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  "Boy, you have no say in this," Catullus said. "You are nothing but an ambassador."

  "I am a representative of my government," Vincent replied. "They'll back any decision I make here.

  "And besides," he said, a thin smile lighting his features, "since I am married to the daughter of the president, he'll have to back me in anything I do, even shooting you as a traitor if I should feel like it."

  His gaze locked on Catullus as he casually reached down and unsnapped his holster flap, exposing the butt of his pistol.

  Stunned, Catullus looked around for support.

  "This is an outrage against the body of the Senate," Petronius shouted.

  "I see only six senators here," Marcus retorted. "Now if there is nothing else, I want you out of my sight."

  The six looked at each other, as if something had yet to be done. Vincent stepped forward to stand by Marcus's side, hand still on his pistol. Dimitri came up to join him, leaning against the battlement wall with his musket pointed casually toward the ground.

  "It's not finished," Petronius snarled, and turning, he stalked down the steps of the battlement, the others following behind him.

  "I don't know a word of what you folks said," Dimitri drawled out with a smile, "but I think they were planning to kill Marcus."

  "What did he say?" Marcus asked, exhaling slowly as he turned away.

  "Assassination, sir."

  "They wouldn't dare," Marcus said with a cold laugh.

  "Et tu, Brutus," Vincent replied evenly.

  "Who's Brutus?"

  "I'll tell you sometime," Vincent said. "But from now on I'm assigning ten of my best men as your personal bodyguard."

  "It wouldn't look good, your men protecting me. Besides, they're only six out of twenty. Four senators are out on their estates, but the rest will support me. If they tried to kill me the other senators would bring them down. Never has a first consul been killed."

  "There's always a first time," Vincent said, a note of irony in his voice.

  "They're going back to the Senate right now," Marcus said. "I should be there and speak first to announce your father's promise. It'll stiffen the backs of the others."

  "It sounds like an excellent idea," Vincent replied and then looked over to Dimitri.

  "Pick out a detail. Put Boris in charge—he's got a level head on his shoulders. Tell him if anyone makes a threatening move on Marcus to shoot the man dead."

  "Right away, sir," Dimitri said with a smile and a salute. He raced down the stairs.

  Marcus started to form a protest, but the look of determination in Vincent's eyes cut it off.

  "All right, then," and with a smile he turned to start down the stairs. Pausing, he looked back at Vincent.

  "There was a clear threat in that telegram. Petronius was right in that, you know."

  "I don't see it that way at all," Vincent replied evenly.

  "Well, he'd better be here, or there'll be hell to pay," Marcus replied, and he continued down the stairs.

  Vincent turned away and leaned over the battlement to survey the Cartha lines, bathed in the last glow of evening. The western horizon was awash with a red shimmering glow. Vincent felt he could never tire of the sunsets on this world, the large red sun shifting the twilight sky into a swirling pastel of light.

  Well, he had learned another skill of being an ambassador today—to lie convincingly. It had taken him a moment to read between the lines, while Petronius and all the others had realized it at once. Kal had made it all too clear that if they surrendered there'd be hell to pay. He could see the military logic of forcing Roum to stay on their side. If Roum should turn, there'd be the potential of an implacable foe on the eastern border, killing the hope of Manifest Destiny before it had truly started. The world of humans would be divided, and in the end the Tugars, the Merki, any one of the hordes would exploit it and bring Rus to its knees.

  They had to keep Marcus in power, and Vincent realized that he was now the broker of that power. The sacrifice of the 5th and his own actions on the field had touched Marcus; something in the man had changed. His deliberate line about Rus preventing any form of revolution had apparently closed the deal. He could only hope now that the promise would not come to haunt him if Marcus should later prove obstinate regarding any hope of change. It would be a fine balancing act now, yet another burden on top of the enigma of what Tobias had done here today.

  A snap of light flashed from the hill, followed almost immediately by a second.

  "Son of a bitch," Vincent whispered.

