The next day, they saw a military unit coming down the road from the east, coming from the larger city of Amman, he assumed (as Amman, supposedly the capital of Balqa, was somewhere in this direction). They constituted two mounted men and more than a score on foot. Nicolò got well off the road without Yusuf having to say anything. These were his enemies much more than some gate guard in Shuna – armed, armored, and doubtless marching to find and kill people like himself. Yusuf followed him, but they'd been seen.

One of the mounted men called out, "You there! Come here." Yusuf came forward, doing his best to look like a law-abiding citizen who wanted no trouble. It was a hard sell given that he'd tried to hide and was wearing armor, carrying a scimitar, and accompanied by a Frank (or Genoese – whatever). "Both of you," the man clarified.

Yusuf gestured at Nicolò, who came up slowly. His hand was on the pommel of his sword.

The riders were older men with greying beards and fine clothing. The nearer bore a scar across his jaw that even his beard could not hide. He said, "I am Hilal ibn Omar ibn Said ibn al-Nu'man, Amir of Yarqa, here to defend our neighbor of Jericho from the depredations of foreigners." His eyes lingered on Nicolò, then shifted back to Yusuf. "Identify yourselves."

"I am Yusuf ibn Ibrahim ibn Muhammad ibn Al-Kaysani, called the Maghrebi in these parts. I was a soldier in Jerusalem and then in Jericho. This is Nicolò." He hesitated. He had to come up with a believable story, because 'we're both unkillable and just traveling together while we figure out how to talk to each other and then decide what this blessing means' wasn't going to pass muster. "He is a defected invader in my service."

"What is he, a slave?" Hilal asked.

The other rider said, "With a sword and chain mail?"

"With respect, he is guarding me," Yusuf said. "He is in my employ as a mercenary."

"Let him speak for himself," the other rider said, bringing his horse around a few steps so he faced them. The two riders and Yusuf looked at Nicolò, who said nothing.

The first rider, the Amir Hilal al-Nu'man, made an exasperated sound. "You. Niklo? Do you work for him?"

Yusuf chewed his lip. Nicolò looked at him. Yusuf gave the smallest nod he thought he could get away with. Nicolò said, "Yes."

"Are you a slave?" said the other rider.

This time Nicolò didn't look at Yusuf. "No." His hand slipped down to the grip of his sword.

So did the other man's, but Hilal only laughed. The amir said to the other rider, "I think you insult him."

The other rider let his hand fall away from his weapon. "Maybe so," he allowed. "Where are you going?" This he directed at Yusuf after giving Nicolò the stink eye.

"We are looking for shelter to rest for a few days, and then we will turn south so I can see about rejoining the Fatimids." To say this was his plan was an exaggeration. He didn't have a plan yet, but he provided one anyway lest they be mistaken for bandits or outlaws. He also wasn't technically part of the Fatimids; he'd only traveled with them … it was more complicated than he wanted to explain to these two.

"And him with you?" asked Hilal. "Is he a convert to Islam?"

"Not yet," Yusuf said. "Insha'Allah, he shall be." That would be nice, but Yusuf had no intention of attempting to convert anyone. It was polite to say, though, and maybe it would gain Nicolò some leeway.

"Insha'Allah," Hilal agreed. He looked at Nicolò. "You will fight against the invaders, your own people?"

Nicolò cleared his throat, glancing nervously at Yusuf before looking back to the amir. "Insha'Allah?" He had to know what he was saying – God willing – the phrase was ubiquitous. The uncertainty was probably that he wasn't sure what he was agreeing to.

Yusuf said, "He does not know much Arabic, but he has already fought against the invaders. We escorted refugees from Jericho together, before it burned." This at least was unquestionably true.

Hilal nodded. "So you say. You will come with us to help take it back. Fall in."

Yusuf sighed, but this was not a bad outcome, all things considered. His stomach rumbled. He gestured at Nicolò. "Come. We are soldiers now, again. At least they will probably feed us."

They did feed them. Mutton stew, in fact, which was far tastier than he would have expected given the weak tea and stale bread, as they'd ended their day's march right back in the same town of Shuna they'd been denied entry to the day before. The stew was accompanied by fresh bread this time, served in the guard barracks.

Yusuf and Nicolò both wolfed the meal down, then sat idle, sipping at the slightly-better-excuse-for-over-sweetened-mint-tea they had as drinks. This time it had the flavor of mint and no floating leaves. Yusuf saw Hilal (the scarred greybeard) have a quiet conversation with a man in the town's guard uniform. It looked like the one he'd spoken to the day before at the gate. They kept looking toward Yusuf and Nicolò. Yep, that was the same guy.

