He swore, and we all swore with him, to conquer or die.
Not for the first time, Jacques Duclos woke to pain.
It was a familiar pain, at least. His shoulder throbbed with a dull ache, the same ache that had accompanied him ever since he took the wound in Italica. When he'd reached Ney's army, the surgeons had told him it was infected, something he'd already presumed by the pinkish-red streaks trailing from it. Fortunately, they didn't seem to think it would kill him, and Jacques was merely discharged with orders to drink lots of water and avoid using that shoulder.
Beyond that, there was pain in Jacques's muscles. The corps had been marching constantly, and they'd fought several actions against the Saderan militia. His legs were especially sore, feeling like lead weights that filled with acid every time he moved them. His other muscles weren't much better.
But Jacques was a hero to the army now, and he needed to get up.
Jacques had gained the name 'Le Vaillant' for his actions at Italica. The Valiant. It was the Marshal that had first called him it, and the men had picked it up eagerly, much to Jacques's chagrin. The whole corps knew his name now. The Ninth Company's desperate escape from Italica had caused army-wide celebrations and elevated their status to that of celebrities. They were famous, and Jacques was 'Le Vaillant'.
Being a hero meant he was held to higher standards. Like getting up before everyone else.
Jacques grumbled. He didn't feel valiant. He felt sore. And tired.
Light had just started to come through his tent, so Jacques decided it was time to stop procrastinating. To his side, Vidal stirred. Her eyes shot open when Jacques sat up from their shared bedroll.
"Morning already?" she murmured and then yawned.
"Just for me. You've still got at least an hour," he replied.
A slight grin appeared at the corner of her mouth. "You mean we've still got at least an hour." She began to tug at his arm.
"I need to set an example for the men," Jacques retorted, but, even as he said the words, he found himself smiling.
"For whom?" Vidal laughed. "You'll be the only one up to see you." She sat up as well, and her fingers began carefully tracing the outline of his shoulder.
Jacques thought that over for a second, decided that she was probably right, and then he was kissing her. He flowed with her effortlessly. It went on for a moment before Vidal pulled him back onto the bedroll where they continued despite the rising morning sun.
When they finally paused to catch their breaths, Jacques, ever practical, panted, "You should probably head back to your tent… before everyone else wakes."
Vidal rolled her eyes. "Most of the men know about us," she shot back. She glanced at him up and down then added, "Though some don't quite have the genders right; they think we're Spartans."
"Great warriors?" Jacques breathed.
"Man lovers," Vidal said. There was a twinkle in her eye. "Though perhaps both now that you're le Vaillant."
Jacques lay back and groaned. "I should get up," he sighed.
"I disagree," Vidal giggled. She wrapped her arms around his torso to keep him down.
Jacques made a halfhearted effort at sitting up and failed. He turned into her. Vidal had an exquisite grin plastered across her face, so Jacques matched it with his own. They both laughed. Then he was kissing her again, and the thoughts of pain, of soreness, of starting the day entirely left his mind.
An hour passed far too quickly.
Jacques was still occupied when a dull knock came from his tent post. With a disgruntled sigh, he fell away from Vidal's arms. Vidal knew the drill and covered herself with their blanket before Jacques rose to his feet. Really, it was more for appearances at this point; Vidal was right, everyone in the company was aware of their relationship to some degree. Jacques cleared his throat and stepped through his tent flap into the morning air.
Corporal Malet stood at attention outside the tent. The slight flush on his cheeks told Jacques he'd heard something he shouldn't have.
Jacques shivered. It was early morning, and he wasn't fully dressed. "What is it, Corporal?" he snapped.
Malet's eyes flickered away from the tent flap. "The Marshal wants to see you, sir."
"The Marshal?" Jacques blinked. "Not General Courbet?"
Malet bit his lip. "General Courbet is with him, sir."
"So I'm to meet both the Marshal and General Courbet?" Jacques demanded.
"Err… not just them, sir."
Jacques inhaled slowly. "Exactly who am I meeting with?"
"I… ah…" Malet stumbled and took a slow breath. "I believe it's the Marshal's entire staff, sir."
Jacques nearly choked at that. An uneasy weight settled in his stomach, and the weight of the world came crashing back down on him. He suddenly found it very difficult to breathe slowly.
"Thank you, Corporal," he managed through stress and worry. "You're dismissed."
Malet saluted and hurried away. Jacques immediately dove back into his tent. He shuddered out a breath then groped for his uniform.
"We're in for something today," Vidal commented. She was getting dressed herself and handed Jacques his boots. "You're about to be ordered to do something heroic and insane."
"You're not helping," Jacques muttered, buttoning on his coat..
Vidal shrugged. "We'll turn out fine," she reassured. She handed Jacques his shako. "We always do."
"Luck doesn't last forever," Jacques sighed. He found his sword and stood in the tent.
"Good thing it's not just luck then." Vidal stood as well, only somewhat dressed herself, and kissed him.
Jacques smiled. Then he forced himself to get moving. "Wake Astier and get the company up when you're done," he said as he pushed through the tent flap.
The sun was bright when Jacques ran to the Marshal's command tent. Men were just getting up, groaning after the previous day's marching. Some early risers had breakfast cooking, and the smell of pork sausage made his stomach rumble. Men saluted Jacques as he passed.
Two grenadiers were on guard duty outside the command tent. They recognized Jacques immediately and waved him in. He muttered his thanks as he stepped past them.
Jacques had never been to a staff officer meeting, but, like every soldier, he had certain expectations. Staff meetings were where men decided the fates of other men. Jacques had always imagined a dark, smoke filled room of old men pointing at maps with sticks, grumbling to each other. He tried to reconcile that image with what stood before him.
Marshal Ney's tent was brightly lit by the rising sun peaking through its canvas. The air was clear. A long table had a map stretched out across it, and eight men were seated around it. Each of their uniforms indicated high ranks, and Jacques felt he could vaguely recognize most of them.
Marshal Ney and General Courbet, of course, he'd met personally. Colonel Feraud was distinctive in his hussar jacket. Colonel Delon was the only other colonel at the table. Generals Brunelle, Messier, and Rousseau he'd all seen from afar, though he wasn't quite certain which was which.
"So you're Captain Duclos," one of the generals stated. He stood from the table, tall and lean with graying hair. He wore a sneer on his face. "You really expect him to take Proptor alone?" the general scoffed at Marshal Ney.
Jacques didn't know what to do, so he saluted. "Captain Jacques Duclos, reporting, sirs."
Marshal Ney nodded. "At ease, Captain," he said. The Marshal looked over to the general. "He won't be alone, but yes, I do, Rousseau."
General Rousseau rolled his eyes and stroked his graying hair.
"He's done it before," a second general offered, this one younger with an eager grin. "Saved us a lot of time at Castle Tubet."
Jacques bit his lip.
General Rousseau rubbed his brow. "It's too much of a risk. We would be better suited to breaching the walls with artillery."
"Not enough ammunition," Colonel Delon spat. He raised an eyebrow. "Unless you plan to fight Zorzal without cannonfire."
"And who's fault is that?" the third general finally snarled. "We breached Sadera's walls for what? To show off to the citizenry?"