  The seconds passed, and as the distant boom of the two heavy guns rolled across the city a high piercing shriek filled the air. A geyser of dirt rose up in front of the wall a hundred yards to his left. At the same instant a bone-numbing shock ran through the battlements, and leaning over, Vincent saw a section of wall half a dozen feet across rise into the air in a cloud of dust and shattered stone.

  Shouts of panic echoed along the battlements, echoed by the distant cheers of the Cartha.

  "He'd damn well better get here in eight days," Dimitri shouted, coming up to rejoin Vincent.

  "We hold until relieved," Vincent said reassuringly, looking over at the old man beside him. He could see Dimitri take some strength from his words. How strange, he thought. This morning I was sobbing in his arms and now he's looking to me for strength.

  Gradually the shouts died away and the field was silent.

  "You know, it's curious," Dimitri said. "This whole thing."

  "How's that?"

  "They had us by the throat, and then let us escape."

  Vincent nodded in agreement.

  "And the telegram, sir. Their forces crossed the telegraph line hours ago. But they didn't cut it till that last message came back in. You'd think they would have dropped those lines the moment they got to them and kept both us and the president in the dark about what was going on."

  "You know, I never thought about that," Vincent replied. Yet another piece that did not fit. Hans had told him that half the secret of victory was to be inside the mind of your enemy, to think like him, to live and sleep inside his mind.

  Vincent raised his telescope one more time to survey the enemy line in the gathering twilight. For a brief moment he thought he saw a man dressed in blue standing beside the two heavy guns, but in the last light of evening he could not tell.

  "Just what the hell is Cromwell up to?" Vincent said quietly, and with a sigh he turned away and started down the line to inspect the damage and to reassure the frightened soldiers of the legion.

  Tobias Cromwell stepped away from the guns and looked down at the piece of parchment in his hand. Most of the message was garbled—the one member of his crew who could read Rus Morse code was far too slow to get it all down. But the intent was clear.

  A cold smile of delight crossed his features.

  Chapter Six

  "Andrew, it's time to wake up."

  Ever so gently, she leaned over and kissed his brow. He stirred, mumbled something, and then rolled over.

  I never thought I'd go through this again, Kathleen thought. But there was another part of her that had always known there'd be an endless cycle of this as long as he lived.

  There were moments, such as now, when she quietly cursed herself for ever falling in love with him. War had been a near-constant companion of her life for over seven years, the only respite the brief interlude between the end of the Tugar war and now. But even that brief period, she realized, had always carried the threat. The feverish building, the drive to forge an alliance with Roum, the defensive lines off to the southwest. He was away more than he was home, and on every return he seemed to have aged just a bit more from the strain.

  She ran her fingers through his hair, noticing the first streaks of gray along the temples.

  And now he was off again. Would the nightmares come back to him because of this? Would he even come back at all this time? A shot of pain stirred through her, and absently she let her hand drift
to her stomach. Well, he at least was certainly awake and kicking.

  The distant call of a trumpet echoed up from the village green. The army was mobilized again, the old military routine intruding back into all their lives.

  "Come on, Andrew, it's reveille."

  His eyes opened, and she felt a brief stab of anger. The call of a bugle could bring him instantly awake, something she could not do.

  "It's time already?" he asked, yawning and blinking the sleep out of his eyes.

  Fumbling for his glasses on the night table, he looked over at the clock.

  "Dammit, it's already four o'clock. You know I wanted to get up an hour ago."

  "You needed your sleep," Kathleen replied forcefully. "It's going to be a long day."

  He looked over at her crossly, but saw in her eyes there was no sense in arguing.

  "I already told your orderly you'd be late," she replied with a huff. "You're not expected till four-thirty."

  A faint smile crossed her features as she snuggled close to him, pressing her body tight against his side.

  "We do have a half hour," she whispered.

  "But the baby," he whispered, while at the same time looking back over at the clock.

