“Angelo Puglisi. I’m the commander of the student brigade.”

“Commander?” Medici let out a burst of a laugh. “You have barely left your mother’s breast. How old are you?”

Puglisi stiffened. “Eighteen, sir.”

“Eighteen,” Medici repeated. “This is not a game, child. Go back to your toy soldiers.”

“We weren’t treated like children when we rebelled against King Ferdinand. Trust me, Lieutenant Colonel Medici, this is not the first war we’ve seen,” Puglisi insisted. “I brought with me one thousand lancers. We are all students from Sicily.”

José grinned as he clapped Medici on the back. “Rome is going to be ours.”

* * *

My small garrison, made up of Redshirts who had followed us to Italy from Montevideo, made its way to Rome to set up our makeshift hospital. We crested the hill, and I saw Rome spread out before me.

Over the years I had heard a number of stories about this city from José. He called it the most beautiful place in all the world, and from our vantage point I could see why. New buildings pressed in on ancient ruins while giant domes rose above the clatter of the chaos.

For thousands of years people had built Rome, stone by stone. How many beads of sweat and blood had soaked into its foundations?

To look upon Rome was to know that this city belonged to no one. Not the French. Not the church. Not even us. She was from this land, as natural as the mountains that rose in the north. We were only usurpers destined to be here for a short time. Long after we were gone this city would remain.

I finally understood. If José had to choose—his life or the freedom of Rome—he would choose Rome. As I rode forward with my contingent of medical aides, I knew too that I would make the same choice.

We took up residence in a nearby monastery. Once the home of a martyred saint, it was a simple structure that dated back to ancient Roman times. The monks begged and pleaded for us to go anywhere else. They were a church, not a hospital.

Stepping closer, I placed my hand on the hilt of my sword. “Do you mean to tell me that you would turn away dying people because they don’t bow down to your pope?”

The head monk’s beady eyes narrowed as he took in my baggy, worn-out red shirt tucked into my black pants. “I know who you are,” he whispered. “You’re the woman posing as Giuseppe Garibaldi’s wife. You can’t be here.”

He pulled against the soldiers who gripped his arms. “Please, she can’t be here. She is a blasphemer, a bigamist. The sanctity of this church is compromised by her presence.”

My second-in-command, Orgini, was a broad man who had been with the legion since Montevideo. “Lock the monks in the basement,” he ordered. “We’ll trade them for prisoners of war when this is all over. Oh, and bring up the wine and whatever else you can find. We have a long night ahead of us.”