"Major, have you made your decision?"
There was an added note of respect in Metternich's tone.
"Yes, sir. I am, in fact, a deserter. I should have died in Genoa alongside my comrades."
Metternich asked no further questions. He merely gave the major a military salute, then said, "Carry out your orders. I authorize you to fire upon anyone who enters this estate without permission."
The so-called Mexican State Guesthouse was actually several luxurious private estates. Though none occupied much land, they stood out conspicuously within Mexico City.
To that end, Mexican officials had built isolation walls as high as 2.5 meters around the estates, which somewhat strengthened their defenses—especially against crowds lacking siege weapons.
A vast procession surged menacingly down the streets toward the Mexican State Guesthouse. The thirty or fifty young people at the very front strode forward while loudly singing the newly composed Mexican national anthem. They sincerely believed they were struggling and striving for Mexico's future.
The people behind them, however, were loose and disorganized, each harboring their own thoughts. Some were hotheaded louts acting on a sudden impulse; some were ignorant onlookers simply following the flags in procession; others wanted to fish in troubled waters, while still others were temporary hires brought in to bolster everyone's courage.
Bringing up the rear were enforcers from various families, numbering perhaps several hundred. Their task was to drive the crowd where it needed to go, while also preventing anyone from trying to back out midway.
Gunfire soon rang out in the streets. People shouted, horses neighed, and explosive shells burst among the crowd, their shockwaves making the surrounding buildings tremble.
Yet not a single person broke into the State Guesthouse. The soldiers standing at full alert were utterly baffled, while Metternich remained as unmoving as a mountain. He