Yusuf worried over what they would do about his association with an invader, or if they would find some untruth he'd uttered. There were criminal penalties for lying and severe ones for consorting with the enemy. What would they do if they found they couldn't execute him? Would they cut off his head? Stack stones on him and leave him crushed under them in miserable heat until the vitality left him? If God was not behind his healing, then he was sure there was a way to kill him and he just hadn't been so unlucky as to find it yet.

Hilal walked down to the spot on the trestle table where Yusuf and Nicolò were eating. He addressed Yusuf. "The head of the watch confirms he saw you last night. You took bread and left in peace. There was a wagon you were following. They attest you were not bandits and gave them no trouble. This speaks well of you."

"Good," Yusuf said, setting down his cup. "I am pleased to hear this." But he was sure the man hadn't walked over to compliment him.

"Your armor, though, is very rough. It looks like something taken from the dead, although it fits you well and I can't see why your companion would take from a Frank and go about with his face uncovered, especially during times like these."

The man was declining to believe Yusuf's explanation for who they were and why they were here. He was not quite accusing them of being scavengers and thieves, but it was close. "Yes," Yusuf said, laughing lightly to brush off the offense, "sometimes I think he intends to demoralize all of us with his hideous features." He was very aware of being in a hall with a double score of armed fighting men and guards, and he was a stranger, nearly as much a foreigner as Nicolò, to all of them.

Hilal gave Nicolò a long, steady look, which Nicolò returned just as steadily, his face set like it was chiseled in stone. Yusuf cleared his throat, hoping to break the tension. "The armor and weapons are ours. We have fought in them. The battle scars are well-earned."

The amir turned to him. "The damage to the plate there over your heart looks like you were run through and killed."

Yusuf chuckled nervously, touching the spot without looking. "Well, obviously not. I'm fine." That was where he'd been speared when the invaders stormed over Jericho's tumbled walls.

"Let me see that scimitar you carry."

"Right now?"

"Yes."

Yusuf rose, moving a few steps back while he glanced around the room. He was not keen to hand over his weapon not knowing why it was being asked for or if he could get it back. It didn't have any sentimental value – he'd snatched it out of the mud when he'd revived after his first battle, surrounded by the dead and dying. He'd only realized later it wasn't the one he'd bought (and been ripped off for – it was poor quality steel and wouldn't hold an edge; he was glad to have lost it) before he joined the defense. This one was good steel, for one thing.

He worried it had some identifying feature he was too inexperienced in weapons to have noticed. He began to draw it. As he did, Nicolò leaped up, whipped out his own sword, leveled it at the amir, and had even put a foot on his seat as though to launch himself over the table at the man. Yusuf yelped, "No, no! You crazy Frank! Peace! Peace."

Hilal, for his part, was a braver man than most. Unfazed, he looked down the length of Nicolò's unwavering sword and said, "This weapon has seen action. It is damaged in several places." He turned to Yusuf, dismissing Nicolò's threat. "Now yours?"

"Nicolò? Peace." He made calming motions, not sure how Nicolò had misread the situation so badly. Then he realized – he hadn't. They were in a very tense situation. Yusuf himself was telegraphing this and with Nicolò having an imprecise mastery of the language … what was most remarkable was that Nicolò had jumped up to defend him, especially as it was a fight he obviously wouldn't win. Yusuf was both pleased and surprised by this. "It's good," he said, repeating his motions.

Nicolò stepped back, looking down the table at nearly forty startled troops and guards, none of whom would have been fast enough to save the amir had Nicolò continued. He sheathed his weapon. Yusuf finished drawing his and handed it over.

Hilal gave the scimitar a brief examination. "This, too, has struck armor and bone."

"Yes. We have not had a proper whetstone to repair them."

"Where did you get it? Did it come with the armor?" Again with the snide implication he'd stolen it.

Stiffly, Yusuf said, "I was lent it outside the north gate of Jerusalem, when I went out in a sally to sabotage the construction of a siege tower. Which we were successful at, I must say, and delayed the taking of the city by a week. I do not know the man who lent it to me. No one else survived our mission but myself. You may ask that of the Fatimid sub-commander Al-Dawla, should you be able to find him.

"There were many others on the walls who saw my conduct and can vouch for it." Fortunately, they'd been far enough away not to realize he'd actually died out there along with the rest of the suicide force. With a hint of anger in his voice, Yusuf added, "I do not know the provenance of Nicolò's gear. I have not demanded he provide me with receipts."

