It took an hour to drive the twenty miles to Que Son. The rivers were swollen underneath the bridges. The rice paddies on all sides of them were lush and wet. The slate-gray sky was reflected in the paddy water and the rivers until the water and the eastern sky connected seamlessly, with only little dots of villages among the glassy paddies to mark the horizon. To the west the distant mountains were masked by a bank of dense low clouds that huddled just above the ground like fog. And at the edges of almost every village they passed the soldiers’ cemeteries.

The ornate cemeteries for the communist soldiers who died during the war were among the few new structures along the road. They were clearly visible from the car, expansive reminders of the cost the communists had paid for their victory. Their entrances were usually the same: a stone gateway with a sign overhead—Nghia Trang Liet Si—and above the sign a gold star affixed to a circular red plate. Row after row of white gravestones filled the cemeteries, many with red stars on their fronts, reflecting the loss of hundreds upon hundreds of local soldiers even here among the midsize villages. A garish pinnacle stood at the center of most cemeteries, with either a primitive, heroic sculpture or a large communist symbol. Frequently, Ho Chi Minh’s rallying slogan appeared at this pinnacle: Doc Lap va Tu Do—Independence and Freedom.

Hanson Muir had nudged Condley when they passed the first vast cemetery, reading the words above the gate. “What do those words mean?”

“Nghia Trang Liet Si. The Resting Place of Heroes, Professor.”

“A lot of heroes,” grunted Muir.

“Anybody who doesn’t believe the body count from the war can go add them up now.” Condley’s eyes scanned a thousand graves in one village cemetery as the Toyota chugged along the highway. “Their side, anyway. They plowed under our guys.”

“What was that, Brandon?”

“Our guys. The ARVN soldiers. The communists plowed the ARVN cemeteries under after the war.”

The thought seemed to fascinate the huge, cerebral anthropologist, who brooded over it as they passed cemetery after cemetery. Finally, as was his wont, Muir gave a little speech. “The reason is terrible but simple, Brandon. Guglielmo Ferrero wrote about it more than a century ago in his book Principles of Power, referring to the leaders of the French Revolution: The more blood they shed the more they needed to believe in their principles as absolutes. Only the absolutes might still absolve them in their own eyes and sustain their desperate energy.” He gave Condley one of his ceremonial nods, his eyes off into the horizon. “I’m rather proud I remembered that. It was a direct quote.”

“You need to watch more TV,” grunted Condley.

“I’m drawn to timeless thoughts,” said Muir. “They elevate me from the mundanity of my own life.”