The officers glared at each other, and Jacques could feel the tension all too vividly. He stood, nervously watching the exchange. He'd never seen officers snap at each other like this.
Finally, Marshal Ney stood from his seat. "Gentlemen!" he called. "Our course has already been set. We can't change the past. Let's at least tell Captain Duclos what we're asking him to do."
"Only take the largest port in Falmart," General Rousseau muttered. "Why are we entrusting a captain with this task again?"
Jacques had to bite his tongue. His whole body wanted to say, I haven't the faintest clue.
Marshal Ney pointed at the map on the table. A small dot on the coast had been circled several times. "That's Proptor," he stated. "It's the third largest city in the Empire and home to the Imperial Fleet." The Marshal coughed and returned to his seat. "We need to neutralize it before they start sending reinforcements to Zorzal. To do that, we need to seize it, preferably with the Imperial Fleet along with it. We don't have the time for a siege, and we can't afford a bombardment. That means we need to take it by coup de main. You understand me, Duclos?"
Jacques inhaled once. "You want me to lead an assault, sir?"
The Marshal nodded.
Colonel Feraud grinned at Jacques. "It's going to be glorious," he chuckled.
"We are about two days from Proptor," Marshal Ney continued. "We've been marching fast, faster than news of our arrival. They won't be expecting us. Once we're near, we'll wait until night then send your company to scale the walls and take a gate. Then you light a signal fire on top of the gate house, and I'll move the corps to reinforce you. With any luck, we'll be in the city and securing the fleet before they can mount any meaningful resistance."
"Luck," General Rousseau hissed. "It seems that everything we do these days depends on luck."
Marshal Ney stiffened. "You have a suggestion, Rousseau?" he demanded. The Marshal glared hotly.
The general matched his glare and said nothing.
Something stirred in Jacques. That same feeling that had forced him into heroism so many times before.
His entire being screamed at him to be silent, but before he knew it, he'd said, "I have a suggestion, sir," and Jacques was cursing whatever demon had infected him.
The Marshal's head snapped to him. It took every ounce of Jacques's discipline not to shirk from the Marshal's gaze.
"You have a suggestion?" Marshal Ney asked kindly enough.
Jacques wanted nothing more than to flee. To apologize for his brashness and heed the Marshal's plan. He didn't want to say what he was going to say. He didn't want to be a hero.
But he also couldn't stop himself.
"Your plan isn't going to work, sir," Jacques said, a fiery feeling growing in his gut. He pushed himself to continue despite the Marshal's stern attention. "Even if we take the walls and get into the city, we won't be able to defeat the garrison and seize the fleet at the same time," he quietly insisted. "There will be a citadel in the city, some fortress where the garrison can hole up. Once we have the walls, we'll need to storm it immediately while they are surprised, or we'll never fully take it."
"Of course," the Marshal replied, shrugging, "so we'll do that and take the city in one blow. It will cost lives, yes, but it can be done."
Jacques could feel his ears growing hot. He continued anyways, saying, "But if we do that, sir, then we won't have time to seize the fleet. They'll just sail away while we attack the citadel, and we'll have to garrison Proptor to prevent them from simply sailing back in."
The Marshal stroked his chin. "An acceptable loss, though admittedly not ideal. You have a suggestion to prevent this, I assume?"
Jacques smiled. The Marshal's words had given him a confidence that fueled the fire in his belly. "You remember the demi-human woman I rescued, sir?"
Marshal Ney shrugged dismissively. "Tyuule, I believe? She claimed to be the queen of her people."
Jacques nodded. "I have an idea involving her, sir. If it works, we could trap both the garrison and the fleet before either gets away from us."
All of the officers were looking at him. Marshal Ney in particular had his head tilted, and his face contorted like some ancient sculpture. But then his expression softened.
"And I suppose this plan will also happen to further glorify your reputation?" he said, a grin forming at the corners of his mouth.
Jacques squirmed but held his ground. He inhaled and responded, "Actually, sir, I imagine someone else will be getting their share of the glory this time."
The pale light of the moon swept over a fishing boat near the shores of Proptor.
It was a tiny thing, really not much more than a dinghy. Waves splashed over the side at steady intervals. The boat was meant for casual trips during calm weather, not late night escapades, and water had gradually pooled at the bottom. One man rowed with oars set on either side of the boat while a second steered it along the coastal shore and a third bailed water with a bucket. A lone woman was perched on the bow, huddling beneath her cloak.
"Fucking French," Gallio cursed, cold, wet, and miserable in the midnight air. He pulled on his oars and felt the wind nip at his arms even through sixteen layers of linen padding. "Fucking Duclos. Always making us do his crap ideas."
"You're the one who agreed to go," Placus spat. He poured a bucket of water over the side. "Captain Kapsner asked for volunteers; you could have stayed behind."
Gallio jerked his head towards Marcus, who sat silently with one hand on the tiller and the other stuffed into his gambeson. "Slave boy volunteered first. I couldn't just let him do it all himself," Gallio grunted, pulling on the oars. "Besides, you volunteered too."
Placus shrugged. "I wasn't going to let you two go off alone. You'd both die without me."
"Great," Gallio groaned and pulled again. "Now we can all die together."
Placus shook his head and looked Gallio dead in the eye. "Christ will save us; he won't let us die tonight."
Gallio scoffed, "Don't give me that Bluecoat crap."
"It's not crap; it's the truth."
"When you end up face to face with Hardy, don't come crying to me for help."
"You should save your soul. That way you won't be condemned to hell if you die."
"I thought Christ wasn't going to let me die."
A sudden wave swept over the side of the boat and splattered Gallio. Cold water dripped down his back. He shuddered and continued pulling at the oars. Placus immediately returned to bailing water.
Gallio cursed under his breath, "Fucking French." He turned, shivering, to Marcus and asked, "W-Why'd you have to volunteer, eh? Could've b-been nice and warm at camp."
Marcus met his eye. "Because we have to do this."
"Someone does, but why u-us?" Gallio shuddered again. "We couldn't just let someone else volunteer?"
Marcus shook his head and repeated, "We have to do this."
A wave came over the side again, and this time all three men were sprayed with water. The woman at the bow tugged her cloak tighter.
"Not an answer," Gallio muttered under his breath.
They went forward in silence for some time. It was hard to judge distance with only dim moonlight and the shadowy outline of a coast, but Gallio knew they had to be getting close. When his arms began to tire, he switched positions with Marcus at the helm. After an all too short period, they rotated again, and Gallio found himself bailing water from the boat.
Eventually little pin pricks of light began to appear in the distance. As time passed, the lights grew and shadows of buildings were outlined against them. By the time Gallio was back on the oars, he could clearly see the shadowy walls of Proptor towering overhead with men carrying torches moving across them.
A few minutes later, their tiny dinghy floated past the sea wall's furthest edge. Proptor's inner harbor drifted into view in an instant revealing hundreds of massive warships.
The woman at the bow finally turned to face the auxiliaries. She lowered her hood to reveal two long white ears, each glimmering in the moonlight.
"You know your objective?" Tyuule whispered with a slight hiss.
