1885, I came to save Greece

Chapter 179 The Foundation of the Nation

The next day.

The bells of Parliament rang in the morning mist. This was the signal for the resumption of the session.

The councilors, who hadn't slept all night, were pale-faced and had vacant eyes, like a group of soulless puppets, and gradually returned to their seats.

De La García's eyes were sunken and bloodshot. He had waited all night for the congressmen who had been "invited" to return, but none of them came. He sat there like a weathered stone statue, nothing but an empty shell.

The gallery in the parliament was packed with journalists from all over Europe. Their cameras and notebooks were ready to capture this historic moment.

Outside the building, in Constitution Square, the silent besieged crowd still stood quietly, their gazes fixed on the tightly closed door.

All of Greece, and indeed all of Europe, awaited the final outcome.

The speaker, an old nobleman loyal to the royal family, walked shakily to the podium. He glanced at De La Garcez's ashen face, then at Crown Prince Constantine, who had arrived at some point and was sitting quietly in the royal seats in the audience.

He cleared his throat and announced in a dry voice:

"Now, let's have a final vote on the National Land Redemption and Distribution Act."

Inside the hall, you could hear a pin drop.

"Member of Parliament Nicolas Antoniadis."

All eyes were on the shipping merchant councilor from Patras. He was the first person to be "invited" away last night.

Antoniadis stood up, his body still trembling slightly, his face as white as paper. He didn't look at Deragace, nor at anyone else, but simply lowered his head and, in an almost screaming voice, uttered two words:

"I agree!"

These two words, like the first domino to fall, triggered an unstoppable avalanche. De Lagarce's quill pen snapped in two with a sharp crack.

"Congressman Dimitrios Macris".

"Agreed!"

"Congressman Constantinos Valvaresos".

"Agreed!"

One after another, all the members of parliament who had been "talked to" by Constantine last night shouted "yes" without exception.

Their voices, like sharp blades, repeatedly slashed at the already broken nerves of De la Garcez and his core followers.

Deragace stared in disbelief at his allies, one by one, who had betrayed him in the loudest voices. He opened his mouth, wanting to roar, wanting to curse, but found that he couldn't utter a single syllable.

The tide is gone.

When the speaker announced the final vote count, there was no suspense left.

"The National Land Purchase and Distribution Act has been formally passed with 142 votes in favor and 37 against!"

An overwhelming victory!

The moment the Speaker struck the gavel, the silent sea outside the Parliament building instantly transformed into a boiling volcano!

"It's approved!"

"We've won!"

"Long live Constantine!"

A deafening roar of cheers erupted, seemingly lifting the sky above Athens. People embraced, wept, and threw their hats and newspapers into the air. The anger, anxiety, and anticipation that had been building up for days burst forth in a torrent of ecstatic tears.

In Athens, the bell towers of every church rang out in victory. The sound echoed in every corner of the city, over mountains and across bays, resounding throughout all of Greece.

Inside the parliament building, De La Garcez slumped in his seat amidst the chaos, the flashbulbs of reporters flashing wildly across his ashen face, capturing the most pathetic footnote to the end of an old era.

A week later.

Thessalian Plain.

The traces of the locust plague have not completely faded, but scattered patches of green have already sprouted on the field ridges. The air is no longer filled with the deathly despair, but with the hopeful scent of earth.

Constantine came here again.

This time, there was no fully armed guard, no long convoy. Only him and a few officials responsible for enforcing the law.

He brought boxes of brand-new documents bearing the bright red seal of the Kingdom of Greece.

Land deed.

In a vast field, a grand ceremony was taking place. There were no colorful flags, no bands, only thousands upon thousands of farmers who had come from all directions. They wore their cleanest clothes, their expressions as devout as if they were attending a sacred mass.

Constantine stood on a makeshift platform.

"Today," his voice echoed across the field through a simple tin megaphone, "I am not standing here as the Crown Prince. I am merely a messenger, here to fulfill a promise."

He took out the first land deed from the box beside him. The paper was thick, the ink on it smelled fresh, and the red royal wax seal was particularly conspicuous in the sunlight.

"Spiros Lambropoos!"

In the crowd, an old farmer with a hunched back, surrounded by his fellow villagers, shakily walked up to the platform. He was the poor man who, during the locust plague, watched helplessly as his father died of illness out of fear of a "gratitude tax," a story first reported by The Daily Telegraph.

Constantine stepped down from the platform and personally handed the thin contract, which carried the century-old dream of a family, to the old farmer.

The old farmer took the contract, his calloused hands trembling uncontrollably. In an instant, two streams of hot tears welled up in his cloudy eyes.

Everyone thought he would kneel down to express his gratitude to the crown prince.

However, he didn't.

The old farmer turned around and faced the vast land below the stage, the land he had cultivated all his life.

He slowly, with utmost devotion, knelt down.

He wasn't kneeling to anyone, but to the land that nurtured him and tormented him throughout his life.

He stretched out his withered hand, scooped up a handful of soil mixed with grass roots, and slowly brought it to his lips, kissing it deeply.

That wasn't soil, but long-lost relatives.

The sunlight shone on his deeply lined face, on his gray hair, and on the thousands of faces behind him, all with tears streaming down their faces, yet brimming with the hope of new life.

Constantine stood on the edge of the field, quietly watching this scene.

The wind rustled the hem of his military uniform. He didn't savor the thrill of power, nor did he revel in the joy of victory. He simply gazed calmly at the old farmer kissing the earth, at the people who had risen again on this land.

He reached out his hand, as if trying to grasp the wind before him.

"The roots have been planted," he told himself.

A stable agricultural sector provided the most solid foundation and market for industrialization, and also earned him unshakeable public support. But bread alone is not enough.

He gazed at the distant horizon, at the indistinct outline of an Orthodox monastery.

"Now, it's time to prune this tree and infuse it with a unified spirit for its future."