1885, I came to save Greece

Chapter 162 The Prince's Route Map

The political atmosphere in Athens became stagnant with the establishment of the Royal Council of Church Property and Ethics. Members of parliament engaged in lively discussions in cafes and salons, analyzing the Crown Prince's compromises and the Archbishop's victory, each word brimming with self-righteous insight. Newspapers published numerous editorials, praising the royal family's respect for tradition or implying that the Church had safeguarded the purity of the faith.

For a time, everyone felt that the storm had come to an end in a "decent" way that made everyone happy.

They were all wrong.

Just as Athenian politicians were still arguing over the allocation of seats on the committee, a dark shadow broke the pre-dawn silence of the Aegean Sea.

The isolated island where St. George's Abbey is located remains deep in slumber. The waves rhythmically lap against the cliffs, like a soothing lullaby. A few monks on night watch lean against the wall, their heads bobbing as they wage a final battle against sleep.

Unnoticed by anyone, three inconspicuous fishing boats, with all their lights off, silently approached a secluded rocky beach on the back of the island, like three ghosts blending into the night.

The person who jumped off the boat was not a fisherman.

It's a wolf.

Thirty men dressed in tight black outfits moved in perfect unison, landing silently. They were elites handpicked by Alexandros from the royal guard, each one having played deadly cat-and-mouse games with Ottoman sentries on the border. Their faces were painted, and their eyes, in the night, were calmer than those of wild beasts.

Callinicus stood at the forefront, not in his conspicuous monk's robes, but in simple gray clothing. The sea breeze ruffled his beard, and his burning eyes swept over the slumbering monastery before him as if examining a tomb.

He made only one gesture.

A downward chopping gesture.

Thirty dark figures instantly dispersed, splitting into three groups, like three sharp scalpels, precisely slicing towards the three vital points of the monastery: the main gate, the bell tower, and the abbot's quarters.

The action was silent.

The two gatekeepers didn't even have time to scream before they felt a numbness in their necks and collapsed limply, dragged into the shadows. On the bell tower, the monk responsible for ringing the alarm bell had just rubbed his sleepy eyes when a large hand covered his mouth from behind, and a cold hilt of a knife pressed against his back.

No shots were fired during the entire process.

All resistance was silently subdued by a violence precise to the millisecond. As the first rays of sunlight crossed the sea and illuminated the cross of the monastery, everything here had already changed hands.

The monastery's cellar was kicked open.

A foul stench, a mixture of musty smell and the cloying sweetness of opium, hit me.

The torchlight illuminated the scene inside.

There was no gold or silver treasure, no antiques or sacred objects.

Only "Black Honey".

Box after box of "black honey" were piled up like mountains. They were packaged in earthenware jars and wooden boxes of various sizes, some even labeled "Holy Mountain Honey" or "Herbal Ointment." The cloying sweetness in the air was so strong it was nauseating.

A guard found a three-locked iron box in a hidden compartment deep in the cellar. Upon prying it open, he found not money, but an account book.

A secret ledger so detailed it's appalling.

The ledger records the origin, quantity, and handlers of each batch of "black honey," as well as which neighborhood and distribution point in the port of Piraeus they ultimately ended up in. The last page of the ledger prominently records huge sums of money transferred to certain bank accounts in Athens under the guise of "donations from believers."

Callinicus took the ledger and flipped through it page by page. His gaunt face was expressionless, but the flame in his eyes was almost tangible, setting the papers in his hands ablaze.

"Bring it up." He closed the ledger, his voice hoarse.

A few minutes later, the obese abbot of the monastery, along with several of his core henchmen, were dragged over like dead dogs. They were disheveled, their faces filled with terror and disbelief.

"Father... Father, this is a misunderstanding!" The abbot, seeing Callinicus, rushed towards him as if he had seen a savior. "I'm innocent! These... these were all forced upon me by those heretical merchants!"

Callinicus ignored his explanation.

He simply pointed to the tall statue of St. George slaying the dragon in the very center of the church.

"Lock it up."

