The waves crashed against the shore and lapped at my feet, as Martha and I took an afternoon stroll on a beach west of the harbor, our arms intertwined. It had been a day since we scoured the lighthouse of any remaining pirates. We even used Andronicus' ship to leech out the meagre remnants of the crew aboard the pirate ship buried within a nook in the island.

The following morning, we were summoned to the villa of the tribunos, the general in command of the standing auxiliary tagma, and chief among our superior officers. The man never soiled his status by visiting our camp in person; unlike, Dalmatius and the other senior officers, he was Greek rather than Egyptian. Though technically both were equal as Roman citizens, the Greeks did not see it that way.

So, he honored us with an invitation to his home.

His villa was a sprawling complex, a village in its own right. There were several courtyards linking up different buildings, as well as workers, chamberlains and guards bustling about performing one task or the other.

How could one wake to such lush greenery and extraordinary luxury every day? I asked myself.

The villa was situated on a hill to the east of the city and offered a magnificent view of the layout below; a view to rival that of the lighthouse.

I wondered if I could provide such commodities for Martha one day.

I had taken Hyrkon's curved Persian blade, my personal piece of plunder. No one would know it had ever belonged to someone else, and I decided to tell neither tetrarch nor tribunos.

The tribunos was a strikingly young and rather comely man, though his temples were greying. I was presented to him, coupled with the Nubian, Arcadius, Kusaila and Andronicus. Tetrarch Dalmatius was also present.

The tribunos was reclining on a lengthy piece of furniture, resting on an elbow. Two scantily clad slave girls were huddled in the shadow behind him, their eyes fixed on their feet, each of them bearing a tray of delights.

"You have done the Empire a service," The tribunos announced, tossing a grape into his mouth.

"We serve the glory of Christ and Emperor," I immediately chimed in.

The tribunos ignored my input. "You will be rewarded as promised."

An ear to ear grin formed on my face as the tribunos snapped his fingers and three burly dark-skinned slaves trudged into the room, each of them carrying lacquered wooden chests, heavy laden and jingling with coin. They laid them out at our feet.

"Divide them among yourselves as you wish," the tribunos ordered. "The sum is a thousand solidi in total. It will be delivered to the auxiliary camp, waiting for you upon arrival."

A thousand gold, I thought, bemused. The tetrarch would surely earn the greatest sum, but if what remained were divided equally upon the rest of us, I had instantly become wealthy beyond what I had ever imagined. My dream was to come true. Martha would be jumping with delight.

Only she wasn't.

"Such foolish dreams yet linger in your head?" she scolded me on the beach that afternoon. "Put to rest such childish whims."

"Foolish? Childish? Is that what you would call my ambitions that are soon to foment?" I demanded.

"How did you imagine my reaction when you decided not to inform me of an endeavor that may have seen you slain?"

"I stand before you yet drawing breath. My coffers full to bursting with solidus. That is what matters, the only thing that matters. I would see both of us relieved of work born of necessity in favor of life we choose."

Martha paused. "You did not tell me of your plan."

"You would not have approved of it."

"Because I'm not entirely a moron."

"You're not. You're rich now," I paused before continuing. "Is this about what happened with Father Menas?"

She only glared back at me arms folded.

I sighed and cupped her head between my hands. "I would see your fortunes soar even higher."

"You're thinking of taking up sword as a mercenary now? Or another adventure that would see you dead?"

"Gods, no. I am bound for the hippodrome this night."

"You would squander your earnings on gamble?"

"No, dear Martha," I pulled her closer. "I would see them multiplied."

_________________

"Move you inbred shit!" I screamed at the top of my lungs, straining for my words of abuse to reach the ears of the charioteers racing in the track, over the chants and jeers of thousands of other spectators.

This was a night I risked all. Half my earnings were placed on a bet to see Julianus of the Blues emerge triumphant from this particular race.

Chariot racing was a pillar of everyday society here in Alexandria, a hub of politics and negotiation; the hippodrome a place where one may entertain themselves as well as strike a favorable deal with an acquaintance, or perhaps instigate a riot.

The Hippodrome of Alexandria was a venue where all could mingle.

And in the midst of it all were the Blues and the Greens. Two rival factions of the sport, their enmity finding roots as ancient as any Arab tribe. Every event, the Blues and the Greens would field a team of two charioteers each, all harnessed with four horses of the finest breed.

The charioteers were as celebrities among the populace, celebrated and renowned figures within society. The backing of political factions to either Blue or Green also saw the fortunes of these charioteers soar beyond imagination, as well as link them up with state affairs.

Tonight, however, was one to soar my own fortunes.

The roaring crowds were packed against one another in seats forming an enclosure about the track below, row upon row of fans giddy with exhilaration, drunk on beer or thrill.

