe?' the cold-eyed man spoke to him.
'I have already submitted to the Lord of the Universe and have tied my heart and soul to the Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost,' the Ghassanid commander replied. The cold-eyed man did not seem very impressed.
'Then will you end your war against the God and the Muslims and ally yourself with us against our enemies? Or if not, will you live in peace and pay the Jizya?' the Muslim commander steered his horse closer to the Ghassanid as the sand clouds around them began to settle.
'I cannot ally myself to you, but I am most willing to live with you in peace,' the Ghassanid said. The cold-eyed commander nodded.
'Very well, you will go to Al-Jabiya and make your peace with Abu Sulayman,' he signalled for a few of his riders to come closer, 'take him and his men, for they have surrendered to us, to Al-Jabiya. They wish to settle down and live in peace.'

The rider nodded and began gathering up some men for the journey to AL-Jabiya. The commander turned back tot he Ghassanid.
'You have given us your oath, know that you are safe and honoured and no harm will come to you from us so long as pay the Jizya and maintain your peace. If you betray our trust or ally with the enemies of God against us, then we will be the wrath of God which strikes you down in this world, and in the hereafter is a far more painful torment if you but knew,' and with that, the commander turned away and the Ghassanid finally saw the force that had forced his surrender. It was no more than a few thousand, tiny in comparison to his nine thousand. Shocked and bewildered, and suddenly feeling humiliated, he shouted out to the commander, asking him for his name.

The cold-eyed man turned back and a smile broke out across his face - it was difficult to imagine that a face so cold could come out with such a warm smile.
'I am Hudhayfa ibn al-Yaman, a man who has submitted to the God of the Universe, and by His will you have been spared this day.'

“If a man cannot mount his horse, then he might as well fall on his sword, or offer up his ass in a bordello, for he is a man no longer. I’ll not ride in a palanquin even if I die in the effort, do you hear me, you impetuous imp? Eh? Have my horse saddled or may Ahriman smite you! Posthaste!”

Despite the fact that autumn was proceeding as usual, and that the day was yet young, the sun bore down on the Shahanshah host as relentlessly as a slavemaster’s whip. In two day’s ride from Ctesiphon, they had covered little ground---it seemed as if, each hour, an endlessly variety of incidents mired them in the muck, making their progress towards the Zagros lethargic at best and nonexistent for the vast majority of the time.

Within an hour of putting Ctesiphon’s walls behind them, an axle on the Shahanshah’s carriage’s twisted and broke; in an unfortunate albeit predictable stroke of unluckiness, a suitable replacement was not forthcoming, and thus the Shahanshah’s pushtigban themselves, along with one of the royal engineers, were forced to find a blacksmith of sufficient skill in a nearby village to forge a new one, most likely frightening the entire township half to death in the process.

By the time that the axle was procured, the sunlight was already failing, and thus it was decided that the Shah’s train would halt for the day. A great feast was set out: potted calf’s meat with vinegar; young tender kid with āb-kāmag and cloyingly thick kāmag; quince khoresh with peacock; herbed lavash and boiled quail’s eggs; stewed spinach, fried eggplant, pickled cucumbers; a curious grain that was in the process of being introduced on the northern coast and purported to hail from the east, called “rice”, which was tossed with herbs, butter, walnuts, and dried cherries; milk pudding, walnut sweetmeats, and a spoon sweet of Chinese ginger and cherry plum, all washed down with wines from Babylon and Ḥolwān.

After their sup, a chapter of the Memorial of Zarer was read---which put the Shahanshah, young as he was, to sleep---and some of the compositions of the esteemed Barbad were played (by a çārtār player who was by no means Barbad’s equal), followed by more poetry, at which time it was realized the Shah had been slumbering in his seat for hours and that he should be taken to his quarters to retire for the night. And thus, in one day they had covered a distance from Ctesiphon that could be walked by a hermit in an afternoon.

That first day, Alanda had nearly fainted in his saddle. His gout was acting up again, and biding time in the hot sun did nothing to mollify the situation. Nor did the rich food, none of which he was able to partake of; instead, he choked down barley gruel with butter, and a decoction prepared by his physician, the ironically named Iraj of Khorasah, who, although a graduate from the great Academy of Gondishapur, had proven himself a neophyte in the realm of gout treatment. “My first love was dentistry,” he had explained, with a shrug. Alanda would have beaten him had he had the strength to stand; instead, he ordered him to pore over every medical tome that could be procured, to test every possible treatment of gout that could be found, even if they were Greek or Roman---no, especially if they were Greek or Roman.

Every cure of Persian provenance had been amply tested; barbers from the great emperor of Chīnī had administered their poultices and unguents to no avail; he had been given a bath of yogurt, honey, and rosemary by a Turkic shaman, which had sufficed only to make him sticky, although the pleasing aroma of the rosemary persisted for some days; healers from as far as Shule, Shanshan, Khotan, Jingjue, and Dunhuang had paid him court; monks from the hoarfrosted mountains of Tibet had called upon the powers of their Buddha, yet even that heathen god had not the temerity to rid him of his ills. It was thus with great reluctance, and no small amount of repugnance, that Alanda had reneged, and looked to the barbarian westerners for deliverance.

“Cure me of this fucking affliction and you shall have a harem of Armenian whores and a palace of your own,” he had sworn to Iraj in bated breath, his eyes stinging from sweat and blinded by pain and tears, “If you cannot I will send your head back to the Academy in a pickle jar.”

Thenceforth, knowing Alanda, “The Spear of Mazda”, to be a man of his word, the physician had plumbed the archives of Ctesiphon with renewed vigor, scouring the city for the tomes his master sought. An entire carriage had been filled with the spoils of his efforts, and the man, with his curious waxed mustachios and bug-like eyes, had, even before the Shahanshah’s train had departed from the imperial compound, been seen to be scrutinizing over the books, rapidly sketching his findings in a notebook, sweat beading at his brow. Alanda watched him with an air of self-satisfaction.

