He woke with Nicolò still in his arms. He'd shared a bed as a boy, but not like this – never had he slept with anyone this close. He could feel the man's heartbeat under his palm on Nicolò's chest. He could feel Nicolò's breathing against his ribs with the rise and fall of Nicolò's back. He could feel his warmth all over him from face to feet. He was so alive. So much better than the bodies they'd moved the day before. People should not be so many sacks of grain to be hoisted and stacked. It sickened him to remember. Nicolò was different. Nicolò would never die. Or so he might hope, in idle fantasy.

He rolled onto his back before he did something imprudent like press a kiss to the man's neck. Nicolò followed him, moving to his back as well. He took Yusuf's hand and looked over at him with that intent gaze. Yusuf shut his eyes. He was still sleepy and didn't know what sort of expression he was supposed to be wearing after such a night and the warmth of the other man slowly fading from his limbs. His thoughts were sluggish and possibly horny.

Nicolò sat up abruptly. "War. We go."

"What?" Yusuf blinked his eyes open, trying to orient.

"I go. Jerusalem war fighters ride the road. I go."

"Huh?" He sat up, his eyes following Nicolò as he put on his sword belt over the tunic. He adjusted his clothing lest an inadvertent tenting of his robes draw unwanted attention.

"Men with swords and horses," Nicolò explained. "Franks from Jerusalem, on the road."

"We have not even broken fast." It wasn't about the food. He was still sleepy and still remembering holding Nicolò to him.

Nicolò gestured upward at the light streaming in between the planks of the barn. "The sun. It is day. I go. You … you sleep?"

"No, no," Yusuf protested, rising. "I'm getting up. You're not going alone as long as there is life in my body." He hurried to gather their few things, helped saddle the horses, led them to water, and then they rode out. "We had better not dirty these new clothes with more blood. I like them and it is hard to wash out in a horse trough," Yusuf complained as they went.

"Insha'Allah," Nicolò said. Yusuf couldn't decide if this was sarcasm or simple agreement. Either way, he followed. When they reached the road, it was empty. Yusuf had nearly convinced himself that Nicolò must have heard hoofbeats, for why otherwise would he be so keen to get out here and kill people? The Genoese rode slowly now, looking at the dirt and dust of the relatively level ancient roadbed.

"What do you see?" Yusuf asked. "Are you a tracker?"

"Wagons go west yesterday. Horses go west yesterday. No men or wagons or horses go east today."

Yusuf leaned over to regard the ground. "I suppose that's easy enough to see. I'm not sure how you're distinguishing the yesterday from today. They went both ways yesterday." Although the fine dust of the road made it easy to see the mess of tracks, they were confused and overlapping to Yusuf's eye. Nicolò seemed certain of what he read from it.

"There!"

Yusuf sat upright and looked where Nicolò pointed to the west. Now he did hear hoofbeats. Four riders were approaching from the direction of Jerusalem. "Ah. You knew they would be here. You Franks must be very regimented in your patrols. You've done war enough that you have a process." Which was not a compliment, nor meant as one. He squinted at the sun, not far over the horizon. "A dawn patrol, maybe?"

The four horsemen stopped some distance away, just within range to make a good visual identification of them. Two of the horsemen wheeled and went away toward Jerusalem at a quick pace. The other two came forward slowly. When they were close enough to call out, they stopped and did so. Nicolò answered them, saying something in Frankish or Ligurian about Jericho and Jerusalem, then about God. He waved at the heavens and crossed himself.

The two conferred between themselves and spoke to him again. He responded with fewer words this time. The tone had changed to conversational. Yusuf relaxed. The riders spoke again. Nicolò responded in the negative. They answered something else and the one speaking spat on the road. Nicolò put his hand on the grip of his sword and lifted his reins slightly.

Both of the riders took ridiculous fright at that small movement, with one jerking his horse about so hard the animal stumbled and nearly fell. The other man half-drew his sword as though to charge but didn't finish it, glaring at his companion and trying to work out if they were attacking or fleeing. In the end, they did neither, milling around and arguing with each other.

Yusuf eyed Nicolò. Since neither of the riders had actually left, Nicolò called something out to them. It had the tone of an ultimatum. "You tell …" something. Yusuf didn't understand the rest. At the end of it, Nicolò shook his head, lifted his hand from his weapon, and made a conciliatory gesture. The two riders nodded and rode away at a reasonable pace.

Nicolò looked to Yusuf, who smiled and said, "No Frankish."

Nicolò laughed out loud, snorting like an animal in the process. The sound made Yusuf laugh as well. Still laughing, Nicolò guided his horse next to Yusuf's and shoved him playfully. Yusuf said, "No, really, what did they say?"

"They come from Jerusalem. They go to Jerusalem. They say no Jericho. No fight. Say, speak. Do?" He shrugged. "We watch the road."

Yusuf grunted. "They're either lying or their military is going somewhere else then. But we can't be everywhere at once and neither can they. We'll guard the road. Let's see if we can find a nice shaded spot to do it from, though. The sun will be high soon and we might as well be comfortable. I have breakfast to eat."

