[h1]Jordan[/h1]
[h2]Roughly thirty miles east of Amman[/h2]

Walking besides his horse, Khalid looked out past the winding dunes of the desert. Stretching out before him for miles the lengthy column of his army spanned towards the southern horizon. It disappeared behind sand-dunes only to re-appear trailing up the next like a snake. The bright glimmering of spear-tips shone from their weapons and armor in the sun. Though their progress was slow, it was consistent.

The groaning and grunts of camels and mules berated the calm desert air among the irregular footfalls of the Arab army, forming a gentle and irregular music. Khalid's gaze turned to the west where among the sand his cavalry rode in full gear protecting their flank most directly exposed to the Romans. Khalid could not take chances that the sons of Rome would mount an offensive on he and his men at this particular moment and so deep in the desert.

“Yallah!” he heard a distant voice shout behind him. The commander's attention turned from Rome back to the distant sands. Above the heads of bowed bedouins and their dismounted horses rode a figure upon his own horse. Brown and white robes bellowed behind him as he rode the edge of the column, looking to find his commander. With a knicker, and a yank against the reigns the man stopped, having found his man.

“Sayid Khalid!” the man hailed, turning his mount to cut in alongside his commander, “I must ask a question.”

Khalid did not at once respond to him and instead turned to look ahead. The softened hoof-falls of the horse drummed muffled against the sand alongside him as he led his horse over the dunes.

“What's the question?” he asked finally.

“Your honor, we were so close to Damascus, why did we not bring Allah's fury forth-right to the infidels?” asked the soldier.

“Would you head first into a den of asps?” challenged Khalid, looking up at the rider. His tongue whipped with a tinge of annoyance and disdain for the annoyance that found itself latching to his side.

“Hardly your honor, but truthfully Rome are not asps. And I would see them throw themselves on my sword as I would theirs, inshallah!” he declared proudly, “So why is it we return to Arabia?”

“Disown this thought from your mind, we are not returning to Arabia.” Khalid ordered.

“I would my lord, but truth by told it is not wholly mine.”

“Then whose thought is it, and why do they not come to me themselves?” said Khalid, sourly.

“Because my brothers guide the prisoners, and saw fit to dispatch me to settle our arguments.”

“Then if your brothers must know we do not march to head home, but to march and open a door to the house of Rome. If we strike so early at the head of Rome then we fight an army that we have not tired or whittled down. It is imperative that we force the Romans to be broken when we come upon Damascus. For us to march straight into the Roman den would be sentencing us to an early martyrdom.

“Their armies must meet us to be destroyed in the desert. We shall pull Jerusalem and Palestine out from under them first. And then the bricks of Damascus will fall.”


[h2]In the desert[/h2]

As night fell over the sands so too did the travelers. Finding a moon-lit oasis among the sands the horses and camels came to rest alongside the moon glow water.

“Let the Roman drink!” shouted the African in a booming voice. With a sharp cut the ropes that bound Arabicus to the saddle were cut loose and he fell out into the arms of his captors below. They let him down gently with a soft thud.

Laying sprawled on the ground near the banks of the water's edge he groaned in discomfort, his fingers raking through the loose sands and the thin grass that grew around the water's edge. His head swam in dizzying confusion and he pulled himself up. His legs were numb and his back was sore. His skin tingled with the painful burn of a million needles that dug into every pour. There was no doubt that much of him was sunburned.

Lethargically he scrambled to his knees. “If I refuse to drink, then what will you do?” he taunted. He sat on his knees. But for all his fortune he did not feel he had the strength to truly stand. His current condition made even so much as kneeling before the Arabs a chore.

“Then I will throw you in the oasis until you drink enough as you pull yourself out.” chided the Abyssinian, “I'm not interested in dead or dying Romans. And this is my act of zakat.”

“Excuse me?” murmured Arabicus through gritted teeth.

“In your tongue my friend: charity.” The Abyssinian knelled down in front of him, just outside arm's reach. In the darkness of the desert night he was as much a wraith as the date palms that grew around the sandy pond. “So go and drink, and I will offer you some goat's cheese.”

“This is foolishness.” Arabicus commented cynically, “How am I not to know this gift of yours is poison?”

The Abyssinian laughed, standing up he held out his arms and shouted to the men. They laughed. Arabicus looked up at him and the others with contempt and disdain. Were they laughing at him? “If we dragged you so far out just so you may die then you really have no sense about you!” beamed the Abyssinian, “My, it would have been easier to do that when we recovered your broken body from under your own horse. This would be twice you have made such a foolish charge!

“And perhaps then, maybe our mutual god can protect you if it is.” the Abyssinian taunted.

“And death is a more just and verdant thing for us than slavery. The children of Rome are not the dust at the bottom of shoes. We are the honey crust of all men. The truly civilized. What does your people know of charity?”

“Then would you have us leave you alone in the desert, a camel's stomach filled with sand in your hands and no direction to see you to safety?” the Abyssinian asked patiently.

“I will see the heads of heretics upon spikes.” Arabicus swore.

“That is not an answer to the question. And since you do not drink...” he waved a hand to the side, giving a harsh sudden order. At a sudden glance firm hands were gripping Arabicus by the shoulders and arms and he was thrown without charity in the shallows of the oasis.

“Drink or be damned!” the Abyssinian ordered coldly as he stepped back from the shore. A few feet away a small fire was beginning to smolder as the Bedouin soldiers sat by its light and warmth.

Arabicus shivered as he slogged for purchase and balance in the wall. His feet splashed uncontrollably in the sandy mud and he fell back with a loud splash. His back hit the shallow oasis bottom and he rolled onto his hands and knees as the cold water flushed through his nose.

Coughing bitterly he stood on hands and knees as his crimson tunic hung in the desert water. Droplets fell from his hair as he watched his captors with a bewitching gaze. He felt no pride in his captivity.

“Is the water nice?” the African called back at him. Arabicus did not respond. Defeated and dejected he fell to the side, sitting on his side as the cool water lapped against his bare arms. The soft lapping soothed the burns of his arms.

With the water that soaked into his clothes the enraged fire that had smoldered inside him withdrew some. He surrendered to his desires if for a moment to disregard any notions of convoluted assassination attempts to drink from the reservoir. When he got his fill he crawled to shore and surrendered before the fire, shuddering from the harsh desert cold.

“And the champion of Rome returns.” praised the African. A small bundle was passed over to him from the Arab nearest to him. He opened to find a crumbled mass of white cheese which he picked from.

“Our mercy is much more that than Rome's.” noted the Abyssinian, “We do not need civilization, we have plenty of the kindness and compassion of the most merciful Allah.”

Arabicus did not comment. He glowered up at the dark-skinned man with a reserved contempt. One that he was unable to act upon, and his captor knew that much from the surefire smile on his face.