The second day had passed been almost as eventful, and lacking velocity, as the first. The Shahanshah awoke late, and thus they embarked late, for it was necessary for the Shah to be made-up and swathed in his silks and well perfumed for the road; at noon, they paused for luncheon by a particularly scenic pond, where the Shahanshah wished to play among the water lilies, despite the protests of his councilors; and, of course, while the Shahanshah played, some poetry and music was in order; and, after he was done with his sport, another wardrobe change, for he had, naturally, sullied his vestments with pond mud.

Following that, the caravan actually did manage to make some headway, before a pair of highwaymen had the misfortune to be caught holding a family hostage as they ransacked a small date orchard with a pointed stick and a handful of stones (how they were able to manage such a feat is unknown), and were summarily delivered the Shah’s justice, with all the pomp and circumstance of an imperial tribunal. On top of that, they were Nestorians, and there were few things that entertained the mowbedan mowbed, Pouraj, more than administering punishment unto heathens.

Luckily, after that incident, his appetites sated, and in a rare moment of sanity (perhaps he was delivered a revelation from Ohrmazd), Pouraj suggested to the councilors, the Shahanshah, and the wuzurgan that they press on despite the failing light. Even the more frivolous of the company, sweating in their ornamented silks and lavishing themselves with Chinese fans, heaved a collective sigh of relief, though none more so than Alanda. Finally, an hour after nightfall, the Shahanshah protested that he was hungry, and they halted for the day.

They travelled to Susa, the winter capital; however, it had been determined that, since the Shahanshah had not yet made the traditional pilgrimage of kings to the great fire of the warriors, called Adur Gushnasp, in Media, this would be the perfect occasion to avail themselves of the opportunity. Furthermore, he would be entertained at the citadel of the Karenas in Nahavand, and an autumnal boar hunt would be organized. For Alanda, this was a great honor, but at the same time was driving him mad with stress, not to mention his troubles with gout. He only hoped that his wives, particularly his chief wife, Pari, had the means of making the proper preparations.

He was an intelligent enough man to know that the House of Karen was in a somewhat precarious position. He was getting on in years, and wracked with illness, notwithstanding gout; he had estimated once, as dryly as though he was speaking of the weather, that he had not three years to live. He had long ago resigned himself to death---he did not fear it, but rather welcomed it with open arms, wished to embrace it like a long-lost lover. He was satisfied with what he had accomplished in his life, and even believed himself to have lived up to the standards set by his forebears, and said so with no small amount of pride.

Yet he was uneasy about the fate of his house. His first son, Vushmigr, was more sickly than he, and likely was fated for an early death. The family had resigned themselves to that, and Vushmigr had given up his claim on the title long ago. His second son, Bavand, however, was the fruit of a concubine, a bastard; and while he had been recognized by Alanda, it would be scandalous for the offspring of a “Latin cunt”---though he despised the Latins, his cock was not so discriminatory---as Pari had once put it, to inherit so venerable a title as the patriarch of a Parthian house. Alanda thought that that was regrettable, for although the boy was a mutt, it was he, in his heart of hearts, that he regarded as his heir. He had grown up a boar---Alanda had commented on his “strong shoulders” the moment he had come out of the womb---and seemed to have a sensible head mounted thereon; he was a crackpot with bow and spear, an adept rider, and an amateur, albeit mediocre, poet, which was more than some of his wuzurgan cohorts could claim.

Thus, the inheritance had fallen to the last son, Valash, who was yet a boy. And a strong boy at that! Intelligent, inquisitive, full of spirit...but a child. And subject to the snares that are wont to nip children in the bud in their years of vulnerability. He had learnt from his mistakes with Vushmigr: from birth, Valash had been attended to by the most premier physicians that could be found, to annihilate any illness the moment it manifested itself. Thus far the fravashi had watched over them, and Mazda had shown clemency.

But the adder is not the only menace of the forest; wolves there are also, and tigers. And the lot of them, if given the opportunity, will avail themselves on the bleating lamb, and pounce. Though the wuzurgan of the court hid their intentions behind layers of paints, veils of taffeta, fans of silk, and, most repugnant in Alanda’s eyes, obsequious smiles and pedantic “pleasantries”, their eyes betrayed their malice.

He once remarked, upon being introduced to the heir of the House of Mihran, “That prince of Mihran might as well have vented wind from ass and walked away, for in his folly he has said as much as nothing and left a smell of rotten eggs.”

He trusted no one in the nest of vipers that was the court. Alanda thought that he had been far too long at Ctesiphon, sweltering in the heat and kowtowing to the vagaries of the boy-shah, smelling the shit of the Latins and the mud of the Tigris. Mehrgân had come all to slowly, but he had smiled through the awkward mumblings of the Shahanshah’s first speech, knowing that it would be only a matter of days before he quit the place forever, and could finally die in peace beneath the snows of the Alvand.

That was, of course, before the agony of his gout assaulted him once more. He had felt it in his bones, the moment a great autumn wind from the east had swept up the avenue of plane trees while he lounged in the Bagh-i Hinduvan. From then on, it began, that grinding sensation that made his every movement a quiet and flaming anguish. Though not a devout man, he believed in the healing power of the airyaman ishya, for he had chanted it in the worst times of Vushmigr’s illness; in those moments when it seemed as though the conflagration of his pain consumed his body entire, he murmured it silently, endeavoring to imagine himself as a small votive candle that subsisted despite a great gale. A priest had taught him that, once.

The third morning of their journey from Ctesiphon, the pain had awoken him early, and he found himself unable to stand. He had Iraj, who was still slumbering, called and had him administer some new antidote which he had been researching, while the ailing prince stared languidly at the canvas of the tent ceiling.

“This is a compress which I discovered in one of the more obscure works of Herophilus, the anatomist,” the physician explained, wiping sleep from his eyes and fumbling through his chest, “It was purported to have cured the gout of some Athenian sophist or other. We shall see...we shall see…”

“The damnable Latins,” Alanda murmured listlessly, while Iraj worked, “Did you know, Iraj, that they’ve one in Syria who calls himself ‘Arabicus’? He thought he could tame the goat-fuckers in the desert and their new god. But he was gobbled up the moment he got there. Fuck him and fuck the emperor.” He coughed, sending daggers of pain through his legs, and mouthed the airyaman ishya. “Are you done yet, you mangy goblin?”

