[h1]Syria[/h1]
[h2]Southern Syria[/h2]

High above them the lingering sun burned with a bright fury on the backs of the camels. A small train coursed over the dusty, dry landscape as they snaked through the dunes on their course. The glint of weapons shone in the high desert sun, reflecting clear its golden light. The dusty robes and shemagh of the Bedouin travelers hung stiff and heavy from their shoulders in the still desert air.

Alongside them the camels gave grunts of annoyed discomfort. Piled over their backs the weight of loot throbbed into their chest at every step they took. The regular comforts of padding and bedding and of clothes and wrapped supplies doing little to mask the prodding and stabbing of sheathed swords and loose armor as they continued their course. Ahead of them, a single black-robed rider sat atop a night-black mare as he lead his men on through the sands.

With their heads held high they continued their proud journey without a word from their mouth. Save for the man they had as company.

Sat atop a captured white war-horse, slouched over the horn of his saddle a crumpled and bloody Roman leaned against the neck of his mount. The short-cropped hair of its mane scratched and tickled his bruised and cut cheeks. He starred at the passing sand under-him through tired, swollen eyes. In the insurmountable heat of day all things felt blurry and fuzzy. By the very fires of Satan himself he had been dragged into Hell itself.

His captors had bound his hands at his chest, they weakly gripped his horse's hide as he bounced along at a regular clip on the horse. His legs were tied tight to the saddle, strapping him to the back of the horse. And if he could kick it to spur it into a gallop he was sure he would fall to flop at its side like some full-bodied whore through the streets of Ravenna. But even he couldn't do that, not that the straps were so tight they held his ankles firm against the side of the horse but one of the barbarian captors pulled him along with his own reigns.

Sweat beaded off of his brow as much as it coursed through the fur of his white mare. The smell of the two lingering and mixing scents was powerful and ripe. It smelled of fear from him, and discomfort from the horse. Through all the smell of putrid blood and the vile desert pierced it like the shaft of a spear. It swam in his head, masking out even the vile smell of the Bedouin barbarians.

He had been taken prisoner, and he had been rode out with these Arabs for far longer than he cared to remember. Though he was sure it couldn't have been a day. But as the blistering high-heat sapped him of his composure he was becoming stiffly unsure where he was and when he was. He could only recite his name in his head.

'I am Priscus Caesar, Arabicus.' he told himself over and over. His thoughts as dry as his voice, 'I am Priscus Caesar, Arabicus. Noble of Rome, servant of God. I am a proud Christian man.

'I am Priscus Caesar, Arabicus. Son of Rome.'

“You pagan barbarians, Rome shall smash your temples, and burn your people for my rescue.” he groaned from the saddle. Sneering around every word in the sentence. His very tongue felt numb from the heat, and sapped dry as his lips. He knew not if he could even speak correctly, let alone if these Bedouins would understand Latin, let alone discern it from Persian.

“You steal off with a Roman prince, like he his some cattle. But I tell you here and now, I am not that!” he roared. His chest ached in pain as his heat-stricken chest retched to belt out the words, “I AM ARABICUS, I AM SON OF ROME! MY FATHER IS AUGUSTUS MARCELLUS! EMPEROR!”

For all his protest and his taunts, the Arabs did not so much bat an eye. They didn't turn, they kept moving into the infinity of Hell. How long would they drag him around? Until God saw fit to retire his soul from his body and he expired in this vile heat? And then what would these strange zealots do then? He shuttered at the idea, and it only made him more angry.

“Your people are a barbarian scourge, they are ones to be civilized. And it was I who should have done that!” he cried, “Not my brother, not my father. It was I who was to come and bring civilization to you as we had the Franks. It was I who was to come and punish you as we did the Zealots of Masada.”

His host continued to maintain muteness to Arabicus. Choosing instead to continue his long march. But from ahead, the man atop the black horse turned his horse to the side, and slowed to a stop until he and Arabicus were side-by-side.

“You speak of funny things.” the man crooned, smiling wide as he looked down at Arabicus. He squinted against the heat of the sun as the two mens' eyes met. His Latin was impeccable. Although mired by the alien accents of the negroes.

The leader rider was as black as his robes and his horse. A narrow and sullen face of an Abyssinian smiled down at him. Not out of any true humor, but of pride in himself.

“There are certain fires in hell that are reserved for people such as yours.” Arabicus cursed.

“Oh is there really?” laughed the Abyssinian, “I would dare say not, having lived in the excess heat of Arabia for so long, sadiq. But I doubt that this is the hottest land that Allah has created.”

“Even so, there are hotter fires for heathens. This I promise.” Arabicus continued in his protest. But his anger did not seem to impact the leader of this band who only smiled and laughed on his horse.

“That is a rich suggestion from the man who is a prince of a lost Empire.” he quipped back, “Rome, an entity so great but was swallowed in decadence all the same. It is you who will visit Hell for your whoring and your drinking. You all swim in palaces of gold, while you neglect the righteous of your lands.