Marcus gave her a very serious nod. "The galley slaves."
"Good," Tyuule murmured. She drew two curved daggers from her cloak. "Once I kill the city's governor, I will try to go after the admiral. I don't know how many of my kind are still kept in Proptor, but if there are any left they will be in the brothels. I'll go there if I manage to get the admiral as well. Then we can try to link our forces at the port."
Gallio met her eye. He jerked his thumb at the fleet of moored warships. "Each of those comes with a complement of marines. We'll be under attack by thousands of Saderans the second we start breaking chains. And that's before the citadel's garrison comes to put us down," he spoke in a whisper, because they were now entering the harbor.
"That was and still is the plan," Tyuule replied quietly.
"Right. I'm just saying we shouldn't get our hopes up. There's going to be a lot of blood before Duclos gets to us. The chances that we can link up will be slim."
Their dinghy continued to drift into the harbor. Marcus gave a long look at the Saderan warships as they passed one by one.
"Every ship carries three times as many slaves as marines," Marcus whispered, one hand on the tiller. "We'll outnumber them, even with the citadel's garrison."
Gallio silenced a cough. "That's assuming everything goes to plan."
Marcus gave him a look. "It will," he said while steering their dinghy past the moored ships.
"Even so-" Gallio resisted the urge to grunt as he heaved back on the oars. "We're just bait. We aren't going to take the city with a bunch of galley oarsmen. They're slaves, not soldiers."
A glimmer of moonlight swept over Marcus's face as the former slave gazed at the Saderan fleet.
He licked his lips.
"Not yet."
Their fishing boat crept to one of Proptor's many piers silently. With a muted thud, it stopped against the stone edge. The pier was big, far taller than their little dinghy and clearly made for larger trade ships or the Imperial fleet. They had to help each other climb out of the boat.
A row of buildings lined the dock's edge, warehouses for trade goods.
Pairs of men were patrolling up and down the harbor. Their movements were clearly illuminated by the torches they carried.
"I'm going for the governor," Tyuule whispered, just barely audible above the harbor's waves.
Gallio turned his head to see her off, but she was gone already. He caught a glimpse of her movement near the warehouses and then she disappeared into the dark, totally silent with inhuman speed and stealth. If she hadn't told them, Gallio doubted he would have noticed her go.
With a quiet sigh, Gallio crept forward. Placus moved behind him while Marcus brought up the rear. Some lazy merchant had left a dozen crates stacked near the base of the pier, so they scurried up to it as quietly as they could.
They crouched behind the crates, listening to one of the patrols go by. The patrol wasn't very alert, but they knew someone had been moving.
"It's just a dolphin," said one, with a distinctly Elban accent.
"It's not a dolphin, you fool," said the other. He was Saderan but his voice had an eastern twang that made him sound like a rural bumpkin. "That was a boat in the water."
"Wake the captain then," said the Elban.
"You wake him, idiot," said the bumpkin.
The back and forth continued for some time.
There was an alleyway across the open dock where two warehouses didn't quite meet. It wasn't very far, and there wasn't much illumination along the way. Gallio felt he could make it if he was fast. Barring that, he was also fairly confident he could put down the patrol before they sounded an alarm.
Gallio waited until the two men were at least forty paces from the crates. Then he held up his hand to his companions, gesturing for them to stay put.
He counted to five and left his cover. The waves covered his footsteps fairly well, so he darted forward.
The patrol didn't so much as glance his way.
Gallio made it to the alley in a rush. He slowed himself and met Placus's eyes peeking over the crates. Gallio motioned for them to come.
Placus and Marcus came running together. Gallio winced at the audible slap of their shoes against the cobblestone, but the Saderan patrol was a good distance away and didn't seem to notice. They ran into the alleyway and leaned against one of the walls.
"I don't suppose either of you have considered where the slaves might be held?" Gallio murmured, barely audible.
"They can't be far," Placus whispered. "They're galley slaves."
Marcus looked up, along the side of the warehouse. "They probably use them to unload cargo," he suggested. "That means they'll be near the water."
"Let's just look around then…" Gallio muttered.
He crept down the alley, aware that the ocean wouldn't mask their sound the further they went into the city. At the other end, it opened up to a narrow street lined with more warehouses. There was another alley that roughly lined up with the one they were in. Gallio couldn't see any patrols, but he also didn't want to risk any more than he needed.
He crossed first again. This time he was slower but also far quieter. Marcus and Placus crossed one at a time, each creeping as silently as they could.
This alley was longer, and it curved with one of the buildings. It opened into another street also lined with warehouses. Gallio peeked past the alley wall.
He immediately ducked his head back.
There were two men with torches and spears leaning against the biggest warehouse. It was a giant thing with a high ceiling that towered above the others, and it smelled. It smelled of men.
Gallio crept away from the street. "I found the slaves," he whispered. "There's two guards. I say we rush them."
Marcus nodded and drew his sword. Placus did likewise.
Gallio put a finger to his lips and unsheathed his own sword. They crouched at the edge of the alleyway, and Gallio held up his hand.
He pointed at the furthest one and to himself. Then he pointed to the other one and to Marcus.
Marcus nodded.
He looked at Placus and gestured to his eyes.
Placus nodded.
Gallio counted down from five with his fingers.
And then they charged out of the alleyway.
The two men saw them immediately, but they were slow to react. Who expected to suddenly be attacked in the middle of the night? They probably didn't really understand what was happening until it was too late.
Gallio ran his man through in an instant. He got him for practically nothing. His right hand thrust right up to the hilt, and his left covered the man's mouth while he died with a look of pure shock in his eyes.
Marcus's man struggled for a little longer, but he died too. Marcus had to stab him three times before he went down.
Gallio pushed the corpse off his sword and wiped it on the man's cloak. They'd been fairly quiet; neither man had screamed. He and Marcus dragged the corpses into the alley just in case.
Gallio found a ring of keys on one of them. Marcus took one of their torches.
He unlocked the warehouse door and all three of them crept in.
There were at least two hundred men packed by the door. Hundreds more filled the room. Stinking, filthy and thin, chained to each other with iron shackles. Some looked like skeletons, but many had strongly muscled arms contrasting lean bodies.
Men reach toward them.
Placus shut the door behind them, and the stench immediately became worse. Gallio backed away from the reaching arms. This was insane. There were so many of them. And they didn't look like men.
But Marcus strode forward with his torch. He went further into the mass of slaves until the whole of the room was illuminated.
"Brothers," he said, "tonight you will all be free men. Together we will revolt against the masters and seize your freedom."
One of the men nearest to him shook his head. He was older, and his beard was flecked with white. "I have heard that many times before. It always ends in dead slaves. Who do you think you are?"
"I am Marcus of Italica!" he shouted in a way that concerned Gallio. "My mother was a slave as was her mother before her. I was born into slavery and spent my whole life in chains. I was meant to die a slave." Marcus grinned, a rare expression for him. "But now I am a free man! I march in the army of France. I have fought in Elbe and Sadera. I will never be a slave again, because the Bluecoats have shown me freedom."
Marcus closed his eyes briefly and inhaled. Then he pointed in the direction of the western wall.
