“We’ve got to go on,” Vatoni said, offering her a hand as the other guard set up the rope.

  A whistle blew. Muni looked back into the courtyard. Red-armored Vermilion Guard raced towards them, swords drawn. Captain Vatoni drew his own and adopted a fighting stance at the top of the stairs.

  Muni glanced over the parapet. It was a long way down.

  “Your Grace, we don’t have time,” said the guardsman.

  “Can you take Adan on your back?” she asked.

  “No — I want to stay with you.”

  “Adan,” Muni growled. “Be brave.” If only I could be the same. Suppressing her fear, Muni swung her legs over the edge and gripped the rope in her hands. The fibers scratched her soft skin. She grimaced. Steel struck steel and Captain Vatoni screamed to hurry. Muni pushed off and dropped, hand under hand, with gritted teeth. The rope jerked about as the guardsman and Adan joined her. Eight feet from the ground she let go, fell and rolled.

  “To the ridgeline,” the guardsman said. He sounded out of breath. “We need to keep going.”

  “Grandma!” Adan cried. “We did it.” He thinks it’s a game. Oh to be a child.

  “Yes, Adan. Hold my hand. You need to run. Can you do that for me?”

  They dashed for the ridgeline. Just beyond was the thick primordial forest that hemmed in the Dili Valley. Muni glanced behind her. Vatoni had freed himself from the fight and reached the ground. His former companions in the Vermilion Guard were at the top of the battlement and looked baffled as to what to do next. One of them tested the rope. Then after an animated exchange they left the wall.

  “Into the forest,” Vatoni yelled, waving his hands wildly. He caught up with them and they stumbled and scratched their way to the ridge and down the other side, into thick brush that soon turned to trees. Twigs cracked and leaves rustled as they waded through a waist-deep carpet of ferns, brushing aside vines and hanging sheets of moss. Gnarled trunks towered over them and birds called out in warning at the sudden disturbance beneath them. Vatoni led the way, the other guard took up the rear and Muni carried Adan in the middle. Muni looked about, wide-eyed, in complete disbelief. She could not process what had just happened. Her breathing was heavy. She felt Adan cling to her. His little fingers held tight around her neck. The excitement had exhausted him and his breathing was shallow. She sensed him slowly drifting off to sleep.

  “I’m sorry Adan,” she whispered. “I’m sorry.”

  After a time, Vatoni stopped and put a hand up for silence. Muni hesitated, then crouched down into the ferns. She was mindful of the noise they made. In the enclosed space around them it seemed incredibly loud. If anyone was out there, there was no way they could miss them. Vatoni edged forward. Muni followed then stopped. Ahead of them was a wide gully and on the other side wound a leaf-covered path cut into the hillside. Through the ferns Muni sensed movement. Then six horsemen appeared, trotting along in single file.

  She squinted and strained her eyes. The horsemen wore armor and one of them was helmetless; his black hair tied behind his head, and an eye patch over one eye.

  “General Nulu!” Muni cried. “General Nulu!”

  “Your Grace,” Vatoni squealed in shock, pulling her down. But Muni put Adan down next to her guard captain and ran towards the road, stumbling here and there on hidden branches. Five of the riders stopped and drew their weapons, but the eye-patched one up front saw Muni, dismounted and ran towards her. Muni jumped into his arms. Nulu looked confused and patted her lightly on the back. They broke apart.

  “I never thought to see you again,” Nulu said.

  “And I you. What’s happened?”

  “We’ve lost,” Nulu said. “I’m sorry Muni.”

  “And my husband?” Muni asked, wiping tears back from her eyes.

  “The gates of oblivion are wide today,” Nulu said. “He died a hero, Your Grace.”

  CHAPTER 12

  Ashara shivered in front of the fire, steam rising off her undergarments. She stretched out her bare feet and felt the flames tickle her toes. Beside her, water dripped into a puddle on the stone slabs from her clothes hung to dry above.

  “I thought I heard you return,” Avi said from the doorway. Ashara covered her breasts and twisted on the spot. “You look a mess,” he added. “Got yourself in trouble again?”

