January 636 AD, Dhul Qi'dah 14 AH

Martha brushed my cheek with a nail. "You should look into meeting with the priest I told you about."

We lay in her bed, covered in furs and entangled in one another's legs. Her long dark hair was draped all over my face, pricking at my skin.

I kissed her on the forehead and giggled. "I told you I have no problem with adopting this Jesus of yours. What's one more god?"

It had been three years since I abandoned Syrian shore for Egyptian embrace. I was a man of eight and ten years now, haughty and proud, quick of temper.

Three years I had spent in the Roman barracks of the auxiliary tagma, buried deep within the shoddy Egyptian district of Alexandria. I rarely saw the slums of the Egyptian district or the marvels of the Greeks beyond; the auxiliary camp was my district and the barracks my home.

"No," Martha sat up on an elbow and furrowed her brow. "There is but one god."

I let out a breath from my nostrils in exasperation. "Now you're sounding like a Muslim."

"I don't know what that is, but it seems like those are some wise people."

I hadn't spoken a word to her of my past. Ghosts are just that. Ghosts. They belong in the past, and in the past they would stay.

"Besides, don't Nazarenes have three gods?"

Martha pursed her lips in irritation. "First, we're called Christians. Christians. Say it after me."

"Nazarenes."

"Christians!"

"I'm saying it! What's your problem? Nazarenes."

Martha put a palm to her forehead, but a grin betrayed her. She darted toward me, wrapping her arms around my head and playfully bashing me against the skull with a fist.

"Promise me you'll meet the priest. At least listen to him."

I toyed with the silver cross pendant at her neck with a finger, the sole thing that adorned her otherwise nude body.

Finally, I nodded, smiling.

"But don't get involved in any politics. No matter what he says."

"Now, I'm just confused," I chuckled.

It's true that we were restrained to the barracks, barred from the splendor of Alexandria beyond. We were provided rations, any relevant news of the ongoings beyond the walls, but otherwise ours was a sheltered world.

Or at least it was meant to be.

The right bribe to a sentry on the rotting walls every now and then did not go amiss. It magically deprived them of their vision. Sometimes we would sneak out of the barracks at night, clambering up and down the walls, taking in the horrid stench of the Egyptian district.

It was on one such leave that I met Martha. But, in order to tell the tale of Martha, I must first speak of Arcadius.

Arcadius hailed from the lands of Hispania far to the west, a land once in the grasp of the Romans, yet long since overrun by the Visigoths, Arcadius' people.

Arcadius was a far cry from Mundhir; where the latter was boyish, quick to jest and full of life, the Visigoth was morose, profound and silent. He wore his golden hair long, tumbling gracefully to his shoulders.

Arcadius was tall and lean and his was the palest complexion I had ever seen. His eyes were of the lightest blue, deep-set in his face, the shade of the sea on a clear, dusky morning.

Perhaps the quality that allowed us to become such close companions during my time with the standing auxiliary was the darkness within him.

Our stories were similar somewhat, both imbued with deep misfortune and a glaring hatred for those who inflicted it upon us. Arcadius' claim was that his was a royal family, and he was among the heirs to the Visigothic kingdom of Hispania, his homeland.

"My land is one plagued by constant civil strife and warfare," he explained in his usual melancholy demeanor. "Kings do not last long on their thrones. Their families do not last long in this world."

Arcadius' uncle, the king of this Hispania, was assassinated in a coup orchestrated by one of his generals, and many of the king's family were put to the sword, including all of Arcadius' immediate kin.

Arcadius, a young boy then, was spirited away to safety by a loyal slave, a Numidian from the lands to the north of Africa. They found refuge in the slave's native tribe, one that roamed the shores and sands of north Africa.

"Badis was his name," Arcadius reminisced, speaking of the slave that escaped bondage in Hispania and rescued the young heir with him. "Badis was as a father to me. I grew among his people, more nomad now than royalty, more Numidian than Visigoth. And I'm all the stronger for it."

He crossed himself when he finished speaking of his troubled past.

"Numidia, you say. Then what has brought you to Egyptian shores?"

Arcadius paused, considering his answer.

"Vengeance," he replied. "The tribes of Numidia are a fierce bunch, but I've learned that in order to bury the bastards that massacred my family six feet under, I ought to learn proper formation and battle tactics. I need connections to men of power and a wider base of support. Alexandria was my best shot. Didn't know it would turn out to be a shithole."

Vengeance, I thought, nodding to myself. Now, this was a man I could hold a conversation with. I immediately took a liking to him.

Which is more than can be said of some of my comrades in the auxiliary.

I did forge another bond with a sullen Numidian called Kusaila. Short as Mundhir and pious as 'Amr, Kusaila never relinquished his grip on the scripture of the Christians other than to train.

But all word of God would be shoved to one corner of his mind when we took our leave of the barracks in the dead of night. The three of us – Arcadius, Kusaila and I – would stalk the streets of the teeming Egyptian district and seek out the hidden nightlife of Alexandria.

Taverns and whorehouses were a booming underground business in a deeply religious community. One would expect they would offer piss poor services, but my experience was one quite the contrary.