"In an hour, Marshal Michel Ney will attack Proptor with his army of Bluecoats!" he roared. "He promises that every slave who fights the Imperials tonight will be a free man in the morning. This is your opportunity, brothers. Arm yourselves. Kill the masters. Fight until the Bluecoats come, and you will never be slaves again. Seize your freedom! And if you die tonight, at least you will not die as slaves!"
In an instant, men were standing. As soon as some stood, the others were quick to join them, and in ten heartbeats the entire room was up. Gallio threw them the ring of keys. A cheer went up, and they began unchaining themselves.
Gallio grabbed Marcus by the shoulder. "Now what?" he hissed.
The former slave blinked and looked around. "There should be more of them," he breathed. "We should find the others and set them free too."
"No!" Placus interrupted. "We need to find weapons."
Gallio nodded. "He's right. The slaves will know where their brethren are. We need to find a way to arm them. Maybe we can find an armory-"
Someone tapped him on the shoulder, and Gallio whirled, sword half drawn. But it was just a thin man, so skinny that his ribs were visible. His face was gaunt and resembled a skull.
"The marines," he croaked. "They have a barracks near here. They keep weapons there."
"Can you show us?"
The man nodded and began shuffling for the door.
Gallio gave a look to the others, but he followed the man. A crowd quickly formed behind them of slaves who'd freed themselves from their shackles. In mere moments, there were hundreds of slaves streaming into the streets of Proptor. Some fled into the darkness. A good number ran to free more slaves. Most, however, followed Marcus, Placus, and Gallio as they were led by the thin man.
It wasn't far to the barracks. The building was large; Proptor seemed to be characterized by large buildings. It was made of wood and looked big enough to house at least a thousand men. A room at the front seemed to double as both an armory and a guard post and was lined with racks of spears along the walls. It led into the actual sleeping quarters where men were piled together like insects.
There were a dozen marines on duty in the guard post. They saw the mob of slaves immediately; there was no hiding them.
One of them began to bang on a piece of brass while the others grabbed spears off the racks. But the mob of slaves had grown in size exponentially as more and more slave barracks had been liberated. There were now at least two thousand slaves at Gallio's back, and the marines hesitated.
The slaves saw them hesitate, saw the men who'd cowed them for so long flinch.
They charged.
Only two of the marines stood their ground. They each killed two of the slaves but were then quickly beaten to death while their comrades ran further into the barracks. They might as well have stood their ground, however. None of them made it to safety, because some ruthless bastard in the sleeping quarters slammed the doors shut rather than risk letting in the slaves.
But in doing so, he cut off the newly awakened marines from their weapons.
The slaves were quick to arm themselves. Spears were passed out to the mob. Men threw swords to whomever could grab them. Sets of armor were cannibalized, and men wore whatever variety of pieces they could get their hands on. Anything that could be used as a weapon was handed out to men eager to seize their freedom.
Meanwhile, the marines could do nothing but cower. A thousand hardened warriors were rendered helpless by the suddenness of everything that had happened. But neither could the slaves enter to kill them, because the door had been barricaded several times over.
Instead, Gallio and Placus spilled oil from the marines' lamps onto the barracks floor. They cleared the slaves out of the building and Gallio took Marcus's torch.
One of the slaves looked at them and shook his head. It was the older slave with a graying beard. "What are you doing?" he demanded. "We have a chance to slip away for now, but if you burn this then the whole city will know we've escaped! The garrison will come from the citadel and kill us all!"
"I know," Gallio sighed. "That's the plan."
He threw the torch into the barracks.
And men began to scream.
Jacques Duclos heard the alarm bells ringing throughout the city and knew his plan was working.
It had no right to work. It had all the elements of a bad plan. Too complicated. Too many things that could go wrong. In truth, it wasn't intended to succeed. It was meant to be useful even if it failed, because, at its core, it merely needed to be a distraction for the real plan. It was dangerous and designed around its own failure. That's why he'd only asked for volunteers to do it.
But Jacques could hear the alarm bells ringing and see smoke rising in the moonlight. And that meant it hadn't failed. Which also meant it was time for his part in it.
He turned to his courier, a junior staff officer temporarily assigned to him. The man was holding the reins to his horse. Jacques breathed in and said, "Tell the Marshal I'm beginning the attack. I'll need at least a regiment of regulars coming up behind me, understand?"
The courier nodded and snapped a salute. He mounted his horse in one elegant motion. Then he took off galloping for the main army.
Jacques took another glance at the city, and he sighed.
"Let's go!" Jacques ordered.
In an instant, the Ninth Company was on its feet. They were in a copse of trees maybe two miles from the city walls and had been waiting all night for his orders.
They weren't alone, though. Along with the Ninth Company were five companies of grenadiers, each detached from their parent battalions and joined together to form a grenadier battalion under Jacques's command. They too leapt to their feet at Jacques's order. It was the largest command he had ever held, not counting Chaucer's appointment.
Around him were the captains of the companies under his command. Each had a red plumed shako and an enormous height which, combined together, made them incredibly imposing figures. Their faces seemed to perpetually hold expressions of professional disapproval. Every one of them was both more experienced and better appointed than Jacques was.
Yet somehow Jacques was the one in charge. The grenadier captains saluted him together then marched off to their respective companies.
He squirmed.
"So does this make you a major?" Astier asked when Jacques went to take his place with the Ninth Company.
"He's already jumped from private to captain," Vidal pointed out before Jacques could say anything. "Give it another year, and he'll be a marshal."
Jacques sighed. "Get in line. We have a job to do."
Vidal winked. "You'll be a big hat in no time."
The six companies formed into a battalion column on the road. The Ninth Company took its place as one of the two companies at the front while the grenadier companies filled in next to and behind it. As a purely ad hoc formation, they were missing many of the officers who normally would have directed movements between the companies. Instead, Jacques had to run up and down the column, personally coordinating the companies into some semblance of order.
It was, of course, incredibly dark which made everything harder. He'd learned from his experience with Italica, though. The dark was terrifying and certainly not a place for complex maneuver. He intended to march straight down the road and trust darkness to conceal him. No room for error there.
"Forward march!" he bellowed, and the entire column leapt into motion.
They went down the road at a steady pace. The Saderans made good roads, so there was no chance of getting lost here. Even so, Jacques made sure to orient himself against the coastline and the city every so often. He already loathed his command.
Two miles really wasn't as far as it sounded. At the slightly rushed pace Jacques set, it only took maybe forty minutes to cross the distance. Then they were at the city's western gate and could smell the smoke coming from the city.
"Who the fuck's there?" someone from the wall sputtered. "Show yourselves!"
It was impossible to hide the sound of marching men, obviously, but it was also dark and the man didn't sound very collected. As far as Jacques could tell, there was only one man left on the wall. The rest were almost certainly occupied elsewhere.
"Ladders," Jacques ordered.
A dozen grenadiers brought up scaling ladders. They'd assembled them the day before, using wood stolen from some farmer's fence line. Each stretched thirty feet tall and was tied with ropes into a rickety contraption. They'd made four of them in case the wall was better contested. Jacques hadn't expected his plan to work as well as it was.
