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…
These days, Nicolò doesn’t know much about the world, and too much at the same time. The light is vague at all times or only comes down, harsh and crude, for a few minutes when the sun is in a perfect position in front of the hole in the rock. He knows cold like never before. Cold like the white, moist robes embroidered with heavy gems that cover him, bringing no solace to his poor, blemished skin. He only opens his eyes from time to time now, no matter the pleading and the screaming and the praying at his feet. When he dares to open them, he sees relief or greed on the faces of those who came to him thinking he was a gift from God, and that if they asked enough, they would be given what they wanted. Not very different from a dead bone encased in a precious box.
He never speaks to God. He sometimes thinks, how can they think he is blessed if eternity means being locked away forever in a cavern underneath the Vatican?
This must be his punishment for the bloodbath of the crusades, Nicolò thinks. He thinks of this almost every day. It’s hard to forget given the title that thrones over his head; "The Holy Crusader, Immortal Martyr of Jerusalem." Nicolò had had plenty of time to think about this war and its consequences, and which kind of Church exactly he had sworn to kill and die for. Therefore he did not ask himself whether or not he deserved what was happening to him. If this had been God’s will for his sins…
Certainly, God has no forgiveness. Or maybe Nicolò was the exception. Or maybe there was no god at all. Who knew.
The golden crown is heavy on his head. It’s all gold sculpted to mimic thorns, and in some ceremonies they wound him to emulate how they thought Christ would have been wounded. They watch in awe as he heals. They touch him, everywhere, they undress him and touch him everywhere, hoping fervently it will do something, and they end up thinking that it does. They mix his blood with wine and drink it. He rarely gets food. Just enough to not die. They had starved him to death many times just to watch him "resurrect" but now it seemed they were bored of this. Nicolò never said anything. He stopped decades ago. It never changed anything.
When a sound breaks the silence, he doesn’t open his eyes. His face is carefully blank of all expression, and this changes quickly when a soft yet firm voice speaks in a Greek accented with Arabic, speaking a name no one has called him since… since…
"Nicolò di Genova," Yusuf Al-Kaysani says. Of course, the horrible irony until the end, it could not be anyone else but his old enemy. Fear grips the heart he thought had been too broken to feel anymore. Confusion fills his mind, why was Yusuf here, and how...
Nicolò dares to open his eyelids to look down at his past nemesis, who was staring back at him with a horrified expression. He did not look different from the past.
"Nicolò. Do you hear? Can you speak?"
After a brief silence, Nicolò managed to make a sound breach his dried lips, then a sentence.
"Ho-how l-long?"
"About a hundred years. I figured you would not age as well."
"How did… how did you…"
"We shall discuss more later," Yusuf said urgently. "I must put you to safety first. I will only assert that I want nothing else than this, your safety."
Nicolò could have laughed. His enemy, the Saracen whose lands he had invaded, at his rescue. It seemed unlikely at best, and yet Yusuf was here and…
Yusuf was dislodging the gold crown from his head and setting it aside, bringing the slightest relief mixed with pain to his neck cranked from years of wearing it. Then his skilled hands undid the chains around his wrists and ankles.
"You are free."
Nicolò gives a sad smile. "Too long. Can’t move."
And a second later, Nicolò feels his legs lock out of the position they held for so long, and he falls like a ragdoll. He expects the pain of hitting the ground but Yusuf’s strong arms catch him, and he makes a noise of fear and distress that his saviour soothes while pulling his head to his chest. Before Nicolò knows it he is being carried out of that cursed cavern, being moved swiftly between the dark sculptures of granite representing saints that severely look down at them.
Yusuf’s steps are firm and determined, and Nicolò wish he was able to at least gather his arms up to hold onto him and make the whole thing easier, but he can’t move at all. Bile fills his mouth at the thought of what it took to make him so painfully paralyzed; and he should know, he lived it, but it all comes back like the last century has been a long nightmare.
