The mounted warrior spurred his horse forward, away from the ranks of his Muslim comrades and only reined in when he had crossed half the distance of the flatland that separated both armies.

Vahan, our field commander, had sent the command to initiate deployment on the morning of that day. It was after a fresh batch of reinforcements had joined the Muslims. It was not the first time we witnessed such a phenomenon.

We could see the enemy numbers swelling by the day, as we lagged in our camp, wasting our time with negotiation.

It seemed he was afraid he would lose his numerical advantage if this steady stream of troops continued to reimburse the enemy's ranks.

The Muslim army was positioned on the banks of a river, as were we. Both rivers were tributaries of the Dead Sea. The Muslims used a hill to protect their vulnerable left from an outflanking maneuver by the numerically superior Roman army. Their right flank, however, was more exposed, situated on a slight incline to the north of the battlefield, spilling into the outskirts of a nearby village.

Both armies were situated on the plains of the Yarmouk valley, flatlands that were well suited to cavalry charges. However, the Muslims and the Romans alike deployed their cavalry regiments in reserve, a distance away from the infantry lines.

Our ranks were dominated with heavy infantry, mainly pikemen and spearmen, while others were armed with short sword, all complimented with round, kite-shaped or rectangular shields, painted a dozen different hues and adorned with a diverse set of fierce animals or sigils in the Greek letter.

We, the auxiliary, were mixed in with the infantry units, used as skirmishers, clad in arms and armor that we owned ourselves. Most of us did not have the luxury of owning a leather jerkin, let alone chainmail. All I wore was a knee-high tunic over trousers and sandal boots.

As skirmishing units, we would primarily use our bows and javelins, striking the enemy from a distance, screening the inevitable infantry clash. The decision frustrated me for I wanted to be included in the melee; I had the skills for it as well as a Persian blade, and slaughter had more of a joy to it with sword in hand.

Now, positioned in a slightly more advanced line than the infantry, we watched in silence as the Arab warrior trotted forward and began undressing.

It was to be the deciding factor over the hegemony of the Levant. Though all the gains the Muslims labored for these past two or so years had been undone to gather at Yarmouk as one concentrated force, they could still very well regain their glory by breaking this one army that consisted of the majority of imperial forces.

The troops on the Roman side eyed the spectacle with mixed expressions of disturbed incomprehension and sheer awe. The rider removed his turban, the chainmail and tunic beneath.

He tossed his discarded garments at his horse's hooves, revealing an impressive physique; he was a hulking figure, broad of chest with arms thick as tree trunks and shoulders the size of boulders. Every inch of his body was taut with muscle, covered with a white sheen of sweat.

He flexed his massive chest muscles and roared a great bellow of defiance that quaked the ground beneath our feet. With bow in hand, I was on the front line, ready to cover the infantry advance when commanded, so I had a front row seat.

"I am the mighty Dhirrar ibn al-Azwar," he roared in Greek. "I am Dhirrar ibn al-Azwar ibn Malik ibn Aws ibn Jadhimah ibn Rabia ibn Malik ibn Sha'labah ibn Asad ibn Khuzaymah ibn Mudrikah ibn Ilyas ibn Mudar ibn Nizar ibn Adnan al-Asadi.

I am the death of pale faces! I am the killer of Romans! I am the scourge Allah has sent upon you," he paused, sucking in a breath before continuing. "I am Dhirrar ibn al-Azwar!"

He gave another great roar that echoed off the sides of the valley. His comrades echoed his cries with matched ferocity, stomping their feet in unison. The din rang across the valley, compounded by the echoes off gorge and hill. They took up religious cries and recited epic verses of poetry, speaking of deeds of valor and gallantry.

"Allahu Akbar!" was one of the more popular chants among them, as usual, rippling through the Muslim lines until it swallowed all others and became the sole chant. They swarmed the valley with their provocative cries and stomping that saw the ground beneath our feet tremble.

The first of the Roman officers emerged from behind the ranks of infantrymen. The man galloped out to face Dhirrar, this self-proclaimed scourge of Allah, disturbing the neatly organized lines of pikemen and skirmishers as well as our formation.

I recognized the man as our bikarios, the officer second only to the tribunos in the Alexandrian auxiliary tagma.

Dhirrar roared in his face, snarling and flexing, the edges of his mouth foaming.

Both men unsheathed their weapons. The Battle of Yarmouk had commenced.

Dhirrar heaved a broadsword of a size befitting his own, while our bikarios swung his tinier blade at the larger foe.