"Oh fuck," the man on the wall blurted.
A crossbow bolt flew from the top of the wall. But it was dark, and the man was a piss-poor shot regardless. The grenadiers ignored the man's panicked cursing and placed their ladders at the base of the wall. He tried to push one off, but it didn't budge. They'd managed to hook the ladders against the wall's crenellations.
Then Jacques drew his sword and shouted, "Up the wall!"
The great bloody struggle for the top of Proptor's walls that Jacques had worried ceaselessly about for the past hour never actually occurred. Instead, the man at the top saw them coming, immediately took off running, and that was that. There wasn't a single Saderan to contest him when Jacques clambered over the battlements, sword in hand.
Jacques's left shoulder ached from the climb. The wound from Italica refused to stop plaguing him. But Jacques could see the whole city from atop the wall. The city wasn't dark like the rest of the landscape. There was bright illumination across at least a third of the city's area. In one glance, Jacques knew just how overwhelmingly successful his plan was.
Because the city was on fire.
A vibrant orange glow burned all around him as Gallio ripped his sword from the chest of a Saderan marine. Around him, men cheered as they watched Saderan marines flee down the street.
It was a motley collection of shouts. The slaves had come from all over the world. Some would shout, "Freiheit! Freiheit!" while others roared, "Eleuthera!" or, "Saoirse!" The Saderans among them cried, "Libertas! Libertas!" But it didn't matter what language they used. They were all shouting the same thing.
"Freedom! Freedom! Freedom!"
They were now fighting for every inch of ground against the Saderans, over twenty thousand freed slaves all across the city. Hundreds of barricades were lined throughout the city streets at random intervals, built to slow down the inevitable advance of the marines.
Each time Gallio's contingent made a stand, the Saderans would repeatedly throw their better trained and better equipped men at the barricades until the slaves manning them were forced back. Their latest barricade had held against two waves, but now the fire was spreading and they would have to abandon it regardless.
Gallio watched one of the warehouses to his right collapse in an explosion of sparks and embers.
It had seemed like such a great plan at first: set fire to areas of the city to split up Saderan forces and slow them down. It was his idea originally. Gallio had imagined a controlled burn of specific city blocks in strategic areas. However the fires had all too quickly gone out of control, and now his idea just seemed like an elaborate form of suicide.
On the bright side, it gave the Saderans an uncomfortable choice to make. They could either use their soldiers, militiamen, and marines to fight the growing slave revolt verging on a revolution, or they could use them to fight the massive infernos spreading through their homes.
Whoever was in charge on the other side was in an unenviable position. And it probably wasn't someone who'd expected to be in command either, because Gallio suspected Tyuule had already killed the ones supposed to be in charge.
A wave of heat washed over Gallio as another building collapsed into flames. The fire was getting too close for comfort.
"Time to go! To the next one!" he shouted, waving his sword above his head.
The slaves didn't need much urging. They abandoned the barricade in a matter of moments, leaving behind the corpses of marines and slaves who'd died over it.
The next barricade was much like the last, hastily constructed of whatever material could be found. Barrels and crates were piled up into walls. A repurposed roof beam formed a backbone for smashed furniture and wagon carts.
Gallio assumed the Saderans wouldn't make another attack until the fires burned down at the barricade they'd just abandoned. That gave him time, so he left his contingent of men and went to check up on the other fronts.
He found Placus wiping off his sword behind a barricade to the north. His entire face was blackened with soot.
"My front's stable, but the fire is driving us back," Gallio said by way of greeting. "You?"
"Fine for now." Placus rubbed his eyes. "The garrison's arrived here; we were just pushed back by a wave of legionaries. The citadel's probably empty now." He looked blankly at a building burning down in the distance. "Isn't this supposed to be when Duclos comes to rescue us?"
Gallio did his best to shrug.
"How long do you think we have before the fire gets us?" Placus asked.
"It won't."
Placus scoffed. "You've never been an optimist before."
"I'm not one," Gallio spat, "but we still have the docks and the Imperial Fleet. We have all their oarsmen too. We can always cut and run if need be."
"So why haven't we?"
"Because that's not the plan."
Placus gave him a blank look.
Gallio sighed. "Look, I'm going to check up on Marcus. You know where he is?"
"Last I saw him was by the docks." Placus made a face. "He was appointing officers."
"He's actually trying to make these slaves an army? I'll go see how well he's done then. Don't die in the meantime, alright?"
Placus gave a half wave. "The same goes for you."
He left Placus sitting against his barricade and headed towards the docks.
The barricades at the docks were built differently from the ones in the streets. There wasn't the convenience of narrow chokepoints here, because the docks were wide and flat, designed to make unloading cargo easy. As such, the barricades were made flatter, with less of an incline, not because of any conscious choice, but because it was simply more difficult to do it otherwise. It also meant that more men were needed to hold the barricades, since they were both wider and less protective.
Gallio found Marcus immediately, because he was standing on top of one such barricade giving orders. Around him was a crowd of armed slaves.
"One more hour!" Marcus cried. "One more hour and you're all free!"
"We can't hold for another hour!" someone shouted.
"Let us on the boats!" another yelled.
Marcus's eyes were wild. His gaze darted between parts of the crowd. "If you flee on those boats, you will be hunted as runaways for the rest of your lives," he insisted. "You have a chance to make this city your own! I swear to you, Marshal Ney is coming. Please return to your posts and listen to your officers."
There were murmurs through the crowd. Many at the edges of the crowd began to disperse. Someone tried to shout, "Who put you in charge?" but he trailed off as more and more of the men around him walked away. The slaves quickly disappeared into the streets.
Gallio approached Marcus. "One more hour?" he asked with a raised eyebrow.
Marcus slid down from the barricade and gave a disheartened shrug. "Emroy's scythe, I don't know. Is Duclos late, or is time just moving strangely?"
"I lost track when the fighting started. Do you know how we're doing as a whole?"
"Poorly," Marcus grunted. He stared into the night sky. "I made all the slaves with military experience into officers and put them in charge of the barricades you and Placus weren't holding. But we keep losing ground to their marines, and anywhere we do hold eventually gets consumed by fire." He rubbed his face. "Even if the Saderans don't break us, eventually we're going to be driven out by the fires."
"So you're enjoying command then?" Gallio asked.
"I hate it with my very soul."
"You're the one who wanted it," Gallio reminded him. Then he sighed. "Have you heard from Tyuule?"
Marcus shook his head.
Gallio shrugged. "Right. I'm going to get back to my front. You should get together a fire brigade with any spare men you have before we get burned out."
He didn't wait for Marcus to reply. The former slave was even darker than his usual self and clearly wasn't going to say anything productive. The effects of command. Some men thrived with it, but most were simply worn down.
Gallio could never quite figure out which he was.
His men were nervous when he finally returned to them. He found out why when he stepped up to the barricade and saw a Saderan assault massing against them.
There were maybe a hundred of them, packed into a tight formation that had them overlapping their shields. He could see their spear points, gleaming in the firelight. A centurion at the front was dressing the line.
