Clermont Castle, October 1428
A brisk Ionian breeze swept through the open windows of my tower chamber, carrying the tang of salt and the low hush of distant waves. Seated near the highest point of Clermont Castle, I let the morning light wash over me, the gleam of the sea just visible beyond the fortress walls. In my hands rested a cup of bitter herbal brew—taste unfamiliar, yet soothing enough to keep me steady in this world still so new.
Two weeks. It had been two weeks since I awoke in this world, in this body: Constantine Palaiologos, Despot of Morea, destined to be the last emperor of Byzantium.
The initial shock had mostly subsided, replaced by a restless energy. Ideas coursed through me—ideas born from a future I remembered vividly but could no longer access. The knowledge I possessed was potent enough to alter the fate of empires. The question that weighed on me now was how to wield it wisely.
Leaning back, I allowed my thoughts to drift. Visions of maps, trade routes, and innovations from the modern world flashed through my mind—gunpowder, factories, printing presses. Columbus hadn't even been born yet, I reminded myself. What if I could lead the charge in discovering new lands, meeting the Aztecs and Incas decades ahead of time? The thought tempted me, tantalized my imagination.
But reality has a way of tempering dreams. Discovery and expansion were long-term goals. Right now, survival was paramount. The Ottomans were closing in, and Constantinople's days were numbered. My thoughts returned to the present danger. I had knowledge of advanced weaponry—firearms that could turn the tide of battle—but how does one recreate muskets and cannons without modern machinery?
Abruptly, a soft knock interrupted my thoughts. George Sphrantzes stepped inside, as poised and confident as ever. The man had a slender build and neatly trimmed hair, his bearing both diplomatic and quietly formidable. A thousand concerns shadowed his gaze, but he wore his usual respectful smile as he inclined his head.
"Good morning, my Despot," George said. His voice held the unspoken question I had come to recognize over these last weeks: How fares your mind today?
I offered a slight nod and gestured for him to sit. "George," I said simply, the last of my old anxiety giving way to focused determination. "Thank you for coming. We have much to discuss."
He took a seat opposite me, his sharp eyes studying my face. He had no doubt sensed the shift in me over the past few days. Two weeks ago, I was adrift; now, a plan —still nascent—was taking shape.
"I've made a decision," I told him, setting my cup aside. "In these past two weeks, I've been reflecting on what must be done to safeguard Morea… and perhaps more than just Morea."
A faint line creased his brow, though he waited without interrupting, the perfect courtier. So much in George's demeanor—his unwavering composure, the steady sincerity in his eyes—hinted at the loyalty that had bound him to the Palaiologos line long before I arrived in this body.
"You've noticed my interest in new methods—techniques in agriculture, trade, and technology," I continued. "I'm convinced these are the pillars on which we'll rebuild the Morea's strength. But we'll need boldness. The Ottomans won't give us time to catch our breath."
He inclined his head in acknowledgement. "That ambition is not unexpected from you, my lord. Yet bold moves invite scrutiny. Innovations are untested—many will wonder if you're driving the realm toward progress or peril." There was no derision in his voice, only a thoughtful caution.
I leaned forward, feeling a surge of excitement. "We start by focusing on what we have—our resources, our strategic location. There are methods and strategies that haven't been tried before. With the right investments and careful planning, we can make Glarentza into something much greater than it is now."
His eyes narrowed slightly, not in suspicion, but in thought. "You speak of innovations," he said slowly. "New ideas. But how can we be certain they will work?"
I allowed myself a faint smile. If only I could share what I truly was. "We start small," I said, my voice controlled but urgent. "Test each concept. Refine it. I have… ideas that might seem strange now, but if they bear fruit, they'll elevate our people and our defenses alike."
For a moment, George seemed on the verge of pressing me further. Then he relaxed slightly, as though reminded of who I was—Constantine Palaiologos, a man he had served through danger and doubt. "Prudence and vision, balanced hand in hand," he mused softly. "I see the appeal. Yet you must know caution is more than a habit with me."
A subtle sense of relief eased the tension in my shoulders. His agreement, though cautious, was a vital first step.
"Excellent," I said, standing with renewed resolve. "We have work to begin—financing, acquiring resources, summoning the right minds. Delay will only cost us more in the end."
Foundations of a Plan
Once George departed, the chamber felt oddly vast and silent. I paced near the tall, arched window, trying to quell the tightness in my chest. The faint aroma of burning olive oil drifted up from the torches below. Anxiety flickered within me, a familiar sensation of stepping into uncharted territory. Yet in that same hush, resolve swelled.
If this vision is to flourish, I thought, I'll need gold—and plenty of it.
Seizing a fresh roll of parchment, I dipped my quill in ink and began a letter addressed to Constantinople. My mother would read it in disbelief, no doubt. Selymbria had always been a prized estate on the Sea of Marmara. But Selymbria's days of prosperity had waned beneath Ottoman raiding. Sentiment would not save us now.
Dear Mother,
I have made a difficult decision: I will sell our holdings in Selymbria…
The admission stung. Selymbria, once a prosperous town on the Sea of Marmara, had been a valuable asset for years. Its fertile lands and strategic position were a point of pride, even in the face of Ottoman raids. But now, sentiment had to take a backseat to practicality. Selling the land would provide the funds I needed to turn my ambitions for Morea into reality. I sealed the letter and placed it atop a stack of documents for George.
When he returned from Constantinople, I would have the resources to begin in earnest.
