They paused at the intersection with the tanner's street. To the opposite end that they were headed were three Franks busy piling bales of leather and hide on a cart. There was a torch flickering above them and two robed bodies of dead Muslims next to the business they were looting. He scowled and fingered the handle of his sheathed scimitar, thinking he could take them. There were only three and he would survive any wounds they inflicted. But what good would it do? His own words came back to him about killing and killing and accomplishing nothing. Plus, if he wanted to kill a Frank, there was one right next to him.

"No," said that one, speaking in a quiet voice.

Yusuf looked back at him, brows raised at the man's impertinence. "'No'? You tell me no?" He pointed down the street. "Those are your people, murdering and thieving. If you had any honor, you'd be the one doing something about it."

The man had never sheathed his sword, despite holding the child on one hip. Now it wavered about half-high. "No," the man said emphatically, looking pointedly between the looters and Yusuf in case there was any confusion in what he meant. Yusuf wasn't confused. The tension hung thick in the air.

The man gestured with the sword in the direction where the woman waited with the baby. "Run?" he said in Latin. "Peace?" he added in Arabic. His expression was searching and more intent than anyone Yusuf had ever met. It was intimidating for someone to look at him like that, like they were staring into his soul with those freakish pale eyes.

"This is not peace," Yusuf said, but it sounded like a complaint rather than the grudging threat he intended. Everyone who was smart had already fled Jericho or hidden themselves in cellars and bolt holes. Killing these three Franks wouldn't save the lives of the two Muslims already dead, but it would risk the woman's and children's lives. Reluctantly, he agreed, "We run."

They emerged from the sewers into a stony ditch bordered by fields of sugar cane, more than waist-high at this point in the summer. They were halfway across the field when a yell sounded behind them. Someone on the tumbled walls had spotted them. A crossbow bolt whisked through the grass and they broke into a run. The next bolt hit him right in the back, punching through his leather armor like it wasn't there.

It was the first time he'd been hit by one of these things and he hated it instantly. It wasn't fair that the invaders could reach out across the battlefield and puncture him without an opportunity to dodge or fight back. His chest ached and it was suddenly hard to breathe – a lung shot. He staggered, struggling to go forward more on behalf of the child he was carrying, than his own. He stumbled to his knees, shifting the child in front of him to protect her from being the victim of some other bolt. "Frank!" he croaked out. "Take her …"

Sheathing his sword, the Frank came back, but he didn't take the child. He grabbed the bolt and yanked it from Yusuf's back. Another bolt sunk into flesh, but it wasn't into Yusuf's or the child. The Frank grunted. He slung his free arm around Yusuf and hustled them forward. Yusuf's feet felt stupid, like they'd forgotten how to carry him. His vision and balance were confused. He almost went down when the Frank stumbled, but then the man recovered and was hoisting Yusuf by his belt and driving them on until they were out of range of the cursed weapons.

The spinning of Yusuf's head retreated and he was healed enough to breathe without his lungs simply refusing to inflate. He pulled away, still swaying on his feet but well enough that he didn't need the support of an enemy. The man reached down and jerked a bolt from his own calf. Another dangled from his lower back, the head of it tangled in chain mail and padding. He brushed it off the same, pausing to examine the damage to the armor. Yusuf flinched as he heard another bolt thunk into the ground behind them, but they seemed to be out of range.

The man made a short laugh and waved the point of his sword in the air, describing an arc with it that was perhaps that of the crossbow bolts. He said several things in Frankish and pointed at his chain mail, then looked at Yusuf for response. Yusuf stared at him until the man's hopeful levity left him. It was this man's own people trying to kill them. He – this man – bore some responsibility for their conduct. That was how it worked. Yusuf shook his head in disapproval and moved further away from the range of the bolts.

The children clung to them fiercely and silently now. The woman led them down the east road. Yusuf glanced back at Jericho, wishing things were different, wishing he were a hundred men rather than one, wishing any of his commanders were alive to tell him what his duty was. All he knew now was the conscience God granted every man. Or at least the ones who weren't Frankish invaders.

