“And how will I make repayment to the Zakais?” Gratus said, struggling to keep a wheedling tone from his reply.
“That is not the concern of the tetrarch.”
“I will send a runner in the morning,” Gratus said in a small, child’s voice and sank back on his couch.
“You will send a runner now. Followed by soldiers to meet the returning caravan in order to escort them safely back to their families under the fullest protection of the Roman eagle that you can provide.”
This Channah turned then on his heel and insolently departed the prefect’s office without a word of farewell.
Gratus lounged on his couch, bathed in sweat. He looked up to note that the envoy’s two servants remained behind. They stood as silent witnesses to ensure that the prefect made good on his promise. His thoughts whirled as he struggled to retrieve the name of his acting lictor.
“Titus!” he bawled out at last.
“Tuccius, sir!” The lictor quavered as he appeared in the doorway between the glowering assassins.
“Call for a runner! A fast one! Two runners!”
36
The Human Storm
The House Villeneuve was in turmoil.
Young Jeannot had not returned from his journey onto the streets the night before. By the early dawn hours, there was no word of his whereabouts. Mme. Villeneuve would not normally have been concerned since the boy had spent many nights out drinking with his friends. But he left the house after curfew and might have been taken by the guard. They were not known for their gentle treatment of violators.
That was the least horrific of the possible fates her son might have suffered. The Prussian bombardment continued through the night, shells landing within the city, demolishing buildings and gouging craters in the streets. Jeannot could have been injured or even killed by a random explosive. Even now he could be lying dead in a gutter or dying on a filthy hospital cot.
“You cannot blame yourself,” Caroline assured her. “He is a grown man. You could not forbid him from leaving.”
“The feelings you have for your infant son will not abate as he grows older,” Mme. Villeneuve said as she sipped a cup of chicory fortified with brandy.
“I do not presume. I only beg you to be easy on yourself. Jeannot was probably prevented from returning home for any number of innocuous reasons.”
“Perhaps you are right.” The widow smiled at the baby sleeping in her guest’s arms. “I know that you are being kind. But a mother’s worry cannot be assuaged.” Cause for her worry grew more urgent as the sound of shouts reached them from the street outside. They rose from a muffled grumble to a loud clamor of voices clearly heard even through the shutters and thick drapes covering the windows.
Caroline parted the drapes to look out the windows facing Avenue Bosquet. Men were marching down the street in ragged ranks through the morning mist. There were uniformed soldiers dotted among them, but the file was mostly men in civilian clothing. Some wore banners tied across their chests, others had ribbons pinned to their coats or knotted about their sleeves. There were flags being waved, and most of the men were armed. Some shouldered rifles or shotguns, others carried pikes or axes or mallets.
They shouted for more men to join them. They sang a cacophony of different songs with no real attempt to share a common key or tune. This was a boisterous crowd of men, most of whom appeared drunk, if not on spirits then with some sort of uniting fervor of purpose. The noise of the crowd drowned out even the insistent pounding of cannon fire from the streets beyond. The cobbles and walks were littered with sheets of paper. Some of the men waved them in their hands or threw them into the air to fall on the heads of the marching mob like confetti.
All along the sidewalks and the median that ran down the center of the avenue, crowds stood and cheered encouragement. Some women waved hankies and wept, while others laughed as they called out encouragement to the passing columns. Other women even walked with the men, and a few were held upon the shoulders of marchers. A few bared their breasts to the cold air as though to officially stamp the procession as purely French in nature. Old men waved flags. Children stood in mute wonder. This was not a celebration or a parade or a protest. These men were marching to battle.
Caroline reported what she saw to her hostess, who sent the manservant Claude out onto the street to investigate. He returned a few moments later with one of the printed broadsheets in hand. The sleeve of his coat had been parted from his shoulder. He explained that some of the men had tried to draft him into their ranks. He assured his mistress that he had no intention of leaving her service, and so forcibly resisted their invitations. Caroline wondered how many of those men were capable of continuing their march after their encounter with the imposing Claude.
Mme. Villeneuve read the printed notice with dismay. It was a call to arms for all able-bodied Frenchmen to join le sortie torrentiale to break the Prussian siege. In the most inflammatory language a fevered mind could imagine, the handbill urged the men of Paris to take up weapons and join the fight. It promised that each man would be a hero eternal to the empire and any who did not heed the call would be thought cowards and worse.
The seals of the city’s most prominent clubs appeared at the bottom along with the embossed seal of the city itself and the bold signature of Jules Ferry, the mayor of Paris and commander of the National Guard.
Jeannot’s words of the evening before were not idle musings. The government of the city and its citizens had been clamoring for an organized uprising for weeks. It became the cause of the day.
