1885, I came to save Greece

Chapter 272 The Crown Prince's Banquet Menu

Chapter 272 The Crown Prince's Banquet Menu

As evening fell, gaslights began to illuminate the mansion, casting a dim, yellowish glow through the thick fog. A messenger, braving the chill, knocked on the mansion's door, bringing evening papers from London's major newspapers. The cold brass handle creaked as it turned.

A servant respectfully presented the newspaper. Count Andreas took it immediately, put on his monocle, and eagerly searched the pages. The members of the delegation unconsciously gathered around, the flickering flames in the fireplace reflecting on their anxious faces.

"Here it is!" a young clerk whispered, pointing to the bottom of a page in The Times.

All eyes turned to that direction.

It was an inconspicuous corner squeezed out by Google and stock market updates. A short headline, "Balkan Delegation Arrives in Britain," was displayed in the smallest font size in the newspaper.

Count Andreas leaned closer and read aloud, word by word: "A delegation from Greece arrived in London yesterday to consult with our officials on the aftermath of the recent conflict in the Balkans—"

Just a few lines.

The report made no mention of Constantine's status as crown prince, nor of the resounding victory, and didn't even bother to elaborate on the size or rank of the delegation. The tone of the report was as if it were an account of a trivial shipment of cotton or tea arriving at port.

The living room was quiet except for the crackling sound of burning wood in the fireplace.

This silent contempt, this understated annihilation, is more insulting than any sharp words. It tells the world that, in the eyes of the British Empire, Greece's victory was nothing more than a trivial riot in a remote region.

Mr. Cofinas's fingers tightened on the tassels on the sofa armrest. Count Andreas's face flushed red, and he slammed the newspaper down on the table with a dull thud.

"This is outrageous!" he spat out through gritted teeth.

Constantine stood silently to the side. He picked up the newspaper, glanced at the corner, and then flipped through the others. The Daily Telegraph, the Chronicle—the results were similar, either not mentioning it at all, or glossing over it with the same understated strokes.

He folded the newspaper neatly and placed it calmly on one corner of the long table, his movements slow and deliberate, as if setting down a book he had already read. He showed no anger, simply pushing the humiliation aside as if it were none of his business.

He turned to his aide-de-camp Alexandros behind him and took a folded piece of paper from the inside pocket of his suit.

"I would like to invite these gentlemen to a private dinner here tomorrow night."

Constantine handed over the paper.

"Arrange it in the safest way possible. I don't want the people in the Ministry of Foreign Affairs to know before they do."

Alexandros took the paper. His movements were steady, but when his gaze fell on the name on the paper, his hand paused slightly.

There wasn't a single British politician or nobleman on the paper.

Lalis.

Vagliano.

Algenti.

Rodokanagi.

These surnames may not be well-known or even familiar in Athenian politics. But in the City of London, on the world's shipping map, and along the trade routes from Mumbai to Odessa, they represent commercial empires built by the Greeks.

They controlled the banks, their fleets sailed the seven seas, and their wealth dwarfed the treasury of a small nation. They were the "Greeks of London," the unseen power structure of the city, a colossal beast hidden beneath the surface of the Thames.

Venizelos happened to be there as well. He had just finished a preliminary review of the Treaty of Berlin and was holding a document full of annotations. He glanced at the list only once before looking up at Constantine.

"You don't intend to plead with their government."

He spoke in a declarative tone, his voice hoarse, yet carrying an all-knowing certainty.

"You intend to demonstrate our own strength directly to them."

Constantine did not deny it. He walked to the dusty wall and ran his fingers across the damp wallpaper.

“Before demanding respect from others, we must prove ourselves worthy of it. And in London,” he turned to Venizelos, “value is measured in pounds.”

Alexandros didn't ask a single question. He carefully folded the list, placed it in his inner pocket, bowed to Constantine, and then turned and strode away. He had his own secret channels—the network His Majesty the King had established years ago, lurking in the shadows of London—enough to bypass all official surveillance and deliver the Crown Prince's invitations precisely to those "business tycoons."

The oppressive atmosphere in the living room was shattered by this sudden order. Count Andreas watched Alexandros' departing figure, his resentment turning into deep suspicion.

"Your Highness," he began hesitantly, "these merchants—these merchants who have wandered overseas for generations—they only care about profit. Would they offend the powerful British for the sake of their distant homeland?"

His concerns represented the sentiments of all the old-school diplomats present. In their view, these wealthy individuals with British citizenship, who were adept at navigating London's social circles, were no longer purely Greek. Relying on them was tantamount to asking a tiger for its skin.

Constantine didn't answer immediately. He walked to the window and pushed open the heavy pane. A cold wind rushed in, ruffling his hair. He looked out at the dim gaslights illuminating the street and the indistinct outlines of buildings shrouded in mist.

"Count, they are Greeks." He spoke each word clearly and deliberately.

"Their vast wealth is built on merchant ships and trade. Their roots are in the Mediterranean and the Aegean. The British may grant them titles and protection, but the interests of the British Navy will always be controlling shipping lanes, not protecting their voyages."

He turned around, his gaze sweeping over everyone present.

"For them, a poor and weak Greece was merely a trivial charitable recipient to whom donations could be made."

A cultural symbol that they can occasionally reminisce about while they are in a foreign land.

His voice became powerful.

"But a strong Greece, controlling the shipping lanes of the Eastern Mediterranean, possessing modern ports and a navy, and capable of effectively protecting their commercial interests, would be the best investment in the world for them!"

The flickering firelight from the fireplace reflected on his young face, his eyes filled with determination.

"I didn't go there to beg for alms."

"I'm there to offer them a business partnership they can't refuse."