Marcellus ran a hand through his golden hair, his composure cracking further with each new wave of pilgrims streaming past the plaza. Families. Merchants. Even a contingent of what looked like foreign dignitaries, their robes bearing symbols from the eastern provinces.
"They weren't supposed to come," he said quietly. "I had assurances—"
"We're dealing with the church," Julius cut in, his voice low. "It isn't your fault you didn't expect this many possible casualties."
Marcellus's hand stilled in his hair, then dropped to his side.
"Casualties," he repeated, the word bitter on his tongue. "That's what we're calling them now? Not 'people'? Not 'citizens'? Just... casualties."
Julius didn't flinch. "I'm not trying to be cruel. I'm trying to keep you focused."
"Focused." Marcellus laughed, short and hollow. "I'm about to order the deaths of thousands. Maybe tens of thousands. And you want me focused."
"I want you alive."
