The trumpet of war

The two soldiers standing guard outside the meeting room looked as if they had seen a ghost, but quickly straightened up and saluted. "Captain, the officers are having a meeting inside," one of the older ones said.

I nodded to him, pushed open the door, and entered the spacious meeting room. The officers who had been chatting by the long table fell silent as they saw me, all wearing expressions of disbelief.

"What's the matter, gentlemen?" I cheerfully addressed my subordinates. "What were you discussing just now? Let me in on it."

"Captain, we thought you..." Lieutenant Romo stood up stiffly.

"Thought I would be sent to the guillotine, wrongly accused and executed," I shrugged. "Isn't that right?"

"There have been such rumors, Captain," Lieutenant Tengge chimed in.

The two soldiers standing guard outside the meeting room looked as if they had seen a ghost, but quickly straightened up and saluted. "Captain, the officers are having a meeting inside," one of the older ones said.

I nodded to him, pushed open the door, and entered the spacious meeting room. The officers who had been chatting by the long table fell silent as they saw me, all wearing expressions of disbelief.

"What's the matter, gentlemen?" I cheerfully addressed my subordinates. "What were you discussing just now? Let me in on it."

"Captain, we thought you..." Lieutenant Romo stood up stiffly.

"Thought I would be sent to the guillotine, wrongly accused and executed," I shrugged. "Isn't that right?"

"There have been such rumors, Captain," Lieutenant Tengge chimed in.

And then you shed a few tears for me, Tengge?" I swayed unsteadily to my chair, looking down at the person sitting on it. "As for you, Mark, I guess you must be overwhelmed with grief to have inadvertently taken my seat."

Mark quickly slid his bottom off the chair and back to his original place.

I sank comfortably into the cushioned seat, just like I had done dozens of times before. "Everyone..." I only managed to say those two words.

The door of the meeting room was pushed open again, and Dion practically bounced in. But my puzzled gaze froze him in place instantly.

"Captain... Captain Marcus," he stammered, "Hello."

"Hello, Dion," I greeted him warmly, "When did you become a lieutenant and get to attend meetings?"

"Just... just two days ago," Dion glanced at Mark and quickly lowered his head.

No need to ask who promoted him. "Take a seat, Dion," I said with a smile, "It seems my imprisonment has paved the way for your military success, rising up the ranks smoothly."

"No, no, no..." Dion waved his hands, shaking his head.

Once Lieutenant Dion had taken his seat on the makeshift chair, the meeting could finally continue. I had no intention of delving back into the previous topic they were discussing.

"Gentlemen, I intend to submit my resignation to Balas, leave Paris, and take up a position in the operational forces," I stated bluntly, a rare occurrence for me to be so straightforward.

With those words, the gloom on the officers' faces instantly lifted.

These were my loyal and dedicated subordinates, and I couldn't help but feel a sense of sadness. "Well, it seems this news has brightened up your spirits."

"When do you plan to leave?" Mark asked, as if hoping I would pack up and leave immediately.

"No need to rush," I said nonchalantly. "We have no shortage of enemies—Austrians, Prussians, British, Russians, and those detestable royalists." I counted on my fingers, "Which one of them can be defeated overnight? So I have several years to carefully consider and select the right opponent."

Dion let out a sigh of frustration involuntarily. The others were more composed, not letting their disappointment show, but I could still sense it.

"I hope to take you all with me," I said suddenly.

"What?" the officers exclaimed in unison.

"So that I can command the army with ease," I explained. "Of course, whether you agree or not is entirely up to you." I stood up from my seat. "But there is one thing I hope you understand. As soldiers of the republic, we cannot always sit behind desks listening to stories about 'how wild dogs carried away dead infants from the ditch,' 'how the floating heads on the river couldn't be distinguished as male or female,' or other unsuitable tales. France is now surrounded by powerful enemies, with mourning on all sides. The benefits of the costly revolution are on the verge of being lost. It is now the moment to throw ourselves into the battlefield, to sharpen our faith; it is the moment to mount our horses, with blood splattering seven steps; it is the era of thundering guns, with flames of war engulfing the sky."

