THE FOLLOWING NIGHT, outside the gates of Treille, a Hebrew merchant, carrying his sack of wares across his back, approached the gates as they began to close.

He wore the dark wool robe and the fringed shawl of the Sephardim, a skullcap upon his head, and held a rusted staff. With him was his young wife, dressed in modest clothes, her hair pinned under a black scarf.

Move it along,Jews , growled the guard. The checkpoint was manned by a team of pail-helmeted soldiers, hurrying the travelers along like oxen into a pen. The guard stopped the merchant when he reached the gate. Where do you come from?

From the south. I peeked from under my hood. Roussillon.

And what is in the sack? He poked at it.

Wares for the kitchen. Olive oil, pans, a new utensil called a fork. You stab your meat with it. Want to see?

What if we stabyou with it, you little pests? You say you came from Roussillon? What have you seen? We've heard the forests are teeming with rebels.

In the east, perhaps, but in the south there are only squirrels. And Italians. Anyway, it's no concern to us.

No, nothing's a concern to your lot, except a fee. C'mon. He pushed us roughly. Get your tick-bitten asses in.

Emilie and I hurried through the gates. Inside the thick limestone walls heavy beams were braced against the ground to bolster the gates against assault. I glanced around. The towers and ramparts were manned by dozens of troops. They were heavily armed with crossbows and lances, gazing eastward.

From under my hood, I flashed Emilie a wink. ............