Chapter One: The New Emperor Ascends the Throne

March 9, 1888. Potsdam Palace, southwest of Berlin.

For the German Empire, scarcely eighteen years old, this was the most momentous day since January 18, eighteen years prior, when its founding had been proclaimed at Versailles. On this day, the Empire lost its founding emperor, William I, and welcomed its second sovereign, Frederick III.

Though the whole nation was steeped in grief at the loss of its monarch, a country cannot be left without a ruler even for a day. Therefore, Frederick III’s coronation was arranged to take place in Sanssouci Palace, built by Frederick the Great himself. Hundreds of civil and military officials assembled to swear their allegiance as the new emperor ascended the throne.

The civil ministers were led by Chancellor Bismarck; the military men by Field Marshal Moltke.

Around the founding Emperor William I, there had once been four pillars of state: Chancellor Bismarck, Minister of War Roon, Chief of the General Staff Moltke, and Prince Friedrich Karl.

Nine years ago, Count Roon succumbed to illness; three years ago, Prince Karl passed away.

Now, only Bismarck and Moltke remained.

Moltke, already over ninety and in frail health, could no longer bear the weight of the Empire; that responsibility still fell to the seventy-three-year-old Bismarck, whose vigor showed no sign of waning.

Yet the passing of the old emperor and the accession of the new one meant Bismarck’s stage would likely shrink from what it once had been.

As the bells tolled, ministers and generals filed into the chapel. The coronation was conducted by the Archbishop of Magdeburg; only with the Church’s blessing could the crown be placed rightfully upon the Emperor’s brow.

This was, after all, but a formality—a necessary religious ritual.

The ceremony was sacred and solemn, as though God Himself were watching these very events unfold.

Yet the assembled officials’ attention was drawn less to the ritual than to the Emperor, who, as he received the benediction, did not at all resemble a man in the final throes of terminal cancer.

Had the Emperor recovered?

Bismarck could not help but scrutinize Frederick III, noticing as well that Moltke, too, watched the Emperor’s every move with a surprised gaze.

The Emperor’s illness—throat cancer—was no secret.

Last year, Dr. Morell Mackenzie, brought from Britain, had diagnosed Frederick with advanced cancer of the larynx. A month earlier, Mackenzie had offered his final opinion: immediate surgery to remove the diseased tissue was required. Frederick, however, refused, convinced his condition was beyond cure. Many believed Frederick had little time left, that Prince Wilhelm would inherit the crown before his father ever wore it.

No one expected that, far from deteriorating, Frederick’s health would improve.

In the past month, rumors had swirled. Some spoke of divine intervention, saving the imperial heir and sparing the Empire from bidding farewell to three emperors in a single year. Others cited Frederick’s robust constitution, crediting careful nursing for his recovery. Still others whispered of a mysterious savior.

Of these, tales of the mysterious figure were most compelling.

The story went that, on the night of February 8, a bolt of lightning struck the ancient banyan tree in the southeast corner of Sanssouci’s gardens. In the split trunk, the guards discovered a stranger and brought him before Frederick. It was this figure who persuaded Frederick to refuse Mackenzie’s surgery and accept a special treatment instead. Thereafter, Frederick’s health began to improve.

But the royal family kept a tight lid on the matter, leaving the rumors unconfirmed.

Seeing the Emperor with their own eyes—hale and spirited—Bismarck and Moltke were both astonished, forced to concede there was more to the rumors than idle gossip.

The chapel was packed, but Bismarck noted no unfamiliar faces.

Still, he remained unconvinced.

After the ceremony, the ministers and generals accompanied Frederick III to the main hall. By tradition, the Emperor would convene his first council there.

For this most powerful empire in Europe, there were matters far more pressing than the arrangements for the late Emperor’s funeral.

Foremost among these: the formation of a new imperial cabinet.

Changes in personnel were inevitable, but who would stay, and who would go?

All eyes were on Bismarck.

During William I’s reign, the monarch had governed with a light touch, placing absolute trust in Bismarck and granting the chancellor sweeping powers, seldom interfering in state affairs. In William’s last, ailing years, the Crown Prince acted as regent. Having married the eldest daughter of the United Kingdom, the Crown Prince—now Frederick III—had adopted a pro-British liberal stance, earning the enmity of the Junker aristocracy.

Bismarck, after all, was the Junkers’ leading figure.

When still Crown Prince, Frederick naturally deferred to Bismarck, upholding the Emperor’s policies. But now, as Emperor, would he continue to yield at every turn?

Between chancellor and emperor, the throne always prevails.

Yet without Bismarck, could the German Empire remain the empire it was?

Thus, at Frederick III’s first council, the chancellor’s fate became the greatest uncertainty.

The ministers and generals assembled; the seating and personnel unchanged, but now the regent was an Emperor in his own right.

