As the first day of their journey drew to a close, the small caravan finally came to a halt at a quiet bend of the Tigris, several miles from Baghdad's eastern gate. The river flowed lazily, reflecting the crimson-gold light of the setting sun. Horses were unbridled, their warm breath rising in thin clouds in the cooling evening air. The guards checked hooves, loosened saddles, and took turns drawing water from the river, mindful of the shallow stretches where the current ran swift.
Ruqayyah's eyes rested on several catfish writhing in a leather bucket—freshly speared by the guards along the riverbank. Beside her lay sacks of coarse wheat, powdered goat fat, and a small pouch of wild spices she had gathered along the day's brief journey.
"Prince," she called without looking up, her hands busy sharpening a small dagger on a river-worn stone. "If you wish your men to stay awake tonight and not slump over their saddles tomorrow, allow me to take charge of their supper."
Al-Mu'tashim sat atop a large boulder near a modest fire, wiping blood from his armor with a rough cloth.
"Do as you will," he replied flatly, a hint of amusement at the corner of his mouth. "But if they fall ill, you shall walk to Khurasan on foot."
Ruqayyah stifled a laugh, a faint smile curling beneath her veil.
Sick? We shall see… they will be begging for more before night is through, she thought to herself.
Before the fire could blaze fully, Ruqayyah moved among the horses, many already fatigued from hours in the saddle. She brushed mud from their legs, massaged tense muscles, and patted their necks with a practiced hand.
"Preserve their strength; the Prince will need it on the rocky trail tomorrow," she murmured to herself, smiling faintly as one guard raised an eyebrow, realizing this "servant" knew far more of horses than they had suspected.
A few of the men assisted her in setting up cooking tools, stoking the fire, and arranging a flat stone for frying the fish. At first hesitant, they had grown accustomed to her brisk, precise commands.
Ruqayyah worked with the efficiency of a novice who had long served in kitchens feeding hundreds. She filleted the catfish with deft precision, coating the white flesh with ground turmeric and salt. Lacking fine flour, she pounded coarse wheat into a rough powder, dusting each piece of fish before frying it in hot goat fat.
The hiss of the oil drew the soldiers' attention. The rich, pungent scent drifted through the air as the fish cooked.
Next came her "secret sauce": dried shrimp, their aroma already sharp, roasted over the embers. Several soldiers turned instinctively, drawn by the unusual smell.
"What is that smell?" whispered one guard. "Rotten… yet somehow enticing?"
Atop a flat stone, Ruqayyah ground dried red chilies, wild onions, and the roasted shrimp into a fiery paste. The rhythmic rasp of stone against stone mixed with the gentle gurgle of the Tigris.
Meanwhile, other guards prepared wheat dough, shaping thick rounds and baking them on hot stones, covered by iron pots so that they swelled into soft, golden buns. The scent of warm bread mingled with the aroma of fried fish and goat fat, filling the riverside camp.
Smoke curled skyward as night settled, and stars appeared, one by one. Ruqayyah split a warm bun, spread the bright-red paste inside, and nestled the crispy catfish within. Carrying the portion on a clean wooden board, she approached Al-Mu'tashim.
"This is your supper, Prince," she said evenly. "Do not ask for its ingredients. Just eat. But be warned—it is spicy."
Al-Mu'tashim regarded the bundle with suspicion.
"This looks like a jest."
Still, he took a bite.
CRUNCH.
The crisp skin of the fish met the soft warmth of the bread, followed by the sudden, searing heat of the chili paste. His expression froze. The usually impassive, pale face flushed scarlet; sweat beaded at his temples.
"Spicy… yet…" He swallowed with effort, then, almost against his own will, took another bite. "Why… can I not stop? Did you enchant this fish?"
"Just properly roasted shrimp," Ruqayyah said, unbothered, as she began distributing portions to the soldiers, who lined up like novices awaiting their turn in the communal kitchen.