The compress did nothing to alleviate Alanda’s woes; neither was he able to stand. Indeed, this morning the pain was particularly ferocious, so that, almost without knowing it, tears streamed down his cheeks relentlessly. Iraj advised that, at least for the day, he be carried in a palanquin, since going on horseback would put undue strain on him; of course, Alanda, proud as he was, stubbornly refused.

It was at that moment that a messenger announced himself, somewhat impudently, at the spāhbed’s tent. Reluctantly, Alanda allowed him to enter. The tent was dark, and fragrant with incense and the acrid must of medicine. “Why do you call upon me at this hour?” Alanda asked, trying his very best to give the appearance that he was not wracked with spasms of pain.

The man was a Lur, and, judging by his finery, had come from the mountains. “My lord of Karen, I bring two messages,” he began, removing his helm, "May I speak?" "Yes, yes, damn you," croaked Alanda, sitting up in his cot, "Out with it." “The first is this," the Lurish said, obviously uncomfortable at seeing the spāhbed so unhinged, "The Arabs have made attack on the Ghassanids, and put them to rout. They move now to take Mesopotamia, and make inroads on our holdings. I learned this when I came into the Shah’s camp, and, being the spāhbed of the West as you are, it was deemed to be of significance to you.”

It was not something that Alanda could think of at present; he absorbed the information almost without care, nodded, and waved his hand, blinking back tears.

The messenger, taking the cue, continued in his report, “The second I bring as courier, in the form of a letter from your wife, Pari. I was instructed to deliver it unto you, and to allow no other man to look upon it.” He procured a scroll of Chinese paper from his traveller’s cloak, knelt, and presented it to him.

With trembling hands, and with some difficulty, Alanda broke the seal. It was a short letter, written in a brutalized calligraphy smudged by tears, and its contents pummeled him as surely as he had been an iron beneath Kāve’s hammer:




The letter ended without signature.

Something stirred deep within the man. In a moment of frightening lucidity, Alanda set aside the parchment, grasped his mace, which lay beside his bedroll, shot up, and smashed the weapon into the messenger’s face, spattering blood, gristle, and bone onto the incredulous Iraj and all over the walls of tent.

An instant after performing the deed, his legs failed him, and he collapsed, overcome by swells of blazing pain such as he had never felt before. His screams echoed far in the desert air, choking with dust and the promise of heat to come.

The messenger's screams, however, were buried beneath a spout of blood, clogging his throat, drowning him. Bits of smashed teeth and brain could be seen in the thin streams of hot blood that coiled about the remnants of his eye sockets. Iraj, still peppered with gore, moved quickly to extinguish the Lurish man's life with a mercifully deft thrust to the heart by means of small surgeon's knife.

The Shahanshah, asleep against his mother’s breast, was awakened by the distant cries, and, thinking it to be the howling of a daeva, wrapped his arms around her neck and was comforted by the pleasant, but faint aroma of the orange blossom perfume that still imbued her silks. He closed his eyes, and thought of the mountains.

Walking besides his horse, Khalid looked out past the winding dunes of the desert. Stretching out before him for miles the lengthy column of his army spanned towards the southern horizon. It disappeared behind sand-dunes only to re-appear trailing up the next like a snake. The bright glimmering of spear-tips shone from their weapons and armor in the sun. Though their progress was slow, it was consistent.

The groaning and grunts of camels and mules berated the calm desert air among the irregular footfalls of the Arab army, forming a gentle and irregular music. Khalid's gaze turned to the west where among the sand his cavalry rode in full gear protecting their flank most directly exposed to the Romans. Khalid could not take chances that the sons of Rome would mount an offensive on he and his men at this particular moment and so deep in the desert.

“Yallah!” he heard a distant voice shout behind him. The commander's attention turned from Rome back to the distant sands. Above the heads of bowed bedouins and their dismounted horses rode a figure upon his own horse. Brown and white robes bellowed behind him as he rode the edge of the column, looking to find his commander. With a knicker, and a yank against the reigns the man stopped, having found his man.

“Sayid Khalid!” the man hailed, turning his mount to cut in alongside his commander, “I must ask a question.”

Khalid did not at once respond to him and instead turned to look ahead. The softened hoof-falls of the horse drummed muffled against the sand alongside him as he led his horse over the dunes.

“What's the question?” he asked finally.

“Your honor, we were so close to Damascus, why did we not bring Allah's fury forth-right to the infidels?” asked the soldier.

“Would you head first into a den of asps?” challenged Khalid, looking up at the rider. His tongue whipped with a tinge of annoyance and disdain for the annoyance that found itself latching to his side.

“Hardly your honor, but truthfully Rome are not asps. And I would see them throw themselves on my sword as I would theirs, inshallah!” he declared proudly, “So why is it we return to Arabia?”

“Disown this thought from your mind, we are not returning to Arabia.” Khalid ordered.

“I would my lord, but truth by told it is not wholly mine.”

“Then whose thought is it, and why do they not come to me themselves?” said Khalid, sourly.

“Because my brothers guide the prisoners, and saw fit to dispatch me to settle our arguments.”

“Then if your brothers must know we do not march to head home, but to march and open a door to the house of Rome. If we strike so early at the head of Rome then we fight an army that we have not tired or whittled down. It is imperative that we force the Romans to be broken when we come upon Damascus. For us to march straight into the Roman den would be sentencing us to an early martyrdom.

“Their armies must meet us to be destroyed in the desert. We shall pull Jerusalem and Palestine out from under them first. And then the bricks of Damascus will fall.”



As night fell over the sands so too did the travelers. Finding a moon-lit oasis among the sands the horses and camels came to rest alongside the moon glow water.

“Let the Roman drink!” shouted the African in a booming voice. With a sharp cut the ropes that bound Arabicus to the saddle were cut loose and he fell out into the arms of his captors below. They let him down gently with a soft thud.

