Breathless and jittering, I stepped into the tavern, leaving the cold bite behind. Alexandria was freezing! Far colder than I was accustomed to. It would take longer still to be at ease with the winter winds and rain, I judged.

I rested against the door, waiting. I bided my time by smoothing my shoulder length hair, ending in curls, stroking my close-cropped beard; just the way Martha liked it.

I smiled as she wove through the crowds of the tavern; the raucous of moaning and loud chatter dimmed down at the sight of her in a flowing white gown embroidered with the images of sunflowers that left much clothing to be desired from the chest up.

I did not complain.

Her dark locks tumbled past her sleek waist and bounced about as she sauntered her way to where I reclined.

"What is it that you hold?" I asked her, noticing how one hand was concealed behind her back. I spoke to her in her native Egyptian.

"Your Coptic improves by the day," she said, obviously evading the question.

"I had a decent instructor," I replied, this time in Greek. She taught me both tongues. Now I spoke four, which included Arabic and Hebrew. "Now, show your hand."

"I'm unsure whether you'd like it," she said, a sly smile forming on her lips as she opened the palm of her hand, revealing an idol of alabaster. It bore the likeness of Hubal, the chief among Arab gods.

I snatched the idol from her grasp, dumbfounded and gaping.

She laughed. "Do you love it?"

"I more than love it," I exclaimed, hopping from one foot to the other. "I've been long yearning for such an item. Unusual from one who deems herself Christian. Especially since I'm supposed to meeting this priest of yours now."

I fondled the silver cross that rested between her breasts.

She giggled. "I'm not without sin already, in case you haven't noticed. The Lord forgives all, does he not? As for the priest, let this be an incentive of sorts. The more you take an interest in Christ, the more I'll surprise you."

I pulled her closer in an embrace and pecked her on her lips. "He died for your fucking sins. Would you have him die for naught?"

She giggled again, a warm melody that filled my ears and soothed my soul. "I know you will forsake this idol when He shows you the light."

I rolled my eyes and sighed in exasperation. "Come. Let's meet this pious turd you speak so fondly of."

______

"Listen to me man," Father Menas implored me. "If your god is so mighty, how is it that he is confined in base material? Stone and silver and gold."

"And alabaster and date and so many others."

Menas sighed in exasperation, shaking his head. "You did not answer my question."

To my surprise, Martha had not taken me to monk cell, monastery or church. The three of us were sat in a cramped shack by the docks. One could touch a single wall and its opposite if one stood up and held up his arms.

The priest was not clad in the typical black robes or the lush embroidery I had come to expect from men of the clergy in this oddity of a religion. Father Menas was balding with a grey patch adorning his temples. He was swaddled in a dark coat over a tunic and trousers, much like myself.

"Your question is ridiculous," I quipped back. "You haven't the slightest inkling of polytheism if that's what you think it's about. Gods are not confined to their idols, you absolute – "

"Hanthalah!" Martha snapped at my side.

"If your gods are so mighty, why would they need intercession?" Father Menas continued, undisturbed.

"The bastards need intercession because they're mighty."

Father Menas only blinked back, agape, struggling to understand.

"Bastards?" he asked, incredulous.

I grinned. "See, that's the difference between the two of us. When speaking of your precious god, you need to watch every word. Weigh every single letter before it parts your lips. Lest your insecure god take offense."

"And yours?" Father Menas arced his eyebrows, absolutely bewildered.

"They don't give a rat's arse," I sat back in the chair and took a sip of wine. The drink was a novelty to me. The Romans truly outdone themselves with each bottle, I found. "They couldn't care less what I eat. They don't care who I fuck. Who I kill."

I leaned forward in my seat and spoke in a conspiratorially low voice.

"Whether I kill at all," I sat back and took another sip, basking in the bitter flavor.

"'They have mouths but they cannot speak'," Menas recited. "'Eyes but they cannot see. They have ears, but cannot hear, noses, but cannot smell. They have hands, but – "

"I can't see your god. But he describes himself as having ears and nose and hands. But I can't fucking see them. The same reason can be applied to your fellowship of gods."

"Fellowship of...What is this blasphemy that you speak of?"

"You speak like a Muslim but lack the fire of one."

"Yes, I have heard of these...Muslims," he struggled with the word. The corners of his mouth wrinkled in disgust. "They say they have attacked good Christians in Palestine and Syria. The Lord will surely emerge victorious from this struggle with the heathen."

Menas crossed himself.

"Then why is he not emerging victorious against the Chalcedonian?" I scoffed.

"This is a test of our faith."

"Martha told me your people have been massacred. Tortured. Crucified!"

Father Menas pursed his lips in irritation. He took in a deep breath in order to calm himself. "I have bled at the side of many a God-fearing Miaphysite. I have seen the truest Egyptians fall to Chalcedonian treachery. I was of an acquaintance with Pope Benjamin himself before – "

"If any of my gods put me and mine through that, for a test, no less, I'd venture up to the heavens myself and cleave their heads off. The whole lot."

"Your gods are no gods at all!" he boomed, red-faced and in a fit. "Some are fiction. Most are in fact demons cast from the bowels of – "

I tossed my cup into Martha's lap and found my feet. Something cardinal, something animalistic inside of me rippled to the surface. Given a voice as if from nowhere. And before I knew it, mine was a flurry of brisk of movements that saw me pinning Father Menas to the far wall. He whimpered under the scrutiny, my breath on his.

"Bowels, huh? I'll cut your bowels and feed them to you," I did not know when my hands coiled themselves around his throat. I did not realize I was squeezing until Martha began yanking at my coat, screaming shrilly at me.

"Hanthalah!" she yelled. Father Menas squirmed wide-eyed beneath my grip, sinking down the wall. "Hanthalah!"

She roused me from my stupor. The rage, an old friend paying a surprise visit, recoiled to the far corner of my mind that was its abode as quickly as it emerged from its long slumber.

As Menas fell heavily to his knees and Martha stooped to fawn over his choking and gurgling figure, I slunk back in the narrow shack, registering what had just happened. My breathing was ragged, my cheeks flushed and blazing.

Perhaps there yet remained a sliver of the beast I had once been. A demon born of necessity. I did not know what to think of that revelation.

Eying Martha, I realized with horror that I was glad for its presence.

I felt invigorated. Alive.