The guards stepped forward and, with cold iron chains, chained the abbot, who was still struggling in vain, and his confidants one by one to the base of the icon.

"Devil!" The abbot finally realized what was happening and let out a desperate howl, "You madman from the Holy Mountain! You have no right to treat me like this! I was appointed by the Holy Council!"

Callinicus walked up to him, knelt down, and spread the ledger out in front of him.

"You have defiled him." Callinicus's voice was soft, yet it silenced the abbot's howls. "Now, at his feet, repent to him."

After saying that, he stood up, no longer looking at the wriggling maggots, and turned to walk out of the church.

The sunlight was perfect, making his simple gray clothes look like the robes of a divine messenger.

The message was delivered to the Athens Royal Palace within half an hour via the military's secret radio.

In Constantine's study, he put down the telegram, his face devoid of any celebratory joy. He walked to the window, gazed at the distant silhouette of the Acropolis, and remained silent for a moment.

He turned to Alexandros behind him and said, "Go and fetch Mr. Antonio Petaras for me. Secretly."

Half an hour later, a figure appeared at the door of the study.

Antonio Petaras, a rising shipping oligarch in Greece. He was in his early forties, of medium build, dressed in a well-tailored English suit, his hair meticulously combed. His fingers were clean and long, adorned with no ostentatious jewelry, except for a simple seal ring on his little finger, representing his shipping company.

His eyes were sharp and cautious, and when he entered the study, his respect for Constantine was tinged with an undisguised nervousness.

Constantine didn't stand on ceremony. He pointed to the desk.

A huge nautical chart has been laid out on it. At the center of the chart is not Greece, nor Athens, but Smyrna, the most dazzling jewel of the Ottoman Empire, which lies across the sea.

"Mr. Petaras," Constantine said calmly, as if discussing a routine business deal.

"I need you to open up a new 'road' for Greece."

His finger pointed to the densely packed dock area of ​​Smyrna Harbour.

"This route does not carry cargo or passengers."

Constantine looked up at Petaras.

"Only one person's wealth, fleet, and dignity are taken away."

Petaras's heart skipped a beat. He followed Constantine's gaze and saw a file next to the chart. On the cover of the file was a portrait of an Ottoman merchant—Muradbey.

Constantine presented him with a plan, revealing the entire economic strangulation scheme against Muradbey.

They set up a shell company with a British background and forged all legal documents.

They poached all of Murad's core captains and sailors with three times their salaries.

They snatched all of Murad's freight orders at below-cost prices.

He bribed port officials to paralyze his fleet operations.

……

The more Petalas listened, the more sweaty his palms became. His heart, hardened by years of experience in the business world, was pounding wildly.

This is not a business competition.

His breathing quickened, and his voice trembled slightly: "Your Highness... this... this requires... an immeasurable amount of money. We're using money to fill a bottomless pit!"

Constantine did not answer.

He opened a drawer in his desk, took out a document, and pushed it in front of Petaras.

That wasn't an ordinary check.

It was a letter of authorization for unlimited credit, personally signed by the president of the Hellenic National Development Bank. The president's signature and seal were in the lower right corner of the document.

And in the guarantor's section, two words were signed:

Greece.

The entire Kingdom of Greece served as guarantor for this authorization!

Petaras stared intently at the document, his breath catching in his throat. He felt as if he were looking at not a piece of paper, but an erupting golden volcano!

Constantine looked at him, his voice deep and powerful.

"Petalas".

"I'll give you a butcher's knife."

"I will give you the entire treasury of the kingdom as the hilt of my sword."

His gaze, like two sharp knives, pierced into the depths of Petalas's soul.

"Now, go to Smyrna and dismember the hyena that feeds the snakes for me."

"Do you dare to accept?"

Petaras stared at the letter of authorization that would drive any finance minister mad, then at the excessively young prince before him. He knew that from the moment the prince nodded, the fate of the Petaras family would either soar to the heavens or be utterly destroyed.

There is no third way.

He took a deep breath, and then, with all his might, bent over.

"Yes, Your Highness."