Mantua Plain, South of Verona.
January 1836.
The ground here was flatter than the ridge to the north.
Open fields stretched toward a shallow river line, the frost thinner where the soil held more moisture. A narrow road cut through the center, bordered by low ditches and scattered farm walls built from stone. Beyond that, nothing stood high enough to block sight.
It was exposed ground.
The French line was visible.
Not fully—only enough.
Skirmish elements had been pushed forward deliberately, spaced wider than usual but not concealed. Infantry moved along the road and across the fields in loose order, rifles carried low, posture relaxed enough to be seen from a distance.
Behind them, just out of sight beyond a shallow depression, the real line waited.
Machine gun teams lay in position.
