1885, I came to save Greece

Chapter 14: The Swords and Shadows of Afternoon Tea

A black four-wheeled carriage cut through the dusty streets of Athens in the afternoon sun. The Union Jack and the coat of arms of the British Royal Family gleamed in gilding on the side of the carriage, highlighting the owner's distinguished status.

The carriage slowed unconsciously as it rolled across the square in front of the palace. Two squads of Greek royal guards, dressed in red uniforms and wearing tall bearskin hats, surrounded the carriage from both sides of the road, flanking it in a standard "guarding" posture.

Inside the carriage, Sir Charles Harding, the British plenipotentiary to Greece, observed the scene through the spotless glass window. The guards' boots clattered in unison on the cobblestones, producing a dull "tap-tap" sound, like a precisely functioning war machine.

"Protection, or surveillance?"

Sir Harding withdrew his gaze and picked up a cup of Ceylon tea. The interior of the carriage and the desk, crafted by London's finest artisans, stood in stark contrast to the dilapidated and backward country outside.

He found this kind of Eastern monarchical trick amusing.

In his eyes, Greece, this so-called independent kingdom, was nothing more than an insignificant patch of color on a map. Its king was brought in from Denmark; its finances were controlled by bankers in Paris and London; and its army consisted of peasants who couldn't even pay their own wages.

What right does such a country have to flex its muscles in front of him?

The carriage slowly came to a stop in front of the main building of the palace. A royal guard officer stepped forward and opened the carriage door with textbook precision.

Sir Harding calmly straightened his collar and cuffs before stepping down from the carriage, leaning on a silver-inlaid ebony cane.

The afternoon sun was a bit too bright, and he looked up at the Greek palace. The walls were mottled, the carvings on the stone pillars were old, and it exuded the shabby air of a fallen noble family.

An elderly attendant stepped forward quickly, bowed deeply, and led him through the long corridor.

"Sir, this way please."

Sir Harding walked with a leisurely pace, but his gaze swept around. Most of the oil paintings on the walls depicted mythological stories or pastoral landscapes, lacking the weight and ferocity of a conqueror.

He was about to meet the future king of this country, a young man who had reportedly spent several years at the Berlin Military Academy.

Sir Harding had no liking for these "gilded" princes, especially those associated with Prussians. In his mind, those Germans were nothing more than a bunch of barbarians who had just learned to wear suits—rude, ostentatious, and utterly lacking in substance.

He had already planned out the entire content of this meeting.

First, use the authority of the Queen's government to teach this arrogant young man a lesson, making him understand who the true masters of the Mediterranean are. Then, throw out a few insignificant threats, such as verbal "support" and vague promises regarding Crete.

What can a teenager with no political experience do when faced with the "blessings" of the British Empire, except be overwhelmed with gratitude?

Fifteen minutes is enough for this meeting.

The attendant stopped in front of the door to a small reception room and respectfully opened the door for him.

"Your Excellency, His Highness the Crown Prince is already waiting for you."

Sir Harding went inside.

A perfectly timed ray of sunlight streamed in from the floor-to-ceiling window to his side and rear, causing him to squint slightly. This position exposed his face entirely to the light, while the face of the person opposite him remained hidden in the boundary between light and shadow.

A silly little trick.

His gaze immediately fell on the wall. There hung a huge oil painting, depicting neither a king hunting nor the descent of a saint.

The scene depicts raging waves and broken oars. A massive fleet of triremes is being divided, surrounded, and rammed into and sunk by a smaller fleet in a narrow bay. Fire and smoke stain the sky crimson, and the Persian flag, battered by the Athenian navy, helplessly plunges into the deep sea.

The Battle of Salamis.

A barely perceptible hint of sarcasm appeared at the corner of Sir Harding's mouth.

Being obsessed with the glory of two thousand years ago is the most typical characteristic of the weak.

"Welcome, Sir Harding."

A gentle voice rang out.

Sir Harding then turned his gaze to the owner of the room.

They weren't as arrogant as I'd imagined, nor were they wearing those showy Prussian military uniforms.

Crown Prince Constantine of Greece, dressed in a well-tailored dark gray casual suit, his hair meticulously combed, wore a polite smile, like a young scholar fresh out of Oxford University, his eyes clear, even carrying a hint of respect and expectation for an elder.

Sir Harding lowered his guard to the last bit.

He's still just a child.

He extended his hand and gently shook hands with Constantine.

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Your Highness."

"Please have a seat, Sir."

Constantine warmly led him to the sofa, adopting a humble posture. He did not sit in the main seat, but instead chose a slightly lower single sofa to the side, actively reducing the physical distance between the two and lessening the sense of antagonism.

"A greenhorn," Sir Harding concluded in his mind. "It seems the rumors about that fool Deripless's ordeal were just a result of being intimidated by this kid's bluffing court games. A few empty promises and worthless 'support' will be enough to make him and his father obey. That populist prime minister is a bit of a problem, but this young prince... is nothing to worry about."

Both parties took their seats.

A servant brought over a tea set.

That wasn't the Wedgwood bone china that Sir Harding was familiar with, but a kind of black pottery with a rustic and rough shape.

Constantine did not have his servants do it; instead, he personally picked up the black earthenware pot and filled the earthenware cup in front of Sir Harding with a slightly yellow tea.

A unique, fresh scent of herbs and plants wafted through the air, accompanied by the rising heat.

"This is a specialty of our Greek mountains, a herb harvested from the summit of Parnassus, which the locals call 'the gift of the mountain gods,'" Constantine explained with a smile. "It doesn't have the richness of Ceylon tea, but its flavor is closer to the essence of the earth. I hope you'll enjoy this taste from the land."

Sir Harding glanced at the few dried leaves floating in his glass and nodded politely.

Instead of black tea, use this kind of herbal drink that people in the countryside drink.

Instead of bone china, use this crude black pottery.

The first minor exchange began quietly over a teacup. Sir Harding saw through it all, but he didn't care. Faced with absolute strength, any tricks seemed laughable.

He picked up the teacup perfunctorily, brought it to his lips, but his lips only touched the warm rim of the cup before he put it back on the table.

He cleared his throat, leaned back slightly against the soft sofa, and adopted the posture of someone in charge of the conversation.

He was prepared to announce Her Majesty's government's "merciful" decision toward Greece, this unruly child.