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.
Der Adler!
That title Mike was familiar with. The other, he was not.
Die Fьrstin!
He understood what the term meant. But-
"Why are they calling Sharon Nichols a princess?" Mary Simpson asked, puzzled.
Mike knew the answer before she'd even finished the question. And knew, as well, that another victory had been won. The beginning of it, at least.
"She's black, Mary. None of them have ever seen a black person before. Not more than a handful, anyway. And we're still a lot closer to the Renaissance, when it comes to the way people see race, than we are to later times. The slave trade's only in its infancy. There hasn't been time yet for that raw racism to take root. So…"
Whatever else might confuse Mary Simpson about her new world, she did know the world's great literature. Backwards and forwards, in fact.
"Othello, you're saying. The Moor. Exotic, mysterious, powerful. Even majestic. Dangerous too, perhaps, but not inferior. Except the sexes are switched, and it ended in a different kind of tragedy. God knows, a much cleaner one."
"Yeah, exactly. And what people do know is that her father is some kind of medical wizard from a foreign and fabled land. Almost a sorcerer, maybe. And-" He took a deep breath, as much to savor the man's memory as to control his grief that it was a memory. "And she was betrothed to Hans Richter. Who else would have been suitable as a bride for Germany's great new folk hero, except a princess? All the better if she's foreign and mysterious and exotic."
For the first time that day, Mike heard a little laugh coming from Mary Simpson. Thinking about it, he realized it was the first time he'd ever heard her laugh. It was a brittle kind of laugh, perhaps. But that, too, he could live with.
"Did anybody ever tell Hans?" she choked out.
Mike's grin was back, and in full measure. "Which Hans? The one we knew-or the one his own people will choose to remember? Not that it makes any difference, really."
He watched, for a moment, as the young woman walking alongside Jesse slowly approached the steps which formed an impromptu speaking platform. Slowly was the word, too. Sharon was not smiling at the crowd, nor responding to their waves with a waving hand of her own. She was in mourning, after all, and no pretense involved in it at all. Still, she was moving in a stately, regal sort of way, nodding her head to acknowledge the crowd. There was a great dignity to the procession, in fact. No queen of Europe could have done it better.
Thinking of queens of Europe reminded Mike that there was one final stone he could place that day. Possibly even a capstone.