Shadow of Death (Book 2 of Hanthalah)

Chapter 4

          "How can there be many gods in the sky?" Martha had once asked. "If you have two quartermasters, the ship sinks!"

"Good thing the world isn't a ship, then," I'd replied.

Stalking through the reeds, half-crouched with an arrow nocked to my bow as a gentle breeze swept through the banks of the Nile, I scoffed at the memory.

At least I don't crucify people for worshipping Jesus funny, I thought to myself. I felt a pang of regret for what I did in the shack, if only for Martha's sake. I did not show myself in her tavern for weeks.

Another faint breeze sent the undergrowth and trees on the river's banks fluttering as I eyed my prey.

Tetrarch Dalmatius gestured for us to follow him. His wavy white hair fluttered in the night wind, blade and shield outstretched.

My silent prayer to Allah, the god of the moon, was interrupted by the Nubian. The monstrous man growled as he shoved me behind him, gripping his own bow and arrow. He snarled at me in defiance, daring me to challenge him.

The Nubian played a rather prominent role in my life at the barracks, albeit a more unpleasant one.

Not one of us knew his name and neither did the senior officers that supervised our training.

He was only ever referred to as such – the Nubian, a man native to the lands south of Egypt. His was of pitch-black complexion, as dark as Bilal the Abyssinian, the Muslim man who had instructed me and my brothers in the ways of the new Islamic creed.

The Nubian, however, was far more formidable of body, and taller still; his head was shaved in its entirety to the point that it resembled an egg, and it shone distinctly in the morning sun.

In the auxiliary, we were not provided with arms or armor, and so we had to make do with our own equipment. The Nubian, however, a lumbering brute with the strength of the gods, toiled in the practice field with naught but a white loincloth. His bare chest bulged with spectacular taut muscle, gleaming with a pretty sheen of sweat under a blistering sun.

The Nubian was the most dreaded figure in the auxiliary tagma, a fierce brute revered even by the senior officers. The Nubian took no leaves of absence nor did he speak a word of his past to any comrade. He was foremost among us in prowess and strength of arms, and Dalmatius' favored disciple.

However, what he gained in strength and repute, he lacked in discipline; ofttimes he would pummel an opponent bloody even after they signaled defeat. He would need at least ten men to seize him off his battered adversary.

What time the Nubian did not spend grinding the dust and sand of the yard, he would be found in the barracks wolfing down his rations and bullying other troops for theirs. Tetrarch Dalmatius did not interfere when informed of the Nubian's actions, nor did the beast cease his relentless displays of dominance. Nor did anyone refuse him their rations when demanded, lest they risk demise.

I sighed, shaking my head. I redirected my focus to the bandits we were hunting. Dalmatius had informed us only the morning prior of this surprise task.

"We're to patrol the banks of the Nile," he spoke gruffly, begrudgingly even. "Some shit-eating rogues are causing some trouble for travelers south of the city."

And here we were, some distance south of Alexandria. A pathetic mission, perhaps meant as a slight to the standing auxiliary. Damn Romans looked down upon us just for being born without their borders.

It was similar to a ladder. A hierarchy, of sorts. Roman citizens were those dwelling within the borders of the Empire; be they Greek, Egyptian, or anywhere else. But that wasn't the way some of the elitists saw it. Though Egyptians were of Roman citizenry, there was clear favoring of Greeks within Alexandria.