There was no trace of the rage that once dwelled inside me, urging me forward to shed blood of man, woman or child. To avenge those I once held dear, robbed from me prematurely.

Perhaps it was the ornate beauty of this city. Perhaps it was the gentle breezes, the soft, soothing sound of the Mediterranean's waves crashing against Alexandrian shores, a wonderful phenomenon I was blessed to witness when Tetrarch Dalmatius allowed me leave of the barracks.

Perhaps it was the tender grace of Martha, the keen innocence reverberating from eyes as blue and deep as the sea and equally entrancing. Men were prone to drown beneath the sleek surface of either.

The journey that found me on Egyptian soil had not been a pleasant one, nor did I expect it to be. I was a man born for the deserts, a man that knew only the ways of bow and sword. A ship's deck was a duplicitous novelty to me; uneven footing, unsteady ground, the rocky motion, the swerving and the swaying. It was enough to force vomit to escape my lips a number of times, daily. Even when I attempted to slip away to my quarters below deck.

"Never seen the sea before," I remarked the first moment I set foot on deck.

"The Mediterranean?" Andronicus raised an eyebrow.

I shook my head. "Any sea."

Yet, it was a necessary journey, to spirit me away from the now hostile streets of Damascus, the site of my victory, the cradle of my glory.

I used the sack of dirhams that Yazid stashed beneath his bed to secure voyage on a ship bound for Alexandria, then a bustling city within Roman domain, as was Damascus.

The ship sliced through the breathtaking froth of the sea and the mists parted. As the waves unfurled, my breath caught in my chest and I gasped despite myself, for the gods revealed the jewel of this world and the ruby of nations, the city foremost among all others.

Alexandria.

I had never laid eyes upon anything of the like; it was a sliver of what the Muslims called paradise. The city glimmered in the wash of the afternoon sun's golden dew, as though every building, every monastery, every palace was constructed entirely of gold rather than brick and stone.

The sun's rays extended their clutch over to the sea, lapping gently at crag and shore, and it burst alight with the sheen of a thousand suns.

"Yathrib is a shithole," I said under my breath.

Yathrib was not fit to be dubbed city in comparison.

I was amazed at the wide roads and alleyways, the buildings polished to a brilliant sheen. There were cloth and silk banners either draped over them or adorning.

Mansions and temples, churches and monasteries, all ancient dwellings boasting of hundreds of years of history and lore, showed impeccable sturdiness and expert maintenance; they exhibited not a single dent nor crack. They were adorned with robust pillars and dazzling tiled rooftops, of which I'd never seen the like.

There were thousands of them, jam-packed within the ancient city, perched atop hills or dotting the landscape, each was more diverse than the next; some were of marble, others of stone, all with a dozen different hues and shades I never knew existed. The most wondrous of them all were those crowned with marvelous domes. They caught the light of the sun at an angle and winked brightly at me as the ship drew closer to shore.

And the people.

I had never seen so many in one place!

The bustling crowds, the endless throngs, the sounds of murmur, shuffling, yelling, the wicker and neigh of horses, the barking of dogs and the laughter of children. It was the raucous and clamor of everyday life, the melodies that came to represent order and civility.

One could see how one could grow soft and fat in such a setting; the services available at every marketplace, at every turn of the corner would leave a citizen wanting for nothing.

Every necessity was ready to be procured at one's beck and call, a far cry from the arduous life of a nomad, or the poor substitute of a sedentary in Yathrib.

"Land," I staggered, hopping down on the blessedly solid ground of the wooden harbor. "Oh, my fucking gods, solid land."

I sunk to both knees as a wave of dizziness washed over me. I prostrated on the harbor and kissed the wood of the harbor softly.

I was particularly taken with the sculptures arrayed at the harbor.

I continued to marvel at the keen craftmanship of the colossal stone and marble statues erected in squares and before arched gateways further in the city.

"Are these the Roman gods?" I asked Andronicus, the shipmaster of the vessel.

I had formed a warm bond with the stout old man. He reminded me of 'Abd al-Ka'aba.