George had been right to question the scope of my plans. But I had clarity now: Clarentza, Elis, would become a hub of industry—factories, trade, and innovation. The small cotton fields of Messinia would serve as the foundation for producing paper for my printing presses. I believed I could attempt to recreate a rudimentary movable type printing press, though the challenges were immense. Without precision tools or refined metals, the mechanics would be crude at best. I would need to find skilled craftsmen willing to experiment, to push the boundaries of their traditional methods. It wouldn't be easy, and failure was almost certain at first. But perhaps, starting small we could gradually innovate.
I recalled how we analyzed the revolutionary impact of Johannes Gutenberg's invention, which transformed society by facilitating mass communication and literacy, allowing ideas to spread rapidly and widely. My background in silk printing provided me with practical knowledge of materials and techniques, enhancing my ability to innovate. I realized that I was on the brink of altering the course of history myself—by adapting and improving upon the printing press, I could leave a lasting mark on my era. This system would not only make information accessible to the populace but also empower them—a concept entirely novel for this time. The thought of introducing such an innovation thrilled me; it was a way to elevate the collective consciousness of the whole world.
My gaze shifted to the corner of the chamber, where a newly acquired hand culverin rested against the wall—a rare primitive firearm, courtesy of a Venetian mercenary who'd recently passed through Glarentza. Crude though it was, the contraption hinted at a path to more sophisticated guns or artillery. If I could analyze its design, refine it with help from skilled armorers, perhaps my future army would not pale before the Ottomans. I pictured rows of disciplined soldiers wielding muskets—an anachronistic fantasy, yet one that might soon step from dream into reality.
Just then, hurried footfalls echoed in the corridor. George reappeared, face alive with anticipation.
He bowed slightly. "My Despot, the carriage is ready; I leave for Constantinople as planned. Any final instructions?"
I handed him the sealed letter and a detailed list of supplies. "Recruit skilled men—blacksmiths, craftsmen, scribes, anyone who can help us build what we need. We'll require materials as well. There are innovations I plan to introduce."
He scanned the parchment, brow lifting at the unusual mix of requests. "So many trades, so many specialized skills. You're amassing more than a mere defense, my lord. Is this… truly all in service of protecting Morea?"
I locked eyes with him. "George, do you recall the first day I rose from my sickbed? I told you then—we cannot cling only to walls and swords. We must create something greater, a future that outpaces our enemies. Stronger fortifications, yes, but also trade, industry, and knowledge. They'll be our best armor in the end."
His thoughtful silence lasted a breath longer than usual. "I'll do as you command." Yet I sensed in his voice a deeper curiosity, perhaps an inkling that there was more behind my words than typical ambition. Still, he pressed no further. He merely inclined his head, the hint of a smile ghosting his lips. "I'll gather those who share your vision and can help shape it."
"Safe travels, my friend," I said, careful to let my confidence show. With each passing day, I grew more adept at playing the role of a decisive ruler. A small part of me wondered if I was becoming truly Constantine or simply learning how to mimic him.
George bowed once more and left. As the door shut, determination crowded out any lingering nerves. Glarentza—that sleepy coastal city—would become the workshop of our realm. Factories and printing presses, forging an era before its time. The idea bristled with possibility. In my mind, I saw not only the rise of a new Morea but a shift in the destiny of empires.
I closed my eyes, letting the hush of the chamber embrace me. Planting the seed is one thing, I reflected, nurturing it is another. Beyond these walls, storms loomed—internal politics, the Ottoman threat, suspicious lords with eyes fixed on short-term gain. But if this seed took root, if it blossomed into the future I envisioned…Last edited: Apr 5, 2025Like Award Reply167sersorOct 4, 2024Add bookmarkView discussionThreadmarks Chapter Seven: Theodora's Dilemma View contentsersorOct 5, 2024Add bookmark#25It was early morning when Theodora found herself pacing the cold stone floor of her chamber in Clermont Castle. A letter lay open on her desk, its contents lingering in her mind. Written in the elegant yet pointed hand of her brother, Carlo II Tocco, the message was both cordial and subtly insistent.
"Creusa," it began—he always used her birth name when writing in private. "I trust this letter finds you in good health and high spirits. I have often wondered how you fare in the court of the Despot. Is Constantine treating you with the respect and care you deserve? I hope you have begun to find your place among the Byzantine nobles and that your transition to life in Morea has been as smooth as possible."
Theodora read the next part with a mix of frustration and resignation.
"But let me speak plainly, sister. You know as well as I that securing your position—and our family's standing—requires the blessing of children. Have you discussed this with Constantine? The sooner you produce an heir, the stronger your influence will become, both in the Morea and our family."
She could almost hear his warm but stern voice reminding her of the unspoken duty that weighed upon her every day. The expectation to bear a child was ever-present, but the thought of pressing Constantine on the matter, given his recent behavior, filled her with uncertainty.
Carlo continued, turning his attention to the troubles brewing in Epirus.
"I must also share some troubling rumors," he wrote. "There are whispers that Memnone and his supporters have grown restless. I do not have solid proof yet, but they may be courting the Ottomans to undermine our rule. I do not mean to alarm you, Creusa, but remain vigilant. Should you hear anything, or should Constantine have any insights, I would value your counsel."
Theodora's eyes lingered on this final passage, her mind swirling with its implications. Carlo's words were more of a warning than a direct request for help, but they placed her in a precarious position. She had married into the Byzantine court and sworn her loyalty to Constantine, yet now her brother was reminding her of the ties that still bound her to her family's fortunes.
The heavy oak door creaked open, and Constantine entered, his presence as steady and imposing as the stone walls around them. His eyes softened when he saw her near the window, the morning light casting a warm glow on her troubled face.