The amir offered the scimitar back. Yusuf took it and sheathed it. Hilal asked, "So you can use that?"

"Why would I be carrying such a thing if I could not? Why would I wear this stinking, heavy armor? It invites trouble from everyone! But these are the only possessions we have. Would you have us go naked or in the rags of our tabards and gambesons?" The amir looked amused at his outburst, or maybe the mental image. Yusuf snapped, "Of course I can use it!"

"He should not speak so disrespectfully to you," put in the greybeard who had been riding that day with Hilal.

Hilal waved off the unsolicited comment, but Yusuf took it as the warning it was, that he should not speak so impertinently to his betters. The amir took two practice swords from a rack on the wall, handing one to Yusuf and the other hilt-first across the table to Nicolò. "Show me."

"Here?" Yusuf asked, relaxing somewhat. This was a test he could pass and perhaps put the man's suspicions to rest. The practice swords were thick bats with handles, about the weight of a proper steel blade, but point-heavy. They could deliver a wicked smack, but they would not slash or puncture. Yusuf had spent much of the last two months drilling with a weapon like this to improve his swordsmanship. He could not easily kill Nicolò with this, nor Nicolò him.

Hilal indicated the open space on the opposite side of the table. "Light sparring. To first touch."

Yusuf wasn't sure how to convey that to Nicolò and it didn't matter anyway. All they needed to do was a few easy maneuvers of block and parry and they'd be done. He moved to the opposite side. Nicolò was testing the balance of his weapon. Yusuf gestured at the wall to his left. "No." He indicated the table to his right. "No." He waved his hand back and forth between them. "Yes."

"Yes men sword," Nicolò said. "No peace."

"Yes, I suppose so." Not that he knew what Nicolò meant by that. In retrospect, he would realize it translated to, 'We are men with swords who are going to fight', also known as, 'I'm going to kick your ass'. But at that point, to Yusuf, it was just meaningless words.

Yusuf moved forward and made a jab. The tip of Nicolò's weapon dipped just enough for him to drop it under Yusuf's blade and come back up on the opposite side to knock it off-line. He regained his guard and tried again, same thing. All they need do here was make it look good and they could sit down again. Yusuf had only trained for a few months, but he'd survived several real clashes and gained a level-headedness that was worth more than a year of drills.

Even so, Nicolò's blade locked with his, then twisted around it in a tighter version of the dip-and-knock, evading his attempt to block it and whacking him soundly on the head once it was free. That should have been it – a loss for Yusuf and a prick to his pride, but a clear demonstration that they knew how to use their weapons like professionals. Yet Nicolò did not stop there. He knocked Yusuf's weapon arm out of the way with his other hand and shoved his shoulder into his chest while hooking a foot behind one of Yusuf's heels. Still seeing stars from the head blow, Yusuf stumbled and went down.

Nicolò planted a foot on his chest and pressed hard, forcing the breath from him. The blunt tip of his wooden sword ended a few inches from Yusuf's throat in a showy display of dominance. This wasn't simply a prick to Yusuf's pride. The Frank had taken this too far. Yusuf hadn't even been trying to hurt him and here the man was literally knocking him on his ass and putting his foot on him, treading on him like he was no more than dust beneath his sole?

There was impressed chatter from the table and a few laughs at Yusuf's expense. Yusuf wrested Nicolò's foot from him, batted his sword out of the way, and got to his feet. "No peace, then!" he snapped. "Again!"

Nicolò's eyes were alight. Yusuf played with the sword briefly, trying to get a feel for it and imagining braining Nicolò with it in turn. The Frank seemed to think this was funny (and fun). Yusuf would teach him better. He would not stand to be laughed at in front of a crowd – not by a man he'd killed at least three times, maybe four. From the other side of the table, Hilal said, "I've seen enough."

Yusuf ignored him – this wasn't about getting the amir's respect. It was about getting Nicolò's. Yusuf came forward, faster this time and surer. His sword play was better. He knocked away three different strikes from Nicolò, evading them and forcing the Frank to give ground until he was nearly at the other end of the table. Soldiers turned to watch them as they went. Yusuf ended it with a hard thrust to the solar plexus that would have skewered the Frank through had it been a real sword, chain mail be damned. And there! That was it – he'd beaten him fairly.

Nicolò coughed and touched the spot on his chest. He said something in his own tongue. The tip of his sword twitched as he flexed his grip. It should have been over between them, but Nicolò jumped forward, nearly into Yusuf's blade and taking a hit on the shoulder. Even if this were a third match, by the usual rules that would have counted as a solid enough touch to end the duel.