Andronicus had the same air of intimidation to him as well as a scar carved on one cheek. His auburn curls were streaked white. And, much like 'Abd al-Ka'aba, he exhibited an endearing warmth beneath a rigid surface, and a raspy laugh that resembled the grating of stone on marble.

He favored me with one such laugh after my inquiry.

"The Roman gods are but relics of the past now, son," he replied. "As are many of these monuments. They celebrate storied heroes and noble emperors. Long since dead. No gods. We are blessed with the light of our lord and savior Jesus Christ now."

He followed his revelation with an odd gesture – maneuvering his hand about his chest in a manner that resembled the silver cross that hung at his neck.

Christianity was a peculiar religion, and not dissimilar from my native Judaism and the blossoming Islam. Which is why I took an instant dislike to it.

And so, I set foot in a city of gold.

"Sweet daughters of Allah," I gasped, marveling at the splendor of this most majestic of lands. The streets were paved with cobbled stone. There were walkways on the sides of the street, a level higher and flatter.

I remembered the fortress walls that belonged to the different tribes in Yathrib, barely the height of a man, a crude construction.

I remembered thinking how stout and formidable the fortress walls of Khaybar were in contrast, that they looked almost impregnable.

Yet, those same Khaybarian walls were put to shame by those of Alexandria.

They encircled the city in all corners but the harbor, where city gave way to docked ships and open sea. Alexandria's walls were of stone, thick and of an impressive caliber, manned by armed and armored troops. Their spear tips and the links of their chainmail glimmered prettily under the sun as they paced the ramparts.

A besieging army would find it a more than harrowing experience to storm these walls. Alexandria would not be a city taken easily by any marauder.

I had prayed to the gods for safe passage away from Damascus, as well as sanctuary. Yet they had sprouted me wings and seen me soaring to the fucking heavens instead!

I had suffered at the hands of foes for far too long, and the gods' recompense was more than satiating.

During my weeks on Andronicus' vessel, I spoke him of my misfortunes and my struggles in the windswept lands of Arabia; of course, I was forced to omit some of my more grotesque experiences, lest I risk this blossoming acquaintance. The gods only knew how lonely I was now, and how desperately I needed another to confide in.

My words fell on sympathizing ears, and Andronicus resolved to aid me in my pursuit of a fresh start.

"You're yet a boy, but you're a boy that does not shy from battle, and you've had your fair taste of it."

"It's the only thing I know."

Through some of the debts Roman officers owed him as well as the considerable leverage Andronicus held within Alexandria, he was able to secure me a position within the Alexandrian auxiliary, a unit populated with non-Roman troops.

Andronicus and I wove through looming stone arches decorated with odd symbols and shoved through throngs without end.

I could not help but openly gape at the wonders denied me my entire life. I had heard stories of Alexandria and far-away lands and the novelties within, yet I never imagined a city plucked from the very graces of the gods.

We descended stone stairways and saw the lavish houses and splendid places of worship give way to shabbier abodes.

The cobbled streets were replaced with narrow alleyways entangled with mud and muck and sand, the glory and splendor of the city fading away with each step.

Andronicus noticed my disappointment at the change of scenery and rasped his loud trademark laugh.

"The Egyptian district. Not so pretty, is it?"

The walls were crumbling and the wood rotten and stained; the alleyways were dark, stained with muck or pools of what seemed like piss. They were so narrow that two houses facing each other were near huddled, within arm's reach.

The people eyeing us from their doorways watched us pass with suspicion, yet Andronicus did not tense under their gaze, nor did he betray any intimidation; instead, he strode forward with a confident smile and a puffed chest. I tried to follow suit.

We stopped at the foot of a low wall of crumbling stone reinforced with wood where the bricks had fallen. The dents and cracks were riddled with vines and weeds. A large oak gate reinforced with studded metal bolts was flanked by unlit torches on sconces to either side.

"Who goes there?" a man challenged us from behind the gate.

"The man you owe two solidi, Cyril you whore's son," Andronicus boomed. "Now open the gate!"