The rigid military camp softened. Laughter, rare in such a setting, mingled with gasps and playful complaints about the heat of the chili. Men whose strength had flagged were now renewed by the fire of her cooking.
Al-Mu'tashim watched from across the fire as Ruqayyah ate her own meal, lifting her veil just slightly to take a bite—still enigmatic, still commanding.
[Ding! Achievement: 'Matters of the Stomach'. Soldier loyalty increased.]
[Status: Al-Mu'tashim's trust → High curiosity.]
Reward: Novice Sword Mastery.
Ruqayyah blinked in surprise. Seriously? What does that mean?
[System: Master basic sword techniques; useful in emergencies.]
"Oh," she said aloud, "I suppose I shall need this, then."
A few hours before dzuhur, the men began readying their horses. Ruqayyah used the opportunity to survey the terrain. She noted the stony paths leading east, aware that some tracks would be treacherously slick if it rained.
Approaching Al-Mu'tashim, who studied a simple map on goatskin, she said calmly,
"Prince, if you wish to traverse the hills without losing horses to slippery ground, we should take the southern path. It is longer, but firm. The animals will not falter."
Al-Mu'tashim's gaze lingered on her. "You… always seem one step ahead, Princess."
Ruqayyah allowed herself a faint smile beneath the veil.
Nearby, the guards checked water skins, wheat sacks, and daggers. Ruqayyah ensured everything was secure and within reach, offering water to restless horses, and gently stroking the necks of older steeds to calm them.
The next day. Ashar approached, the caravan prepared to remount. The fading light stretched long shadows across the hills; a cool wind began to stir.
Ruqayyah patted her horse's shoulder. "Prince, we must move before darkness fully falls. The horses tire, but the men's spirits must remain high."
Al-Mu'tashim surveyed the caravan from his mount, tightening his grip on the reins. "Very well. Let us proceed. Stay alert. And… do not let this veiled servant stray from my side."
A faint warmth stirred in Ruqayyah's heart at his words. I should not feel this… he is only performing his duty. Nothing more.
She knew, with a quiet certainty, that the veiled servant he meant… was herself.
Having left the fertile Tigris valley behind, the caravan entered drier terrain. Water supplies began to dwindle due to the sudden change of route. Dust swirled around the horses' hooves.
Dzuhur time approached. Beneath the shadow of jagged hills, Al-Mu'tashim dismounted, visibly perturbed. He clapped his hands on dusty stones, then wiped his face roughly, as if scrubbing with grit.
Ruqayyah, having just completed her tayammum with meticulous calm, observed him.
"Prince," she said sharply, "if you wish your prayer to be valid, do not treat the dust as if it were armor to be polished."
Al-Mu'tashim turned sharply. "Now you wish to dictate how I stand before my Lord?"
"I only wish you not to waste the rukhsah," she answered boldly. "Tayammum has an order: one tap for the face, one tap for the hands to the elbows. You did not even reach your arms correctly."
He grunted but did not argue.
"Then show me, Princess."
Patiently, Ruqayyah demonstrated: tapping the soil, dusting it lightly, then wiping face and hands with precise care.
"Calm, Prince. Allah does not pursue you with a sword."
For the first time, the feared general looked like a pupil in a madrasa, scrutinized by his teacher.
When finished, he murmured, "Why does every small thing you do follow such exact rules? Who taught you this?"
"Those who value precision," she replied, remounting. "Something perhaps you have forgotten, spending too long on the battlefield."
[Ding! Hidden Mission: 'Preaching in the Desert' Complete.]
[Relationship: Secret Teacher & Student. Trust +5%.]
Reward: Intermediate Combat Training.
The calm was short-lived. Dust swirled violently in the distance, moving fast and with purpose.
"That is no caravan!" Ruqayyah shouted. "No trader would spur horses so recklessly over these rocks!"
In an instant, Al-Mu'tashim became the general once more. Sword drawn, his voice thundered:
"FORM A LINE! PROTECT THE VEILED SERVANT!"