The Eternal Empire

by Geoff Fabron

  29th July 1920

  Damascus

  Count Karlein, Saxon ambassador to the Caliphate of Arabia, wiped his forehead with a silk handkerchief. The call to midday prayers had just gone out from the hundreds of minarets that dotted the skyline of the city and his driver had to slow down to avoid the hordes of people as they made their way to the nearest mosque. The heat inside the motor carriage was stifling. The only respite had been the breeze through the open window as the vehicle made its way to the palace of the Caliph.

  The Count was not in a good mood and he silently cursed the crowds as they made their way around the slow moving vehicle, gawking at the occupants in their uncomfortable clothes. He smiled back diplomatically and mentally hurried them along. As the last mournful wails of 'Allah Akbar' echoed off the walls of the whitewashed buildings, his driver managed to accelerate away and the rush of warm air brought the Count a small measure of relief.

  As they were expected, they were waved through the gates of the palace and drove directly round to the back where an officer of the Caliph's Household Guard was waiting to escort the Count into the audience chamber. The guards at the gate had been Arabs from the Caliph's own tribe, but the men of the Household Guard were Turkish mercenaries. The paranoia of the Caliph never ceased to amuse Count Karlein, but as four of the last six rulers of the Arabian Caliphate had been murdered by ambitious relatives he had to admit that it had a basis in fact.

  The officer showed him into a large room strewn with cushions and containing a number of low tables. He was directed to sit down and slaves came in and offered him coffee and dates. Taking one of the small delicate cups he sipped the hot, dark liquid appreciatively. Although he disliked many aspects of his current posting, he had acquired a taste for the strong, bitter coffee served on any and every occasion in the Middle East.

  He sat quietly sipping from his cup and helping himself to the dates. He expected to have to wait for up to an hour before the Caliph was prepared to see him.

  Eventually the curtains at one end of the room opened and the Caliph entered preceded by two of his Turkish guards. With him was his Grand Vizier and his eldest son, Mohammed Bin Rashid, newly appointed commander of the army.

  The Count rose and went forward to meet the Caliph, giving him a beaming smile.

  "As-salaam alaykum, - peace be upon you" the Caliph greeted him formally.

  "Wa alakum e-salaam, - and upon you" replied the Count and shook hands with all three.

  Count Karlein spoke fluent Arabic, having spent most of his childhood in Baghdad where his father had been the Saxon trade counsel. It was the bane of his life that as one of the few Arabic speaking Saxon diplomats his entire career would probably be spent in the hot environment of the Middle East.

  They sat down on the cushions and coffee was served again. They exchanged some polite conversation before the Grand Vizier broached the reason for this meeting.

  "The note that you sent this morning," he began, "indicated that the 'matter' we have been discussing over the past month has become rather urgent."

  Count Karlein nodded his head. "Yes, I'm afraid that we have not been able to settle our dispute with the Empire over trade and the situation is very tense. I'm sorry to have to tell you that war between Saxony and the Empire may only be a few days away."

  The Vizier nodded thoughtfully whilst the Caliph and his son watched the Count.

  "The Empires trade laws have been a source of concern to us as well," the Vizier said. "Like you, our negotiations have been fruitless."

  "It is sad that such disputes cannot be settled peacefully," replied the Count sadly, "but it appears that the Empire grows arrogant and overbearing. They must realise that they cannot treat the rest of the world like their colonies, to be ordered around at their whim."

  The Caliph's son spoke for the first time. "You speak the truth," he said with some passion. "The oppression of our Moslem brothers in Egypt is intolerable. The new military governor has closed all the Islamic schools accusing them of plotting a revolt. They show no respect for the true faith!"

  The Caliph and the Vizier looked slightly uncomfortable at this outburst but said nothing. Karlein smiled sympathetically. Until recently Mohammed Bin Rashid had been the governor of Arabia. He had built up support amongst the fanatical Wahhabi tribes and Karlein suspected that was the reason he had been brought back to Damascus. The Caliph did not like to see anyone too strong, even his own son.

