[b]Jabiya, Ghassanid Syria[/b]

There was a profound quiet over barren Syria. In the moonlight, the hills were blue, and it was so pretty that the idea a war should ever be fought here seemed blasphemous.

"Duke." Anastasius heard himself called by his title. He looked around and saw a nervous Cataphract - a Roman knight - approach. He was dressed for sleep, wearing a simple red tunic and a single dagger at his belt. "If you think we're are to fight tomorrow, then you should get some sleep."

"Yes." Anastasius replied. He was dressed for battle, with a heavy coat of chain-mail covering much of his body and the red cape of office flowing from his shoulders. At his hip was a [i]Spatha[/i], a kind of long sword. "I cannot sleep. Not with the Saracens out there, and Arabicus."

"Arabicus." the Comes mouthed. "Yes, but you cannot see anything at night. How can you help the young prince this way? Surely what he needs is a second in command that is capable of action when it comes time to rescue him. Tomorrow. That is when it will happen."

"I cannot sleep. I do not say this out of duty, I say this out of ability. Sleep will not come to me tonight." His breath felt cold in his throats, and his lips trembled. "The augers are not in order."

For a moment, there was nothing but the silence of that desert, the thin clean air, and the light of the moon.

"Do not blame yourself for what has happened to Arabicus." the Knight finally replied.

"I do not blame myself." Anastasius snapped. "What are the men saying? What do they think?"

"They don't blame you, sir." the Knight replied quickly. "They do not think that... honestly, they do not know what to think. The Saracens... they fought like Huns. It was unnatural. They kept coming."

It was true, Anastasius agreed with everything the young Knight was saying. Before yesterday, Saracens had always fought like dogs at a garbage heap. When their enemy first gave way, they would help themselves to whatever morsels of treasure they could find in their camps, and then they would ride off into the wasteland from whence they came. They were fierce warriors, and like most barbarians always loyal to their ancient family names, but they were not soldiers. There was no discipline aside from loyalty, and victory to them was only booty.

But these new Saracens, this tribe that was springing endlessly from the desert, were a different breed. They were not raiders. This was a war. They were fighting for domination. 

When the enemy was first turning back the Roman line, Anastasius had pleaded with Arabicus to fall back behind the camp and wait for the enemy to lose their cohesion, but Arabicus refused. Cowardice is what he called it. He was the classical arrogant princeling, another Commodus or Domitian, and he thought in terms of perceived strength rather than tactics. However, when Arabicus did finally agree to the ploy, it did not work. The Romans fell back, and the Saracens continued the chase. A tactical fall-back became a route. And in the chaos, Arabicus disappeared.

"Can you find the Empire of Attila today?" Anastasius grumbled. "These nomads, they are not like the Germans. No. They are not looking for a place to settle anymore than the Huns were. They want riches. What matters is how we carry ourselves. God has saw fit to test our resolve, and I assure you that the Christendom will come out triumphant."

"Yes." the knight answered humbly. "If we have gave the Lord no reason to punish us."

As they stood there talking, an arrow landed in the sand at Anastasius' feet. It came so softly that he did not fear at first, as if it were a songbird that had chose to nibble at the ground beneath his shadow. But realization came quickly, and as he understood, horror set in. A second arrow whistled through the air between him and the knight.

Then they ran.

They ran across the dunes, shouting at the top their lungs to wake the soldiers. The Romans were encamped on a hill overlooking the tent-city of the Ghassanids. Their camp was surrounded by a ditch, behind which stood a wall of thin stakes carved from the wiry desert trees that grew nearby. They had not been able to find the wood to build the watch towers or gates, so the men would have to fight them hand to hand at the entrances. This place was as defensible as they had time to make it, but it was manned by the battered soldiers that had survived the disaster of the first battle. 

When they reached the camp, men were beginning to stir. Torches filled the blue night with an orange glow. When Anastasius saw a boy, one of the servants that followed the army to aid with supplies, he grabbed him by the shoulder and turned him around.

"Boy, do you know how to ride?" he asked. The boy nodded. He took him to where the horses were kept and placed him on top of his own white stallion. "Go to the Visigothic Camp and rouse them, and then go to Jabiya and warn the Saracens there that their faithless brothers are on the attack. Bring them quickly, because without them we are doomed." 

The boy, too stunned to speak, nodded and rode off into the darkness.

Whistles were being blown and lines formed. The Cataphract knights were putting on their scale mail and being helped onto their horses by their servants. The only signs of the enemy were the distant thunder of hooves and the few arrows that fell on the camp. As the men came together, Anastasius could see the fear in their eyes. They had seen this enemy before, and they were terrified. 

