Confidence, perhaps arrogance, was a consensus shared by most of my comrades. They wished for nothing more but to charge at those they deemed hungry desert dwellers and bloody their swords in the name of glory and might, seeing their reputation and skill soar at the expense of meagre raiders spilling forth from barren desert.

Command of the army's contingents was displaced between several of Heraclius' generals. The auxiliary of Alexandria, complimented with hundreds of Ghassanids flocking to the Roman cause, were absorbed by the units of Jabalah, King of the Ghassanids.

In truth, the Ghassanids were far too an unruly people to submit to the authority of one monarch; theirs was a large amalgamation of tribes, sub-tribes, clans and sub-clans that claimed descent from the storied Ghassan. The Ghassanids occupied vast swaths of territory in the regions to the north of Arabia and to the south of Syria.

Though they were seen more Roman than Arab, they held steadfast to many Arab qualities. Hot-headedness, brashness, stubbornness, unruliness, pride and fortitude.

So, in truth, this title of King of Ghassanids was nominal at best, though he did enjoy considerable power and clout, of course.

Such was the hierarchy of the forty-thousand strong multi-ethnic Roman horde that pursued the Muslims south to Yarmouk.

An Armenian general was foremost among the Armenian troops, forming a contingent of their own, and several other generals were entrusted with overseeing soldiers from their home provinces.

The auxiliary troops native to European lands absent Roman suzerainty, like the Franks, joined the tagma that consisted of Greeks and Slavs.

Under the guidance of King Jabalah and his Ghassanid chiefs, we rode south hard, in hot pursuit of the fleeing Muslim enemy. The plan was to pluck the small Muslim armies ravaging different swaths of Syrian land before they linked up and found strength in their unity.

However, their inferior numbers and lighter armor gave them the edge, and they were always one step ahead of us, evading capture at the nick of time, time and again.

King Jabalah was dispatched with harrying the Muslims out of Damascus, while other generals were sent to restore other occupied territories. However, when we arrived at the outskirts of the city, we were greeted with news that the Muslims had only recently withdrawn from the city and retreated south. They had been warned of the Emperor's plans, the strategy to divide and conquer.

And so, we marched further south, a scourge of a journey. I was growing restless as were the others. This only compounded the existing tensions within the army. Distrust was high among the multi-cultural troops, a feeling mixed with a lack of cohesion and planning on the generals' parts. Quarrels and brawls among troops of two different contingents became the norm as we followed the trail of the retreating Muslim forces. Frank would pounce upon Greek, Egyptian upon Sicilian, Slav upon Arab. The campaign was a shambles before it even begun.

The Muslims had abandoned the gains of two years in favor of mustering all the existing major forces that had ransacked the Levant for so long before they were picked off by greater Roman forces. Instead, these pockets of Muslim troops retreated from their conquered lands and marched south to the valley of Yarmouk in favor of facing the enemy as one.

And so, we set our sights on full-scale battle.

______________________

15 August 636 AD, 7 Rajab 15 AH

The parlay stretched and waned, and weeks were spent in the vicinity of the Yarmouk valley where I was trapped within the enclosure of a tent in a ravine, between the hills and the rivers, idle and helpless.

We were camped in a strip of flatland in a wide, gorgeous ravine dotted with patches of grass and greenery. There was a river to our backs and an enemy to our faces, separating from us by a wide stretch of white sand, barren of any tent or man – no man's land.

It was the valley of Yarmouk, to the south of Syria, fifteen years since the Muslims had arrived at Yathrib as part of their fateful mass migration. The sweltering sun pounded overhead, casting long shadows, continuing to pursue the brains inside our heads with its persistent pestering.

This needed to get over with.

The other troops were just as eager for the bloodshed. This would be a quick victory, for we would surely make short work of this haggard band of Arabs. The Muslims had emerged victorious from many a battle during my childhood, yet those victories had come at the expense of ill-disciplined and rag tag tribal coalitions.

The Romans were of a different breed; a military superpower renowned all over the world, notorious for the glory they left in their wake and their swift wars of conquest. Despite their recent stumbles as a result of decades of constant warfare with their Persian neighbors, the Roman Empire would always remain the Roman Empire. Ancient and eternal.

These Muslims stood no chance, and the Khalifa in Yathrib would tremble at imperial might. Once the Arabs fell, I would have my vengeance served to me on a silver platter. It would simply be a matter of finishing off a dying animal. Once this army of theirs was disposed of, no doubt the Emperor would venture forth southward into the peninsula to wreak deserved havoc in retaliation for their crimes in the Levant. And I would be at the center of it, seeking out those who have wronged me and mine, settling scores. Blood feuds.

Because at the end of the day, I was Hanthalah ibn Ka'b. And that was all that I was good for, the only thing I knew. Slaughter.

Yet, the field commander, our field commander, the Armenian Vahan, stalled such a glorious victory. For weeks, several troops from our ranks would accompany the Roman generals to the Muslim encampment in order to negotiate a truce. Each day they would return spurred and frustrated, unable to reach common ground with the foe.

Each day we witnessed a trickle of fresh troops emerge from beyond another river that was situated to the rear of the Muslim army; batches of reinforcements deployed by the Khalifa in the city that had once been Yathrib, swelling the ranks of the enemy and slowly mitigating our numerical advantage.

"What is the fool Vahan waiting for?" one of the Franks demanded, glowering at the camel hide and goat hair Muslim tents facing us westward across the plain. "The bastards will find themselves skewered by the tips of our swords easily. We should strike now!"

"He should not speak so of a superior officer," Kusaila whispered at my side.

"What do you know of war or battle tactics, you green boy?" a Ghassanid follower of King Jabalah retorted.

