They traveled south and west for the remainder of the day, avoiding taking the main road within the sight of the walls of Jericho. They could just barely see the place. No one from there would be able to see them clearly enough to care – not about two travelers keeping a low profile. They reached the road between Jerusalem and Jericho by nightfall and found a spot a little removed from the road to sleep.

Both of them wanted a full night of sleep; they did not stand watches. Yusuf dreamed of two women whom he'd seen in his dreams once a week before. They sat at a low table, feeding one another sweets. They were laughing. It felt like a good sign. He needed the reassurance, for he dreaded the day. This was going to hurt and the danger was great. It was arrogant to test the limits of their resurrection like this, but maybe together they could avoid the worst of it. And maybe, just maybe, they could make a difference. He prayed with the dawn.

Nicolò was right about the Frankish timing.

To retake (or perhaps merely continue sacking) Jericho, the Franks had sent a reasonable sally force of some hundred men, complete with wagons and outriders. He and Nicolò saw them coming from a good distance. They were able to walk right up to the column, which did not take two men in ragged armor seriously, especially when one of them was in Frankish garb. The invaders yelled some as the pair approached. Nicolò didn't have anything to say to them and so Yusuf didn't either (although Yusuf did not understand them in any case). They let their swords speak for them.

After that, it was a bloodbath. He remembered the first few exchanges with clarity. They killed a dozen men between them before they were finally put down like the maniacs they were no doubt assumed to be. Then they rose again. And again. And again. In the process, much of the group passed them by. Successive small batches stopped to engage them, each confused as to why the previous one hadn't succeeded in killing these idiots. The survivors of each congratulated themselves on their competency and moved on, leaving the men behind them to see to the wounded, and Yusuf and Nicolò to pick themselves up again.

By the time they reached the rear of the column, they'd managed to kill more than a third of their enemy. Word finally made it to the persons leading the expedition that something was seriously wrong. The two men they'd seen killed with their own eyes were still cutting people down and there was a trail of bodies behind the force that was far more extensive than they'd believed. Yusuf and Nicolò had one final conflict where they were surrounded and pin cushioned with spears.

Although the two of them managed to kill no one in that skirmish, upon rising from the ground, they defeated them all. The invader's morale broke as every one of them at once saw they could not be killed. Yelling something about God, they fled back to Jerusalem, abandoning their wagons and wounded.

Giddiness swept over Yusuf as the panicked soldiers left (though his ebullience might have been due to blood loss). He hugged Nicolò hard enough to lift him from the ground, despite him being in that heavy, haggard armor of his and drenched with (mostly) his own blood. Yusuf laughed as Nicolò squirmed into a better position. The Genoese then kissed him soundly.

Yusuf almost dropped him in surprise. He definitely set him down. Yusuf was sure his eyes were comically wide. It wasn't that the act was unusual – it really wasn't, especially for brothers-in-arms – but all the feelings that flooded through him when it happened – those were novel. He'd been trying very hard to ignore those feelings. Hope flared up so hard inside him it took his breath away. Stupid, stupid hope. Nicolò backed up, then looked away. Yusuf took his cue from that and not only looked away but turned aside as he tried to get a grip on himself.

He was overwhelmed with his feelings. This ugly, bloodstained foreigner was someone he had come to cherish so much he'd passed up an easy opportunity to return home with glory (or at least money), so that he might instead fight by this man's side against impossible odds. He'd been killed more than a half dozen times that day. He'd done that. He was willing to do it again. And yes, while some of this was to defend Jericho, a lot of it was just to stand by Nicolò's side.

Yusuf knew he should be satisfied with that. No kiss or look meant or could mean anything more. Nicolò was a Christian and some kind of holy man to boot. Yusuf was Muslim and Nicolò was a foreigner, such a stranger that he only counted within Yusuf's society if he were a slave, a servant, or an enemy (and maybe a trade customer, should Yusuf travel to Nicolò's lands, but that was only a different kind of enemy). To expect more, to ask for more, was folly.

He turned to ask a question he hadn't even finished articulating to himself, but Nicolò wasn't there to ask. He'd walked over to one of their enemies and was on one knee next to a man who obviously wasn't dead, having drawn himself to sitting next to a wagon wheel. He was not the only one still alive; they hadn't dealt every foe an instantly mortal wound, after all.

Nicolò was talking to the man, who was responding amicably enough, all things considered. They weren't going to fight. Yusuf started toward them, but then Nicolò made the sign of the cross and bowed his head in prayer. The man bowed as well. It felt private, so Yusuf looked away. He picked up Nicolò's sword, which had been dropped when he'd embraced him, and cleaned it. He cleaned his own and put it away. Both had a collection of nocks and dents that would need tending. When he was done, the prayer had been finished and Nicolò was helping the man up.