These Roman soldiers here were not the soldiers of Julius Caesar's Empire. These men wore coats of chain-mail and held oval shields painted with christian symbols and the likenesses of saints. Some wore long beards in the Persian style, or long hair in the Hunnic style. They came from all over the Empire; Greeks and Italians, blond haired Germans, olive skinned moors, and pale faced Slavs, all brought together to fight in the names of Christ and the Emperor. They had traded their ancient javelins for small lead-weighted darts, which they hung from loops built into their shields. The professional training and pride that went into the old armies was not completely present in the modern ones. Many of these men were conscripts, while others came from beyond the Roman borders. Rome had vassals amongst the Slavic and Moorish tribes, and some German Kings around the Alps still payed tribute to the Empire in terms of both gold and fighting men. 

Anastasius had sent his horse away with the messenger boy, so he elected to lead on foot. He pulled his sword, and torchlight played across the polished steel as he faced his men.

"No Saracen army has defeated a Roman force twice in a row!" he shouted. His voice sounded more angry than comforting, and though this came from frustration it seemed to have a good effect on the men. He could see in their eyes a stirring rage as the indignant passion of fear was switched for the other extreme. "They fight under the light of a full moon, because they are Pagans and witchcraft rules nights like these. So pray, and hold fast to the powerful signs of Christ that surround you now, and the banners that show the angels and the faces of the saints, because no witchcraft can harm a faithful army of the Lord!"

The Romans formed along the palisade walls and looked out at the coming foe. Shadowy riders circled the camp from afar, firing arrows or shaking swords that gleamed in the moonlight. From the side where the enemy footmen approached, it looked like the desert itself was shifting toward them, as a wave moves across the sea. Anastasius stood at an entrance to the camp and waited. From the far end, the Cataphracts thundered out of the camp to do battle with the horsemen. 

The Saracen footmen stopped short in their charge, and they mulled around uncertainly. These were dirty looking men, bearded and covered in dust from a hard march. Archers shot arrows at the Roman line, and they bore into shields and buried themselves in the bare earth. One of the men were hit in the neck by a chance shot, and he fell to the ground gasping as his life-blood soaked into the dirt. The Romans did not reply. Some of the men in the back of the line fingered the fletching on their darts. Soon more arrows came, and then more. They were burning now, and they fell on most of the camp. Canvas tents were set ablaze, and the crackling of fire mingled with the other battle sounds. The Romans, helpless, held their shields above themselves and waited.

Soon enough, the enemy charge was resumed. They came at the Romans with swords and spears, with rounded shields and stolen pieces of armor, and they shouted in their incoherent, crude language. The Roman line held at the entrance. Where the Saracens charged the Palisades, Romans awaited their approach and pelted them with darts when they tried to cross the ditch. 

It was a bloody affair. The Saracens did not fight in neat shield walls tonight, but they fought fiercely, and the Romans were severely outnumbered. More fire arrows fell on the camp until everything was burning, and Anastasius realized that they could not hold this ground.

"Push forward!" he ordered. "Push!" The Romans responded, smashing the weight of the Saracen charge against itself. The goal was to break out, to cause a temporary retreat amongst the enemy so that the Romans could regroup. Along the wall, the Roman soldiers broke out of the palisades and ran shouting at the stunned Arabs in the ditch. It seemed to be working. The Saracen charge had came too fiercely, and now the pressure of their attack was hindering their ability to move or fight. They were dying quickly now, sliced down easily by the Romans. The confusion caused the enemy line to break, and Anastasius rejoiced.

Outside of the walls, he could see that the Roman Cataphracts had been joined by the Visigothic Knights. They were outnumbered by the enemy, and the Arab riders moved quicker than their heavily armored counterparts. Anastasius could not see how their fight was playing out. 

Where the Arabs broke, the Romans began to reform. They pulled out of the camp, now an infernal bon-fire who's vicious heat caused nearby brush to burn. The open desert would not bake them alive, but there was another obstacle out here. Without the walls, they were truly outnumbered, and there was no way to protect their flanks. The Roman army began to take the shape of a bow who's ends were kissing the burning palisades of the former camp.

Anastasius walked the line and joined in the fight wherever his men looked like they were weakening. At the edges, the Romans were beginning to recoil. If this line was a bow, it was beginning to look as if it were being pulled. 

Out of the hateful Saracen darkness, an arrow came at Anastasius. He watched it suddenly appear until it was on him, and when it imbedded in his eye it felt as if he had been kicked by a mule. Before he could think, his face seered with agony. It was a horrible, burning pain, and he fell back rubbing his face. Blood trickled down his cheek, and he began to scream

The Roman line was starting to collapse. He felt faint. Along the distant hillsides, he could see the horsemen riding. At first, he thought the enemy riders had begun to fight amongst themselves, and then he remembered the Ghassanids. They had arrived on Saracen steeds just as swift as those belonging to their pagan brothers. His vision grew darker. The horsemen's swords glowed so that the battle of the riders look like two glittering streams of silver stars converging upon each other in the moonlit sky. It was beautiful, like... music.

And with that thought in his mind, Anastasius perished.