Everything had purpose. That was not to say she had personally considered every detail, nor even that every thing had a purpose. Rather, at this scale, it was the case that nothing existed by mere coincidence.

At the city's edge, she stood. Not for the first day either, that this was the last of ten such days, each day having risen before dawn's light. She stood not alone, far from it. A sprawling crowd still gathered this crisp morning, their lingering breath a fog, chatter like a muffled bonfire.

Of course, she did not stand as one of them. While the commoners flanked the broad road leading south from Augstadt, her place was firmly in the middle of the road along with her guard and her personal knight at her side. She marked the end of this occasion.

As for the beginning, that was down the road where a queue hundreds of men long waited. The first man walked through a tunnel made of crossed spears, a cloth bag slung over his shoulder, hands trembling. After that, he gave his name to a priest who confirmed it on a list, and then he placed his hand on the relic held by the deacon—a box in which Saint Ulrich's piece of the True Cross rested.

The man looked between clergy and box, then drew in a deep breath. "In Saint Ulrich's name, I swear to… stand bravely with my fellow soldiers. To follow orders… given justly… to the best of my ability. To be loyal to Princess Julia the Countess of Augstadt, and to Augstadt and its people. From now, until I am… dismissed. If I should… commit perjury… may all the Saints of Augstadt curse me, and keep me in exile. I swear this… in good faith… without deceit… and of my own will, as true as God may help me."

With that said, he bowed his head.

"I have witnessed this oath," the deacon said, his voice still as loud and as clear as the first time.

The man let out a breath. His head raised once more, he took his hand off the relic—a hand which still shook—and moved along. A little farther down, the mayor stood with the captain of the militia: an older man, a noble of little reputation, but much experience, having turned his hand to mercenary work for the Spanish crown in the new world. An intimidating man, scarred, hard to meet his eye with how his face twisted.

Still, the man stepped up to stand before them. He held his arms at his side, drew his back straight, and matched the captain's gaze.

A little behind him, the next man had made the walk through the tunnel of spears; for his oath, he simply said, "In Sain' Ulrich's name, I swear the same as 'im, as true as God may 'elp me."

Meanwhile, the captain offered the first man a sword. It was not an overly large sword, nor could it rightly be likened to a common dagger worn around the city, the blade about as long as from his elbow to fingertips. He took it gingerly, almost surprised by the lightness. Yet, once he held it, there felt a good weight well balanced. Only the front edge had been sharpened, the back flat, and it had a slight curve, as well as a groove down the flat of the blade—on both sides.

After a few seconds, the mayor cleared his throat. The man, broken from his admiration, saw the offered sheath and hastily took it, only to be careful as he put away the sword, not eager to test how sharp the blade was on himself. He hooked it on his belt, and he gave both captain and mayor a bow in turn.

Finally, he walked the last stretch, where he then bowed deep and did not rise.

She stood there as she had these last many days and she regarded him as she had all others. Her soldier and, as her soldier, he needed that defining mark.

"Your name," she said.

"M-Markus, Ma'am," he replied, a shiver to his voice.

Her lips curled. "A fitting name," she said, not too loud, yet not a whisper.

He said nothing.

"Rise," she said, accompanied by a gesture.

He did so, slowly, his gaze particularly struggling. However, he eventually brought even that up. Once more she regarded him.

"May God be with you," she said.

With that, her knight stepped forward, both hands outstretched. The man did not dawdle, quickly accepted both offerings: a silver coin, and a simple cap, the inside almost white and outside a hearty red.

He bowed his head in silent thanks, donned his cap, and then hastily walked on to the awaiting officers.

Although those that followed after him needed only make reference to his oath, it still took time. Something she had long known, not just in war but in any grand endeavour, the simplest things became remarkably difficult. For over a week, this little ceremony had already lasted, this sending off, that for five hundred men to do something that took a minute, that then took an entire morning.

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So she had sent off five hundred men each day, that they could march south and congregate atop the Alps. Supplies had already trickled down there, grain stockpiled, and scouting had long since begun under her husband's command.

"Your name," she said, her voice neither gentle nor harsh, but firm, and it carried with it the expectation that an answer would be forthcoming, the voice of someone not ignored.

"Franko, Ma'am."

A fairly young man, a quiver to his voice, yet he spoke well. Many a man of good breeding had suffered the misfortune of not being the first-born son. As much work as she had created for those learned, that did not mean every learned son yearned for such work.

"A traditional name," she said and, a moment later, gestured. "Rise."