"Theodora," he greeted, his voice gentle but probing. "You seem preoccupied. Has something happened?"
For a heartbeat, Theodora considered revealing the letter, asking for his advice as a partner. Yet, an instinct held her back. How could she speak of Carlo's subtle urgings to produce an heir or the rumors of rebellion in Epirus when Constantine already bore the weight of the empire on his shoulders? He had enough concerns without her adding to them.
"It's just a letter from my brother," she replied softly, folding the parchment and tucking it into the folds of her gown. "He wishes to know how I am adjusting to life here, that is all."
Constantine nodded, though the furrow in his brow deepened. "Does he need anything? Your family is important to you, and therefore to me."
She hesitated, choosing her words carefully. "He only expresses the usual concerns." Her voice faltered at the end, the enormity of their situation pressing upon her. "But nothing that you need trouble yourself with, not now."
"Still," he persisted, his gaze steady. "If there is something you need, you should tell me. I would not have you worry alone."
The tenderness in his words warmed her, yet it also tightened the knot of anxiety in her chest. He was trying to be supportive, but there were matters he could not solve simply by being there. "Thank you," she managed, a faint smile gracing her lips. "But I can handle this. Our people need your strength more than I need your comfort at this moment."
Constantine studied her for a moment longer, his eyes searching hers for an unspoken truth. Finally, he nodded, though reluctance shaded his expression. "Very well. I'll be back in time for supper. If you need anything, just call for the servants."
With a brief, tender kiss on her forehead, he turned and left, his footsteps echoing down the stone corridor. Theodora watched him go, a wave of relief mingled with guilt washing over her. He deserved to know more, to be kept in the loop about the tensions brewing in Epirus, yet she held back, uncertain how he would react to her brother's demands and suspicions.
Once alone, Theodora returned to her desk, smoothing the letter again. The last few lines gnawed at her. Her brother was not asking outright for Constantine's involvement; he was planting the seed, expecting her to tend to it. Carlo was not naive; he knew Constantine held influence and army, and if he chose to intervene, it could tip the balance of power. Yet bringing such matters to her husband's attention could also draw him into a conflict he might be unprepared for. More than that, it risked exposing her as a conduit for her family's ambitions rather than as a loyal Despotess.
She sighed, pressing fingers to her temples. The weight of Carlo's letter lingered. How much should she reveal? After a moment's hesitation, she pulled a sheet of parchment closer.
The quill hovered above the page before she began, each word chosen carefully.
"My dearest brother," she wrote. "Your letter brought me great joy. The Morea is a land of contrasts, and I discover something new daily."
She paused, the tip of the quill tapping softly. Should she mention Constantine's transformation? Deciding, she continued.
"Constantine has been most attentive, though he has faced his own trials recently. There was a time when he seemed quite distant, lost even, but in the past few days, I have noticed a change in him. He carries a renewed sense of purpose, as if something has awakened within him."
She paused, staring at the ink that glistened on the parchment. It was not a lie, but it was not the full truth either. Constantine's change had indeed been dramatic; one moment, he was brooding and withdrawn, and now he seemed determined, almost driven. Yet this newfound vigor unsettled her. Was it the pressure of impending war? A surge of inspiration? Or something else entirely?
Shaking her head, she continued.
"As for your concerns about an heir, know that the matter is not lost on me. I understand well the importance of securing our family's future. Rest assured, I will broach the subject with my husband when the time is right. However, such matters require delicacy. I must navigate these waters carefully, and I ask for your patience in this."
Theodora hesitated again, her quill hovering over the paper. Carlo's suspicions about Memnone and his supporters needed addressing, but she did not want to appear overly concerned. She decided to strike a middle ground.
"As for the unrest in Epirus, I shall keep my ears open. The Morea has its share of troubles, and Constantine's attention is spread thin. Nonetheless, I will try to discern what I can. Be vigilant, dear brother, and remember that the walls have ears, even here in Morea. We must tread carefully."
Satisfied with her words, she signed the letter and set it aside to dry. It was a measured response, one that did not promise more than she could offer. She had left out details of the turmoil in her heart and the sense of being caught between two worlds—her life as Creusa Tocco, bound by family and blood, and her new identity as Theodora, Despotess of the Morea, sworn to her husband and his cause.
Rising from her chair, she moved to the window and gazed out at the sprawling landscape of the Morea. The sun had climbed higher, casting long shadows over the rugged hills and valleys below. This was her new reality, her new home, yet it felt foreign in so many ways. The path ahead was unclear, but one truth stood out starkly: whatever course she chose, it would define not just her future, but the future of all those she loved.
With a sigh, Theodora folded the letter and sealed it with wax, pressing her family's crest into the soft material. She would send it off later, and then, she knew, the waiting would begin. She would wait to see how Carlo would respond, waiting for the right moment to speak to Constantine, waiting for the forces at play in Epirus and the Morea to reveal their true intentions.
But for now, she needed to attend to her duties. Turning away from the window, she straightened her gown and moved to leave her chambers. There was much to do, and while her heart remained troubled, she would not allow herself to be paralyzed by indecision. She was Theodora, Despotess of Morea, and for better or worse, her path was now entwined with Constantine's.
As she stepped into the corridor, she whispered a silent prayer, hoping that whatever the days ahead held, she would find the strength to navigate them with grace and resolve. She would need every ounce of both in the delicate balance between family and duty.Like Award Reply163sersorOct 5, 2024Add bookmarkView discussionThreadmarks Chapter Eight: Forging the Future New View contentsersorOct 7, 2024Add bookmark#35The soft glow of candlelight bathed Michael's private chamber, casting long shadows across the scattered parchments and sketches that covered his wooden table. Night had settled over the Morea, and the usual bustle of Clermont Castle had quieted to a hushed calm. Michael sat alone, quill in hand, as he meticulously revised his designs for the printing press. With George still away in Constantinople gathering artisans and supplies, Michael seized the solitude to advance his plans.
