They slept through the first half of the day, with Yusuf waking when he heard Nicolò crawling out from beneath the tree sometime after noon. Yusuf followed him. There were some goats on a slope to the east at the edge of vision. Near them would be a goatherd. "Water," Nicolò said to him and Yusuf nodded. They followed the land downhill to a thin trickle of a stream only a handspan deep and no wider than they could jump. But it was flowing and clear. They slaked their thirst.
Yusuf began to disrobe. He gestured at the water. "We should clean ourselves while we have the chance. We are hardly men this way, and certainly not civilized ones."
"Eh?"
He continued undressing. "I'm saying you stink so bad they could track us by scent alone were they so inclined. Your face is made even worse by the spray of blood on it from last night, which is now smeared and disgusting for even a hardened man such as myself to look upon. You are unclean in seven different ways, an abomination in the eyes of God, and a burr to my conscience just to be near you!" He was joking, but his delivery was stern.
Nicolò cocked his head. "No Arabic." There was a sullen tone to his voice like he knew he wouldn't want Yusuf's words translated even if he could.
"Right. Of course, habibi," Yusuf carried on sarcastically, laying the teasing on a little thicker because it seemed Nicolò had missed his tone. "I know this is a strange concept to you and something you likely have no frame of reference for, but please listen. I will demonstrate." By now, he'd already washed his mouth and hands. He took up a double handful of water. "Water."
"Yes." Nicolò looked fetchingly uncertain and although it was probably about Yusuf's tone, it was amusing to think of it as being about the idea of washing.
Yusuf poured it over his own head so it soaked to his scalp and ran down both the back of his head and over his face. "Three times." He repeated the process twice more. Then he scrubbed with his hands, starting with his hair and working his way down, adding more water as needed. "You can do it," he said encouragingly. "I have faith in you."
Nicolò frowned at him, brows drawn together. He looked insulted and confused, but not too seriously. He grumbled, "No Arabic," again, but he did at least begin taking his clothes off.
Yusuf grinned toothily. "You will be a better man at the end of it! Or at least easier to travel with."
Nicolò made himself naked and went about a slightly different cleansing routine, beginning with his face, neck, and chest, which was fine because he looked awful, although Yusuf hoped he would do something about his nasty hair as well. Between the blood, gore, sweat, and dust, they were both repellant. Yusuf went on with his own process. This was not wudu – he had no intention of attempting prayer under these conditions or in the tattered, bloody clothing he had. He was just washing, but they definitely both needed it.
He glanced over at his companion, noticing that his penis was a consistent tube, just an undifferentiated fleshy cylinder hanging from a nest of brown curls. For a moment, he wondered if the man had been maimed at some point or had not properly recovered from Yusuf jabbing him with the practice sword, but then he remembered – foreigners had sheaths like animals. He'd heard it described, yet it had still taken him by surprise to see an adult man who was uncut. He was like a huge baby.
Nicolò's hand came into view. He waved at his penis. "Good?" There was something smug in his tone.
Embarrassed, Yusuf jerked his eyes up. He'd been caught staring. "Ah … Yes. Good. Fine. Yes. I'm sure … Good." He turned away and sorted through his clothing, talking about it nervously. "There's so much blood on everything! I don't want to wash it all because the day is mostly over and we'll still be wet into the night. It would make it very unpleasant to sleep in."
Nicolò said nothing and went back to his hand-bathing. Yusuf snuck a few furtive glances to see Nicolò's demeanor. He was exasperated to find there was nothing to tell – Nicolò had no special expression as he washed his armpits and minded his own business, unlike Yusuf who had to jerk his attention elsewhere lest he be caught again. He wasn't even sure why he was looking. It wasn't like he was interested, right? Just moments ago, he'd been complaining about Nicolò's stench and staring at the relative deformity of his sex! Surely there was nothing there he needed to see.
He focused on washing his small clothes and undertunic, wringing them out as much as possible before putting them back on. The day was hot and they were thin fabric. They should dry quickly and they'd been the worst off of his clothing anyway. It felt good to be cleaner and somewhat rested, even if he was yet again starving with hunger. Nicolò did the same, also washing the green tabard that had been spattered during their last fight. He put on the old Genoese one while the green one hung to dry.
Nicolò moved up to a ridge overlooking the stream. He took the crossbow and made some adjustments to it. Yusuf came over to sit near, watching him. He'd never seen a crossbow up close – only in diagrams and poor renderings. They exchanged words for the parts of the weapon. Since Yusuf did not know the Arabic equivalents (if there were any), he ended up learning most of them in Nicolò's language, which Nicolò politely identified as Ligurian and not 'Frankish'.