A single word distinguished “Crown Prince” from “Emperor,” but the gulf between the two was vast.

Bismarck and Moltke both noticed that, besides the Emperor and his chamberlain Gustav, there was a stranger present. The two exchanged glances, alert.

At first glance, the man had the features of the East, yet also bore traces of the West. His looks were unremarkable; he was of average height and build, not at all imposing.

Yet his eyes held a certain brilliance.

Bismarck, a shrewd judge of men, saw at once that this was no ordinary figure.

Could the rumors be true?

As Bismarck pondered, Frederick III had Gustav read the imperial decree: all current military and civil ministers would remain in office, with Feng Chengqian appointed as Minister of War.

A single sentence, delivered offhandedly, but carrying immense significance.

The identity of the appointee aside, the very existence of this position was extraordinary.

After Marshal Albrecht von Roon, the Ministry of War had been divided into separate Army and Navy departments, each with its own minister—a reform enacted during Frederick’s regency.

Ostensibly, this was because no one of Roon’s caliber could command both services; in reality, it was intended to prevent the concentration of military power from threatening the crown. Many saw it as an outward sign of Frederick’s pro-British liberalism.

With the Empire unified—Austria excepted—was it time to beat swords into ploughshares?

By reestablishing the Ministry of War, the Emperor delivered a resounding answer: not yet. The Empire must remain vigilant and strong.

This thought gave Bismarck some comfort.

Though he and Frederick III differed politically, Bismarck never doubted the mettle of this prince, who had fought in the wars against Denmark, Austria, and France and earned renown for the empire’s founding. After Emperor William, only Frederick III could lead the Empire boldly forward.

Perhaps Frederick’s pro-British sympathies were merely expedient.

But who was Feng Chengqian?

The name was unmistakably Eastern, and likely connected to the Qing.

Bismarck’s mind swirled with questions, and he cast another searching look at the stranger by the Emperor’s side.

Once Gustav finished reading the decree, the council was adjourned. Frederick III invited no discussion, instructing the principal ministers to wait in an antechamber for private audiences.

First to be summoned, naturally, was the Imperial Chancellor.

In the royal study, Bismarck once more encountered the mysterious Easterner—and learned that he was the newly appointed Minister of War, Feng Chengqian.

“Chancellor, allow me to introduce you: this is Feng Chengqian, Count of Brandenburg,” Frederick III said, approaching. “And this is our Imperial Chancellor, Count Otto, the illustrious Prince Bismarck. I trust you are already acquainted, so I need say no more.”

“Your Excellency,” Feng Chengqian offered a slight bow, his tone respectful. “I am Feng Chengqian. I look forward to your guidance in the days to come.”

Hearing the fluent, faintly Prussian-accented German and witnessing his courteous manners, Bismarck was taken aback.

There were no shortage of Easterners who spoke German; few, however, understood Western etiquette so well.

Surprised, Bismarck momentarily forgot his own manners and merely nodded in response.

“You are both pillars of the Empire. In the days ahead, you will serve together—supporting one another,” Frederick III said, stepping closer to Bismarck, his tone earnest. “The Count has sworn a blood oath to me. Yet, as he has not yet rendered service to the Empire, he is granted the title of count for now. Over the past month, he and I have discussed matters ancient and modern at length, and found great affinity. Chancellor, with your discerning eye, I am sure you and the Count will become fast friends.”

“Your Majesty…”

Frederick III waved him off, not permitting Bismarck to continue. “A banquet has been prepared for you and the other ministers. As there is still time, why not speak with the Count here, to foster mutual understanding and better work together in pursuit of renewed glory?”

“Well…”

“Go on, Gustav has prepared tea,” Frederick III said with a smile. “Besides, I must receive Moltke and others. It would not be convenient with you both present.”

“Chancellor, please,” Feng Chengqian said, showing perfect tact and inviting Bismarck to proceed first.

As it was the Emperor’s command, Bismarck could hardly refuse. He was also eager to learn more about this favored Easterner.

In the tea room, Gustav had set out tea and pastries and ordered the guards to admit no one else.

As he entered, Bismarck shot Gustav a look, hoping the Emperor’s confidant would divulge something about Feng Chengqian.

“Chancellor, Minister, please enjoy,” Gustav said, revealing nothing more.

Bismarck could not help but sigh inwardly. Even the Emperor’s closest attendant was tight-lipped; uncovering Feng Chengqian’s origins would not be easy.

This sudden Minister of War was indeed a marvel.

The more Bismarck pondered, the greater his curiosity, his desire to know where Feng Chengqian had come from, and what effect he might have on the young Empire.

Yet Bismarck could never have imagined that Feng Chengqian was not a man of this era, but a traveler from centuries into the future.