Earlier that week, he had met discreetly with Dimitrios the carpenter and Nikolaos the blacksmith. Their practical insights had been invaluable, helping him adjust his designs to align with the materials and techniques available. They discussed the feasibility of constructing the press's frame, selecting sturdy oak for its durability, and debated the crafting of the screw mechanism—an untested endeavor that Nikolaos was cautiously optimistic about.
As Michael reviewed his notes, a new thought struck him. Initially, he had planned to produce texts in Greek, catering to the local clergy and nobility. However, after conducting some inquiries, he realized that books were luxury items, often costing between 40 to 80 gold florins. The market within the Morea was rather limited, but the demand in Western Europe, where Latin was the lingua franca of the Church and academia, was vast.
If I produce texts in Latin, he mused, I could tap into a much larger market, generating substantial profits. These funds could support his other projects and strengthen the Morea's economy. Moreover, producing Latin texts might align with his brother's efforts to unite the Eastern Orthodox and Roman Catholic Churches—a strategic move that could attract Western support against the Ottomans.
Determined, Michael began reworking his movable type designs to accommodate the Latin alphabet. He carefully sketched each letter, ensuring uniformity and legibility. His knowledge of typography helped him optimize the size and spacing of the type, aiming to make the books more compact and cost-effective without sacrificing readability.
To produce a Latin Bible—the most logical and profitable starting point—he needed a reference copy. He decided to acquire one from the Catholic Bishop in Patras, a city under Venetian control not far from Clermont. The bishop was reputed to have an extensive library of Western texts. Michael drafted a letter requesting an audience, framing his interest as scholarly.
Turning his attention to the production of ink and paper, he set plans in motion to establish small workshops. He had spoken with local craftsmen about sourcing linseed oil and lampblack for ink, experimenting with mixtures to achieve the right consistency. For paper, he proposed using cotton and linen rags to produce high-quality sheets, collaborating with Elias, a miller intrigued by the venture.
A gentle knock at the door pulled him from his thoughts. Michael quickly organized his parchments, ensuring sensitive documents were tucked away. "Enter," he called out.
The door opened slowly, and Theodora stepped inside, her features softly illuminated by the candlelight. "Still awake at this hour?" she asked with a faint smile.
Michael looked up, masking his surprise. "Time seems to slip away when I'm engrossed in these matters."
She approached the table, her gaze drifting over the assortment of sketches and notes. "You've been quite occupied lately. The servants mention you've been meeting with various craftsmen."
"Just attending to some administrative tasks," he replied lightly. "There are always repairs and improvements needed around the estate."
She nodded, her expression thoughtful. "I suppose the duties of a despot are never-ending."
"Indeed," he agreed, hoping to steer the conversation away from specifics.
Theodora picked up a parchment displaying architectural drawings of a warehouse. "Is this a new building you're planning?"
"Yes, a storage facility," Michael said smoothly. "With the harvest season approaching, we'll need additional space."
"That seems prudent," she remarked, placing the parchment back on the table. "You've always been forward-thinking."
He offered a modest smile. "I try to anticipate our needs."
A brief silence settled between them. Sensing her lingering curiosity, Michael decided to shift the focus. "And how have you been? I hope the preparations for the upcoming festival aren't too burdensome."
She seemed to accept the change in topic. "They keep me busy, but it's a welcome distraction. The people could use something to lift their spirits."
"Agreed," he said. "It's important to maintain our traditions, especially in challenging times."
Theodora glanced around the room once more. "Well, I didn't mean to interrupt your work. I just wanted to ensure you weren't overexerting yourself."
"I appreciate your concern," Michael replied sincerely. "I was just wrapping up for the night."
She gave a slight nod. "Very well. Don't forget to rest."
"I won't," he assured her.
As she turned to leave, Michael felt a pang of guilt for withholding information from her. Theodora had been a steadfast companion, but the nature of his projects required discretion. He watched as she quietly closed the door behind her, the soft echo of her footsteps fading down the corridor.
Once alone again, Michael exhaled slowly. He retrieved the hidden parchments from beneath the architectural plans. The musket designs remained concealed, a secret even more guarded than the printing press. The potential ramifications of introducing advanced weaponry were immense, and he couldn't risk the information falling into the wrong hands.
Refocusing on his work, he revisited the list of materials needed for the printing press and the workshops:
- *Printing Press Materials*:
- Sturdy oak for the frame
- Iron and steel for the screw mechanism
- Lead, tin, and antimony for casting movable type
- *Ink Production*:
- Linseed oil
- Lampblack (soot)
- *Paper Production*:
- Cotton and linen rags
- Equipment for pulping and pressing fibers
He made annotations next to each item, noting potential suppliers and any logistical challenges. The acquisition of antimony might prove difficult, but he hoped George would have success in sourcing it from Constantinople.
Michael then drafted the letter to the Bishop of Patras:
"Your Excellency,
I trust this letter finds you in good health and high spirits. I am eager to discuss matters of mutual interest that could enrich our region's cultural and spiritual life. At your convenience, I would appreciate the opportunity to meet with you.
Respectfully,
Constantine Palaiologos, Despot of the Morea"
Sealing the letter, he set it aside for dispatch in the morning. The thought of obtaining a Latin Bible filled him with a sense of urgency. The sooner he had a reference, the sooner he could proceed with producing a work that might open doors both economically and diplomatically.
