1885, I came to save Greece

Chapter 269 The Expedition to London

The day to go to London has arrived.

The port of Piraeus was packed with people.

On the docks, the workers and sailors who usually hauled goods mingled with the citizens of Athens who had come to hear the news, forming a seemingly endless, surging crowd. The blue and white national flags fluttered in the salty sea breeze, intertwining with the olive branches waved by the children.

The Aegean steam yacht, flying the royal flag, is white with wisps of smoke rising from its chimney, and is quietly moored at the dock.

The members of the Greek delegation boarded the ship one by one, escorted by guards. Leading the way were several veteran diplomats, dressed in splendid uniforms, their chests adorned with various medals, their faces bearing polite, formulaic smiles as they waved to the crowd. An elderly count with gray hair even gave an exaggerated hand-kissing gesture to the crowd, eliciting a chorus of good-natured laughter.

Eleftherios Venizelos walked in the middle of the group. He was still wearing his black suit, his expression serious, and carrying his briefcase. He stood out from the elegantly dressed, jovial old-fashioned diplomats around him.

The old count leaned closer to him and said in what he thought was a humorous tone, "Mr. Venizelos, going to London isn't like going to the mountains of Crete to negotiate with the Turks. Your attire is far too... plain."

Venizelos didn't even lift an eyelid. "Your Excellency, I'm going to London to the slaughterhouse, not to a ball. Dressing too extravagantly might result in bloodstains."

The old count's smile froze on his face, and he walked away dejectedly.

Constantine stood on the dock, publicly bidding farewell to his father, George I, and the government officials who had come to see him off.

He walked to a makeshift stage and faced the roaring crowd.

"The people of Greece!"

His voice, clear and powerful, came through the state-of-the-art amplification system provided by Nicholas Lab. The clamor of the entire harbor miraculously subsided as his voice rang out.

"We won the war with the blood of our soldiers! Now, I am going to London to bring back a glorious peace that is worthy of all the sacrifices, for them, for you, for all Greeks!"

"Please believe me!"

The speech was brief yet confident, dispelling the public's anxieties about foreign intervention. Thunderous cheers erupted once more.

Inside the royal suite on the yacht, Sofia was packing Constantine's luggage.

There was no one else in the room, only the two of them.

Her fingertips gently brushed over a dried, darkened stain on the epaulettes of her marshal's uniform. It wasn't dirt; it was blood. Silently, she folded the garment, which bore witness to both victory and death, pressing each crease smooth, as if preserving a piece of history.

Then, she took a perfectly tailored, dark Savile Row style suit from the hanger. The fabric gleamed subtly in the cabin light.

"The battle is over," she said softly, handing the suit to Constantine. "Now, you're going to their home turf and become one of them."

Constantine changed into a suit.

With Sophia's help, he fastened his tie and buttoned the last button of his waistcoat. In the mirror, the battle-hardened marshal had vanished, replaced by an elegant, aloof young gentleman, indistinguishable from a banker in the City of London.

"How are you feeling?" Sophia asked.

"It's like putting on a new suit of armor," Constantine said, stretching his shoulders. "Only, this armor is much more suffocating than a military uniform."

Sofia took out a small, platinum Orthodox cross from her jewelry box. In the center of the cross was a speck of dust, smaller than a grain of sand, sealed in resin.

That was dust from the holy mountain Athos.

She stood on tiptoe and personally placed the cross into the inside pocket of Constantine's suit, the one closest to his heart.

"They will use interests, data, and threats to oppress you." Her fingertips traced lightly across his chest through his shirt. "But you, my king, must remember the soldiers who died in Larissa and Ioannina, remember the people who cheered for you in the streets of Athens. Your heart must be stronger than their numbers."

Constantine took her hand. He gently kissed her slightly cool fingertips.

"Just a pack of lions, foxes, and wolves. They're together not out of solidarity, but out of fear," he chuckled softly. "And I am the source of their fear."

Women's eyesight.

"Because I know that my most beautiful Athena is at home, guarding our Mount Olympus for me."

"Ours."

The word brought tears to Sofia's eyes. She tilted her head back, preventing the tears from falling.

Constantine gave his wife one last hug, a brief but powerful embrace. Then, he turned and, without looking back, strode out of the cabin and onto the deck.

"Waaah—"

The yacht's horn sounded a long blast, the hull shuddered slightly, and it began to slowly drift away from the harbor.

He stood on the ship's railing, watching the crowd waving from the dock, watching his father and Sophia's figures slowly shrink in his field of vision. He looked at the Acropolis of Athens, that hill that bore a thousand years of glory, gradually merging into the outline of the sea and sky.

Then he turned away, no longer looking at the land he had fought for.

He gazed at the vast, boundless ocean that stretched northward. The sea breeze ruffled the hem of his clothes, carrying a salty scent.

The maintainers of the old world order had laid a trap for him in London. They were waiting for this newborn lion to run headlong into it.

well.

Constantine thought.

They will soon realize that the roles of hunter and prey are never static.