Gallio could instantly tell they were legionaries, men from the citadel. They had a different air to them, and their movements were more precise. So far, Gallio's men had only faced Saderan marines, men from the Fleet. The difference was palpable. The Imperial Navy had always been a secondary priority to the Imperial Army and as such the marines were second-rate troops, men not good enough for the legions. Proptor's garrison soldiers, by contrast, were drawn from the Army. They had more armor, and they were better men. Gallio's armed slaves had already been driven back three times by the marines.
He didn't tell any of the slaves this, of course.
The centurion raised his sword. "Century, advance!" he called in the firm tone of commanders everywhere.
Gallio shouted to his own men, "Hold as long as you can, boys! The longer we stand, the better our odds!" He was under no impression that they would beat back the legionaries.
Men with slings pushed forward onto the barricade. They began hurling stones with deadly force at the approaching Saderans. Gallio knew their effectiveness first hand. Each stone was big enough to fit a man's palm and made an audible snap whenever they were released. In Italica, boys had used them to poach wildlife. In Proptor, he'd seen slaves armed with slings down marines in single hits, breaking bones and cracking skulls, even through armor.
But the legionaries were not marines. Their formation was tighter and better formed than anything that had preceded. Their shields overlapped each other to form a moving wall.
A shower of sling stones was flung at the legionaries. They merely bounced off the legionaries' shields.
The legionaries kept advancing.
More stones thumped against their shields.
A sling could deliver a great deal of force in the right hands, and as they got closer, Gallio could see the Saderans wincing at the barrage. Even through their shields, they staggered as if they'd taken a blow. When two stones struck together, men would rock back a step. Visible dents appeared in many shields.
But the barrage didn't kill any of them. They were too well protected, and they kept advancing. They ducked their heads, like men moving against a storm.
"Slingers get back!" Gallio decided. They weren't doing enough, and the Saderans were getting too close.
The slingers retreated, and men with spears, swords, and various repurposed tools moved to take their place on the barricade. Gallio got his sword in one hand and his buckler in the other. But it was taking longer than he'd expected to switch the men.
In an instant, the centurion's head darted up from behind his shield. The slaves were still a disordered mob pushing past each other. His eyes locked with Gallio's.
Oh, command…
"Century, charge!" the centurion barked.
And they did.
Their formation shattered at once; no one could run pressed together so tightly. The legionaries left their wall of shields. Men sprinted as if they were athletes, directly at the barricades.
Gallio had the oddest sensation of understanding, as the Saderans closed in.
Legionaries swarmed up the barricade, and Gallio's men weren't ready for them. Gallio had moments before they clambered up. He swung at the legionary climbing below him, two powerful and accurate blows. But the legionary's helmet was good and Gallio's sword was inadequate. It turned both blows without even denting.
Then they started killing the slaves.
Gallio's men were just managing to shove through to the barricade. One got through and came to his left side with a big wood cutter's axe on his shoulder. Before the legionaries had even finished climbing, a spear shot up into the axeman's nose, and as the axeman hit the ground a legionary heaved himself over the barricade to take his place.
Three slaves came at the legionary. One was skewered outright, through the face, and then the legionary's spear went back and forward with practiced precision into the slave to his right. He stepped forward, shoved with his shield, twisted his spear in the slave's guts, ripped it free, and killed the third slave with his buttspike through the slave's chin.
Gallio hammered him with a cut from the shoulder, and the legionary stumbled. But his helmet again held the blow.
In an instant, the two slaves to Gallio's right suddenly fell. Legionaries vaulted over the barricade. Their spears reaped the armed slaves, again and again. They cleared a space, and more Saderans climbed the barricade.
Gallio was now under attack from two directions. He backed two steps. His sword parried a thrust from the right while his buckler pushed down a spearhead from the left. A legionary climbed the barricade in front of him, and suddenly he was pressed from three directions.
He took five good steps back.
The slaves had decisively lost the barricade. Legionaries were all over it. Men who tried to hold it simply died on their spears.
"Back!" Gallio screamed. "Everyone fall back!"
The centurion heard him, of course.
"Century, advance!"
Gallio ran. He ran and didn't look back. The slaves ran with him, and they all heard the sound of Saderan legionaries nipping at their heels. Some men weren't fast enough. They screamed as they died.
The next barricade was only a hundred paces from the last. Gallio was up and over it before he was thinking. But he stopped at the top. Stumbled. Breathed. He puked over the side. It helped, and Gallio's head became clear.
The legionaries were approaching rapidly. Gallio's slaves were ready to run. Some of them didn't even bother waiting.
He took a long look at the slaves.
If they ran now, they wouldn't stop running. The whole front would collapse. A rout.
Gallio inhaled and tried to appear in command. "We have to hold them here!" he shouted. "It's too late for other options. If we can't hold them here, we won't hold them anywhere. There aren't any other options. We can't run. The fleet was destroyed by the fires, and the Saderans will crucify anyone who surrenders. We either hold them or die!"
He was lying, naturally. The fleet was fine, and he doubted the Saderans would kill all of them. But he needed the slaves to be desperate.
Ahead, the Saderans had reformed themselves. They resumed their steady pace, shields locked.
This time, Gallio didn't bother with slingers. He started pushing forward men with the best armor and weapons. He couldn't afford to have his front rank slaughtered like last time.
"Century, charge!"
The legionaries ran again. But they were slower. It was hard work to run in armor.
They went up the barricade.
"We win or die here, lads!"
Gallio's men roared and showered the legionaries with blows. In the first moments of climbing, the legionaries were absurdly vulnerable. They couldn't raise their big shields well while climbing up. Spears and staves thrust down into their faces and necks. Armor saved many of them, but each blow rocked their whole bodies. Legionaries fell.
A few lucky bastards reached the top intact. They were confident; they had every right to be. They were well armed and armored, and Gallio's men were not. They were trained soldiers, and Gallio's men were slaves.
But Gallio's men had nothing to lose. Or at least they thought that.
Desperation makes all men equal. The first legionary to climb over was two men to the right of Gallio. His spear went forward, but a skinny slave caught his spear arm and tore the weapon away. The legionary lost his balance, was dragged into the crowd of slaves, and a dozen blows fell on him at once.
His armor held. It was good stuff.
The legionary reached for his sword, but he was in the mob now. Three men pushed him into the ground. He squealed like a pig, flailing his arms while they pinned him down and seized his sword. One of the slaves took a dagger and stabbed him in the neck.
Another legionary came over the side where Gallio was standing. Gallio swung at him automatically, and the legionary covered himself with his shield.
A slave took the opportunity. He threw his arms around the legionary's shield, dragging him by it. The legionary gutted him with his spearpoint, but then another slave got his hands on the shield and pulled it away.
Gallio cut through the legionary's exposed face while he was distracted.
More made it onto the barricade. The slaves threw themselves at them. The whole mass of slaves tried to crush and throw them from the barricade. Legionaries had to fight men who would risk tackling them just so someone else could stab them on the ground.
Spears went back and forth. A dozen men were dragged into the waiting mob of slaves and beaten to death by angry fists.
Gallio saw the centurion climb up, easily distinguished by the horsehair plume on his helmet, and went after him. He pushed himself forward. The centurion was three men to the left, but Gallio wanted him. Two slaves from the mob took Gallio's place.