As the candles burned low, Michael organized his parchments, ensuring that sensitive documents were securely stored. He placed the most critical designs into a leather satchel, which he locked inside a wooden chest concealed behind a tapestry—a necessary precaution.
Extinguishing the candles, he moved to the window. The night air was cool, and the stars shimmered like distant lanterns. He allowed himself a moment of quiet contemplation. The path he had chosen was fraught with challenges, but each step brought him closer to his goals.
"Knowledge is power," he whispered to himself. "And with it, i can forge a new destiny."
Turning away from the window, Michael prepared to rest. Tomorrow would bring new tasks and, hopefully, progress. As he lay down, his mind buzzed with plans and contingencies. Trust was a luxury he could scarcely afford, but discretion was essential. The weight of secrecy pressed upon him, but he bore it willingly.Like Award Reply162sersorOct 7, 2024NewAdd bookmarkView discussionThreadmarks Chapter Nine: A Clash of Faith and Unity New View contentsersorOct 9, 2024Add bookmark#41The sun hung low over Mystras, gilding the fortress walls and winding streets in a final burst of warm light. In one of the castle's private chambers, Theodore Palaiologos stood by a narrow window, his posture rigid with mounting unease. He watched the rolling hills beyond the city as dusk settled—a seemingly endless sea of silhouettes harboring threats he could not yet name.
A soft knock interrupted his thoughts. A servant appeared, bowing.
"Master Plethon awaits you, my lord."
Theodore's gaze lingered on the horizon a moment longer before he turned, jaw set. "Let him in."
The door opened to admit Georgios Gemistos Plethon. At nearly seventy, he possessed the dignified bearing of a seasoned scholar. His long beard, streaked with white, framed a face creased by time yet illuminated with intellectual fervor. Though his simple Byzantine robes were unadorned, they reflected both scholarship and the stature of a magistrate.
"Theodore," Plethon greeted with a respectful nod, his voice measured.
"Plethon," Theodore acknowledged. He gestured toward a chair by the modest hearth. "Sit. I trust you know why I summoned you."
Plethon settled with a deliberate grace, folding his hands in his lap. "You wish to speak of the emperor's pursuit of church unification."
A flicker of anger crossed Theodore's features. He took a step forward, then paused, as if restraining himself from pacing. "You have been advising my brother. And I know that he leans upon your counsel in these negotiations with Rome." His tone hardened. "Tell me: do you truly believe in compromising our Orthodoxy? Do you support bending the knee to the Latin Church?"
Plethon's expression turned contemplative. "Believe me, I do not lightly suggest any compromise. But the emperor thinks that unification may secure Western aid, without which our people could be overrun by the Ottomans. And I cannot dismiss his concern out of hand."
Theodore exhaled, his pent-up agitation spilling into the quiet. "I recall the Fourth Crusade all too well—the rampage through Constantinople, the desecrations... And now we're to trust the West to respect our traditions? Their promises ring hollow."
Plethon lowered his gaze. "I have not forgotten. The scars of those days remain with us all. But the Ottomans advance closer each year. If Byzantium stands alone, our heritage—and our faith—might vanish entirely."
Theodore moved toward a small table on which an icon of the Virgin Mary flickered in the candlelight. Tracing its edge with one calloused fingertip, he spoke softly, as if the words were drawn from a deep well of doubt. "What is faith if not the anchor of our people? Embracing the Latins is more than a diplomatic turn; it means shifting our very creed. The filioque, papal supremacy—all these blasphemies we have long withstood. Would we not taint Orthodoxy by accepting them, even as a tactic?"
Plethon tilted his head, a gentle, almost teacherly gesture. "I've studied our past, and also Plato's lessons on forging unity in times of crisis. Sometimes a measured concession can preserve the soul of a society. We might ensure that, in exchange for our fealty, our own rites remain protected."
Theodore's voice grew taut. "You speak of negotiation. I fear the Latins speak of conquest. Their appetite for dominion has not changed since they first set eyes on Constantinople."
For a moment, Plethon did not reply. He fixed his gaze on the dancing shadows upon the wall, as though searching for an echo of an ancient truth. "I have spent my life sifting through the wisdom of Plato and the old Hellenic sages. I've seen how an empire can crumble when it clings too tightly to old forms while the world transforms around it. We are at a crossroads, Theodore—one requiring creativity as much as faith."
Theodore turned abruptly, as though the philosopher's words struck a nerve. "We do not need to forsake our faith to adapt. There are reforms to be made, yes, but not this union. Would you have us part our lips in prayer to the Pope?"
A flicker of amusement softened Plethon's features. "I'm no Latin apologist, Theodore. My interest lies in ensuring that the empire does not succumb to the Ottomans. Even if we keep our liturgies, we must find a way to stand against the empire's inevitable decline. I do not believe survival and tradition must be at odds."
Theodore dropped into a chair, pressing a hand against his brow. In the wavering candlelight, the lines of worry on his face deepened. Memories of fallen cities and ruined icons rose unbidden, fueling the inner war between his devotion and his fear for Byzantium's future. "You know, old friend, how passionately I resist meddling with our creed. My father always cautioned me that our faith was the last bulwark against chaos. Sometimes I hear his voice, urging me to hold the line, no matter the price."
A hush fell. Plethon watched the younger man with an empathy born of many years in service to rulers who bore such burdens. At length, he spoke, his voice low yet unwavering. "I would not see Orthodoxy shattered. I would see it evolve, strengthened by a deeper understanding of philosophy and civic virtue. You call me radical because I study Plato's vision of a just society. But remember, Theodore—Plato taught that leaders must be willing to guide the people to what they need, even if they resist at first."
