That afternoon, Josh found Bisesa in the Temple of Marduk. She was sitting against one scorched and blackened wall, a British blanket over her legs to keep out the gathering cold. She stared up at the Eye, which they had labeled the Eye of Marduk—although some of the Tommies called it “God’s Bollock.” Bisesa had taken to spending much of her spare time in here.

Josh sat down beside her, arms wrapped around his thin torso. “You’re supposed to be resting.”

“I am resting. Resting and watching.”

“Watching the watchers?”

She smiled. “Somebody has to. I don’t want them to think—”

“What?”

“That we don’t know. About them, and what they’ve done to us, our history. And besides, I think there is power here. There must be, to have created this Eye and its siblings across the planet, to have melted twenty tonnes of gold to a puddle … I don’t want Sable, or Genghis Khan come to that, to get her hands on it. If it all goes pear-shaped when the Mongols come I’ll be standing in that doorway with my pistol.”

“Oh, Bisesa, you are so strong! I wish I was like you.”

“No, you don’t.” He was holding her hand, very tightly, but she didn’t try to pull away. “Here.” She fumbled under the blanket and produced a metallic flask. “Have some tea.”

He opened the flask and sipped. “It’s good. The milk is a little, umm—not authentic.”

“From my survival pack. Condensed and irradiated. In the American army they give you suicide pills; in the British, tea. I’ve been saving it for a special occasion. What more special than this?”

He sipped the tea. He seemed turned in on himself.

Bisesa wondered if the shock of the Discontinuity was at last working its way through Josh. It had hit them all, she suspected, in different ways. She asked, “Are you okay?”

“Just thinking of home.”

She nodded. “None of us talks much about home, do we?”

“Perhaps it’s too painful.”

“Tell me anyhow, Josh. Tell me about your family.”

“As a journalist I’m following my father. He covered the War between the States.” Which was, Bisesa reflected, only twenty years in the past for Josh. “He took a bullet in the hip. Eventually got infected—took him a couple of years to die. I was only seven,” Josh whispered. “I asked him why he had become a journalist, rather than go fight. He said that somebody has to watch, to tell others. Otherwise it’s as if it never really happened at all. Well, I believed him, and followed in his footsteps. Sometimes I resented the fact that the pattern of my life was somewhat fixed before I was born. But I suppose that’s not uncommon.”

“Ask Alexander.”

“Yeah … My mother is still alive. Or was. I wish I could tell her I’m safe.”

“Maybe she knows, somehow.”

“Bis, I know who you would be with, if—”

“My little girl,” Bisesa said.

“You never told me about her father.”

She shrugged. “A good-looking bum from my regiment—think of Casey without the charm and sense of personal hygiene—we had a fling, and I got careless. Drunkenness, against which there is no prophylactic. When Myra was born, Mike was—confused. He wasn’t a bad guy, but I didn’t care by then. I wanted her, not him .And then he got himself killed anyhow.” She felt her eyes prickle; she pressed the heel of her palm into their sockets. “I was away from home for months at a time. I knew I wasn’t spending enough time with Myra. I always promised myself I’d do better, but could never get my life together. Now I’m stuck here, and I have to deal with Genghis fucking Khan, when all I want is to go home.”

Josh cupped her face with his hand. “None of us wants this,” he said. “But at least we have each other. And if I die tomorrow—Bis, do you believe that we will come back? That if there is some new chopping-up of time, we will live again?”

“No. Oh, there may be another Bisesa Dutt. But it won’t be me.”

“Then this moment is all we have,” he whispered.

After that it seemed inevitable. Their lips met, their teeth touched, and she pulled him under her blanket, ripping at his clothes. He was gentle—and fumbling, a near-virgin—but he came to her with a desperate, needy passion, which found an echo in herself.

She immersed herself in the ancient liquid warmth of the moment.

But when it was over she thought of Myra, and probed at her guilt, like a broken tooth. She found only emptiness inside, like a space where Myra had once been, and was now vanished for good.

And she was always aware of the Eye, hovering above them both balefully, and the reflections of herself and Josh like insects pinned to its glistening hide.

At the end of the day Alexander, having completed his sacrifices in advance of the battle, gave orders that his army should be assembled. The tens of thousands of them drew up in their squads before the walls of Babylon, their tunics bright and shields polished, their horses whinnying and bucking. The few hundred British, too, were drawn up by Grove in parade order, their khaki and red serge proud, their arms presented.

Alexander mounted his horse and rode before his army, haranguing them with a strong, clear voice that echoed from Babylon’s walls. Bisesa would never have guessed at the wounds he carried. She couldn’t follow his words, but there was no mistaking the response: the rattle of tens of thousands of swords against shields, and the Macedonians’ ferocious battle cry: “Alalalalai!Al-e-han-dreh! Al-e-han-dreh! …”

Then Alexander rode to the small section of British. Holding his horse steady with his hand wrapped in its mane, he spoke again—but in English. His voice was heavily accented, but his words were easily comprehensible. He talked of Ahmed Khel and Maiwand, battles of the British Empire’s Second Afghan War that loomed large in the barrack-room mythology of these troops, and the memory of some of them. And Alexander said: “From this day to the ending of the world, but in it we shall be remembered; we few, we happy few, we band of brothers; for he today that sheds his blood with me shall be my brother …”

The Europeans and sepoys alike cheered as loud as any Macedonian. Casey Othic bellowed, “Heard! Acknowledged! Understood!”

When the parade broke up Bisesa sought out Ruddy. He was standing on the platform of the Ishtar gate, looking out over the plain, where the fires of the soldiers’ camp were already alight under a darkling slate-gray sky. He was smoking, one of his last Turkish cigarettes—saved for the occasion, he said.

“Shakespeare, Ruddy?”

“ Henry V, to be exact.” He was puffed up, visibly proud of himself. “Alexander heard I was something of a wordsmith. So he called me to the palace to concoct a short address for him to deliver to our Tommies. Rather than something of my own, I turned to the Bard—and what could be more fitting? And besides,” he said, “as the old boy probably never even existed in this new universe he can hardly sue for plagiarism!”

“You’re quite a package, Ruddy.”

As the light faded, the soldiers had begun singing. The Macedonian songs were the usual mournful dirges about home and lost loved ones. But tonight Bisesa heard English words, an oddly familiar refrain.

Ruddy smiled. “Do you recognize it? It’s a hymn—‘Praise, My Soul, the King of Heaven.’ Given our situation, I think one of those Tommies has a sense of humor! Listen to the last verse …”

“Angels, help us to adore Him / Ye behold Him face to face; / Sun and Moon, bow down before Him / Dwellers all in Time and Space. / Praise Him! Praise Him! Praise Him! Praise Him! / Praise with us the God of grace …”

As they sang, the accents of London, Newcastle, Glasgow, Liverpool and the Punjab merged into one.

But a soft wind blew from the east, wafting the smoke of the fires over the walls of the city. When Bisesa looked that way she saw that the Eyes had returned, dozens of them, hovering expectantly over the fields of Babylonia.