Re: Blood and Iron

Chapter 581: Formation of the International Legion

Lisbon, Palacio Nacional da Ajuda

The palace was alive with muted tension. Footmen moved like ghosts through the marble halls, their soft-soled shoes whispering over ancient rugs.

Somewhere deeper within, a string quartet practiced for an evening gala that seemed now almost grotesquely out of place.

At the long windows overlooking Lisbon’s sunlit terraces stood King Manuel II, hands clasped behind his back, gaze fixed not on the view but on the figure seated at a modest table behind him.

Bruno von Zehntner read quietly, a fresh dispatch from Berlin held in one hand, a delicate porcelain cup of Portuguese coffee in the other.

Even here, dressed in civilian linen and enjoying the coastal breeze, there was something about him that seemed to darken the very room.

The weight of thousands of past decisions lingering on his shoulders like a cloak.

Manuel finally turned, drawing a slow breath. “You intend to leave us soon.”

It was not a question.

Bruno did not immediately look up. He finished the page, folded it with clinical precision, and set it aside before meeting the Portuguese monarch’s eyes.

“Lisbon is gracious. But it is not my throne. Nor my battlefield. Spain edges closer to full civil war by the hour. And where there is chaos, there are always men eager to test German resolve; or imagine Berlin’s hand is distracted. I cannot permit such illusions to linger.”

The King came closer, lowering his voice though the room was empty but for two discreet guards near the doorway.

“I will speak plainly, as one sovereign to another. Your presence here is worth more to Portugal’s security than a thousand of my field battalions. Not a soul in Madrid or Paris or even across the sea in London would dare think of encroaching on my frontier with you dining under this roof.”

Bruno’s lips twitched into something that might have been amusement.

“A poor strategy, Manuel. Would you chain a wolf to your doorstep simply to frighten off the foxes? Eventually, the wolf grows hungry, or bored, and you’ll wonder if it is your own throat he will test.”

A bead of sweat rolled down Manuel’s temple. He forced a wan smile. “And yet I suspect you are a very disciplined wolf.”

Bruno said nothing to that. He merely reached for his coffee again, the faint clink of porcelain loud in the hush. After a measured sip, he set it down and steepled his hands.

“Spain will burn. It must, to cauterize the infection before it spreads through the whole peninsula and beyond. France feeds that fire because de Gaulle thinks he can exhaust Germany’s will by proxy. A bold move, but a foolish one… He doesn’t have the bodies to bleed or the steel to scrap to win a war of attrition via proxy.”

A silence fell. Outside, the cries of vendors and carriage wheels echoed faintly up the palace avenues.

At last Manuel ventured, almost pleading, “Stay through the month at least. I would have Lisbon remembered by your family as more than a fortress of diplomacy. Let your daughters dance at my court. Let the people see you not merely as the Butcher of Belgrade, but as a father, a guest who honored Portugal with his ease. It might be the only comfort we find before war again tears the continent.”

Bruno’s expression softened by a fraction. “A fair argument. I will delay my departure by ten days. But no more. After that, my hand must rest on the helm again. The future grows too dark to be steered from afar.”

Manuel closed his eyes briefly, a shudder of relief passing through him. When he opened them again, it was with renewed composure.

“Then I shall ensure every evening of those days is filled with music and light enough to outshine the storms gathering at our doorstep.”

Bruno inclined his head slightly; a general’s nod, not a courtier’s bow.

“And in return, I will see that Portugal remains untouched by the chaos to come. For as long as I have the power to shape such things.”

They parted then, each to his own troubled thoughts. In the courtyard below, Bruno’s daughters laughed as they fed crusts of bread to a clutch of pigeons, oblivious for now to the iron webs being spun all around them.

—

Lisbon, Palacio Nacional da Ajuda, Upper Galleries

Late afternoon sun poured through high arched windows, casting long golden bars across the marble floor.

Dust motes drifted lazily in the warm glow.

Bruno stood by a wide sill, hands clasped behind his back, eyes fixed on the terracotta sprawl of Lisbon stretching to the sea.

From somewhere deeper in the palace came the faint strains of violin music; a polite diversion masking the storm of politics that churned beneath every polite smile here.

Footsteps echoed on the polished stone. Not the measured stride of an aide or a guard. Younger. Lighter. More impatient.

Bruno did not turn as Erich approached; he could tell from the subtle clipped energy of the gait, the faint scuff that betrayed youth trying too hard to be solemn.