Theodore released a hollow laugh. "That's what unsettles me: the thought of an empire restructured by your Hellenic beliefs. The people are devout; they cry out to the Holy Virgin, to the saints. They do not look to the pantheon of ancient Greece. To them, your suggestions would be near-heresy."
Plethon spread his hands gently. "I'm aware of my reputation. Yet I do not preach an outright return to the old gods. Rather, I see wisdom in the philosophies of our ancestors. We can strengthen our present by integrating their insights into our governance and laws. Indeed, few truly understand that my aim is not to tear down the church, but to fortify our empire's spiritual foundation with knowledge that predates these bitter schisms."
Silence settled, thick with the weight of both men's convictions. Theodore gazed at the icon, noticing how the candle's glow lent life to the Virgin's serene face, and he felt an ache at the possibility of losing this cherished faith. Yet he also sensed that Plethon's counsel was not mere idealism—there was a practical urgency in the older man's words.
At last, Theodore spoke, a weary resignation in his voice. "You'd have me consider forging an alliance with the West, rethinking the role of Hellenic learning in our realm, all to stave off the Ottomans. I wonder if you see how precarious such steps could be. No matter how we frame it, many will call it betrayal."
Plethon rose with a slow dignity, weariness etched into his features. "Leadership demands more than pleasing the multitude. It requires looking beyond the immediate horizon, imagining what shape our empire might take after we weather this storm. You may find a middle path—one that spares Orthodoxy from corruption while securing the alliances we need. It is not an easy route, but it is there for those who dare to seek it."
Theodore closed his eyes briefly, letting out a long sigh. He pictured the emperor—his brother—caught in the grip of looming war, and the tattered remnants of a once-mighty empire scattered like leaves before an oncoming tempest. "Your words carry both promise and risk, Plethon. And still, you know the church elders will not bow to such bold reforms without a fight."
"There will always be a fight," Plethon said softly. "Better that it be on our terms, shaped by wisdom rather than desperation."
He inclined his head in a final show of respect and stepped toward the door. Theodore watched him go, then called after him, voice echoing in the dim corridor:
"Old friend—do not mistake my resistance for dismissal. I will reflect on your arguments. If there is a way to secure our empire without forsaking our soul, I wish to find it."
Plethon halted, glancing back. A gentle smile touched his lips, fleeting as candlelight. "That is all I ask. May reason and faith both guide you, Theodore."
Then he disappeared down the corridor, his footsteps fading into the hush of the castle.
Left alone, Theodore returned to the window. Night had fallen fully, and the stars dotted the sky like watchful sentinels. He placed a hand on the cool stone, recalling Plethon's fervent talk of a renewed Hellenic glory—a concept so radical that it unsettled him as much as the threat from the Ottomans themselves.
His gaze dropped to the icon of the Virgin Mary. "Will we find salvation in compromise, or damnation?" he murmured. No answer came from the silent icon, only the unwavering glow of the candle.
Long after darkness claimed the city, Theodore remained, torn between the pull of tradition and the call to adapt. Faith and survival—a delicate balance he could neither abandon nor confidently embrace. In the stillness, he felt every inch the ruler his father had raised him to be, bound by duty and haunted by uncertainty.Last edited: Apr 5, 2025Like Award Reply149sersorOct 9, 2024NewAdd bookmarkView discussionThreadmarks Chapter Ten: Foundations of an Empire New View contentsersorOct 10, 2024Add bookmark#43Clermont, February 1429
The lamb chops had cooled on Theodora's plate, barely touched, yet she watched me with a faint smile as I finished my meal.
"That was truly delicious," I said, pressing a napkin to my lips. The taste of rosemary and garlic still lingered. "When did we last share such a quiet supper?"
"I'm glad you enjoyed it, my Despot," she replied in a soft tone. Then her gaze fell to her own untouched plate, and her faint smile waned.
I studied her expression. Over the past few days, I'd noticed her absentmindedness at meals and the way she seemed to drift through her daily routines. The memory of my sister's first pregnancy stirred in my mind, prompting a question. I spoke gently. "Theodora... Could you be carrying a child?"
She glanced down, tracing her fingertips along the rim of her plate. "I believe so," she admitted at last. "I've felt the signs."
Pregnant. The word echoed in my mind, and for a moment, I let hope replace the ever-present worry. A new life, here—despite all my doubts about who I truly am or how I came to be in Constantine's body. Perhaps it didn't matter, not in this moment. A child was cause for celebration—or so I wanted to believe.
I reached across the table to take her hand. "You must rest," I said, though my voice trembled with conflicting emotions. "We can call for a physician if—"
She gave a small laugh, almost embarrassed. "I don't wish to make a fuss. But I will be careful."
As I squeezed her hand, I was flooded with a sudden tenderness for this woman who had shown me so much kindness. Somewhere in the swirl of my borrowed memories and the life I'd left behind, she had become an anchor—a reminder that the future was not solely about war and political tension.
The squeak of the heavy wooden doors brought me back to the moment. A servant entered to collect the dishes. I rose, gave Theodora one last reassuring look, and made my way through the drafty corridors to the room I'd converted into a workshop.
Winter had drifted by in waves of planning and guarded excitement. Every free hour found me in a private workshop, sketches spread across a worn table. Keeping these projects secret felt like balancing on a razor's edge, but the risk was worth it.
