Just as Arthur Lionheart had successfully ignited the twin infernos of North–South division and the struggle of three powers in the American backyard—then brushed the ash from his gloves and calmly prepared to enjoy the spectacle—another report arrived in his hands.
This one had travelled for months across Central Asia, carried by camel caravans and hard-riding couriers. It bore the seal of Dost Mohammad, the British-aligned Afghan ruler whom Arthur himself had quietly restored to power.
The Emir of Afghanistan—once deposed by British miscalculation, then returned to his throne through a precise combination of gold and guns—wrote with extravagant humility to his benefactor, whom he praised as being more generous than Providence itself.
"Most Illustrious Highness, Prince Arthur,
Under your oracular guidance, and with the breech-loading rifles you so graciously bestowed upon us, our Pashtun warriors have crushed the Russian-backed rebels led by Akbar Khan in the mountains of the Hindu Kush.
More than three thousand insurgents have been captured. Countless crude Russian muskets have been seized. Southern Afghanistan once more stands in glory—yours… no, ours."
Naturally, the letter concluded with lamentation.
"Yet the Russians persist. Through Persia, they continue to supply gold and arms to the remnants of the rebellion.
Our ammunition runs low. Winter clothing is scarce. We humbly request another gift of your 'God's Fury' revolvers, and cotton winter garments. In return, we offer ten years' mining rights to a newly discovered turquoise deposit in Kandahar."
Arthur smiled as he finished reading.
"A clever man," he said lightly, passing the letter to Queen Victoria, seated beside him.
Victoria read it carefully, her brow knitting with concern.
"They ask again for weapons and money," she said softly. "Will Afghanistan not become a bottomless pit?"
Arthur laughed gently and drew her into his arms, turning her gaze toward the vast world map upon the wall.
"My dearest," he said, tapping the continents with deliberate ease, "this is a global chessboard."
"In America, I placed gold and cotton upon the table—and allowed a young bull to gore itself to exhaustion."
He then struck the jagged heart of Central Asia with his finger.
"But here, in Afghanistan, I placed something far more valuable: a firewall. A strategic buffer."
"I do not care whether Dost ever unites Afghanistan. In truth, I would prefer that he does not."
"What I desire is this—" his voice cooled, sharpened—
"that he and Akbar Khan, Russia's creature, tear at each other endlessly in these mountains. Like fighting cocks trapped in a cage. Bleeding. Grinding. Never decisive."
"When Dost runs out of bullets, he comes to us. When Akbar starves, he crawls north to the Russian bear."
"And for the price of surplus rifles, mass-produced ammunition, and coats that will soon be obsolete, we force Russia to pour its strength, gold, and ambition into this barren graveyard."
He leaned closer, lowering his voice.
"Thus, Afghanistan halts the southern advance of the Tsar—and shields the true jewel of our crown."
"India."
Victoria's blue eyes widened as understanding dawned.
"My love," Arthur asked gently, a playful smile returning, "is trading a few tens of thousands of old weapons for a century of peace across the Indian subcontinent… not worth the cost?"
She stared at the tiny, harsh land upon the map.
For the first time, she truly grasped how an apparently worthless territory—placed correctly—could shape the fate of empires.
"It is worth it," she whispered, then smiled brightly.
"Entirely worth it."
"Then," Arthur said, already reaching for his pen, "we shall not only send arms—but artillery. The finest guns."
"And advisers. We will teach them mountain warfare by hand."
"Strong enough to fight. Never strong enough to win."
He sealed the letter and handed it to his aide, ordering it dispatched through India at once.
Settling back upon the sofa, Arthur poured himself black tea, satisfaction softening his features.
America smouldered toward civil war.
Central Asia shackled the Russian bear.
At last, his hands were free—to walk beside his Queen, to savor this rare and radiant Golden Age of an Empire upon which the sun never set.
At least—
Until Crimea ignited.