1885, I came to save Greece

Chapter 270 First Arrival in London

Chapter 270 First Arrival in London

The whistle of the "Aegean" yacht pierced through a thick, yellowish-sulphur-like fog, its sound becoming muffled and hoarse.

The mouth of the Thames River.

Constantine stood on the deck, the collar of his dark coat turned up to ward off the pervasive moisture.

The salty, warm breezes of the Aegean Sea have long since vanished. In their place comes a unique odor, a mixture of soot, moisture, and the acrid smell of industrial decay. This odor seeps into the nasal cavity, lingers in the throat, and makes breathing difficult.

The sky was a somber, leaden gray, devoid of any blue. The river beneath my feet was filthy and murky, its surface covered with a layer of multicolored oil slicks that rose and fell gently with the waves.

In my field of vision, there was no longer the dazzling sunshine of the port of Reeves, no sea of ​​blue and white flags, and no roaring crowds.

At the dock, only a few workers in coarse overalls glanced expressionlessly at the white yacht flying a foreign flag before turning back to continue dragging heavy sacks with iron hooks. Their movements were mechanical, their eyes indifferent, as if countless boats arrived on this river every day, and this one was nothing special.

A young man in an ill-fitting suit was standing on the dock, a cigarette butt lying at his feet.

Seeing the ship dock, he idly adjusted his bow tie.

The gangway is in place.

Constantine stepped down first. His military boots made a heavy sound as they trotted across the wet, slippery wooden planks.

The British Foreign Office official, who identified himself as Mr. Pembroke, then leisurely stubbed out his second cigarette and flicked the butt into the murky river. He stepped forward, removed his top hat, and gave a flawless, yet utterly devoid of any warmth, curtsy.

"Welcome, Your Highness and the Greek delegation to London."

Pembroke's voice was flat, as if he were reciting an unimportant document; every word was clear and standard, but there was no variation in his tone.

"His Excellency the Prime Minister is currently handling state affairs and has specially dispatched me to greet you. The carriage is ready, and the official residence has been arranged for you all."

Constantine's gaze passed over Pembroke's shoulder and looked behind him. There were several carriages parked there, their black bodies appearing even darker in the fog. The carriages had no coat of arms; they were just the most ordinary taxis on the streets of London.

There was no welcoming crowd, no honor guard, and not even a carriage that could represent official status.

"Thank you for your trouble." Constantine's response was only two words.

The members of the Greek delegation followed Constantine down the gangway. The smiles on the faces of several veteran diplomats froze. They adjusted their medals and sashes, only to find their fine attire looked ridiculous on the cold, damp dock.

Horse-drawn carriages travel through the streets of London.

The wheels rolled over the damp cobblestones with a monotonous thud. Constantine sat upright in the carriage, his gaze piercing through the condensation-filled windows, scrutinizing the true face of this vast empire.

Magnificent Gothic buildings pierce the gray sky, like monuments to power and wealth. The bells of Westminster Abbey ring out in the mist, deep and resonant. But beneath the shadows of these buildings lie crowded, filthy slums. In narrow alleyways, ragged children chase a emaciated rat amidst piles of garbage. Elegantly dressed gentlemen speed by in gleaming carriages, splashing mud onto a little girl huddled by the roadside selling matches.

Venizelos sat silently in the carriage opposite. He didn't look at the magnificent buildings; his gaze remained fixed on the shadows. His eyes were like a sharp scalpel, calmly dissecting the massive and complex giant before him.

The other members of the delegation appeared uneasy. One count subconsciously tugged at his expensive silk scarf, as if it could shield him from the oppressive atmosphere of poverty and wealth emanating from outside the window. This orderly yet ruthless display instilled a deep-seated fear in them.

The carriage did not head towards Westminster's political center, nor did it enter the aristocratic quarter of Mayfair.

They drove through block after block, finally stopping in front of a Georgian-style building.

Far from the hustle and bustle, the streets were almost too quiet. The buildings themselves were magnificent, their white stone facades reflecting a cold light under the overcast sky.

Constantine pushed open the car door, and a gust of cold wind swept out from the mansion entrance, fluttering the hem of his coat. He glanced up at the tightly closed oak gate. The gate was bare, without any welcoming banners, only a rusty iron doorbell standing out in the mist.

The situation inside the official residence was worse than anyone had anticipated.

Pembroke unlocked the door, and a musty, dusty smell wafted out. A thin layer of visible dust covered the heavy, dark furniture, as if no one had set foot there for a long time. The tapestries on the walls were dull in color, and the dampness in the air had caused their edges to curl slightly.

In the fireplace in the center of the main hall, there were only a few pieces of blackened charcoal, not a single spark. A chilling cold air seeped in from all directions, creeping up the legs of his trousers.

"Achoo!"

The elderly count finally couldn't help but sneeze loudly. He rubbed his nose and muttered a complaint in Greek, "Is this how barbarians treat their guests? Do they want us to freeze to death?"

Constantine's face showed no change.

He strode into the main hall, his steps steady. He removed his white gloves and handed them to his attendant, Alexandros, behind him. His fingers lightly traced a damp wall, leaving a clear watermark.

He looked around, his gaze sweeping over the dusty chandelier, over the cold fireplace, and finally settling on the faces of the delegation members, faces etched with disappointment and humiliation.

Then he turned to Alexandros.

"Record the condition of the official residence." His voice was calm, revealing no emotion.

"Inform our servants to open all the windows for ventilation. Bring in all the firewood we brought and light all the fireplaces."

His unusual composure was like a pebble thrown into turbulent water, calming everyone's complaints and anxieties.

Constantine unbuttoned his coat and casually draped it over the armrest of a dusty sofa.

"We'll stay here."