The Eternal Empire (2 page)

1
^st
December 1919

Rhine
Frontier, Saxony

On a hill in Saxony overlooking the
river Rhine, near the imperial city of Confluentes a man stood staring down at
the river, the city and the countryside around it. It was early afternoon and
quite pleasant despite the time of year, with no wind and a clear sky. It
looked like being the mildest winter in living memory, but the man staring down
at the grey mass of water that flowed with such force from the Alps to the sea
had little interest in weather forecasts. At least not for the next few
months. 

He had a closely trimmed iron grey
beard, which was in keeping with the uniform he wore, that of a General of
Armies of the Kingdom of Saxony. Most people would have said ‘The’ General of
the Armies since Count Paulus Godisger was the only Saxon to hold that title
which was the highest rank in the army after the King himself. Most people
would have been right.

He had been staring for some time, as
though in a dream. He was thinking back some thirty years to when he was a
young officer and had first crossed that mighty river below. He had not crossed
as a trader or on holiday as many were doing today. He had crossed with a sword
in one hand and a handgun in the other leading the soldiers of his father's
regiment into battle. He also remembered the return crossing, back into Saxony
with his men, those that were left, fighting a rearguard action against the
pursuing Legions, desperately keeping them away from the remaining bridges
across the Rhine that were still held by the defeated Saxon army. Godisger with
the remnants of his regiment was the last to escape across before the Imperial
artillery zeroed in on the last bridgehead, but he had helped saved a large
part of the army from capture or death. That experience had changed him, as war
changes so many.

He had known the men in his father's
regiment. They had been from the farms and towns that made up his father’s
estates in the rich farmlands of North Saxony. He had helped them gather crops
at harvest time, drank beer with them at village festivals and trained with
them during their initial military service and subsequent annual exercises.
After the war he had ridden around the estates. The looks he had received from
the mothers and wives of those who had not returned was branded into his
memory, and deep in his soul he felt guilty that he had survived when so many
had died beneath the guns of the legions of Rome.

Paulus Godisger had remained in the
army, but remained distant from those he commanded. He was never cruel or
unfair, but he was never warm towards them either. The officers and men under
his command neither liked nor disliked him, but they did respect him. They
called him the 'Ice General', and it was commonly believed that he had been
born devoid of any feelings or emotion apart from anger and hate.

His wife knew differently. She
remembered the dashing young man she had fallen in love with one summer many
years ago. He had laughed, and joked and had been the one that others went to
when they had a problem, confident that Paulus Godisger, son of their Count
would help them or at least listen with a sympathetic ear. The man who had come
back from across the Rhine after the war no longer laughed or listened to the
problems of others. But she knew that the feelings were still there, buried
deep within him, submerged by his abiding hatred of the Empire. She heard them
at night when he called out the names of the friends of his youth, dead these
thirty years.

General Godisger turned around; the
lands of the Empire now to his back. A few yards away were a dozen middle
ranking officers who made up his planning staff. They had been waiting
patiently whilst their general relived his past. The general picked out one of
them with his eyes.

"What is across the river?"
he asked sharply.

"The Roman Empire, general," replied
the officer, a tribune of cavalry.

"Of course it's the Roman Empire
you idiot!" he snapped, "I'm well aware of basic geography,
especially since it has barely changed in two thousand years!" The General
now scanned the assembled officers, briefly locking his eyes on each man in
turn.

"What you need to know is what
that river, and the lands beyond it mean to the Kingdom of Saxony. Do you have
any thoughts on that?"

After seeing the way the cavalry
officer had had his head snapped off, nobody was rushing forward to volunteer
an answer. It did not matter because the General was going to tell them anyway.

"Beyond that river lies the future
of the Saxon people. Decisions taken over there determine whether our craftsmen
can sell their goods, or our ships sail the oceans freely. They levy taxes and
duties on our trade with other nations simply because it crosses their borders.
They can decide if the Saxons are to become a great nation or just one of many
minor countries constantly in awe of the majesty of Rome."

Again he briefly scanned the faces of
the men before him and continued. "It doesn't take a genius to work out
that it is not in the interest of the Empire to see Saxony strong and
powerful."

He turned to face across the Rhine once
more. "The Romans understand one thing and one thing only. Power! The kind
of power that comes from military might. Only by being able to defeat them on
the field of battle will we be able to force the Romans to accept Saxony as a
nation to be treated with respect. Only then will they stop strangling our
trade, refusing to allow our ships to carry their goods and taxing what our
farmers grow to feed the parasites in Constantinople."

One of the staff officers decided to
risk a question.

"What you say is true General, but
how are we going to defeat them? Their army and navy is strong, well trained
and ably led. To embark on a war with them is to risk another humiliating
defeat and the decimation of our soldiers."

General Godisger stared at the officer
with his cold piercing eyes. The other officers subconsciously moved slightly
away from their colleague in case they caught some of the verbal blast they
were sure was coming. They were mistaken.

