Archive of Our Own ^beta

His first death is unsurprising. What else is there to do, in the face of this wave of invaders? Yusuf stands at the gates of Al-Quds, draws his sword and knows without thought that his breaths are numbered, the beats of his heart finite. The city is being overrun, the Franks rallying after reinforcements flood in from the water. All around him men die screaming, groaning, gasping – swords to guts, to hearts; arrows to eyes, to necks, to knees. They pile on top of each other in a horrific facsimile of a children’s game, the game he saw his nephew and nieces playing when he left home – drop a handful of sticks, try to collect them all without disturbing any of the others. He joins the pile, one more stick to be collected, when a Frank with blue eyes that burn from behind a mask of blood drives his sword deep into Yusuf’s belly.

The Frank falls on top of him, his throat slit by Yusuf’s blade, and the last sensation Yusuf feels is the fall of his blood, warm like summer rain.

Nicolò wakes to silence pressing down on him from above and someone squirming and groaning below. He coughs around a throat full of fire and drags a hand up to feel – nothing. Blood has soaked the front of his brigandine but where the killing blow should be – and he had felt it, he’d felt the infidel’s sword open his throat as easily as he’d slit open a fish’s belly – there is only smooth skin. He has only moments to marvel at this – this miracle, before a hand closes around his throat and cuts off his air.

“Madha faealat lay?”

The man beneath him – one Nicolò is sure he’d run through with his sword just before his own throat had been cut – bares his teeth, a flash of white against a blood-soaked face. Is it Nicolò’s blood he wears? He repeats himself, as if Nicolò can parse his heathen language, and his hands tighten. Nicolò chokes, hands scrabbling at the man’s leather armor, trying to find purchase, trying anything his slowly darkening brain can think of to make this stop.

His fingers find a knife tied to the man’s belt. He pulls, tugs, rips at it until it comes free, and buries it in the man’s heart.

The man chokes, his eyes widening, and his fingers around Nicolò’s throat start to go slack, enough that Nicolò thinks for a wild second that he’s free, he can get away – and then, with his last rattling breath, the man drives his forgotten sword through Nicolò’s ribs, and he collapses back down, dying once more atop the man he has murdered and who has murdered him.

His last view before the darkness is of strangely lovely eyes, staring into his.

They kill each other two more times before either of them manages to pull himself away from the stinking pile of bodies.

Yusuf wriggles out from under the Frank, both of them eyeing each other warily but also neither wanting to die yet again, if that is indeed what is happening. His body feels wrung out, drained, and yet his heart still beats and blood still flows in his veins, despite the Frank’s many attempts to make them stop doing so. As far as Yusuf can tell he has no wounds, nothing to account for the tears in his armor and the blood that coats him head to toe. Neither does the Frank.

They crawl away from the pile covered in blood and muck and stinking of death, both still breathing. All around them are heaps of dead and dying men, bodies of unfortunate horses felled from underneath their riders. It is eerily silent, but for the roar of fire deeper into the city proper. In the distance, out here on the wrong side of the gates, Yusuf can see men moving amongst the dead, but whether to loot or to bury he is not sure. He looks at the Frank, who looks back with those disturbingly light eyes, and as one they seem to make the same decision. They crawl to the edge of the battlefield, rise onto shaking legs, and run into the desert.

Yusuf knows the wells surrounding Al-Quds have been poisoned, an attempt by governor al-Daula to cut down the invaders before they even began their siege, but the heat is so intense, so oppressive, that neither he nor the Frank can resist them. They die within moments of each other, each of them gasping and retching into the dirt. They revive inhaling their own spit, and lurch up together, determination making them cling despite the clear distrust lingering in Yusuf’s breast, distrust he can see mirrored in the Frank’s eyes. They move on, further into desolation and away from the city. As they slog through rocky, barren ground together, stumbling and falling and hauling each other back up again, he glances over and wonders, for the first time, what the other man’s name is. Clearly this man knows no Arabic. Yusuf tries Persian, then the small bit of Greek he remembers from his schooling, but nothing he says sparks any recognition in the Frank’s unnerving eyes. He huffs, looking away. The Frank’s fingers tighten on his shoulders, but he offers no words of his own.

They find the remnants of another battle long since fought. Men and horses have bloated and burst under the unforgiving sun. Flies swarm in their thousands, their buzzing a drone that hurts the ears. Yusuf retches from the smell, doubles over and coughs even though there is nothing left in his stomach for him to expel. The Frank moves from body to body, seemingly impervious, his face set in a grim, blank mask. The blood on his face – Yusuf’s blood, his own – has dried like clay over his skin, flaky and peeling. He returns to Yusuf’s side and silently holds out a waterskin. He watches as Yusuf drinks, great greedy mouthfuls that he can’t help, even feeling those eyes on him. It is a physical pain to stop himself, to hold the skin out for the Frank to take back. The line of his throat – uncut, unmarked – is long as he drains the rest. 

“I am Yusuf,” Yusuf says suddenly, his voice hoarse but loud as thunder after so long without speech. The Frank stops and lowers the waterskin, watching him over the opening. Yusuf taps himself on the chest and says again, “Yusuf.”

“Yosef,” the Frank says, his voice quiet. Yusuf grimaces, says his name once again. “Yosef,” the Frank repeats, a faint frown forming between his brows as he tries to wrap his mouth around the syllables.

Yusuf sighs and waves his hand. “It is good enough,” he says. The Frank is still frowning, watching him, his eyes following the motion of his hand. Yusuf gestures to him. “And you?”

The Frank blinks, and then slowly raises a hand and touches his chest, right in the middle of the red cross sewn into his brigandine. 

“Nicolò,” he says. There is a hint of a smile in the corner of his mouth when Yusuf repeats it back to him, mangled syllables and all.

Nicolò knows only that they are going west. He follows Yusuf – he can hear the difference in the name but try as he might, he has not yet been able to train his tongue to say it correctly – as they travel. What else is Nicolò to do? He knows nothing of this land, of the language or people or how to live amidst such heat. The sun is strong in Genova, yes, but the breeze from the sea allows for some relief. Here, as they travel through sand and scrub, there is no such thing. His skin burns and fades, burns and fades. He stares at the backs of his hands, his arms, and bites down the panic that has stirred in his breast ever since his first reawakening. His stomach aches with hunger. He ignores it as best he can.

At night the heat drains away until they are both shivering in the cold, huddled in the shadow of a dune. It is only out of necessity that Nicolò moves, crawling slowly across the sand, until he is a hair’s breadth away from Yusuf’s back. Yusuf stiffens when Nicolò drapes a hesitant arm across him, but he doesn’t throw him off, nor does he draw the sword still strapped to his waist. “We don’t have to freeze,” he mutters into Yusuf’s neck, knowing he can’t understand him and feeling the need to explain anyway. Yusuf stays stiff and wary in his arms for a long time before his body relaxes into sleep, but at least his shivering has lessened.

Nicolò dreams of two women on horseback, riding through low mountains. They wear headdresses of a type he has never seen, not on Yusuf’s people and certainly not on his own. One wears a bow slung across her back, one a fearsome, oddly-shaped axe. He gasps awake at the same time as Yusuf; they both lurch upright, and Yusuf’s head collides with Nicolò’s jaw. He strangles a shout of pain as his lip splits across his teeth.

“ 'Ana asfu !” Yusuf says, reaching out to Nicolò as though by instinct and then snatching his hands back. “ Ya Allah ,” he breathes, his eyes on Nicolò’s mouth. Nicolò swipes at the wound with his tongue; he tastes blood, but there is no sting of broken skin, no spreading ache. The split has healed. The only evidence of it ever having been there is the blood, still wet, on Nicolò’s chin. 

It is as though this wound, small and insignificant as it is, has awakened something in Yusuf. He leaps to his feet, nearly striking Nicolò yet again with his knee. Nicolò staggers upright a beat behind him, watching bewildered as Yusuf begins to yell and rant, pacing back and forth, reaching up to pull at his curling hair until it stands up at all angles. He turns, his eyes burning, and yells at Nicolò, his words just as incomprehensible as before. 

