Ezra ibn Ka'b brandished his sword in the gorge as the now familiar whinnying of horses and high-pitched bleating of camels filled his ears, a sweet melody that represented all that defined him. It was the calm before the storm. The peace before slaughter. A camel groaned and a horse beat its hoof against the sand in the ravine. Ezra grinned, filling his nostrils with the distinct stench of leather, sweat, piss and beer.

        He had been concerned with all this nonsense talk of peace. Muhammad of Quraysh would usher in an unprecedented period of peace, they said. There would be no bloodshed among the tribes, they said. And Ezra had wrinkled his nose through it all, restraining his disdain lest he risk disrespecting his elders.

        But his heart soared when he heard the newest batches of rumors rippling through the city. Ezra's sword arm would not go lax, nor would he grow soft and laborious. It had not taken the so called muhajireen long to settle into Yathrib, and as soon as they did, they accepted any volunteers, be they Muslim or Jew, to join them in taking the fight to the Quraysh.

        Ezra had never before dreamed that he would face the might of Quraysh in open battle before. He had to admit that he had been shortsighted, as had many of the Yathribi chieftains. It was certainly a trait this Muhammad lacked. They had been so busy nipping at one another, quarreling over blood feuds ongoing for so long that the very men it concerned had forgotten its origins. They had been so invested in their petty squabbles, they had paid no heed to the fact their activities were detrimental, eating them from within, weakening them one day after another, depleting resources and manpower.

        But now, these men of the Quraysh, these men of Makkah, had taught them to redirect their energy to a more productive outlet, to fight for a more worthwhile cause. Instead of fighting the enemy within, they were fighting the enemy without.

        It had been little over a year since the muhajireen had fled their home city in favor of the succor offered by the tribes. And it was the finest time of Ezra's life. Time and again, Muhammad and his scores of followers would set forth from the shelter of the homes they shared with Yathribi converts and march to the new temple they built, the place of worship they called a mosque. The misshapen construction of wood and thatch stood barely erect to the south of the city and acted as a gathering point for the forces of the raids to assemble.

        And from there, on foot and saddle, the people of Yathrib and Makkah would rendezvous with scouts or local nomads that would brief them about the movement of the enemy, the progress of their caravan. And they would be led off to a place of hiding, sheltering them from the prying eyes of enemy. They were places much like the gorge Ezra now occupied with his comrades. It was a narrow nook of seclusion, a brief passage between two towering hillsides that flanked the reclining force.

        With studious care, Ezra stroked a whetstone against his blade, sharpening it, honing his dearest of possessions for the havoc they would wreak together in mere moments. His demeanor was calm, his strokes deliberate and meticulous. He had been on dozens of such raids. The Qurayshi caravan, cumbersome and lumbering, would have set forth from Makkah some days ago. They would be bound for Syria and the Roman cities to the north, seeking out a profit in trade, seeking to amass great wealth. Those riches would belong to Ezra instead, however.

        Ezra craned his head upward as a sharp cry called out from the summit of one of the hills. The man lifted his bow overhead, signaling that it was their cue. Ezra wrinkled his nose in disdain; the bow could be an efficient weapon sometimes, but to be an archer...it was cowardice. Only lesser men were so terrified of the foe that they would prefer killing them from afar. Where was the test of arms involved? Where was the display of strength or prowess?

        Nevertheless, as the scores of men around him bustled and hurried to gather their equipment, Ezra shuffled to his feet, and with one rapid movement, he hopped on to the saddle of his brown gelding. He had earned that mount long ago, in a fight against the Khazraj. It had been among his first spoils of war, when a grown warrior, hardened in fire and blood, had charged him from atop his saddle, blade held outright, his beard greasy and sullied with droplets of beer, calling for Ezra's blood. It had been a fierce display, one that would have crippled a lesser man. But the Khazraji warrior had fallen to Ezra's blade all the same, and his horse belonged to a man of the Qurayza now.

        Ezra rested his blade on a shoulder as his comrades fell into formation. The battle plan was simple as well as effective. Ezra smiled thinly as he caught the first hint of the figure of a camel in the distance. A horn sounded from above and he heard the bellows of archers, the scrape of wood against wood as they nocked and drew. Habib, his cousin, would be among them, he knew.

        There were men with bows as well as melee weapons riding on the ground with him this day, but the majority of the charging troops wielded blades and spears. As the horn echoed in the valley, Ezra grunted, spurring his horse forward with a nudge of his knees.

        The thundering of galloping hooves, the twang of arrows, wordless battle cries and the bellows of gallant warriors. Ezra took the sounds in, basking in the glory of ambush. There was nothing quite like taking the enemy by surprise, watching their faces twist in fear as realization dawned that this day might well be their last.

        The caravan was in full view now; vast columns of camels heavy laden with wooden crates or barrels imbued with goods, led forth by cloth-swathed men and a meagre escort of homegrown warriors and mercenaries that would prove poor protection against the might of Yathrib.

        Arrows whizzed past as the archers on the hill let loose and men cried in pain and alarm as hafts stuck out of chests and bellies and throats. When the first volley had passed, Ezra and his comrades hammered into the side of the Quraysh. Ezra raised his sword high, slashing the throat of a wide-eyed and terrified man open. His blood sprayed against the cloth of Ezra's garments and his furious horse. Men twitched in agony all around, clutching fatal wounds and weeping for their mothers as they drew their final breaths.

         And they painted the barren landscape of Arabia a gushing red.