They built a fire, set up their sole ceramic pot (that Yusuf had purchased in Pheselch) in the coals, and filled it with water, barley, raisins, and sugar. Nicolò filched a few almonds from the packs and moved on to investigating the water skins after Yusuf shooed him away. Their saddles were on the ground in the deeper shade, arranged so they could lay against them and still have a good view of the road. Nicolò hefted one of the skins and said brightly, "Vino!"

"Wine," Yusuf corrected automatically, still working on breakfast.

Nicolò upended one of the containers for a long draw. He grimaced. "Not good wine."

"Has it turned?"

"What?"

"Is it vinegar?"

"Eh …?"

"Vinegar. Old wine. Sour." Nicolò still didn't know what he was saying. Yusuf mimed having tasted something disgusting and sour. "Blech!"

"Oh. No. Good to drink. Bad to taste."

"Ah." Yusuf reclined on the saddle nearer to him, leaving their breakfast to soak in heat so the barley would soften and plump. He might not be skilled at cooking meat, but breakfast cereal was something he could manage. He still wasn't sure the wine hadn't turned. There was one way to be sure. "Give me some?"

Nicolò reclined as well, propping himself up on an elbow. He passed over the wineskin. Yusuf sucked some down. It was fine, as far as wine went – not that he was much of an enophile. Nicolò said, "Muslim … Islam. No wine?"

Yusuf waved a hand generally. "No, I'm not supposed to drink this." He took another drink. "I'm also supposed to pray more than I have managed, although that can be excused in that we've been at war, traveling, or so filthy I would not present myself before God in any capacity, not even prayer. It is not proper.

"I would not be drinking this at all except that I am suspicious of the Frank's water, especially after seeing how those savages have poisoned the wells. All that water in the ground is connected, you know? Now even the Jerusalem wells will be tainted. It may be good enough for our horses, but we should not risk it. So I suppose an exception can be made again. God is … Al-Gaffar, I believe. The Pardoner. Forgiving." He took a third drink and said of the wine, "It is not so bad." He handed it back to Nicolò.

"You … have?"

"Yes?"

"You have bad wine," Nicolò finished. Yusuf laughed. "Bad taste."

"Oh, I do not know about that, my friend. I like you. Is my taste so bad then?" Yusuf gave him a considering, flirty look that he hoped would be read as teasing.

Nicolò gazed at him in return, then took another drink, looking at him the whole while. He did not look like he was teasing. One hundred percent of Nicolò's formidable focus and attention had Yusuf drawing in a breath and shifting his seat slightly. "No," Nicolò pronounced with such weight that Yusuf was scrambling to work out why he'd say it that way. What would someone who barely knew the language have thought he'd just asked?

Is my taste so bad then?

Yusuf cleared his throat abruptly, his face heating. "Ah, well, um … tell me what your Christian priests have as vows and limitations. I might need to know that. Soon." Nervously, he rambled on, "You would not believe the many things I have heard about how awful your lot is, that you seek out combat against us because you are so miserable in your worship."

"What is that word, vows and limitations?"

"Like a promise. Do you know promise?" Nicolò's brows drew together. Yusuf said, "No? It is like how a Muslim should not drink wine. Can you drink wine?"

"Yes."

"As a priest?"

"Yes."

"Can you marry?"

"What is that word, marry?"

"Man and woman, together." Yusuf helpfully added a lewd facsimile of sex using his hands. "Sometimes they do this." At Nicolò's uncertain brow twitch, he said, "They fuck." He gestured at his loins and made a single illustrative thrust.

"Ah." That much was understood.

"But first they marry," Yusuf said, "either with a ritual or an announcement. Then it is permitted that they enjoy one another. I have heard Christian priests may not do this."

"Christian priests … do not marry. They do not … fuck?"

"Ah. So that one's true, assuming we understand one another. Which is always suspect. I might say something metaphorical and get a … a very literal answer." Like how Nicolò liked the way he tasted. Seriously, how was he supposed to respond to that?!

"I am not a priest. I am a fighter."

Yusuf straightened. "What? I thought you said you were."

"I am a fighter. Not a priest now. Priest … yesterday. Many yesterday. War. No peace. Yes men? For God?" He gestured between the two of them.

"You used to be a priest, but you're not now?"

"Yes."

"Do priests not fight? Do they not go to war?"

"Priests … fight?"

And they were back to not understanding each other. Yusuf returned to the important part. Slowly, he said, "But you're not a priest … now?"

"Yes. Not a priest now."

"Hand me that wineskin." He finished it off with new enthusiasm. "Here I thought you were a holy man on pilgrimage, protecting your foreign virtue!" Well, that, and there had been one thing after another getting in the way.

"Eh?"

Yusuf sat up, trying to marshal his courage. His head was swimming a bit as he tried to decide if he should do something or say something. Both had risks. Before he made up his mind, Nicolò said, "War – after this war – ah, priest again."

