"How can there be many gods in the sky?" Martha had once asked. "If you have two quartermasters, the ship sinks!"

"Good thing the world isn't a ship, then," I'd replied.

Stalking through the reeds, half-crouched with an arrow nocked to my bow as a gentle breeze swept through the banks of the Nile, I scoffed at the memory.

At least I don't crucify people for worshipping Jesus funny, I thought to myself. I felt a pang of regret for what I did in the shack, if only for Martha's sake. I did not show myself in her tavern for weeks.

Another faint breeze sent the undergrowth and trees on the river's banks fluttering as I eyed my prey.

Tetrarch Dalmatius gestured for us to follow him. His wavy white hair fluttered in the night wind, blade and shield outstretched.

My silent prayer to Allah, the god of the moon, was interrupted by the Nubian. The monstrous man growled as he shoved me behind him, gripping his own bow and arrow. He snarled at me in defiance, daring me to challenge him.

The Nubian played a rather prominent role in my life at the barracks, albeit a more unpleasant one.

Not one of us knew his name and neither did the senior officers that supervised our training.

He was only ever referred to as such – the Nubian, a man native to the lands south of Egypt. His was of pitch-black complexion, as dark as Bilal the Abyssinian, the Muslim man who had instructed me and my brothers in the ways of the new Islamic creed.

The Nubian, however, was far more formidable of body, and taller still; his head was shaved in its entirety to the point that it resembled an egg, and it shone distinctly in the morning sun.

In the auxiliary, we were not provided with arms or armor, and so we had to make do with our own equipment. The Nubian, however, a lumbering brute with the strength of the gods, toiled in the practice field with naught but a white loincloth. His bare chest bulged with spectacular taut muscle, gleaming with a pretty sheen of sweat under a blistering sun.

The Nubian was the most dreaded figure in the auxiliary tagma, a fierce brute revered even by the senior officers. The Nubian took no leaves of absence nor did he speak a word of his past to any comrade. He was foremost among us in prowess and strength of arms, and Dalmatius' favored disciple.

However, what he gained in strength and repute, he lacked in discipline; ofttimes he would pummel an opponent bloody even after they signaled defeat. He would need at least ten men to seize him off his battered adversary.

What time the Nubian did not spend grinding the dust and sand of the yard, he would be found in the barracks wolfing down his rations and bullying other troops for theirs. Tetrarch Dalmatius did not interfere when informed of the Nubian's actions, nor did the beast cease his relentless displays of dominance. Nor did anyone refuse him their rations when demanded, lest they risk demise.

I sighed, shaking my head. I redirected my focus to the bandits we were hunting. Dalmatius had informed us only the morning prior of this surprise task.

"We're to patrol the banks of the Nile," he spoke gruffly, begrudgingly even. "Some shit-eating rogues are causing some trouble for travelers south of the city."

And here we were, some distance south of Alexandria. A pathetic mission, perhaps meant as a slight to the standing auxiliary. Damn Romans looked down upon us just for being born without their borders.

It was similar to a ladder. A hierarchy, of sorts. Roman citizens were those dwelling within the borders of the Empire; be they Greek, Egyptian, or anywhere else. But that wasn't the way some of the elitists saw it. Though Egyptians were of Roman citizenry, there was clear favoring of Greeks within Alexandria.

Chalcedonians were considered the only true Christians by the authorities. Miaphysites were harassed and harried. The more vocal ones executed or forced to exile. Or hiding, like Father Menas, who preferred the garments of commoners over priestly robes and a coastal shack over monastery, lest he risk discovery.

But all that was to change soon, I told myself. Though these tasks we were assigned to were few and far between, they presented an opportunity of sorts. Should we emerge successful from the ordeal, we would be rewarded in coin. A meagre reward, of course, but I spent not a whiff of it. I lost the sack of dirhams that I robbed from Yazid on the journey here. I needed a fortune to purchase a house where Martha and I could retire from our hectic professions.

I would kickstart my own mercantile business with the aid of Andronicus, and she would bear our children. Perhaps I would be granted Roman citizenry as well. And mine would be a life of bliss and ease. I would grow soft and fat, wealthy and accepted. Loved. The gods needed to be kind to me for once.

