Re: Blood and Iron

Chapter 583: The Kings Near the Sea

Sofia, Bulgaria

Rain drummed on the broad copper eaves of the Alexander Nevsky Cathedral, its golden domes slick and darkened by the storm.

Beyond the cathedral square, a phalanx of soldiers stood at rigid attention despite the downpour, trim rows of Bulgarian infantry with polished Mausers glinting whenever a break in the clouds let sunlight through.

Inside the royal palace, the air was warm and thick with the scent of cigars and wet wool.

Servants moved quietly, refilling glasses of plum rakia and setting out fresh trays of honeyed nuts and figs.

The small conference chamber, adorned with tapestries of old Orthodox saints, hummed with subdued voices; three kings gathered under one roof.

At the head of the dark oak table sat Tsar Boris III of Bulgaria, lean and sharp-nosed, his eyes restless, fingers drumming in practiced patterns.

To his left was King George II of Greece, broader in the shoulders, his uniform stiff with medals that seemed to anchor him like ballast.

On Boris’s right reclined King Arthur I of Hungary, aging, but robust and wise nonetheless.

Between them lay a great map of Europe and North Africa, cluttered with small wooden blocks painted in the colors of various armies.

Most clusters hovered along the Pyrenees; bright Greek blues, Hungarian crimson, and Bulgarian forest green, mixed among the black crosses of German Werwolf attachments.

A senior Hungarian staff officer finished reading the latest courier dispatch from Navarre, his voice fading into the drone of rain on windowpanes.

When he concluded, silence fell.

Tsar Boris was first to break it. He leaned forward, elbows on the table, face pinched in calculation.

“So. Our men, our sons, alongside your own,” he nodded at Arthur, then at George, “have performed admirably. The Spanish royalists and those Werwolf detachments smashed the Catalan columns near Vic three days ago. But it is your own reports, gentlemen, that trouble me most.”

King George’s mouth twisted in distaste.

“You mean the observation from our pilots near Zaragoza? Yes. They send back descriptions of German armored tactics that frankly read more like science fiction. Coordinated shock advances with what they call ’mobile artillery’ built on the same chassis as their tanks.”

A pause “Entire batteries pulled by diesel engines and protected by sloped plates. They use radio sets to relay fire corrections in real-time. This is… leagues beyond anything our gunners have practiced.”

King Arthur’s voice was low, weary. “Our men went to Spain to prove loyalty. To secure monarchy against France’s petty revolutionaries and the anarchists. They wanted blood, and glory….”

A cold smile flickered across Boris’s face.

“Your commanders in Navarre say the German advisors there were fielding rifles not much larger than our carbines but fitted with optical sights as standard, detachable magazines, and automatic selectors. Our observers reported lines of advancing men picking off machine gun crews at five, six hundred meters as if it were an exercise.”

George let out a slow breath, his fingers tightening around his glass. “And the French… all their efforts with the so-called AMC projects, even their improved field guns; none of it is matching up. Even the local Spanish officers our attachés speak with suspect these ’Panzer I Ausf C.’ tanks the Germans loaned them are already outdated by Berlin’s true reserves.”

Boris’s eyes narrowed, glittering darkly. “You mean, they’re sending old stock to Spain to test tactics; while keeping the next generation in Bavaria or Tyrol. Letting us all see enough to be impressed, but not enough to gauge the true scale?”

King Arthur gave a small, humorless laugh. “As if we needed more reasons to remember we are small powers on the rim of a German world. Hungary marched with them in the Great War; it bought us back our kingdom in part, though at monstrous cost. Now we may be asked to gamble our sons again.”

A subtle tension lay under that; old wounds still raw, faint fears of German hegemony resurfacing. But none spoke of it openly. Instead, King George shifted in his chair, clearing his throat.

“Still. We three rule lands that together secure the Eastern Mediterranean. Our ports, our rail lines through Thessaloniki and Sofia, our markets in Budapest. These are lifelines Germany cannot afford to see compromised if France chooses to escalate further. Even the Russians favor our security, bound to the Germans by that iron alliance since the crushing of the Bolsheviks.”

