Chapter 1112: The Neurotic Tsar
Reao was momentarily stunned, followed by an explosion of rage. "That's the same as handing Lisbon over to the Spaniards! How is that any different from surrendering?!"
The Marquis of Loulé bowed. "Your Highness, the Spaniards will only inherit a hollow shell of a city, one filled with hostility.
"We shall transport everything in Lisbon to Rio de Janeiro. The British Royal Navy will assist us.
"Then, you shall issue an edict in Her Majesty's name. Anyone who resists the Franco-Spanish coalition will be granted military rank, and those who achieve significant victories may even be ennobled.
"Afterward, supplies from Rio de Janeiro will be continuously funneled back into Iberia to provide funding and provisions for the resistance. The occupying forces will soon find themselves besieged on all sides.
"In a few years, the Spaniards will be forced to withdraw of their own accord, unable to bear the mounting costs.
"And even if the Spaniards insist on pouring vast sums of money into holding their ground, you will have gathered a powerful army in South America during that time. You can choose the right moment to strike back at Lisbon and crush the enemy in one fell swoop!"
Reao fell silent for a moment. The Chief Minister's strategy seemed acceptable. If implemented successfully, he could even become the legendary monarch who led the Portuguese to repel a powerful foe, immortalized in history.
Most importantly, it was better than surrendering or being captured by the Coalition.
"In recent years, the frequency of Caboclo uprisings has been increasing. If you were to rule from there personally, the people would no longer be swayed by the rhetoric of independence seekers.
"Brazil possesses vast territories and mineral wealth. Before long, it will become the pillar of our nation's strength."
The "Caboclo" were the mixed-race descendants of Portuguese whites and South American natives. Though numerous, they were ruled by a small Portuguese elite and lacked political status, leading them to frequently incite natives and even slaves to revolt.
The Duke of Terceira's words immediately drew murmurs of agreement from several other ministers.
They were all nobles who owned massive estates in Brazil. If the royal family moved there, it would surely bring immense developmental opportunities—especially since the Marquis of Loulé had just mentioned bringing all of Lisbon's wealth to South America.
Finally, Reao made his decision and nodded. "Very well, then let us discuss the details of the relocation."
He turned to the Foreign Minister. "Duke of Arcos, please seek support from the British Navy immediately."
"As you wish, Your Highness."
Pressed by the tense situation, Reao officially issued the edict only four hours later: Portugal was moving its capital to Rio de Janeiro.
Due to Joseph's interference, the Portuguese royal family fled to South America nine years earlier than they had in actual history.
...
Saint Petersburg.
The gardens of the Winter Palace appeared lifeless under the assault of the east wind. Only a few rows of pine trees stubbornly maintained a hint of green, giving the gardeners at least something to do.
Suvorov shook the accumulated snow from his collar, only to find a large clump had fallen into the hood of his knightly uniform. He gestured irritably to the attendant beside him. "Strakhov, help me get this wretched stuff out!"
General Alexei Orlov reached out to help him flip the hood over. "These 'costumes' are as cumbersome as they are hideous. If you ask me, His Majesty has been completely bewildered by those charlatans from Malta..."
Suvorov quickly silenced him with a look. The Winter Palace of today was not like the past, where music echoed at all hours. Now, it was as silent as a tomb. There was no guarantee that Orlov's words wouldn't be overheard by the Secret Police lurking hundreds of paces away.
Indeed, the current Tsar, Paul I, held a deep disdain for the Winter Palace, his mother's residence. Instead, he had established Gatchina Palace, his former home as Crown Prince, as the political center.
Orlov waved his hand dismissively. "Field Marshal, I'm not afraid of those fellows.
"I've fought the Ottomans dozens of times and never lost once. What have those Maltese done? Persuaded His Majesty to wear these ridiculous 'costumes' and 'dog collars'? Or cheated His Majesty out of 500,000 rubles a year for the title of 'Protector of the Order'?"
The "costumes" and "dog collars" he referred to were the classical knightly uniforms Paul I had mandated for the nobility upon ascending the throne, along with the white cross insignia of the Knights of Malta.
Suvorov gave him a firm pat on the shoulder. "His Majesty simply has a fondness for knightly legends. It would be best if you refrained from such talk in the future."
"Fine, fine, I'll listen to you," Orlov said, shrugging. "Where were we?
"Oh, right. How to clear that poor soul Leonid Koslovsky of his charges.
"God, what has the world come to? He only spent a few nights with that widow, and such a trivial matter is actually going to trial. And with those Maltese clowns serving as judges... what was it called again?"
His attendant whispered from the side, "It's the 'Court of Knightly Honor', my lord."
"Right, that's the one. It's like we've regressed to the age of Don Quixote.
"Tell me, even in Don Quixote's day, they didn't forbid a man from having a mistress, did they?"
"Who told him to go around shouting about it?" Suvorov shook his head. "His Majesty just announced a ban on adultery, and he goes and runs straight into the blade."
Orlov sighed. "He's facing two years in prison and four hours of daily penance.
"Oh, I heard General Ushakov's brother is on decent terms with that barber. A bit of money might do the trick."
The "barber" he referred to was Count Kutaisov—formerly Paul I's personal barber, now promoted to Grand Chamberlain of the Court.
Suvorov frowned. "His Majesty likely won't listen to him on a matter like this."
Orlov's eyes widened. "Don't tell me we have to bribe those Maltese?"
"If they're willing to take the money, it's not out of the question."
The "Maltese" they spoke of were the Knights of Malta, also known as the Knights Hospitaller. During the Crusades, this order had been formidable and world-renowned. Later, in recognition of their great contributions, the Holy See had granted them the Island of Malta as their base.
However, after centuries of comfortable living, the order had transformed entirely into a money-lending syndicate that also provided supplies to merchant ships in the Mediterranean—the Island of Malta being situated right in the center of the sea, southeast of Italy.
Yet, their good days had come to an end in recent years.
Most of their assets had previously been invested in French banks or tax-farming ventures. Under the twin blows of Joseph's financial and tax reforms, they had been heavily fined and their assets confiscated, resulting in a loss of over eighty percent of their wealth.
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