In the morning, Nicolò was given a new green tabard to wear to indicate his membership in the group and hopefully prevent him from being mistaken as an enemy. It matched Yusuf's. Nicolò rolled up his existing white one, ragged and stained as it was, and tied it to his back. The one Yusuf had been given in Jericho was deemed suitable, even as ragged and unwashed as it was. He was not the only one in the group wearing that uniform.
They marched to Jericho, leaving early and continuing a miserably hot march through the heat of the day to ensure they would arrive before sunset. The Franks were sacking the town, or rather, they were sacking it again, as they had returned to take whatever hadn't burned the first time. They had not been long at it, either.
The amir's group was not the only one of the faithful mustered from the surrounding countryside. Altogether, they were a formidable force. Most of the Franks fled as soon as they were sighted. They carried away what they could as they went. By the time the faithful reached the breached walls, there were only a few handfuls of invaders left within – either greedy or inattentive.
The amir sent them within the city in squads of ten under the command of sub-leaders, while he and his mounted companion rode out to harass the invaders who were fleeing back toward Jerusalem.
Their first encounter with the enemy was right within the gate. It was a wagon being pulled by a skittish mule that had never known harness and an inept, over-grasping driver who had thought he could manage the animal with enough lashes of the whip. He tried to goad the mule into charging them so as to run them down with beast and wagon, but it balked and fought, coming up on its hind legs and squalling as he struck it with the whip.
Nicolò called out something in whatever Frankish tongue he spoke. The man seemed to recognize it and stopped beating the poor mule. He answered. Nicolò said more. The man dropped the whip and put his hands up in surrender.
Yusuf had come up on one side of the wagon. Nicolò was on the other. The rest of their group followed Yusuf or had by now taken the mule's head, leaving Nicolò to himself on the far side. The driver began to dismount in Nicolò's direction. One of the more spritely on Yusuf's side jumped onto the buckboard and jerked the man the other way. He didn't resist. He was pulled down on Yusuf's side and summarily executed.
"Ayiee," Yusuf complained with a grimace, but it was too late to do anything. He hadn't understood the words, but he was fairly sure Nicolò had asked for an honorable surrender. He may even have made promises about the man's safety. Yusuf didn't feel bad on account of some invader trying to make off with a cart full of loot, but he did regret that Nicolò had been forced into dishonor. He looked up to see Nicolò had leaned to the side a little to see the Frank now bleeding out and twitching on the ground. His face hardened and he looked away. Yusuf grimaced again.
But it was war. They both knew this. Nicolò continued steadfastly with their patrol of the city, although he did not attempt to speak to the Franks again. There were fewer bodies of the faithful than Yusuf had feared to find. There had been no massacre like Jerusalem or Ma'arra; the Franks had not yet sent a force large enough to hold the city, much less surround it and butcher everyone inside. So far, they were only robbing it and killing anyone who got in the way.
Shortly after dark, they pursued what seemed to be the last of the invaders, chasing a pair into a dead end. The fleeing men realized their mistake and turned. One fired a crossbow, killing the man in front of Yusuf, the bolt traveling with such force that it punched half its length out the man's back. Yusuf and the rest of the faithful took cover at the start of the alley. Nicolò, who had been at the rear of the group, skipped forward one step and whacked Yusuf on the shoulder. "Run! Run!" he said in Latin, and then charged forward.
Yusuf knew what that meant – 'run with me' and not 'run away'. But to run into the sights of men who were firing those bolts down a straight alley? They couldn't possibly miss. It was suicide. Why? Weren't there other choices? Shouldn't they at least pause to consider them? But Nicolò was already running and then Yusuf, with a stab of fear and the pounding of his heart, was following. He trusted Nicolò knew what he was doing.
Yusuf expected to be hit with every stride. Even if he would rise again, it was still death. The lighting was poor, but he could see one of the two invaders setting his spear to receive Nicolò's charge. Behind that man the arbalist was doing something, but what he wasn't doing was taking his shot. Maybe they would make it in time? Maybe this was what Nicolò had known – there was a reload time, a space when it was safe to rush them. But then the arbalist had his weapon up and neither of them had so much as a shield (not that such would have done any good). This was no shot at range from the walls of Jericho. At this distance, a perfect aim might kill both of them.
The crossbowman didn't have perfect aim. He was panicked and fired the moment his weapon was pointed generally in their direction. Nicolò had jumped to the side, putting the spearman between him and the crossbowman. The bolt missed the spearman (and Nicolò) by less than a handspan and Yusuf by a similar distance. It clattered off the brick behind him as the arbalist cursed. Nicolò knocked the tip of the spear aside with a practiced move and darted by him, presenting his back as a perfect target.
