1885, I came to save Greece

Chapter 98 A Commitment to the Workers

Three days later, in the port of Piraeus.

This largest port in Greece today resembles a volcano about to erupt.

In the past, this place was filled with the piercing sound of ship horns, the clamor of loading and unloading cargo, and the rough shouts of sailors and foremen. But today, all the work has stopped.

Thousands of dockworkers, along with their wives and children, poured out of the low, dilapidated houses surrounding the port area and converged on the huge open space that had been temporarily cleared in the center of the port.

Crowds of people.

The air was filled with a complex smell, a mixture of sweat, seawater, tobacco, and cheap alcohol, but today, there was an indescribable scent called "anticipation."

The workers' faces showed a variety of expressions.

The young workers, their eyes gleaming with excitement and curiosity, gathered in small groups, discussing loudly as if they were talking about a miracle that was closely related to their own lives.

The older workers mostly remained silent, their faces etched with deep wrinkles, their eyes filled with the disbelief left by years of being deceived by life. They had seen too many empty promises and heard too many politicians spouting sweet talk before elections only to disappear without a trace afterward.

His Highness the Crown Prince? Hmph, who can fathom the thoughts of nobles?

In a corner of the crowd, Stavros Vlahopoulos, a lame veteran, leaned against a huge stack of cables. His injured leg was slightly bent, supporting his body in a comfortable position. Around him were several of his most trusted coworkers.

"Brother Stavros, are you... really sure?" a young worker couldn't help but ask, his voice trembling slightly. "His Highness the Crown Prince will really give us money?"

Stavros did not answer immediately. He swept his scrutinizing gaze over the makeshift platform in the distance. The platform was simple, without any extravagant decorations, with only a few blue and white flags symbolizing the royal family fluttering in the sea breeze.

On the platform, a group of well-dressed, bespectacled people were busily arranging tables, chairs, and documents; this was Professor Andreas's team of accountants. Around the platform, rows of royal guards in dark blue uniforms, carrying modern rifles, stood like statues, their presence bringing an inviolable sense of order to the chaotic scene.

Stavros's gaze lingered for a moment on the upright figures and sophisticated equipment of the Royal Tax Police. Having experienced betrayal and the humiliation of having his credit stolen by his superiors, he instinctively remained wary of such bureaucratic formalities.

"Wait and see." He finally spoke, his voice hoarse but steady. "Whether it's true or not, we'll know when the person in charge arrives."

Just then, a huge commotion broke out in the crowd.

"They're here! His Highness the Crown Prince's motorcade is here!"

Everyone involuntarily surged forward, craning their necks.

An open military carriage without any extra decorations slowly drove into the square, escorted by two squads of cavalry.

Constantine stood ramrod straight in the carriage.

Instead of the ornate ceremonial uniform that symbolized his royal status, he opted for a simple, dark army officer's uniform, with gleaming riding boots on his feet. He wore no elaborate medals, only a simple badge of his officer rank gleaming on his chest.

This outfit instantly bridged the gap between him and everyone present.

He didn't look like a pampered prince; he looked more like a young general about to go to the battlefield.

The carriage stopped in front of the platform. Constantine jumped down nimbly, ignoring the port officials who came to greet him, and strode straight up to the platform.

He walked to the very front of the platform, braced his hands on the wooden railing in front of him, and scanned the dark mass of people below.

Thousands of eyes were now focused on him. Expectation, doubt, excitement, numbness... all emotions were laid bare before him.

The entire square was eerily quiet at that moment. The only sound was the rustling of the flags in the sea breeze.

Constantine didn't use flowery language or empty platitudes. He simply looked at the faces below, roughened by life and toil, and spoke in a clear, powerful voice that everyone could hear:

"Ten days ago, here, I made that promise to you!"

"I promise that everyone who has sweated and contributed to Greece will receive their due reward!"

His voice, carried far and wide by several messengers who were positioned among the crowd, was heard by several others.

"I'm here today!"

"I've come to fulfill my promise!"