It felt surreal after the recent events. He could almost forget he'd killed three of his own people the night before, there was a war going on, and this man had been his sworn enemy a few days ago. Now he was an interesting companion who'd held Yusuf while he cried and looked to him for guidance and who was teaching him something new. Nicolò's presence was steady and calming. It was easy for Yusuf to let go of his worries while they sat together and watched the day wind down.
It was nearing dusk when a hare came into sight. Yusuf's stomach rumbled immediately and he straightened. Nicolò put a hand on his thigh and made a shushing sound. He picked up the crossbow and cranked the weapon slowly. The hare knew they were there, but they were far enough away that it wasn't panicked to see them. Yusuf held very still, thinking of nothing but stew and kebabs and fried meat. Nicolò loaded a bolt, brought the machine to his shoulder, waited a while, and finally pulled the trigger. The dart shot through the animal's midsection, passing through it entirely. It managed to run off some distance despite the wound, but they retrieved it.
Once Yusuf had the animal in hand, the practical considerations occurred to him. "I don't know what we're going to do with this," he said. "I don't have anything to start a fire with. And I cannot say I'm a good cook even if we did." He was hungry, but was he hungry enough to eat an animal raw? He supposed he'd have to.
Nicolò said nothing. They returned to where the majority of their clothing waited. He picked up the belt he'd grabbed last night from the dead Frank and began to rifle through the pouches. He pulled out a small tinderbox and waved it at Yusuf, waggling his brows raised while wearing a mischievous smile on his lips.
"Ah," Yusuf said, a grin lighting up his face in return. "You are a very useful man to have around! Let me have that. You clean this beast." He handed over the dead hare and got a fire going where it couldn't be seen in the direction he'd spotted the goats. Nicolò spitted the carcass and set it up to cook like he knew what he was doing. Yusuf murmured, "Very useful, indeed."
Nicolò fiddled with his crossbow bolt in the fitful light of the fire, a comfortable silence between them. Yusuf watched him more openly than he had to date. Nicolò was not a handsome man, as he'd already noticed. But there was something about him that was easy to look upon, a fascinating play of his features, an intelligent eye and a mildness that should have been out of place on any invader's face. There was a contentedness about him that Yusuf had seen right away and was enjoying now. Either speaking to him or just sitting together, Nicolò was present and attentive, but undemanding.
Yusuf sighed softly and smiled ruefully to himself as he realized the direction of his thoughts. He was coming to realize he was going to have to endure the humiliation of being attracted to this foreigner, because he was fairly sure attraction was what he was feeling. It was warm in his chest, his gut, and his loins. It was also stupid, out of place, and impossible for several reasons.
Especially in exile, it was a preposterous complication to have such feelings for your only companion. It endangered everything between them. He wasn't sure how to kill this feeling and make it go away, not without being an ass and making Nicolò hate him, which was unjust to him. The man had done nothing to deserve being treated badly.
Yusuf separated the rabbit into two pieces and offered them to Nicolò so Nicolò could choose which piece he wanted. Yusuf smothered the fire, then sat back with his own section to eat. It wasn't enough as a meal for either of them, but it was something and he sucked every morsel he could from it. Tomorrow he would go in the direction of the goatherd and get something more substantial to sustain them.
When he was done eating, Nicolò set aside what was left of the bones from his half of the hare. "Black. Night." He waved a hand skyward. "What is that? Small white?"
"You mean the stars?"
"The stars?"
"I happen to know that one in Latin," Yusuf said. "It showed up in my reading a lot. 'Stellae'."
Nicolò nodded. "The stars."
"A star, one star - stella. Two stars; stars, plural - stellae. Many stars." He waved at the sky.
Nicolò nodded again. "Star."
Yusuf sighed as memory washed over him. "They make me think of my home in Cairo, when I would sit out at night with our neighbor, on the roof of his house. He would tell me all the names of the constellations as they were known in Egypt and north. He knew Latin fluently, but since we both spoke Coptic, I never had reason to learn much of it from him. He would read to me the treatises of educated men, translating them as he went. When he was done, we would discuss what was meant. After discussion … well."
He fell silent. He had been Tepio's lover, the last and only time he'd felt a pull toward another like he was feeling now. It pained him. Nicolò looked at him briefly, then back to the stars. Yusuf concluded, "He died a few years ago. I was heart-broken. I took up traveling after that, with my father's wagons."
"Stars."
Yusuf chuckled at how he was speaking of something so wrenching to himself and Nicolò had no idea. He looked over at Nicolò's profile against the night sky. He kept telling himself this was a bad-looking man. Why did it not stick? "Yes. The uncounted stars," he said dreamily, still looking at Nicolò. "The uncountable, without count, countless."
"Count? One, two, three – count?" Nicolò looked over at him.