  “I fell in the river,” Ashara lied. “There was a scramble for fresh vegetables down at the docks.” Avi nodded.

  “Did you get any?”

  Ashara raised an eyebrow.

  “I ended up in the water — no. No, I didn’t.”

  Avi grunted. He crossed the kitchen and took a bottle from the cupboard.

  “Have you eaten?” Ashara asked. “I can put some porridge on.”

  “Not hungry,” Avi said and removed the cork with his teeth.

  “Mistress Oni? How’s she?”

  “She’d be a lot better if you hadn’t thrown out her medicine and opened the windows like that. You leave her to me. You can take her some weak porridge when you’re dried off. I don’t want you bringing that dirt through the rest of the house.”

  The room lay stagnant in the darkness. Ashara set the bowl on the side table and swallowed the bile that rose involuntarily at the smell about her. Oni moaned.

  “Some porridge,” Ashara whispered. “Would you like it?” No response. Ashara knelt beside her mistress and put a hand to her forehead. It came away sticky with sweat. Po was right. They’re killing her.

  “Natan?” Oni moaned. “Is it you?”

  “It’s Ashara,” she said soothingly, placing Oni’s hand atop the quilt. “I’m here.” She patted the hand. “What do you want?”

  “Water,” Oni gasped. Ashara took the bowl of porridge and dribbled some onto Oni’s tongue. “Dasha?”

  “He’s not here, either. Avi’s downstairs.”

  “Avi? My husband?”

  “Yes,” Ashara said, stroking Oni’s hand. Her mistress let out a long breath, rattling through her throat, and kicked her feet. The head rolled to the side and continued ragged, irregular breathing. Ashara waited. Avi came and went, eventually returning to sit at the foot of the bed with his pipe. They said nothing. They had nothing to say. Ashara had tried what she could. If Po was there, he could have said something, she reasoned. But it was too late. The breathing weakened, and the restlessness waned. Oni’s bony fingers tightened around Ashara’s palm and relaxed. As the city bells chimed sixth bell, Ashara leaned over and put her ear to Oni’s lips.

  “She’s dead,” she said.

  ⁂

  Crows circled in the azure sky. Natan coughed and tried to swallow, but his tongue was swollen and his mouth too dry. He groaned. His body refused to move, every inch of his skin prickled in discomfort, and his insides felt numb. Slowly memory of the battle returned; the sounds and smells, the screaming of men and the taste of blood.

  Shadows passed about in his peripheral vision. A weight fell on his chest and a wrinkled face regarded him. Something rough and metallic entered his mouth. It forced his jaw open.

  “Agh,” Natan gargled.

  “I think he’s alive,” someone said.

  “Not for long,” the face above him growled, positioning a set of pliers on Natan’s front tooth. “Nice teeth he has too.”

  “G’us a look,” the other voice said. The first man screwed up his nose and made room. Another face appeared, this one youthful, and considered Natan before grunting and shoving the older man away.“He’s one of ours,” the younger man said. “G’me that bottle.”

  The cold steel touched his lips and fiery liquor burnt his throat. He coughed and gagged, setting off a sequence of stabbing shots through his body.

  “Don’t move,” the man said. “We’ve got you.” Soon others were about Natan and they lifted him onto a stretcher. From the stretcher, Natan saw for the first time the field of bodies all about him, with people scavenging amidst the carnage.

  “Can you hear me?” a stretcher-bearer asked. Natan nodded then grimaced. “You’re messed up, but you’ll live.”

  “Stay awake,” another said. “Don’t want the surgeon to think you’re past it.” Natan managed the slightest nod of his head and gritted his teeth as the stretcher began to move in jerky motions. Due to his position on the stretcher, he did not see the medical pavilions until he was almost under them. Crowds of people stood about, some the walking wounded, others burdened with stretchers and a few with bodies carried in their arms. Surgeons moved among them and directed them to different tents depending on their need.

  A surgeon approached Natan in an orange cap and white mask, designating him as one from the College of Surgeons. He prodded and poked at Natan, noticing with apparent enthusiasm Natan’s groans and contortions.

  “He’s got good life in him,” the surgeon said. “Over there, pavilion twelve.”

