There he knelt in the center of a small grove of olive trees. His prayer rug spread beneath him as though some part of his temple existed wherever he lay the carpet down. Ludicrous! His dark head bowed low, brown lips moving, forming words foreign to my ears. I didn't need to understand Arabic to know what he prayed. A slight breeze toyed with his thick curled beard; turning his garments into billowing flags of black and white and red.

I wondered if I should kill him. He whom I've chased round the sands of Edessa and through the streets of Jerusalem unsuccessfully.

Yet there he was, broad back exposed to my blade. His own weapons carefully laid before the rug. His ever-observant eyes closed and attention elsewhere in Salah. But I knew I couldn't slay him here, now. God had not delivered him into my hands. Not yet.

He was a faithful servant of his god. Like me, but in his own way. His words of prayer went to Allah, mine to God. Some say they are one and the same. I believe that. Am I a heretic, then? He faces east, bows to Mecca. I to the stone altar when I am in Temple; to my sword-turned-cross when I am abroad.

We are no different. He and I. We fight for that which is God's. For our souls. For the Holy Land. He for the Crescent, me for the Cross. Each willing to die for our cause; each knowing that to be our fate in the end.

So I back off slowly to sit upon a rock. I watch him kowtow. It is a humbling gesture so unlike him at any other moment. Yet it seems fitting now. Unpretentious, like a sleeping lion cub, dangerous when aroused. Do I seem thus when penitent?

I look down at my white surcoat. It is tattered and worn, dirty and the cross has faded in the hellfire sun of this cursed place. It stinks of sweat. The hem is dark with Muslim blood as are my boots. Their cries still ring in my ears. Why can't I bring myself to add his to it?

This is a man whom I admire. My nemesis. My beloved enemy. We have outwitted one another again and again; two children playing tag in the great garden of Oultrejourdain. I have seen the depth of his faith. It makes me question mine; resolve to do more, take my own vows more seriously.

In another time, we could have been friends. Perhaps in heaven we shall share a loaf of bread, a cup of wine. Maybe then the glitter in his dark eyes and the deep laughter in his chest will come from stories or the jokes of bards. I tire of seeing them thus as he slips away into the night or across the river.

I long for the clash of steel to be tournament. The clasp of hands in a gesture of friendship, not the clamping on of chains and irons. A nice change from this daily life and death game we

play now.

I wonder, should I ever succeed in defeating him, what then? What goal would my life have? What challenges would be left to me? I could become one of those headless bodies hanging from fortress walls. Or I could count dishonest men's gold in the name of God. But I would be empty. Bored.

So I turn and as silently as my mail will allow, creep away and leave him in peace as He did so for me once outside of Ascalon. I wondered why at the time. I understand now. We are

brothers; warriors of faith. Something to be respected above all else. It binds us to this earth and heaven above.

At the last moment I look back over my shoulder and stare.

Was that a smile upon his lips? No. Perhaps not. And I am gone.

The End

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