Nicolò had not been told the rules. He kept swinging and Yusuf found a fire of competitiveness lit within him – he would give as good as he got here. Yusuf clocked him across the face with the hilt of his sword, staggered back from Nicolò's answering shove, and kept his feet to parry an overhand blow of such force that one of their swords made a cracking sound and he was driven back again. Nicolò's nose was bleeding, but Yusuf found that funny rather than appalling – they'd killed each other before, after all. A little nosebleed was nothing. Even getting their skull caved in wouldn't stop either of them for long.

There was a yell to stop from the sidelines. But Yusuf's blood was singing in his veins and he could see the equally exhilarated look on Nicolò's face. Yusuf ignored the command in preference to swinging for Nicolò's leg. He missed and with a swerve to try and salvage the blow, managed to stab him squarely in the groin. He'd been hoping for the gut, but he didn't care too much where he hit as long as it worked. Nicolò stumbled and half-crumpled, but he didn't go down.

There was silence in the room as every man cringed except Yusuf, who knew there was no need for mercy. Yusuf lunged, was sidestepped with a twist of Nicolò's torso, and to his surprise Nicolò's blade swept back hard on his undefended side, knocking him into the table and driving his breath from him. He wouldn't have expected such force from a man in Nicolò's compromised condition, but there it was.

"Stop!" Hilal yelled again from the other side of the table and this time, finally, they listened. Yusuf was gasping, clutching his side under his armpit. There was no metal banding that high and the leather was not as thick there. Nicolò was still struggling to stand up straight, a hand drifting to his groin to rub at it or cup himself. The amir called in outrage, "I said until first touch!"

"Yes," Yusuf allowed with a groan. "I believe you did." He looked over to Nicolò, who gave him an acknowledging nod with a blink, dropping the tip of his practice sword to the floor. He had the man's respect. That was all he'd wanted.

"Are your ribs broken?" the amir asked.

"No, I am fine." He stretched. And he was fine. He felt good, blood pounding, body alive, nothing hurting. Nicolò was laughing now, fully recovered. He wiped the blood from his nose. It had stopped flowing. Yusuf said, "We were not hitting each other very hard. It was all for show."

"You are supposed to be able to fight tomorrow!" Hilal said crossly. "And you, Frank? You must not have balls if you are well after that."

Yusuf chuckled and went around the table. "Oh, he has balls, I can promise you that." Yusuf had seen the man in battle too many times to doubt his courage. He returned his practice sword to the rack.

Nicolò leaned across the table to hand his back to the rider, who added it to the rack as well and then removed Yusuf's. "This is cracked now," Hilal observed. "Those were not light hits."

"It must have been defective," Yusuf said dismissively. He really disliked how much he was having to lie. "We are both fine, as you can see. Are you satisfied that we are honorable men?"

"I am satisfied you can both fight, though your ability to follow orders is questionable." Hilal frowned at the practice sword and threw it in a corner so it wouldn't be used again. "And this after two days of marching with no more food than a few loaves?" Yusuf said nothing. Their stamina was as suspicious as the more overt healing. This man was too observant by far. "Give them another portion," the amir called to the help, returning to the head of the table. "And a whetstone."

Yusuf sat down and waved Nicolò to his seat. An additional bowl was put in front of them and their empty bowls taken away. "A loaf, too, please if you may?" Yusuf asked politely and this, too, was provided to them along with a well-used whetstone.

Nicolò pointed at his full bowl. "What is that?" He said it like it was a single word, but it was clear enough otherwise.

Yusuf stared at him in amused offense. "'What is that'" he repeated the same way Nicolò had said it. "You know how to say, 'what is that' and you have not said it before now?"

"What is that?" Nicolò pointed at the food again, keeping his original, single-word pronunciation.

"It is mutton stew."

"Mutton stew."

"Yes. I noticed you left off the 'it is'. You know perfectly well what I am saying."

Nicolò picked up the bread. "Mutton stew?" He raised his brows hopefully, or maybe he was making a joke.

"No. That is bread. You know that is bread, you fool."

Next to him, one of the soldiers asked, "How long has he been learning Arabic? A few weeks? His pronunciation is good, although he sounds like a Maghrebi."

Yusuf hesitated. It had only been two days. Of course, Nicolò apparently knew some basics before that, but … it had been only two days. The man might be stupid enough to stare directly at the sun, but … well, no, on second thought, perhaps Yusuf was the stupid one for doubting the extent of their power. "Ah. About that, yes. His accent is no fault of his. He works very hard on it. He understands more than he can say."

"And you call him a fool?"

