1885, I came to save Greece

Chapter 241 Constantine's "Anger and Incompetence"

three days later.

The flames on Crete were ignited instantly.

From east to west, hundreds of villages and more than a dozen towns erupted in armed uprisings at the same time. Venizelos and the resistance he led demonstrated astonishing organizational capabilities. Their first targets were not fortified city fortresses, but rather the Ottoman tax offices, outposts, and small military camps scattered throughout the island.

Overnight, the Ottoman Empire's network of control in the Cretan countryside was completely torn apart. Countless crescent flags were torn down and replaced with the blue and white Greek flag.

The news spread like wildfire, reaching all of Europe via undersea cables.

Once again, the sound of shattering porcelain echoed through the Sultan's Palace in Constantinople.

In Athens, after only three days of silence, the embassies of various countries were once again plunged into sleepless chaos. Ornate carriages sped through the streets in the dead of night, and diplomats hurried about, their faces etched with shock and anger.

British Embassy.

Sir Charles Harding, the highest-ranking representative of the British Empire in Greece, had a face so dark it seemed to drip water. He slammed a newly received telegram heavily on the table.

"Idiots! A bunch of idiots! How dare they!"

He roared, ordering his military attaché: "Immediately! Deliver the strongest formal protest to the Greek Ministry of Foreign Affairs in my name! Demand that they immediately issue a public statement affirming their neutrality, condemning the 'riots' on Crete, and refraining from interfering in the internal affairs of the Ottoman Empire in any official or unofficial form!"

"Sir, what if the Greeks don't listen?" the military attaché asked cautiously.

Sir Harding sneered, "Then let the Mediterranean Fleet teach them what rules are."

A tense atmosphere instantly enveloped Athens, thick with the smell of gunpowder. The shadow of war seemed even heavier than when the Greco-Turkish War had begun.

While Sir Harding's formal letter of protest was still en route to the Greek Ministry of Foreign Affairs, Major Lionel Harrison, the liaison officer for the British Secret Intelligence Service, had already entered the palace unofficially in an inconspicuous carriage.

He was led directly into Constantine's study.

This time, Major Harrison's face was devoid of the polite smile he had worn before. He didn't even bother with the usual royal bow; instead, he tossed his hat onto the table and cut to the chase.

"Your Highness, I think I need an explanation." He spoke in a condescending, interrogative tone.

Constantine sat on a single sofa by the window, holding an open copy of "The History of the Peloponnesian War." He looked up, his face blank and weary.

"Major Harrison, what are you referring to? If it's about the victory in Joanina, I think the celebration dinner should be tomorrow."

"Victory?" Harrison's voice rose several decibels. "Your Highness, please stop acting! Crete! Venizelos! Don't tell me this has nothing to do with you!"

Constantine stood up abruptly, dropping the book from his hand onto the carpet.

He rushed to the desk, braced himself on the surface with both hands, leaned forward, and glared at Harrison.

"Acting? My men shed their blood and died in Epirus, and now you come to question me? Major Harrison, have you forgotten who was cleaning out the Balkan scourge for all of Europe!"

His voice was filled with anger, his face was flushed red, and the veins on his neck were bulging.

Harrison was taken aback by the sudden outburst, but he quickly regained his composure, a hint of mockery even playing on his lips.

"Your Highness, please calm your anger; it won't work on me. I'm not here to argue with you; I'm here to convey London's bottom line."

He stepped forward, leaned close to Constantine, and lowered his voice, which was full of threat.

"The Mediterranean Sea is Her Majesty the Queen's inland sea. This is a principle."

"Any ship, I mean any ship, flying the flag of the Kingdom of Greece, that dares to cross the waters south of Kythera will be considered a direct provocation against the British Empire."

"This is the red line. A red line drawn with the muzzle of a Royal Navy cannon."

Harrison delivered this final ultimatum, word by word, right in Constantine's face.

Constantine's anger visibly subsided, and he slumped into the chair behind him as if all his strength had been drained away.

He let out a long, long sigh.

"The red thread...it's the red thread again..." He rubbed his temples, his voice filled with helplessness and exhaustion. "Harrison, you don't understand...you don't understand my situation."

He pointed out the window, towards the direction of the Royal Palace Square.

"Did you hear that? The cheers. Ioannina's victory has driven the whole country mad. Now, news from Crete has arrived, and a wave of nationalism has engulfed the parliament, flooded every street in Athens. The people are demanding I send troops, the generals are demanding I send troops, and if I do nothing, they will tear down my palace!"

He spread his hands, looking helpless.

"What can I do? I can't control them! I can't even control my own army! I'm just a poor crown prince being pushed around by public opinion!"

He perfectly portrayed a young crown prince who was caught in a pincer movement, anxious and helpless.

Harrison watched his performance quietly.

The mockery in his eyes became even more obvious, as if the young man in front of him was just a lucky break in military affairs, and a greenhorn who was still very inexperienced in international politics.

This was exactly the outcome he wanted: a Greece held hostage by public opinion, yet firmly restrained by Britain's "red lines," unable to move. Only then could Britain, as a "mediator," calmly intervene in Cretan affairs and firmly grasp this important piece in the Mediterranean.

"Your Highness, I will report your difficulties to London truthfully." Harrison put on his polite mask again. "But rules are rules. I expect you to 'do your best' to discipline your troops. After all, cannonballs don't discriminate."

He picked up the hat from the table, gave Constantine a perfect hand-to-chest salute, and with a satisfied expression, turned and left the study.

In his view, the lion cub, which had just tasted blood and was trying to roar, had been successfully locked in a cage.

On his carriage back to the embassy, ​​he began to compose a report for London in high spirits. He even had a title in mind: "A Preliminary Assessment of the Political Immaturity of the Greek Crown Prince and Effective Control of the Situation in Crete."

Harrison's carriage had just disappeared around the corner outside the palace.

In the study, all the expressions on Constantine's face—anger, helplessness, exhaustion—vanished in a fraction of a second.

His face was expressionless and completely still.

He walked to the wall and picked up a quaint black telephone. This telephone had no dial pad, nor was it connected to the palace's switchboard. Its line went directly to a specific number within Athens.

The call was answered quickly.

Constantine held the microphone to his ear and said only one sentence.

His voice was steady, devoid of any emotion, yet it carried an unyielding will.

"Antonio, the British have just drawn a red line for my navy."

"I need your fleet to cross that line for me in an hour."