  "Respect for other people, their beliefs and heritage is something that the Empire has lost sight of," he said solemnly.

  The Arabs nodded their heads in agreement, and the Count felt confident that they would provide the support that Saxony had asked for. However, he knew there would be a price and it would be higher now that time was of the essence.

  "What we spoke of earlier," broke in the Caliph entering the conversation, "I'm sure that we could be of assistance, however it is rather short notice and the money to pay for the mobilisation of our army takes time to find."

  Karlein gave the Caliph a smile of understanding. Now the haggling begins he thought.

  Two hours later when the Count left, the Saxon treasury was considerably poorer although Karlein believed that he had struck a good deal. He had even persuaded them to act immediately with the forces that they had available on the Egyptian border. It was only later that he found out that the Caliph had been under considerable pressure to act over the treatment of the Moslem minority in Egypt, and that he had already given permission for his son to take action against the Empire. The crisis on the Rhine simply meant that now the Caliph would be able to get Saxony to help foot the bill for something he was going to do anyway.

  Chapter Thirteen

  30th July 1920

  Egyptian Frontier

  The Egypt-Sinai frontier between the Empire and the Caliphate was marked by piles of whitewashed stones and the occasional length of barbed wire. Ten miles beyond the border on the imperial side in Egypt there was a string of fortifications manned by the men of the legio II Trajana. Farms and villages were scattered between the frontier and these fortifications. Patrols went out from the border forts into this area regularly and it was one of these patrols that fired the first shot in the war.

  Tribune John Bryennius had been with the second Trajana for just over nine months, long enough to feel confident in command but too short to ignore the advice of his centurion. It was his fourth patrol along the border and as the previous three had been without incident he expected this one to be just as boring.

  He commanded seventy three legionaries from the 1st century of the 2nd cohort with sixteen troopers from the third Cyrenian auxiliary cavalry attached for scouting. Bryennius had been up ahead with some of the cavalry when a message arrived from his centurion urgently requesting his presence. The patrol was scattered over an area half a mile long by a quarter of a mile wide. The mounted auxiliaries were on the flanks with half of the legionaries in the centre and the rest in groups of three or four in between. The centurion was with the main group of legionaries who had halted and had formed a skirmish line facing the low hills to the east.

  Bryennius dismounted, handed the reins of his horse to one of the legionaries and walked over to the centurion. They exchanged salutes and the centurion pointed towards the east.

  "One of the scouts on that flank has failed to report in sir," he said, "and another sent to find him has not returned."

  The tribune looked towards the hills with his binoculars. All he could see were some of his own men making their way through the barren terrain below the hills.

  "How long ago?" he asked the centurion.

  "Ten minutes since we sent somebody to look for the scout."

  Bryennius looked around at his position. His men were scattered over a wide area with very little in the way of cover. "I don't like it," he said, "what do you think?"

  The centurion was in his late thirties and had spent all his life in Egypt. He did not like it either, and it was not
just the missing horsemen that made him uncomfortable. For the past three miles he had not seen anybody, no traders or people from the settlements, not even a herd of goats.

  "I think that we should consolidate the patrol and move towards that village," he said pointing south west to a group of low buildings dominated by a single, plain church bell tower.

  "Agreed," said Bryennius without hesitation. "Give the order."

  The centurion called the bucina player and told him to blow the rally. He watched the tribune mount and thought how glad he was that Bryennius was in command. Some junior tribunes were a right pain in the arse - arrogant, overbearing pampered brats from Constantinople. Bryennius treated the men well, listened to advice and did not shirk his duties. ‘Yes’, the centurion muttered to himself as he watched the tribune oversee the withdrawal of the men nearest the hills, ‘Bryennius is all right - even if he is an officer’.

