12. Chapter 11

Nothing is so important in war as an undivided command.

"Forward march!"

Drums beat out a steady beat, and the Ninth Company lurched forward from its standing position. They marched to the drums, packed tight into their formation shoulder to shoulder so that the men were forced forward as one. The breached walls of Italica loomed in the distance while men struggled to keep the line straight.

Jacques Duclos- Captain Jacques Duclos- kept pace in front of the company, inspecting their performance. They were in a field just outside of Italica doing what all good soldiers did, drilling. Marshal Ney had issued orders the previous week for regular drills to resume, and Jacques did not intend to fail his new position as captain of the company. So, for the past week, Jacques had led his company out of Italica's walls to practice maneuvers, formations, and firing drills for six hours each day.

The other captains of the Third Battalion were… less adamant about the Marshal's orders. Drilling was never a popular thing, and they preferred to only do basic drills for an hour or so each morning. As a result, the Third Battalion would come out together in the morning to practice shifting from column to line, forming a battalion square, and then fire a few volleys at the end. Then the rest of the battalion would march back into barracks, and the Ninth Company would continue on practicing.

It was unrelenting. They did bayonet drills against hanging sacks of grain and musketry practice on scarecrows requisitioned from nearby farms. They practiced ordinary pace marching, accelerated pace marching, charge pace marching, and marching at a run on both even and uneven ground. Jacques made them rehearse skirmishing; dividing the company into three sections then sending the front two ranks of the flanking sections out in loose order while the rest remained in reserve. He even had them go over oblique marching and wheeling the company left and right all the while maintaining a cohesive line.

Jacques gained no love from the men for all this; they grumbled incessantly about their 'unfair' treatment. But he didn't care. He would not fail as a captain. He could not fail.

The company approached a patch of uneven ground, and the line became less than perfect. Men stumbled and sections lagged behind. Immediately, Sergeant Astier and Sergeant Vidal stepped out in front and held their muskets parallel to the line, using them like staffs. Their muskets became tools to straighten out the company. Astier was rough with his, violently shoving men back into line while spitting curses. Vidal, by contrast, used hers more as a guideline for the men to follow. Soon the line was back straight again, and the sergeants returned to their positions.

"Halt!" Jacques shouted, and the drummers quickly beat out his new order.

The company came to a stop only seconds later. He looked them over; they were tired. Most had beads of sweat running down their face, a testament to their hard work. The sun burned down on them. Some swayed back and forth, only kept standing by the tight ranks which did not permit falling. His sergeants were tired too. He saw it on their faces, though they did a better job at hiding it than the others.

In front of them was their destination, an abandoned farmhouse that was once the home of the farmer whose fields they were parading on. The building was a bit run down, but it was still standing and the roof was intact. Most importantly, it had a stone well that hadn't run dry yet. Jacques was hard on the men; he wasn't cruel.

"You have thirty minutes!" he barked. "Dismissed!"

The line came apart in an instant. Many men ran for the well with newfound vigor. Others went for the farmhouse and its cool shade. Some just dropped where they stood. Vidal and Astier approached Jacques together.

"They're getting better," Astier commented. "I only had to yell at two of them this morning. The line's becoming nice and straight, right out of a parade."

Vidal nodded in agreement. "We've got a decent amount of them up to four shots a minute, and they can all hit reliably at a hundred yards."

"Bayonet drills are coming along well, too," Astier added. "Keep it up and we'll be able to match the Guard."

Jacques snorted; as if they'd ever be on par with the Imperial Guard. "Good," he said. "I don't want to be caught unprepared for anything." He looked his sergeants over again. "You two get some rest as well. I'd be hard pressed to replace either of you."

Vidal gained a mirth smile. "I'm sure you'd find someone. Corporal Laurent's turning out fine. Corporal Malet as well. Certainly better than the…" she coughed, "...other corporals in this company."

"Laurent and Malet haven't got shit on Boulet or Flandin," Astier immediately retorted. "Yours are too soft. I've got real men for corporals."

When Jacques was made captain, he'd naturally promoted Astier and Vidal to be his sergeants. Of course that meant he also needed new corporals, so he had them each choose two men they deemed suitable. Laurent and Malet were Vidal's picks for corporals. Boulet and Flandin were Astier's.

Vidal made a face. "Maybe if you want rabid dogs to..."

She was cut off by the rapidly growing sound of marching. Jacques turned his head and swore. His company wasn't the only body of men practicing their drills, merely the only French one. Out in the field was a battalion of auxiliaries, split up into companies, practicing independent marching.

One of the auxiliary companies was coming toward the farmhouse.

"Damned auxies," Astier spat. "Worthless shits."

The rest of the Ninth Company had begun to notice the auxiliaries approaching as well, and they abandoned their resting spots to form up in a group in front of the farmhouse. Some, Jacques noted, had their muskets in hand.