“ Ya kalb,” he grits out, stepping forward to thrust his face right into Nicolò’s. “ Yakhsaf allah bih al’ard.”

The taste of iron seems to hasten Nicolò’s frustration to the forefront of his mind; his temper finally snaps, a wolf let loose after days of being caged. “I don’t know what you’re saying!” he shouts right back, “You stupid fucking son of a whore—“

Yusuf has no idea what Nicolò is saying; he can’t possibly understand. And yet the look he gives Nicolò is furious, close to enraged. His hand is on his sword, his arm flexes as though to draw it— and then he relaxes, drops his hand, and spits in the sand at Nicolò’s feet. And then – perhaps the worst horror of all – he turns, and begins to walk away. 

“Wait,” Nicolò says through numb lips. All of the anger, all the fight, has drained out of him at the thought of being left alone here in the desert, alone with his thoughts and fears and his body’s refusal to die – “Wait! Yosef!”

Yusuf stops, halfway up a dune, but he doesn’t turn. His back is stiff, his shoulders high around his ears – and then he starts walking again, faster this time, not looking back as Nicolò scrambles to follow. Nicolò gets within a few feet and Yusuf, not stopping his strides, turns his head and spits a few angry words over his shoulder. Even not knowing his language, Nicolò knows a curse when he hears one. He stumbles to a stop.

Yusuf strides away, his steps sure and unhesitating. Nicolò doesn’t follow.

“Aspeta! Yosef!”

Yusuf hears Nicolò calling him. He doesn’t understand the word but he can hear the plea in his voice, and he can guess what he means. His feet pull him to a stop without his direction, and he almost turns. Almost. But fury still roars in his breast like a lion, sharp teeth and claws raking at his ribs. 

“Don’t fucking follow me,” he snaps over his shoulder, and keeps walking. Nicolò’s shuffling stops. 

As he walks with the rising sun at his back Yusuf lets his anger free. Nicolò – The Frank – is an invader, a murderer, a scourge on this land. He has done something to him, Yusuf knows it, and once he is far enough away this curse will end and he can go back to his life, go back to his people and perhaps even his home. He was not even supposed to be in Jerusalem, but he had heard of their plight while on a trading voyage and chose to go and fight. Longing curls in his chest as he thinks of his father and mother, his brother and sisters, his nieces and nephew. He will travel home to Mahdia and he will stride through the gate of his family home. His mother will cry, his father will laugh. The children will gather around begging for sweets, for the toys they know he must have brought them. He will have no curse upon his head. No filthy, stinking Frank dogging his steps. He will go home, and he will be happy once again.

Yusuf walks and walks. The waterskin Nic– the Frank had given him is long since dry. He feels his feet blister and bleed within his boots, but when he stops to check the skin is smooth and unbroken. He swallows down the sour taste in his mouth and keeps moving, keeping the image of his mother’s face in his mind to drown out anything else.

After a day and a half of walking – after a night of shivering against the sand not thinking of how warm the Frank had been against his back – Yusuf sees a shape in the distance that he thinks might, Allah be praised, be a house. He staggers towards it, coughing as his dry throat protests, blinking against his swirling, sliding vision. He falls to his knees, pulls himself upright, staggers a few more steps. Blackness overtakes his vision and he falls face-first into stinging sand. He thinks he hears faint calls on the wind as he sinks down into unconsciousness.

The sun is baking him, burning him alive. His clothing is covered in grit, sand caught in the crevices rubbing his skin raw with each step, skin that heals over just as fast as it opens. A trickle of blood snakes down his chin when his lip cracks; the sting of it is gone when he licks them again. He stumbles through sand and scrub, not sure anymore of the direction in which he walks. The sun is directly overhead and he knows no landmarks, has no way to mark his progress. He scans the horizon; no people, no animals, just low, brown bushes and dry, sandy ground.

Nicolò keeps walking. It is all he knows how to do.

Yusuf awakens to small, intense brown eyes staring into his own. For a bewildered second he thinks it must be his nephew Samir; he blinks and the child jerks back with a shriek, then breaks out in giggles as he races away from Yusuf yelling “He’s awake! Mama! He’s awake!” For a wild moment Yusuf pictures his sister Maryam coming to meet him and longing stops his throat. He sits up and glances around; he has been brought — dragged, likely— into the shade of what looks like a stable, across the yard from a small house, the one he must have seen from a distance.

The woman who approaches with a jug of water is not Maryam. She offers Yusuf the jug with cool, suspicious eyes. When he has drunk so much he fears he will be sick, he pours the rest over his head, feeling it seep into his tunic, relishing in the relief from the heat. 

“Thank you,” he says, handing the jug back. The boy has returned, dragging a smaller child – a girl, he thinks, though at their young age he can’t be quite sure – and both stare at him with wide eyes, crowding around their mother, clutching her skirts. Yusuf sits up as straight as he can, not trusting himself to get to his feet, and bows. “Thank you for your hospitality, sayidati,” he says, as pleasantly as he can. “I am Yusuf ibn Ibrahim ibn Muhammad al-Kaysani.” She watches him for another long moment, then says, sharply, “Hamza.”

Yusuf jerks, realizing the boy has gotten far closer than he realized – is crouched right next to him, in fact. 

“I wanted to see his sword!” Hamza complains as he climbs to his feet. “Are you a soldier?”
He directs this question at Yusuf, who huffs a laugh and runs a hand over his face. Raised a merchant, made into a soldier by desperation and circumstance. “I… am. I fought at Al-Quds.”

The woman’s face shutters, as though a lamp behind her eyes has been snuffed. “Al-Quds has fallen,” she says, and cold drips down Yusuf’s spine like the water he’s doused himself with. 

“No,” he breathes, disbelief and horror warring in his breast. “No, it couldn’t, we— we were —“ he trails off, drops his head into his hands and breathes. He remembers the flood of invaders, how they’d grown in numbers while his own people dwindled. He remembers striking blue eyes, a strong nose, a man staring after him in despair. “How do you know?” He asks, looking back up. The woman is still watching him with a distrustful look, but something in her air has softened, he thinks. 

“You are not the first soldier to come here. I do not think you will be the last.” 

The woman’s name is Khadija. She brings him flatbread and a bowl of rice and lentils, and leaves him to eat in peace, shooing her children away when they try to peek at him again. Yusuf eats cautiously, letting a few bites of rice settle in his stomach before taking more. He leans back against the side of the shed, watching the sun set, relief coursing through his veins at the feeling of filling his stomach again. 

An image of Nicolò flashes across his mind — Nicolò staggering, collapsing into sand, dying— and Yusuf growls and takes another bite of flatbread. It is not his fault if the Frank is stupid enough to lose himself in the desert again. His curse will protect him. It has nothing to do with Yusuf, if the Frank is hurting. 

The next bite of food tastes of sand. He swallows it down anyway.

NIcolò wakes in the shade. He swims up out of darkness, fighting into consciousness. Has he passed out or— or has he died once again? He can’t be sure; he’s not sure there is a way to know. His head pounds; his stomach, joints, throat all scream in a symphony of pain. But the shade – that is the first thing he notices. The second is that there are voices speaking around him. 

The haze he’d woken up in dissipates immediately when he realizes this second point. He does his best to stay still, keeps his eyes closed and his breathing even, listening intently. With a low thrum of shock, he realizes he can understand the language being spoken. 

“— deserter?” Someone asks, low and ominous. “What should we do with him?” 

Nicolò doesn’t hear what they decide— at that moment a gush of water splashes down on his head, and he jerks, gasping with shock. Someone standing above him laughs. He cracks open an eye; a man in leather armor and a ragged, bloody surcoat grins at him, his eyes alight. 

“He’s awake!” He crows over his shoulder. There’s a rustling noise and two others step forward, crowding around the tree — yes, it’s a tree, he can see the branches swaying over his head, breaking up the sunlight— Nicolò lays under. He shoves himself up, blinking back the spots of black that swarm in his vision, trying to keep all three men in his line of sight. They don’t back up, not scared in the least; Nicolò reaches for his sword at his belt, and meets only air. 

