Makemin urges us together, to regroup and proceed, get out of the open before another attack. Behind us the asylum soldiers make a terrible sound of lamentation in as many ways as can be imagined; loud prayers, sobs, a motley demoralizing sound. Makemin is earnestly badgering the officers to quiet the noise and calm the asylum men; the noise only begins to ebb and surge as they listen only to break out again, listen and break out again. It isn’t stopping—the sound is nettling Makemin—something serious is happening to his command.

Makemin calls the officers together and we hurry forward to a ledge from which to survey the field. In my rush to catch up with him, my pack slips from my shoulder and tumbles into the bracken fringing the ledge.

“Get it later!” Makemin says impatiently, waving me forward.

Below us, I can see a number of fortified positions, small ledges fringed with heavy rocks and sandbags. In the one nearest us I can see two men in civilian clothes huddled there behind their cover, occasionally lowering a lean barrel level and firing toward the enemy. Makemin makes a quick survey and then dispatches each officer to some task taking them away until we are alone together.

One of the defenders below us calls up, waving furtively.

“Help us!” he calls.

“There are still a few injured men back there, among the asylum men,” Makemin tells me. “Go see to them.”

“I’ll need to move them. If you could spare me a few hands—”

Makemin turns and slaps me.

“Why don’t you act like an officer?” he snaps. “Attend to your patients!”

He turns away.

*

The loonies moan and cry behind us. Makemin stands in the little enclosure of the fortified spot. The two men I’d seen earlier, one of whom called to us for help, both lie dead. One is sprawled on his back, draped over one of the stones of the rampart. The other is curled into a letter C on the ground.

Makemin has turned to speak to us. The men are livid with terror, and seem ready at any moment to dash back up the slope. The asylum soldiers, or I presume they were, are moaning and wringing their hands.

“Get back to your ranks!” Makemin screams, his eyes flashing.

“I will not have it said that we cringed here on the heights while the city was taken right under our noses! We have a Narrator here!”

He points at me, and now I am leopard-spotted with their eyes.

I’m paralyzed—I look from face not knowing how to tell them the truth.

“All of history looks at you through him! Now are you soldiers or not? I am a soldier.”

He points to the two dead men.

“Are you going to allow this? These men had less chance than you!”