The Frank shifted his glower from the Muslims to the Ghassanid and swung his fist at him and struck him across the face. His fist landed on his jaw with a loud crack that sent him reeling. The brawl escalated and each troop's countrymen leapt into the fighting, elevating it to a skirmish that needed dozens of neutral soldiers to intervene and break up the enraged warriors.

This brawl was nowhere near the first of its kind nor would it be the last. Tensions flared with each passing day, and the amalgamation of races, creeds and cultures within the Roman army threatened to collapse it from within.

Distrust and open words of assault were left unchecked between these different factions within the encampment, and the restless nature of warriors seen to the verge of a pitched battle only to be denied the slaughter at the very last second did not help ease the strain.

Finally, it was Tetrarch Dalmatius' turn to accompany King Jabalah's delegation to the Muslim camp the morning of one day. Dalmatius selected me and several others of his tetrarchia to join.

The Nubian was among them, keeping close to my side. He had been as a shadow to me as of late, ever since our endeavor at the lighthouse.

The man that had seemed so impressive and daunting only three years prior was now as a feral cat, clingy and tugging at its master's gown. The man had saved my life from Hyrkon's blade at the lighthouse ambush, but I was not eager to call him friend.

I attempted to evade him on many an occasion during the march to Antioch and again to Yarmouk, yet he always found his way to me, continuing to lap at my heels like a lost pup. I constantly felt the weight of his eyes on my back, and I could have sworn there was even a warmth to his stare. I ceased my fruitless attempts to shake him off. I would have to suffer his presence.

And so, the Nubian and I walked into the Muslim encampment, as proximate as lovers. We followed the tetrarch, who followed his own superiors, and wove through the busy throngs of Muslim troops and camp followers, feeling their eyes on us as they paused their duties in order to gape and stare.

I met their gazes with my own glowers, and bared my teeth at the children, sending them shrinking to the shadows or cringing away and tugging at their mothers' gowns.

"You will both accompany me inside," Dalmatius ordered of me and the Nubian as the procession finally shuffled to a halt before a massive pitch-black tent. I paused, taking in the details of the tent. It looked familiar.

My fears were confirmed when we pushed past the flap and entered the vast tent. At the center of it, eyes fixed on a brewing bronze kettle was a man with raven-like irises, reclining on an elbow with a calm, steady expression and a hookah pipe pressed between his lips. His other hand rested on an upright knee, while the other leg was tucked beneath him.

He made no gesture to acknowledge our presence. He only stared at the kettle, decorated with sprouts. The pipe made a gurgling sound as he sucked the substance in, then he puffed out smoke that clouded our vision within the tent and sent some of us into fits of coughing.

The sight of him sent a shiver down my spine, and suddenly, I was not so certain of victory.

Khalid ibn al-Waleed's aura of deadly silence stilled the air around us and rendered it sluggish and stagnant. He was as I remembered him at Mu'tah and at Buzakha, both encounters where he displayed impressive tactical prowess.

He dressed all in black, spoke not a word unless prompted, and sat as motionless as an idol. I clung to my own for comfort.

Finally, raven-like eyes rose from the kettle and met each of ours in turn, sifting through our faces as though examining a fresh batch of slaves purchased from the marketplace.

His eyes were two deep pits, each a bottomless abyss where the living found no solace – only intimidation and a fate of ruthless demise. I wondered how many men had the misfortune of seeing those eyes before their souls departed this life. What a horrible thing it would be if those eyes were the last thing I saw before I drew last breath.

Khalid's gaze shifted to me. My entire body shook with the effort of avoiding shrinking back and shaming myself in the process. His gaze was knowing, and it sunk deep. It was as though he was searching within you, staring deep into your very soul. The terror I felt in that moment was only rivaled by my first battle. When I retreated from the hill at Uhud so many years earlier.

The negotiations proceeded for hours. There were other Muslim generals present, and I recognized a man called Abu 'Ubaidah, tall and gruff.

But Khalid overshadowed them all with his calm, almost smug demeanor. The negotiations started off on amicable terms, but as Jabalah and his inferiors became increasingly frustrated with Khalid's unwavering terms.

"Islam, jizya, or death," he repeated over and over in flawless Greek. Jizya was the poll tax paid by Jews and Christians under Muslim dominion.

It was his answer to most demands. Slowly, their tone shifted to that of hostility. They made demands of Khalid that left them spurned. They promised him with supplies, riches and women carried on the backs of a hundred camels in exchange for returning to whence he came.

Yet, Khalid only scoffed.

"We did not come here for food and gold. You can only dislodge us from your lands through conversion or by the sword," he said.

When Jabalah and his generals would propose a solution, he would pause as though considering the suggestion, before sucking in a breath from the pipe and exhaling more smoke, sending the cloud of smoke rising well above eye level before it seeped out of the tent in trickles, exiting through gaps in the corners of the tent. Then, he would make a clicking sound in his throat and shake his head. He remained steadfast in his demands of conversion, tribute or battle.

Finally, Jabalah found his feet, and stormed out of the tent. Before he could shove the flap open, however, Khalid's leathery face crinkled with a smile, and he spoke in a soft voice.

"Go, take up arms," he addressed Jabalah. "You will face men who love death as you love life."

"I bear news fair and sour," I told Kusaila when we returned to our camp. He was looking at me inquisitively, seeking answers of the enemy.

"Speak," he demanded.

"The good news is that we outnumber the enemy by nearly double their count. Our estimate is between twenty and twenty-five thousand men."

"The bad?"

I paused and took a deep breath, remembering two bottomless pits that were enough to send a god fleeing the battlefield. "Khalid ibn al-Waleed."