“My sword,” he growls. Nicolò reaches up, meaning to pull himself to standing, but his knees buckle and he crashes back down. No one laughs this time; one of the men steps forward, his hands outstretched as though to help. Nicolò knocks his hand aside and tries again to pull himself up. “Where is my sword? Why have you taken it?” 

“We only wanted to make sure you were not a threat,” the man who tried to help him says, his voice placating as if faced with a spooked horse. Nicolò bristles. “You are clearly not an infidel. Where do you hail from?” 

“Genova,” Nicolò says shortly. The man nods. His accent is rough, but his Ligurian is passing. 

“I know many fine Genoese! My family does trade in that city often. I know you are noble people. In fact, Enzo here,” he waves a hand at the man who’d woken Nicolò, "is from nearby La Spezia. So, as you can see, we are on your side.” 

Nicolò eyes them warily. Their leader is still standing with his hands out as though Nicolò is a horse about to bolt; the two behind are silent, staring at him. “We found you near death,” the leader continues. Nicolò’s eyes snap to him. “We brought you into the shade, as you can see, and have shared our water with you.” Nicolò can still feel it drying on his skin. “Therefore, we clearly mean you no harm. Yes?”

Nicolò nods, slowly. 

“Excellent. Now; do you wish to leave this accursed land? I ask only because we have found you quite far from Jerusalem. A man still dedicated to the fight would not stray so far from his command, would he?”

Nicolò doesn’t know what to make of this man; his speech and demeanor are pleasant enough, understanding and genial, but there is something beneath that simmers with danger. His gut twists as he looks slowly between the three and suddenly, unexplainably, he wishes he’d woken to find Yusuf standing over him instead. At least he was someone whose motives Nicolò  could understand, even if those motives were simply ‘discover how to stop this curse and go home’.

As soon as he thinks of Yusuf, guilt floods through him. Yusuf is an infidel, a Saracen; surely it is a sin against God to wish for his companionship over that of his fellow Christians. Nicolò swallows back his misgivings and straightens, looking the man in the eye. He smiles when Nicolò holds out his hand. 

“I knew you would be reasonable, my friend,” the man says, clasping Nicolò ’s wrist and squeezing. “I am Jean. We wish to find the coast and a ship back home; if you come with us, we can ensure you safe passage as well.”  

Nicolò nods, and suddenly he has new allies.

Khadija’s husband is off at Al-Quds, fighting off the invaders. She hasn’t said as much to Yusuf, but he can guess with very little effort. She watches the eastern road as often as she can, worry and longing painted across her face. Hamza and his sister — Fatima, she’d shyly told Yusuf one day, half-hiding behind Hamza and staring at him with huge eyes – do their best to help their mother, but there’s only so much they can do. Khadija is reluctant to let Yusuf help her, but after a day of rest on her insistence he finally persuades her to let him at least muck out the horse’s stall. All his aches have vanished and he feels none of the pain he would expect, after so long without any food or water. Khadija calls it a miracle that he is so hale after so short a rest; he laughs off her amazement, assuring her it must be her food, hearty and filling as it is. Inside, his stomach roils at the realization that there are no new scars on his hands, that any little scratch he acquires taking care of the stall is gone before he can wipe away the blood. 

Hamza assigns himself as Yusuf’s shadow, following him all around the little homestead, asking all questions about the life of a soldier, about Yusuf’s own family. He keeps his descriptions of battle as short and clean as he possibly can – not forgetting for one moment that this boy’s father might be one of the hundreds – thousands –  he saw fall at Al-Quds. His family, though; on the subject of his family, he indulges every question Hamza offers. He describes their home next to the sea, large and sprawling; the date tree in the courtyard where his jaddati once taught him to read at her knee, where his own mother does the same for her own grandson and granddaughters. Where he and his father and his brothers-in-law sat for hours discussing trade, and all the goods with which they would trade for this season or that. Hamza is fascinated by his description of the sea, of Baḥr al-Rūm , of how it stretches to the very edge of the world, shimmering in the sunlight, how it crashes and roars against the coast and brings boats from all over the globe with beautiful things to trade. Yusuf draws pictures in the dirt – his home with its carved doors, the coastline it sits upon. His mother’s face, his sisters’, his nieces and nephew. 

Late at night, when no one is around, he finds himself tracing the shape of light, arresting eyes into the dust. He stares at them bathed in the light of the moon, before he scuffs the dirt clean again. 

He’s been with Khadija and her children for three days, perhaps four, and he’s hauling bags of rice and chickpea flour off the back of the horse when they see a cloud of dust on the horizon, the type that signals riders approaching fast. At his side, Khadija goes still, her face blank, but Yusuf sees her fingers dig into the bag of flour she’s holding, her knuckles going white. 

“I think you should go inside,” Yusuf murmurs, glancing at the dust cloud and seeing that it’s a little bigger, a little more distinct. “Take the children. Please, Khadija.” 

Her eyes burn when she turns them on him, but she doesn’t protest. She motions sharply to Hamza, who as always is only a few steps away, and calls to Fatima across the yard, where she’s playing in the mud by the well with her cloth doll. Yusuf breathes a sigh of relief when the door shuts behind them, though he knows they’ll be standing at the windows, trying to see what is happening. 

He walks a few paces away from the house, moving to stand directly in the middle of the road, his hand on his sword, tied about his waist. There is every chance these are Fatimid soldiers returning from Al-Quds; there is every chance they are not. Either way he will make sure Khadija and her children are safe from harm. 

Jean and Enzo and their friend, who introduces himself as Henri and speaks only French, have a horse each and no other. Nicolò squeezes onto the back of Jean’s horse, something in his gut roiling as he holds the other man about the waist. They ride into the west, following no path Nicolò knows. They cover far more land than he or Yusuf ever could on foot, and soon he begins to think they may be crossing the sea in far shorter an amount of time than he’d dared to hope. 

The men have bulging packs but surprisingly little food; they share pieces of hard biscuit that Nicolò gnaws on and tries to wash down with the mouthful or two of sharp, vinegary wine they allow him from their draining wineskins. They don’t let him see what’s in their packs; Nicolò tries, once, to get a glimpse, and Jean closes it and shifts it away with a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. Nicolò volunteers for as many watch shifts as he can, if only so that he doesn’t have to sleep much around these men whose geniality scrapes against his spine and makes him shiver. When he does sleep he is sure to keep his sword close to his side. 

Once, while all the other men are asleep, Nicolò draws his dagger across his palm and watches the wound stitch itself closed before his eyes. He swallows, wipes the blood away, and sheathes his dagger once more. He does not get any sleep that night. 

They ride. The sun is still relentless and his thirst is still all-encompassing but at least his feet are not blistering and bleeding within his boots. After two days they start to see what might be signs of civilization ahead. “Well,” Jean says with a crooked smile, when they stop to let the horses breathe, “What passes for civilization amongst the Saracens.” They head towards it. Nicolò swallows against a dust-dry throat and hopes he will at least be able to acquire a skin of wine or water for himself. 

The sun is high in the sky, shining down hot and bright, when they approach the first house along the side of the road. It doesn’t look like much, but Jean gestures and says something to Henri and Enzo that Nicolò doesn’t understand, and they all pull their horses to a walk. The dust starts to settle, and Nicolò can finally see clearly. There is a shadow ahead, outside the house — Nicolò squints. It is a lone figure, standing in the middle of the road, waiting for them. 

They get closer, and closer, and with a swoop in his gut that feels like being struck by a bolt of lightning, Nicolò realizes he recognizes the man awaiting them. 

“Oh,” he breathes, unable to tear his eyes away from Yusuf. He stands with his head held high, hand on his sword, and suddenly Nicolò is struck by a swell of gratitude so strong it steals his breath from his lungs. He’d thought, watching Yusuf stride away from him and into the desert, that he would never lay eyes on the other man again. It is a shock and what feels like an answered prayer to see him standing here, now, even as Jean and the others trade looks that fill Nicolò’s gut with foreboding. 