Whoever was commanding the auxiliary company clearly wasn't interested in avoiding confrontation. They kept on, marching over the same ground the Ninth had gone over minutes ago.

"Watch this," Astier muttered to Vidal as the auxiliaries marched at them.

They reached the patch of uneven ground that had troubled the Ninth before. However, whereas the Ninth had managed it with only a slight disruption in their line, the auxiliaries found the ground much more troublesome. Three men soon tripped, falling on their faces. The men behind them tried to avoid trampling their fellows, and as a result they pushed back into their formation, causing more men to fall over. Those men in turn caused others to repeat the process which quickly spread through their formation.

Jacques watched the auxiliaries disintegrate into a mob as chaos grew. Their Elban sergeants and German officers tried to restore order, but the damage was done. Several auxiliaries were face first in the dirt, and the rest were tangled in a mess of pikes and limbs.

The Ninth Company saw it all, naturally, and they laughed at them. Everyone, except Jacques, managed a hearty chuckle at the mess before them. Some shouted 'advice' at the Saderans and elicited more laughter from the French.

Jacques heard rapid bursts of angry German then saw some of the auxiliaries, ones who had untangled themselves from the mob, approaching his men.

"Spread word, if this gets out of hand, the whole company is doing four more hours of drill," he muttered to Astier.

"Right, Captain."

The auxiliaries came to the farmhouse red in the face. "Shit you tattercoat!" one shouted at Jacques's men in very heavily accented French.

"Oraputide spurcifer!" one of Jacques's men replied in very heavily accented Saderan.

The Saderan said something very rapidly that Jacques couldn't quite understand. He did hear the word 'tattercoat' again.

"Who're you calling tattercoat?!" Jacques's man yelled.

"You! You not bluecoat! You tattercoat!" The Saderan spat back in semi-passable French.

The Saderan wasn't wrong. The Ninth Company, a company drawn from stragglers, was a hodgepodge of different uniforms. Most still had insignia from their old regiments, some wore bits of scavenged Russian kit, and a select few didn't even have French uniforms; instead wearing Italian, German, or Polish coats. Jacques himself didn't even have a proper officer's uniform; he was still using his old one. There was nothing uniform about their 'uniforms' and the issue had gone unaddressed for quite some time. It was a sensitive topic for the former stragglers.

"Come say that to my face!" The Frenchman demanded, and he stepped forward with fists formed.

The Saderan was not one to back down.

More auxiliaries untangled themselves from their ruined formation and joined the ones at the farmhouse. Some drew swords, matching Jacques's men who had muskets with bayonets. They ignored the shouting of their Elban sergeants and advanced.

"Get the men back!" Jacques demanded to his sergeants, but it was too late.

The French would not be outdone. They pressed forward to meet the Saderans, and the forces stopped only a few feet away from each other. Both mobs faced off. A cacophony of shouting erupted while Astier and Vidal desperately tried to wrangle men away.

"Roman whore!"

"Stulte!"

"Go fuck a pig, you Saderan shits!"

"Nihil nequius est te!"

"Shit eating auxies!"

"Tattercoats!"

That insult proved too much. The fusilier at the front of the Ninth Company stepped forward and shoved the auxiliary opposing him. The auxiliary fell, and hell broke loose. Instantly, a Saderan slugged the fusilier. That Saderan in turn received a fist to the jaw. The two groups charged into each other, a full blown melee quickly developing. Three fusiliers tackled an auxiliary but then another Saderan charged the fusiliers from the side. To the right, a man dropped his musket to wrestle with another man who sheathed his sword. The center was a chaotic explosion of punches and kicks, blindly thrown at whoever wasn't wearing the right colors. More Saderans piled in from their ruined formation and engaged with eager Frenchmen aiming to prove their nation's worth. Someone was grappling with two auxiliaries and despite that managed to hold them-

Crack.

The men, French and Saderan alike, turned their heads at once. Fighting halted instantly as even men who were in the midst of fierce wrestling stopped at the sudden sound.

Jacques lowered his pistol and glared.

"The Ninth Company will form up immediately!" he bellowed.

Momentary anger faded away, and a wave of fear seemed to wash over the Frenchmen. Men hurried to disengage themselves from the Saderans. Their line began to reform next to Jacques, men running and averting their eyes to avoid the captain's ire.

Jacques took a breath. He pivoted, turning to the stunned auxiliaries. In German, he growled, "Back to your formation!"

They flinched from his words and scampered away like frightened dogs.

He took another breath and pivoted back to his men. "Astier!"

The sergeant stepped forward. "Here, Captain."

"Lead the men forward at accelerated pace. We will be adding an additional four hours to today's drilling!" He said the last part loud enough so everyone in the company would hear it.

"Yes, sir!" Astier snapped. Then he nodded to the drummers, and the company shot forward into the field in a quickened march.

Jacques watched them go for a few moments. He tucked away his pistol back into his uniform. The auxiliaries were still reforming their company when a man in a dark blue Wurttemberger uniform approached him. The man saluted, and Jacques saluted back.