The girl he carried sniffled against him. He held her closer as they walked. This mattered – her small, warm body tucked against him, her tiny, soft hands gripping the leather of his armor and the edges of his green tabard. It was the one he'd been given as part of his uniform for being a (hastily inducted) defender of Jericho. She was alive because of him. Even if the weird Frank would have saved them without him, it had taken both of them working together to get the woman and children out safely. This was what he could do, at least for now.

Soon enough, at least two score figures became visible at the side of the road, a cluster of people who had fled Jericho. The few old men with them gave challenge. The woman with the baby answered. A lantern was unshuttered and brought forward so they could be seen and their identity verified. The woman was welcomed by her family. An elderly woman came to take the toddler from the Frank. Seeing what he was, she hesitated, then snatched the child from him. "He is an invader!"

"He … is not anymore," Yusuf said, waving her off irritably. He'd had time as they walked to reflect on the man coming back to help him instead of just the child. It was also obvious that he'd been sincere in his intention to save the woman and children, enough to cut down two of his own people. That meant … something. Certainly it meant Yusuf was going to discourage them from striking him down out of hand. It chafed him to have to put himself in that position for a Frank.

"And you are a Maghrebi!" the old woman said, peering at him suspiciously in the light.

"By the Prophet's beard," he muttered in exasperation. Yusuf rolled his eyes at the ridiculous prejudice. His homeland was almost as far from here as that of the Franks, but weren't they all on the same side against the invaders? He handed off the child he was carrying to one of the men who had initially challenged them.

The man said, "You were one of the soldiers, yes?"

"I was. I am."

"He is a Maghrebi!" the woman hissed, returning to the rest of the group.

The man Yusuf was speaking to ignored the old woman. "We thank you." The words soothed Yusuf's ego, bruised as it was by the matriarch's lack of gratitude. The man shifted the child he was holding and held up the lamp to inspect Yusuf. His tabard was stained with blood and tattered in many places. Beneath it, his armor bore cuts and gashes. "You clearly saw much fighting. Are you injured? You can travel with us to Shuna. We should be there by morning, insha'Allah."

"Neither of them can travel with us!" the elderly woman shrilled. "They are both foreigners!"

Yusuf tried to tune her out – she was old, she'd been driven from her home, she might have sons or grandsons dead at the hands of the invaders – of course she was angry, just like Yusuf was angry. He told the man, "I am not wounded. You should go. After the sack of Jerusalem, the invaders sent troops down the main roads to kill any they could catch who had escaped the city. They might do it again. I will stay here and stop any from following you."

The man nodded and shot the invader an uncertain look but said nothing more. There was nothing that needed to be said, not if they weren't going with them. The refugees moved off, heading down the road in the dark. The invader started to follow, but Yusuf stuck his hand out. "No."

The invader looked at him questioningly and Yusuf thought to himself that this – this was the time when he should strike. There were no children in the way, no other invaders who could interfere, just this one Frank to do away with. If he was looking for his duty, this was it. He swallowed and chewed his lip in a grimace as he considered how shallow this impulse was, no different from the narrow-minded old woman who had complained of him being a Maghrebi even as he delivered her rescued family members. It was no different from his own complaint to the man that they had been reduced to nothing but killing.

It was wrong. But still, he would be judged by the company he kept and if that company was some blood-stained invader, then he would be accountable for that. The man was still looking at him with those intense eyes, as though waiting for Yusuf to come to a decision about their fate.

"Why …" Yusuf hesitated. He didn't know how to communicate this and he was reluctant to say something so unaccountably rude to anyone, even to this man. It made him feel small and petty but he tried to do it anyway. "Why don't you go off on your own now?" He added in Latin, "Run? Good-bye?" He made an abortive shooing motion. "You should go. I should not be seen with you."

The man looked up and down the road. It only occurred to Yusuf at that point that he had nowhere to go. He'd betrayed his people. Now, maybe there were none of his people living who knew this, and maybe he hadn't been seen clearly enough as they ran from the walls to identify him, but an honorable man would not lie. Plus, perhaps he didn't even want to rejoin his people after what he'd seen in Jerusalem. Yusuf felt an unwanted pang from inflicting this on someone.

"Good-bye?" The man sounded hurt and worried, which made Yusuf feel worse. The Frank came closer, gesturing between them as he leaned forward earnestly. "God. You. I. God." He pointed upward.

