Then two men glanced at each other, and then bowed deeply to the swordsman.

“Forgive foolish sinners, brother,” said one.

The other, too ashamed to speak, merely nodded.

The swordsman walked over to them and placed his hands on their shoulders. The other warriors sat on their horses, chins buried on their chests, looking troubled and sad and weary.

“My brothers,” said the swordsman, “battle is like strong wine even to the best of us. We become drunk on it, and we must guard against that. When we are done, I invite you all to join me in prayers to God in which we will ask for forgiveness of our sins and guidance for all things to come.”

The men nodded. The swordsman turned to the men on the horses. They too nodded.

“Then let us be about our task with the reverence to which it is due.”

No one spoke, but they nodded again and set to work.

Without laughter or games they collected the heads of the pilgrims and stacked them into a mound in the middle of the pilgrims’ road. Another caravan of the faithful was due along this path in less than half a day. They set the head of Brother Julius atop the pile. They placed a ring of hands around the mound, and in each hand they placed a holy cross. Then the men formed a circle around the mound and fished for the fittings of their codpieces. Without meeting each other’s eyes, they pulled out their penises and urinated on the mound, on the hands, and even on the crosses.

Last of all, the swordsman used a sharp stick to write a curse against all crusaders in the hard-packed dirt by the ruins. He concluded it with a description of how Pope Innocent III sodomized young boys and sheep. It was a filthy description, but it looked almost elegant when written in the flowing Arabic script.

The swordsman was weeping as he flung the stick away from him as if it was covered in offal. He stripped off his Saracen robes and folded them into a tight bundle before shoving them roughly into a saddle bag. He stood for a moment letting the wind dry the sweat-heavy dark brown hooded cape with a white cross embroidered on the left shoulder. The cross was not the plain outline of long post and short crosspiece, but was instead made to look like a dagger laid across a longsword, with both overlaying a red circle. The other men also shed their disguises to stand revealed. They stood in a circle around the devastation they had caused, and each of them bowed their heads in prayer.

“God forgive us,” murmured the swordsman, leading the prayer. “And God grant that the pilgrims see and understand what they must understand.”

“Amen,” said each of the gathered men, and they said it gravely and with honesty.