The horses slow as they get closer; soon they are within shouting distance, and then even closer. It is certainly close enough that Nicolò can see the way Yusuf’s eyes narrow and his jaw clenches when he sees Nicolò. Nicolò slides down from the horse when Jean pulls it to a halt, a few seconds before the others. He can’t look away from Yusuf as he does, watching the way his gaze darts between the others but always, without fail, returning to rest on Nicolò. 

“Hail, Saracen,” Jean says, looking Yusuf up and down in a way Nicolò does not like. “Are you the lone protector, then?” He speaks Ligurian, and then repeats his words in his native French. Though Nicolò knows Yusuf does not speak his language and is unlikely to speak French either, he clearly understands the title Jean gives him. His lip curls, fire lighting in his eyes. He spits a response, sounding just like he did when he left Nicolò standing in the dunes. 

Jean laughs at his anger. He turns to Henri and Enzo and says something in French, something Nicolò does not understand, but he sees the way their eyes cut to the house just beyond Yusuf, and sees the greed that seeps into their eyes. He swallows as Jean turns to him, all geniality, and says, “This heathen will clearly not listen to reason. What do you suppose he is guarding? If there is treasure, it is far better for it to be in Christian hands, is it not?”

Nicolò opens his mouth to protest that they have given him no reason, even if Yusuf could understand their words, but Jean has already looked away, back to Henri and Enzo, and made a sign. The two of them advance on Yusuf; Jean turns towards the house. There is the sound of blades being drawn, of Yusuf’s angry voice spiraling into shouting, and understanding slots into place.

Nicolò spares a glance for Yusuf — no blows are being exchanged yet, but the way Henri and Enzo circle him promises bloodshed. Nicolò wants to go to his side — why, he cannot say, even to himself, only that he does — but he tears his gaze away and runs after Jean instead. If Yusuf is guarding this house, it must be important. 

“Jean!” Nicolò hisses as he catches up with the man. “Jean, look around. There is clearly no treasure hidden here.” The house is small, barely larger than the stable that sits across the yard. A well sits in the center, its wooden covering askew. Small footprints — a child’s footprints — are pressed into the still-drying dirt. The windows are hewn into the red-brown brick and covered inside by the slats of wooden shutters; Nicolò sees the shadow of a person inside at the same moment as Jean. 

“Come,” Jean breathes, gesturing to Nicolò and drawing his sword. He stops when Nicolò does not follow, and does not draw his own weapon. “They are waiting to ambush us!” He says, his face twisting into a snarl. “You would let a Saracen get the upper hand on a holy soldier of God?”

This does not feel holy. This feels like sin, like terror and villainy. Nicolò draws his sword, and lifts its point to Jean’s throat. At that moment he hears shouts from the road and the clashing of steel on steel. His resolve solidifies. 

“This is a home,” Nicolò says, willing his hands not to shake. He thinks of the footprints, drying in the dirt. “There are no soldiers here; this is a family, these are children!”

Jean laughs, an ugly, hateful sound that makes Nicolò’s spine crawl. “Put your sword down, or I will run you through before I do the same to these… children. ” He spits in the dirt, as though the very implication is an insult. 

Nicolò moves, lunging forward; his blow glances off of Jean’s mail-covered arm. Jean snarls, the sound full of fury and disbelief, and parries Nicolò’s second blow easily. Nicolò manages to knock his answering blow away and steps backwards, trying to get away from the doorway, trying to lead Jean further from the house and the family Nicolò is now convinced is huddled inside. It works; Jean follows, matching him blow for blow, and he has the upper hand, he is larger and clearly better trained than Nicolò is. Nicolò holds his own the best he can, shifting his feet to lend his weight behind his next lunge, which Jean parries only just in time. 

Then, a scream sounds behind them from the street, and Nicolò’s attention is caught, just for a single second. It is enough for Jean, who steps into his space, grabs Nicolò by the front of his brigandine, and skewers him through the belly. 

Yusuf is unsurprised to see that the people approaching the village are not returning Fatimid soldiers; he’s prepared for the pale faces and red crosses that approach, that slow their horses to a walk but do not stop until he can see all of their faces clearly — until he can see Nicolò as he slides from his horse’s back. 

He looks hardly better than he had when Yusuf had left him in the desert, still coated in dust and old blood. His eyes are piercing, wide and surprised; his face is tense, his mouth a thin line. The other men dismount and move to stand together, but Yusuf barely spares them a glance. He can’t tear his eyes away from Nicolò — is he truly a demon, then, who will haunt Yusuf wherever he goes? Or – Yusuf curses his romantic heart even as he thinks it – is he something else entirely?

The tallest of the other Franks takes a step forward and says something in the same incomprehensible language Nicolò used in the desert. Yusuf knows nothing but the word ‘saracen’; he can’t help but curse this man, who stares at him with a smirk in the corner of his mouth, as though Yusuf is nothing but a child, not a man worth meeting in battle. 

Nicolò is looking between Yusuf and this man — clearly the leader — with a furrow between his brows that Yusuf must admit, if only to himself, is slightly intriguing. He is the only one of his party who does not already have a hand on his sword. The leader turns to face Nicolò and says something to him that makes Nicolò open his mouth as though he wishes to argue, as though — as though he wishes to defend Yusuf. Yusuf feels wrong-footed, thrown by this thought— and then the other two step forward, and Yusuf’s attention snaps to them and away from Nicolò. 

Khadija and her children are inside , he reminds himself as the men stalk forward, the looks on their faces boding ill. He draws his sword and spits a curse as they do the same. “You are cowards, ” he says, knowing they do not understand and not caring. “Cowards and dogs, who would attack a family in their home! Innocent children!”

Out of the corner of his eye he sees the leader slip away, towards the house, followed by Nicolò. 

Yusuf snarls, giving voice to his fear for Khadija and her children. One of the men in front of him laughs, a cruel sound, and Yusuf sees red. He lunges, and the Frank manages to get his sword up in time to parry, but only just. His partner swings for Yusuf’s head but he dances back before he can make contact, slashing at the first man’s arm; he hits, feeling his blade bite into flesh and allowing himself a smile of victory. The Frank stifles a yelp and lunges, one-handed; Yusuf sidesteps easily and whips around to the second; the man catches the blow, sending it glancing off of his own blade, but Yusuf twists, swiping again, and this time his saif opens a line across the second man’s belly. His victory is short lived; Yusuf yells as the first man, seeing his opening as Yusuf is distracted, buries the edge of his blade in his thigh.

Yusuf grits his teeth and, for the first time, hopes that whatever curse has befallen him holds. The first Frank is grinning in victory; Yusuf watches with savage pleasure as that grin falls, as Yusuf steps forward, using the man’s imbalance to strike out again and cut his hand from his arm. 

The Frank screams, horrible and high; he falls to the ground, clutching at his arm. His sword falls as well, and Yusuf can feel the wound it caused healing, skin and muscle knitting together. He takes advantage of the man’s pain and steps up behind him, grabs his hair, yanks his head up, and draws his sword across the man’s neck. His hands feel the ghost of memory, of the very first time he killed Nicolò. For once the thought does not terrify or infuriate him; instead he grins, manic, and looks up, seeing the fear on the second Frank’s face. The man raises his sword, a valiant defense even as his hands shake, and Yusuf laughs. He steps forward, all pain gone, and strikes, once, twice; with the third strike he twists his wrist, knocks the man’s blade from his hands, and stabs him through the heart. 

Yusuf is turning towards the house even before the Frank hits the ground. He runs, no thought in his head but Khadija and the children. Even then, he stumbles when he sees Nicolò slumped in the dirt, curled around a gut wound that weeps red through his fingers and into the ground. His steps falter, but a scream — high pitched, young, terrible — rends the air and he forces himself not to stop, to put Nicolò out of his mind as he bursts through the door. 

He tackles the man attempting to pull Hamza from his mother’s arms, bringing them both down with a bellow of rage. In his surprise the Frank drops his sword; it goes skittering away, too far for him to reach while Yusuf has him pinned. He snarls, furious, his hands striking and clawing at Yusuf, trying to buck him off. Yusuf holds firm, feeling the man’s ragged fingernails opening channels on his face that close again almost immediately. One of the Frank’s hands finds its way into Yusuf’s hair and he pulls, hard enough to force Yusuf’s head back. Yusuf punches him, feeling the crunch of cartilage under his fist, and at the same moment a dagger buries itself in Yusuf’s shoulder. 