"You are correct tribune Malaric.
We cannot risk a war with the Romans. Not at the moment that is."

The officers relaxed slightly and
listened to what they now realised was the real lesson behind this journey to
the frontier in winter.

"You must study your history
gentlemen. The Romans will grow complacent, they will start to fight amongst
themselves or allow their army to deteriorate. It has happened in the past and
I believe that it is happening again. When the time comes we must be ready to
strike. It may be next month, next year or even in ten years time, but we must
not miss the opportunity. Because if we do the name of the Saxons will become
just another name in the history books along with the Carthaginians,
Macedonians, Gauls, Goths, Vandals and Vikings."

"When you return to headquarters
after spending Christmas with your families, you will only have one task. To
prepare plans to destroy the Roman army across the Rhine and enable Saxony to
treat with the Empire as an equal."

Imperial
Palace, Constantinople

Alexander had been half asleep, when a
knock on the door of his private chambers brought him to full consciousness. He
stretched as he sat up against the silk pillows, his muscles protesting mildly
at the exertion. The knock on the door repeated itself, slightly louder this
time.

"Yes. What is it?"

"I apologise for interrupting your
Imperial Majesty," came the disembodied voice of the major-domo, "but
I thought it appropriate to remind you that you are due to meet the Head of the
Imperial Treasury at noon. That is in an hour’s time."

Was that the time! The heavy curtains
together with the grey overcast sky had conspired to maintain the impression
that it was still early morning.

"Yes. Thank you for reminding me
Petrus. You may go."

Alexander listened to the retreating
footsteps, barely audible on the heavy carpets that covered the Imperial
Palace. He had slept later than usual, but then again it had been a late night
and his sleep had been interrupted a number of times. He looked over at the
sleeping form entangled in the silk sheets next to him. It had been another
interesting night with Stephanie. He wondered whether, in time, she would cease
to amuse him. Certainly she was extremely skilled in bed and not a bad
companion either, being quite educated and witty. She was even interested in
accounts of his discussions with people like Issac Opus, the treasury minister.
Alexander found such meetings boring and tedious, but Stephanie managed to
amuse him with her caustic remarks about the collection of ministers that he
had inherited from his father when he had become Emperor.

She was the most recent of Alexander's
mistresses, and had been sharing his bed on a regular basis for six weeks. This
was one month short of what the servants referred to as the average 'bed-life'
of their masters’ concubines. Gambling amongst the palace servants and
Praetorian guards on the number of weeks each mistress would last had become a
sizeable business since Alexander had followed his father to the throne. The
current occupant of the imperial bed had impressed the palace personnel to the
extent that the smart money was already on four months or more.

Alexander got up and opened one of the
curtains. Normally the servants would do this but in his private chambers they
only entered when ordered to do so and never when he had a 'guest'. The dull
light streamed into the room causing him to shield his eyes and blink while he
became accustomed to the brightness.

The imperial palace was built so that
it could look both south to the Mediterranean and east towards the Black Sea.
Today both the Sea of Marmara and the Bosporus, separating Europe from Asia
looked grey and cold. Only the brightly coloured hulls of the large merchant
ships and the sails of the small boats ferrying people across the straits,
broke up the drabness. The trees in the palace grounds were bare, and the grass
yellow - a result of the poor rains that had fallen in the summer and autumn.
He could have ordered the gardeners to ensure that they received adequate
water, but he had not. A press release had said that due to the deprivations
suffered by so many of his subjects due to the poor harvest, the Emperor had
ordered that the imperial gardens should not be watered until the drought had
broken. Apparently this statement had been well received by the assembly,
senate and populace at large.

The fact of the matter was that
Alexander did not care whether the imperial gardens lived or died. They had
been commissioned by his father and a huge statue of Emperor Philip III stood
staring up at him from its centre.

Alexander stared back at the statue
with a look that would have earned him a humiliating tongue lashing from his
father if he were still alive. The people had loved his father. Philip the
Great some were calling him, although that would be for future historians to
decide. The achievements of his reign has been broadcast on all the radio
stations and printed in all the newspapers at the time of his death. And
Alexander, as the dutiful son and new Emperor had listened to them all.

Originally a successful general, Philip
had been raised to the imperial throne by the successful revolt of the legions
in Pannonia. After crushing the enemies of the Empire on land and at sea he
turned his energies to building up the economy. He had overseen the massive
re-organisation of the imperial railway network that had fuelled much of the
prosperity of the previous twenty years. He had forced through a breakup of the
Banking monopolies, easing access to finance and had actively encouraged
technological and scientific research, establishing the wireless service to
disseminate news and the Imperial Air Transport Service for the swift movement
of mail and transporting of Imperial Officials. He had settled a century old
dispute with the United Provinces and in doing so a massive market for Imperial
goods had opened up.

"You did so much for
everyone," said Alexander bitterly to the statue in the garden,
"except your only son."