"I must apologize for my men's behavior," the Wurttemberger began. He lifted his helmet ever so slightly off his head. "I am Captain Kapsner, at your service."

Jacques wiped sweat from his face. It was as good a time for reconciliation as ever. "I must apologize for my men too, Captain. The situation got well out of hand." Then, he imitated Kapsner and lifted his shako. "Captain Duclos, at your service as well."

"Well met, Captain Duclos." Then he tilted his head. "Was that German I heard you speak?"

Jacques nodded. "I'm from Strasbourg. My mother taught me."

"Gut." Kapsner nodded. "Sehr gut." The German looked over his shoulder to where the auxiliaries were straightening out their formation. Then he glanced at Jacques's company, still being driven on by Astier. "It is bad business when these things happen. We have enough trouble with the enemy already."

"Your men used to be the enemy," Jacques pointed out.

"Old wounds," Kapsner spat. "They were our enemies one day and our allies the next. It is the way of the world, and we must get used to it."

"Fair enough."

Kapsner looked to his auxiliaries again. "You are punishing your men. Gut, I will punish mine. Then we can be allies again, ja?"

"I doubt the men will see it that way," Jacques shrugged, "but at least they'll be disciplined. Should keep future brawling to a minimum."

"Perhaps we might aspire to ease tensions."

"Not sure how you plan on that."

Kapsner sighed. "Perhaps you are correct, Captain Duclos. I must return to my company. I presume you will do the same."

Jacques nodded, and they both saluted each other again.

It was nearing sunset when the Ninth Company finally finished its extended drilling and returned to their barracks in Italica. The extra punishment had drained them all; men were ready to drop. When they returned, many simply dropped into their bunks and lay there for the next hour.

The usual groans and complaints were present, typical after hours of drilling, but no one dared speak against the auxiliaries. Jacques had made it very clear. No more infighting.

"Morale is low," Vidal said later that night when she, Astier, and Jacques were eating dinner together.

It was a nightly affair for them, Jacques's idea to keep himself updated on the needs of the company. He knew what it was like to serve under an officer who didn't know or didn't care, and Jacques was doing his best to avoid that.

Astier grunted in agreement. "Corporal Flandin says the men think it's unfair they got punished. Since the Saderans started it, of course."

"I believe I saw one of our men throw the first blow," Jacques stated.

"Right," Astier agreed. "But the Saderans started shouting at us first. And they came at us first."

"We were laughing at them," Jacques insisted.

"Their fault. They fucked up their marching." He saw Jacques's expression and raised his hands. "I'm just saying what the men are thinking. According to Flandin at least."

"The Saderans did say some… harsh… words," Vidal pointed out.

Jacques looked her in the eye. "And we were saintly in comparison?"

Astier rubbed his neck. "It's not that, Captain. We can take it just as well as we dish it out, but certain things are a bit of a sore point for the men."

Jacques sighed. "Right. Because we're tattercoats."

Vidal grimaced at the nickname. "The men don't like that we're still so mixed. They were fine with it while campaigning, but with us being in garrison now and the auxiliaries getting kitted out recently, they figured that… you know."

"They want to be a real unit," Astier declared. "Not just a last minute afterthought. The regiment doesn't even have an eagle for God's sake."

"We aren't the prettiest regiment," Jacques admitted.

"Captain, even something small would go a long way," Vidal said.

Astier nodded fervently. "Something to make us seem more professional. I'm not saying we need eagles and ensigns right this moment. Just a bit of uniformity would help. Anything really."

Jacques exhaled and buried his head into his hands. "Right. I'll see what I can do."

The head quartermaster for the 134th Line Regiment used to be one Captain Jean-Pierre Chaucer. However, Jacques hadn't seen Chaucer for a few weeks now. The man had presumably said something to the wrong person and got court martialed. Again. Then reassigned to somewhere less desirable. Again. He really needed to learn how to keep his mouth shut, but that just wasn't in his nature.

The new head quartermaster was Lieutenant Alarie, who'd recently been promoted thanks to Chaucer's disappearance and was now Captain Alarie. The next morning, Jacques went to see Captain Alarie in his office.

"I need money," Jacques opened. "From the clothing fund."

Alarie was a plump man with a roundish face. His office was a small thing with no windows. He sat behind a large desk stacked with papers and was marking something in a long line of columns. "No," he said, not bothering to look up from his papers.

"I need the money. My men need to replace their uniforms," Jacques maintained.

"No," Alarie said again.

"Please, we're wearing rags at this point. Most of my men are using kit they scavenged while in Russia. I still need an officer's uniform. You have to allow us at least something from the clothing fund."

Alarie made a notation on his paper. "No."

Jacques forced himself to remain as calm as he could. "Why not?"

"We don't have any money for the clothing fund," Alarie drawled. "Not enough to go around." He marked something in a column.