The spearman wheeled, following Nicolò and whipping around his weapon to skewer his target. Yusuf knew that sort of tunnel vision. He slashed the spearman across the face before he could stab Nicolò. The man stumbled back and Yusuf turned his next blow into a jab, again to the face, because the damned chain mail the invaders wore made other targets unreliable unless you were in a position to put a lot of force behind it. The face was an exceptionally difficult target unless your ally had conveniently distracted him, as Nicolò had done.
The man fell to the ground, dead almost as soon as Yusuf withdrew his scimitar. Nicolò had done for the arbalist in the meantime. Yusuf panted, looking around. They'd done it – they'd fought side by side, together. It was thrilling, vindicating. Nicolò had expected him to deal with the spearman, he realized. He'd trusted him to guard his back – and he'd been right. Yusuf stood straighter and called back to the others, "Aye! They are dead!" At this, the rest of the squad came forward cautiously.
Nicolò picked up the crossbow, examining it briefly and was taking the quiver from the dead man when the rest of their patrol reached them. The man who was in charge at this point was the one who had said he wanted to kill Franks instead of fight next to them. Yusuf hadn't caught his name. The man spoke now, his voice sharp. "Hey there. Looting Frank! What are you doing? That is not yours."
Nicolò looked up at him in the light of the two torches the group carried. His face was blank.
The accusation was uncalled for and the timing was low. It wasn't lost on Yusuf that these were likely the last two enemies in the city, meaning they no longer had need of Nicolò's services as a fighter. Yusuf tried to negotiate. "There were no crossbows in this city when it was taken. That is a Frankish weapon. He is not looting."
"It does not matter where it came from! We need fewer weapons in the hands of Franks," the man said, walking forward and bending to take the bow from where it lay next to Nicolò's feet. He didn't make it. Nicolò moved and the man jerked upward, Nicolò's hand on his sword arm. The Genoese's other hand was occupied by a dagger that was now pointed under the man's chin.
Yusuf hissed but said nothing. So far there was no harm done – just a bruised ego. The situation was recoverable if everyone would just stay calm. The others had stopped, staring and waiting to see the resolution. Nicolò looked over to Yusuf and opened his mouth. Whatever he was going to say was overridden by the man he was holding saying, "Get him!" and trying to wrest free while Nicolò's attention appeared to be elsewhere. People scrambled to obey. Swords were raised.
"No, no!" Yusuf said, but it was too late. Nicolò stabbed the man right in the throat. Blood sprayed and it was seven against one with Yusuf undecided. It crossed Yusuf's mind that he didn't need to fight on Nicolò's side. He didn't even need to fight – just let them cut down Nicolò, see them on their way, and the dead man would stand back up no worse. They could all walk away from this alive, but that fragile trust that lived between he and Nicolò would be irrevocably broken. Yusuf had only a split second to take sides, but take sides he did.
Yusuf lashed out with his sword, taking the nearest man in the gut. Now it was six to two. Two others leapt at Nicolò, one stabbing him, the other ending on his dagger. Five to two. Yusuf sliced down another of the faithful who was holding the torch (and nothing else, which didn't make a lot of sense, but Yusuf took advantage of it anyway – maybe he'd thought he didn't need it moments earlier when there had been no living foes). Four to two.
Yusuf was stabbed through the shoulder and then the chest as he lost his winning momentum. He shoved forward against the blade still within him and swung downward at the man's head, ignoring his own supposedly mortal wounds. Three to two. Weakness shot through him and he staggered to the wall, bracing himself as death tried to claim him. There was a clatter next to him as Nicolò pulled a sword out of himself and threw it on the ground. The two before Yusuf ran back a short distance, one of them holding a torch and sword, the other a cudgel. They stopped and reassured one another that both Yusuf and Nicolò would bleed out and die in a moment.
He yanked the weapon out of his chest and turned to find the last foe dying messily on the ground to Nicolò's left. Yusuf spat blood, but it was a passing thing. He was already feeling stronger as his wounds knit together. He felt pity for the men who stood before them, not knowing they were facing men who couldn't die. He felt more for those on the ground (aside from their leader, who'd deserved it) who'd died so needlessly, following bad orders and prejudice.
Nicolò bent and retrieved the crossbow, loading it methodically like a man who'd used such a weapon many times. The two down the street exchanged worried words. They fled in terror when Nicolò raised the weapon. He did not fire, which Yusuf saw as mercy undeserved but mercy nonetheless. Were their roles reversed, he suspected he would have put a bolt through one of them out of anger and vindictiveness at having been put through such a stupid fight.