"Touche," Tengge rubbed his hands together, "Captain, no matter which battlefield you go to, I will worry twice as much about the enemies there."

I dismissed the meeting before Tengge could lay on the flattery any thicker. The officers quickly left. I sat back in my seat, rubbing my temples, feeling troubled. The Queen's words in court echoed in my mind: "He is the officer of France whom I deeply love." It had always been because of their sacrifices that protected France and allowed it to enjoy peace. How could I stand by and watch such individuals be wronged?

Tengge soon appeared at the door again. "Captain, it seems this meeting did not quite meet your expectations."

"Of course," I replied wearily. "I practically did all the talking throughout the whole meeting. You lot just sat there in your chairs, barely saying a word except for the occasional grunt or two."

"Do you know? Their silence was all due to nerves," Tengge remarked. "I never doubted that you would come back. But they were convinced you were as good as dead, and..."

"And who can blame them?" I retorted impatiently. "Even I, at one point, thought death was imminent."

"But they still held a celebratory dance, talking all about your downfalls," Tengge continued, "Especially Mark, he practically painted you as worthless." He pulled out a neatly folded parchment. "I've written down all those words. If you don't believe me, you can ask him yourself."

"Thank you very much," I said dryly, "I would be even more grateful if you vanished right now."

Tengge left the paper behind and disappeared in the blink of an eye.

I sighed, picked up the letter of betrayal, and held it to the candle flame. The orange-yellow blossoms bloomed swiftly, the flame licking at my fingers almost instantly. Cursing, I dropped the letter and raised my head. Dion was standing at the doorway.

"Captain, the last battle report still hasn't been submitted," he said, "Could you dictate it to me again?"

"Do as you please with it, I couldn't care less," I retorted.

The next day, I brought the battle report written by Dion to find Balas and shared my intention to leave.

"This is the best news I've heard in six months," Balas grinned broadly.

Those were the most hurtful words I had heard in six months. "I will miss you, Captain," I said dryly.

"But you can't leave."

"Why?" I blurted out. "I've had enough of this place."

"You, a dandy who rose through the ranks thanks to your father, dare ask me why." Balas suddenly erupted. "Because your abilities are not even worthy of the rank of Major. You are my most incompetent subordinate."

"If that's the case, what are you waiting for? Send your most incompetent subordinate to the front lines now. It will benefit both of us," I retorted, feeling the heat rise.

"Send you to the front lines?" Balas' tone dripped with sarcasm. "Heaven knows how many soldiers' lives your foolish command would cost."

"Don't forget, just a few days ago, I led a victory against a group of royalist cavalry," I shouted.

"Ah, I almost forgot about that," Balas leaned back in his chair, saying, "Have you written a battle report? The valiant little hero. Let me see this magnificent battle you fought, broaden my horizons."

I stiffly handed the battle report to Balas, once again recalling that bloody night battle. Seventeen dragoons fell in the field that night. If it hadn't been me commanding the battle, but a more competent leader, would the outcome have been different? Ifit had been me not panicking, would there be fewer gravestones in the outskirts at this moment? Would there be more living souls in the barracks within the city walls? All the rage had dissipated, replaced by an indescribable sense of guilt.

"What do you want me to say?" Balas squinted at the paper, scanning back and forth. "Do you want me to compliment you, say 'well done'..."

"Sir, you're right," I interrupted softly, "I don't deserve my rank. If there's nothing else, please allow me to take my leave."

I walked out of Balas's office in a daze, the sky outside overcast, mirroring my current state of mind. Dion and Mar were waiting on the roadside.

"Dion," he hadn't even spoken yet when I beat him to it, "Am I a terrible commander?"

Dion paused, struggling to find the words.

"Answer me, yes or no. Tell the truth," I stared at him, pressing for an answer. "Just a reminder, I prefer a three-word response."

Dion lifted his bright blue eyes, meeting my gaze unwaveringly. "not."