He bites down on a scream as the Frank, grinning up at Yusuf with red, bloodied teeth, twists the blade deeper. The pain is blinding, weakening Yusuf’s grip, and the Frank takes advantage and rolls, still clutching Yusuf’s hair, still holding onto the dagger in his shoulder; he’s pulled along, grunting at the flash of renewed pain as his shoulder is torn again, as his scalp burns. 

The Frank is on top of him now, and he pulls his blade from Yusuf’s shoulder only to drive it into his chest, between his ribs. Yusuf gasps, soundless, seeing only white as he’s stabbed again, through the arm, and again in his side; the Frank is stabbing anywhere he can reach, anywhere he can do the most damage. Yusuf grits his teeth, already feeling the first wound in his shoulder start to close as the Frank opens another in his belly. 

The knife rises; the Frank holding him down grins, bloody and terrible, and slashes at Yusuf’s throat. He closes his eyes, wishing the children did not have to see this, even if he knows the death will not last.

The blade never makes contact. There is a horrible gurgling sound, a sound like a goat being butchered, and the Frank spasms, his grip in Yusuf’s hair finally releasing as he slumps forward. Yusuf opens his eyes, shocked beyond measure, to see Nicolò, standing over the both of them, his sword buried in the Frank’s back. His teeth are bared, his hands on the hilt bloody, and Yusuf knows without having to ask that the wound that had felled him has healed. Yusuf shoves the Frank off of him as Nicolò withdraws his sword. He holds out a hand, his eyes flinty, and Yusuf takes it without a second thought, letting Nicolò haul him to his feet. 

“Yusuf,” he pants, and Yusuf can’t help the smile that creeps over his face. 

The woman and her children are scared of Nicolò; he does not blame them, only gives them as wide a berth as he can. He leaves Yusuf to comfort them, and takes it upon himself to drag the bodies of Jean, Henri, and Enzo out into the desert, as far as he can take them without collapsing. Before he leaves them, with a feeling of retribution and a smile on his face, he takes Jean’s wineskin and dagger from his corpse. When he returns, it is to the delicious smell of cooking wafting out of the house, and to Yusuf, bathing by the well. 

He stops in the entrance to the yard, caught by the sight of Yusuf. He has removed his tunic, robe, and turban, leaving him in his trousers and sandals. He is washing the blood from his skin, water running in rivulets down his neck from his hair and beard. Nicolò swallows, unable to tear his eyes away. Yusuf’s skin glows like molten gold in the sunlight, and Nicolò — Nicolò suddenly realizes exactly how dirty he is. He looks down at his hands, at the front of his brigandine, both stained brownish-red with drying blood. There is dirt under his nails and dust streaked up his arms, and when he reaches up he feels his hair, matted and greasy where it falls across his forehead. 

He is hesitant as he steps up to the well, unsure of his reception, but Yusuf, when he looks up and sees him standing there, only smiles a blinding, eye-crinkling smile and gestures him forward. If he is a demon, Nicolò thinks, as Yusuf draws a new bucket of water and offers him a clean cloth, at least he is a beautiful one. 

He bathes, watching Yusuf dress and go after the horses that he and the other men had ridden here, gathering them from where they had been grazing along the roadside and bringing them back to the stable where two other horses rest. There is too little space, but with a generous amount of feed, the animals don’t seem to mind overmuch. Yusuf removes the horses’ saddlebags but leaves them lying against the wall, untouched; Nicolò eyes them, and wonders. 

When Nicolò finally pulls on a borrowed tunic offered to him by Yusuf, blinking water from his eyes and feeling cleaner than he has since he left Genova, the sun has met the horizon, its light staining the sky with orange and pink. Yusuf disappears into the house for a moment. Nicolò sees his shadow against the shutters, speaking to the woman and bending to speak to her son. After a few moments he comes outside, carrying two bowls. Behind him bobs the boy, a jug and two glazed cups in his hands. Yusuf sits against the side of the house, under an awning, and motions for Nicolò to join him. He passes Nicolò a bowl filled with rice and a deliciously fragrant stew, and then a cup that the boy pours, full of hot tea that smells of mint. Nicolò offers the boy a nod of thanks; he glances at Yusuf, not scared but not exactly comfortable. He shuffles, shifting from foot to foot, and says something Nicolò cannot catch, his face expectant. 

Yusuf murmurs to the boy, and then points to Nicolò and says his name. He looks at Nicolò, points at the boy, and says clearly, “Hamza.”

Nicolò nods, and repeats it, his spirits lightening a bit at the way the boy beams to hear his name in Nicolò’s accent. Hamza sets the jug between him and Yusuf, says something else that seems to be a farewell, and bounds back inside the house, no doubt to tell his mother that Nicolò has learned his name. 

Nicolò looks at Yusuf, who bends his head, says a single word, and begins to eat. Nicolò blinks, thrown by the familiarity of the action, but in a moment he follows suit, bending his own head and uttering a quick prayer in thanks to God. The food is delicious, filled with spices he does not recognize but wishes to, and a familiar tang of vinegar that contrasts with the meat’s richness beautifully. Each bowl has been topped with a piece of fresh bread, shaped like the flat barley cakes Nicolò’s mother sometimes used to bake in their hearth, when they could get the grain. It is soft and makes an excellent vessel to soak up more of the stew. As he chews, Nicolò watches Yusuf out of the corner of his eye, unable to bring himself to completely look away. He feels none of the mistrust he felt before, when they wandered the desert, but still, his gaze is drawn to the man like he is a lodestone and Nicolò an iron nail. 

Yusuf feels Nicolò’s eyes on him as they eat. He glances up as he takes a sip of tea, and there they are, shining in the fading light of the sun. He watches from an angle, as though thinking himself discreet; Yusuf smiles to himself and holds up a small portion of rice, watching the way Nicolò’s full attention immediately snaps to him. 

“Orz,” Yusuf says, and Nicolò blinks, and then there’s that smile Yusuf is learning to spot on his face, the one that sits in the corner of his mouth. “Orz,” he repeats. Yusuf grins. Nicolò looks down at his bowl, scoops up his own portion of rice, and holds it up in the same way that Yusuf is holding his. “ Riso,” he says, and Yusuf repeats it, delighted. 

They continue the meal like this, trading words for each of its components — “Laḥm Māʿiz,” Yusuf says; holding up a piece of meat, and Nicolò gives him “ Carne de Crava” — until they are each giddily repeating words back and forth, and then branching out to other words, pointing to their clothes, to the horses standing in the stable (increased in number by the horses ridden by the Franks), to the cups they drink their tea out of. It is far from true communication, but it helps to start to soothe something that has ignited inside Yusuf, some desire for connection with this man he cannot bring himself to deny.  

Nicolò looks different in his borrowed tunic. It belongs to Khadija’s husband, same as the one Yusuf wears, and it is a soft, umber-colored linen that makes Nicolò’s skin glow. His hair is still damp and there is a strand that sticks to his neck when he moves; Yusuf can’t quite keep his eyes from straying to it. All the animosity he had felt when he left Nicolò behind in the desert has vanished, drained from him like wine from a barrel. Nicolò saving his life — not that he wouldn’t have spent it willingly, given that particular revenue seems to be endless — has seen to that. Now Yusuf finds he can watch the man sip his tea and be filled with curiosity and a strange, magnetic urge to never look away. There is a placid openness to his face that compels Yusuf; he wishes to discover what each twitch of an eyebrow, what each quirk of his lips means. Yusuf has been told that he wears his own emotions openly, that his face shows every thought in his head; not so with Nicolò. The mystery of him is intriguing, inviting Yusuf to learn more and more. 

“Do you need anything more?”