Beyond the gate was an expansive courtyard of sand occupied by dozens of sweat-drenched men sparring with one another or otherwise lifting wooden poles with heavy laden buckets attached to either side. Others performed a number of other rigorous exercises, baking beneath a sweltering sun.

The courtyard gave way to stone pillars supporting wooden beams on three sides. The tiles here were a dirty brown, seemingly soiled with dust and debris.

This sanctuary of shade was lined with benches and pails of water.

The odor in this courtyard was one I was more familiar with; it was the stench of muck, shit, sweat, beer, iron and leather. I took comfort in the familiarity of the grunts of exertion, the dust, the scrape of sand beneath sandal or boot. I had finally folded wings and returned to familiar territory.

Andronicus skirted the courtyard and made his way toward a man that greeted him with a cold, stern look. They spoke words in the Greek tongue that I was not yet familiar with, and he managed to admit us to the audience chamber of a burly, white-haired man of a perpetual scowl, bushy eyebrows and thin lips.

It was the first time I laid eyes upon Tetrarch Dalmatius, one of the officers in command of the auxilia of Alexandria.

The auxiliary was composed of men hailing from lands beyond the provinces of the Roman Empire. The unit consisted of anywhere between five hundred and one thousand such troops.

They were men that did not grow up in the lands of the Romans nor did they speak their Greek tongue. A tetrarch was the humblest rank of officer in a tagma, and there were a number of such officers inside this unit known as a tagma. Each tetrarch was responsible for the command and training of almost forty common soldiers.

Dalmatius and Andronicus spoke some more of their gibberish; though I could not make out the meaning of their words, I noticed Andronicus' tone was glib while that of the tetrarch was more reserved. I did not fail to see the taunting smile that adorned Andronicus' face.

Finally, Dalmatius turned from the shipmaster and shifted his icy gaze toward me. He surprised me by addressing me, in my own native tongue.

"What have you to offer beyond base barbarism and homely appearance?" his command of the language seemed impeccable, though he was not without a trace of accent.

Taken aback, my mouth hung open for a short while. "You speak the Arab tongue?"

The man's face twisted in a scowl.

Andronicus only cackled. "Let us say that dear Dalmatius here is not without...some adventure in his youth."

"I asked you a question, you worthless lout," Dalmatius snapped at me.

Dalmatius' gaze was more terrifying than that of a raging warrior attempting to rip my heart out in the height of battle. I could not hold its weight, and so I stood staring at my sandals, cringing away from it.

"I am capable of wielding blade and shield, but the bow is my preferred weapon." I hefted the double-curved oak bow that was my spoil of war when I murdered Habib, my own cousin.

Dalmatius grunted.

Andronicus clapped me on a shoulder and cackled again. "Don't let the old bastard get in your head. He already knew you would be assigned to the archers; don't let the grim face fool you, he takes great pleasure in tormenting the poor sods beneath him. I'll leave you to it then. I'm sure you'll make the best of lovers."

Andronicus mimicked a kiss and started shuffling away.

"You're leaving?" I asked. "Now?"

"You would have me suffer the dust of this place? And Dalmatius' bloody face?" he spat on the sand of the fighting space. "I'm more than content with the boards of my ship's deck beneath my feet, thank you. If you enjoy the sight of sweaty lads laboring in the sun, far be it from me to judge, but I'll be in the shade of my cabin."

I watched Andronicus take his leave, suddenly feeling more alone than I had in years. What was to become of me now, in this foreign land among an alien people, away from my tongue, my beliefs, my customs? Andronicus had left me in this dour courtyard with a man so hostile as he was sour.

Dalmatius stepped forward, his unwelcoming eyes studying me as though I were a camel plucked for breeding. His gaze shifted sharply up and down.

"If it were not for Andronicus, I would have thrown you into the sea, filthy barbarian. If the Lord sees it fit to try me with your presence, it would be wise for you to jog about the field.

Thirty laps before I thump you on the arse. If you so much as cut a quarter of a corner, I will personally see to it that you are strung from the gates of Alexandria and denied rations for three months.

You heard me, barbarian. Move your fucking feet."

And, so began my life in Roman Alexandria.