The weight of a number could not be felt with thought alone, that, for all the bureaucracy which had supported this endeavour, what made it real was this moment. These countable thousands. Thousands of names, thousands of faces.

"Rise."

One by one, each man became a soldier. One by one, they became something more, parts of something greater. She had long ago arranged her militia as the Romans had. There had been no great thought behind it, confident she could not think greater than those such as Caesar. Even if that organisation had been tradition alone, it was sufficient for her that such an organisation did not hinder those ancient armies, so she felt it suitable until proven otherwise.

However, her husband had considered this matter thoroughly. The details, although loosely known to her, did not need to be explained. Even if it was, in some way, worse than how the Romans had done it, she was content that her husband had purpose in his arrangement. That, because he knew precisely why he had arranged things in this manner, he could make better use of the arrangement.

Many a French term had been borrowed, this nesting of squads and platoons and companies, that, with how this modern army paired pike and arquebus, he distinguished between marching order and battle order with the former as regiments and latter as battalions. Even the cannons, which had operated with their own organisation, now had their place in those battalions—if only because he would be splitting the army across a few defensive positions once near Venice.

Of course, the cavalry remained something particularly unique. Although not made up by her subjects providing obligated service, it was still the case that only those of means could afford the horses and other equipment required, thus they had a more casual organisation. However, he had been particular about their purpose, that there were three types of cavalry: those as if knights in heavy armour with lances; those who, while armoured, lacked a warhorse and so would dismount to fight; and those who would use firearms from horseback.

All of who would each require much in the way of oats, which she knew would cause her no shortage of headaches in the coming months.

Yes, her husband knew everything he needed to know, and she knew everything she needed to know. Thousands of sets of armour did not appear by some miracle, but with purpose. That many armourers in Grosburg and Augstadt had laboured for months, many deliveries of iron from Austria, huge swathes of forestland repurposed for charcoal.

Such a thing, of course she needed to know precisely which armour her husband desired, needed him to consider it deeply, that there was purpose to this purposeful act. A few hundred could not be compared to a few thousand.

Carts, horses, donkeys, none of these could be dug whole from the ground. Stockpiles of grain did not fill easily. Gunpowder, when hurried, tended to grow violent. Agreements were not as simple as a single letter, nor was her reputation as a reliable employer built on a single contract. Those nurses had not learnt their skills by chance, nor was it by chance that, among the cooks and other such women of the camp, there were those willing to provide company for a price.

One by one, each company, led by officers she had personally commissioned with her husband's referral, began their first march to the armoury. Many days of marching awaited them. She had always known the necessity of the road south, that any campaigns in Italy would be subject to the Alps' mercy; it was important to reach Italy in spring as the wheat would otherwise soon be harvested and squirrelled away by farmers who rather preferred having food.

Not that she thought that vital this time, that she hoped her silent allies would keep their promises of grain. Although such predictions beyond her, knowing well her own abilities and the unpredictability of the world, her instinct had always been to focus on harmless disruption, that violence would only bring out a violent resistance. The Venetians could perhaps muster a few thousand mercenaries, while an angry city could easily triple that number with men who would fight to the last.

One by one, hour by hour, until there was no one left.

She did not watch the last soldiers march off, instead withdrew to her nearby carriage. Her maid helped her enter as her knight took a seat with the driver.

As she sat, the weight of it all collapsed atop her, both a weight she had carried for this last decade and a weight she would have to carry still further. That, rather than the end, this moment of transition merely marked the beginning of something greater, something all the heavier for how distant it was, how far she had to reach out to support it.

That this marked, not just her use of someone else, but her reliance upon them. A decade of investment now rested in her husband's hands, hands she had carefully nurtured and yet could not trust as readily as her own.

"Madam…."

She blinked, the hands she so trusted now trembling.

"There is no need to worry. My schedule going forwards shan't be so… strenuous," she said, a quiet voice.

"The meeting with the mayor tomorrow could be postponed," her maid said lightly.

Her lips curved. "Indeed, it could be. However, it will not be," she said.

The same conversation they had had many times before, and it would end the same as it always did.

"Yes, My Lady," her maid said, bowing her head.

"Be at ease, Gianna. Although I do enjoy indulging in your concern, it is never my motivation," she said, a touch breathless, slurred.

For a long moment, her maid simply regarded her. "It's not easy being a woman."

Her eyes widened, amused—intensely amused. That, in the end, this routine they followed had produced in her maid such a conclusion. However, she could not deny it. They both had suffered, still suffered, and would continue to suffer for this God-given curse.

One curse of many, God-given and otherwise.

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