1885, I came to save Greece

Chapter 156 The Name of Pilgrimage

The engines of the yacht "Seagull" switched to their lowest power before dawn, and the hull glided gently across the sea, which resembled dark silk. Constantine stood on the bow deck, and the sea breeze brought more than just the simple smell of salt. A peculiar fragrance entered his nostrils: the crispness of pine resin, the slightly fishy smell of moss on the rocks, and an incense scent reminiscent of frankincense and myrrh, found only in ancient churches. The three intertwined to create a unique space that was isolated from the world.

On the horizon, a majestic, dark blue mountain range emerges from the swirling morning mist. That is the Athos Peninsula, the heart of the Orthodox world. Beyond the nearby sea cliffs, the silhouettes of monasteries dotting the mountain peaks and cliffs can be vaguely seen, like eagle nests perched in the clouds, overlooking the mortal world.

"Clang—Clang—"

The distant tolling of bells pierced through the thin mist, drifting from a distant monastery. The sound was deep and ancient, each syllable seemingly carried on from the last century, imbued with a solemnity and tranquility that seemed to belong to a time other than 1886. Time here seemed to flow differently from the outside world.

The yacht slowly docked at the simple pier in the outer harbor of Daphne. Here, there was none of the hustle and bustle of the port of Piraeus, only a few figures dressed in black monks' robes and a few small wooden boats waiting to pick up passengers.

Constantine was the first to descend the gangway. He had abandoned the crown prince's finery, wearing only a simple, durable dark travel suit. Around his neck hung a rough wooden cross, a talisman given to him by a sailor on the ship. In his hand, he clutched the Bible that Sophia had copied by hand, the edges of the pages slightly curled from the sea breeze overnight. At his waist, in an ordinary-looking leather satchel, lay evidence of crimes that could ignite the entire Greek Church.

Alexandros and several guards followed closely behind. They had also changed into the attire of ordinary sailors or merchants, but their upright posture and vigilant eyes still revealed their military background.

On the dock, a figure had been waiting for some time. He was a middle-aged monk around forty years old, with a lean face and sharp eyes like a hawk. His monk's robe was faded from washing, but it was starched and pressed perfectly, without a trace of impeccable craftsmanship.

"Welcome to the Holy Mountain, Your Highness." He bowed slightly, his manners impeccable, but his voice held no trace of flattery or enthusiasm, only a businesslike detachment. "I am Anastasius, the host sent by the Holy Alliance."

The Holy Alliance, the highest governing body of the Athos Peninsula, is composed of representatives from twenty major monasteries and possesses legislative and judicial power over this semi-independent religious state.

"Thank you for your welcome, Father Anastasiaos." Constantine nodded in return, his attitude humble. "I hope you will forgive me for disturbing the tranquility of the holy mountain with my visit."

"Your Highness's piety is the glory of the Holy Mountain." Anastasios's words were impeccable. "I just wonder, besides paying homage to the Virgin Mary, is there anything else Your Highness needs us mountain folk to do for you? The Holy Mountain only discusses faith and does not concern itself with worldly troubles."

The phrase "not involving worldly troubles" makes its meaning quite clear. It is both a polite warning and a direct test.

Constantine gave a peaceful smile and raised the Bible in his hand with a natural gesture.

"Father, you misunderstand. I am just a lost sinner who has come seeking peace for my soul. Recently, national affairs have been complicated, and I am filled with confusion. I hope to find a moment of solace at the feet of the Lord."

Anastasios's sharp gaze swept over Constantine's simple clothes, his worn Bible, and his cheap wooden cross, but the wariness in his eyes had not completely disappeared.

"The carriage is ready and can take you to Carriez." He turned to the side and gestured for you to proceed.

“No need,” Constantine waved his hand. “According to the ancient tradition of the Holy Mountain, mortals who set foot here for the first time should climb the mountain on foot as a sign of humility before the Lord. Although I am the crown prince, I am just a mortal before the Lord.”

This decision left Anastasius with all the prepared arguments stuck in his throat. He had prepared a plan to deal with an arrogant prince, but not an ascetic. For a moment, his expression softened, a mixture of surprise and reassessment.

"As you wish, Your Highness." He could only bow in agreement in the end.

The road leading to Carrieze, the capital of the Holy Mountain, is a winding, rugged cobblestone path. Dense olive and chestnut groves line both sides of the road. Constantine walks ahead, his steps steady. Anastasius walks alongside him, casually recounting the scenery and sacred sites along the way.

Alexandros followed half a step behind Constantine, his eyes seemingly casually sweeping over the surroundings, his voice lower than the wind, so that only Constantine could hear him.

"Your Highness, at eleven o'clock, there's a monk pruning olive branches with scissors. His wrists are very steady, and his knuckles are unusually large from holding heavy objects for many years."

"At two o'clock, behind that rock by the roadside, the old monk who seems to be dozing off has had his breathing rate unchanged since we appeared, as even as a clock."

"On the mountain road, there is a pair of eyes every 500 meters on average."

Constantine's expression remained unchanged, only his steps became more steady. He knew that from the very first second he set foot on this land, he had stepped onto a vast chessboard. Every monk here was likely the eyes and ears of some monastery. His every move, every word, would be interpreted, analyzed, and then relayed to the power centers hidden behind the scenes.

After several hours of trekking, the complex of ancient stone houses in Carriez came into view. This was the administrative center of the Holy Mountain and the seat of the Holy Alliance.

At the reception desk, several representatives from various monasteries were already waiting. They extended a warm invitation, hoping that the Crown Prince would stay at one of their most magnificent and influential monasteries, such as the Great Lavra Monastery, famous for its library, or the Iviron Monastery, which possesses countless treasures.

Anastasios's lips curled into a barely perceptible smile. In his view, this was the true purpose of the Crown Prince's trip—to establish connections with the most powerful forces on the Holy Mountain.

Constantine listened to all the invitations with a smile, then turned to Anastasius and said in a calm but clear voice:

"Thank you for your hospitality, Fathers. But I have come here only to visit a monk."

He paused for a moment, then said the name.

"Father Callinicus, who lived in seclusion on the southern cliff, practicing asceticism."

The name is like a pebble thrown into a stagnant pond.

In an instant, the warm yet insincere atmosphere in the reception area froze. The smiles on all the cultivators' faces stiffened, replaced by an extremely complex expression. There was surprise, confusion, alienation, and even a well-hidden sense of awe and fear.

Anastasius's smile vanished completely, and he scrutinized Constantine with a critical gaze: "Your Highness... are you sure? Father Callinicus... he never receives guests, and his practices... are extremely extreme."

“That is precisely why,” Constantine replied. “What I seek is the purest form of faith. Please, Father, show me the way.”

Anastasius could not refuse and could only send a young monk as his guide.

Leaving Carriez, the road to the southern tip of the peninsula became even more difficult. They passed a magnificent monastery, nestled halfway up a mountain, its golden dome gleaming in the midday sun, its walls made of polished marble, like a palace of the gods. Not far below the monastery, in a mountain hollow, a dilapidated village huddled, its villagers, ragged and emaciated, toiling numbly on the barren land.

The two formed an incredibly jarring contrast.

Constantine stopped and gazed at it for a moment.

He turned his head and whispered to Alexandros behind him in a voice only the two of them could hear:

"Look, Alexandros. One kind of faith is used to adorn the dome of power. The other kind of faith is used to support the souls beneath tattered clothes."

His gaze shifted from the golden dome to the distant, even more desolate cliff.

"I need the latter."