At the center of the track was the spina, a paved platform that supported a towering stone structure with a pointed end. Martha said it was called an obelisk, a work of construction that found its roots among the most ancient kings of her people. This obelisk was entrenched within a tangle of bushes and vines. The spina itself dominated the track in a rectangular shape, curved at either end.

I slammed my fist on my knee as Julianus lagged further behind. Patroclus of the Greens, a fan favorite, found a surge of speed and completed yet another lap to the roars of adoring crowds, his squadron of horses kicking up clouds of dust and sand in the faces of his lethargic opponents.

"Patroclus is running circles around your man," Andronicus said. "Your Julianus will be shitting for a month from now, with all the dust he's eaten."

I groaned as Andronicus chuckled.

Yet, al-Manat would see to it that my fortunes were to rise at that very moment. Diomedes of the Blues inched forward toward Patroclus' chariot, tugged his reins to the side, nudging Patroclus toward the stone pavement of the barrier, the spina.

Diomedes continued his quarrel with Patroclus, each nudge more vigorous, more vehement, threatening to send Patroclus' mounts stumbling and sprawling across the sands.

Julianus and the other Green contestant, a man of little consequence, were given an opportune moment to capitalize on Patroclus' disadvantage.

Julianus dashed past Patroclus and his own teammate Diomedes in a flash of churning wheels and thundering hooves, feeding the unhindered Green charioteer his own dust.

I leapt to my feet and swung my fist in the air, eyes transfixed, belly churning as wildly as the wheels, heart beating as rapidly as the chariots.

Julianus curved the bend at the edge of the spina, the first among competitors to commence the final lap! Patroclus had finally eased past Diomedes, but the distraction had given Julianus ample time to recover lost distance and then some.

The elation I felt when Julianus completed the final lap to the deafening cheers of thousands was indescribable. I had just doubled my earnings from the pirate job. Doubled! Doubled!

The Blue supporters rose from their seats in unison and the very foundations of the hippodrome shook as their deafening chants rippled through the jam-packed crowds, a chorus vibrant and resonant to rival that of thunder.

Julianus' competitors rumbled to a stop, but he continued circling the track, one victory lap after the other, basking in the praise of the crowd and embracing the flowers and laurels tossed at him.

I basked in my own private victory in the stands.

"I'm rich, you bastard!" I screamed at a sulking Andronicus. "In one night, I've earned more than you in your entire fucking career."

Three years before, I owned naught but the clothes on my back, a sword, a bow and a quiver full of arrows. Andronicus had cheated me of all the coin I'd stolen from Yazid as price of the voyage. I had known no better at the time, a green boy who had never seen any sea.

Yet, now, I boasted of two thousand solidi, coins of pure gold. More than enough money to wed my woman, secure a formidable abode as well as bolster my own career as a merchant.

I would toss my wretched sword in the sea, and the bow I'd taken as plunder from Habib would follow, a sign that I was a bloodthirsty savage no more. I would not take up arms again. I would live for Martha and our children from this day forth!

What fools we are.

________________

Giggling uncontrollably, I pushed past the tavern door, greeted with the usual warmth and uncouth swearing, the clamor of men and women sharing cups or whores, the laughter, the familiar awful music.

"Boys!" I bellowed at Kusaila and Andronicus. "I want you to live your lives to the fullest this night. Drinks, women, men, whatever the fuck you want. It's all on me!"

Andronicus threw his head back and guffawed with laughter.

"In the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit," Kusaila proclaimed solemnly, as a fair-haired and topless woman approached him and wrapped her arms about his waist.

I eased my way through the packs of customers and workers, searching for Martha. She should have been quitting about now, I supposed, as we agreed.

Perhaps I would find her in her chambers, I supposed.

I pushed the door open, my stomach fluttering with mixed anticipation and anxiety.

But all my joy and hope immediately evaporated the moment I stepped into that room.

My jaw dropped and my breath caught as I gaped at the stark-naked Arcadius, the words unable to form on my tongue. I froze entirely. My mind ceased functioning. The thoughts simply could not foment.

Martha, equally absent of clothing, eased herself away from Arcadius' embrace, her eyes wide; her hair was disheveled, and she was heavy of breath.

Suddenly, I felt light-headed and nauseous. This could not be happening. Even the gods could not be this cruel. They would see fortune favor me with wealth and opportunity only to shit on me the very last moment?

I gulped as Martha stammered for words, yet whatever she spoke fell on ears absent hearing. I could see her lips moving, her hands complimenting her words with motions of their own. Yet, I heard nothing. There was only a buzz in my head.

