The Lion and the Eagle (Part II)

[Pelasgia]

Dhekelia, Capital Prefecture

A pale, rosy face hidden behind a thick moustache and sideburns stood at the top of a slender, tall body dressed in an ornate, dark blue military uniform. The room's light fell on the surface of the canvas in such a way that the golden and silver oil paint spots that represented medals and rank insignia gleamed. Strategopoulos, Palaiodemas thought. Son of the General. This family's line of business certainly fits them. So consumed was the Brigadier with examining the portraits of this celebrated aristocratic family of generals that he nearly missed the sound of someone entering the room behind him.

"Brigadier, sir," said the familiar voice of Rigas Kavallaris. "We have been able to gather a quorum of parliamentarians and Senators. The Prime Minister, unfortunately, seems to have fled to the @Rheinbund ."

The Brigadier seemed unphased. "As did the Despot of Caria, I hope."

"Unfortunately not," Kavallaris responded. "He seems to have been tipped off, but chose to head for his titular despotate, rather than taking off abroad. He took several loyalist officials with him." There was a certain unspoken truth in the two men's conversation—Rigas knew that Palaiodemas effectively still controlled the Military Counterintelligence Directorate (DAS), so he would have known in advance of any leaks to the Despot and any movements on his part; indeed, he could have very well been at their origin. The issue was that, in making his decision to let and even help the Despot flee, the Brigadier had bet on Attalus relocating to slightly more advantageous territory and standing to fight there.

"Perhaps there's more of his parents in him than I thought..." Palaiodemas murmured. He stared at the painting for a few instants, and then snapped himself into acute awareness. "Well then, one thing at a time; if he wants to start a civil war in Caria, so be it. Nikaia is a known communist rats' nest, anyway, so he'll have his hands full. For now, we must focus on getting the Koinoboule to vote as we want it to, before the Phalangists and the DKKP reach Dhekelia and get their way."

Here Rigas paused. "About that, sir... it seems we have an issue." He took his phone out of his pocket and turned the screen toward his former mentor. The headline spoke for itslef:
​

ΑΝΕΚΗΡΥΧΘΗ ΔΗΜΟΚΡΑΤΙΑ ΕΝ ΠΡΟΠΟΝΤΙΔΙ
REPUBLIC PROCLAIMED IN PROPONTIS​

For the first time since the crisis had begun, Palaiodemas was visible upset. "Fuck."

"Forces loyal to the new Republic are headed here," Rigas continued. "The Navy is also getting a head start toward our port, and the Marine Corps, which is fully on the rebel side, is headed straight for here."

"Are the moving to assault the capital?" Palaiodemas asked.

"Unclear. Right now, I think they want us to take their side peacefully—and it seems what's left of the Koinoboule is scared enough to bend to their will."

The Brigadier crossed his arms. "Who leads them?"

"Militarily, it's all officers who were early supporters of the rebellion—Lt. Gen. Neroulas of the III Army Corps, Lt. Gen. Nikolopoulos of the Propontis Garrison, Colonel Psarogiannis of the Marines," Rigas said, as if reading out from a memorised briefing. "Politically, it's a different story. Right now, it's a close call between the parliamentary and the popular leaderships of the DKKP and the Phalangists. For the former, the political front of the DKKP, the hard-left faction of SEKP, is headed by Andronikos Stavrianos, a bourgeois politician who managed to turn the faction into more than a mere satellite of the DKKP. The DKKP itself is led by Giannis Bogiatzis, who is in hiding as always, though apparently quite old and without a clear successor. For the Phalangists, their political front has never been traditionally very strong... some elements of the Popular Orthodox League are trying to claim its mantle, the closest thing they have to a leader being Stephanos Vasilakakis, an MP for Aspropol. However, it is generally accepted that their imprisoned leader, Tiverios Aslanides, really runs the show."

Palaiodemas shook his head, pacing up and down the room. "Many claimants, but none of them strong enough to rule. The perfect recipe for chaos. Assuming they even make it here, whom do we name as the leader of the Republic?" His eyes fixed on a large ornate map of Pelasgia—one that the wealthy family owning and now having abandoned the mansion in a hurry had no doubt commissioned after the Palinorthosis. The White Mountains extended through Pelasgia and into Thrakia... it was there that the DKKP leadership was hidden. "Don't we have any senior leaders of the DKKP on our payroll? I thought it was an open secret that we'd infiltrated that organisation to the point of making it useless."

"We had," Rigas admitted. "One of our agents, Alexios Leontopoulos, had managed to rise through the DKKP and then become the head of its network within the military, rising to a senior position within the General Staff. His contacts also formed a link between the Phalangists and DKKP—which is how we tracked the Phalangist network in the first place."