Yusuf sighed guiltily. "No, that is not-"

"Yes, yes." The man held his hands up, palms toward him in surrender or conciliation, then reached carefully for his knife. He clearly wasn't being combative. Yusuf stepped back warily anyway. The man cut himself on the hand with a wince and showed the healing mark to Yusuf. "God," he said emphatically. "You and I." He wiped his knife and put it away. "God."

That was hard to argue with. Yusuf was not inclined to credit the supernatural. He'd had no vision or visitation and surely God would not grant a miracle to a Frank the same as to one of the faithful. He hadn't blamed the Frankish invasion on demons and he wasn't going to blame demons for this one's healing. The name of God didn't burn in his mouth, that was obvious.

But if it wasn't demons, then it had to be God – the same God Yusuf had never believed existed as a separate divine entity. In his mind, God was like the Greek concept of a muse – a word used for inspiration and the inner urge to be a good person. God was the reason they prayed and built society around helping and supporting each other. If that were the case, why then would they heal? They were just men – both of them – and as far as he knew, neither of them were more kind or giving than others. On the other hand, if he had he been wrong about God all this time, then it meant the more literal among the followers of the Prophet were right.

"I don't know," he said finally. "I don't even know your name. What- No. Let us start again as though we are strangers who have not killed one another several times already." He backed up a few steps, spread his arms to indicate himself, and touched his chest. "I am Yusuf."

"Nicolò." He touched his chest the same as Yusuf had. Yusuf felt a surprising relief at having a name for him. It made it easier to see him as a person rather than one of the rampaging horde of invaders.

Yusuf nodded soberly, trying to treat this as any other first meeting. "Nicolò," he repeated. "Where are you from?"

The man hesitated as though parsing the words. It was a common, basic phrase and Yusuf had articulated it carefully. "Genova."

His sincere intention to look past Nicolò's origin crashed. Yusuf looked to the heavens and turned in a circle as he let out a loud, hollow laugh. "God has such a sense of humor. The Genoese? You are Genoese? Even if we are strangers, I am supposed to kill you! Your people would be the ones who sacked Mahdia, where I was born, where I grew up!"

Yusuf shook his fist in Nicolò's direction and he would have been serious if the whole situation were not so ludicrous. He could not win for losing here. "I would split you in two if I thought it would do anything but give me a second enemy to fight. Were you part of that assault? Did you raze my city and drive my family from their home?"

Nicolò didn't answer. He looked confused, if anything. There were probably too many words, said with too much emotion. Yusuf simplified it. "Mahdia! You know that word?" Yusuf demanded. "Mahdia? You should."

"Yes. Mahdia." Nicolò cast a quick look at the stars and pointed west, which was the correct general direction for the city of Mahdia.

"Were you there?"

"Mahdia … Ah … Genova? No peace?" Nicolò pointed at his sword and made a gesture like he was holding a sword hilt in two hands. He pantomimed swinging it at an imaginary foe.

"Yes, I know they fought! Were. You. There? You?" Yusuf pointed at Nicolò as though the extra emphasis would get his meaning across.

"I … from Genova. Nicolò di Genova." He pointed to himself, still looking confused and now also wary.

Yusuf waved a dismissive hand. "Yes, I know you're from Genova. I understood that part." He had to concede the man was trying. Yusuf tried a different approach. "I don't suppose you speak Turkish? Oghuz? Coptic? I am fluent enough in those to hold a conversation, but in Greek or Latin, I know only a handful of words." No answer. Yusuf took a deep breath, marshalled his patience, and tried a sentence or two in each language he knew well, including the North African ones he didn't expect any Frank to know. From Nicolò's lack of reaction, he was right.

"A lovely situation we find ourselves in, then," Yusuf said to himself in frustration, reverting back to Arabic. "I can't take vengeance because you don't even know why I'd be doing it. God has truly sent you to humble me. That must be it." He shrugged his hands through the air helplessly. "Maybe I have been wrong about God all these years and you are a trial that will lead me to the true faith. Is that it?"

"Ah … No … No Arabic."