  "I might not see you again for months"—or maybe never, she thought to herself. Her hands drifted down his side.

  "The baby," Andrew asked, as if suddenly caught in a struggle.

  "Just be very gentle and he'll never know the difference."

  "Regiment, atten-shun!"

  Andrew stepped off the front porch of his house and out past the picket fence. The 35th was drawn up on the village green, battle flags hanging limply in the red light of dawn. The air was cool, washed by the thunderstorm that had passed through during the night. Birds chirped, and Andrew looked up for a moment. They were a breed peculiar to this world, looking to him like cardinals streaked with a broad band of shimmering indigo. Their call was a curious harmonic blend, each bird following the song of its companions in another key. It had a bright airy feel to it. In the distance he could hear the man-made counterpoint to their song, the distant cries of the train whistles and the deep rumbling of rolling stock.

  The 3rd Suzdal, the first regiment out, part of Kindred's division, would be leaving in fifteen minutes. It was time to get down to the station.

  With a brisk vigorous pace, Andrew walked down the line. Many of the faces were Rus. Well over a third of the old veterans of the 35th were gone now, buried in the old military cemetery down by the abandoned ruins of Fort Lincoln or resting in some unknown grave between here and the ford. Another third were elsewhere this morning, in command positions with the Rus army, or like Webster on permanent leave as government officials. But those who were left were the old solid core of an elite unit, their pride obviously passed to the new recruits who had filled out the ranks, eager to serve as Yankees, happy to be privates when more than one could have been an officer in another unit. In many ways the 35th was the West Point of this world, the only unit in the entire republic that stayed as an active military formation and drilled year-round, exempt from the labors the rest of the troops were involved in.

  Stopping before the colors, Andrew snapped off a sharp salute. An orderly came up to his side holding Mercury's reins. Andrew gave his old companion an affectionate pat, and reaching out with his one hand he grabbed hold of the pommel and swung himself into the saddle, the orderly passing the reins up.

  Shouted commands echoed down the line as Andrew gave Mercury a gentle nudge. Drums flourished, the fifers picking up the song, and he smiled inwardly at their choice for this morning as the six hundred men burst into the opening stanza of "The Girl I Left Behind Me."

  "The hour was sad, I left the maid, a lingering farewell taking,

  Her sighs and tears my steps delay'd, I thought her heart was breaking.

  In hurried words her name I bless'd, I breathed the vows that bind me,

  And to my heart in anguish press'd the girl I left behind me."

  The Rus, with their love of harmony, especially basses, wove the song into a strange romantic mystical web. The glory of war had deserted him long before, but for a brief instant it came rushing back to him, the leavetaking at dawn, the drums, the steady rhythmic tramp of the men behind him.

  Andrew cantered past his house, the side of the road lined with the families of the 35th. With a flourish he pulled out his sword and saluted Kathleen, who stood on the porch of their saltbox-style house, complete to the white picket fence, a wonderful touch of Maine in this faraway place. He reined in for a moment, looking at her wrapped in a flowing robe, her pregnancy showing, her features flushed with a warm glow.

  With a smile he nodded, urging Mercury into a canter, and continued on down the street. Reaching the Methodist church at the comer, the regiment turned right into Gettysburg Street, named like the old company street back in Fort Lincoln for one of the regiment's proudest moments, and started up the hill. For two more blocks they passed through the area of the city commonly known as Yankee Town by the Rus, the street lined with clapboard houses, most of them still modest single-story saltboxes and Cape Cods, though more than one of the men was planning a proper Victorian when the frenzied pace of industrialization had died off and labor wasn't so strictly allocated to essential needs.

  A broad open boulevard marked the end of their village; the other side of the street was lined with the traditional Rus log homes. The streets were crowded with families watching the regiment pass. Most all the men who had been mobilized had reported down to the rail yards hours ago, their families staying behind to avoid the mad chaotic crush.

  The drums thundered and echoed down the street, the men finishing their first song and shifting to the unofficial anthem of the army, "The Battle Cry of Freedom."