The printing press prototype emerged slowly from piles of wooden frames and half-finished cogs. I tested homemade ink on crude sheets of paper, my fingers perpetually stained black. The smudges on my palms became a badge of silent determination, a reminder that each of these small leaps—no matter how messy—could change our fortunes.
In another corner of the workshop, near a rudimentary forge, I refined drawings for a more advanced firearm, referencing the Venetian hand culverin that had fallen into my hands some months ago. Bronze prototypes rattled across my palms while I thought of George, still away in Constantinople. We needed genuine gunsmiths to bring these designs to life. Until then, I could only test the simplest aspects with the local blacksmiths. They were competent but not specialized in the complexities of firearms. And gunpowder? That was a problem unto itself. One crisis at a time, I reminded myself.
Out in the courtyard, more modern forms of bookkeeping had begun to take root—though "modern" was a laughably relative term here. I'd introduced double-entry bookkeeping to a tax collector who eyed my ledgers as though they were demonic scrolls. Watching him stammer over the columns of credits and debits, I almost felt guilty. Almost. We needed these methods to streamline finances. Our region bled money fast enough without the confusion of outdated record-keeping.
Despite all this, winter had left me no illusions about our precarious finances. New fortifications, new workshops, new roads—every improvement demanded coin. The treasury, never robust to begin with, was draining at an alarming pace, forcing me to sell off some of my newly acquired estates in Arcadia just to keep everything afloat. A desperate measure, but it bought us some time. I prayed George would return soon, hopefully with funds—and with people.
Still, progress continued, piece by slow piece. Work crews gathered in Andravida to repair roads and storehouses. The plan was to shape Andravida into our agricultural centerpiece, funneling the bounty of the Elis farmlands into Clermont Castle. Glarentza, in turn, would act as our commercial heart, a hub for trade and eventual industrial projects—like the printing press. I pictured a future with small-scale assembly lines and, maybe one day, a modernized shipyard. A feverish dream? Possibly. But I refused to abandon the vision.
However, no dream takes root without people. My biggest worry was a crippling shortage of labor. Even calling up every able-bodied individual in Glarentza gave us fewer than fifteen thousand souls to work with—nowhere near enough to fill the ranks of farmhands, laborers, and militiamen. So we offered incentives to Christians fleeing Ottoman rule. Tsakonian families arrived, as did Serbian migrants from Theodora's maternal homeland. A smattering of Thessalonian merchants brought both money and ambition. By March, a trickle of settlers had grown into a small flood—two thousand newcomers and counting.
Still, it wasn't enough to stand up against a serious threat. Our local forces amounted to a ragtag army: forty horsemen, twenty crossbowmen, fifty archers, and maybe two hundred fifty infantry. If absolutely pressed, I could levy a couple thousand ill-trained peasants who'd never seen a real battlefield. Thomas, my brother stationed in Kalavryta, might lend some decent troops if called. But Theodore in Mystras was more monk than prince, always lost in spiritual matters. I couldn't rely on him.
And looming larger still were the Venetians, who controlled key ports in the Peloponnese. We needed alliances with them, not hostilities, if we hoped to stand against the Ottomans. The seas could be our lifeline—or our demise.
Andravida Crop Fields, March 1429The day was hot for March, the sun merciless above the Andravida fields. Sweat trickled down my temples as I held up the handle of a new heavy plough. Farmers in faded tunics stood in a tight circle, eyeing the contraption as though it were a mythical beast.
"Look here," I called, guiding the metal blade into the earth. Soil peeled back in neat furrows, the oxen plodding on with surprisingly little strain. "This deeper cut helps aerate the ground and should increase yield. Harder at first, but worth it when harvest time arrives."
An older man, with skin leathered from decades under the sun, frowned. "Despot, we've tilled with simpler ploughs for generations. How do we know your innovation won't harm the land—or exhaust the oxen beyond their limit?"
I pressed my lips together, reminding myself to be patient. "It won't be easy in the beginning," I said gently. "But we've tested it on smaller plots. The results were promising."
A younger farmer, arms crossed over his chest, chimed in. "I've heard stories of new ways, new contraptions. But rumors are easier to spread than results."
I nodded, acknowledging his point. "Fair enough. Let's see how it goes for a few more weeks. If it fails, we'll adapt." The last word was foreign enough in Greek that some farmers exchanged nervous glances. To them, tradition was ironclad. Yet I couldn't drag them into progress by force; they needed to see it work.
Before I could say more, a thunder of hooves kicked up dust across the fields. A lone rider charged toward us, reining to an abrupt halt. "Despot! George Sphrantzes has returned—he awaits you at Clermont."
Energy surged through me, cutting through the frustration. "Then I'd best be on my way." I turned to the farmers. "We'll continue our demonstration soon," I promised, trying to give them a confident nod before swinging onto my horse.
I galloped toward Glarentza, the countryside blurring past. Anxiety wrestled with excitement in my chest. Had George secured the wealth we needed? Had he convinced skilled craftsmen to journey south? My mind buzzed with possibilities.
George has returned. What news does he bring? Have craftsmen agreed to come?
By the time I reached Clermont, dusk lay in streaks of gold and pink across the sky. At the castle gate, a chaotic scene greeted me: carts laden with chests and sacks, families clustered together, animals bleating irritably. George stood amid it all, straight-backed despite the dust of travel, conversing with a lean, dignified man in well-stitched robes.
"Despot," George called, a tired but genuine smile creasing his face. "Your summons was well-timed."
I dismounted, tossing the reins to a stable hand. "George," I breathed, clasping his arm. "It's good to see you safely returned. And who is this you've brought?" My eyes scanned the assembled crowd. Mercenaries? Craftsmen? Scholars? The numbers looked far greater than I'd dared hope.