"How about the heating fund?" Jacques suggested. "We could use that instead."

"No heating fund," Alarie stated. He shifted his paper to the top of a pile before picking up another.

"Can I borrow on credit?"

"No credit." Another notation.

"Can I get money from the locals?"

"Requisition is restricted to authorized persons only." He marked another column.

"What about pay," Jacques finally asked. "We're all several months in arrears for pay."

Alarie still didn't look up. "Pay is currently limited to officers only."

"I'm an officer," Jacques instantly replied. "I'd like my pay."

The quartermaster finally deigned to look up from his papers. He looked Jacques up and down then stared at him. "Well?"

Jacques tilted his head. "What?"

Alarie rolled his eyes. "Your name and unit."

"Captain Jacques Duclos. Ninth Company, Third Battalion." Jacques resisted adding something glib to the end of that.

Alarie set his quill down and sighed. "Fine. Wait here."

He sorted through a stack of papers, found the one he was looking for, and then went into a side room. Jacques waited patiently for five minutes. Then he waited less patiently for ten minutes and then very impatiently for twenty. His eyes wandered over the papers strewn across Alarie's desk, but Jacques couldn't make out what any of the columns meant. He couldn't hear any sound coming from the room and was beginning to wonder if Alarie was alright in there. Another minute passed and Jacques was preparing to investigate when the quartermaster stepped out of the room.

Alarie set down a small chest onto the table, filled to the top with gold coins. "There's your pay," he stated, then sat down and went back to his papers.

Jacques had to blink to make sure he wasn't dreaming this. "That much?" he asked. "I know it's been months, but that's still more than I thought."

Alarie didn't even look at Jacques when he picked up a note and read, "For 'esteemed service', Marshal Ney has awarded a significant bonus payment to one Captain Jacques Duclos to be paid at the earliest possible interval." He set down the note and went back to his columns.

"Why wasn't I told about this sooner?"

Alarie shrugged.

Jacques, fighting down feelings of indignation, cautiously put one hand on the chest. He fingered a gold coin and found they weren't Francs but rather local Sinku. Alarie was busy with his columns. He put another hand on the chest and tentatively lifted it.

Alarie didn't stop him. So Jacques put the chest into the crook of his arm and turned to leave. "Thank you," he said as an afterthought.

Alarie marked something else down. "Mhmm."

Jacques carried the chest of gold straight to the tailor's street. The sun had already set but many shops were still open, continuing their work through candle light. He entered Lagos's shop, illuminated by an array of lanterns, and found the man hunched over a tunic, taking careful measurements with some sort of device. Jacques set the chest down with a thud.

"Huh?" Lagos turned from his work. "Ah, my French friend. How can I help you? Need another disguise?"

Jacques shook his head.

"Then what-"

"Uniforms," He interrupted. "I need uniforms."

Lagos paused. "Uniforms? French uniforms?"

"Yes, of course French uniforms." Jacques ran a hand through his hair. "Can you do that?"

"I have been meaning to study your foreign clothes," Lagos responded, putting a hand to his chin. "Provide me with some examples and I believe I will be able to replicate them. How many do you want? Five? A dozen?"

"One hundred and fifteen."

Lagos blinked, tilted his head with a tight smile, then blinked again. "One hundred and fifteen," he repeated.

"Yes." Jacques nodded.

"I can't hope to do that by myself," Lagos protested. "It would take months!"

Jacques shrugged. "Can you work with others?"

"And dilute my skilled work?!" Lagos shuddered. "Unthinkable."

"I don't need masterpieces, just the basics."

"But that would be defaming myself! If people find out that I've produced low quality-"

"Please, Lagos. For a friend?" Jacques asked.

The Elban squirmed a tad. His mouth formed a tight line. "Fine. I will… I will prostitute my work for this."

Jacques gave a grateful smile. "I won't need all low quality uniforms. I do need one of them to be more refined than the others."

"Oh?"

"It's for me. It'll look similar to the one I'm wearing now but preferably better fitted and with better material. There's a few differences. I've got an example you can base it off of; it belonged to someone who doesn't need it anymore."

Lagos nodded gently. "A friend?"

"No… Maybe... Yes?" Jacques shrugged. "We weren't particularly close, but I suppose."

"I'll give you my best work. As for the other uniforms," the tailor shuddered, "I will commission several others to work with me. It will not be cheap. You have hard coin?"

Jacques indicated to the chest. "I'm not sure how much it exactly totals to, but it's filled to the brim. I'll give you the entire thing if you get it done in a reasonable time frame."

Lagos was calculating. "I will need to commission a smith to forge the metal bits you French are so fond of. The additional tailors will eat away maybe a quarter of that chest. The seamstresses another quarter of it. Then of course bolts of linen from the Mudwan merchants and wool from the Algunans. Dye for all of it, of course. Gods why do you use blue of all colors? Red is so much cheaper." He looked to the ceiling. "By the gods, I will only barely make a profit on this."

