The heat and flickering light finally pulled Yusuf from restless sleep to full wakefulness, one hand on his sword and the other pressed flat against the dirt. He had dreamed strange dreams, once again, and the hot sharp scent of smoke only made them stranger.

Nicolò glanced at him across the fire, eyebrows raised. A circle of stones sat in the centre on wood burned to ashes in places, still white hot and smouldering.

“You need to strip the bark first,” said Yusuf. “The smoke will make you cry.”

A roll of the eyes, this time, rather than the familiar blank look of confusion. “Sai che io non te comprendo,” said Nicolò, slow and careful. “Quindi, non me aiuti con tue parole dure.” He smiled and set another stick on the edge of the fire. He kept poking at something atop the stone with a stick, properly stripped of bark, looking honestly quite pleased with himself.

Yusuf had hoped that, in the wake of their truce, understanding would follow swiftly. And while they had made some progress in communication, it was slow going for them both. Yusuf had spent time in Venice as a trader, and could make himself understood there, but the language of Nicolò’s city state was just different enough to invite confusion. Nicolò, on the other hand, had his zeneize and could recite any number of verses from the Vulgate and a number of interesting poems by Catullus, but had yet to grasp much of the derja Yusuf offered him.

Mostly they waved their hands at each other and used words of one syllable. It worked, but Yusuf hoped things would improve sooner rather than later.

It had been a surprise, waking from death to find Nicolò — his name unknown then, of course — sat by his side, sword resting in its scabbard on the bloodstained ground. It had been months since he’d last seen him, an arrowhead in his skull and remaining eye clouded grey.

A different man had killed Yusuf, that time. He knew this because that man was lying dead across from him, one of Nicolò’s daggers embedded in his neck. What little Yusuf knew of medicine told him that the death would not have been quick.

He let go of his sword with a sigh and heaved himself into a sitting position. The fire continued to smoke, spiralling high above them to the darkening sky. There was a more familiar and comforting smell underneath, one that reminded Yusuf of iftar and the sunset, kneeling at the low table with his sisters as his mother brought in platters of warm khobz* *and cous-cous, lit by the risen moon.

“Smells good,” he offered, smiling as Nicolò ducked his head. They were progressing well in words of one syllable, then.

He wasn’t entirely sure where his newfound friend had managed to find enough grain to grind to flour for bread while they wandered across Ifriqiya, but he wasn’t about to complain. Nor was he minded to complain when he saw the carcass of a goat beside the fire, headless and drained of blood.

Nicolò pulled the bread from the fire after a few minutes, folding it onto a flat stone and replacing it with what Yusuf knew must be goat meat, muttering quietly to himself as he did so.

They sat in silence as the meat cooked. Yusuf had a tunic to mend, his stitches a little uneven but functional. Often when he had small jobs such as this to do, Nicolò would come to sit beside him and watch closely, or sing in a wavering voice. The sound was pleasing enough on its own, even discounting it as proof of the trust they were beginning to share. On one occasion Yusuf had caught the melody and joined in, only for Nicolò to stutter to a stop and stare at him, something unreadable in his face.

The meals they’d shared on their journey so far had been far more hurried than this by necessity, fruits and berries scavenged from bushes and trees they passed as they travelled under cover of darkness. On the rare occasion they’d crossed into civilisation, a campsite or small village where they could rest on a bedroll or straw mattress, they’d eaten what they could trade for, cous-cous or rice with vegetables most often.

It had been a long time since Yusuf had eaten meat he hadn’t slaughtered himself, in accordance with the law. Months of travel and lean living. The knowledge that starvation couldn’t kill them for long wasn’t much comfort when they lay together under the stars and felt equally hollow.

“Ha finito,” muttered Nicolò, as the meat began to blacken at the edges. It’s done. Yusuf had a feeling that had been true for a while, but he understood Nicolò’s desire to eat meat with no chance of disease. They’d died in a number of ways since their alliance, and the ones from illness were certainly the most disgusting.

He smiled gratefully when Nicolò passed him his share of the meal, sliced goat meat wrapped in flatbread still warm from the embers. Yusuf paused, unsure how to ask something of a man who he could only sometimes understand.

Nicolò caught his eye, and must have noticed a trace of hesitation. “Bismillah, allahu akbar,” he recited, and drew a finger across his throat, tone reassuring.

He didn’t know where Nicolò would have learned about dhabihah, the praise of Allah and the draining of blood, besides observing Yusuf on the rare occasions they had found animals before. He hadn’t realised Nicolò would care.

“Grazie,” said Yusuf, one of the few words that Venice and Genoa seemed to have in common. He took a bite of the bread and meat together and chewed thoughtfully. Swallowing, he grinned in surprise. “You sneak. There’s *spice *in this.”

The food Yusuf had eaten in Venice had been good enough, but he had missed the aromatics of his youth. Now Nicolò had somehow traded in secret for ginger and cumin, and carried it in his pack until they had space and time for a cooked meal.

Nicolò smiled back, looking pleased with himself, and said, “Spice is good,” in derja. He took a bit of his own food, mostly bread. “Tastes better.”

Yusuf laughed, and inclined his head in agreement. “Much better,” he said, and took another bite.