I counted Arcadius my friend and Martha the love of my life. I'd composed many a poem for her over the years – in Arabic and Greek and Coptic. I'd daydreamed of starting a family with her, planned on spending the best years of my life in her arms.

As Martha fumbled for words in that fateful room, I remembered Ruqayya's words of identity. Was I Hanthalah ibn Ka'b al-Qurayzi, rogue Jew who refused to die, a survivor of slavery and molestation? Was I, instead, Hanthalah the lover, a merchant living on the shores of Alexandria, intent on growing soft and fat at whatever pleasures life presented? A man that would grow grey and old with his wife, and raise a brood of children?

Or was I Hanthalah the pagan, the brute killer that would see nations torn asunder to quench his own thirst for blood? Hanthalah the child killer, Hanthalah the rapist, Hanthalah the bringer of fire and death.

Hanthalah the shadow of death.

I caressed the idol that Martha had gifted me, stroked it ever so gently, my thoughts returning to me in a rush. And in a split second, I made my choice. There was no turning back from this. This would be who I am for the remainder of my life. This was a choice I would live by to the end of my days.

It was then that an old friend came knocking, roused from its place of hibernation, smug and eager. Bloodthirsty and malevolent. I felt the rage pricking at me, surging through my veins, tingling at my spine.

It had been suppressed for so long, bottled up beneath soft and cushy feelings that belonged to a man weak of mind and resolve. That man would have been unable to do what was required of him now. That man was dead the moment he walked into that room.

In his place stood a beast. A rogue animal I had not fully channeled since a night where flames leapt up to the heavens in Damascus. It was a feral thing, hell-bent on the spilling of blood and the reaping of souls. The shrieks of the tormented were its favored tune. The pleas of the doomed its taste in poetry.

I stepped forward and unsheathed the dagger at my hip.

"Hanthalah," I vaguely heard Martha reach out to me. "Put it down, Hanthalah. Abandon blade for words of reason."

I moved toward her, but Arcadius intercepted me, grabbing my arm.

"We can talk with one another, friend," he said. "This can be resolved without the shedding of blood."

I looked him in the eye and was pleased at the expression of sheer surprise that formed on his face at the sight of the fire in my own.

"That is where you're mistaken, friend," I snarled at him. "Blood is the answer to all of life's riddles."

With my free hand, I smacked him across the skull with all the might Hubal bestowed upon me. I sent him sprawling across the room, and he fell face first to the ground. Arcadius did not get back up.

Martha attempted to shield herself with her hands, as she inched away from me, backing toward a wall.

I brandished my dagger and moved in her direction.

"I was hurt," she gulped. "You deceived me. You did not tell me of your schemes. I felt betrayed. All for a foolish dream of saving me from this whorehouse."

I spoke not a word, only moved at a deliberate pace to the spot where I had her cornered.

"Hanthalah, you've always been gentle," she pleaded further. "I know you. You're not a murderer."

I scoffed. "You don't know the first thing about me. Don't pretend that this was about the lighthouse. This is about acceptance. About your god. You would have never accepted me as pagan."

Her expression eased to that of a sympathetic one. She opened her mouth to speak but I continued anyway.

"You don't know that I murdered my first man when I was nine. You don't know that the man was my own cousin. My own kin. My flesh and blood."

She did not speak; her forehead creased into lines of worry.

"You know not of the battles I was dragged into. The causes I was forced to bleed for. The death, the horrors I was privy to when I was but a boy."

I took another step toward her.

"Did you know that I saw my entire family beheaded before me? Did you know what became of me as a slave?"

I brandished my dagger again.

"Do you know why I fled to this city? Do you know what I did to my master and his wife? Do you know I murdered his infant son before his eyes?"

She cringed away from me now. She was looking at me as if I were a complete stranger, a man she had never known. And perhaps I was.

"You know nothing," I rattled at her with an icy chill.

"You're the Devil," she gasped.

I sniggered. "No, dear Martha. The Devil trembles at my sight."

I rammed my dagger through her chest. I drove the blade through her heart as she did mine and twisted. Tears clouded my vision as the life sapped out of her and blood flowed through my fingers, slickening my grip on the hilt.

Her knees buckled and she began sinking. As she was about to topple, I held her in my arms and sobbed, my head resting on her chest.

"Fuck the gods," I whispered. "Fuck them all."

I looked into her terrified eyes, shook my head, put a finger to my lips and shushed her. Then, I put my dagger to her throat and sliced it open. As she gurgled and blood sprayed on my face, I dragged her body to the center of the room next to that of Arcadius.

I bent over the unconscious Arcadius and placed the bloodied dagger in his hand, tightening his grip on it by furling his fingers about the hilt.

More tears welled in my eyes, yet I wiped them away vigorously.

"Fuck them all."