"So can you do it?" Jacques asked.

Lago smiled. "Yes, of course. Was that ever in doubt?" He stroked his chin. "I need maybe two weeks. One week if you're willing to spend that entire chest on extra labor."

"Make it one week. It's my own money, and I need the uniforms fast," Jacques said.

Lagos raised an eyebrow. "Most people spend their money on other things, you know. Your comrades, for example, prefer to spend their money enriching the less reputable women of Italica."

"I've never seen the appeal."

"Married?"

"No."

"You prefer men?"

Jacques paused for a moment. "No," he said slowly.

"Nothing shameful about it," Lagos continued. "Many soldiers find company in each other. You have never tried?"

Jacques was silent.

Lagos shrugged. "Odd." Then, as if nothing had been said, "Ugh, I will need to find a brass smith. Why do you French put brass in your hats? Then I also need felt for those hats. And rope cord for those things on your shoulders..." He made an audible groan. "So difficult."

"You won't need to replace every bit of kit," Jacques reassured. "I'll have someone do a count of exactly what needs to be replaced and send it to you as well as examples for you to replicate."

"What is the use of all this," Lagos moaned, gesturing at various articles on Jacques's uniform. "They serve no purpose!" he protested.

"Tradition," Jacques replied, even though he didn't really know any better than Lagos did. "Tradition and because it looks good."

"Why don't you be sensible and wear armor?" Lagos snapped.

Jacques smiled. "I'll have the details sent to you tomorrow. I'll be off now. You can have it ready in a week?"

Lagos shooed him off with his hand. "Yes, yes. You've given me a small fortune right here. I can have it done in a week, albeit with the help of vastly inferior craftsmen."

"Thank you," Jacques said and then left.

The following morning, the Ninth Company was out drilling again. After another short session with the entire Third Battalion, they were left alone on the field. They had the entire field to themselves for another few hours before their solitude was broken by the uneven marching of the auxiliaries.

Jacques was careful not to bring his men near the auxiliaries. He led them in marches that purposefully avoided the auxiliaries' own marching path, and he could only assume Captain Kapsner was trying his best to do the same. Still, on a few occasions the two bodies of men would come into yelling distance, and some bright young lad on one side or the other would scream his lungs just for the pleasure of insulting their supposed allies. Jacques had Astier and Vidal take down names, but it did little to discourage others from doing the same. Only disciplined marching kept it all from devolving into another brawl.

"We can't keep on like this," Jacques sighed to his sergeants. The company was taking a break from drilling and had stopped by the old farmhouse to rest. Even as they rested, men were glaring at the distant auxiliary formations and made snide comments to each other.

"It's not ideal," Vidal agreed.

Jacques rubbed his head. "We're supposed to be on the same side, dammit. Why's that so difficult for the men to understand?"

Astier scoffed. "Same side? The auxies aren't French, Captain."

"We've never had problems with any of our Germans or Poles. Hell, the Emperor brought a whole Austrian corps into Russia and a good amount of Prussians. Why are these men any different?"

"The Austrians and Prussians are European," Astier sneered. "They're at least civilized, unlike these… barbarians," he spat the word.

"I'm sure they say the same about the Elbans in comparison to us," Jacques muttered.

Vidal scratched her neck. "At least we haven't had any brawls yet."

"Yet," Jacques stressed. "God damn it. The enemy's supposed to be the legionaries, not the auxiliaries."

"One in the same," Astier felt the need to say.

"Not since Italica became ours."

Astier shook his head. "Wonderful sentiment, Captain. But I wouldn't trust an auxie anymore than I would trust a viper."

That, Jacques thought as he looked back to the auxiliaries practicing their pikewall, is exactly the problem.

The Ninth Company returned to drilling, but Jacques had Vidal lead them. He gave her strict instructions to avoid the auxiliaries as best she could before heading off on his own to one of the auxiliary companies. Jacques was given a death glare by a good few of the auxiliaries, but he found their German officer, the officer told him where Captain Kapsner's company was. Another quick jaunt, and he had Kapsner in front of him.

"I have an idea," Jacques started.

Kapsner raised an eyebrow. "Good afternoon to you as well, Captain Duclos. I am doing fine, danke schön. How about you?" he asked with a small smile.

Jacques continued unphased, "You said we should ease tensions, right? Between the French and auxiliaries?"

The German pressed his lips together. "Yes. I said that."

"I know how we can do that," Jacques finally said. "I think it'll work, but you'll need to trust me on this, alright?"

"I supposed anything is worth a try." Kapsner shrugged.

Jacques nodded. He found he was smiling now. "Good. All we need is some rope."

When Jacques was a boy, growing up in Strasbourg, he and his friends used to always play a game. He didn't know where exactly it'd come from, but the common word on the street was that sailors would play it on ships to help them learn to handle the rigging. They didn't have a name for the game, or rather there were so many names for it that they could never agree on one, and boys from different parts of Strasbourg called it different things. Whatever the case, Jacques's friends loved to play it.

