Fifty

March 1849

For the sake of efficiency, the plan was to recruit as we made our way south to Rome, staying west of Milan and the Austrian forces that still encircled the city. Little white puffs of dandelion seed floated on the lazy summer air that drifted between the people who congregated outside another abandoned castle, of which only the frame remained. Our location sat on a great hill that overlooked an expansive lush valley below. Brilliant hues of green shimmered in the warm sunlight.

A hundred people from the town had shown up to hear what we had to say. They packed in around us with picnic baskets and blankets. Families gathered to see us. I gulped and turned to José.

“Are you sure you want me to speak? These are your people. Won’t they understand you better than me?”

“Tesoro mio, you will be fine,” José said, putting his hands on my shoulders. “The people will love you just like I do.” Tenderly, he kissed my forehead.

“Sir! Sir!” José and I turned to the messenger who was running up to us. “I come with news from Rome.” He paused, trying to catch his breath. “The French have landed. They are in Ostia.”

José cursed. “How many?”

“Seven thousand,” the messenger responded.

“Why?” I asked, looking from José to Paolo. “Why would the French do this?”

“The pope put out a call to all the Catholic nations for assistance,” Paolo answered.

“You know this is only the first wave,” Medici whispered to José. “There are going to be more.”

“This is preposterous!” José began pacing like a caged lion, ignoring everyone around him. “This cannot happen. It has to be the whole peninsula or nothing. We cannot be a country that stands on its own with one of our legs torn out from under us.”

“Do we call it off?” Paolo asked, watching José with uncertainty. “We’ve missed our window. If we attack now, we won’t have enough men. It’s impossible.”

“No. We can’t let the French get a foothold. How many do we have now?” José asked.

“One thousand,” Medici responded. “We’re outnumbered. There is no way we can do this.”

“Then we get more men,” I said, walking to the podium.

A warm breeze rustled through the trees that surrounded us as the sun set in the distance. My eyes scanned the people gathered on the common. They were families in their cleanest clothes, reserved for mass and special occasions, spending their day waiting to hear us speak…to hear me speak.

I cleared my throat. “Buona sera.” I tried to smile. There were twice as many people here as there had been at the café in Genoa.

A small group of children had been playing in front of the stage. When I started to speak, they froze in place, their ball slipping from a boy’s fingers. I leaned down and picked it up.

As the ball passed from my fingertips to the boy, I thought of my own little ones back in Nizza and the future we were building for them. The small child grinned up at me before running back to his family. I smiled. “He is a good, strong boy,” I said to his parents. “Perhaps one day he will play with my children. Maybe they will call each other friends, yes? By the time they meet it won’t matter that your son is from Lombardy and mine is from Piedmont, because by the time they meet we will all be one. We will be Italy.