Laying sprawled on the ground near the banks of the water's edge he groaned in discomfort, his fingers raking through the loose sands and the thin grass that grew around the water's edge. His head swam in dizzying confusion and he pulled himself up. His legs were numb and his back was sore. His skin tingled with the painful burn of a million needles that dug into every pour. There was no doubt that much of him was sunburned.

Lethargically he scrambled to his knees. “If I refuse to drink, then what will you do?” he taunted. He sat on his knees. But for all his fortune he did not feel he had the strength to truly stand. His current condition made even so much as kneeling before the Arabs a chore.

“Then I will throw you in the oasis until you drink enough as you pull yourself out.” chided the Abyssinian, “I'm not interested in dead or dying Romans. And this is my act of zakat.”

“Excuse me?” murmured Arabicus through gritted teeth.

“In your tongue my friend: charity.” The Abyssinian knelled down in front of him, just outside arm's reach. In the darkness of the desert night he was as much a wraith as the date palms that grew around the sandy pond. “So go and drink, and I will offer you some goat's cheese.”

“This is foolishness.” Arabicus commented cynically, “How am I not to know this gift of yours is poison?”

The Abyssinian laughed, standing up he held out his arms and shouted to the men. They laughed. Arabicus looked up at him and the others with contempt and disdain. Were they laughing at him? “If we dragged you so far out just so you may die then you really have no sense about you!” beamed the Abyssinian, “My, it would have been easier to do that when we recovered your broken body from under your own horse. This would be twice you have made such a foolish charge!

“And perhaps then, maybe our mutual god can protect you if it is.” the Abyssinian taunted.

“And death is a more just and verdant thing for us than slavery. The children of Rome are not the dust at the bottom of shoes. We are the honey crust of all men. The truly civilized. What does your people know of charity?”

“Then would you have us leave you alone in the desert, a camel's stomach filled with sand in your hands and no direction to see you to safety?” the Abyssinian asked patiently.

“I will see the heads of heretics upon spikes.” Arabicus swore.

“That is not an answer to the question. And since you do not drink...” he waved a hand to the side, giving a harsh sudden order. At a sudden glance firm hands were gripping Arabicus by the shoulders and arms and he was thrown without charity in the shallows of the oasis.

“Drink or be damned!” the Abyssinian ordered coldly as he stepped back from the shore. A few feet away a small fire was beginning to smolder as the Bedouin soldiers sat by its light and warmth.

Arabicus shivered as he slogged for purchase and balance in the wall. His feet splashed uncontrollably in the sandy mud and he fell back with a loud splash. His back hit the shallow oasis bottom and he rolled onto his hands and knees as the cold water flushed through his nose.

Coughing bitterly he stood on hands and knees as his crimson tunic hung in the desert water. Droplets fell from his hair as he watched his captors with a bewitching gaze. He felt no pride in his captivity.

“Is the water nice?” the African called back at him. Arabicus did not respond. Defeated and dejected he fell to the side, sitting on his side as the cool water lapped against his bare arms. The soft lapping soothed the burns of his arms.

With the water that soaked into his clothes the enraged fire that had smoldered inside him withdrew some. He surrendered to his desires if for a moment to disregard any notions of convoluted assassination attempts to drink from the reservoir. When he got his fill he crawled to shore and surrendered before the fire, shuddering from the harsh desert cold.

“And the champion of Rome returns.” praised the African. A small bundle was passed over to him from the Arab nearest to him. He opened to find a crumbled mass of white cheese which he picked from.

“Our mercy is much more that than Rome's.” noted the Abyssinian, “We do not need civilization, we have plenty of the kindness and compassion of the most merciful Allah.”

Arabicus did not comment. He glowered up at the dark-skinned man with a reserved contempt. One that he was unable to act upon, and his captor knew that much from the surefire smile on his face.

Villa Almodóvar del Río - Roman Province of Hispania

A cool wind blew southwards from the Mountains as dark began to descend and Marius Titinius Silvanus mentally blessed the hilltop he had chosen for his home. In the village below lights began to flicker to life and he could hear the final calls of the days vendors even the night watchmen ordered them to be on their way. Dogs barked and children laughed, their tiny shadows flitting along the streets barely visible from his height above the plain.

The marble below his feet was smooth to the touch and his fingers grasped the column that supported the red tiled roof above, his fingers unconsciously rubbing at some imagined imperfection. The green toga he wore shifted slightly as the night air tugged at it, the ends twisting around his ankles. His face was cleanly shaven revealing a long scar that ran from the middle of his forehead down across the bridge of his nose, narrowly missing his right eye, and ending just above the jawbone of his right cheek. One did not serve the Empire as a solider for thirty years and not have a few reminders to take home with him.

Except for a few servants and guards he was quite alone on the hilltop. Despite his best efforts he had been unable to have any children, no matter how many women he took to his bed, and he had concluded that he was sterile. It was no secret anymore and numerous priests of multiple faiths had tried to win his favour with their remedies and prayers, none had succeeded and he had given up. He took no wife as a result and while he enjoyed a steady flow of mistresses he allowed none of them to remain for long. His life was a solitary one.

There was a soft tread upon the marble behind him and he turned to find himself gazing into the eyes of one of six Cane Corso mastiff dogs that he kept in the Villa. The dogs were massive in size and served to keep away even the most determined thieves. He knelt and the dog trotted towards him, lowering its massive head in hopes of some affection and Silvanus smiled as he ruffled the creature’s head, scratching it idly behind the ears. It licked his hand and then sat next to him, ears cocked towards the village below.

He had always marveled at a dog’s ability to sense their masters mood as he sat cross legged next to the beast and continued to stroke its head as they looked out into the gathering darkness.

Neither moved until the last rays of daylight had fully faded from the skyline leaving the plains below in darkness. The village at the foot of the hill gleamed in the darkness and to the east the brighter glow betrayed the location of Córdoba, Capital of Roman Hispania. Silvanus had a townhouse there that he had not visited in nearly a month and reflected on how much his only sister must be enjoying it while he was away.

His elevation in Imperial Command and retirement had ensured substantial wealth for the rest of his days and his sister, being his only living kin, had understandably profited from his generosity as much as any other person did. He had purchased a generous townhome originally intended for his own use but his distaste for the city had driven him to build the Grand Villa, as the locals called it, some twenty miles outside the city. He had left the townhome in her care then, providing a comfortable apartment was reserved fro him. He had allowed her a small, but handsome, income from his estate so that she would want for nothing.