Tsar Boris’s gaze darkened further. “France sends arms into Spain. Rumors swirl they send arms into Serbia also. And there are whispers among my ministers that even some in Bucharest have taken French gold.”

King Arthur’s fist clenched on the table. “Romania’s new King is young and foolish. He should have followed his predecessor, who stayed out of the Great War entirely. But he thinks because Bruno negotiated the partition of Transylvania that was largely in their favor that he will not attack them.”

King George tapped the map lightly, tracing a finger from Constantinople to Gibraltar. “All the more reason we solidify our bloc. If war widens, as it seems destined, we must be ready to declare; and swiftly. Greece, Bulgaria, Hungary, aligned openly with Berlin and St. Petersburg. It would send a shudder through Paris and London.”

Boris tilted his head, studying George. “Your father would not have risked such a statement lightly.”

“My father faced a crumbling Ottoman corpse, not French artillery on our borders. Times change. And your father, Tsar Ferdinand, lived the rest of his days in regret for not having the foresight to join the Central Powers before the war broke out.”

A long silence. Rain intensified against the windows, hissing like static. Finally, King Arthur spoke, voice low but resolute.

“I will bring this before the royal council in Budapest when I return. Our generals are already quietly adjusting procurement; seeking more German lathes and armor forging contracts. If Berlin offers additional joint commands as it did for Spain, we will provide men. Not mercenaries, mind you, but regiments under dual banners. It solidifies loyalty and gives us a stake in the spoils if France collapses under its own debts and syndicalist riots.”

Tsar Boris gave a slow nod. “And I will have my war ministry begin quiet mobilization notices. Nothing overt. But I want our reserve divisions drilling to German artillery manuals by winter.”

George let out a breath that almost passed for relief. “Then we three stand aligned, at least in principle. And if de Gaulle pushes his folly further… we will ensure this time the Mediterranean does not slip from monarchist hands.”

He raised his glass of rakia, eyes hard. “To the crowns of the Near Sea. May they shine brighter when this is done.”

Boris and Arthur joined him, the crystal ringing with a faint, almost eerie resonance that echoed off the tapestries.

Outside, the storm began to break; faint rays of sun lanced through retreating clouds, striking the cathedral domes so they blazed like watchfires.

For a moment, none of the kings spoke. They simply watched the shifting light, each measuring in his private heart the weight of what they had just pledged.

Later, in a side chamber lined with heavy drapes.

Tsar Boris lingered by a sideboard, swirling the last of his drink. Nearby, his chief of staff murmured updates in Bulgarian; fresh wire intercepts hinting at French naval movements off the Atlantic coast.

King George paused at the threshold, casting a wry smile back toward Boris.

“You know,” he said softly, “for all our brave speeches in there, it still chills me that the Germans might be two steps ahead even of what we imagine. If what our observers in Catalonia suspect is true; if those armored columns they parade before us are but their second-rank formations…”

Boris’s answering smile was thin, tired, but not without its own cunning edge. “Then better to be the Germans’ allies now. Better to be bound by treaties we negotiate from relative strength. You were right to point it out that the last time we waited to see who would emerge stronger Bulgaria ended up on the wrong side of the war.”

A long and heavy sigh.

“with our armies drilling to their standards, our officers attending their staff colleges; than to face them as an afterthought when Paris lies in smoking ruin and London sues for loans instead of dictating embargoes.”

King George’s eyes glittered. “A cold calculation.”

“The only kind history respects.” Boris drained his glass. “Go home to Constantinople, old friend. Tell your generals to prepare. We will meet again soon. Perhaps under far darker skies; but at least with a plan that does not begin with begging.”

George clasped his hand firmly, then was gone, the Greek escort bustling to ready the royal motorcade.

Boris lingered a while longer, staring at the map left on the table. His gloved hand drifted to the tiny wooden block painted with his dynasty’s green and gold, set near Sofia.

Then he moved it forward by a cautious inch, until it stood touching the nearest German piece. Only then did he permit himself a small, private nod.

History was not made by the cautious. But it was survived by the prudent.

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