  From amongst a pile of rocks on one of the hills, Mohammed Bin Rashid watched the legionary patrol begin its move towards the village. He cursed, causing the men round him, hidden below the ridge to look at him in concern. He had flown to the border from Damascus in one of the few aeroplanes of the Caliphs air force straight after the meeting with the Saxon ambassador. He intended to lead this ambush, destroy the imperial patrol and build up his influence and reputation as a warrior and leader with the Caliphs army.

  There were several hundred warriors hidden in the hills waiting for the signal to attack. With the exception of forty men, all were on foot to prevent their animals betraying their presence. The men of his personal bodyguard, all Wahhabi's from Arabia, had retained their mounts to deal with the Roman scouts, two of whom lay dead with their throats cut a few yards from where he watched.

  It was the signal for the patrol to rally that had caused Mohammed to curse. He had intended to wait until the patrol was too far away for them to reach the village before he launched his attack. Now he had to decide what to do. Should he call off the ambush or attack anyway? If he called it off his reputation would suffer. He took in the dispositions of the imperial troops with the practised eye of a desert raider. They were still out in the open and dispersed, but would be able to reach the village before his men on foot could overtake them. Unless he could slow them down. He came to a decision.

  "Aziz!" he called for the commander of his bodyguard, who crawled up beside him.

  "Mount my bodyguard," he ordered, "and we will cut the infidels off from the village. That will give our men time to catch them."

  Aziz gave Mohammed a toothy grin and nodded before scurrying off to implement his leaders command.

  ‘Today’, thought Mohammed Bin Rashid, ‘I will prove to all that I have earned the right to rule. When Egypt has been liberated from the infidels I will be recognised as the foremost defender of Islam. Then my father will have to give me more power otherwise.... well blood may be thicker than water but it is only blood’.

  The tribune was on a small knoll watching the patrol make its way towards the village. A few of his men were already amongst the buildings checking them for defensive positions. The main body under the centurions command was steadily withdrawing whilst the other legionaries were moving quickly to join them, with the auxiliaries covering them like shepherds guarding their flock.

  Despite the heat, Bryennius felt a chill go through his body like a knife when he heard the high pitched war cry. Every man in the patrol turned towards the hills and, frozen in shock, watched as hundreds of warriors in loose flowing robes festooned with weapons came rolling over the hill tops. Shots began to ring out from the attackers.

  "The village!" screamed Bryennius at the top of his voice. "Get to the village!"

  Everybody began running, all semblance of an orderly withdrawal gone. Bryennius ordered one of the scouts to ride for help to the nearest fort then, remaining where he was, he began to sort out the chaotic scene around him. They were heavily outnumbered but the main body of Arabs was too far away to catch his men before they reached the village. Once there he knew that his men could hold out until a relief force arrived. He was about to ride over and begin organising the defences when he saw the Arab horsemen.

  The centurion had also noticed them and realised what they were trying to do. He watched impotently as one group of four legionaries closest to the hills were cut down as they tried to run for the village. Knowing they would be ridden down if they remained scattered, the centurion formed his men into a tight circle while still moving toward the village. However the need to keep a close formation slowed them down and the Arab horsemen would be able to get between them and safety. They could fight their way through them but not before the Arabs on foot arrived.

  Mohammed Bin Rashid felt elated. This was the fulfilment of a dream. Leading his men in a wild charge that would turn the tide of battle, the wind blowing in his face and his scimitar outstretched before him.

  'Allah Akbar! Allah Akbar!" he screamed above the thundering hooves of the Arabian thoroughbreds. He drove his men on although the horses were almost blown and had slowed down. In another minute, Mohammed thought with satisfaction, they would be between the village and the Roman soldiers. He was so preoccupied with reaching his target that he did not notice Bryennius and a group of nine mounted auxiliaries crash into their flank.

  Like his centurion, Bryennius had realised what they was trying to do and had gathered all the auxiliary cavalrymen he could and led them in a headlong charge to intercept the Arab horsemen. The sudden arrival of the Roman cavalry in their midst brought the Arabs to an abrupt standstill as the two sides milled around engaging in individual battles.

