The caravan wound its way along the long road to the city. The trip from Damascus was ahead of schedule. The train had taken a smaller, less traveled route instead of the gigantic, fortified ones that became clogged with traffic. These so called less=traveled routes were becoming increasingly popular because they didn't take as long to cross becauseo f the lack of restrictions. That was why this caravan was using it.

The driver gazed wearily ahead of him. He was the lead wagon in the 25 wagon train. The hot desert sun burned down on his bare head and the dry air gave no hint of a breeze. The head merchant said they'd be in Hegra in a few days, but the driver could not take much more of this heat. The landscape was unchanging, just a long barren line of desert.

The driver raised his head. He had seen something. Off to his right he saw a cloud of dust, another one to his left. Squinting his eyes he could barely make out about 15 riders in each group. Probably some cavalry patrol, he thought. But as they drew closer, he could see them better. These were no soldiers. They all wore different clothing and carried various weapons. The driver could see a few old Roman cavalry swords (he had once served in an auxiliary ala), a couple infantry swords, a lot of native swords and a few bows, which was strange. One thought crossed his mind, BANDITS. With a yell, he alerted the rest of the caravan, which was already panicking. Cowards, he thought. He drew his dagger, knowing full well it would be useless. But one had to fight, right? He turned as the first arrow struck him in the throat. Then there was nothing.