“By the name of the prophet – blessed and peace be upon his name – and for Allah the most righteous it us not you who is the civilizer nor the savior. But it is us!” he talked with a beaming smile. His teeth shone in the sun, as yellowed as the sands were.

Raising his hand in the air he rode off down the line, shouting: “ALLAHU ACKBAR!” he cheered, “ALLAHU ACKBAR!”

His men responded in kind and the chorus was a loud explosion in Arabicus' ears. He flinched at the sound, his teeth clinched against them.

Riding back the Abyssinian looked down upon him, “That is the voice of the righteous!” he praised, “And what might would you offer to us that is not pure in devotion?”

“If I only had my men.” Arabicus jeered, “Then I shall show you a cheer to God louder than any you would hear!”

“Between the drunken hedonism and the whoring among your camp? I would dare to venture I would not hear it before the moans and the clink of wine!”

“And in the desert it's any better?”

“The dessert here is unpolluted and pure!” the African praised, “And though it may not be heaven on Earth, it is here where we wait for the purity, the awe, and the riches of heaven itself. When we die and are judged by Allah, we shall walk among a garden of honey and milk, where we shall drink sweet wine and never become too lost to think. Inshallah.

“It is the word prophet, blessings and peace be upon his humble name.”

“If you can not get drunk, then what is the point in drinking?” challenged Arabicus.

“A typical Roman if I ever laid eyes and ears on one. Trust me sadiq, when you reach a state of clairvoyance in your abstinence then you will see.

“I only pray it's in Allah's will you withdraw from the concept of your ennoble sin by time we reach Medina.”

[h2]Golan-Heights/Jabiyah[/h2]

“There are murmurs about the camp about you.” a soldier said, as he sat in the middle of the tent. Shaded from the sun, the cover of the heavy tent covering was almost an oasis of cool. Simple rugs covered the sandy floor. In the middle of the circle of commanders sat a clay bowl filled with dried dates. Each man took one to eat as they talked.

“Let them murmur.” Khalid responded dismissively, as he rolled a date between his fingers. He scowled at his compatriot.

The other, a thin man several years his younger leaned on one arm as he lounged across the carpets. Still in full armor, the blood having not been wholly washed up. Prayers had been conducted, and the next phases need to be continued.

The younger commander plunged the last bit of sun-dried date into his mouth, chewing. For a moment all was silent until he spoke: “They call you a corpse defiler, some do.”

“And I said: let them.” Khalid reminded, “Such men who would take such rumors into heart do not understand the full breadth of war, nor what was done to our brothers when they were arrested in Jerusalem.

“I'll allow the rumors to persist. Should the enemy spy on us, let these stories strike fear into their hearts as much as the infidel's head will to the governor. We are not simply raiders, we are an army here to sweep them away. Inshallah, I will have just that.”

“If Allah wills, yes.” the commander sighed, frowning. He brushed the few odd remnants of dates from his thin beard as he spoke, “But I do not know how much it will serve the men if they fear you are a hypocrite and an apostate to Mohammad's word.”

“There is a time and place for niceties and mercy, Hassan.” Khalid reminded with a sharp tone, “But when sword comes to sword not even the softest of touch can phase the best of soldiers. And it is here we have that.

“And they know it, and they know who I am. I who has lead them to victory and will still. So long as Abu-Bakr commands: I shall do.”

“Yes, commander.” bowed Hassan.

“Excellent.” Khalid grunted, “We should prepare to move soon. If any escaped the battle it is due time before they reach Syria and muster garrisons. With luck the desert will make them lost. But we shouldn't be sure. The soonest we can breach the Limes Arabicus the better it shall be for us. We will isolate the Roman armies, and we will decimate them.

“But we should also severe them from the remnants of their allies in the desert. Abullah,” he continued, looking to the side towards a stockier man. A heavy, full beard adorning his chin and lips. He stared at Khalid with a sure and steady gaze held in his emerald eyes, “I want you to go before Hudhayfa and request he rides to meet any Banu Ghassan. He's to eliminate their armies, drive them from the desert if need be. At best, convince them to convert or pay Jazya. But they are not to continue to swear allegiance to Rome.”

“Certainly.” bowed Abdullah, “When do you want them to leave?” he asked.

“Preferably: as soon as he can muster his tribe.

“The rest of us will make for Qasr Azraq and hold it to siege.” Khalid confirmed, “We will let the men further recuperate from battle, and let wounds be attended to. But we shall mount camels then and make for the fort immediately. We'll open a hole in their parameter, and then send for Abu Ubaidah.

“This is my word, and my command. Any questions?”

“What of the slaves?” asked Hassan.

“We will have to bring them to Qasr Azraq.” Khalid confirmed, “We will break their spirits as the walls fall and they know that the light of Allah illuminates their transgressions. Beyond Azraq, I am sure we can send them to Medina. But we mustn't tarry or devote any more troops to sending them south, not like after the first battle.

“We have Arabicus already, if Abu Bakr wills it, he will be a highly-prized chip.”