1885, I came to save Greece

Chapter 268 The President and the Crown Prince's "Century Alliance"

Elephelios Venizelos received the summons from the royal palace at his temporary residence.

The parchment was of excellent quality, and the royal emblem on it was outlined in gold powder, exuding an aura of power. The attendant who delivered the summons was dressed in a crisp uniform, and every movement he made was measured with a ruler, meticulous and precise.

Venizelos calmly accepted the document. His fingers traced the golden emblem, feeling its cool touch.

He came alone.

He walked through the streets of Athens, past the crowds celebrating their victory, his face expressionless. He wore a well-tailored but slightly worn black suit and carried a briefcase with frayed edges. This attire made him stand out starkly against the backdrop of the gilded sculptures and ornate carriages in the square in front of the palace.

He believed this was a reckoning after the victory.

The new crown prince, with his unparalleled achievements and soaring prestige, will naturally next eliminate dissidents and consolidate his power. Eleftherios Venizelos, a politician who stirred up trouble on Crete and whose republican blood flowed through his veins, was undoubtedly the most glaring thorn in the crown prince's side by "usurping" royal authority and declaring himself "President of Crete."

He was prepared. For debate, for resistance, even for exile.

The heavily guarded palace gates opened for him. Attendants led the way, their footsteps echoing in the empty marble corridors. Venizelos was filled with vigilance; he observed his surroundings, his mind racing, rehearsing every possible confrontation that might follow.

The aide-de-camp did not lead him to any formal reception room, nor to the Prime Minister's office, where countless power struggles had taken place. They walked through long corridors, around the magnificent main hall, and finally stopped before a heavy oak door.

The Crown Prince's private map room.

The door was pushed open.

There was no sense of oppression as I had imagined, no cold medals on a marshal's uniform, and no judge sitting upright in a high-backed chair.

The room was filled with the mingled smells of paper, ink, and old leather. The young Crown Prince, Greece's national hero at this moment, wore only a clean white shirt, the sleeves casually rolled up to his elbows, revealing his muscular forearms. He was bent over a huge Aegean shipping map that covered the entire long table, holding a compass in one hand and a red and blue pencil in the other, intently marking the map.

Behind him hung an even larger map of Europe, covered with small flags of various colors. On the other side of the room, reports and files were piled high on the floor, bookshelves, and sofa. Venizelos glanced at them and immediately recognized the titles on the covers: "A Comparative Analysis of the Naval Strength of Britain and Germany," "Value Assessment of Major Trade Routes in the Mediterranean," and "The Distribution of Rothschild Family Bonds in the Ottoman Empire."

This place doesn't resemble the palace of a crown prince; it's more like the heart of a vast empire's general staff.

Constantine didn't look up. He used his pencil to draw the last mark on the map at a location called "Limnos Island" before straightening up and putting down his pencil.

"Mr. Venizelos."

There were no pleasantries, no formalities. Constantine turned and pointed with the tip of his compass at the huge map of Europe on the wall.

"I won a war and reclaimed Epirus and Crete for Greece. But now, in London, they want to take it all back from me."

Venizelos stood in the center of the room, his composure maintained by the typical politician's demeanor. He scrutinized the young monarch, his words carrying a subtle, hidden sarcasm.

"Your Highness, this may be the price a weak nation pays for participating in the game of the strong. Victory is sometimes more dangerous than defeat."

Constantine's body suddenly turned around.

He strode up to Venizelos, the two so close they could feel each other's breath. His eyes, which had witnessed mountains of corpses and seas of blood, were fixed on Venizelos, their imposing presence overwhelming.

"I never accept 'costs'!"

"We absolutely do not accept that Greece is a 'weak country'!"

Constantine's voice was not loud, but every word struck a chord in people's hearts.

"In London, Sir Harding would talk to me about international law, intimidating me with the glory of the British Empire. Baron Schneider would emphasize the fragile balance of power in Europe, hinting at the wrath of Germany. And that fool Orlov would feign brotherhood among Orthodox Christians, while secretly harboring the Tsar's greed!"

"I need someone!"

"A person who can see through all their lies! A person who can refute them with their own logic! A person who can find weapons for Greece within the thick, walled-up texts of international law!"

Constantine took another half step forward, almost touching Venizelos's face.

"I need a sword! A sword that can pierce through hypocrisy and cut through lies on a bloodless battlefield!"

"I need the sharpest teeth from Greece!"

"And that person is you! Eleftherios Venizelos!"

Venizelos was stunned by these words.

Venizelos stared directly at Constantine, remaining silent for a long time before slowly speaking: "Your Highness, I admire your ambition. But what you desire is a powerful Greece, or a powerful monarch? If one day the monarch's will clashes with the interests of Greece, where should my sword be pointed?"

Constantine smiled, turned around, and pointed to the outline of the Acropolis outside the window: "Mr. Venizelos, my will is for that blue and white flag to forever fly higher than it does now. If one day I can no longer do so, I believe that the Greek people and this sword I have forged will make the right choice."

His heart, hardened by countless political maneuverings, was deeply shaken by these words.

He considered countless possibilities: humiliation, enticement, warning, bribery.

He never expected that this young crown prince, his potential and most powerful political rival, would so bluntly hand him his sharpest weapon.

Constantine was not asking for his submission.

He was calling upon his talent.

He was summoning his indomitable fighting spirit, summoning his eloquence that was feared by the entire old aristocracy, for a common goal—Greece.

Venizelos looked at the unfathomable monarch before him. He saw in the depths of those eyes a burning ambition far greater than reclaiming a few territories.

It was a kind of madness that wanted to overturn the entire chessboard.

Wasn't this what he, Elephelios Venizelos, sought his entire life?

He took a step back, straightened his worn-out suit, straightened his back, and for the first time, bowed deeply to the monarch from the bottom of his heart.

"Your Highness, my eloquence and legal knowledge will forever serve Greece."

He straightened up, raised his head, and in those eyes that always held shrewdness and calculation, there was now only a burning fervor.

"Just tell me whose throat you want to bite off."