"Or you are only here to try my patience." But that Yusuf said pessimistically to himself. He looked back at Jericho, which was at enough elevation above the Jordan river valley to still be visible. Portions of it were on fire, making it easier to see. The theological argument was only a distraction from what was real – people suffering and what Yusuf could do to prevent that. He refocused. "They still might send raiders down the road," he said. "If they do, I hope you fight them instead of me."

Nicolò made no answer, but was watching him as though waiting for direction. "Come, then," Yusuf told him. They found a spot where the road wound around a wood-topped hill before a final dip toward the river. Yusuf pointed in the direction of Jericho and then to his eyes. "I'm going to stand watch." He pointed at Nicolò and then at the ground. "You sleep."

Nicolò sat, resting his elbows on his raised knees. He clenched and unclenched his hands, staring into nothingness. Yusuf stood and looked at him, seeing in Nicolò's body language the same frustration and unease he felt in himself. He felt sympathy for the man after such a day as he must have had – Nicolò must have had a full day's march from Jerusalem to Jericho, fully armored in the summer heat, then battle, turning on his own people, and then marching through the night carrying a child, now stuck with a disagreeable person such as Yusuf with no way to communicate anything more meaningful than 'my name is-' and 'I'm from-', with one of those having resulted in Yusuf yelling at him and shaking a fist in his direction. Yusuf had two different reasons to hate him with every fiber of his being and yet here he was feeling sorry for him. It was ridiculous. He sighed and resigned himself to his feelings.

"Nicolò?" The man looked up at him. "Lie down. Sleep." Yusuf gestured at the ground when Nicolò did nothing, then laid down himself to demonstrate. "Lie down." He held up his hand vertical, then pivoted it horizontal. "Sleep." He shut his eyes and badly mimed snoring.

Nicolò laughed hollowly a couple times and laid down. "Sleep." He mangled the word, but it was understandable.

"Yes." Yusuf sat up. "You sleep." Nicolò huffed, but he stayed down. Yusuf stood again and found a tree to lean against as he kept watch. Nicolò slept – curling on his side and holding himself like he was cold … or very alone. Had Yusuf killed him, no one would in his society would have judged him at fault. Nor, probably, would those in Nicolò's. They would have congratulated either of them. But they'd killed each other enough. It was time to try something different. Yusuf went back to watching the road.

Considering it was the dead of night, the road was very busy. Most were on foot. Some had wagons or donkeys. All were quiet, skulking away from the burning city or from the many farmhouses dotting the valley that they'd fled to initially. At a later point in the night, a single rider approached on a horse. They were leading another horse. They came near the hill at an ambling walk, but kicked up to a gallop to hurry by.

Nicolò sat up at the clatter of hooves, then stood and half drew his sword.

"Nicolò?" Yusuf said in a hushed voice.

"Si?" A pause. "Ah, um, yes?"

"Peace."

Nicolò looked in the direction of the horses. The rider was already slowing, well past the wooded hill that was an excellent position for an ambush, which was why Yusuf had chosen it. "No men?" Nicolò asked.

"No." None of those passing had looked like armed men up to no good, so Yusuf had done nothing. If there were raiders, the time had already come and gone when they would have shown up. Nicolò pushed his sword back into the scabbard and scrubbed at his face with both hands. Yusuf told him, "I will sleep. You stand watch."

"No Arabic."

"Yes, I know that, you stupid Frank," Yusuf said without any heat. He was too tired to be angry, too upset over having spent the last few hours stewing over the defeats at Jerusalem and Jericho and imagining all the murder and destruction the Franks were cheerfully visiting on his people. Except for this Frank. He moved next to Nicolò and pointed between Nicolò's eyes and the direction of the city. "Watch." He pointed at himself. "Sleep."

Nicolò nodded and said, "Sleep."

"I sleep. Not you. You watch." He patiently pointed at himself and then Nicolò in sync with his words.

"Watch. I watch."

"Yes, watch." Yusuf laid down.

"Watch," Nicolò said again. "Sleep. You sleep. I sleep. I watch. You watch." He was talking to himself, so Yusuf ignored him. He waited to see that Nicolò took up the same position at the tree that Yusuf had done earlier and seemed to understand his orders despite the language barrier. Then Yusuf shut his eyes and slumbered, too tired to worry about the Frank doing him in as he slept.