The basic concept was that two teams would start holding onto opposite ends of a rope. They would then both pull as hard as they could on that rope, fighting to yank the other to the ground, and whichever side didn't fall was the winner. It was a very simple game that naturally had a thousand variations and many different rules. Some games were one on one, others used whole teams of people. The objective could be changed to pulling the other side over a predetermined line or into a puddle of scummy water. A time limit could be used to keep rounds from going on too long. Sometimes the rope would be tied at the ends to the biggest boy on each team so that they could serve as anchors. No matter the rules, it was always good fun that ensured a great deal of bruising and scrapes by the end of it all.

Jacques's friends, like most groups of boys, had their own set of rules which they'd been adamant was the only proper way of playing. Their variant called for teams of people on each side, though it was never finalized how large these teams should be, and the only requirement was that they be roughly equal in size. The objective was to violently wrench the other team to the ground, and the round was only over once every person on a side had touched their knees. Attacking the other team was illegal. Attacking your own team was also illegal.

Those were good times back in Strasbourg. Jacques's friends would often invite other boys to join in on the fun, and they'd clog the streets with their massive games. Seeing the two teams squaring off outside Italica brought a wave of nostalgia and old memories.

Each team was made up of an equal split of Saderans and Frenchmen. There were twelve teams in total, roughly twenty men per, and every time lots were drawn to decide which teams would face each other next. At first the game had been met with grumbling, but after a few dozen games, men were cheering when their team was up.

The field they'd been drilling on now had a large gash in it where the games were played. The collective might of forty men pulling against each other tore apart grass and weeds, and over time a stretch of torn up soil was formed. A particularly intense game was being played at that moment, and Jacques saw men getting dug into the ground out of stubborn determination to win.

Tactics had certainly evolved. Though it seemed to be a simple game about muscle alone, there was actually a decent amount of thinking that went into it. The first game had been uncoordinated, men on both sides pulling on their own initiatives and finding it much harder than expected to win. It went on and on, only ending when one man lost his footing and caused his whole team to be pulled over. The other teams watched this, and plans were hatched before the round even ended.

The current game was Astier against Vidal, a bitter rivalry because both had picked their selected corporals to be with them. The Saderans on their teams were also rivals, men who supported different chariot teams from what Jacques had gathered, and as such the neither team was willing to be beaten by the other.

"Ready," Astier called to his team. A split second later, he shouted, "HEAVE!" and all twenty pulled at once. Then again, "Ready, heave!" Vidal's team gave an inch of ground. "Ready, heave!" A few more inches. "Ready, HEAVE!"

That was one of the first innovations in tactics. The teams had quickly discovered that it was far more effective to pull together rather than as individuals. That innovation necessitated, of course, that the whole team, French and Saderan alike, worked together as one unit. It was Vidal who'd managed that first, but Astier was quick to observe and the other teams immediately followed suit.

"Parati, IMPETUS!" Vidal retorted, causing her team to haul the rope back. She shouted in Saderan because it wouldn't be confused with Astier's orders, and by this point every man knew the words in both French and Saderan. "Parati, impetus!" she roared again, and Astier's team gave ground.

"They're certainly adamant," Kapsner commented from the sidelines. As the commanding officers, neither he nor Jacques had joined a team and had to do their best to appear impartial.

Jacques crossed his arms, grinning. "Two Denari says Vidal's team wins."

Betting was another development that had quickly gained traction amongst the spectators. The men, despite not having been paid in months, still had an impressive amount of coin saved up. Jacques actively encouraged the bets because it meant his men had an incentive to speak to the auxiliaries. Francs and Denari were quickly being exchanged, and the men had figured out a rough conversion rate between the two. Some eager fellows were even learning the basics of the other side's language, in order to make placing bets easier of course.

Kapsner returned his grin. "You are on. There is not a chance that Astier loses this."

Astier snarled, "Ready, heave!"

"Parati, impetus!" Vidal bellowed back.

"Ready, heave!"

"Parati, impetus!"

"READY, HEAVE!"

"PARATI, IMPETUS!"

"READY!"

"PARATI!"

"Release!"

"IMPETUS!"

Astier's sudden change in command came just as Vidal's team wrenched back the rope. All together, Astier's team slackened on the rope, causing most of Vidal's men to suddenly topple backwards from the lack of resistance. Then Astier's team quickly reversed, pulling back again and bringing down the last of their opposition.

Shouts erupted from the crowd as Vidal's team went down. Astier immediately dropped the rope and turned to the man next to him, a Saderan auxiliary, wrapping him in a crushing bear hug.

Men were screaming themselves hoarse at the victory while others cursed their misfortunes. In one instant, a small fortune in Francs and Denari was exchanged between those on the winning side and those who were not. Jacques found that Captain Kapsner was staring at him expectantly.