He suddenly waved his hand, pointing to the mountain of documents and boxes of brand-new money bags on the table next to him.

"This money is not a gift from politicians! It is not the pity of oligarchs!"

Constantine's voice suddenly rose, like the booming of war drums!

"This honor is earned through your sweat and labor! It is recognition of your loyalty and hard work by the royal family and your king!"

"Now, the ceremony begins!"

He didn't say another word and made the announcement directly.

After a brief silence, the crowd erupted in a thunderous roar of cheers!

The ceremony began.

Professor Andreas personally took the roster and loudly read out the first name.

"Nikos Papadopoulos! Forty-two years working in the port of Piraeus!"

An elderly worker with gray hair and a hunched back, surrounded and supported by his coworkers, walked shakily up the platform. He had spent his entire life moving goods here, and his hands were covered with calluses and scars.

He stared at the accountant in disbelief until the accountant handed him a pension certificate bearing the royal coat of arms and clearly written words, along with a heavy little money bag.

Inside the purse was fifty drachmas in cash, almost two months' income for him.

The old worker stroked the smooth voucher; he didn't recognize most of the words, but he recognized the prestigious royal coat of arms. He then weighed the money pouch in his hand.

With a "thump".

He suddenly knelt down, facing Constantine, and burst into tears.

No one laughed at him.

Countless veteran workers like him had tears in their eyes as they watched this scene.

The guards immediately stepped forward to help him up, but Constantine waved them off.

Constantine himself stepped down from the platform, bent down to help the old worker up, patted the dust off his shoulders, and said nothing.

This action is more powerful than any words.

The ceremony continued.

One worker after another stepped onto the stage, presenting their identification documents to the meticulous accountants who handed them the certificate representing the future and the weighty reality.

Smiles appeared on faces weathered by time.

Tears streamed down from pairs of cloudy eyes.

The lame Stavros watched all this coldly. His clenched fist had, without him even realizing it, slowly loosened.

He saw it.

He saw that the group of accountants, who were usually so arrogant, were now being polite and patient with every ragged worker.

He saw that the Royal Tax Police did not drive them away or yell at them; they simply maintained order silently.

Then, he saw a familiar figure.

That was his old comrade-in-arms, whose leg was broken in another border conflict, and who, after retiring, was also doing the hardest work at the dock.

When his old comrade-in-arms limped onto the stage and received his welfare payment, he did not cheer or cry like the others.

He turned around, facing Constantine on the high platform, and with all his might straightened his spine, which had been bent by life.

He raised his right hand and gave a perfectly standard military salute, the kind that belongs to the Greek army!

At this moment, Stavros could no longer control himself.

A surge of heat rushed to his eyes, blurring his vision instantly.

He recalled his stolen honors, the contemptuous looks from those noble officers, and the hardships and despair of his life after retirement.

And now, this young crown prince has not promised to recover any lost territory, nor has he shouted any grand slogans.

And that's how he arrived.

Bring money, bring respect, and bring a recognition that has been long overdue.

Stavros blinked hard, trying to make out the young figure on the platform.

He knew that from this moment on, some things had completely changed.

His lame leg, the lame leg abandoned by the country, has finally found a new direction, a direction worth standing for, and even running for.

From the high platform, Constantine clearly saw the limping old soldier in the crowd, his back straight, saluting. He didn't speak, but silently raised his right hand, not in the gesture of a royal wave, but in return, a standard and firm military salute.

A crown prince returns a gift to a lowly veteran!

This scene, witnessed by countless eyes, was etched into the hearts of everyone in the port of Piraeus. Stavros could no longer hold back his tears, which streamed down his face. He knew that from this moment on, his life belonged to this prince.

Cheers erupted again like a volcano, this time not just for money, but for the dignity that had been regained! From the crowd, some people began to shout spontaneously:

"Long live His Highness the Crown Prince!"

Long live Greece!

The sound, starting from a few people, then dozens, then hundreds and thousands, eventually merged into a towering torrent of steel that echoed for a long time over the port.