And nothing was just what she did. Well, almost nothing. She had become heavily involved in the Gladiator ring, even buying two Gaul’s who were doing fairly well so that she was making money on their winnings. Silvanus suspected that one or both went to her bed but, after some thought, decided it didn’t matter if they did. She had her life and he his, they had never been close.

He stood at last, balancing on the column next to him. The dog gave a last wag of its tail and then vanished from the room with a final lick of his hand. He heard a surprised curse in the hallway beyond his rooms, a deep throated growl and then a stream of Gallic he barely followed, the gist of it being curses aimed at the dog who had surprised the speaker. At length a tall thin man with the finely cut features of one from the Roman provinces in Gaul appeared in the doorway, a light in one hand.

“Bloody dog…” Muttered the Gaul in Latin as he limped about the room lighting several small side lamps so that a golden glow lit up the sitting room, dancing across the water of the small fountain that gave the space so much serenity.

“Which one?” Teased Silvanus. The Gaul, whose name was Keaghan, had served with Silvanus in North Africa during his final campaign. He had been quartermaster and foot soldier and suffered a disabling wound to his left foot that had him drummed out of the army about the same time Silvanus retired. Silvanus had taken him on as a personal servant, a job the man had taken to very well. When the Grand Villa had been built Keaghan had become head of the household staff and managed the day to day running of things with adept skill.

“All of them!” Snapped the Gaul. “Always lurking around corners, waiting to pounce.” Silvanus laughed and Keaghan continued to mutter as he lit a final light, glancing around to ensure that everything was as it should be and then nodding a goodnight before vanishing from the room.

Silvanus pulled off his toga and laid it on the corner of a nearby bench. His personal spaces were Spartan in their furnishing and always very tidy, he abhorred a mess and as a result the villa was always spotless. He laid down in the large bed, pulling a thin sheet over himself for the night was still warm and closed his eyes, unaware of the events in the east that would change his life once again.

Antioch, Roman Syria

Crispinus did not like traveling by sea. It was not sea sickness that troubled him; he did not seem to be plagued by the nausea that overcame so many of his land-loving soldiers. For him, it was the unnatural feeling of the thing. The sight of the sea itself was what bothered him the most. It was endless, a choppy blue void that went on blasphemously into the infinite, and it reminded him how helpless they were so far from land. When he was out on deck, he watched every wave with suspicion, and every cloud with the same fearful awe that must have enveloped John of Patmos when the apocalypse was revealed before him. Because of this, he preferred to stay in his cabin and prepare his dispatches for the Saracen war.

The cabin was not an ideal retreat from the woes of sea travel, however. The timbers creaked and groaned, reminding him that it was nothing more than the glory of God and the skill of the shipwright that kept them above water. The room smelled like sea-salt and stale body odor, and there were no windows to let in light. It was dark and dank, lit only by a few oil burning lamps.

"Address to Marcellus Augustus" Crispinus dictated. He had a low voice, the sort that could command on a battlefield when needed, but was more often heard in a low, contemplative volume. His skin was an olive-toned light brown, and he was balding due to middle age, though his hair was still as black as tar. He paced the floor in a white tunic with round, geometric patterns woven into the cloth. He dictated to a young secretary; a mustachioed Roman-African named Boethius.

"I have contemplated your magnanimous offer to supply western leaders for the conflict against the Saracens of the east. To... oh devil, how do I say this?" he paused. "Your stipulations... it is my... it is fitting for any general to consider the importance of maintaining the difficult borders in the west, so I have accepted it as my natural duty to make my requests with consideration to your needs."

The 'stipulation' that he avoid asking for any active generals or Palatini were the requirements of any request for aid, and one that Crispinus had no doubt came from the jealous career politicians that filled Imperial court. Even on campaign, the Emperor was surrounded by ambitious generals and men who feared their civilian offices could be endangered by the success of others. They took any chance to plant a seed of doubt in the mind of the Emperor regarding the loyalty of successful men. It was a game, and not one that Crispinus had any interest in playing.

"If he can be spared, I wish to call upon Manius Titinius Silvanus, who served loyally in the maintenance of the African borders when many of the legions stationed in Africa were called into action in Hispania and Gaul. He has a capacity for fighting in drier climates, and understands the practices of the people who dwell there. He is, as far as I am aware, retired from active military life and therefore his absence will be a burden to nobody but his own kin, who are adapted toward the sacrifices loyal servants must make for the state."

Crispinus waited as Boethius wrote. The young man mouthed each word as he carefully etched it onto yellowing parchment. While he waited, Crispinus chipped at the soft outer layer of a wooden support beam with his thumbnail. Splinters pealed away with little effort. The wood was damp and spongy from years of service on the open sea.

"Finished." Boethius said. Crispinus turned from the aging beam.

"Read it back to me."

"To the illustrious Marcellus Augustus, Dominus Noster.
I have contemplated your magnanimous offer to supply western leaders for the conflict against the Saracens of the east. It is fitting for any general to consider the importance of maintaining the difficult borders in the west, so I have accepted it as my natural duty to make my requests with consideration to your needs. If he can be spared, I wish to call upon Manius Titinius Silvanus, who served loyally in the maintenance of the African borders when many of the legions stationed in Africa were called into action in Hispania and Gaul. He has a capacity for fighting in drier climates, and understands the practices of the people who dwell there. He is, as far as I am aware, retired from active military life and therefore his loss will be a burden to nobody but his own kin, who are adapted toward the sacrifices loyal servants must make to the state.
Your servant Flavius Crispinus, Vicar of the Orient."

"Good, I suppose." Crispinus answered, digging wood-pulp from under his thumbnail. "You are better with words, Boethius. If you feel any changes are need, do what is necessary."

"I do not think any changes are needed." Boethius replied. "We will be making landfall soon, I will place this letter with the first Imperial ship I find en route to Venice. If... if that is what you wish, that is."

