What Buzatti told everyone was a bunch of ludicrous lies. We were fully prepared when, from the top of the watchtowers, the sentinels saw for the first time the black dust of the Tatar cavalry. Just a few days before, we had brought in ammunition in thousands, furbished the guns, and squared it up with the Allmighty by paying a last-minute visit to His minister, our own dull Chaplain Strnka. And all the soldiers had been sent on a 2-hour leave to Frau Jemma and her Comely Sisters. This imbecile of Captain Drago, who was strapped delirious in an infirmary bed at this time, did not know about our spies at the Tatar court, whose carrier-doves brought us the daily plots from the Palace.

We knew that the Khan had postponed the assault twice already, because of the too pale intestines of a sacrificed ewe. We knew that he had overruled the ominous guts of a third ewe, and that this contempt for the sacred laws of divination had been a cause for dissent in his superstitious army. The sparkling, bedizened, colourful Khan army had started marching nonetheless, spears and scimitars held high, saluting the sun. But they were losers at heart, and they marched with their tails between theirs legs, fearing that the ground would open right under them. We would not disappoint them. As Captain Drago lay dying from a womanish disease, we