  The great square of the city was before him, packed with the people of Suzdal. Four regiments were drawn up before the cathedral, the first brigade of the old first division. On their shoulders burnished muskets were poised; heavy blanket rolls draped over their left shoulders. Haversacks were crammed to overflowing with eight days of rations. Cartridge boxes and pockets were filled with a hundred rounds per man. Their baggy white tunics and trousers were a sad comparison to the blue uniforms of the 35th, but the men looked lean and tough from the hard labor of the mills.

  The old veterans of the Tugar war looked proud at the approach of their commander.

  Hans rode out in front of the formation, with Kindred, the division commander at his side. Both still wore their old Union Army uniforms.

  As Andrew drew closer, Kindred turned to face his unit.

  "Brigade, atten-shun! Present arms!"

  As one the twenty-five hundred men raised up their muskets, the sound of hands striking wood and metal echoing through the plaza.

  Andrew raised his sword, returning the salute of the brigade. Riding alone at the head of the column, Andrew sat upon Mercury, his eyes deep-set behind the thin wire-framed glasses, his features stern.

  "What the hell do I need with a book-learning professor?" his regimental commander had once said on the day he reported to the 35th, an awkward, confused lieutenant who until a week before had been teaching history at Bowdoin College.

  The memory of that moment forced a smile to his features. What would old Estes say to all of this now? For a brief moment he let the inner tension, the anxieties that had ruled his every waking moment since he had first come to this world, drift away.

  There are moments like this that make it all worth it, he thought.

  Hans swung his mount in to ride by Andrew's side. The two looked at each other for an instant. No words needed to be said, for both understood what the moment had stirred. War, which they knew as only those who had fought in it ever could, was sweeping them into its dreadful maw once again. But here, for this brief instant, what they had created from nothing could show its grandeur as well. Riding past the center of the square, Andrew turned to ride straight at the cathedral, where a platform had been
raised upon the front steps. Upon the platform stood Kal, dressed in his presidential best of stovepipe hat, black jacket, and baggy black trousers, with Casmar by his side. The sight of his old friend sporting chin whiskers and wearing Lincolnesque clothes almost forced a smile. But there was a sad solemnness to Kal, and Andrew felt a moment of cold chill. The man seemed this morning to radiate a quality of troubled sorrow that stabbed Andrew's heart. He slowed for a moment and with solemn formality saluted a man who though a friend was also his president.

  "God watch over you, my friend," Kal said, his voice echoing over the plaza. Andrew was stunned to see tears in the man's eyes.

  Casmar raised up his hand, holding a branch dripping with water, and with solemn dignity made the sign of cross, the droplets sprinkling over Andrew.

  The tableau held but for a moment, and with a gentle nudge Andrew urged Mercury forward, riding across the front of the cathedral and turning down the road to the main gate.

  The tramping cadence of the regiments echoed down the street. The deep shadows of the street were suddenly pierced by shafts of red light from the rising sun directly in front of him. Back in the square the Rus regiments broke into "The Battle Hymn of the Republic," singing it in their own language, which seemed to add a deep richness to the words.

  Andrew turned to look back. The sunlight reflected with a dazzling brilliance off the thousands of bayonet-tipped muskets so that the street seemed to be awash with a swaying column of fire.

  Hans caught his look and turned as well. Finally the old sergeant looked back at him, his face filled with awe.

  "And to think we helped to create this," Hans whispered.

  "As Lee said," Andrew replied, "it is good war is so terrible, else we would grow too fond of it."

  The troops continued down the road, passing under the main gate and out into the rail yard.

  The orderly column behind him was a marked counterpoint to what appeared to be a mass sea of confusion. Every inch of track along the sidings was jammed with railcars of every description, most of them packed to overflowing, with men sprawled on the roofs of boxcars, sitting atop wood tenders, some of them piled into hopper cars, which Andrew could already see would be sheer torture to ride in.