"Damn you," Jacques muttered, and he put two Denari into Kapsner's hand.

"Danke, my friend."

They shared a smile.

Jacques wasn't the only one who'd made friends. The men of both companies were laughing together, even those who'd lost money. Bursts of Saderan and French were being exchanged while the few men who could tried their best at translating. It wasn't perfect, but the mistakes only caused more laughter from all parties.

"Your idea was a good one," Kapsner suddenly complimented. "I had thought this was all a lost cause."

"I thought that too." Jacques shrugged. "Sometimes I come up with something."

Kapsner looked at the mob of laughing men. "If I might suggest, we could make this a daily occurance. An hour after drills every day?"

"Done," Jacques agreed.

"Such good sense," Kapsner commented. "You should have been promoted sooner."

Jacques disagreed. "I've gotten lucky. That's all."

"So you say."

Morale was better after that. They returned to barracks with a sort of carnival atmosphere in the air. At dinner, both Astier and Vidal reported the men were in good shape, and that some were actually looking forward to daily drills. They went out the next day, drilled with the battalion for a bit, drilled on their own for four more hours, then spent the last hour divided into teams pulling ropes. No more brawls occured. Insults were still common, but they had gained a more jovial nature. The divide between auxiliary and regular gradually closed.

At the end of that week, Lagos arrived at the barracks with four wagons containing the company's new uniforms. The Ninth Company marched out the next day looking ready for parade with matching clothes that showed they were no longer a collection of stragglers. The Ninth Company was a real company.

And no one called them tattercoats.

More than a month after Ney's peace offer was sent to Sadera to be ratified once and for all, he finally received a response.

Ney had, in his imagination of the event, expected to meet with the Saderan Emperor. He had thought that he would watch a grand carriage escorted by a bodyguard of knights enter Italica so that peace might be made personally. Instead, it came very modestly, as if the Saderan Empire was refusing to present anything that might risk legitimizing French rule over Italica. The response was carried by a single rider, a common soldier, and presented to Ney written on parchment in a writing that was probably not even the Emperor's.

Still, Ney was not fully disappointed. The message, once translated, was short and simple. The terms were acceptable, and the treaty had been signed. No flowery language, no unnecessary details, just a simple acknowledgement that there was now peace. It was probably meant as an insult, a refusal to acknowledge the French as equals deserving of such things, but Ney preferred it.

Ney waited until the first wagons, loaded with Saderan coin to pay indemnities agreed on in the treaty, rolled through Italica's gates. That was his assurance the treaty was actually agreed on. They came and were immediately seized by Chaucer to pay back money he had 'borrowed' while dealing with the corps' supply issues. More came the next day, and they too were seized.

Emperor Molt was keeping his word, so Ney decided to do the same. He released both Pina and Zorzal, sending them both on horses east. The captured legionaries, numbering more than thirty thousand, were released in daily intervals to avoid causing any major incidents. King Duran, who had been a prisoner since before Italica, was released to head south, back to his homeland of Elbe with his men.

All in all, it was very mundane. Everything just happened, no problems or interferences. In fact, the only thing noteworthy for Ney was the fact that nothing of note happened. Sometimes things just worked out. Not often, of course, but sometimes.

And there it was at last; peace. The goal of this entire campaign since their first battle. Ney didn't know what to do now.

Get back home, he supposed. But how was he supposed to do that?

Ney was a soldier. He had been a soldier for most of his life. As a soldier, Ney learned how to conduct war, how to defeat the enemy, how to kill people. His duty as a soldier was to solve his nation's problems by killing its foes.

The Prussians aren't happy France is free from the monarchy? Drive them from France's borders at Valmy. The Austrians want France restored to its 'natural' borders? Cross the Rhine into Germany and encircle their forces at Ulm. Spain is ruled by an incompetent monarch? Send an army to occupy the country. The Russians won't stop trading with Britain? Launch the largest invasion Europe has ever seen.

Now Ney had a problem which he could not solve through war. What the hell was he to do?

He employed men to comb through Italica's library. A magical gateway to another world doesn't just appear out of nowhere, surely there was some kind of literature on the matter.

There was, as it turned out. A report compiled by some lieutenant summarized things quite nicely. The 'Gate' was a supernatural phenomenon that periodically appeared 'at the will of the gods' to connect Falmart to new worlds. It always appeared on Alnus Hill, where Ney's corps had first entered, and that hill was considered holy ground by the inhabitants of Falmart. Beyond that, however, there was very little to glean from all the written sources. According to the lieutenant, it was mostly poems and songs that gave varied information on the Gate; there was no living memory of it because the last time it had opened was centuries ago.

Fascinating folklore truly but ultimately nothing that could help Ney. If the Gate truly only opened once every few centuries then they were stuck here. What then? Integrate with the Empire? Try and forge some kind of nation? Folly, all of it.