Yusuf starts, whipping around. Khadija stands at the entrance to the house, watching them. The sun has truly started to go down now and her face is half in shadow, but he thinks he can see the flash of her eyes as she glances at Nicolò and then back to Yusuf. She’s not scared, not anymore, but she certainly is not entirely relaxed. 

“Yusuf,” Khadija had gasped, stumbling forward, watching with wide, disturbed eyes as Nicolò pulled the still-cooling body of the dead Frank across the floor and out the door, “I thought — I was sure he had hurt you —“

“I’m fine,” Yusuf said, as soothingly as possible. She looked so concerned, so wary — she shot a look at the door as though worried Nicolò would come back and attack them. “Really, he didn’t hurt me. You?” He bent down, looking Hamza and Fatima over, running his hands over their hair. “Are the children alright?”

“He didn’t hurt us,” Khadija said. Fatima shook her head, still so quiet, her eyes big and soulful. Her fingers were white where she clutched her mother’s skirts. Hamza said nothing, his arms crossed — hugging himself — but Yusuf could see his small chest rising rapidly, his thin shoulders shaking. 

“This man,” Khadija had said, waving her hand towards the yard where Nicolò had gone, “He — he was with them, we saw him ride up with them, but he —“

Yusuf was already shaking his head. “I know him. He’s… different. I do not think he is a threat to you.” 

He had saved his life. Something in Yusuf’s chest thrilled at the thought, replaying the way Nicolò had stood over the dead Frank, his eyes hard and flashing and his jaw clenched. The way his hand had felt in Yusuf’s, when he’d helped him to his feet. He looked out the door, watching Nicolò drag the body further away, into the desert. He was coated in blood and dirt, but still, looking upon him felt something like a miracle. 

“His name is Nicolò,” Yusuf told Khadija. “I trust him.”

Yusuf looks at Nicolò now, whose hands have stilled, his cup of tea halfway to his mouth. He’s watching Khadija over the rim, alert, and he glances at Yusuf, raising his eyebrows incrementally. Yusuf gestures to his empty bowl. “More?” He asks, miming scooping something into his own bowl and eating it. Nicolò’s face clears, and he shakes his head, the corners of his eyes crinkling. 

“We need nothing more. Thank you,” Yusuf says, and Khadija nods, giving him a small smile. “Are you and the children alright?”

“Yes.” She pauses, hesitating. “Your Frank — he has nowhere to go?”

Yusuf looks at Nicolò, privately reeling over the idea of him being ‘his’ Frank. Nicolò has shown no urgent need to leave; he seems content to sit here with Yusuf, leaning against the wall of the house, far more relaxed than he has seen him before. And, selfishly, Yusuf finds he has no desire to see him go.

“No,” he says finally, looking back at Khadija. “Nowhere.”

She nods decisively. “Then he may stay here.”

Yusuf thanks her, and she gives him a small smile before holding up a hand and disappearing into the house for a moment and then returning with a few empty grain sacks and a spare blanket in her hands.

”We don’t have much to spare,” she says, her mouth twisting, as though with shame, “But perhaps you can use these to make yourselves a bit more comfortable.”

Yusuf takes her offerings gratefully. “Thank you, sayidati,” he says. She bids him goodnight and steps back inside, and then he and Nicolò are alone. 

Nicolò has set down his cup, watching Yusuf expectantly. He eyes the sacks; they are rough-made but, he thinks, will be serviceable with a little straw to make them into pillows. Certainly they will be better than anything they could find in the desert. He rises and picks up his bowl and cup and holds his hand out for Nicolò’s. He will wash them at the well, and then finally, they can rest. 

Nicolò watches Yusuf sleep, bathed in moonlight, something heavy and hurting lodged in his throat, a stone of shame and guilt. 

He clutches the rosary he has worn around his neck since he left Genova — the one his mother gave him when he entered seminary, the one he has used to pray to God and the Holy Mother countless times. The edges of the olive-wood crucifix have been worn smooth by his fingers. He looks down at it now, rubs his thumb over the suspended form of Christ. His fingers ought to burn, to fill with splinters, with poison, for daring to touch such a symbol in his unholy state. 

For how else is he to regard his own being? He has died many times now — less than a day ago — and yet he has never seen heaven, has never spoken to Saint Peter. It is mere nothingness that greets him when his eyes close, and then the world again when he wakes, whatever wound it was that felled him already healing. God’s kingdom, it seems, has been sealed against him — and Nicolò knows not why, but it must be something he has done. 

He had blamed Yusuf, at the beginning, sure the man had laid a curse upon him, but now — now he is unsure. He closes his eyes, sees the image of Jean sprawled over Yusuf, driving his knife into his side, preparing to slit his throat. Nicolò had known only pure, vicious fury when he’d buried his sword into Jean’s back,  and pure relief when he had helped Yusuf to his feet, whole and unhurt. But if Nicolò is a soldier of God, as the Pope himself has proclaimed, then — then something is wrong with him, to feel such companionship, such care, for an enemy. For a man said to follow the devil, who rejects Christ and His glory. 

But what is Yusuf but an embodiment of the kindness of Christ? Nicolò has seen him comforting the woman and her children, seen how he prepared to defend them against any threat, even against Nicolò himself if he had had the need. He spoke so warmly to Hamza, cared for the horses so gently — how is this man an emissary of the devil? 

If Yusuf is not of the devil, then perhaps, Nicolò thinks, staring up at the blanket of softly-glimmering stars that hang over them, perhaps he himself is not cursed. Perhaps there is a reason they are here — a reason they cannot die. Jean, Enzo, and Henri likely would have found this house even without Nicolò, and this family — and the village beyond it— would all have been killed. They would have laid waste to every person here in hopes of finding some mysterious treasure Nicolò is sure these people do not have.
The thought makes him sick.

Perhaps that, then, is why he and Yusuf have been granted this…  this stay of execution. So that they may do the same for others. So they can offer themselves in protection of those who most need it. If Yusuf is not of the devil, then certainly this good woman and her children are not either. Certainly they are people, living their lives as best they can; helping strangers, feeding them from their own larders, even when one of those strangers is a Christian invader who once – though it makes him nearly weep to think of it now – believed they should burn.

And so perhaps that is why Nicolò still breathes when Jean, Henri, and Enzo do not. The scales have been ripped from his eyes, and he must atone for his past misdeeds. He must atone for all the men he slayed as he helped to invade Antioch, as he lay siege to Jerusalem before Yusuf cut him down. For those who suffered when the Pope’s armies took the city. If he can do his penance in this way – in the way he has already begun, slaying Jean as he attacked Yusuf, as he planned death and destruction for this family and the families in the town beyond – perhaps, one day, Nicolò will finally be worthy enough to enter God’s kingdom.

Nicolò lays back against the bundle of hay and sacking serving as his pillow, still watching the gentle wheeling of stars above his head. He listens to Yusuf snoring gently next to him, holds his rosary in his hands, and quietly begins to murmur his first Ave Maria, feeling a little less unsettled and a little more holy as he does. 

The women in the headdresses flash through Yusuf’s mind yet again; he is sure he has never met them before and yet he feels as though he knows them, that they are as familiar as his own sisters. There is noise, the bustle and clamor of a market over the muted swell of ocean waves; smells that he recognizes, spices and briny olives and the salty tang of seawater. There are a multitude of languages, floating on the breeze, that his ears strain to hear. The woman with the axe turns, her smile flashing, and the woman with the bow laughs at something she has said, something in a language Yusuf thinks he recognizes but can’t realize. 

Yusuf gasps awake at the same time as Nicolò does. This time, at least, they don’t collide with each other when they sit up, disoriented and clutching each other’s shoulders for support. 

Nicolò looks at him, his eyes wide and in the pale, pre-dawn light, nearly translucent. “ E dònne, l'æ visto e dònne?” 

Yusuf shakes his head, unsure what Nicolò is asking, and Nicolò scrubs a hand through his hair, clearly frustrated. He clenches his jaw and stares out into the morning as though the answer will come to him out of nothing. 

Yusuf watches him, thinking about how each time that he has dreamt of these two women, Nicolò has woken at the same time, reacting to something that is not there — the same as Yusuf. He casts around, finds a small stick, and begins to trace a shape into the dirt. 

