dug with his hands, exposed one side of Tsung,

wedged horizontally in a gap,

unconscious, breathing,

blood dripping from his legs, his torso,

Li trying to stop the blood

as Xau strained against the planks

that pinned Tsung in place.

Wood splintered, Tsung loose in Li’s arms;

Li laid the captain flat,

used his jacket to bandage Tsung.

Xau doubled over, hacking up dust,

back throbbing, arms throbbing, hands throbbing.

He took the shovel, went forward,

digging for the third soldier.

The smell of putrefying corpses

intruded on Xau for the first time in—

how long?—

no, not the stench of corpses, but shit.

It stank of shit.

He dug toward the smell, Li helping.

A slant of wood, the top of a platform.

They dug down: tall ceramic jars,

one broken, rice everywhere,

a soldier curled round the broken jar,

fist in his mouth, pants soiled, breathing.

∗

A dry clear freezing night

in the ruined city of Jian-Jian,

another fifty people dead,

the bells silent.

Beyond the city,

in one of the surgeons’ tents,

King Xau nodded to sleep where he sat,

cross-legged, hands bandaged,

beside Tsung’s mat.

His guard, Li, picked up a blanket,

fumbling, his fingers also bandaged,

set the blanket over the king’s shoulders.

SCALPEL

Before Leong examined King Xau,

he knew the infection had spread,

knew by Xau’s febrile flush,

his very lack of complaint.

The king grumbled about minor ailments,

but had been likewise quiet

last time he was seriously hurt

(four years ago, the king only a boy,

shoulder dislocated, severe bruising).

The king sat cross-legged,

making no fuss,

in the overcrowded shelter,

nineteen other patients nearby.

Leong unwrapped the king’s right hand first,

inspected the lacerations: no swelling,

no discharge. “This hand’s healing well.”

Xau nodded. “How is Tsung?

We went to see, but he was sleeping.”

“Recovering rapidly.

In a day or two, he’ll be up

and causing trouble.”

“That’s good. Very good.”

Leong applied ointment,

rebandaged Xau’s right hand.

Then, gently as he could,

he unwrapped the king’s left hand,

the odor foul,

the king unable to hold still.

The wound bright red, purulent, hot.

So. Leong took a breath,

tried for the same detachment

that came to him so easily

when he treated strangers.

It did not come.

An effort to meet the king’s eyes,

to say, quietly,

affording the king what privacy he could,

“The infection has spread.

If it does not improve,

I will need to amputate your left hand.”

The king started,

dread on his face in the briefness

before he shuttered it away.

“Thank you for telling us.”

To be thanked when he had failed,

that almost the worst part.

Leong took a breath, said,

“I can clear this area, give you privacy.”

Xau shook his head,

both of them aware

that there was too little shelter

and too much need.

“Very well. I need to debride the wound.

It will hurt. You are permitted to scream.”

Leong tried for lightness,

but his voice failed him.