For it was on one such leave in one such tavern that I first laid eyes on Martha, utterly enamored by her elegance and sheer beauty.

But she was a whore. At first, I tried restraining myself. I tried telling myself it was meaningless, and I was but a client. The prospect of blossoming affection was a welcome surprise most tender. The thought of sharing things other than a bed with her had not crossed my mind. I did not expect her company would soon become free of charge.

I did not expect to be planning a future with her.

Meanwhile, three years later, I indulged in the luxuries Alexandria had to offer. I had been introduced to these privileges by Arcadius and Kusaila during one mutual leave of absence. It had been months since Andronicus' ship docked in the Alexandrian harbor, and it was the first time since then that I had set foot outside of camp.

Arcadius and Kusaila frequented a tavern during such trips away from the camp; it was located in the slums of the Egyptian district, not too far from the auxiliary camp, yet they reassured me that it provided fine service.

"I would not have taken either of you for the sort to frequent taverns."

In truth, they were poor substitute for the company of 'Amr and Mundhir, my true friends, my brothers.

"A man has needs, and it is wise to see them fulfilled," replied Arcadius, and Kusaila nodded in agreement.

"The Romans offer us no salary. How is it that you can afford this place?"

Roman military training was nothing like I had imagined it. The senior officers within the camp were arrogant and disdainful of us, and we were afforded none of the equipment Roman soldiers were. The words 'barbarians' and abominations were seldom absent from the tongues of the tetrarch and his superiors.

"Gambling and such," replied Arcadius.

It was during that leave, in that very tavern that I first laid eyes upon Martha. She was sleek and slender, tan-skinned and curly-haired with a smile that would not go amiss on the face of a goddess. Her eyes were too deep pools that drew men to their deaths. But, not me.

Martha was a whore at the tavern, yet our relationship blossomed further than just that of client and supplier. Within three years, we were inseparable. She educated me in the ways of the Romans, their history, and the everyday dealings of the city so that I was no longer a foreigner.

It was from Martha that I learned the Greek tongue. She always leapt at the opportunity to sate my curiosity and answer my inquiries.

"The Romans and the Persians have long been fighting," she said when I asked her of the underwhelming appearance of the Roman military. They claimed the tagma consisted of four thousand fighting men, yet the camp was absent such numbers. "There was a war that ended recently – it lasted for thirty years! It's taken its toll on army and common man alike."

Word around the city was that barbarians from Arabia had encroached on Syrian territory and taken cities as far north as Damascus.

That must have been a sign of the decaying Roman army, though I was not sure of the authenticity of the rumors. Tetrarch Dalmatius would not confirm them when asked. We had no way of discerning such news from within the camp's walls, but some of us had their sources during leaves.

"Why is it that this is called the Egyptian district? Is all this not Egypt already?" I prodded further.

She laughed dryly.

"Egypt has long been a Roman province, Hanthalah, and before that in Greek hands. The very name of this city finds itself in Greek origins, as does its establishment. The Greeks have seen themselves well-endowed even before Roman occupation, while we strive for survival in the land of our own ancestors."

Martha would speak in length of her passionate feelings toward the oppression of her people and their history of discrimination. She was not a particularly devout Christian, yet she would often express vexation at the Roman emperor's persecution of those of different beliefs.

"Many years ago, a bunch of old men with saggy balls and fancy robes sat down in a place called Chalcedon," she spoke with vehemence. "And they decided that Christ's humanity and divinity is of dual nature."

"I have no idea what you're going on about," I interjected.

"Ever since, the fancy elite and their lackeys. have called themselves Chalcedonian. The majority of us true Egyptians maintain the belief that Christ's humanity and divinity are of one nature – they are united, both identities of Christ without separation."

"Uhh..."

"And for centuries that damned Emperor living in his gleaming palace has been harrying us Miaphysites. Torturing us, forcing us to pay exorbitant fees, murdering our priests and exiling them, putting our places of worship to the torch. And it's not just us! It's in Syria and Palestine as well! The Empire's nonsense doesn't end there either. Can you believe they exiled the Jews from Jerusalem? It's like they never learned a word from the scriptures!"

I basked in her sheer intensity, in the warmth of her body on mine, her passion when speaking of her own people and the oppression they've been forced to suffer under centuries' long occupations. Her clear notion of identity. She was a woman who knew what she wanted. A woman who knew who she was, what she was.

I traced my fingers through her curls and lost myself in her eyes; harsher days in barren lands among hard men, forged into such by pitiless climate and foe crueler still, all forgotten. The seething hatred I felt for so many, the rage that fueled me for so long, simmering beneath layers of façade, driving me forward to unspeakable acts in the name of vengeance, a relic of the past.

Ruqayya and Sumayya vague memories of a troubled age.

Arcadius could inherit the mantle of vengeance. In the arms of Martha, swaddled in furs, fighting and drinking in the training field, feeling the soothing brush of coastal winds.

What more could a man dream of? I would earn enough money off of gambling and buy a house for Martha and myself, allowing her to quit her job in the tavern, one born of necessity, as she claimed.

"What need have I to concern myself with this Emperor and this god of his, when I'm in the presence of a goddess right now?"

What fools we are.