  They carried him over and were greeted by a young woman in the brown tunic of the army’s medical group. She had them set him down at the end of a row. Natan was glad for the sudden stillness. He raised a hand, but the soldiers had their backs to him. The young woman saw the motion and came over, kneeling beside his stretcher with a flask, a bucket and a towel.

  “Keep yourself still,” she said. “My name’s Nimi.”

  “Natan,” he croaked. Nimi put a finger to her lips.

  “Shhhh.”

  She dipped the towel in the bucket, removed the bandage around his head and began washing him. The water soothed his burning skin and was a distraction from the pain.

  “That’s a nasty cut,” Nimi said, probing with the towel around his forehead. Natan maintained eye contact with her and Nimi smiled back before putting the towel away. She opened the flask and set it to Natan’s lips. He gagged and coughed half of it up. The tart taste left him chewing his tongue and pulling faces. Nimi laughed, rolled him onto his side and left him to sleep aided by the vile tonic.

  Someone was screaming. It took a while for Natan to consciously realize he was awake. The light had faded and flies buzzed about the tent. One landed on his cheek and Natan slapped at it. The jarring pain in his skull that followed jolted any other thoughts of sleep from him. He rolled onto his back and glanced in the direction of the screams. Surgeons worked on a man by lamplight. Two women held the patient down and a surgeon ran a jagged saw back and forth. The patient howled and shrieked, kicking about with his legs and thrashing from side to side. The arm came off and a red-hot brand was placed on the open flesh. The screaming stopped. The body went limp.

  Natan’s mouth dropped open in horror. In a moment of doubt he reached for his legs. One was heavy and did not move. His hands found bandages and a splint. He patted the rest of his body down, finding it intact. Someone, at some point, had removed his armor and left him only with his shirt.

  “Are you okay?” A figure approached.

  “Is Nimi here?” Natan asked.

  “Who?”

  “Never mind.”

  By day the aid station busied itself and Natan watched the comings and goings from his stretcher, unable to get up. At some point breakfast was passed around, and then it seemed to take forever for lunch. The temperature rose and bloated blow flies buzzed aimlessly about.

  He heard Nimi before he saw her, doing the rounds and chatting to the patients. In the light of day she appeared younger than he first thought, perhaps fifteen or so. When she came to Natan she took one look and said he looked fine.

  “Wait,” Natan said, inwardly berating himself for sounding desperate.

  “What? Others are waiting.”

  “Do you have some of that —” he searched for the word. “Tonic? My head hurts.” Okay, that’s true enough. Nimi looked to her supervisor, reached into her apron and removed the flask.

  “Here,” she said. “Not too much.” As he drank, Nimi stepped behind him and massaged his neck. Natan flinched. “You were hit on the head,” Nimi explained. “Sometimes that means your neck is out of alignment.” Whether the magic of her touch, or the alignment of his neck, the pain in his temples waned and he relaxed back down, falling into a deep sleep.

  Days passed in the muggy heat and it turned out Natan was the only soldier in the tent who could read and write. With many a person desperate to write home, Natan occupied himself writing letters for a copper jet per page. On the afternoon of the eighth day, Nimi approached and asked if he could help her write a letter.

  “I prepared a copper,” she said, drawing the coin from her apron.

  “Keep it,” Natan said. “You helped me buy the paper.”

  “Everyone else pays,” she said.

  “You’re not like everyone else,” Natan said. Nimi blushed.

  “How so?”

  “You’re different. I mean the others are soldiers.”

  “Would the priest pay?” Nimi asked.

  “Yes, but—”

  “And the Master Surgeon?”

  “Yes, but they’ve got money, haven’t they?”

  “And here’s my money.” She pressed the coin into Natan’s palm and closed his fingers.

  “Who am I writing to?” Natan asked.

  “My mother.”

  “They’ll need more than that to deliver it,” Natan said. Nimi blushed and said of course they would. She gave her family name and her hometown of Katani in Talu Province. Her mother lived there with her stepfather, and she had not seen her in three years. Nimi wanted her mother to know she was well, had travelled many miles and seen many things, was still a good girl and said her prayers before bed every night.