"Perfect," Palaiodemas exclaimed. "Let's use him then."

"That's the issue, sir," Rigas retorted. "He seems to have gone... rogue."

"Seems to?" inquired a frowning Palaiodemas.

"Well, for all I know... there's a good chance he had never been truly loyal all along."

The Brigadier crossed his arms behind his back and walked into the hall where the noble Strategopouloi had once entertained their guests—and perhaps one day again would, if they ever returned from their hasty self-imposed exile, and if the building was still theirs by then. He walked up to a bust of Attalus I Laskaris-Komnenos, the Great Bastard of Pelasgia, and faced the lifeless marble likeness of the man who had remade the Propontine Empire. He inclined his head forward, as if to bow, and then turned to Kavallaris. "Let's go. If we're to go, then let's go with honour."

"I take it we're not fighting?" Rigas inquired.

"Fighting whom and with what?" Palaiodemas replied in kind. "Yesterday, it was the Despot of Caria who was an uncrowned figurehead; today, we are not even that. The future belongs to whoever will seize, and that is certainly not our place." ​

 

[Pelasgia]

Dhekelia, Capital Prefecture

The Palace of Dhekelia was a much humbler building than the Great Palace of Propontis—ironically, unlike the sprawling palatial residence of the historical capital, whose architectural style was a mix of many and mostly neoclassical or baroque, the Palace of the political capital was decidedly Propontine in its structure and design. An elegant tiled roof extended over the main building, whose Corinthian pillars supported a structure of red and white marble, covered in decorative patterns mimicking the floral shapes and adorned by the likenesses of peacocks. A large internal courtyard with a great fountain formed the heart of the palace, which was surrounded by the lush Royal Gardens of Dhekelia. The interiors boasted more Corinthian pillars, as well as as Tyrian purple silk-covered furniture and curtains embroidered with double-headed eagles, and scores of icons of every size and shape, all painted in traditional Propontine style and sometimes covered with precious metals. This was the residence of Pelasgian ruler alright—be he Basileus or Despot.

In the last few weeks, however, the Pelasgian state (which was really the Southern Tiburan State) had found itself lacking an individual sovereign for the first time in nearly two millennia. In its stead, the Koinoboule had substituted the institution that had once stood at the apex of Tiburan statecraft—the Senate—before abolishing itself in favour a unicameral National Assembly. The Senate was to be the collective Head of State of Pelasgia, consisting of representatives of various corporate constituencies and of senior officials of state, totalling some 39 members. Of course, that number was unwieldy to effectively govern a country; so, in their typical fashion, the Pelasgians had accorded leadership of the Senate to its President, who held wide powers and had an indefinite term in office, being named and removed by the Senate in a quasi-arbitrary way, wholly independent of the National Assembly. He was, in a way, a non-hereditary emperor, but quite unlike a normal democratic President—and, ironically, closer to the office of the original Tiburan imperator. The Senate was formally housed in the old Royal (now Senatorial) Palace—and of all its members, the President was the only who permanently resided and worked there. The more things change...

Alas, Rigas Kavallaris, the orphaned army Colonel who had been named the youngest and first non-aristocratic head of the Krypteia following his retirement as a Brigadier General had little time to reflect on the evolution of Pelasgo-Tiburan statecraft as he stood sat across from the inaugural President of the Senate in his office at the heart of the Palace. The room, covered in Tyrian purple and gold, still bore the aura of its former use as the office of the Basileus; and its new occupant had only made minimal adjustments, respecting the room's history. As all military men, Alexios Leontopoulos was a practical man. Indeed, he seemed somewhat uneasy in his new civilian suit and tie, reverting to his old Brigadier's uniform whenever he could. Leontopoulos had only been made a Brigadier upon retirement (as was customary), having spent the end and peak of his career as a Lt. Colonel and then Colonel... though almost everyone in Pelasgia recognised that, had it not been for his politics and his humble birth, he could have easily made Major or even Lt. General. It was no exaggeration to say that, during his tenure, the now-retired army officer practically run the entire Pelasgian military's logistics through his position at the General Staff.

Rigas, however, had other considerations on his mind. The two men had met when they were both still Majors, and since that day, he had only had one question in his mind—a question which, after all appropriate formalities and pleasantries were dispensed with, he did not hesitate to ask in the privacy of the President's office: "Who are you loyal to?"

Leontopoulos, a tall and pale but otherwise unremarkable Pelasgian with a strong chin, deep eyes and dark hair smiled at the question. Calmly and slowly, as if he had been anticipating it for almost as long as Rigas had wanted to ask it, he stood and up and walked over to a portrait of Attalus the Great that hanged on the northern wall of the room. He took a good, long look at the portrait, and then half-turned to face Rigas. "To whom was he loyal?"