"Yes." Crispinus waved his hand. "Don't get too excited with the pomp. I trust you with this." he paused for a moment. "Though perhaps... perhaps you should make a copy and send the second over land with an officer."

"Do you fear somebody is attempting to harm your progress here?"

Crispinus smiled. "I cannot say I trust everyone in Italy. But perhaps that is because I do not know them all."

There was an abrupt commotion from outside the walls of the cabin, accented by the pounding of feet against the deck.

"Land?" Boethius said hopefully.

Crispinus said nothing. Instead, he went outdoors to see for himself.

His eyes struggled to adjust to the sunlight. It was one of those small things, like the tightness of his skin, that he noticed was deteriorating with time. On deck, sailors hollered and danced, or said their prayers and went back to work. The marines - Roman soldiers who wore padded leather instead of heavy steel armor - joined in the temporary celebration as well. Some clapped their oval shields against the deck, but they were all pointing toward the east, where a thin line of green marked the approaching Syrian coast.

"I feel like Saint Helen." the voice of his wife, Eudokia, surprised him. She gently strode down from the poop deck, carefully placing each foot fall. She was wearing a sky-blue stola, and a patterned scarf to cover her auburn-brown hair. A handmaid held a parasol to protect her mistress from the sun, but the Mediterranean heat still managed to bring out a blush in both of their faces.

"We are walking in her footsteps." Crispinus said, taking her by the hand as she cleared the last step. "For different reasons."

"Will we be stopping in Jerusalem?" she asked eagerly. "I know that the Emperor's business comes first, but if we have the opportunity to visit the holy places I would feel evil ignoring them. The intercession of God should not be taken as granted, after all."

"That will come in time, though I hope to visit most of the eastern provinces. It will be important for us to understand their defenses now that they sit on the precipice of war."

"Where will we be making our home? Have you chosen where to where to base this venture?"

Crispinus sniffed. "Antioch, for now. I do not know how fast the Saracens are moving, but the Arab tribes can advance quicker than our own forces. Antioch can be supplied by the sea, and it is a difficult city to take by siege. Jerusalem sits on a plain that can be approached from all sides."

"Caesarea sits against the sea, does it not?" Eudokia noted.

"That is true, but its walls are not as defensible. Antioch has been fortified against the Persian threat from the northwest, and it sits against a mountain so that it isn't so easy to approach. Complications like this will confound a Saracen, who's culture does not practice fortification in the way that civilized people do."

"Antioch." she smiled. Her eyes lit up like those of a child, an expression that came commonly to her, and one that her husband found endearing. She was fifteen years younger than him, and he could always see it in her eyes. "It is an ancient city. I will proudly breath its air."

"Very ancient." Crispinus nodded. "Seleucus chose the site himself, in the days following Alexander's death."

They were following the shoreline now, passing a crumbling town where a port had once sat. Some fishermen who were preparing their nets stared at them now with eyes shaded by straw hats. A meager fishing boat rested in the shallow remnants of a silted harbor, between the remnants of cracked sea walls. This had been Seleucia Pieria - the old port of Antioch, before nature reclaimed it.

Beyond Seleucia was the scrubby hills of coastal Syria. The grass was still green from the lingering spring rains. In the stony mountains that lorded over the landscape were pine forests, and groves of the fabled Cedars of Lebanon, which formed dark emerald patches on the brown-green slopes.

"I can see it now." Eudokia said, staring studiously at the hills. "This is a defensible place."

"Yes." Crispinus nodded. "Let us hope the city itself is up to the task."

-

They docked in St Symeon, the port city at the mouth of the Orontes river. This city was named for the famous Saint who had proved his devotion to God by living on top of a pillar until his death. From there Crispinus assembled his household and the picked men of his Bucellarii, and they proceeded down the road to Antioch. The city was fifteen miles from its port, nestled against the northern end of a mountainous ridge line. It was a brisk enough journey by horseback, across the sides of rock-strewn hills past shepherds keeping their flocks. Their party was mounted, save for the servants who trudged behind them and were quickly left in the dust to guard the plodding wagon train.

Most of an hour went by before they passed the ruined remnants of the old circuit wall, which had been abandoned centuries early. The old wall had always enclosed miles of farmland, and that was a weakness. It meant that the men defending it would be stretched thin and left vulnerable to a concentrated assault. A century before, the Emperor had ordered a new wall be build closer to the city, leaving the old one to crumble. Now the stone that had once protected the city from Persian invaders was being scavenged for building material by the farmers who's olive groves grew on both sides of the fragmented line.

The new wall hugged the city, rising up into the mountains above and coming back around to follow along the river. There were signs of decay, but they were in better condition than he could have hoped. As they passed through the gates, he saw eyes staring at him from the parapets. The wall was manned.

Duke Livius, one of Crispinus's lieutenants, leaned into his saddle to speak. "Do you see them?" he asked in a whisper.

Crispinus nodded. They were passing through the city now, down an avenue that cut between run down houses and old brick churches.

Livius was a large man with a neatly trimmed ebony beard. He wore a bear-skin cape over his shoulders despite the eastern heat. When he leaned to speak, he had to duck his head so to be at ear level with most men. "What do they know that we don't?" he asked.

"I fear the answer." Crispinus replied. "But it is a good sign that they come to their own defense. How often do we hear it that a foolish city sits on their hands and waits for the Emperor to swoop down and save them?"

"I am eager to hear more." Livius responded. "These Saracens are a new foe, for me at least. I am used to Goths."

"They will be a different beast." Crispinus replied. "For instance, they are not Christian."

"Yes." Livius nodded. "That is a good omen. When the heathen hordes pound on the gates of a city so revered in our Christian faith, God's favor will shine clear enough."

A third rider joined them. John the Vandal, another one of Crispinus' Dukes, was a brown-haired man with a pointed beard and blue eyes. He was the descendant of a Vandal noble who had sided with the Romans during the war to extinguish the short-lived Vandal Kingdom in Africa. That had been over a century ago, and he was one of the last of his people to still identify with his heritage.

"I would not make decisions for God, Livius." John grinned. If Livius was a good humored man, John was sour humored. Crispinus supposed it was well enough that both of them had a sense of humor at all. "Where is Gog and Magog?"