“Grandfather,” Erich said, voice carefully pitched low. He stopped a respectful pace behind Bruno, waiting.

Bruno did not answer immediately. He let the moment stretch, testing his grandson’s composure. When at last he spoke, it was without shifting his gaze from the horizon.

“You’ve spent half the day chasing me through this palace, Erich. Speak.”

Erich drew a breath, steadying himself. When he stepped forward into Bruno’s peripheral vision, his young face was drawn tight with urgency, his blue eyes lit by something fierce and untested.

“I would ask for a private audience. Without your secretaries. Without even Father.”

Bruno’s eyebrow rose slightly, but he gestured to a narrow doorway that led to a small terrace overlooking the inner gardens.

They stepped out into the cooler air. Below, fountains chuckled over white marble bowls. A pair of gardeners clipped rose vines, heads politely lowered.

When Bruno turned fully to face his grandson, the old general’s presence seemed to swallow the space.

Even here, in quiet sunlit exile from the war councils, there was iron behind his calm.

“Well?”

Erich’s jaw worked. Then the words burst out, sharper than he intended.

“Spain burns. A civil war, ignited by French money, French agitators, French guns. Our allies are there, the Werwolf detachments already wage a shadow campaign. But I believe it is not enough. I believe we should form an international legion; Germans, yes, but also Russians who owe us much, Italians eager to prove their mettle, Hungarians itching to justify their new borders. A coalition under our banners, to secure Spain for monarchy and order.”

Bruno’s expression did not change, but a faint breath left him. “And?”

“And I would lead it.” Erich’s hands clenched at his sides. “As you led the Iron Division in Russia. As you forged from scraps and shattered men a spearhead that reshaped a continent. Let me prove I can do the same.”

There it was. The heart of it; not Spain, not even the creeping influence of France. But this young man’s desperate need to step out from under the shadow of giants.

To carve his worth in the only currency the Zehntners had ever truly respected: blood and command.

Bruno studied him a long, terrible moment.

“Do you truly think you are ready for that responsibility, Erich? Or is it merely glory that drives you? When I marched into Russia I was already a Generalleutnant and a veteran of two wars. You have yet to lead any men into combat. And you want to command an International legion?”

Erich flinched, but stood his ground.

“You trained me yourself, Grandfather. You know what I’ve studied, what I’ve overseen in Tyrol’s regiments. What I have planned with your staff in Berlin. I do not seek reckless charges. I seek a campaign that will break the French will to meddle in Iberia for a generation. That will prove our allies’ loyalty, under one banner, under our cause.”

Bruno stepped close enough that Erich could see the fine lines at the edges of his grandfather’s eyes; the map of long campaigns and bitter winters.

“When I went east, it was not for laurels. It was because the state was collapsing, because nobody else could. I forged an army from desperation. It was not ambition; it was necessity. Can you say the same?”

Erich swallowed. “Perhaps not yet. But if we let Spain slip, it will draw in France, then Britain, then America. It is a small war now. We can still mold it to our advantage. Later, it will be too vast to control.”

For the first time, Bruno’s hard gaze thawed by a degree. A grudging respect flickered there.

“You are your father’s son… and perhaps, unfortunately for you, that means you are of my blood as well. Very well. Draft your proposal. Make certain it does not drain reserves from Tyrol’s critical deployments. If I approve it, you will have your legion. And you will live with every grave it digs. But I will not grant you command. I will delegate that responsibility to a more proven commander. You? You will be his adjutant. And I will hear nothing more of it.”

Erich exhaled sharply, shoulders stiff with mingled with both triumph and defeat. Despite not getting the command he wanted, participating in the campaign among the leadership staff was a glory in and of itself.

“Thank you, Grandfather. I will not disappoint you.”

Bruno laid a heavy hand on his shoulder, squeezing once; a gesture that felt both like blessing and a faint, final warning.

“See that you do not. Go on now.”

Erich turned and left with something close to a soldier’s march, vanishing back into the palace’s sun-dappled corridors.

Bruno lingered on the terrace, watching the gardens below. His hand curled around the cool marble balustrade until his knuckles whitened.

“It is not that I fear you will disappoint me… It is that I know you will be disappointed when you come to realize that war is not an act of courage and gallantry, but an orchestra of death.

Good luck, Erich. You are going to need it.”