“Nicolò,” he says after a moment, reaching out and tapping him on the arm. When Nicolò looks over, Yusuf gestures to the round, double-headed axe he has recreated as best as he can in the dry ground beneath them. 

Nicolò’s eyes widen and he reaches out to grab Yusuf’s arm. “ Quello o l'é! L'ascia! A dònna into sonno, quella a l'é a seu ascia!”

Yusuf taps at the drawing. “Ascia?” Nicolò nods. Yusuf does a quick sketch, a rough estimation of the smiling woman to whom this axe belongs. Nicolò nods again, his brow furrowing. 

“ Me sento comme se î conoscesse,” he murmurs, tracing his finger over the outline of the woman’s face, carefully not touching the dirt. 

Yusuf reaches up to rub at his eyes, trying to think of anything at all familiar about what he had seen. The scents, the sounds— he thinks of the language that had caught at his ears, muffled but perhaps, perhaps— 

“I think it was Greek,” he says slowly, thinking out loud. “It — the language, it sounded like Greek.” The more he speaks the more sure he feels. “They were in a market, but —“ he deflates, sighing, running his hands through his hair. When he opens his eyes, Nicolò is staring. Yusuf is not sure he’ll ever be used to how intense he can look, especially now in the grey light around them. “I don’t know, I didn’t see enough,” he admits, and it seems that Nicolò understands just by the tone of his voice. He reaches out, very slowly, as though worried Yusuf will bolt, and lays his hand on his arm. 

“ L'é ben. Ne sogniemmo torna .”  

Even though he doesn’t understand the words, Nicolò’s voice is soothing, and the hand on his arm is — is something Yusuf wants more of. He reaches up and lays his own hand over Nicolò’s. They sit like that for a long moment; Yusuf finds he cannot bear to be the first to pull away. 

The decision is made for them; there is stirring within the house, and the door creaks open. Hamza pops his head out, looking rumpled and still half-asleep. 

“Yusuf,” he calls softly, and both men look up. “Mama sent me— it is time for Fajr.” 

As Hamza says the words, Yusuf realizes he can hear the adhan floating through the morning air, so faintly he’d dismissed it as birdsong; the village is a good half mile down the road. A flood of guilt rushes through his chest. He has not prayed properly for days— at first he felt too ashamed, sure that Allah had laid a curse upon him. Now— well, now he does not have much of an excuse. 

He turns to Nicolò and smiles to show that it is nothing to worry about. He lifts his hands in an approximation of the gesture he has seen Christians make, hands held palm to palm, head bent. “I go to pray,” he says, and Nicolò nods. 

Inside, Yusuf kneels with the family on what he is sure is Khadija’s husband’s prayer mat. It is worn and slightly frayed at the edges, but clean and obviously well cared for. This, Yusuf reflects, as he makes his genuflections and murmurs his thanks to Allah, seems to be the norm for all of this family’s possessions. The house is small but warm, full of love if not of goods. The children are clothed and fed and clearly loved, and that, he is sure, is the most important thing.

Still. He wishes there was more he could do to show his gratitude to this little family for helping not only him, but Nicolò as well.

Nicolò sits back on his heels, staring down at the first of three saddlebags laying in front of him. It had been an idea born of idleness, the thought of going through the bags and finally discovering what Jean and the others were hiding. He takes a deep breath through his nose, his hand clasped tight over his mouth in shock. He should, he thinks dizzily, have considered this, that these bags would be – well. It is something Yusuf will have to see, when he returns.

In what Yusuf is beginning to think of as a likely oft-continuing pattern, Nicolò has provided the perfect solution to his problems, when he returns from prayer. Dawn has come, a soft, welcome light falling over Nicolò where he’s kneeling in the corner of the stable, where Yusuf had laid aside the saddlebags from the Franks’ horses for future perusal. He jerks when Yusuf gets close, his eyes wild, hand clapped over his mouth. For a heart-stopping moment Yusuf thinks he’s injured, or sick, and he lurches forward, hands outstretched, though to do what he does not know. 

But then Nicolò lets his hand fall away from his face and Yusuf stops short at the sight of the wide, shocked grimace across his face. It is perhaps the most intense expression Yusuf has seen him wear. 

“What is it?” Yusuf asks, and Nicolò gestures him forward with frantic, jerky waves of his hand. Yusuf kneels down next to him, and Nicolò shoves one of the saddlebags towards him; the thing barely moves, weighed down as it is. Yusuf had assumed it was filled with the various belongings of a soldier – a whetstone, tools for repairing mail, some dry rations. But when he loosens the tie at the top and pulls the mouth of the bag open –

“What?” Yusuf breathes, and reaches in, pulling out a ruby-studded chalice. Beneath the chalice is a fold of cloth, of which Yusuf can only see the barest edge, still enough to show masterful embroidery in gold and silver thread. When he lifts this from the pack it is some of the softest, finest weave he has ever felt, and his family are a family of merchants, who trade in goods from all over the world. It is heavy despite the fine weave; the weight of the spun metal thread sees to that. The pack, when Yusuf nudges it again, rattles, whatever else was inside shifting now that the cloth no longer muffles it. He peeks in again, and sees a pile of coins, sparkles of gemstones and coils of golden chains. 

“How –” Yusuf jerks his head up, looks at Nicolò who kneels only a pace or two away, his eyes still wide and slightly dazed, his gaze clear and piercing as he watches Yusuf uncover a king’s ransom of treasure. 

“Where has this come from?”

Nicolò bites his lip, looking down at the bag. His brow furrows; he seems to understand what Yusuf is asking even if the words are lost to him. He trails a shaking finger over the cloth in Yusuf’s hands. It is, he can see now that he has brought it out into the light, a beautifully dark blue, studded here and there with tiny gems and knots of silver thread like stars in the night sky. The edging is done in interweaving silver and gold patterns, something that looks Persian to Yusuf’s eye. 

“Jerusalem?” Nicolò asks, voice soft and full of something mournful, and the bottom drops out of Yusuf’s stomach. 

Oh. 

He looks at Nicolò, who looks down, avoiding his gaze. All elation has vanished, leaving only a sour curdling in Yusuf’s gut and shame in the twist of Nicolò’s lips and the clench of his jaw. He bites his lip, and then he crosses himself, touching his fingers to his forehead, his heart, each of his shoulders, and then his lips. He bends his head and begins to murmur under his breath; Yusuf’s breath catches as he recognizes the words as Latin, something he knows the sound of but does not understand. Nicolò prays, bent over their ill-gotten gains. Yusuf sits with him, closes his eyes, and offers his own prayers up to Allah. The peace brought on by praying Fajr has shattered, and now he wonders if they will be heard at all.

Nicolò feels so incredibly foolish. How had he not guessed what it was that the others carried?

(Something in the back of his head whispers that he knew, of course he knew, he just didn’t want to admit it. Didn’t want to feel complicit in it.)

He lets his prayers fall from his lips – pleas for the repose of the souls of those to whom this bounty belonged, pleas for forgiveness from a God who likely will never smile on him again. Each day here has brought unpleasant revelation after unpleasant revelation. He feels hollow, all his innards scooped out by some great merciless being, full only of shame and disgust for his fellow Christians. 

The cloth Yusuf holds is beautiful and clearly made by some of the most skilled hands this world has seen. Nicolò wonders if its maker lies dead in the streets of Jerusalem, if her blood paints the stones. He had heard the screaming and roaring of fire, as he and Yusuf made their escape. Whose hands held this jeweled cup aloft, perhaps in prayer? Whose neck did the jewels glimmering up at him grace? He has no way to know and no way to even attempt to return anything here to their rightful owners, not if he and Yusuf wish not to be captured and slain – and then slain again, and again, and likely taken back to the Pope chained as demons, to do with what the Church wills. A shudder rips down his spine at the thought.