"Past the Gates of Alexander." Livius frowned. "In the lands where men have yellow skin and beaded eyes. That is not our concern. All we have to worry about is the Saracens."

"They destroyed a Roman army. Even if they are not Gog and Magog, they are dangerous. They took a Caesar."

"Young Caesar... Foolish boy." Livius shook his head. "He shouldn't have led his men into the desert, away from his supply lines and into places where the enemy feels at home."

"I heard he deemed himself the conqueror of Arabia." John mused, "I suppose he felt that he was required to conquer it after that."

"This is not seemly talk." Crispinus glowered, cutting them off. They were entering the forum now, where the city elders were gathered to welcome them. "We will discuss strategy later."

--

The elders welcomed them with subdued pomp, greeting them with a small contingent of the city garrison and the members of their own households. They blew trumpets as Crispinus and his companions entered the forum. The people of the city who were about their business in the market stalls and government offices of the Forum, gawked at the new comers as if they were traveling entertainers.

"Welcome, Imperial saviors of Syria!" the Praefect boomed. He was an elderly man with white hair and a belly that protruded so that his rich clothes looked something like a tent. "We did not expect you for another couple of days, but this is a pleasant surprise."

"We arrived in port this morning." Crispinus said. A servant rushed out and helped him dismount. "Our armies will march from St Symeon tomorrow, but I wanted to see the city ahead of time."

"Good, good." the Praefect nodded. He seem tense, as if he was nervous to get the Vicar to his work and wash his own hands of the whole affair. The next thing he said confirmed Crispinus's impressions "We should leave this place and talk. You probably want an update on the situation."

"I would like to rest if we have time." Crispinus responded. "And the sooner I reach my new home, the sooner my wife can make our household."

"Good, good." the Praefect repeated, but his tone was lower now, almost sinister. "But there is something you need to see. If you and your men follow me, I will take you to the Church of Saint Peter." In the Church? Crispinus was curious now, and it was his office to check on matters deemed important to the state. Though he was tired, he followed the Praefect and did his duty.

They proceeded through the streets on foot, following the elders of the city and their guards past quiet shops and old houses with plaster pealing from their walls to reveal brick. On the eastern horizon, the mountains of Lebanon formed the barrier that protected this land from the deserts of Syria and Arabia. This was a tough land, where centuries worth of Roman generals had played cat and mouse games with Persian invaders in difficult mountain passes, and in the distant border forts which bordered the arid sands dividing Syria from the fertile plain of the Tigris and Euphrates. Any general worth is salt knew the history that had happened here; the tragedy of Crassus, the failures of Antony, and the humiliation of Valerian had all played out in the these eastern lands. But the Emperor's Trajan and Septimius Severus had launched their Mesopotamian campaigns from here as well, and it was in these mountains that the crafty Belisarius held back an army twice the size of his own.

When they came to the Church of Saint Peter, Crispinus was surprise to find that it was a cave built into the living rock of the mountain that protruded the furthest into town. It was carved to looked like the entrance to a standing church. They went inside, and Crispinus saw that very little space had been carved into the rock, making the church an alcove with a natural rocky ceiling.

"Messengers arrived from Emesa three days ago bearing news of the Prince's army." the Praefect spoke. Their foot steps echoed like rain-drops in a cavern pool. The church smelled strongly of incense, as if the priest was burning half of their supply at once. That seemed curious, but he was not used to the habits of Easterners quite yet.

"They confirmed what we already knew, that the Army of Arabicus Caesar is lost. The only survivors were slaughtered at a battle that took place near the camp of the Christian Saracens."

"The messengers that arrived here, were they Roman?" John the Vandal asked.

"No." the Praefect answered simply. "Christian Saracens. Some of their kind are fleeing to the safety of our borders. They say their kin from the south worship an Anti-Christ, and that they have came to destroy the word of God."

"Jupiter preserve us..." Livius exclaimed. He was an Italian, and vestiges of the old beliefs still lingered in that land, but he was no pagan. When he realized what he had said, he made the sign of the cross and bowed his head in silent prayer. The rest of them payed his slip no mind. There was another matter at hand now.

"They are seeking sanctuary with us now, but in the way of their people they sleep for a time in the afternoons. I will wake them if you wish to speak with them..."

"That is the way of many people." John spoke. "But there is something you have not said yet. Go on, friend."

"Yes." the Praefect continued. "They came with a... a message. A message from the commander of the Saracen army."

"Directly?" Crispinus inquired. "They have spoken to him?"

"No." the Praefect replied quickly. "It was sent to Damascus, by way of which it reached Emesa."

"Damascus?" John inquired. "I might have heard the name before, but it does not mean much to me. Why would they send a message to that town?"

"It is one of the largest city's in Syria." the Praefect answered, seeming somewhat surprised by John's ignorance.

"A market city if I recall right." Crispinus spoke up, ignoring the loud silence of John and his wounded ego. "I suppose it is well known to the Saracens. Their caravans would pass through Damascus, not Antioch or Emesa."

"Yes." the Praefect answered. "But that is not what is important. The message they sent was... you will have to see to understand."

They reached a darkened corner of the room, where three censors hung smoking above a bejeweled golden bowl. It was there that the priest was waiting, lyrically chanting a prayer for the dead. What sat inside the bowl looked gruesome, like torn rags from a birthing bed all balled up and tossed aside. Crispinus thought it might be a relic at first, until the Praefect pulled away the linen coverings to reveal a morbid sight. It was a severed head, well rotted by the climate. Someone had dipped it in pitch to try to preserve its features, but it was too far gone to save and half skeletal.

Livius covered his nose with his robe. "What is this?" he said under the cloth.

"This... is Duke Anastasius. He commanded Arabicus Caesar's reserve when they left Jerusalem. From what we are told, he was the last surviving general."

"Surviving no longer." John said. "He died with the Christian Arabs?"

The Praefect nodded. "We are told the rest of his body arrived in Jerusalem. It is being rushed up here so he can be properly buried."