Fortunately, Ney was saved from despair by a knock on his office door.

"King Duran to see you, sir!" Captain Barbier called from the other side of the door.

"King Duran?" Ney sat up in his chair. The king had left Italica a week ago, heading to resume his leadership of Elbe. He should have been almost home by now. "Send him in," Ney replied.

Duran was different from before. He'd left Italica dressed in civilian clothes, but now he wore a suit of plate armor and carried a helmet with a purple plume at his side. There was a sword strapped to his waist, and two Elban soldiers waited for him with Barbier outside Ney's office.

"I wasn't expecting to see you so soon again," Ney commented, gesturing for Duran to sit.

The king took a seat. "Nor I," Duran admitted. "I am here to ask a favor."

"Oh?"

"Things are not as I had hoped back in Elbe," Duran explained. "My son, the crown prince, has seized power from me. He claims I betrayed the Empire and Elbe by working with you. My vassals have all either betrayed me or are too afraid to do anything." He shook his head, sighing. "I was nearly arrested at the border. The soldiers you released are fleeing back to here, some were already captured and executed. It's a mess."

"Mhmm," Ney agreed. "Shouldn't you go to Emperor Molt for assistance? He is your liege, if I recall correctly."

Duran set his jaw. "Molt wouldn't help me. He doesn't care who is on Elbe's throne, so long as they are loyal. I'm fairly certain he actually prefers my son to me. Even if he did help, the Imperial Army was shattered by your forces. He would have to withdraw even more legions from the borders, and that would take too long; every day my son consolidates more power."

"So you want my men to fight for your throne?" Ney sighed.

Duran did a good job at appearing calm. "I would be eternally grateful."

Ney leaned back in his chair. "I'm not sure if you have realized this, but we have our own problems to handle. I can't just send men to die for a throne they have no stake in."

"But you have just made peace with the Empire," Duran protested. "Surely your problems have been solved?"

"Not those problems…" He rubbed his head. "My men need to go home. Through the Gate and back to France. Look, I consider you to be a friend, but we need to figure out a way back."

King Duran was silent. The Elban looked as if he'd been stabbed in the back, and Ney felt that he'd wielded the dagger. A minute passed without either saying a word.

"What if," Duran finally said, "what if this could benefit both of us."

Ney released a breath. "What do you mean?"

"You need information. You need someone who knows something about the Gate. You need…" he gestured vaguely with his hand, "an expert."

"Perhaps."

"In Elbe we have wizards who know these things," Duran continued, slowly becoming enthused. "They serve the kingdom. If you return my throne to me, I can provide you with experts on the matter. We can solve both our problems with one action."

"I was told the center of magical learning for this world is Rondel, not Elbe," Ney said.

Duran shook his head. "Rondel in an Imperial city. Do you think Emperor Molt would allow you access? Do you think Prince Zorzal, who hates you so dearly, would allow you to enter Rondel?"

"I do not need to enter Rondel to enlist an expert from there."

Duran became more desperate. "Perhaps. But how could you trust them? They are Imperials. They might betray your confidence and spell disaster for your entire force."

Ney raised an eyebrow. "Perhaps."

"You'll need more money as well. Your ransoms will not last you forever. Elbe is rich in gold and jewels; I can provide you with a hefty payment in addition to finding you a way home."

"We'd be mercenaries," Ney remarked.

"It is a good deal," Duran insisted. "You will be prepared to begin your journey home."

It was most definitely a good deal, though Ney did not say so. Chaucer's liberal use of the corps' money had practically drained away the indemnities they received from Sadera. He'd considered levying taxes on Italica, but that would have only further enraged a populace that had been rioting only just recently. Damned quartermasters and their ideas.

"Who exactly would we be fighting?" Ney experimented.

Duran was suddenly invigorated. "My son, Prince Teo. He has raised the Elban levies, but I doubt he has that many men. Probably somewhere between twenty and thirty thousand men. So roughly equal to your own force when added to the few thousand men loyal to me."

"Equal numbers?" Ney couldn't help but grin. "I've beaten far worse odds than those."

Duran pursed his lips. "Be careful. I taught my son well, perhaps too well. Prince Teo is a fox in the field."

Ney's grin widened. "Then let's go hunting."

Shorter chapter than the past few, but not every chapter can be 10k+ words. Not a lot of action, just some in between stuff I felt the need to touch on.

I'd like to thank one of my readers (I'm not certain if they want to be named, so I won't) for providing me with a wealth of information and insight. They are a Napoleonic reenactor, so their insight is incredibly valuable for my work, and I am incredibly appreciative that I have such passionate people reading and improving this story. I'd wouldn't have ever been able to get the level of detail I have without them.

That's all for this one. I don't know how quickly I'll be able to get the next chapter out because I'm probably going to be more busy soon. I appreciate all reviews and highly encourage readers to leave one if they liked or disliked the chapter. Just keep in mind I am an inexperienced writer so please be respectful.