  Mohammed Bin Rashid yelled at his men to ignore the Roman cavalrymen and to press on to the village but he could not make himself heard. Then he noticed the legionary officer who had lead the charge which had brought his men to a halt. His face contorted in anger and he turned towards him and urged his tired steed on.

  Bryennius had knocked one of the Arabs off his horse as he had charged in. He had almost lost his sword in doing so and his shoulder felt like it had been dislocated. Holding both his sword and his reins with one hand he drew his handgun and shot down another Arab who had appeared in front of him. Out of the corner of his eye he caught a glint of reflected sunlight and only just managed to raise his aching arm to parry Mohammed Bin Rashid's scimitar with his sword. His assailant hacked and slashed at him and Bryennius struggled to counter the blows as their horses whirled around each other. He received a cut to his forearm from the tip of Mohammed's scimitar and he did not know how long he would be able to ward off this fanatical attack when their horses drew apart for a moment. Bryennius seized the opportunity to use his handgun and fired. The heavy bullet took Mohammed full in the throat almost decapitating him and catapulting him off his horse.

  Shouting at his men to retreat, Bryennius dug his heels sharply into his horse and rode out of the melee towards the village. As he cleared the confused mass of horsemen, followed by three surviving auxiliaries the tribune glanced behind him and was relieved and surprised to see that they were not being pursued.

  The centurion and his men had reached the village and they were busy fortifying a large house facing the oncoming Arabs. The building had a walled courtyard and a machine rifle team was busy setting up on the roof while the rest of the men were preparing firing positions.

  Bryennius and the surviving cavalrymen came galloping into the courtyard and the gate was closed and barricaded behind them. Seeing the tribunes arm covered in blood, the centurion helped him off his horse and into the house where the medical orderly was setting up an aid post.

  For the next hour the besieged legionaries beat off a series of attacks with their disciplined rifle fire. The time that Bryennius and the auxiliaries had gained with their impetuous charge had been enough to save his small command from being wiped out. When the relief force arrived, they found most of the patrol exhausted but still alive. As expected the village had been ransacked of anything of value, bu
t what they discovered in the small church came as a shock.

  During the centuries of almost continuous warfare along the border, churches and mosques had been respected as places of refuge by both sides. Anything of value found inside was fair pickings but the places themselves and any non-combatant were normally spared. When the legionaries and auxiliaries entered the church they found that not only had all the Christian symbols been desecrated, but that thirty of the villagers - men, women and children had been savagely hacked to death.

  The atrocity had been perpetrated by Mohammed Bin Rashid's fanatical Wahhabi bodyguards who were maddened by his death. The public outrage in Egypt at this atrocity brought about an outbreak of violent communal rioting against the Moslem population by the Christian Copts and a demand that the sacrilege be avenged.

  The Caliph was grief stricken by the death of his eldest son, and likewise wanted revenge for his death. What was to have been a side-show, diverting imperial attention from the Rhine would turn into a major theatre of war.

  30th July 1920

  Cologne, Saxony

  The Saxon city opposite Colonia Agrippina, bore the Germanised name of Cologne. At a small tavern overlooking the main bridge across the Rhine Franz Maleric, dressed in civilian clothes, sat drinking a mug of beer, watching the movements across the border. The traffic was not heavy, mainly due to the punitive customs duty, but there was still a steady flow of pedestrians and vehicles.

  Franz watched as a large truck drove over the bridge and stopped at the imperial border post. The driver handed his manifest to the customs officer and after some discussion paid the required duty, before proceeding on his way. The truck was carrying a consignment of meat to shops in Colonia Agrippina as it did every day. This time, in addition to the sides of smoked ham, sausages, slabs of beef and legs of lamb, the truck carried arms and explosives. A few hours earlier the advance teams had crossed the bridge in small groups posing as students on a camping trip for the summer. Later on they would meet up with the truck and retrieve their weapons.