Yusuf passions cooled as he looked around at the dead. He was glad he hadn't known them better, but they were dead regardless. "This is an unfortunate turn of events," he said, his voice hollow and cracking around the words. He'd definitely switched sides, but if he were honest with himself, he wasn't sure which side he'd switched to. It wasn't the Frank's. It had to be Nicolò's. But no one would care about such a fine point. They'd see him as a Judas, an irredeemable traitor.
The torch that had been dropped sputtered and went out, leaving them in darkness. "No peace," Nicolò said, gesturing at the bodies.
"No," Yusuf agreed. "No peace." He'd killed his own people. There was no coming back from this. He was an outlaw, or he would be, as soon as the two who'd fled told their tale. As the reality of the situation sank in, it felt like the ground dropped out from under him. He hadn't realized how much worse things could get. He was as lost as Nicolò now. He had done everything for the right reasons, but his honor was ruined anyway. He might as well be some monster like the Franks.
Where could he go now? He'd lost his father's money when he'd abandoned his mercantile mission and joined Jerusalem's defense force, spending his profits to buy overpriced armor and a bad sword. Now he'd betrayed the people he'd joined on behalf of one of the invaders! He stared at the indistinguishable lumps in the darkness – the bodies – thinking about how he'd only been defending a friend. And before that Nicolò had only been defending himself. It was obvious the leader had intended to get rid of the Frank once he had no more need of him and the last of the invaders were dead so they had no need of him and-
Nicolò turned to him. "Thank you," he said gratefully. He set down the crossbow and reached for him gingerly. Yusuf was still leaning on the wall, unmoving, eyes distant.
Nicolò pulled him close and embraced him with another, "Thank you." -and they'd been going to kill this man. And Yusuf had stopped it. If that damned him, then it damned him. For if there was a God anywhere in this world, then He resided not in healing or prayer, but in the embrace of another. Yusuf put his arms around Nicolò in turn. Nicolò was a solidly muscular man under the chain armor. His grip was firm and constant, leaning into him a little. Yusuf held him in return. He found himself breathing harder and then weeping in a sudden, fitful burst. For a little while, there was quiet in the alley aside from Yusuf snuffling a few times.
Yusuf parted finally and said, "We need to get out of here. Those two will be back with others."
Nicolò said in Latin, "Run?"
Yusuf laughed hollowly. "Yes, my friend. Again, we must 'run'." They had each betrayed their people here and each, ironically, while trying to do right. Nicolò swept up the crossbow and quiver, then took the dead crossbowman's entire belt with pouches as well. He handed it to Yusuf as they moved away.
"Ah," Yusuf said as he realized what he'd been given. Whatever the dead Frank had in his pouches was probably stolen from here or Jerusalem. It was heavy. Taking his weapon was fine; this … less so. But it was already in his hand and he'd just killed three of the faithful anyway. Was this how all outcasts got started – one sin and then another, with every one of them seeming to be the right thing at the time? "May God forgive me when no other will." He slung it over his shoulder.
They escaped the city the same way they had earlier with the woman and children. This time, there was no one to shoot at them from the walls. Nicolò looked to him as though it was up to Yusuf to choose a direction, so he steered them north, over low walls and fences, toward distant hills and away from well-traveled roads and the way they'd come. He wasn't sure it was the right choice, but it was a choice and they couldn't linger in the area without risking being found. It was a hard night, as they did not stop. They ignored their exhaustion and though they tripped and stumbled often in the dark, they recovered quickly.
By the time first light came, they were in the hills west of Pheselch, although Yusuf did not know the town's name yet. The land was becoming rough with steep valleys and high ridges. The dawn showed them that ahead were higher mountains that Yusuf had never had to deal with in his trips up the coast. He vaguely remembered seeing what might have been another side of them, but he had no idea how to get around them.
"Mountains," he said, stopping at the bottom of a ravine to look up at them.
"Rock," Nicolò said, gesturing at the landforms ahead of them. "Big rock. Many. Many rock." He gave Yusuf a skeptical look, as if to say, 'Are we really going that way? Don't you see the rocks?'
"Mountains," Yusuf said again.
"Mountains," Nicolò repeated. He kept the same expression of skepticism. "Yes?" He gestured again at the enormous barrier to their progress.
Yusuf sighed. He was tired. And depressed he'd made a wrong decision. They should have headed south. At the time, he'd thought north would put them closer to territory where Nicolò could blend in. "No," he answered. Nicolò looked relieved. Yusuf asked, "Sleep?"
"Sleep," Nicolò said with a nod as his posture relaxed. They sought shelter under some shrubby athel trees, looking mainly for the opportunity to be hidden from casual sight. The shade was a nice touch. They both shed their armor and rolled up their tabards to use as pillows.