"It depends on whom you ask," Rigas answered, as if reading out from a lycaeum history textbook. "God, Pelasgia or himself."

Leontopoulos smiled even wider. "Why not all three at once?" He turned around completely and supported himself on the small table that stood right beneath the portrait. "I believe that there are certain, few men who are chosen by divine Providence to rise to the top of their country so as to serve it."

Rigas, hardly a pious man, found the suggestion somewhat offensive. "And you consider yourself to be such a man?"

"Yes," the President simply answered.

Rigas, too, stood up and crossed his arms. He glanced at the portrait of the Great Bastard of Pelasgia, who had founded the Laskaris-Komnenos Dynasty by way of a coup against his uncle, and answered with a question of his own. "So do you intend to found another dynasty? The 'House of Leontopoulos'?"

Leontopoulos's smile turned to faint laughter, and he shook his head. Then, he took on a more serious tone, as if he were addressing his soldiers in public. "I intend to found a Republic. Families, even royal ones, come and go; but the Nation is eternal. Though one Pelasgian may die, childless even, we all live on through It, so it is our duty to ensure that It survives. Therefore, I intend to bring Pelasgia into the modern age, so that She might go on. Can I count on you in this, Rigas?"

Rigas let his arms down and stood up straight, almost by instinct; he, too, had been a soldier not too long ago. "Yes, sir."

Leontopoulos seemed content. He nodded, and headed for his desk, from the drawer of which he pulled out a piece of paper that he proceeded to sign. "Good. Then pack your bags, because you're headed to the Queen of Cities."

"Propontis?" Rigas asked, blinking with disbelief. "What for?"

The President looked up, almost annoyed at the redundancy of the question. "Why, the Metropolis needs a Prefect!"

---

Hagios Simeon, Propontis M.P.

The working-class harbour of Hagios Simeon had been particularly active over the last few weeks. Long the beating heart of Pelasgian popular sentiment, Hagios Simeon had seen the people and the Marine and Navy garrison of the Co-Capital turn out en masse to support the Revolution in Evosmos, only for a handful of local MPs and officials to proclaim the Republic a few days later, right outside Hagios Simeon's city hall. The Ecumenical Patriarch, who had blessed the new Republic in a service, had come down to Hagios Simeon to bless the ships that replaced their monarchic ensigns with those of the Republic. All along, Viktoria and her friend from @Radilo , Aria, had watched on with excitement.

On the evening of July 17th, however, as they returned home from a free concert hosted by various bands to welcome the new Republic, they were privy to a different sight altogether. Passing through a closed off storage area of the harbour to get home more quickly (and technically trespassing), the two girls were on the lookout for guards or police officers. They saw neither; in fact, they did not even see dockworkers and stevedores, at what was one of Europe's busiest harbours, renowned for working practically around the clock. Ships could still be seen docking, departing, loading and unloading in the distance... but for whatever reason, the massive storage area of section 13B was empty and dimly lit.

"All the better for us," Viktoria whispered, "we'll get home more easily." Her enthusiasm proved to be short-lived.

The barking of dogs sounded in the distance, followed by the shouting of men. "Crap!" Aria panicked. "They're onto us!" And the two girls hid behind an empty dumpster. Fortunately for them, that was not the case... though calling what they were about to witness 'fortunate' would not be entirely appropriate.

A group of former Phalangist and DKKP militiamen, who had been drafted into the new National Guard Reserve, stood alongside the men of the National Guard, as the former Royal Gendarmerie had been renamed. The slightly disjointed surplus uniforms of the former, whose sole commonality was a yellow armband with the initials ΒΕΦ in bold black letters, contrasted well with the pristine greenish-grey fatigues and red berets of the erstwhile gendarmes. Both, however, were united in the task of hoarding an unfortunate assortment of other men into a line. Some were militiamen of the DKKP and the National Phalanx who had refused to disband their paramilitary groups and join the Reserve; others were union figures or politicians and activists who had also refused to toe the line of the new Popular Patriotic Movement (LPK), the political body that President Leontopoulos had formed to act as the vessel of his reforms in politics and to join those elements of the old political class that could be salvaged and repurposed by the new regime with the new faces that were to enter politics with him; a couple were businessmen who had ties with the old regime and had refused to play ball with the new authorities. In their faces, one could see a mix of terror, resignation and defiance.

Viktoria and Aria, both war refugees, knew the look all too well. "My God!" Viktoria whispered, and she covered Aria's eyes. Aria did the same for her. "They'll kill them all!"