  “Do you?” Natan asked, looking up from the paper.

  “No,” Nimi said with a laugh. “But my mother will worry if I didn’t. And tell her I was at the battle and saw the Emperor rescued by General Jano and how it’s good to think there’s finally to be peace.”

  “Three years,” Natan said, finishing it off. “Do you not miss them?”

  “Sometimes,” Nimi said. “Our relationship, you could say, improves with distance.”

  “Same with my parents,” Natan said. “I guess they’ll never understand what we’ve been through here.”

  “This is our family now,” Nimi said. “The Seventh Army. Jano says he’s our grandfather, the officers the parents, and all around us our brothers and sisters. It’s how I think of it anyway.”

  “That is a welcoming thought.”

  Natan blew on the paper for the ink to dry, folded it, and wrote the address on the front. Nimi tucked it into her apron and thanked him. She was getting up when a sergeant wandered over.

  “You got a Natan Luka-Tudo here?” the sergeant asked.

  “That’s me,” Natan said.

  “Oh,” said the sergeant, suddenly drawn up short. “I’m from the 13th Auxiliary. Your brother, Dasha Luka-Tudo, was in my squad. He died yesterday of his wounds. He wanted me to find you.”

  “My brother’s dead?” Natan was unsure if it was the medicines in his system, or the trauma, but he felt nothing.

  “Yesterday,” the sergeant reiterated. “Pavilion three. They’d amputated his leg but the fever spread. A lot of fine men have died on this field. And women. Your brother was a good soldier. Ready for anything.”

  “He was a clerk before the war,” Natan said, staring into the distance. “We used to play soldier. We never thought we’d be them.”

  “Life doesn’t make sense, does it? Anyway, I thought I’d let you know before we march out. We’ve got our orders — no, don’t get too excited. The wounded stay here. You’ll be on a long path to recovery. Some of the officers have already been driven back to Pao’an for the officers’ hospital, but, well, we’re the common grunts aren’t we?”

  “I guess we are,” Natan said, lying back down.

  “But it’s peace,” said the sergeant. “At least they say it is. Tomi’s dead and the Vu’tai once again control the cabinet. It was not in vain.”

  “Thanks for bringing this news,” Natan said. “I know it was not easy for you.”

  “Like I said,” the sergeant said, rubbing the back of his neck. “Sorry about your brother.”

  ⁂

  A breeze ruffled the pages of Po’s book and the fire in the grill flickered violently, casting dancing shadows over the study walls.

  “The summer rains are coming,” Po said. Biet mumbled. “Is something wrong?”

  “Not good,” Biet said. “Not good at all.” Po waited for the abbot to fill the silence with an explanation. But he only added: “I never thought I’d see the day.”

  “What is it?” Po asked, his curiosity getting the better of him.

  “What?” Biet said, looking up. “It looks like I’ll be eating breakfast up here. Can you go arrange it? Don’t dawdle, I’ll need you after that.”

  Po left for the kitchen and spotted Dovo approaching under the colonnade.

  “A bit early to be out of the kitchen,” he said.

  “I was looking for you,” Dovo said. “Come quick before the others arrive for breakfast. Someone’s here to see you.”

  “Ashara?” Po asked. “A woman?”

  “Don’t know. Didn’t catch her name.” Her. Po scampered after the monk, their sandals slapping the tiles. In the kitchen Brother Bidovi stood by the oven fanning himself and looking busy. When the pair entered he spun about, then relaxed.

  “All clear?” Bidovi asked. Dovo stood in the dining room door and checked the outside hall.

  “All clear,” he said.

  “You can come out now,” Bidovi called. The pantry door opened and out stepped a tall, slender woman beneath a travelling cloak.

  “You’re not Ash—” he began, but his words died in his throat. He caught a glimpse of auburn hair. “Savani?” The judge’s wife drew back the hood and revealed her grim face. “Wait — what are you doing here? Why the secrecy? You called for me, right?”

  “So you do remember me,” Savani said. “I was worried.”

  “Yes —” Po said, still trying to orientate himself to developments. “You’re Savani e Unuga. Your husband’s a judge.”

 

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