"What are we doing?" Yusuf said, drawing near.

"In wagon," Nicolò said. "Man go in wagon."

"Very well." Yusuf helped. One of the man's thighs bore a deep gash, as did one of his arms. Neither were bleeding much at this point, but both were serious injuries. The man said something to Nicolò, who responded. The last word was 'Jerusalem'.

"Are we sending him to Jerusalem?" Yusuf asked, handing Nicolò his sword.

Nicolò nodded, taking it and sheathing it. "Others?" He moved off, checking the bodies. Some were alive, yet mortally wounded. Those who were conscious, Nicolò prayed with and then gave them a merciful death. Those who were not conscious, he prayed over and did the same. Yusuf let Nicolò make these decisions, as they were his people and Yusuf did not feel it was his decision to make. There were nearly a dozen who were not mortally wounded – they would live. They were carried or helped to stagger to the wagon and in this Yusuf made himself useful.

There was one with not a wound on him. Yusuf suspected he had fainted or pretended death out of cowardice, but given his own unmarred condition he found himself unable to criticize. That one was put in charge of driving the wagon. None of them gave them any trouble, though Nicolò's words to them likely had a great deal to do with that. Yusuf moved the dead out of the way while Nicolò guided the oxen to turn the vehicle around. The wagon trundled off in the direction it had come.

Two other wagons stood empty, originally intended to be filled with loot from Jericho. They captured two horses that had previously carried outriders. As they tethered these to one of the wagons, Yusuf pointed down the road toward Jericho. "There. Someone is coming. Riders." Nicolò looked. Yusuf said, "They must have seen the dust. They couldn't have made much of the battle at this distance from the city. Not even if they had a seeing glass."

Eight horsemen came up, which Yusuf suspected was the full mounted force of Jericho's garrison at the moment. Seven stopped at a signal from one, who came forward. His horse had only one eye – it was not a recent injury, but it was not the horse he'd had previously, either. Yusuf recognized the same man who had pressed them into service a few days ago – the man with a grey beard and a scar on his jaw, Amir Hilal al-Nu'man. The horse, he did not know.

Hilal walked his horse toward them slowly, stopping the moment Nicolò rested his hand on the pommel of his sword. Yusuf moved forward to put himself between the amir and Nicolò. "You two," Hilal said as though surprised at recognizing them. "You are wanted for killing six of my men in Jericho, and for looting. And here I find you, surrounded by," he looked around, counting, "some thirty dead men. Looting."

"We are not looting," Yusuf said irritably. "And we were not looting in Jericho, either."

Hilal winced uncomfortably, folding his hands over one another on the wide pommel of his saddle. He leaned forward. "I am the amir of Jericho now. You killed my men."

"Yes."

Hilal sighed. It was his duty to hold them accountable for that, as Yusuf well knew. Fortunately, the amir was not a hasty man. He looked around again. "Who killed these?"

"We did."

"You two?" He looked surprised again at the claim, as any reasonable person would.

"Yes."

Hilal rose in his stirrups and obviously scanned their surroundings. There were no other suspects; no signs of other people or allies. He sat back down. "I saw a wagon leave here."

Yusuf said, "We sent back their wounded as a lesson to the rest of the Franks of what will happen if they continue their invasion in this direction."

"Not just these thirty dead men, but there were more?" Yusuf didn't answer. Hilal grunted. "Your armor looks like it has been in fifty battles since last I saw you. And you are matted with blood."

"It is not my blood." That was a lie. "I am untouched." That was not. "Alhamdulillah."

"Hm." Hilal reined his horse away from them, walking it slowly to the nearest body. He bent slightly, looking down at the corpse. He guided his horse to the next and did the same. Then he spurred it to trot down the road past the wagons to look at the other bodies.

"What?" Nicolò asked. "What is that? Him?"

"He is trying to decide how two men defeated forty without taking a scratch. He thinks we had help."

The amir returned, giving them the same wide berth he had before and keeping a similar non-confrontational posture. He looked between the two of them as he spoke, looking for a reaction to his words. "No arrows. No bolts. No stones or more hoofprints than I would have expected. All dead by the sword. All Franks. Even if you had help, there would be at least some of your help here, dead. Or signs they had been dragged away. I saw none. Truly, this is a masterful deception."

Yusuf frowned. "It is no deception. God was with us this day. As God is with you, that we have thwarted this incursion against Jericho. This was a battle you and your men did not have to fight."

"Hm." Hilal sat his horse calmly and said nothing.

"What?" Nicolò asked Yusuf finally. "What is this word, hm?"

"He wants us to give him an explanation," Yusuf said, knowing the amir could hear his answer perfectly well. "I have told him the truth. There is nothing else to tell."

