novelSusiti Chapter 271 Venizelos's Insight
Chapter 271 Venizelos's Insight
Chapter 271 Venizelos's Insight
The members of the delegation gathered in the cold, gloomy main living room, where the atmosphere was oppressive.
The servants were busy opening the heavy windows, trying to dispel the musty smell with fresh air, but the cold drafts only made the room temperature drop further. In the fireplace, newly lit firewood emitted thick smoke and crackled, but failed to bring warmth.
The elderly Count Andreas could no longer bear this humiliation. He slammed his cane heavily on the ground with a sharp "bang".
"This is a blatant insult!" He waved his arms excitedly, his white beard trembling. "This is an insult to Your Highness, to His Majesty the King, and to the entire Kingdom of Greece! We cannot simply swallow this insult! We must immediately lodge the strongest formal protest with the British Foreign Office!"
"Yes! We must protest!" another diplomat immediately echoed. "We need to let them know that Greece is not a lump of clay to be molded!"
Several young attendants also became indignant. In their view, only a tough stance could earn them even the most basic respect.
Venizelos remained silent, seated in an armchair in the corner. The chair seemed damp and uncomfortable to sit on. He didn't participate in the discussion, but quietly observed everyone's reactions, especially Constantine's.
At this moment, he finally spoke. His voice was somewhat hoarse, yet exceptionally powerful, like a rough stone rubbing against a smooth marble floor.
"Your Excellency, a protest? And then what?"
All eyes turned to him.
Venizelos stood up and walked to the center of the room.
"They'll spend a week going through diplomatic procedures, reviewing our protest letter. Then they'll spend another week setting up a so-called investigation team" to investigate the living conditions at the official residence. Finally, they'll politely apologize and move us to another residence that's equally remote, but perhaps a bit drier."
A smileless curve appeared at the corner of his mouth.
"Meanwhile, in all the diplomatic salons and clubs in London, those British gentlemen would be drinking whiskey and laughing at us. They would be laughing at these country bumpkins from the Balkans for making such a fuss over a little lodging, like a bunch of uneducated children."
He pinpointed the crux of the problem incisively.
"They just want to see us lose our temper, to see us get angry and yell over these trivial things. Then, they can condescendingly and arrogantly give us a piece of candy to appease us, thereby gaining a psychological advantage in the formal negotiations that follow."
"They want to treat us like immature children."
These words instantly silenced the previously agitated living room. Count Andreas opened his mouth, but couldn't utter a single word.
Constantine gave Venizelos an approving look.
He walked to the fireplace, where a flame had just been lit but was not yet enough to dispel the chill, picked up an iron pair of tongs, and poked at the charcoal inside. A few bright sparks struggled and danced, illuminating his calm face.
"Gentlemen, our British hosts are conducting a test."
He turned around to face the crowd. His voice echoed in the empty living room, clear and steady.
"They wanted to see whether what emerged from the battlefield of blood and fire on the plains of Thessaly was a wounded but still fierce lion, or a flock of sheep that had luckily donned lion skins but still bleated."
His gaze swept across the room, finally landing on Venizelos, a hint of a smile barely perceptible to others in his eyes.
"The Marquess of Salisbury wants to lock us in the basement," so that we'll always remember our place and who truly owns this place.
He pointed to the dark and damp living room.
"Very good. From now on, this will be our headquarters in London."
Constantine's words startled everyone.
Ignoring the astonishment of the crowd, he began issuing his first orders since arriving in London. His voice was decisive and clear, carrying the unquestionable rhythm of the battlefield.
"Count Andreas".
The elderly count instinctively straightened his back.
"You are highly respected and most familiar with the European media landscape. Starting tomorrow, I need you to be in charge of analyzing all the newspapers delivered daily, from The Times to the cheap tabloids on the street, to find out everything about the Balkan situation, the Greco-Turkish War, and..."
Regarding the reports and commentary on our delegation, I want to know what the British want us to see and what they are really discussing.
The count paused for a moment, then realized the importance of this task. He nodded vigorously: "Yes, Your Highness."
Constantine then turned to another diplomat known for his social skills.
"Mr. Cofinas, you have a wide network of connections. I need you to immediately gather the schedules of all the banquets, cocktail parties, polo matches, and club events in London's high society for the next month. I need a detailed list, including important figures who might attend."
Mr. Kofinas's eyes lit up. He understood that the real diplomatic battleground often did not take place at the negotiating table.
Finally, Constantine looked at Venizelos.
"Mr. Venizelos."
"Your Highness," Venizelos replied.
"I need you to compile, within 24 hours, a legal text detailing all the clauses in the 1878 Treaty of Berlin concerning the protection of Christian rights within the Ottoman Empire. I don't want official interpretations; I want all the loopholes, all the ambiguities we can exploit, and all the promises the Ottomans have broken. I need a list of weapons."
A series of precise and purposeful commands meshed together like gears.
The delegation members, who were initially frustrated, confused, and only thinking about how to save face, found their place and direction again at this moment.
The complaints disappeared.
Instead, a tense yet orderly approach to action has emerged.
Count Andreas had already sent his servants out to buy all the newspapers. Mr. Cofinas sat down at a dusty desk and began drafting letters. The other young men also set to work, clearing a space to spread out maps.
This damp and chilly living room seemed to transform in an instant into a high-speed war command center.
Constantine put the fire tongs back in their place and patted the charcoal ash off his hands.
He walked to the window, pushed open a heavy windowpane, and looked out at the unfamiliar city shrouded in thick fog.
Venizelos walked over to him and followed his gaze.
"Your Highness, aren't you angry?" Venizelos asked in a low voice.
"Angry?" Constantine didn't turn around. "What's there to be angry about regarding a bunch of kids who are about to be punished?"