"He was a martyr." Crispinus spoke. He was offended by what he saw. It was an naked insult, there was no other way to read it. "This remnant should be made a relic. The Saracen who delivered it to Damascus..."

"Oh no, it was not delivered by a Saracen. The rider was Roman. He died from his wounds when he reached Damascus."

"Another martyr." John sighed.

Leaning in the saddle, Arabicus sat perched atop the horse. His hands tied to the horn as an Arab lead his mare across the rocky sands. Spindly, naked shrubs and bare trees loomed in the distance and in loose rolling dune. Around him the armed procession that lead the noble captive kept a brisk foot as they lead their own horses and camels along the hoof-trodden road.

Staring ahead Arabicus watched with a tired, angry glare the form of a distant castle rise up over the barren wasteland around it. Set on a pier of jagged sandstone, the golden-brown stone castle on the distance stood as a port of civilization in a sandy ocean. From its perch the walls cascaded down the shallow hill into the rocky desert, spilling out around the distant stone keep a carpet of civilization. The faint suggestion of a town stood there within the walls with the black banners of the new Arab empire flying proud and at full mast ahead.

As the prisoner caravan marched on it merged into the strung-out bands of twisting Bedouin caravans marching from the desert into the east. The stench of sweating camels was harsh and bitter, and Arabicus reeled against the putrid stench of the unwashed animals as they came to walk along side. There was laughter and jeering in Arabic, but none of which the noble could not understand. He sneered and shot glowering looks at the mud-faced and sandy Arabs. But his loud and offended expression did little to shy the infidels away as they gleamed tauntingly up at him in the saddle, waving at him their wooden walking sticks and insulting his character.

They walked on across the desert until they were upon the gates of the glowing Arabic castle. Armored guards watched with due vigilance as they rode in through the gates. And mounting his horse the Abyssinian joined up with Arabicus.

“Dumat al-Jandal.” exclaimed the Abyssinian as they passed under the modest entryway of the castle's portculis. Riding in through the narrow streets they soon found themselves bumping foot-to-shoulder with the locals and caravan runners who competed for jostling space in the narrow mud-brick walls of the castle and the community under neath it. Cut atop the sharp sandstone the mud and stone brick hovels of the residents sat low in the glowing heat of the sun. Women stood over-head, waving out the dust that had accumulated through that point of the day and raining down onto the streets below the fine silt that had packed into their wicker carpets.

“I was with the Sword of God himself when he came upon this castle twice to issue Allah's deliverance!” he declared proudly as he adjusted in his saddle. He smiled a bright beaming smile. His eyes shone with a deep pride.

“And I am here now to be finally sold to some putrid kinsman?” sneered Arabicus as he observed a slave-train being lead through the streets. The flowery pale skin and dirty golden and brown hair of the captives dictated much about who they were. Roman captives, though he could not name from where. They were tugged through the streets with bowed heads as their master lead them from horse-back ahead.

“You are too much!” boasted the African with a wide and tricky smile, “You are worth too much to be sold here. You are to go to the Caliph himself, Allah bless his rule!”

“And why is that? Am I some sacrifice to your heathen god?” Arabicus growled without shame or surrender. Though he was bound he was not about to stop the fight. No matter how much he was fed, watered, or cleaned.

“Allah desires no sacrifice but surrender to his might.” the Abyssinian explained, “The physical body is of no use to the Blessed Lord. But his service and his spirit. His will is powerful, and through it we will have liberation! Salvation from Iblis and the false desires of Hell.

“Someday the reckoning judgment of God will come, and it will be by the weight of our conviction that we will be judged. By his True Word as given to the world by the prophet Muhammad, blessed be his name.”

“You have conviction.” Arabicus pointed out, with only shallow praise and sharp sarcasm.

“It is my conviction which lead me here twice to see the will of the holy prophet carried out.” the Abyssinian cheered, waving his hand across the city before him, “And now I come to Dumat al-Jandal, if not of God's design perhaps.”

“Then why are we here?” Arabicus challenged.

“From here it is thirteen days to Medina. It is here the clans and tribes meet when crossing the desert. And it's here we shall resupply our rations and make the journey.

“But tell me, do you know what happened here?” asked the African, there was the sing-song note of excitement.

“I do not know, and I do not care.” Arabicus sneered.

“Then let the story be told!” the Abyssinian cheered, “We rode north to here from Medina, there number four-hundred of us. Sent by his holiness the Prophet Mohammad, blessed is his name, we were to charge upon the lord of the keep an ultimatum and invitation for the unity of all Arabs. I was once a slave, and then a free man I joined with the force lead by Khalid.

“We arrived and found the king who resided here. Capturing him we slew his brother and as the lord knelt before Khalid he was given the demands Muhammad had sent north. The king, a Christian who leaned towards Rome had become a cowering retch at the heels of the holiest of warriors.

“At Khalid's disposal the lord turned up and said that if it would save his people he would accept the word of Allah and reject Rome. Pleased with himself, Khalid ordered us to leave and we rode back to Medina.”

Arabicus stared straight-faced down the winding trodden sandy road as they slowly snaked through the market center of the castle. They entered a square and the other men broke off, leading camels and horses laden with loot. “On the second excursion Khalid again led us in force to this town.” the African continued, “It was here that natives had continued to worship a shrine to the pagan gods and they must be brought to the true faith. The lord of the castle had permitted this foul deed to be carried out. And in the desert just outside the wall we found their false idol and the worshipers.

“But seeing us they picked up arms and tarried against us. Battle commences. I slew many of the heathens before they were defeated in their entirety. For their worship of false idols and their aggression Khalid had them killed to the last soul. And with picks and rocks we shattered their heathen idol and dashed the pieces against the rocks.

“I have heard it said to me that we were so complete that the wives of the hostile pagans we slew came out to weep until they perished over the corpses of their fallen husbands. They did not accept Islam, and so they died lost. Ishallah, they will eventually find paradise still if Allah judges their hearts as kind. But they will without doubt miss the sweetest waters promised to the followers.”

“What a story, heathen.” Arabicus snickered with a sharp tongue.

“Pray you see Allah's greatness.” scoffed the Abyssinian.