Date: March 5th, 1905 – Belgrade, Kingdom of Serbia
The hour Petar had requested passed in a whirlwind of sensory input and frantic mental organization. As the young valet, whose name Petar's memories supplied as Milan, attended to him, a flood of mundane yet essential details solidified his new reality. The scratchiness of the wool uniform he was helped into – a dark green tunic, trousers with a red stripe, high boots – felt both constricting and armor-like. The way his hair was parted (to the left), the preferred temperature of his shaving water (lukewarm), the light breakfast he typically took (black coffee, a piece of toast with plum jam – a local staple, his mind supplied). Each detail was a small anchor, grounding the disoriented soul of Alex Volkov into the flesh of Petar Karađorđević.
While Milan efficiently went about his duties, Petar observed, listened, and felt. The palace, the Stari Dvor, was not overly lavish by the standards of the great European monarchies, but it possessed a sturdy, somewhat somber dignity. Petar's memories provided a blueprint of its corridors, its state rooms, its private chambers. He recalled the faces and roles of key household staff, military adjutants, and courtiers. This information flowed into him, not as a dry recitation of facts, but as lived experience, albeit one he was now consciously reviewing.
His mind, however, was primarily focused on the impending meeting with Nikola Pašić. The man was a political titan in Serbia, a survivor, the architect of the Radical Party's dominance. He had been instrumental in bringing the Karađorđević dynasty back to power after the brutal end of the Obrenovićs. Petar's inherited memories painted Pašić as deeply patriotic, fiercely intelligent, notoriously cunning, and often frustratingly opaque. He was a man who played the long game, a master of Balkan politics. Winning his genuine loyalty, or at least his reliable cooperation, would be paramount. Outmaneuvering him, if necessary, would be a monumental task.
What do I want from this meeting? Alex—Petar—asked himself, mentally pacing like a caged tiger even as he sat being served coffee. Information, first and foremost. A baseline. I need to know what Pašić thinks the state of the kingdom is. What are his priorities? His concerns?
He couldn't simply walk in and announce, "Gentlemen, we're rebuilding Rome, starting now!" He'd be laughed out of the room, then likely declared insane and quietly replaced. No, the approach had to be subtle, incremental. He was an eighteen-year-old king. He could feign a sudden surge of youthful responsibility, a desire to understand the machinery of his kingdom more deeply. That, at least, was plausible.
His historical knowledge, Alex's knowledge, was both a boon and a potential trap. He knew where events were heading, but he couldn't reveal that knowledge directly. He had to use it to ask the right questions, to guide policy without appearing clairvoyant.
Focus on security, economy, and national unity, he decided. Those are defensible concerns for any monarch, especially one in Serbia's precarious position. He could frame his inquiries through the lens of making Serbia stronger, more self-reliant. Who could argue with that?
When Milan finally announced, "Prime Minister Pašić has arrived, Your Majesty," Petar took a deep breath. He stood, straightened his uniform tunic, and walked towards the antechamber where Pašić would be waiting. He felt the weight of the metaphorical crown press down on him, heavier than any physical diadem. But beneath it, the engineer's mind, the historian's mind, the nascent emperor's mind, was whirring.
Nikola Pašić rose as Petar entered the small, formal salon reserved for such meetings. The Prime Minister's grey beard was impeccably groomed, his dark suit uncreased. His eyes, beneath bushy brows, were like chips of granite – hard, assessing, missing nothing.
"Good morning, Your Majesty," Pašić said, his voice a low rumble. "I hope you rested better."
"Better, thank you, Mr. Prime Minister," Petar replied, gesturing towards one of the high-backed chairs. He took his own seat, noting the slight surprise in Pašić's eyes. Petar's memories suggested the previous King Petar was often more passive in these initial interactions, letting Pašić lead. This small shift, taking the initiative with seating, was a minor gambit. "There are matters I wished to discuss with you directly, without delay."
Pašić inclined his head. "I am at your disposal, Your Majesty."
"Good." Petar leaned forward slightly, resting his forearms on the polished wood of the small table between them. "I have been… reflecting. On the responsibilities of my position. On the future of Serbia." He let that hang in the air for a moment. "Tell me, Mr. Prime Minister, in your frank assessment, what are the most pressing challenges facing our kingdom today? And what are our greatest, untapped strengths?"