Dhirrar ducked beneath the swing and slashed at the Roman's exposed thigh; Dhirrar shed first blood. The bikarios cried out in pain, but the duel was not yet over. The officer wheeled his horse around in a wide arc to meet the Arab warrior once more and swung his blade again in an effort to slice Dhirrar's head off or wound his neck.

Dhirrar tugged at his reins, prompting his mount to take a step backward, and the bikarios' blade hissed through thin air. He was left vulnerable and exposed once more, leaning forward in his saddle.

And Dhirrar did not flinch from capitalizing on such a fatal error born of arrogance once more. Dhirrar lunged forward with his blade, and in one clean stroke pierced the bikarios' throat.

His life's blood trickled down the side of the Arab sword as the tip dripped red. The bikarios slumped in his saddle and his sword thumped to the ground, released by a limp hand.

To the gleeful shouts and chants of the Muslim warriors beyond, Dhirrar dismounted from his saddle and strode toward his foe's corpse and pulled it from the saddle. He raised his blade high above his head time and again before finally cleaving off the defeated Roman's head after a number of failed attempts. Truly a gruesome sight.

It sowed the first seeds of doubt within me. We had been treating this enemy so flippantly. We deemed this battle a victory before it had begun. Yet, in a black tent resided an undefeated general, and sprawled on the sands before us was a decapitated superior officer.

Dhirrar turned to face his comrades, displaying the head as though it were a trophy, grabbing it by the hair and extending his arm toward adoring crowds, frenzied by the bloodshed.

Another Roman galloped forward, bellowing and cursing, parting ranks.

Three more Roman officers fell to Dhirrar's sword that day.

Each time, he would boast of his prowess and his lineage, as well as the fact that he was the bringer of death to all Romans who dared oppose him. And each time, he would dismount from his own horse in order to cleave the head off his fallen adversary and display it to the roaring and stomping Muslim masses.

The first day of battle trudged along in an equally frustrating manner. We were ordered forward to screen the infantry advance. I nocked, drew and loosed, hearing the sweet twang of my arrow evacuate my bowstring and journey to the enemy lines. My upper back and shoulders flared beneath the immense scrutiny.

Archery is truly a greater feat than most give it credit for. Yet, the arrow remained drawn unwavering, and my breathing remained stable – a vital phenomenon to lodge the arrow in intended target, born of years of rigorous training.

After a number of volleys, an order from Jabalah of the Ghassanids carried across the hierarchy until it was roared out to us by Dalmatius.

We sprinted forward, and while other men hurled their javelins at the Muslims' general direction and others used their slings, I nocked, drew and loosed, one flurry of projectiles following the last. There were proper Roman archers showering the enemy with their own maelstrom further down the lines.

Finally, we were ordered to a halt when we had grown too close to the approaching enemy lines. We allowed our trailing infantry to pass through. We watched them clash with the foe in a frenzied melee from afar, idle and passive as our ammunition dwindled.

The first day passed without progress, a stalemate if there was one.

It was merely a clash of foot soldiers, the two generals testing one another's resolve and determination. The Muslims did not give ground in the face of more numerous foe, their ferocity laid bare before Roman and non-Roman alike.

Now we knew these were not simple raiders.

Vahan, however, had a trick in store for the second day of fighting. Every troop in our encampment was roused from sleep shortly before dawn and ordered to ready themselves for the day's slaughter. Under the cover of darkness, we were quietly arrayed in the same neat lines of the day before – skirmishers to the front of the infantry, and cavalry reserve in close quarters behind.

The attack was signaled at the strike of dawn; the tactic was to catch the Muslims unawares, while they were occupied with their dawn prayers. We were ordered to charge, and as a cohesive skirmisher unit, we sprinted forward in the gloom, putting a measure of distance between us and the infantry to our backs.

I had an arrow nocked to my bow, kicking up clods of dust in my wake, our scant vision diminished by the lack of light. We sprinted forth in the gloom, my heart pounding against my ribs, whispering a prayer to Allat, great goddess of war.

However, Vahan and the Roman generals underestimated Khalid and the Arabs once again – a crucial factor in their downfall.

Khalid had anticipated such a maneuver; once we were in full sight of the enemy camp, cries of alarm and shouts rang out from the dark. Khalid had positioned sentries on the outskirts of his camp, tasked with alarming the praying forces for such an attack. Besides, I remember from my time with the Muslims that they divided their forces in two during prayer time – one group to pray, another to keep watch.

In any case, we were bombarded with a barrage of arrows and javelins, the Muslims retaliating in kind.

Serves the Roman bastards right for treating us like dirt, I thought. I could have provided them with useful information about the Muslims. But, no. I was a goat-fucking barbarian.

