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to those present. “It is the Feast of the Beheading of St. John. A fitting day for our glorious victory over the infidels within the city.”
    “It is too soon,” Sir John said, his calm voice carrying across the tent. “We lost more than a hundred men in our last assault. As wellas all four of the ships so recently arrived from Venice and Pisa. We cannot continue to hurl ourselves so egregiously at the walls.”
    “Those walls are weak,” the legate scoffed. “They cannot—they will not—keep us out.”
    “We should wait,” Sir John continued, undeterred. “We have captured deserters who have managed to climb over those walls. The people of Damietta are starving. Why should we waste Christian lives when the city will open its gates for us in a few weeks?”
    “Why should we wait?” Pelagius snapped, his face reddening. “If the infidels are so enfeebled, then why are we not strong enough to conquer them? Is our
faith
lacking?”
    Eptor stirred at Raphael’s side. “She is waiting for us,” the young man whispered. His voice was so soft Raphael almost thought he had imagined hearing it. “She is waiting for the faithful.”
    “You are condemning Christians to a meaningless death,” Sir John said.
    “I am achieving God’s plan,” the legate shouted. Realizing he had lost his temper, he composed himself, smoothing the front of his frock. “We will attack in two days,” he said when he had mastered his ire. His voice was hard and flat, the voice of papal authority. He leaned forward, staring at Raphael. “Give me a prophecy,” he said sternly. “Give the men a reason. They will fight harder. Lives will be spared.”
    Raphael shook his head. “There is no prophecy,” he said, committing himself. “Eptor is a fool. He speaks nonsense, now and forevermore.” Out of the corner of his eye, he spied Eptor staring at him, a bright light in the young man’s eyes.
    Raphael closed his eyes to blot out the sight of his brother’s boundless devotion.

Verna, 1224
    “Have we met?” Brother Francis asked as he led Raphael to his private retreat at the peak of the mountain. He was shorter than Raphael remembered, bent like a piece of warped wood, and his robes were too big for him. His head protruded from the top of the voluminous cloth like a tiny mushroom straining for moonlight. The change in his eyes was the most startling difference, though. Naught five years ago, the priest’s eyes had been clear, glittering with both intelligence and resolution. Now they were crusted over with a layer of mucus and dried tears—crystalline formations that clung to his face like rough gemstones. Through narrow gaps in the crystals, Raphael could see the milky movement of the priest’s eyes.
    “We have, Father—Brother Francis,” Raphael said, stumbling over his words. His face was still warm from the recent flood of his shame, and glancing once again at the monk’s distorted eyes, he wiped his hands across his own face, as if to wipe free the crusted starts of a similar buildup on his own cheeks. “Several years ago...” he continued, “when you came to Egypt.”
    Brother Francis came to a halt, and he swiveled his entire body around to better position his face toward Raphael. Raphael stood awkwardly as the monk peered up at him. “You are taller than Iremember,” the monk said when he finished his examination. “And sadder.”
    “I’ve grown,” was Raphael’s response.
    Brother Francis chuckled. “And your friend? The quiet one touched by God?”
    “Eptor,” Raphael said. “He is no longer with us.”
    Brother Francis lowered his head. “May his soul find comfort with God,” he said with heartfelt compassion.
    Raphael nodded curtly, not wishing to speak otherwise, but in his heart he wondered if Eptor had not found solace in the arms of another.
    “A terrible tragedy, Damietta,” Brother Francis said, continuing his slow shuffle toward the shack. “So many lost.”
    “It got worse,”