Pašić's expression didn't change, but Petar sensed a flicker of heightened attention. This was not the usual line of inquiry from the young King, who had hitherto seemed content to follow the government's lead on most matters of policy, focusing more on military affairs and ceremonial duties.
"Your Majesty shows commendable gravity," Pašić began, his tone measured. "The challenges are numerous, as they always are for a nation seeking its rightful place. Externally, the ambitions of Vienna are a constant shadow. The situation in Macedonia remains volatile, a drain on resources and a source of friction with Bulgaria and Greece. The Sublime Porte, though weakened, still holds sway over many of our Serb brethren."
He paused, as if choosing his words with particular care. "Internally, the task of national consolidation continues. Our finances, while improving since the… regrettable extravagances of the previous dynasty, require careful management. Our industry is nascent, our agriculture the backbone but often at the mercy of weather and outdated methods. Political passions, as you know, run high in Serbia."
Petar nodded slowly, absorbing the familiar litany of woes. This was the textbook summary. He needed more. "And our strengths, Mr. Prime Minister?"
"Our people, Your Majesty," Pašić said without hesitation, a rare warmth briefly touching his eyes. "Their resilience, their fierce love for this land, their courage. Our army, though perhaps not the largest or best-equipped in Europe, is composed of soldiers who have proven their mettle. And we have powerful friends, most notably our Orthodox brothers in Russia."
Russia, yes, Petar thought. A powerful but often unreliable friend, with its own complex agenda. Alex Volkov's knowledge of the Russo-Japanese War, currently nearing its disastrous conclusion for Russia, underscored that point. Russia's gaze was turned eastwards, its military humiliated. Serbia could not rely on the Tsar as an unshakeable protector in the immediate future.
"The army," Petar said, seizing on the point. "You say 'not the best-equipped.' What specific deficiencies concern you most? Artillery? Rifles? Logistical capacity?" This was familiar territory for the historical Petar, a former soldier himself. Alex's knowledge of military history and technology, however, was far more contemporary.
Pašić seemed to relax slightly, perhaps finding this line of questioning more in character for the King. "Artillery modernization is an ongoing concern, Your Majesty. The Creusot guns are serviceable, but newer models are always appearing. Ammunition reserves are adequate for current needs, but a prolonged conflict… that would strain us. Our logistical train relies heavily on oxen and horses, which limits mobility compared to nations with more extensive railway networks."
"Railways," Petar mused. "Indeed. The lifeblood of a modern nation, for commerce and for defense. What is the current state of our railway expansion program? Are we prioritizing lines that serve both economic and strategic needs?" Alex the engineer was stirring within him.
Pašić raised an eyebrow almost imperceptibly. This was a more detailed, more strategic economic question than he was used to from the young monarch. "The Oriental Railway provides the main trunk, of course. We continue to invest in branch lines, connecting key agricultural areas and towns. There are plans, discussions… always discussions about more ambitious projects, but funding is the eternal constraint, Your Majesty. Foreign loans come with their own… complexities."
"Complexities, yes," Petar acknowledged. He knew the dance of international finance often involved political concessions. "Perhaps we need to explore ways to improve our domestic capacity for funding such projects. Increased national revenue. Greater efficiency in tax collection. Development of industries that can generate wealth within Serbia, rather than relying solely on agricultural exports or foreign capital."
He watched Pašić carefully. The Prime Minister's expression remained neutral, but his eyes were keen. "Noble ambitions, Your Majesty," Pašić said smoothly. "Such developments require stability, skilled labor, investment in education, and, of course, capital. These are long-term endeavors."
"Long-term endeavors begin with short-term decisions," Petar countered, keeping his tone even. "I would like a detailed report on our current industrial capacity. Not just what exists, but what could exist. What raw materials do we possess within our borders that are currently unexploited or exported raw for others to profit from? Iron, coal, copper, timber… I want figures, assessments of viability. And a similar report on the state of our technical education. How many engineers, metallurgists, skilled craftsmen are we producing?"