Dalmatius and the Nubian crept forward, and I followed. At my side were Kusaila and Arcadius, with bows in hand as well. We did not know where the bandits were headquartered; our only lead was this campfire sending smoke swirling upward in the middle of nowhere. We saw the smoke line a good distance away. Piss poor robbers that would risk themselves to be caught like that. Utterly careless. Just goes to show what the Romans thought of us so-called barbarians.

Dalmatius motioned for us to halt. Peaking over the bushes, I saw a single man huddled against the succor offered by the fire. He was roasting what seemed to be goat meat. The man was swaddled in dark robes and cloak, his face shadowed.

"Hanthalah and Arcadius, cut off his retreat from the coast," Dalmatius whispered. "Kusaila and the Nubian will cut him off from the other side. The rest of us will charge in headfirst."

Arcadius and I silently abided, daring through the brief of cluster of trees, and out into the lapping of river waves. The wind whistled past, clammy and unrelenting. I sold the mail shirt and most of the gear I'd robbed off Yazid's mercenary. Mine was only the tunic and coat I wore now. Didn't even have turban or litham to clutch against the unpredictable gale.

But the sheer thrill of it all engulfed me entirely, taking my mind off the freezing weather. I had been cooped up in those barracks so long, I'd forgotten the true rush of battle. The danger, the unpredictability. The battle drunkenness that evaporates all your fears, worries and exhaustion. There is only the anticipation of your foe to slip up. To fumble. So you could swoop in and collect on your bounty, as a vulture would.

And here it was. Bellows and cries of alarm drowned out the churning of the river current as Arcadius and I lay hidden in the undergrowth in full view of dark waves.

The rustling of leaves and the pounding of feet heralded a fleeing man huddled beneath a dark shawl.

He darted for the river, abandoning the warmth and flicker of campfire behind, evident even in our hiding spot through branch and bush. I stood up and pulled the arrow all the way back to my ear.

In a moment of euphoria, all the world froze in its place. There was only my ragged breathing steadying so that I may poach my prize. There was the vague crashing of waves over the surface of my stupor. The rustling of bush as Arcadius found his feet. The chirping of crickets. The strain of arrow against string. The pounding of my heart against my ribs.

And then I let loose.

Little do people know it actually requires more strength to wield bow than sword. And meticulous, constant training to perfect the simplest of shots, let alone striking a moving target.

But I was Hanthalah ibn Ka'b, proud and smug. A man grown.

The arrow lodged itself in the bandit's thigh. He stumbled in his path down the slight incline that would have found himself scurrying to what seemed to be a humble fishing ship floating near the shore.

The bandit rolled down the brief slope, splashing in the water below. He did not let out a single cry. I hurried to follow, nocking another arrow to my bow.

"Nice work," Arcadius grunted as I clambered down.

"Where are your leaders?" Arcadius cordially demanded of the sprawled bandit, clutching his wound. Surprisingly, he did not writhe nor did he twitch. He seemed entirely placid beneath his dark garments. "Do you have a cave from which you operate?"

I shoved past Arcadius, placing bow and arrow at my feet. I stooped down next to the bandit.

"This isn't how you speak to scum, golden curls," I shifted my gaze to the defeated robber and grinned. I grabbed the arrow shaft sticking out of his leg.

And twisted.

A fresh spurt of blood ran through my fingers, and the bandit let out his first yelp.

"So you do have a voice," I put a knee on his chest and twisted again. "Tell us what we want to know."

I eased back his shawl, revealing black skin and frizzy dark hair.

I grunted. "You're Nubian?"

The man's face betrayed no emotion. He stared back unblinking. Unfazed.

"There are no bandits," he replied. "Only me. And the boy who yet lives."

"Wh-wha," I stared back, dumbfounded.

Because the man spoke in Arabic.

"You stand Arab?" I demanded.

"Hanthalah ibn Ka'b," he resumed in his monotonous voice. "The boy yet lives. And he is coming for you."

"How...how do you know my name, you grimy fucking thief?" I grabbed him by the collar and yanked him toward me, baring my teeth. I channeled the rage lurking within, ready to unleash Muslim Hell's fury on the insufferably undaunted bastard. I leaned in and whispered in an ear. "I will murder your entire family before your eyes if you do not speak."