Hilal sighed and scratched at the scar in his greying beard. "I cannot let you back into Jericho. You killed six of my men and you do not deny it." He waited. Yusuf said nothing. He would not lessen his position by speaking just to fill the silence. Hilal continued, "What are you going to do with all this?"

Yusuf didn't have a plan, but he made one up on the spot since it was called for. "Send the dead to Jerusalem as well. Otherwise, they will attract lions and jackals, which will make the road a danger to honest travelers."

Hilal nodded. "I approve. We will take their equipment first."

Yusuf's frown deepened. "We – Nicolò and I – will take those two horses and whatever we wish to carry on them and on our own backs. The rest you can have."

"You said you were not looting."

"These are invaders," Yusuf argued. "They are not godly men. This is the open road. If you controlled it, they would not have been upon it. And in Jericho, before? My friend was not looting then, either. The man he took from was his own countryman from Genova, whom he killed with his own blade and no help from any other. He was attacked without provocation by your men while following your orders. They tried to murder him."

The amir gave him a sour look. "That may be. I questioned them thoroughly and there were elements of their story that support you. I was also told you had each taken wounds enough to kill several men and had surely crawled off somewhere to die, yet here you are. Neither of you look sickly as you should if you were convalescing. So I must wonder, how much of what I was told of what happened to you in Jericho is true? And how much of what you are telling me happened here is true?"

"I have not lied to you." Well … that was not exactly the truth, either. Yusuf had nearly had enough of this man.

"So you say. The horses, unladen," Hilal said, sitting straighter as he came to some decision. "With whatever you can carry."

"The horses, with the gear on them right now," Yusuf countered, not wanting to be denied the saddles through some failure to be specific. "With whatever we can carry."

Hilal nodded and lifted his reins. "Then we have a deal. You take the two horses as they stand and whatever you can carry. We'll take the rest. We will help you send the bodies back to Jerusalem for the Franks to dispose of in whatever gruesome manner they see fit. And you are not welcome within the walls of Jericho. Neither of you. Until and unless you answer for the killings of my men, even if that answer be to bring charges of your own, which I will entertain fairly."

Yusuf nodded and made a short bow. "I thank you for your wisdom. This is a gracious way to adjudicate the dilemma we find ourselves in." Yusuf turned to Nicolò and used simpler words. "They will help us. Those two horses are ours." He pointed at them. "Mine. Yours. Go and take whatever you want from the dead."

Nicolò nodded and did so, taking another quiver of crossbow bolts and extra bolts from a second man so that both his quivers would be full. He'd left the crossbow he already had with his gear, their food, and their new clothing, hidden off the road. Again, he demonstrated that he knew which pockets to rifle through based on only a cursory inspection of the fallen. By the time the riders had dismounted and were stripping the first set of bodies, Nicolò had returned to the horses and declared himself satisfied, depositing heavy pouches of coin into the saddlebag of the nearer horse.

In the meantime, Yusuf had taken wineskins and water bags. He stripped off his own armor, abandoning it for good this time. He tossed it on the pile of equipment the amir would take back to Jericho. Nicolò did the same, then pulled out the bandages and soaked them in water as the amir's men continued loading the wagons. Nicolò moved to Yusuf, "Come here," and to Yusuf's surprise, began to wash his face.

"Am I that filthy that it disturbs even your composure? I must be terrible." His voice was low. The intent look Nicolò was giving him was warming to see. He couldn't help but look at Nicolò with yearning. Nicolò was careful and quick on exposed skin. He cleaned gently over eyelids and even the outsides of his ears with a deft touch. Yusuf longed for more that he knew he shouldn't ask for. He was disappointed when Nicolò stopped after sopping at Yusuf's beard.

Nicolò rinsed the cloth and handed it to Yusuf. "Me? Please?"

Yusuf smiled softly. "You need not ask 'please'. I would do it regardless, for my own pleasure if nothing else." He lifted the cloth, thinking about what he'd just said and wondering how much of it Nicolò understood. Hastily, he teased, "I have to do something to make you easier to look upon. Otherwise, I might mistake you for one of the dead and run away myself, just like those Franks did. Truly, you are frightening to behold."

He cleaned off Nicolò's face, it being easier to do with less facial hair. "You have such a nose," Yusuf lamented, shaking his head as he cleaned it. "One would think with such a nose you would be more attentive to hygiene." He tapped the end of it gently. "You smell terrible. Although so do I. We need a bath."

"Bath is good," Nicolò nodded agreeably. He shut his eyes and relaxed where he stood, like nothing else mattered in the world. He leaned into it as Yusuf took his time cleaning his neck and ears. He rinsed the cloth and touched up Nicolò's moustache, then his lips. He lowered the cloth slowly, looking at those lips and thinking about the kiss he'd given with them. What had he meant by that? What were the Frankish (or Genoese, he supposed) customs around that sort of affection? Nicolò opened his eyes and asked, "Silence?"

