The Steam Age: Gears and Bones

Chapter 72

Perfit listened to everything in silence.

She stood in the cold wind, the hem of her coat fluttering slightly in the breeze.

Her face was expressionless, but her eyes, now calm again, reflected the golden double-headed eagle insignia of the military flag on Chertzov's arm.

She recalled that at the stern of the cruiser, the old general looked out at the coastline of St. Petros and told her, in an almost mournful tone, that his wife's grave was just outside the harbor.

He was holding this military flag in his hand when he said those words.

At the time, she thought he just wanted to keep a relic from his homeland as a memento.

Now she understood—he had never given up on Ross.

Even in his most desperate moments, he was always thinking about how to rebuild her life.

She didn't try to persuade him. She didn't say a single unnecessary word.

She simply moved her cane forward a step, stood in front of Chertzov, and used her other hand to support his elbow, so that he no longer had to maintain that stiff posture of holding up the military flag.

"Lieutenant General." Her voice was slower than usual, but each word was clear enough, as if she were reading out every clause of a formal document word by word. "You are the best soldier I have ever met."

It's not because of your high rank or how brave you are on the battlefield, but because you've always known what you're fighting for.

You left St. Petersburg to deliver the samples to those who could stop this disaster.

You led me through the swamp to find that defeated army, to give those soldiers, abandoned by their homeland, a reason to continue fighting.

You stood atop the wall and planted that flag in the frozen ground so that everyone watching would know—Ross was still there.

As long as there is one person carrying this flag, Rose is not dead.

You've chosen to stay not to die a heroic death, but so that after everything is over, someone can carry this flag back to that land and rebuild it brick by brick.

You will be a good general, and a good husband—your wife's grave awaits your return outside St. Petros.

Chernzov did not speak.

His lips moved, and a very faint sob escaped his throat, but he immediately straightened his back and raised the arm holding the military flag back to shoulder level, as if performing some kind of ritual known only to himself.

After a moment, he spoke again, his voice hoarse and slow: "You remind me of one of my men. He died in the ruins of a hospital in the Predelshinsk district, in that fire."

If he were still alive, he would tell you the same thing—when disaster struck, I had to abandon my country.

But now, I must at least prepare for rebuilding her in the future, rebuilding her room by room.

Perfit didn't say anything.

She simply reached out her hand to Pavel Andreyevich Chertsov, who grasped it firmly for a moment before letting go.

He held up the military flag he had been holding with both hands—not the new flag found in the fortress warehouse, but his own old flag, which he had carried all the way from the cruiser's cabin to St. Petersburg, through swamps and hordes of corpses, had a corner chipped off by shrapnel during the breakout, and whose surface was darkened by gunpowder smoke.

The golden double-headed eagle emblem had been worn and blurred, and the tear in the corner of the flag, ripped open by shrapnel, remained exactly as it had been on the night of the breakout.

He handed the flag to Perfit with both hands.

Perfit accepted it solemnly.

The flag was heavier than it looked—the thick woolen surface was soaked with the smoke, blood, and the chill of the Ross winter, and the loose threads at the worn edges trembled slightly in the wind.

She nodded silently to him, then took a step back and gave him a slight nod, the movement light yet solemn, as if she were receiving a trust far heavier than anything else.

Perfit stood there watching his figure disappear into the morning mist over the playground until Belfast gently touched her elbow, bringing her back to her senses.

She closed her eyes, took a deep breath, then opened them again and turned to walk towards the carriage.

Sabel was standing beside the carriage waiting for her, holding the well-worn, frayed copy of the Book of Words.

Her robe sleeves were still stained with mortar she had picked up from the city wall during her sermon yesterday, and her face was still pale, but her posture remained ramrod straight.

When Perfit saw her, he paused slightly.

Shabel's current condition is not suitable for long-distance travel. She has been performing requiem prayers for the infected almost day and night in the fortress, which has greatly depleted her mental energy.

The military doctor examined her just yesterday and said that although her mental exhaustion was not as severe as Perfit's, she would eventually collapse if she continued to wear herself down like this.

Before Perfit could speak, Sabel said, "I'm not here to ask you to let me stay."

She tucked the Bible under her arm and then explained to Perficot, "The Archbishop of the Diocese of Holy Romulus is also an Elector of the Empire. According to the Church's political structure, in the Electoral Council, the Archbishop's vote has the same legal force as that of other secular Electors."

If we can persuade him to fully commit the parish of Romulus to epidemic prevention and mobilization, then not only secular forces, but also magistrates and paladins can be mobilized in an organized manner.

Romulus has far more judges than Victoria, and although their paladins are scattered across various duchies, their total size is sufficient to support the dual intervention therapy at the front.

Doctrine differences can wait until after this disaster is over before we sit down and talk about them.

Now, the wilt disease is eroding humanity on both the physical and spiritual levels, and all believers of the Father, regardless of their sect, are facing the same enemy.

I carried with me a letter—issued by Magistrate Cohen before my departure—authorizing me to conduct limited doctrinal consultations with the Diocese of Romulus in case of emergency.

This letter will at least get the archbishop to sit down and listen to us.

She paused, her tone becoming more solemn and firm: "Therefore, Miss Brandlis, please allow me to accompany you to the capital of Romulus."

Perfitt remained silent for a moment.

Instead of saying things like "your current physical condition doesn't allow for long-distance travel," she asked, "What did Judge Cohen give you?"

Sabel closed the Book of Words and took out a silver emblem from the inside pocket of her robe—not the one she wore on her chest, but another one. The emblem engraved on its surface was not the coat of arms of the judge, but a cross-key emblem, the exclusive seal of the Cardinal of the Diocese of Victoria.

"Before I left, the Patriarch told me to take this with me. He said that if needed, I could go to the Archbishop of Romulus and show him this. Once he saw this, he would believe every word we said."

Perfit looked at the silver badge, then nodded after a moment: "Get in the car. At times like these, we need every ounce of power we can muster."