Re: Blood and Iron - Chapter 629: The Last Wine of Arabia

Chapter 629: The Last Wine of Arabia

Bruno spent the next few days basking in the wealth and timeless dignity of Arabia.

His journey had taken him through cities older than Christendom, kingdoms built when Germania was still forest and fire.

Ancient Damascus hummed with life, its stone streets layered with the blood and prayers of countless civilizations.

Byblos offered him cedar-scented sea air and the crumbling bones of forgotten empires.

Acre’s rebuilt walls stood proud again, a scar made beautiful. And Luxor, Luxor was eternal.

A city of ghosts and grandeur, where the desert sun poured gold over fallen temples and rusted cartouches.

All of it was more accessible now, thanks to the railroads built in the wake of the Great War.

Not by colonial contractors, but by Arab engineers, with German locomotives and investment.

Bruno had watched the world shift, had pulled its levers himself, and this place, more than most, bore the fingerprints of the peace he had forged with iron and honesty.

The King of Arabia had even shown him his army.

They were not armored like the soldiers of the German Reich, nor did they march with the mechanical perfection of Rome’s legions.

But they were proud, hardened by desert wars, equipped with solid rifles and aging, but functional, German tanks of older designs, produced under license in a sprawling plant outside Basra.

Compared to the increasingly hollow forces of France and Britain, they were a serious force, untested, but not unworthy.

Eventually, Bruno returned to the King’s palace in Riyadh, where they dined one last time beneath the arching blue dome painted with stars.

Bruno sipped from a tall glass of wine, specially prepared for him.

Not an insult to Islamic law, he had been offered it discreetly, as a guest and a friend.

The air was thick with incense and spiced meats, and somewhere, stringed instruments played a soft, nostalgic melody that reminded him of Vienna.

“I must say,” he offered, swirling the wine, “this visit has been a rather enjoyable break from the usual old grind.”

The King of Arabia chuckled deeply, digging into the rich lamb laid before them. “You say that, yet I have never met a man so immune to the ravages of time.”

Bruno smirked and leaned back in his cushioned seat.

It was no secret that he aged exceptionally well, suspiciously well, some whispered.

He had always looked younger than his years, even during the darkest hours of the Great War.

And yet, he could not deny what he saw in the mirror now.

His golden-blonde hair had been overtaken by threads of iron-grey. The fine lines around his eyes had deepened. The fire in his body still burned, but slower, more measured.

“You’re quite right,” Bruno admitted, “Stress and age have tried their best over the years to wrest my youth from me. I fear in another decade, they’ll have finally succeeded.”

The King gave a knowing nod, his dark eyes calm. “The desert teaches us not to fear time. It is an illusion. What matters is the mark you leave upon the sand.”

Bruno chuckled softly. “And what happens when the winds blow that mark away?”

“Then make it again,” the King said simply. “With steel, if necessary.”

A servant refilled their glasses. Bruno looked into his cup as if it were a crystal ball.

“You know they came here to sway you. Roosevelt’s men. De Gaulle’s little weasels. Even that British envoy, Lord something-or-other.”

The King waved dismissively. “They came to bribe me. And they left offended that I could not be bought. Not with money, nor promises. Your enemies treat us like children, forgetting that we were building civilizations while theirs still wore wolf pelts.”

Bruno smiled at that. “You’ve done well to stay neutral.”

“But not uninvolved,” the King countered, gesturing subtly to the crates of German rifles gifted to him earlier that week. “Nor ungrateful.”

Bruno inclined his head respectfully.

A moment passed in silence before the King leaned forward.

“Tell me, Bruno. You’ve seen the world more clearly than most. You’ve lived through more wars than I care to remember. I see in your eyes that you are certain of victory in this coming war. I do not doubt it, you’ve never lost a war yet, and have always proven to be ahead of your foes. But once you have emerged victorious, how do you perceive the world that you have built will be?”

Bruno’s eyes narrowed. He didn’t hesitate.

“By the time the war is over, France will be taught to kneel before their betters. The mistakes of the enlightenment rewritten. They will answer to the Bourbons once more, and the Bourbons will answer to the Hohenzollerns, as it was always meant to be.”

He paused for a second to take another sip from his wine, enjoying the waft of its scent, and it’s delectable flavor.

“England… They’re already a dying Empire, in the coming years what remains of it will split away, and they will be little more than a small Island in the north Atlantic, claiming of past glory that will never return.”

Bruno’s words lingered for a while, as a he thought deeply about his next statement. And only then did he finally speak them, with all the authority, and foreboding of a man who had seen far into the future.

“The United States cannot be permitted to exist. In any form. In the years following the Second War, every aspect of their nation will have fallen into my hands, and I will use it to destroy them from within.”

“By their own hands the Americans will cling to every denomination and ideology that is counter to their own, and they will tear themselves apart. Never to unify again. Leaving Germany unchallenged in Europe, and across the Altantic for the foreseeable future.”

The Arab king remained silent for a few moments, reflecting on the world Bruno had envisioned.

There were some nods of approval, but ultimately an ominous glaze in his eyes as he came to a logical conclusion.

“And when you have ensured that your greatest rivals are no longer capable of challenging you, what then? Where do you set your sights?”

Bruno could only chuckle as he swirled the wine in his glass, knowing exactly what fears had settled in the old king’s heart.

“To the stars… With Germany unbound by colonial conflicts, and rivals gnawing at our borders like ravenous dogs, this world no longer concerns us. The resources here are finite, but those in the stars above are infinite. Let the other empires fight in their petty squabbles over who gets to call himself king of this rock. We will be forging ahead into another realm entirely….”

Silence existed for some time as the meal continued, but something had shifted.

Later that evening, after the musicians had played their final song and the moon cast a pale light over the desert beyond the palace walls, the King stood and brought forth a gift.

It was an ancient dagger, its curved blade engraved with Kufic script worn by centuries of sand. The hilt was wrapped in faded leather, but still strong. A warrior’s blade.

“This belonged to my great-grandfather,” the King said. “Before the Ottomans took it. It returned to us after the war you helped us win.”

He placed it in Bruno’s hands.

“Let it now be a symbol of what the Ottomans could not destroy, and what we must never allow others to.”

Bruno accepted it with reverence. “Then I will see that it never draws blood in vain.”

Outside, the desert winds whispered their secrets to the stars. Inside, two men stood quietly, kings in all but name, watching, waiting, as history stirred once more.