Fact one. We whipped Emperor Ferdinand at Breitenfeld.
Fact two. You ran like dogs.
Fact three. You've got ten minutes to get out of here. Five, if I don't see your tails between your legs. Now.
When the loudspeakers went into operation, Mike shoved Wilhelm toward the microphone.
"I need a break. You're on, buddy."
Wilhelm stared at the microphone much like a rabbit staring at a serpent. "What do I say? I don't know-I've never-"
"Piece of cake, Wilhelm. Just give a campaign speech. But, ah, one word of advice."
"Yes." Wilhelm stared at him. Mike grinned.
"Don't run against me. Not today. You can save that for the election. Today, you're campaigning against the princes."
Still staring. "What election?"
"The one I'm going to swap a horse with the emperor for. I'll have it by the end of the day tomorrow, I think. Maybe sooner. Gustav's a decisive man, and I do believe the cardinal and the princes, between them, have really and seriously and genuinely pissed him off. The stupid bastards."
Still staring. But Mike's grin never faded. It wouldn't have, even if he weren't on Europe's greatest stage.
"I think it's time the CPE had an actual government. Don't you, Wilhelm?" He jerked a thumb at the palace behind them. "Instead of this silly playpen for princes."
Wilhelm's eyes closed. A little smile came to his lips. "Ah. Yes, actually." His eyes reopened, and this time did not seem confused and uncertain at all. "Yes, indeed."
It took the former duke a bit of time to learn how to speak into a microphone. But not much, really, given his unfamiliarity with the device. And once he began talking, the words themselves flowed easily enough. By the time he was done, in fact, he was bordering on Mike's own brand of full-bore rhetoric.
Only bordering on it, to be sure. But it was a border, now, not a frontier.
Mary Simpson never spoke at all, that day. Mike, seeing the sheer terror that held her almost paralyzed, did not press the issue. It was enough, really, that she was standing there on the steps in full view of the crowd. The American Lady. Wife of the Admiral, who commands the ironclads. Our ironclads.
And, of course, managing that superb professional smile. Mike suspected that Mary Simpson, if condemned to Hell itself, could greet Satan with it.
Besides, Gramma Richter could hold the fort. Which she did, in her own splendid tough-old-biddy manner. By the time Veronica was finished speaking, the crowd had settled down completely. They wouldn't have dared do otherwise.
She was done shortly after noon. Mike took another stint at the microphone. By now, he estimated the size of the crowd at somewhere in the vicinity of forty thousand people. Between thirty and fifty thousand, at any rate. The entire population of Magdeburg, for all practical purposes-along with, by that time of the day, a number of people pouring in from the nearby countryside.
But it was really impossible to get a very accurate count, even though Mike knew the rule-of-thumb methods for doing so. He'd organized rallies himself, in times past, not simply been a participant in them. The problem was twofold.
First, the crowd was simply too large to fit into the square. It spilled down all three of the major avenues, as well, as far as Mike could see.
Second-this he saw with pure relief-the crowd was beginning to circulate. People were leaving as well as coming in. And almost all of them going in one direction-toward the naval yard.
He recognized that phenomenon, also. He'd seen it often enough, in another universe. Working men with families-and Magdeburg was by now the most plebeian city in all of Germany, even including Grantville-do not come to large political rallies very often. Quite unlike students and footloose young people, in that respect. And, when they do, they often bring their families.
To see the capital of their country, as much as to petition for a redress of grievances. Because that was how they saw it, however much or little that image might correspond to reality. Their capital, of their country; which they had built-and they had died for.
So, often enough at mass rallies in Washington, D.C., Mike had seen men and women and children go wandering off after a time from the speeches and the waving banners. Just to go, as a family, and admire the Washington monument or the Lincoln Memorial or the Smithsonian.
Magdeburg had no such things, except the palace of a still-alien emperor and… the U.S. Navy yard.
Not yet.
Mike was standing next to Mary, while Spartacus took a turn at the microphone. He leaned over and spoke softly into her ear.
"You know any good architects?"
"No. But… just two days ago, the landgravine-Amalie, I mean, Hesse-Kassel's wife-was telling me-"
"Never mind the details. Find a good one, Mary. We need a great big monument right smack in the middle of this square. Something like… I dunno, maybe-"
"Nelson's column? In Trafalgar Square?"
"Sounds good to me. I saw a picture of it once, on a postcard. And then get a good sculptor to do a bronze statue of Hans Richter for the top of it. A big statue."
Mary's smile had some actual life in it now. Mike himself was grinning widely, as he had been all day. Professional expressions, the both of them. But still heartfelt.
"Yup," said Mike. "Can't have a Hans Richter Square without a Hans Richter monument."
Mary's eyes widened. "I think they already named it Vasa Square. I know for sure the biggest avenue is named Gustavstrasse."
"Not by tomorrow. Day after at the latest. Gustav can keep the street. I'm not greedy. Gustavstrasse it is. But the square doesn't belong to him. Not anymore."
Mary's eyes widened still further. "Do you really think you can take it from him?"
"Me? Hell, no. But Hans Richter can. You watch."
Then, in mid-afternoon, Mike heard the sound that announced victory. Victory for this battle, at least. Victory sure and certain.
Within a few seconds, no one in the crowd was looking at the palace or the speakers standing on the steps before it. All heads were turned up, craning to see the sky. By the time the Belle II passed over the square, the giant crowd had erupted in sheer, frenzied enthusiasm. All traces of fury vanished in that ear-smashing wave of sound. Bitterness washed away by the tide of victory; vengeance dissolved by triumph in full flood.
Not gone. Simply… dissolved. Diluted enough, now, not to be toxic. And leaving behind a salted ocean of human will and energy, surging with glorious strength.
Come nightfall, Mike would begin using that strength to reap the fruits of this new victory. But at that moment, in the mid-afternoon sun, he bent his head for the first time that day. The grin disappeared for a time, and he closed his eyes. Even allowed a few tears to come, remembering young men he had once known and would always treasure.
The blood of heroes which had made it all possible. A boy who had learned to fly-and, once again this day, had been the steel angel protecting his people.
The seal was placed on the victory less than an hour later, when Sharon and Jesse finally arrived in the square. There was no need for the small squad of Marines who accompanied them, in flashy dress uniform, to clear a path. The crowd parted before them, as if directed by a single will.
Mike was amused, at first. Moses couldn't have done it better. But then, hearing the new chants going up from the crowd as Jesse and Sharon moved through it, he understood the truth. This was no prophet, using God's power to part the sea. This was the will of the crowd itself, greeting its own new nobility. An informal aristocracy they had chosen.