Yusuf brings him to the infinite underground galleries that are so dangerous to step in, so easy to get lost in. But he is in no shape to argue so he just closes his eyes and rests his head on his old enemy’s chest. When he opens them again, they’re on a horse, going through the streets of the city, and Nicolò stares at Yusuf’s eyes shining like gems in the night. They get softer the further they get from danger.
Turns out Yusuf has a tiny abandoned house in the mountain, sheltered behind heavy bushes and the shadow of a cliff. It’s nice and cool without being this crude crippling cold that was in the cavern. Nicolò feels reassured they got here before the day comes and light would make everything hard to look at. Nicolò’s eyes are fragile now, even the light of the moon was almost too much back there.
He swallows. Yusuf puts him down on a mattress of hay, unburdening him of this heavy dress with all the gems on them. He tosses it all in a corner and the stones glow in the light of the oil lamp, like Yusuf’s eyes. He’s now only wearing his undergarments, a thin thing of linen. But he’s now too cold. Yusuf shoves his hand underneath his head and makes him drink. Nicolò really wants to cry, but he can’t.
Yusuf makes a fire and the cold goes away.
"You should kill me," Nicolò whispers after he’s done drinking. Yusuf puts the jar down.
"What?"
"You should kill me, so that I come back to life healthy and not useless like this."
He wants to gesture at his limp body but he can’t even do that. Yusuf shakes his head.
"I’m not killing you ever again Nicolò. This is over."
"Why? It never was a problem before."
Nicolò can feel his voice ring better, the words coming out more easily, and he’s not even sure he likes it. It feels as useless as his body is. And Yusuf looks a bit angry, a bit hurt, and very, very sad.
"I stopped doing this even back then, just like you did. And we spent two years on… polite terms after that. Did that mean nothing in your mind? After they took you… I never stopped looking for you."
"Why?" Nicolò’s head is spinning a bit. "We were not friends, and I was an invader. I made many of your people die."
"But you cannot die! That’s the point. I could not leave you. I knew they were up to no good. You can’t… You can’t even move anymore. Invader or not, I don’t care at this point. You have more than paid for this, at the hands of your own Church," whispers Yusuf vehemently and there are tears in his eyes and Nicolò doesn’t know what to say. He thinks that Yusuf is beautiful. He had spent decades thinking about his face, regretting his past actions but also in the torture that he faced, he would fixate on the memories of Yusuf’s hands that had eventually stopped hurting him. The hands of the men in the cavern never did stop.
"You’re beautiful," Nicolò says out loud, his eyelids half-closed. "You are the most beautiful man I have ever seen, Yusuf Al-Kaysani. Forgive me for being a fool."
Yusuf’s eyebrows rise high, then he covers his face with his hand with a soft sigh. Nicolò does not know if this is good or bad.
Time passes, a bit, and Nicolò opens his mouth sometimes to speak but nothing comes out. Yusuf is making food, and it smells good, better than anything else he has eaten in such a long time. But he gets more and more uncomfortable and finally the words break out.
"Yusuf."
"Yes?"
"I need… I need to pee. I can’t do it on my own."
Yusuf looks horrified, and Nicolò smiles weakly. "There you go. See? Why I wanted you to kill me."
"I won’t. But will you let me help you?"
There is nothing else Nicolò can do, so he lets Yusuf reach for his pants, and until the very last second he thinks he won’t actually do it. But Yusuf surprises him. He moves him to the side and gently lifts his penis in his hand, getting it out next to the chamber pot, and holding it while Nicolò relieves himself. He didn’t think he had any dignity left after the number of times he had been abused without even having a say in it, but humiliation heats his cheeks. None of his limbs work, the loss of control is total and the fact that Yusuf is so kind… He drifts, his mind spiralling in numbness and Yusuf pulls his pants back on and kisses him on the forehead. Better days will come, but for now, he stares a the fire, letting the safety feeling settle in little by little.