"Why, yes." Yusuf looked up into the darkness. "That is what it is to count. I don't recall teaching you that one but I must have said it the other day."
"Count … stars." Nicolò resumed star-watching.
"There are too many of them."
Nicolò laid back on the ground, settling in and lacing his fingers behind his head. "One. Two. Three. Four."
"Wait, what?"
"Five. Six. Seven. Eight. None."
"Nine," Yusuf corrected automatically. He'd pronounced it wrong.
"Nine."
"Yes, nine. You have it right now. But why are you counting? Are you seriously going to count the stars? We'll be here all night!"
"Ten. Eleven. Twelve. Thirteen. Fourteen. Sixteen. Seven-"
"No, you left out fifteen. Fifteen. Three fives. Five plus five plus five."
"Fifteen."
"Yes."
"Fifteen. Sixteen. Seventeen. Eighteen."
"God take mercy on me. I suppose you may as well," he conceded. "We will be here all night anyway. I don't want to go marching through these rough hills in the dark again." Yusuf stretched himself out as well, looking at the star-studded heavens and hoping Nicolò lost interest sooner rather than later.
The counting continued into the hundreds in Nicolò's implacable manner. Occasionally, he skipped a number, which Yusuf was fairly certain was only to see if he was still awake and paying attention. The whole thing started off annoying, turned pleasing, and then became tedious and annoying again as it was clear Nicolò was not stopping at any reasonable point. Finally, Yusuf had had enough. "I will teach you a new word." Nicolò stopped counting. Yusuf said, "I don't know why I didn't think of it sooner. Here is the word: Silence."
"Silence?"
"Silence."
"Silence."
"Yes. Silence. Now as to what it means …" He put a hand over his own mouth.
Nicolò sat up and looked at him in the dim light. "Silence?" He pointed at his own mouth, then traced his lips. "Mouth? Lips?"
"No. Silence." Yusuf took Nicolò's hand and put it to his own throat, making a faint noise to vibrate his vocal cords. "See? Sound. No sound. Silence." He said no more. He let go of Nicolò's hand. Nicolò's fingertips stroked the front of Yusuf's throat twice, before pulling his hand back.
Nicolò touched his own throat, made a noise, then nothing. Then: "Silence?"
"Yes. It means to be quiet and stop counting. I can't stand it further. You tax me to my limit!" His voice was an irritable snap. He laid down in a huff. This time he hadn't been teasing. (Or, well, he'd like to imagine he was teasing, but it didn't come out that way and even Yusuf knew that.)
Nicolò looked at him for a bit, then laid down as well. He did not speak. The quiet extended between them. It was no longer comfortable, or at least Yusuf was not comfortable as he reviewed what he'd said and the jumbled emotions behind it. He didn't dare speak of the sudden turn in his feelings toward infatuation and his inability to express that left him irritable and frustrated. At Nicolò. Which was wrong.
He reached over for the man's hand. Nicolò jumped a little, but didn't draw away. Awkwardly, Yusuf told him, "I like the sound of your voice. It is one of the few things I like about you, so … you should appreciate it."
"No silence?"
"No. No silence. I like to hear you. I'm fond of it." He was still holding Nicolò's hand. It was strong and wide and calloused and warm, but it did not move within his. Yusuf gave it a small, hopeful squeeze. "My voice was too sharp. I assume too much about what you understand, but you always hear my tone. I'm sorry. I-"
There was so much else he couldn't say of his new feelings. Partly because they were new, partly because he didn't want Nicolò to have to figure out what he meant with his poor grasp of the language, but mostly because it wasn't fair to toss something like this between them at a time like this. How could you discuss the various shades of meaning behind an idiotic crush when your subject didn't even know the word 'like', much less 'love' or anything more nuanced?
Nicolò's hand shifted in Yusuf's as he sat up. He looked down at him, his face cast in darkness. He seemed on the verge of doing or saying something. He squeezed Yusuf's hand lightly in return, an odd movement of his fingers making it more like a caress than a squeeze. "Thank you," he said after a pregnant pause. He laid back down and Yusuf had the definite feeling that wasn't what he'd been intending to say. Or do. Yusuf worried that was just wishful thinking. Nicolò pulled his hand away and rolled onto his side while hugging himself, which seemed his standard position for slumber. "Sleep."
"You know," Yusuf said in a clearly teasing drawl, "you could keep counting if you wanted to. I am sure eventually even you will run out of numbers."
"Silence," Nicolò said grumpily enough that Yusuf had to laugh. Yusuf shut his eyes and let himself fall asleep thinking about Nicolò counting the stars for him. That by itself was sweet enough. It was silly how good that made him feel. The touch to his hand was nice as well, though surely unintentional.