George gave a brisk nod toward the robed man. "This is Theophilus Dragaš, related to your family through distant ties. He bears letters from your mother in Constantinople."
Theophilus stepped forward and bowed deeply. "Despot Constantine," he said, voice carrying a quiet authority, "I come with your mother's blessings—and with many in search of a better life under your rule." He produced a sealed parchment, offering it to me with both hands.
Accepting the letter, I studied the man before me. Theophilus Dragaš—a name that stirred faint echoes within Constantine's memories. A scholar and distant relative, respected for his wisdom and piety. His eyes held a keen intelligence, and his bearing had a calm steadiness.
I took the letter, glancing at the small crowd behind him. "Welcome, Theophilus. Thank you for traveling so far." They were a diverse bunch: Bell makers, blacksmiths, carpenters, masons, families carrying battered trunks. The older ones wore the weight of displacement on their faces. The younger ones held a flicker of hope.
"I've been telling them," George added, "that the Morea promises security and opportunity. Frankly, conditions in Constantinople worsen every day." He exhaled slowly, meeting my eye. "I convinced over twenty skilled craftsmen to come. And nearly two hundred others—some minor nobles, scholars, laborers—who simply want a fresh start."
Relief and gratitude warred within me. This is more help than I dreamed. I cleared my throat, suddenly conscious of so many ears listening. "You've done wonders, George. All of you," I added, raising my voice for the newcomers. "You're most welcome here. We'll find you land, work, a chance to rebuild."
A murmur of relief and gratitude rippled through those nearby. George gestured toward a stout man with soot-stained hands. "Despot, allow me to introduce Elias, a master bell maker renowned in the capital."
Elias bowed deeply. "At your service, Despot. I've heard of your plans and am eager to contribute."
I clasped his forearm in a gesture of camaraderie. "Your skills will be invaluable, Elias. We have a lot of need for talented hands like yours."
Theophilus stepped forward once more. "Despot, I have also brought texts and manuscripts from the remnants of the imperial library."
"Excellent," I replied, envisioning the wealth of information those works could contain. "Your contributions are most welcome."
As we moved toward the castle entrance, the sun dipping lower on the horizon, I felt a renewed sense of purpose. The obstacles ahead were formidable, but with these new resources—both human and material—the path to strengthening the Morea seemed more attainable.
"George," I said quietly as we walked, "did you encounter any difficulties on your journey?"
He nodded solemnly. "There were challenges. Pirates in the sea, and tensions in the capital are high. The Ottomans press closer each day."
A shadow passed over my thoughts. The urgency of our mission weighed heavily upon me. "We must accelerate our efforts," I asserted. "Time is not a luxury we possess."
"Agreed," George replied. "I shall begin organizing the craftsmen immediately."
"Good. And Theophilus," I added, turning to the scholar, "we will convene soon to discuss how best to utilize the knowledge you've brought."
He inclined his head. "As you wish, Despot."
Before we could proceed further, a familiar figure approached—Theodora, her gown flowing gracefully as she walked. Her eyes met mine, reflecting warmth and quiet strength.
"George's return was more than fruitful," she noted. "Look at how many have come to join us "
"Indeed," I replied, taking her hands gently. "His journey was a success beyond measure."
She smiled, a hint of relief in her expression. "This will bolster our efforts."
Noticing the subtle shadows under her eyes, I felt a pang of concern. "Are you feeling well?" I asked quietly.
She nodded. "Just a bit tired, but nothing to worry over."
I squeezed her hands lightly. "Remember to rest. The welfare of you and our child is paramount."
A soft blush colored her cheeks. "I promise I will."
Turning back to George and Theophilus, I addressed them with renewed determination. "There is much to be done, but tonight, we shall rest and welcome our new companions. Tomorrow, we forge ahead."
They both nodded, understanding the significance of this convergence of events.
As evening settled in, the castle came alive with activity. Fires were lit, meals prepared, and the newcomers began to settle. The air was filled with a sense of cautious optimism—a stark contrast to the uncertainty that had loomed for so long.
I stood on the balcony overlooking the courtyard, watching as people found places to sit, sharing food and stories. Laughter mingled with the crackling of flames, and children chased one another under the watchful eyes of their parents.
Theodora joined me, slipping her arm through mine. "Look at them," she said softly. "Perhaps this is the beginning of something new."
"Indeed," I agreed, my gaze sweeping over the scene. "A foundation upon which we can build a future."
She rested her head on my shoulder. "I have faith in you, in us."
Her words warmed me. "Together, we will shape the destiny of this land."
She looked up at me, her eyes reflecting the flickering light. "I wanted to tell you—I've received a letter from my brother."
"Carlo?" I inquired. "What news does he bring?"
She hesitated briefly. "He writes of concerns in Epirus. Tensions with neighboring lords and whispers of Ottoman movements. He... also inquires about the prospects of an alliance."
I considered her words carefully. "An alliance could be beneficial, but we must tread cautiously. The political landscape is delicate."
She nodded, then leaned against me, her presence gentle. "We'll talk more soon. I don't wish to add more burdens to your mind tonight."
"Your wisdom is invaluable, Theodora," I assured her. "We will discuss it further and decide the best course of action."
A comfortable silence settled between us as we watched the festivities below. The challenges ahead were numerous, but with allies by my side and a vision for the future, I felt a steadfast resolve.
We will rise to meet the trials before us, I vowed silently. For the sake of all who look to us, and for the generations yet to come.Last edited: Apr 5, 2025Like Award