The centurion had a longer sword than the rest, and it swept up and down, cleaving through a slave like a scythe through wheat.
Gallio shoved through the mass of men to face him. His sword and buckler swept forward together.
The centurion batted aside his attack with a sneer. The centurion's shield pressed forward, trapping the buckler against it, while his sword went for an overhand thrust. Gallio couldn't parry in time.
It hit his kettle helmet. Cheap quality, ordered en masse. Gallio felt the dent go in.
He saw stars and stumbled back a pace.
The centurion hit him in the face with the rim of his shield. Gallio's nose made a crunch, and he was down before he'd even known what had happened.
Everything seemed slow.
The centurion stepped over Gallio, thrusting his sword into the mouth of a slave opposing him.
Blood splattered onto Gallio. He couldn't see well. Things were blurry. There was ringing in his ears. He couldn't think through the pain in his nose.
The centurion cut a man's head in two. Another man tried to rush him as it happened, but the centurion dropped him with one blow from the edge of his shield. A third man turned to run but died regardless.
More blood.
Suddenly things became clear. His vision became sharp again. The ringing stopped. He could think.
Gallio was on his stomach in a pool of blood. He felt his right hand still gripping his sword.
Four more slaves faced the centurion, but they were terrified. One of them didn't even have a weapon. Another was merely a slinger.
The centurion's sword went up, the embodiment of Emroy's fury.
Gallio roared a guttural sound. His sword lashed out from the ground and cut right into the back of the centurion's heel. There was no armor there, and Gallio's sword was sharp. It severed through flesh and tendon before stopping at bone.
The centurion shrieked. He collapsed to one knee.
The four slaves immediately charged him. Three of them grabbed at his limbs while one tackled him. The centurion screamed with rage as he was toppled over onto the ground. Gallio managed to get himself onto his feet. The slaves pounded at the centurion with their fists.
But the centurion would not give up. His right hand found a dagger on his belt. It rose from its scabbard and he buried it into the slave on top of him. The one on top let go, and the centurion stabbed the slave holding down his left arm three times, each going into his neck or shoulder. The third slave had a rock, and he smashed the centurion's helmet with it, but the centurion punched the dagger into the side of his head, and the slave went limp.
Gallio stumbled towards them.
The last slave tried to grapple the centurion. They tumbled together in the blood and rubble, each pulling against the other. The centurion was stronger, though. He got his hand against the slave's face and pushed, forcing the slave off of him. The centurion immediately clambered on top. He pinned the slave's arms with his knees and grabbed the slave's head with both hands. His thumbs began pressing into the slave's eyes. The slave writhed on the ground while the centurion bellowed a war cry.
Gallio grabbed the centurion by his helmet's horsehair plume and slit his throat.
The centurion's corpse collapsed onto the slave below. There was a great exhale of sheer relief from the slave. He wriggled out from underneath while Gallio cut the strap holding the centurion's helmet to his head.
He got to his feet. His sword was in his right hand. The helmet was in his left.
He raised his left arm as high as it could go. Blood dripped off his sword. He stood like the statue of a mighty god and shouted with all he had, "LIBERTAS!"
From the right came another shout, "Eleuthera! Eleuthera!"
Then from the left, "Freiheit! Freiheit!"
"Saoirse! Saoirse!"
"Libertas! Libertas!"
Their roars were that of a three hundred-headed monster. The fury of men who had nothing to lose.
Nothing but chains.
"Freedom! Freedom! Freedom!"
The legionaries could only flee.
Jacques was in Moscow.
Only it wasn't cold. And there was no wind in the streets.
But it was Moscow in Jacques's mind. Proptor had become Moscow. Fire everywhere. Thousands of refugees. Burned out homes.
Everywhere he looked, he saw her. In alleyways and windows. Behind doors and around street corners. She wouldn't leave him. She was all around him.
Kill me. Please.
The Ninth Company swept through the streets of Proptor. Behind them five grenadier companies were struggling to keep up. They couldn't match the rapid pace set by Jacques's men. The Ninth Company knew how to move through a ruined city.
Ash was everywhere. It smelled of woodsmoke. Woodsmoke and burnt pork.
That's what burning humans smell like.
Jacques didn't really know where he was leading his men. At some level, he supposed they were going toward the coast, because that's what he'd planned. But at another, he had stopped truly perceiving once he'd entered the burning city.
He kept seeing the girl.
Somehow, he stumbled into a street of Saderan legionaries. He couldn't tell how he'd gotten there or what the Saderans were doing. But the Saderans had a big building surrounded with at least a hundred men. The building looked like an inn or a tavern. And they were trying to set fire to it.
That snapped Jacques out of his stupor. He halted the company and allowed them to dress their ranks. They were only fifty yards from the Saderans.
"Make ready!"
The Saderans had seen them, but they hadn't reacted. They must have been shocked to see French soldiers in Proptor. After all, they thought they were facing a slave uprising.
"Present!"
Someone started shouting at the Saderans to form up, but whoever it was had never fought the French before. They'd lost their chance already.
"Fire!"
A familiar cloud of smoke engulfed the streets. The street was instantly cleared of Saderans. Men clutched their stomachs and fell to the ground. The few lucky fellows took off running. Many of the men on the ground began screaming.
"Don't shoot!" someone shouted. It came from inside the tavern. And it was a woman's voice.
"Load and shoulder muskets," Jacques ordered. He stepped out from his company toward the tavern. "Come out slowly!"
A demi-human woman pushed open the door with her hands raised. Two brown rabbit ears stuck up from her head. Behind her were more of her kin. Roughly thirty of them.
And at the very back was Tyuule.
Jacques let out the breath he'd been holding. "Well?" he asked.
"Things went exactly as you said," she reported. "I killed the governor and the admiral before they knew I was there. Then your auxiliaries started burning things, and I slipped out while the garrison was trying to figure out what had happened. I gathered as many of my kin as I could find, but we got cornered in this tavern and had to make a stand."
"Right," Jacques said, and his mind began working again. Command had always done that to him. It was the responsibility. He hated it, but it worked. He bit his lip and looked up at the moon, trying to judge the time. "Where are the auxiliaries?"
"The docks," Tyuule replied. "They made a perimeter and fortified the streets. Last I saw, they were being pushed back everywhere. But slowly."
Jacques had the image of the city in his mind already. If the auxiliaries were holding the docks and the Saderans were pushing against them, then Jacques's battalion was directly behind the Saderans. They likely weren't very well organized either, because Tyuule had decapitated their command structure. He called forward all the grenadier captains and laid out his plan.
It was really quite simple.
Jacques detached each of his grenadier companies and sent them down different streets. They would form up parallel to each other, or as close to it as possible in the winding streets, and then begin a steady advance toward the docks. Together, they would make a wall that cut off the Saderan retreat and smashed them against the slaves.
Jacques decided to keep the Ninth Company in reserve at the tavern. It was always a good idea to have a reserve, but the side effect was that Jacques didn't get to actually see his plan in action. He could only hear how it went through reports, something he wasn't used to.