Men yelped to my right and left, one projectile or another finding its way past leather or chainmail to lodge firmly in chests or bellies or eyes. Comrades fell like wasps in the faint light of dawn, sometimes piling over one another.

The Muslim response was ruthless; my heart pounded ever faster in my chest and I ground my teeth, bracing myself for looming death or mortal wound.

I began praying for the gods' mercy should I fall this night, as arrows whizzed past my ears and skidded on the ground at my feet.

Yet, such was not my fate. Dalmatius sounded the retreat, and we eagerly acquiesced. With my cheeks flushed and my mind racing frantically, I clutched my bow close to chest and scurried away from the Muslim camp, neck craning backward momentarily, nervous of an arrow to the back.

We returned to Roman ranks, allowing the infantry their own taste of battle.

We hung back, puffing and panting, struggling for breath as the din of battle raged on beyond.

"Pleased to see..." I spoke to Kusaila between breaths. "you unscathed. Agh."

It was then that I became aware of an incessant throbbing in my left arm and sharp pain at my hip. My tunic was torn and ruined at the left sleeve; the skin below soiled with trickling blood. An arrow had found itself lodged into my hipbone as well, the source of my lower body pain.

"It's a shallow wound," Kusaila grunted, stepping over to fret over me and tend to the wound with dexterous hands.

Others clutched their own wounds and limped back to camp in order to see them tended. The rest of us steadied ourselves and thanked whichever gods we believed in for sparing us this night. Ready to bleed again for a people that saw us as lowlife scum.

___________

On the second day, the entire army displayed its full might, pressing hard against the Muslim center as well as both flanks. We were ordered to back to our feet in order to sting the enemy with a fresh volley.

The morning sun emerged from the horizon and swallowed the final remnants of the night, casting long shadows and engulfing all in its presence. The tips of swords, spears and lances glimmered red with blood and gold with the reflection of the sun's magnificent rays.

My auxiliary comrades and I paused our barrage of projectiles to celebrate the progress exhibited by our left flank. They had begun to overwhelm their Muslim counterparts, pushing them further away from the field of battle; the Muslims struggled against the superior numbers, yet gave considerable ground nonetheless.

The Roman left flank of infantry pushed the foe all the way back to their encampment, where the wives and women of the Muslim warriors wailed and shrieked at their men, imbuing them with the necessary courage, the faith to hold steadfast in the face of encroaching death, but not enough to push back.

I threw my fist in the air and whispered a prayer of thanks to Allat, the goddess of war that this would spell the end for them. Once the Roman left disposed of the Muslim right, they would outflank the remainder of the army and decimate them entirely. The day would be ours in mere minutes. However, our jubilance was to be short-lived.

Perplexed, I could only stand and witness a display of sensational valor as the Muslim women dislodged the poles of their tents or grabbed makeshift weapons of their own and charged at the enemy, kicking up clouds of dust and raining the foe with a flurry of blows and shrieks.

This extraordinary testament of the unity and firm belief in the Muslim side spread an increasing number of seeds of doubt in my heart. These people were unflinching in the face of death, tempered by years of harsh circumstances and certainty that they were carrying out their god's will.

Hard circumstances breed hard men. And women too, apparently.

The women's emotional charge lent their men what morale they needed to push back their impeding foe and deny them the breakthrough that had been at arm's length only a moment before.

This time, Khalid pounced upon the encroaching Romans with his reserve cavalry, held back behind the ranks of infantry. I watched them gallop to reinforce, my heart sinking, my bow held close to heart. Khalid was distinct on his monstrous red-eyed warhorse with fangs for teeth, as he relieved the hard-pressed Muslims. The Romans were pushed back to initial position, and the status quo was restored.

Otherwise, the second day of the slaughter remained uneventful and neither side boasted of accomplishments to give them the upper hand. A lackluster battle if there ever was one.

______________

The following day, the third day of obstinate battle in the ravines of Yarmouk.

After a number of duels instigated by haughty Muslim warriors that saw the demise of even more high-ranking Roman officers, I stood in formation, ready to rain down hell upon the enemy with a fury, putting every inch of strength I could muster into my volleys – for the souls of loved ones lost.

However, it wasn't enough. The creak of bowstring underwhelming, the twang of flying arrows lackluster.

The Roman lines were yet far from the much-needed breakthrough. The Muslims would not give ground. Staying behind, watching the hand to hand slaughter from afar had become far too frustrating. I felt helpless and cornered, as though I were a child again. Helpless. A pawn in a grander scheme.

Never again.

I swore to wreak havoc upon the stubborn enemy and tear their ranks asunder. I was a man reborn, a beast in human skin. A caged beast held back on the whims of those who called themselves civilized.

A beast I needed to release.

And so, I did.