“I had to, if I wanted to come with you. I’m not going back to Nizza. I was thinking I could have a medical station.”

He wiped a tired hand over his face. “All right.”

As we progressed toward Rome we picked up every able-bodied person we could, but it still wasn’t enough. Our numbers, all dressed in red, totaled only 6,300.

“It’s not enough,” Medici warned as we prepared to leave for the city. “The French still have seven thousand plus a full battalion of field guns. I know the French general, Oudinot, will take advantage of every opportunity he can.”

“Oudinot is cocky,” José said. “He believes the Italians can’t fight, and that’s where he’s wrong. We’ll surprise him with our strength.”

Medici opened his mouth to argue, but a young man spoke up. “Perhaps I can be of assistance.”

José and Medici turned to this boy, who stood before them in an old blue coat that was too long in the arms. He pushed back the sandy blond hair that fell over his face. “And who are you?” José asked with his hand on his sword.

“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.