From what he gathered, there wasn't much actual fighting. The grenadiers marched toward the docks, as ordered, and they came up on the rear of several contingents of Saderans who immediately surrendered. The only ones who fought were those actively engaged with slaves when the grenadiers came up on them. Those men fought, not because they intended to, but because their centurions didn't know what was going on. It only took a single volley from the grenadiers to coerce them into surrendering.
The truth of it was that none of the Saderans wanted to keep fighting. They had thought they were just putting down slaves, and the word that there were French soldiers already within the walls of the city made further resistance seem futile.
By the time Marshal Ney had arrived at the walls with two regiments of reinforcements, Jacques was already receiving the Saderan commander to accept his surrender.
He was, as it proved, a vice admiral of the Imperial Fleet. With him, he brought the new leader of the garrison, a primus pilus, and one of the city's prominent citizens, who directed the city militia.
"Where did you Bluecoats come from?" the vice admiral asked with a level of astonishment. "I have a report only a few days old stating that you had beaten his highness in the field and were besieging the capital!"
"And the slaves!" the primus pilus exclaimed. "Is that simply ill timing, or did you orchestrate that yourselves? How did you know we'd been stripped of half our marines?"
Jacques gave a small smile. "We urged the slaves to revolt. In fact, every slave bearing arms is to be made a free man immediately."
The citizen gasped as if he'd been struck. "We are ruined then!" he cried. "By the morning we will only have ash and soot! Who will rebuild the destruction you caused?!"
Jacques's smile left his face. He looked at the sky, where smoke rose in the moonlight from all parts of the city. He could smell woodsmoke and burnt pork.
The French had left Moscow a smoking wreck.
Kill me. Please.
Jacques had no intentions of doing the same to Proptor.
He turned back to the Saderans. "Gentlemen, you have made the right decision in surrendering, and I would like to do right by you in turn. Will you support me in attempting to salvage this city from devastation?"
The vice admiral flushed. "But of course, sir!"
"You are a man of honor, and my men are at your disposal," the primus pilus affirmed.
The citizen turned his head. He didn't answer.
Regardless, work began immediately. Runners were sent across the city to inform isolated pockets of the surrender. Saderan marines, legionaries, and militiamen laid down their arms only to immediately pick up shovels and axes. Jacques's grenadiers did the same, and soon enough Marshal Ney's reinforcements were also moving to stop the fire.
Perhaps miraculously, the slaves did the same, working with men who had hours prior been their enslavers.
Maybe not such a miracle. They were free men now, officially recognized and ratified by the highest Saderan authorities in the city as part of their terms of surrender. Some took this as an opportunity to flee for home, but many more had no homes. They had been slaves all their lives. This was their home.
Or at least it would be, if they could save it from the fires.
Men worked through the night. Hundreds of work teams went methodically through the city to slow the spread.
In many cases, entire city blocks were engulfed in fire, and men with axes would have to create firebreaks by demolishing the buildings surrounding them. It was next to impossible to extinguish a building once it was already ablaze. The best that could be done was to tear down adjacent buildings to prevent it from spreading. In other cases, however, the fires were not quite so bad, and lines of men and women formed bucket chains to carry water from the ocean or nearby wells and dump them on the flames.
All throughout the city, men worked side by side with their former enemies. Slave with Saderan. Saderan with French. It was hard to distinguish them in the dark with ash covered clothing, wearing damp cloths around their mouths to avoid breathing smoke. Distinctive shakos or uniform coats were often the first things to be abandoned by French workers.
Only when a building was extinguished or a firebreak finished could a Saderan finally thank the man he'd been working side by side with for hours and in response get a confused, "Quoi?"
As the night went on, Marshal Ney funneled more and more men into the city to help with the work. The fires were gradually extinguished or simply burned themselves out.
Roughly a third of the city had burned in the night. It could have been the entire city.
Jacques had fallen asleep at some point. He'd been up far too long, and it just happened. When he woke up, it was morning, and his back was leaning against a pile of rubble. The Ninth Company was all around him, and someone was cooking eggs using the embers of a burnt out warehouse.
There was enthusiastic chatter between his men. It was more than the usual morning gossip or post-battle jitters. His men were excited.
He got up and found Astier. The sergeant was drinking tea, most likely salvaged from a ruined building. "What's going on?" he asked.
Astier looked up. "You haven't heard?"
Jacques shook his head. "I just got up."
"One of Feraud's pickets just arrived from Sadera. His horse was nearly dead, and he'd been-"
Jacques waved his hand. "Spare me the details."
"The gate appeared."
"The gate?" Jacques repeated.
Astier nodded. "The one that the crazy astrologer kept raving about. He was right. It just appeared on a hill a little south of Sadera. Right now it's just a structure. Some pillars and crystals. It doesn't go anywhere for now, but…"
Jacques leaned in. "But?"
Astier shook his head. "The astrologer says it's gathering power. He says it's going to open. Soon."
"Oh," Jacques whispered. "We're going home then."
Well, it's certainly been a while. I know it's been four months since the last chapter, but I just want to assure everyone that I haven't and probably won't (barring extreme life circumstances) abandon this story. We're nearing the end, and I've already devoted so much of my energy into getting it this far. To abandon it now would be cruel.
That being said, the last few months have been way busier than I'd expected. I didn't have a lot of time to write, hence the four month gap. I've managed to squeeze in writing whenever I could, which is why this monster of a chapter exists, but I can't say how busy I will be in the near future. Hopefully I will be able to put out more chapters soon. But if I can't, just understand that they'll come eventually.
Before I go, I wanted to answer one question which was asked while I was in the process of finalizing this chapter.
Why haven't the auxiliaries been folded into the regulars?
Quite simply it's a matter not having the time to reorganize and retrain their men.
The auxiliaries were created by Chaucer back all the way when Italica had been freshly conquered and the French wanted to limit the spread of their technology. Since then, Ney's force has been constantly campaigning and on the move, from Italica to Castle Tubet to all over Elbe, back to Tubet then around Italica and finally to Sadera and Proptor. In all that campaigning, there hasn't been a moment for the Third Corps to settle down and reorganize their forces. The only times they've been stationary for long periods of time have been in Janku and during the Siege of Italica. However in Janku, they were confined to their barracks and thus couldn't retrain anyone, and during the siege, Ney expected Zorzal to be marching at him at any moment, so they couldn't afford to reorganize in the face of an immediate threat.
While the regulars have taken casualties, it's never been in such a substantial number than required any major reorganization. As such, there hasn't been a great need to replace them. Additionally, they wouldn't have enough equipment to reequip a large number of auxiliaries, so it's not a massive deficiency if they fail to fully utilize their available muskets. To reequip auxiliaries would require them to be retrained, reorganized, and reacclimated to their new situation. If Ney's force had a decent period of time where they didn't need to be somewhere immediately, it might be feasible to retrain a few companies of auxiliaries as regulars. But as it is, they haven't had time to reorganize like that, and there hasn't been a great enough need to force that.
I like this question because it's something I had always just assumed was obvious but in retrospect really isn't. It's also something I don't directly address in my chapters, hence the confusion. I don't generally answer questions (there's too many of them, and my authors notes are long enough), but I felt this was important to answer.