He leans forward, pulling the other two saddlebags towards himself. A quick perusal confirms that all of them are full of treasure and fine goods. A small and beautifully carved box sits within one bag, filled with fragrant threads of rich red saffron. In the other is more cloth, a thicker, beautiful weave of many bright colors. Each bag contains more jewelry and more coins – Nicolò wonders, his stomach twisting, if Jean and the others took them off their victims’ bodies. Yusuf pulls an elegant knife from one bag, clearly for eating, not fighting — the belt, sheath, and tie are finely worked leather, soft and stained a beautiful dark red, and the hilt bears an emerald that sparkles in the light when Yusuf holds it up.

Yusuf sits back and sighs, reaching up and tugging at his curls. He looks up at Nicolò, a wry twist to the side of his mouth. He raises his eyebrows and spreads his hands, palms up, a sign Nicolò knows to mean ‘what should we do?’. Nicolò looks at the wealth in front of them, at the cloth still folded in Yusuf’s lap. Slowly, he reaches out, and separates one bag from the other two. He pushes it towards Yusuf, and then points to the two remaining, and twists and points at the house. 

Yusuf blinks at him, looks up at the house, and then back at Nicolò, smiling for the first time since he showed Yusuf the packs. Yusuf nods, and then furrows his brow, looking back down the packs. He starts pulling items out, separating coins from jewelry, and placing the majority of them into the two packs Nicolò has pushed aside for the family. He looks at the dagger for a moment, and then holds it out to Nicolò with a small smile. 

Nicolò takes it.

They decide, through slow and patient pantomime, to stay one more day, imposing even longer on Khadija’s hospitality. Yusuf decides not to bring her attention to the two saddlebags he and Nicolò have decided to give to her; he knows she would protest that offering them hospitality was the least she could do, that it is only doing what Allah and Muhammad wish them to. And he can see her point, but also — he knows how desperately the Fatimid armies were hurting for food and supplies. The fact that she has fed them as well as she has — even buying meat at the market at what must have been a sharp increase in price — shows how generous her heart is. He is incredibly grateful to have a way to pay her back. It is, perhaps, one good thing that has come of the Franks’ attack on her home.

He and Nicolò take the rest of the morning to fully separate out what will go to Khadija and what will go with them. He puts all the best jewelry, nearly all the coin, the saffron and the beautiful midnight cloth into her bags; the things more useful or more lovely. They take the chalice, a single purse of coins and a few pieces of jewelry, the colorful cloth, and the knife, which Nicolò now has tied to his belt. At the very bottom of one of the packs are a few hard biscuits, wrapped in cloth. Nicolò makes a face, but tucks them into the pack they are taking anyway.

 After praying Dhuhr with Khadija and the children when the sun is at its zenith, Yusuf rides into the village to trade a few coins for new clothing for himself and Nicolò, so that they can return the tunics they have borrowed. He finds one dyed a shade of blue-green that will, he thinks, go well with Nicolò’s eyes, and buys it before he can think better of it.

Yusuf lets Khadija know of their plans that evening.

“Where will you go?” Khadija asks him, while Hamza watches from where he sits, picking stones from a bowl of lentils. Fatima sits beside him, ostensibly kneading dough for bread but truly making more of a mess than anything else. 

“I don’t know,” Yusuf says. He takes a sip of the tea Khadija has given him. “Away. Perhaps home, to Mahdia.”

“And your Frank?”

Yusuf looks up to see a small smile on her face. “He’s not my Frank,” he says, but even to him his protest sounds forced. He takes a deep breath and exhales slowly, only barely resisting the urge to run his hands through his hair. “I don’t know. I only… hope we will not be parted. He… he is not what I thought he was, when we first met.” 

There is so much he is leaving unsaid. So much confusion swirling in his head, in his chest. All he knows is — he doesn’t think he will be able to part with Nicolò, when the time comes. And that— that thought scares him. 

“He is not like the others who came here,” Khadija says. She is mending one of Hamza’s shirts, her fingers moving deftly as she speaks. “You said you trust him. I think he trusts you too. He certainly has not tried to leave, even though he is out with the horses right now. He could leave, and he has chosen not to.”

“Still, he traveled with the others. He was at Al-Quds. He killed – tried to kill me.” Cursing himself, Yusuf shifts in his seat, taking a hasty sip of tea to cover his slip. 

“Perhaps. And that is his burden to bear. But he also saved your life.”

Khadija’s gaze is far too shrewd for Yusuf’s liking. She looks down at the work in her hands, making a few small stitches before she speaks again. Her voice is measured but there is something new, something hesitant, in her tone. “I have a brother who is…” she pauses, biting her lip. “Forgive me, but – he is … poetically inclined, as I believe you are, and as I believe your Frank is as well.”
Yusuf blinks. Is he so obvious, that even this woman who had known him for the span of a week could see that his interests lay only in men? His family was fond of the “poet” euphemism as well – and he knew his family still hoped it was something he would lose with age. But he has reached, and surpassed, his thirtieth year – if his feelings were to change, he suspects they would have already done so. He clears his throat, his head reeling slightly, as though he has missed a step while descending a set of stairs. 

“Even so,” he says, and he does not miss the tiny smile Khadija gives the mending in her hands as she recognizes his lack of refutation, “That does not mean Nicolò is the same, no matter how much I – you – may wish it so.”

Khadija only hums, and gives him no answer.

Nicolò rises along with Yusuf the next morning, and prays Lauds while Yusuf goes to pray with Khadija and the children. One by one he chants the prayers  to himself, his voice quiet in the bare grey light of dawn, his head bent and the beads of his rosary threaded through his fingers. He does not need it, not for these prayers, but it is a comfort anyway. 

When he finally raises his head again, feeling the ache in his knees from kneeling on the hard dirt of the courtyard, he finds that Yusuf has come to sit beside him, quiet and watchful. Nicolò’s heart stutters slightly in his chest when he meets those rich, dark eyes. Then Yusuf smiles, and it’s like the sun has finally crested the horizon, bright and beautiful. 

“ Sabah al-khair ,” Nicolò says. He and Yusuf have been teaching each other more words and phrases in their respective languages. It has been slow, agonizingly so at times, but the reward is great indeed; Yusuf’s smile widens, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “Bongiorno,” he replies, drawing the word out, and Nicolò can’t help but smile back at him.

Today is the day they will set out on the road to Cairo. Yusuf had drawn him a map, imprecise though it was, and sketched their path – as far as Nicolò can tell, they plan to go west to Cairo first and then to Alexandria, and from there sail along the coast until they reach Tunisia, Yusuf’s home. Some inner part of him marvels at the idea that the two of them grew up swimming in the same sea, along opposite coasts – not all too far from each other, considering the vast distances they have already traveled as part of this war.

There is no desire in Nicolò’s heart to see Genova again, not really. Perhaps someday he would like to go back and see his sister Lucia and her family, but for now – for now his heart longs to see the land that raised Yusuf, to see where it was he learned his compassion and his strength. 

Nicolò watches as Yusuf begins to saddle the horse that once belonged to Jean, reeling a little as the realization hits him. How quickly has he grown used to being at Yusuf’s side! The thought of parting from him again – and he considers it, pictures the both of them riding off in opposite directions, never to cross paths again – sends a physical pain shooting through his heart. But Yusuf has shown no sign of wishing to leave Nicolò behind; even now he finishes tightening the last of the saddle straps and turns to smile at Nicolò again, the expression seeming the most natural thing in the world. 

They take their leave from Khadija and the children. The parting is harder than Nicolò had anticipated. Both children cry and hug Yusuf around the middle, and Hamza, always the braver of the two, even hugs Nicolò, a quick press of arms around his middle before the boy darts back to his mother and sister. 

“Shkran lak,” Nicolò says to Khadija, whose smile is equal parts surprised and amused at his less-than-competent pronunciation. She gives him a smile and repeats her thanks back to him, and then turns to Yusuf and says something Nicolò has no hope of understanding, but which makes Yusuf give her a look of mingled exasperation and embarrassment. He betrays nothing, however, only gives the children one last hug each before turning to mount his horse. Nicolò is up in the saddle a beat behind Yusuf, and then with final waves and exclamations of thanks and good-byes in mingled Arabic and Ligurian, they lead their horses out of the courtyard and onto the wide road, towards the horizon.