Yusuf hesitated, feeling like the door he'd just found open before him was being slammed shut again. "I'm … not sure I follow."

"I am priest tomorrow. Many tomorrows. Or not now." He looked perplexed.

With an effort, Yusuf tamped down on his eagerness. What if he was still misinterpreting things? His thinking was muddled. "I think we are both drunk," Yusuf said finally. "Me with little history of the grape and both of us with empty stomachs." He turned to the barley and stirred it. It was ready. "We should eat before I do something regrettable." He heaped it onto the two small wooden trays that served as all-purpose plate and bowl, handing Nicolò his portion along with a spoon.

Nicolò said, "Pope Urban II. You know him? What is that Pope Urban II?"

His humor tickled by the wine, Yusuf laughed at how odd that sounded. "I've heard of him. A more correct way to say it is, 'Who is-' No, 'Do you know who Pope Urban II is?'" Nicolò repeated it a few times. Yusuf slumped back on his saddle, taking a few bites of barley as he listened to Nicolò's words. He was getting much better with sentences. Yusuf asked, "What of him?"

"He said … go to war. Fight. No …"

Yusuf's head came up. "No! I've heard of this ridiculous blasphemy from that man! He said you would have all your sins forgiven if you slaughtered our people! The ones of you who weren't simply being paid for it." Yusuf put down his spoon to tug at his beard. "So you were a priest. And something made you stop being a priest. And you came on this invasion so you would be re-instated as a priest, is that it?"

Nicolò looked puzzled. "No Arabic."

Yusuf chuckled. He assumed he was right and resumed eating for a few bites before he realized, "Wait. You're killing Franks now. How does this work?"

Nicolò's small, helpless shrug was the funniest thing. Yusuf set his bowl down so he could fall backward against the saddle and laugh. He laughed until he was holding his stomach and worried he might become sick if he did not stop. By the time he was done chortling, Nicolò had finished eating.

Nicolò said, "You marry? You have a woman?"

"Ah, you want to change the subject now, do you? Well, that's fine. I might hurt myself laughing if we continue on that other one. You have yourself in quite a pickle there. No, I have not married." He picked up his tray and resumed eating.

"Why?"

"Well, the Genoese burned Mahdia twelve years ago. Remember that? I was a young man then, scion of a successful merchant family. Prime marriage material. Good-looking, too, but you already know that."

"Ah …" Nicolò's expression turned sad.

"Do not grieve," he waved his spoon generally. "At least not for the disruption to my marriage prospects. I wasn't interested in marrying anyway."

"No?"

"Well, you know," he gestured expansively, still somewhat drunk as the food hadn't had enough opportunity to sober him, "it is difficult for a Maghrebi to find a suitable match in Cairo. More difficult still when that Maghrebi travels a great deal, as I had taken it upon myself to do after my friend died. I just never met anyone I wanted to be with that badly. Not in any serious way." He studied this not-so-ugly Genoese's face before going back to his barley. He stirred it absently. "What about you? We are roughly of an age I think. Have you married? Maybe before you were a priest? Or after, I suppose, if it were recent."

"No. No marry. Married?"

"You would say it as 'Not married'."

"Not married. Not to a woman."

Yusuf chuckled wryly, finishing up his barley and chasing a stray raisin onto his spoon. "Now it sounds like you must have married a man."

"Yes." Nicolò sounded despondent.

Yusuf looked at him sharply, the raisin forgotten. "What?"

"Fuck." Nicolò mimicked Yusuf's earlier demonstration with his fingers.

Yusuf's eyes flew wide and his brows shot up in surprise. "You fucked a man?"

Nicolò blushed and grimaced. "No, it- I-" He stopped and made another helpless shrug like he'd done earlier.

"I must know!" Yusuf leaned toward him, not letting the matter drop. This was too important. "Did you fuck a man?"

Nicolò's mouth hung open for a moment before he said weakly, "Yes."

Yusuf's astonished brows shot up even higher. "You did?"

"The priest … big priest? His man and I fucked. Big priest, ah, angry? And I no priest then."

"You fucked a man," Yusuf said in wonder as he leaned back. The details didn't matter, though he could see Nicolò looked shame-faced about the incident. It couldn't have been just the fucking – he noted the possessive 'his man' in there. But it was Nicolò's willingness to fuck men that definitely had Yusuf's attention. Not everyone did and the rumor was that Franks didn't at all, due to their peculiar take on religion. What did it mean that priests were fucking men when they weren't supposed to fuck anyone? Did that make it a special sin? Curiosity ate at him. "So you were with this other man-"

"Silence." Nicolò shook his head, both hands raised. "Silence, please. No more. My friend." He sounded anguished with that last.

Yusuf obeyed, chastened at having overstepped. He realized with embarrassment and elation how much they'd misunderstood each other. Nicolò was no more willing to jeopardize their friendship than Yusuf was. But the kiss, the hand-holding, the way they'd slept last night, the various looks Nicolò had given him – especially the one about his taste – Nicolò wanted him. That had to be what all of that meant! Yusuf steeled himself.