Those three words felt like a lash across my face. "You will regret those three words for the rest of your life."

The decadent and dissolute life is no different from freefalling off a cliff. Without spreading wings to soar, there will be no chance of redemption. That night, I made a firm resolution, unwilling to remain a nobody. The dusty textbooks, long untouched, finally saw the light of day once more. I began revisiting various military theories and tactical knowledge, preparing for the day when I could confront the enemies of France. The opinions of my superiors and subordinates gradually began to change.

One day in October 1793, the guillotine welcomed its most noble victim. I sat alone in my room, listening quietly to the howling wind outside, watching the midday sun cast specks of light on the floor through the window.

There was a sudden light knock on the door. "Captain, someone wishes to see you," Dion called from outside.

"Come in," I replied mechanically.

Dion entered, followed by a slender, haggard-looking man. Though I had never spoken to him before, I immediately recognized him as Sanson, the executioner who had put an end to the king and queen. He stood expressionless behind Dion, dressed in a gray wool coat and matching breeches, his somber eyes gleaming behind dark hair.

"Major Marcus," Sanson greeted briefly.

"Executioner," I replied coldly.

Dion interjected, "Sir, please don't be so rude."

"Leave, Dion," I commanded.

The door quickly closed, leaving me alone in the room with Sanson, the man who had taken countless lives. "What brings you to me, sir?" I asked in a slightly softer tone.

Sanson took out a neatly tied bundle of golden hair from his coat pocket and placed it on the table between us. "The queen asked me to give this to you. She apologizes for not having a better gift and hopes you will remember her."

I gazed at the hair for a long time, overwhelmed with pain. "Tell me, sir. How does it feel to execute the queen?"

"Nothing special," Sanson replied.

I stood up in anger, unable to maintain composure any longer. "Dion was right. Calling you an executioner is too impolite, it's insulting to the profession of executioners. You are nothing but a cold-hearted, ruthless tool of death, a guillotine forged from blood and flesh."

Sanson remained calm in his demeanor. "I did not mean to offend you, sir, but it is true that I feel nothing. The dignity and privileges of the French royal family have been erased in the revolution, so how could there be a place for them beneath the blade of the guillotine?"

He was right. "What did the queen say before she died?" I asked, secretly hoping she had mentioned me at that moment.

"She accidentally stepped on my foot and apologized," Sanson replied.

"That is hardly a farewell worth recording in history!" I wearily sat back in the chair. "This job of killing must bring you great delight, doesn't it?"

"Some executioners do indeed take pleasure in killing, but I only do it to fulfill my duty," he answered flatly.

I chuckled awkwardly. "Yes, whether an executioner or an officer, we all have responsibilities to fulfill. I won't keep you any longer."

"Goodbye, sir," Sanson turned to leave.

"Do you ever regret becoming an executioner?" I asked before he opened the door.

Sanson turned back slowly, a hint of fear flashing in his eyes. "My grandfather and father were both executioners. Now, this bitter cup has been passed to me, and I have no choice but to drink it." With that, he pushed the door open and left.

I picked up the strand of hair, watching as the sunlight shimmered on the golden strands. What a charming memento, its beauty twisting my heart like a knife. I could no longer stay in the city of Paris.

The next day, I found Balas and spent a grueling seven hours persuading him. Finally, my wish was granted - I could go to the front lines to command a cavalry regiment. I chose Aub to be my second-in-command, a seasoned veteran with extensive battlefield experience.

On the day of departure from Paris, I was bent over a map on the table when Dion walked in. His shadow fell perfectly on the Italian peninsula on the map.

"Captain, are you leaving soon?" he asked.

"I have been appointed as the commander of the 7th Cavalry Regiment, and I will be taking up my post tomorrow," I replied.

"Take me with you," Dion said eagerly.

I looked up at him, puzzled. "Just two years ago, you said I was a terrible captain."

"Just two years ago, I saw you burn a letter of denunciation," Dion said with a smile. "Where is the 7th Cavalry Regiment stationed?"

"Here!" I drew my sword and pointed towards the city of Turin.