"Ah, what?" Yusuf had to jerk himself out of the mental fugue he'd slipped into. Was there a smirk on Nicolò's face?

Nicolò's expression shifted to a genuine, if small, smile. "I go get crossbow and packs." He gestured in the direction where they'd cached their things. Yusuf nodded dumbly. He sighed as Nicolò walked away. He was really in trouble here. No degree of reasoned arguments were making his heart change its tune. Surely Nicolò was in a similar position to himself in not knowing the fine points of interpersonal mores for a foreign culture. He probably wasn't even recognizing Yusuf's lapses in decorum. Either that, or he was politely pretending he didn't notice them. But this was not going to go on forever. At some point, Nicolò was going to realize. He wasn't stupid and he wasn't a fool.

Many hands made light work. The bodies were stripped of anything usable and loaded into the wagons. They were a bit overloaded but the wheels still turned and the oxen managed. It was a level road and well-maintained. Nicolò and Yusuf mounted their newly acquired horses and led the wagons back to Jerusalem one after another.

Nicolò stopped them further out than Yusuf would have and pointed at two small stacks of rocks a score of paces ahead. They were on either side of the road. Yusuf hadn't seen them before and wouldn't have noticed them as significant if Nicolò hadn't pointed them out. Nicolò said, "Crossbow rocks. We stop here." To which Yusuf assumed he meant these were range markers for those on the walls who might wish to fire at them with crossbows.

They left the wagons laden with corpses there for the Franks to recover, turning their horses and hurrying back the way they'd come. It was late in the day by then. No one was foolish enough to chase after them. Once they were well out of sight, they cut south along a small path and took shelter in an intact barn next to a burned-out home.

The well was contaminated with dead chickens, but there was a stone trough of mossy, clear water near the barn that had been missed by whatever raiders had visited here. They let the horses drink and then they undressed and washed thoroughly, both hair and bodies. They dressed in the new clothes bought at Pheselch and retired to the barn. There was enough loose hay inside that they could bring in the horses, shut the barn door, and bed down themselves in a corner. They had little conversation through all of this.

They shared their rations for the night – salted meat and saltier biscuits with a few dried figs to give their tongues a break from the salt. Yusuf said, "I must have died at least six times today." He rubbed his hand across his chest. "It feels like there should be pain here, but there is none. I remember it. I remember the metal and wood inside my body, the heat of my blood on my skin. I remember the light-headedness, the weariness, and the dullness that comes before it all ends."

Nicolò didn't speak. He seemed to be staring off into nothing, half a fig forgotten in his hand.

Yusuf's voice turned heavy and depressed. "I know what death tastes like in many different preparations, all dishes I did not wish to try. This meal of ashes makes me sick." He returned the last biscuit to their pack, having no stomach for it. "I should sleep."

He scooped up some of the loose hay to make a comfortable sleeping spot (if one didn't mind being poked by loose hay stalks, which at this point he did not). He reclined on it and sighed when he still could not relax. Every time he shut his eyes, he saw men trying to kill him. His muscles would twitch and contract as he remembered their blows and how he'd tried to evade them. He remembered the weight of his armor, the dust in his nose, dirt caked on his face by his own sweat and blood after he'd fallen. He was trembling.

He tried to shake himself out of it by telling himself he'd been in battles before. He had, and he'd felt this way after all of them – the only exception being when he and Nicolò had fled Jericho. Marching all night had worked off every bit of excess energy he had, unlike now. He looked over to see Nicolò was still sitting up, head bowed, eyes shut, and hands clasped in prayer.

When Nicolò lifted his head, Yusuf asked, "You as well, my friend?" Nicolò looked over at him, a heart-sick look on his face. He crawled on the hay to join him and not merely to sleep on the hay, but actually right up next to him. "What-?" Yusuf said faintly, not sure what was going on.

"Thirty-one dead," was all Nicolò said. He reached across Yusuf to take one of Yusuf's arms, turned his back to him, and literally pulled him into a spooning position so that Yusuf was hugging him in addition to him hugging himself.

"Whu- uh … okay. Good." Yusuf stayed perfectly still for long enough to realize he himself had said the explanation for this: 'you as well,' although obviously Nicolò's thoughts were on those they'd slain instead of their own deaths. Selfless bastard.

Yusuf wrapped his arms around the man and embraced him. "We are together," Yusuf said quietly, his face tucked against the back of the other man's neck. He didn't smell that bad now. He smelled like the mossy water they'd used to bathe and under that he smelled like a man. Yusuf welcomed the distracting scent. He ceased to tremble. And his mind didn't trouble him with visions of his own death.

Nicolò nodded. "We are together."