1885, I came to save Greece

Chapter 254 Igniting Russian Ambition

The aroma of lunch wafted into the meeting room, but the atmosphere grew increasingly cold. Baron Schneider was engrossed in studying the battle report that had stirred his emotions, while Sir Harding looked extremely grim.

Constantine withdrew his gaze from the German ambassador and looked at Vasily Orlov, the Russian military attaché who had been watching the whole thing with an air of amusement.

A gentle smile appeared on his face, conveying a sense of familiarity stemming from shared ancestry.

"Captain Orlov, my Orthodox brother," Constantine's voice softened, "I fully understand His Majesty the Tsar's desire for peace in the Balkans."

Orlov raised his eyelids, his gray eyes revealing wariness. He put down his wine glass, the bottom of it clinking against the table with a dull thud.

"Your Highness, since you understand, you should lay down your weapons immediately." His voice was rough, with the harshness characteristic of a Slavic accent. "Bloodshed among Orthodox brothers is something God does not want to see."

He leaned forward slightly, adopting a righteous and stern posture, revealing the arrogance inherent in Tsarist Russia.

Constantine smiled.

"Of course," he nodded in agreement, then changed the subject, "but let's imagine what would happen if we stopped firing right now?"

He didn't give Orlov a chance to answer, and turned to walk towards the huge Balkan map.

"The Ottoman army, crippled by our defeat, has been given a respite. They will immediately withdraw from Epirus and Thessaly and return to Constantinople to rest. The Sultan, given this opportunity, will immediately draw his most elite troops from Syria and Anatolia to reinforce Thrace's defenses."

Constantine's finger moved slowly across the map, as if measuring the land.

His index finger stopped at Constantinople, the heart of the empire. Then, instead of rowing westward toward Greece, he turned north, crossing the vast Black Sea, and finally landed heavily at the Sevastopol naval port on the Crimean Peninsula.

"Captain," Constantine's voice wasn't loud, but it made Orlov stiffen, "where do you think the Sultan will deploy these hundreds of thousands of troops who no longer need to confront me?"

Orlov's breathing became heavier.

The answer is self-evident.

The Black Sea coast, the Caucasus border. That was the impenetrable wall Russia had faced with every southward expansion over the past century. If the Ottoman Empire were to withdraw from the Balkan quagmire, hundreds of thousands of battle-hardened veterans would be stranded on Russia's southern frontier!

Sir Harding's brow furrowed; he sensed the danger in Constantine's words. Baron Schneider also looked up from the battle report, watching the new confrontation with keen interest.

Constantine walked back to Orlov, bent down, and lowered his voice as if sharing a secret that could not be heard by outsiders.

"An Ottoman Empire that I've been holding back in the Balkans and that's constantly bleeding money is a problem for Russia. But," his voice took on a seductive tone, "an Ottoman Empire so weak that it can't even hold its own back door... that's a different story."

That will create a lot of... "opportunities".

"For example, in certain straits..." Constantine's gaze flickered to the narrow waterway on the map, "...opportunities for 'freedom of navigation'."

"Your Highness, such baseless war speculations are of no help to our conversation!" Sir Harding finally couldn't hold back any longer and interrupted. He could no longer tolerate Constantine so recklessly undermining the united front he had worked so hard to build.

Constantine seemed not to hear.

He completely ignored the British ambassador's protests, his eyes fixed on Orlov with a sharp and piercing gaze.

"Help me nail them to the Balkans."

"As long as their main force cannot be withdrawn, and as long as Sudan's attention is forced to remain in this mountainous region, the Black Sea Fleet may find that the sea route to the Mediterranean... will become wider than ever before."

This temptation is too big.

The Bosphorus Strait and the Dardanelles Strait.

That was Russia's national ambition since Peter the Great, a dream that had haunted the hearts of countless Tsars for centuries. For it, the Russians fought more than a dozen wars against the Turks, shedding enough blood to stain the entire Black Sea red.

Now, this opportunity has been presented to him so casually by a Greek crown prince.

Orlov's brain was working at lightning speed.

On one hand, there was the verbal commitment reached with Britain and Germany to maintain the status quo in the Balkans. A commitment that was insignificant and even detrimental to Russia's long-term interests.

On the other hand, it was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity for Russia to realize its century-old national policy. An opportunity where he could reap the benefits without doing anything.

Sir Harding's heart sank as he looked at the uncertain expression on Orlov's face. He knew that this hungry wolf from the north had already smelled blood.

Orlov slammed back against the chair, the chair legs scraping against the floor with a screeching sound.

He did not look at Constantine, nor at the other two ambassadors.

He grabbed the bottle of vodka that had been specially prepared for him on the table, unscrewed the cap, and poured the spicy liquid down his throat.

"Glug, glug."

He did not comment.

But his eyes were filled with greed, his gaze burning. This answer was clearer than any words.

Sir Harding closed his eyes.

The united front he had painstakingly built among the three major European powers was shattered by Constantine's few words.

Now, he is all alone at the negotiating table.