The head of the National Guardsmen, a Second Lieutenant with a shaved head and an aggressive face, stepped forth and started reading from a piece of paper. "For having participated in a plot against the Republic, the Senate, at the advice and the request of the Council of Ministers, and under the direction of its President, hereby decrees that the following persons are proscribed for various crimes against the State and the Nation." He then went on to read a list of names, each eliciting a different response.

"Go on then!" cried one man, who wore a three-piece suit torn by being roughed up by his captors. "Shoot us!"

The officer seemed stoic about the whole thing. "It is what the law commands."

"Murderer!" cried one of the Phalangist union members to one of his comrades with the armband. The other angrily raised his pistol, but he was restrained by a Sergreant. The formalities had to be obeyed, as the other explained.

"In the name of the Republic, you are all under arrest," the officer proclaimed officiously. "You are to be held until your guilt or innocence can be determined. Your goods are to be seized, and all your funds frozen; and some of you will be deported to isolated islets of the Archipelago with limited external communication for the time being."

Viktoria and Aria traded wide-eyed stares, as did the various captives. "They're not going to kill them?" Aria asked. Viktoria grabbed her hand and simply made for home behind a line of containers, while the National Guardsmen went about guiding the detainees into a warehouse.​

 

[Pelasgia]

Valls, Ebria

¡ Vamos a la playa ! Those words echoed through the car as the group of youngsters chanted. Nikoletta found herself nested in the back right seat, beside Maria and behind Pablo and Carlos, with the last one's dog, Rodrigo Primo, nested between the two girls. She had only been in @Ebria for a few weeks, but she had already managed to find a small group of friends her age to hang out with. Ebrians were a warm bunch, like Pelasgians, but much more open and welcoming of total strangers. Pelasgians would tolerate and host you; Ebrians would befriend you. Already, she had started to like this country. ¡ Vamos a la playa ! she repeated in a perfect accent, thanks to the eerie similarity in the phonetics of standard Ebrian and Pelasgian.

So the car continued through the streets of the Ebrian capital, all the way to the beach. The group would rush to one of the last few umbrellas on the beach, drag a couple of sunbeds under it, order a coffee or two to claim the territory in so far as the waiters were concerned, and then revel in the joys of the summer: beach volley, ping pong (sans the table), sand castles, swimming and throwing water at each other. All that, and simply relaxing on the beach, near the cool aura of the sea and under the shade of an umbrella. That was life.

Then, Nikoletta's cellphone rang. She still had her Pelasgian number, until her super-cheap student plan expired in a couple of months, for it was valid throughout the MU. Of course, people from here knew her number, but so did her friends back home, so it was hard to tell who it was. The number of the screen was toll-free—a phone box perhaps? She let the phone ring a few times, and finally decided to pick up. What the hell, she thought, who could it be?

"Parakalô?" she asked.

"Nikoletta?" asked the voice of a middle-aged man.

"Yes? Who is this?"

The voice paused for a moment before answering. "It's dad."

---

Propontis, Propontis M.P.

"So we're not stopping Tarusan vessels?" asked Limenophylakas or Petty Officer Third Class Karanikolis. His grey fatigues, with the rolled-up sleeves, were just slightly lighter than the dark grey patrol car that was stopped behind him and his colleague. He was holding a T-3 rifle, older surplus of the Navy that had been given to the Coast Guard upon its replacement by the more modern T4. Truth be told, it was unclear why he was holding a rifle—was he going to shoot at the ships transiting through the Propontine Straits?—but it was standard practice for him to be holding it, and so he did. "Even military ones?"

Kelefstis or Chief Petty Officer First Class Iliades, Karanikolis' immediate superior, calmly observed vessels passing by through his binoculars. They were at XIII Urban District of Propontis, just east of Antikri Naval Fortress, where they could see traffic that would head to Hagios Simeon, or that was leaving the port eastward. "No, Karanikolis. Not unless they're actively attacking us or other Meridian Union members. The straits will remain open to all—and Tarusan business is as good as Ebrian to us."

"That doesn't make sense," Karanikolis protested.

"If you want to die, that's your right," Iliades responded. "But I'm happy for us to remain peaceful while other countries bleed each other dry. Especially with how things are going in Dhekelia right now."

Karanikolis shrugged and sighed and turned his gaze westward. "Wait, Kelefstis, sir, what did you say that vessel was? Antje, Salen-flagged?"

"Registration No. 7121113," the Kelefstis added laconically... before he understood his subordinate's meaning and looked where Karanikolis had been looking. "Shit!" he exclaimed. "Run to the car and get the radio. Tell port control to get a cutter to stop that ship!"