This was a direct request, more of a command than a suggestion. Pašić was silent for a long moment, his gaze fixed on Petar. The King met his stare, trying to project calm authority, not youthful impetuousness. He was walking a fine line.
Finally, Pašić nodded. "Such reports can be compiled, Your Majesty. It will take some time to gather the comprehensive data you request."
"I understand. But I expect it to be a priority," Petar said. "Serbia's strength cannot solely reside in the bravery of her soldiers. It must also be built upon the foundation of a robust economy and a technologically capable populace." He leaned back slightly. "Now, regarding our neighbors. Austria-Hungary. You called their ambitions a 'constant shadow.' What is your latest assessment of their intentions towards us, particularly concerning Bosnia and Herzegovina, and the Sanjak of Novi Pazar?"
The conversation shifted to the intricacies of foreign policy, the delicate dance of Balkan diplomacy. Pašić spoke of Vienna's drive eastward, of Ottoman weakness, Bulgarian rivalry, and the complexities of the Macedonian question, where Serbian, Bulgarian, and Greek irregulars clashed. Petar listened intently, interjecting with pointed questions that drew upon Alex's historical understanding of the region's future flashpoints. He asked about the Black Hand, the secret military society, testing Pašić's willingness to discuss such sensitive internal matters. Pašić acknowledged its existence obliquely, referring to "patriotic officers with strong convictions."
Throughout the nearly two-hour meeting, Petar felt himself growing into the role. The initial disorientation was fading, replaced by a focused intensity. He was playing chess with a grandmaster, and while he knew he was still an amateur in this game, he had the advantage of knowing the opponent's likely long-term strategy, even if Pašić himself didn't realize it yet.
When the meeting concluded, Pašić rose. "Your Majesty has given me much to consider, and much to act upon. Your… renewed focus on these vital matters is, if I may say so, invigorating." There was a hint of something unreadable in his tone – respect? Suspicion? Or merely the acknowledgement of a changed dynamic?
"The times demand focus, Mr. Prime Minister," Petar said, rising as well. "The world is changing rapidly. Serbia must be prepared not merely to react, but to shape its own destiny." He offered a slight nod. "I expect those reports on my desk as soon as they are feasible."
"Of course, Your Majesty." Pašić bowed, then departed.
Petar stood alone in the salon, the silence ringing in his ears. He had done it. He had taken the first, tentative steps. He had engaged the most powerful man in his government, made specific demands, and signaled a new level of royal involvement. He hadn't revealed his true, monumental ambition – that would be folly. But he had planted seeds. Seeds of industrialization, of military preparedness, of a more assertive national posture.
He walked to the window, looking out over the gardens of the Dvor, and beyond them, the rooftops of Belgrade. A city that was, in 1905, still small by European standards, dusty in summer, muddy in winter. A city at the confluence of the Sava and Danube rivers, a historic crossroads.
His city. His kingdom. The future crucible of his nascent empire.
The task was immense. He needed allies, not just political figures like Pašić, but men of talent, vision, and loyalty within the military, within industry, within the sciences. He needed to learn whom to trust from Petar's existing circle, and whom to cultivate anew. He thought of Alex Volkov's engineering knowledge. Perhaps there were projects he could initiate himself, practical demonstrations of progress.
A thought struck him – he needed to understand the current royal finances in minute detail. Where did the money come from? Where did it go? An emperor needed a full treasury.
He also felt a pang of something else: loneliness. Alex Volkov had friends, family. Petar Karađorđević, the eighteen-year-old king, was surrounded by subjects, ministers, servants. But confidants? True peers? That remained to be seen. The prompt had mentioned a harem, developing gradually. That was a distant, almost abstract concept now, overshadowed by the monumental political and strategic challenges. First, an empire. Then, perhaps, an empress, or empresses.
For now, he had work to do. He rang for Milan. "Milan," he said when the valet appeared. "Find me the Minister of Finance. I wish to see him this afternoon. And bring me all available maps of Serbia and the surrounding Balkan territories. The most detailed ones we possess."
Milan, though perhaps surprised by the King's sudden burst of activity, bowed. "Yes, Your Majesty."
Petar nodded. The game was afoot. The forging had begun.