I basked in the thrill of the fury that began seeping out of its place of hiding. Like a snake coiling around the neck of its hapless victim. Utterly malicious. Unapologetic. Remorseless.

But then the bandit jerked a hand free from beneath me and conjured a dagger that glinted silver.

"Hanthalah!" Arcadius cried out a moment too late.

"The boy yet lives," the bandit spoke again, his eyes empty. Emotionless.

He put the dagger to his own throat and sliced.

The boy yet lives.

Bellowing, the Nubian charged at me, bare-chested and swinging a monstrous axe that would have sheared my head off if I hadn't ducked. Wooden swords were the proper equipment for training, but no one could come between the Nubian and his whims.

It had been several days since the curious ordeal by the banks of the Nile. It really did turn out this had been a one-man operation all along. Hordes of coins had been found in the odd bandit's fishing vessel.

The boy yet lives, I thought to myself that day in the courtyard, facing the growling Nubian. The man spoke Arabic. He knew my name. What was the meaning behind his words?

The Nubian came again, and I sidestepped, avoiding his bull charge. The Nubian's size and savage strength may unnerve a raw recruit, unaccustomed to the dynamics of the auxiliary camp.

Three years spent sparring with the Nubian had helped me understand that all it took was swagger and patience to wear him down. He fought like a rabid dog, exhibiting no stance, no composure, no skill whatsoever.

Only brute force.

Perhaps, among the Bedouin, I too would have relied on strength of arms and berserk attitude to overwhelm my opponents, but I knew such displays would be useless before a larger foe.

Yet, I tread on a delicate path. My tactic was to wear him down, allow him to exert his energy on fruitless swings and hacks, all the while hopping from one spot to another. Any misstep, any movement too late or too soon would leave me open to a savage blow. It happened before. It took me time to perfect this strategy, through trial and error.

The boy yet lives, the words sounded again spontaneously. The man said that others would come for me. But who would want my head? And if they wanted my life, why had he sliced his own throat and not mine?

____________________

The Nubian was enraged now, I could see it in his eyes. I also noticed a single bead of sweat gleaming on his brow, a welcome testimony to my progress; so, I smirked in order to provoke another charge, and was rewarded almost instantly.

I rolled away from his howling rush, gracing the ground and soiling my thin tunic on the sands of the training yard. I gripped a handful of sand in my left hand. The Nubian spun in order to confront me again; I hurled the clod at him, and it sprayed against his face.

Fuming and snarling, he stumbled backward, and I rushed forward in hot pursuit, pushing him hard.

Though he was blinking away specks, he parried every lunge and every blow I dealt him; however, now he was on the defensive, and the momentum had turned.

"Hanthalah!" Dalmatius' gruff voice called out from behind me.

I sighed, abandoning my pursuit of the lumbering brute. I hefted my wooden sword, spun and forced a smile on my lips.

What did the hoary bastard want this time?

Dalmatius had never been fond of me, but then again, he was never fond of anything or anyone. Perhaps only the Nubian, his loyal pet.

"Tetrarch, sir," I greeted him with feigned geniality. "I almost had him."

The tetrarch only glared at me and motioned for me to follow.

I sighed again and nodded at the Nubian, who was still rubbing his eyes free of their affliction.

I swaggered away, following Dalmatius to his office.

I nodded in acknowledgement at Arcadius and Kusaila on my way to the tetrarch's chamber.

"You are a barbarian of the desert, no?" Dalmatius asked, easing himself into a seat as I stood before him, hands clasped behind me.

I rolled my eyes yet bit back any snark remarks. "I am...an Arab, yes. A Jew, a pagan, if you will. A number of things."

Dalmatius' flustered, his irritation visible. The Christians in this city were much more disparaging than the ones among the tribes. They found it appalling whenever they found out of my polytheistic beliefs, or if I expressed them in any way. I needed to hide my idol of Hubal beneath my pillow, lest I risk confiscation or demolition. Yet, I did not shy away from embracing the core of my being.

Besides, it was fun toying with them, flaunting such beliefs they would deem heretical in order to gauge reaction.

"I am of the Arabs, yes," I said. "Yet, I doubt the purpose of your summons is to discern my ancestry."