Yusuf grinned warmly and shot Nicolò an appreciative look. "He is a very patient man. Very humble and large of character. I have been surprised by him." And he was, truly. He felt a warm, convivial emotion toward the man now that they'd fought without homicide on their minds, proving they could be violent and yet controlled.

The soldier next to him grunted. "I do not want to fight next to a Frank tomorrow. I want to kill them instead." He gestured at Nicolò, who froze, his attention fixed on this conversation.

Yusuf said, "Stay away from this one, or we will both kill you." His tone was light, but it was not a joke.

The soldier looked him over, realizing the threat (or promise), then shrugged. "You both fight well." He went back to his own business, turning to speak to the soldier on the other side of him.

Yusuf looked over to Nicolò, who was relaxing slowly. In a low voice, Yusuf said, "I don't know if you understand this, but we have been pressed into service for the faithful in the defense of the realm. Tomorrow, you will be asked to fight other invaders. For me, this is not a difficulty, as I volunteered to fight in Jerusalem and I volunteer now. These are my people. I will fight and die for them as I must. But they are not your people. I know less of what you desire. Or why you are even with me."

Nicolò studied him. "No Arabic," he finally said.

Yusuf sighed. "Yes, that is complex. Let me think. Now, we have dies and noctis, right, in Latin?" Nicolò nodded. Yusuf went on, "So, 'dies', this day. One day." He held up one finger. "'Noctis', this night. One night. We sleep. Tomorrow is two day. The second day." Two fingers. "Sleep, then day. That is tomorrow. Do you understand?"

Nicolò raised his brows slightly, looking like he had no idea what Yusuf was blathering on about.

"That looks like a maybe," Yusuf said, even though it didn't. "Okay, that is tomorrow. We sleep, then day. Okay?" Nicolò nodded shallowly like he was just barely following his meaning. Yusuf continued, gesturing to the various soldiers in the room. He could see a few of them were watching this exchange with interest, having fallen silent to better hear his low voice. "Tomorrow. All of us. Fight. No peace. Swords."

"Yes men?" Nicolò mimed stabbing the man to his left. That man looked alarmed and offended with a 'what the hell, dude?' expression, but stayed out of the conversation.

"No," Yusuf said. He shook his head emphatically. "Peace between us. All of us." He indicated the people in the room again. "We fight other people. We fight Franks. Tomorrow."

"Franks. Tomorrow." 'Tomorrow' was mangled, but Yusuf let it be.

"No peace with Franks," Yusuf told him.

Nicolò sighed and leaned back. His face turned distressed. He didn't say anything for a time, gazing steadily at Yusuf the whole while. Finally, his expression cleared and he said, "Sleep?"

"Yes," Yusuf told him. Nicolò stood. Yusuf leaned forward to add, "Nicolò? Will you fight with me tomorrow? I must know if you understand." He was asking a great deal of him. It was one thing to strike down rapists on the verge of a war crime. It was another to knowingly march against your own people to advance the military objectives of your enemy. The first was human decency. The second was unquestionably treason. Yusuf didn't want this decision made through a miscommunication.

"No peace with Franks," Nicolò said after a pause. "No Jerusalem." Nicolò had eyes. He knew why a group of armed faithful were retracing their steps back to Jericho, and he was marching with them. It was time to sharpen his sword. He picked up the whetstone. He understood.

"Thank you, my friend," Yusuf said, his voice soft. There was no coin in this for Nicolò. There was no renown or advantage. The only benefit was in doing the right thing and although Yusuf himself had volunteered to defend Jerusalem (a city which was not his home nor even especially friendly to him) for that same reason, he'd not expected to run into anyone else willing to do the same. Especially not among the invaders. "You do not cease to astound me. It may be that I do not deserve you."

Nicolò went off to look at the bunks at the other end of the room. He sat on one and drew out his sword to see what could be done for it. Yusuf gathered their bowls and cups, taking them to the front. He was lost in thought about the true meaning of 'honor' when the amir said, "He does not work for you."

Yusuf dropped off their bowls and cups. The amir annoyingly kept picking at his lies. "He agreed," he countered, keeping up the charade that Nicolò was a mercenary, even though the truth was there was not a thing mercenary about him. "He is working for me."

"You don't command him."

"I do not need to," Yusuf said, raising his chin. "His conscience commands him. God commands him. So should it be with all of us, if we were better men."

The amir nodded slowly. "This is true." He took a sip of his tea. "This is very true. The bunks are for the guards and officers. You, he, and these men will sleep on the floor."

"I will tell him," Yusuf said, heading back to where Nicolò had sat himself on a bunk to sharpen his sword.