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 Fürstin!
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 . . .”