Dalmatius' lips formed in a thin, tight line, his chagrin visible.

"I could name my ancestry seven generations back, if you wish," I prodded him further. "Barbarian ancestry."

I winked at him. Dalmatius was Egyptian, and therefore Roman as well. He clung fiercely to his imperialistic ideals that those who dwelled beyond the Empire's borders were nothing more than savages. He was such a dog to his authorities that he adopted the Chalcedonian creed, enforced by the Emperor on the people.

"You will stay silent, you villain!" Dalmatius barked back.

"I am yours to command, tetrarch," I barely bit back my amusement. It was a wonder how easily one could antagonize these people.

"You are of the desert," he continued, with a dismissing hand. "You are unaccustomed to the brigands and rogues of the sea."

"Pirates," I chimed in. "How do you know I am unaccustomed? I could be from Jaddah on the western coast. Perhaps Oman or Bahrayn to the east. Yemen to the south."

"Your kind are not too different from these villains," he continued as if I had not spoken. "You are robbers and plunderers. Even now, your people, your Arabs, sojourn in Roman lands. A theft that will be rewarded in kind by the imperial forces, the proper tagmas."

So, it was true then. The Muslims had re-united Arabia after the collapse that followed Muhammad's death and had gone as far as laying eyes upon Roman territory.

Could they have truly taken Damascus, the jewel of Syria? I remembered Abu Bakr was the designated leader of the Muslims, the Khalifa; that was before the Battle of Buzakha. I remembered Abu Bakr from my youth as a timid and reserved old man. Could he possess the will and vigor to display such a military feat?

"To the matter at hand. There is a score of such ruffians plundering ships' cargos, or otherwise scavenging the hulks of perished vessels, robbing anything of value."

"Such are the ways of pirates," It was true, I had only ever heard stories of these plunderers of the seas. My first real experience with open sea was my voyage from Damascus, aboard with Andronicus.

"This bunch has proven particularly elusive, and the mission to rid the city of their plague is one beneath the proper Alexandrian tagma. The unit of proud Roman soldiers."

"And so, you dispatch the barbarians to dirty their hands for the glory of Christ and Emperor," I grinned.

"It is not I that dispatch you," Dalmatius spat. "If it is was up to me, I would have seen your filthy face feed the maggots the day you set foot here."

"Charmed, sir," I bowed deeply.

Dalmatius ignored the mockery. "The army of the empire has fallen on hard times," he admitted. "Even the proper tagmas fall short of their desired numbers. I have but twenty-three odd men at my disposal, when by all rights a tetrarch ought to command almost twice that figure. Thus, I would entrust you with the formation of a task force in order to tackle the issue of these brigands. No more than five other men. You will see yourselves amply rewarded."

"You would have a barbarian set up this force?" I said, though the notion intrigued me.

Dalmatius waved a dismissive hand again. "You are all barbarians; none of  whom bear the glory of Rome."

Neither do the Romans, I thought, snickering to myself. Martha had told me that the Roman Empire had long since abandoned their seat at the city of their namesake.

It was sacked by barbarians in ages past, and though a legendary emperor managed to reclaim the ancestral seat, it remained in tenuous Roman grip in wake of recent misfortunes of the war with Persia; the Roman emperor resided in Constantinople.

A Roman Empire without Rome, I thought. Sounded a lot like the messenger without a message.

I smirked, remembering Tulayha ibn Khuwaylid, the foolhardy yet charismatic pretender to divine revelation. Though his incompetence knew no bounds, I owed my freedom to him. I wondered if he met his end at Buzakha.

"Then why entrust such a duty to this barbarian in particular?" I asked. "One you would see fill the bellies of maggots."

Dalmatius groaned. "You...served with distinction the venture prior," he admitted begrudgingly. As though he were almost sorry to voice some praise. "You have shown promise."

I shuddered, remembering the shawled man in dark robes dying on the shore.

The boy yet lives, he'd said over and over. And that more would come.

I rubbed my hands together and pursed my lips, eager to bask in the rush of battle once more. I had honed my skills in the ways of the Romans for three years.

And now was the time to gauge the extent of my prowess with bow and blade.

Now was the time to free Martha and myself from lives born of necessity.

For Martha.