1885, I came to save Greece

Chapter 225 Russia's "Big Bad Wolf"

The second lieutenant of the mountain company, tasked with infiltration, made a slashing motion with his left hand, fingers together like a knife, across his throat. His right hand formed a fist, the index and middle fingers pointing forward. This was the mountain division's internal hand signal—"throat seal, purge." Two soldiers, the closest, darted out like cats, their left hands lightning-fast covering the sentry's mouth and nose. With their right hands, gripping their combat daggers in reverse, they plunged them at a 45-degree angle into the man's jaw and neck! The blade precisely severed the vocal cords and carotid artery, silencing even a decent whimper.

More than twenty dark figures pounced on the lonely outpost like ghosts. A few minutes later, the lieutenant's signal scope flashed three times in a certain direction of the mountains.

The signal was weak, yet it conveyed a precise message: the fangs were drawn, and the passage was opened.

Meanwhile, at the Greek temporary command post on the Larissa front, the atmosphere was quite different from the grim atmosphere at the border.

This place has been converted from a country estate. There is no gunpowder smoke in the air, only the scent of burning pine in the fireplace and the rich aroma of coffee.

Constantine had just received an encrypted telegram from Alexandros, containing only one word: "Access".

He held the telegram to the candlelight, watching it curl, turn black, and finally turn into a pinch of ash, falling into the silver ashtray.

Just then, the voice of an attendant came from outside the door.

"Your Highness, Captain Vasily Orlov, the military attaché at the Russian Embassy, ​​requests an urgent meeting."

Constantine put down his coffee cup.

Orlov. This bear from the north finally couldn't hold back any longer.

"Let him in."

The door was pushed open, and a gust of wind carrying a mixture of cold air and the smell of strong liquor rushed in. Captain Vasily Orlov strode in; he was a burly man, dressed in a crisp Tsarist Russian officer's uniform, the medals on his chest gleaming in the lamplight. His face wore the characteristic Slavic smile, a hearty yet slightly sly one.

"Your Highness, I apologize for disturbing you so late at night!" Orlov's voice boomed as he placed a bottle of vodka, wrapped in beautifully colored paper, heavily on the table. "This is the finest stuff from St. Petersburg. I brought it especially to celebrate Your Highness's upcoming victory!"

"Captain Orlov is very kind," Constantine said, gesturing for him to sit down. "However, victory is not yet assured; it's too early to open the champagne."

"No, no, Your Highness is too modest!" Orlov poured himself a large glass of vodka, then filled Constantine's glass as well. "Your military and political talents are known throughout Europe! You mobilized the entire nation with lightning speed, and then cornered that sick Ottoman with an arrogant ultimatum. Brilliant! Absolutely brilliant!"

He downed the wine in his glass in one gulp and let out a satisfied yawn.

"His Majesty the Tsar greatly admires Your Highness's decisiveness!"

Orlov's compliments, like the vodka he brought, were cheap and spicy.

Constantine picked up his glass, but didn't drink; he just toyed with it between his fingers.

Orlov leaned closer, lowering his voice slightly: "Your Highness, I have come to convey the goodwill of our Tsar. His Majesty believes that Greece and Russia, as guardians of the Orthodox Church, should fight side by side in the holy war against infidels."

He paused, observing Constantine's expression.

"As long as Your Highness's objective in this battle is to target Thessaloniki, or even something far more magnificent—" He mouthed the words "Tsargrad (the Russian name for Constantinople)," "then our great Russian Black Sea Fleet will immediately set out to conduct a 'military exercise' at the eastern entrance of the strait, completely tying down the main force of the Ottoman navy!"

A greedy glint appeared in Orlov's eyes.

"Furthermore, we can even provide a 'volunteer army,' composed of experienced Cossacks, to march south from the Danube and assist your army in conquering the fortified city!"

The conditions are very tempting.

The Black Sea Fleet's presence and the neutrality of the British fleet's pro-Greek forces meant that the Greek Navy could support the army's attacks on coastal cities without any qualms. Furthermore, the Cossack volunteers would greatly enhance the army's striking power and address Greece's long-standing problem of potential manpower shortages after the war.

But in Constantine's mind, a chilling image flashed: Greek soldiers, beneath the formidable walls of Thessaloniki and Constantinople, were using their flesh and blood to wear down the Ottoman Empire. Meanwhile, the Russians stood in the shadows, waiting for both sides to be exhausted before calmly emerging to reap the rewards of victory and realize their long-desired southward expansion strategy.

This bottle of vodka is poison.

Constantine's face showed just the right amount of excitement.

"Your suggestion is truly inspiring! His Majesty the Tsar's support is Greece's most precious asset."

He downed the vodka in his glass in one gulp. The strong liquor went down his throat like a fuse.

He put down his glass and coughed softly.

"However, Thessaloniki is well-fortified, and Constantinople has protected Rome for a thousand years. Even your country, which has the best army in Europe, has never attacked it, let alone a small country like ours. This place may not be able to be conquered overnight."

"Hahaha, Your Highness, you worry too much!" Orlov laughed, patting his chest. "With the support of our Slavic brothers, no fortress is impregnable! Your Highness, defeat the infidels! For God and for our Slavic brothers!"

Orlov raised his glass again, his eyes brimming with eagerness.

"Of course, it would be even better if your fleet could take a stroll across the strait. The scenery there must be beautiful."

Constantine also raised his glass and lightly clinked it against Orlov's glass in the air, producing a crisp sound.

"Captain Orlov's suggestion was like the warm sun in the dead of winter, warming the hearts of every Greek soldier," Constantine replied calmly, taking a sip of his second drink. "However, most of our soldiers are children who grew up in the mountains and hills. They are better at measuring the land with their own two feet."

An hour later, Captain Orlov left satisfied. He took with him Constantine's promise that he would "seriously consider" the matter, and his rosy fantasy that this "hothead" Greece was about to pull chestnuts out of the fire for Russia.

The manor gate closed behind him.

The smile on Constantine's face vanished instantly.

He walked to the window, pushed it open, and the cold night wind blew in, dispelling the smell of alcohol in the room.

Alexandros emerged from the next room, a serious expression on his face.

"Your Highness, the Russians..."

"You want us to be cannon fodder, to gnaw on the toughest bones?" Constantine's voice was colder than the night wind outside the window.

He turned around and looked at his most trusted subordinate.

"Give the final orders to the Epirus raiding force."

Constantine's gaze fell on the huge military map on the wall, and his finger pointed to the dark mountains in the northwest.

"Proceed according to the original plan, without changing a single word."

His voice was resolute.

"Tell every soldier in the Mountain Juggernaut Division that our objective in this war is not Constantinople, not Thessaloniki, but somewhere the enemy doesn't expect."

Constantine's finger landed heavily on the name of an inconspicuous small town on the map.

Ioannina.

"—They are their logistical support line in Epirus."