Chapter 1556 - bbv

Clarentza, May 1429

By the warm glow of the forge, Michael watched as molten metal filled the intricate molds. The scent of hot metal and charcoal hung thick in the air. Beside him, Demetrios, a master goldsmith from Constantinople, wiped the sweat from his brow. He turned a tiny metal letter over in his fingers, his eyes filled with wonder.

"I've never crafted such precise and delicate pieces before," Demetrios said, shaking his head.

Michael smiled faintly. "Each letter is a building block of knowledge. Together, they can move nations."

Demetrios examined the letter again. "Such simplicity holds profound potential. Your vision is remarkable, my lord."

"It's not my vision alone, Master Demetrios," Michael replied modestly. "Without your skill and dedication, none of this would be possible."

Demetrios bowed his head slightly. "It's an honor to be part of this endeavor."

---

A few weeks later, in the bustling workshop of the newly established printing press, rows of freshly cast type glinted under the soft glow of candlelight. The air buzzed with anticipation as the team assembled the first page. Monks in simple robes moved carefully among the equipment, their practiced hands arranging the type with reverence.

Michael noticed Theophilus Dragas watching the monks, his gaze settling on a young monk fumbling with a piece of type.

"Mind your placement, Brother Manuel," Theophilus advised gently. "If the letters aren't aligned, the words won't read true."

The monk flushed slightly. "Apologies, Master Dragas. I'll be more careful."

Michael observed the exchange across the room, appreciating Theophilus's patience and attention to detail. Stepping forward, he addressed the gathered team. "We stand on the brink of a new era," he said, his voice carrying quiet fervor. "Each of you plays a vital role in bringing knowledge to those who seek it. Let's proceed with care and dedication."

He carefully applied ink to the type and positioned the paper. Taking a deep breath, he operated the press. The wooden frame groaned softly as the screw turned, pressing the paper onto the inked type. A hush fell over the room. As he lifted the platen and gently peeled back the paper, a flawless page of text revealed itself, the ink glistening as it caught the light.

For a moment, silence reigned. Then, a wave of exhilaration swept through the room.

"By God's grace, we've done it!" one of the monks exclaimed, breaking the silence.

Cheers erupted around him. Michael felt his heart race as the printing press produced its first flawless page. The monks gathered closely, staring in awe at the inked text, the letters crisp and perfect.

He gently picked up the page, his fingers trembling slightly as he held the smooth, crisp parchment. His eyes reflected the flickering candlelight, but his thoughts drifted far from the workshop in Morea. This is just the beginning, he thought, feeling the weight of history in his hands.

For a brief moment, the noise of the bustling workshop faded. He was no longer Despot Constantine Palaiologos in 1429, but Michael Jameston, a university student once again. He could almost see the cluttered table in the basement of his dormitory—the scattered notes, blueprints, and half-finished circuits for his DIY project with his engineering classmates.

He remembered it was supposed to be a simple challenge—a homemade printing press for a student fair. It was just something to showcase the mechanics of movable type—nothing groundbreaking, but they wanted to see how it worked, how ink met paper in precise alignment to spread knowledge like wildfire.

He could still picture the grease-stained hands of his friend Greg, always wearing an old band T-shirt and tinkering with anything mechanical. "You handle the design, Mike. I'll handle the build," Greg had said, hunched over, adjusting the screws and levers of the prototype they'd cobbled together from scrap metal and a few scavenged parts from the university workshop.

In those days, the project had been a fun experiment, a challenge meant to impress professors at the student fair. It was nothing compared to creating the first functional printing press in Morea, a world that didn't even know the name Gutenberg yet.

Gutenberg... Michael let the name echo in his mind. He had studied the man who would soon be credited with revolutionizing Europe by perfecting the printing press. He had admired Gutenberg's role in bringing mass communication to the world and the enormous cultural shift that followed. Michael had read so many books about how Gutenberg's press had sparked the Reformation, how it had made knowledge accessible, and how it had changed Europe forever.

And here he was now, standing at the edge of that exact moment in history—not as a student, not as a casual hobbyist—but as a despot of the Byzantine Empire, bringing this monumental invention to life before it was meant to exist.

What would Greg say if he saw me now? Michael wondered. Not just fooling around in a basement for fun, but actually crafting the first press. I'm not in the shadow of history—I'm rewriting it. Gutenberg isn't even on the horizon yet, and here I am, making this happen, not in Mainz, but in Morea.

He swallowed hard, feeling the weight of his role in this historical turning point. Every letter, every word, was about to change the world, just as it did when the first printed texts flooded Europe. But now, it was happening here—earlier than it should, in this small corner of Byzantium, where a man who shouldn't even be here was trying to change the course of history.

Michael stared down at the flawlessly printed page in his hands. The ink was drying evenly, the letters sharp against the parchment. A year ago, he was just a middle-aged guy in New York, playing with silkscreen printing for fun. And now, he'd just held the first page from the first printing press in the world. If only Yaya could see me now. She always told me Byzantium's destiny wasn't over.

He took a deep breath, his chest tightening with a mix of excitement and anxiety. This is no longer a student project. This is real. This is power. Every word printed will travel far beyond these walls, into the hands of monks, scholars, and traders. And who knows what will come next? Will it bring peace between the churches? Or will it cause chaos?

He glanced up at the gathered monks and artisans, who were still staring at the press in reverent silence, their eyes wide with wonder.

"This is just the beginning," Michael said, his voice steady but filled with emotion. But deep down, he knew it wasn't just about the press or the words on the page. This was about what came next—the shift in power, the transformation of a society, the choices that could lead Byzantium into a future it had never known.

With that thought, Michael allowed himself one more glance at the flawless page, a faint smile tugging at his lips. He wasn't just living history anymore. He was creating it.

---

The establishment of the first printing press in Morea in 1429 was a monumental achievement. The "Morea Publishing Company" became the world's first publishing house. Under Michael's patronage, a diverse team had come together: nine skilled metalworkers from Constantinople—including two goldsmiths and three silversmiths—four scholarly monks, and a master carpenter. Theophilus Dragas, known for his meticulous attention to detail, was the perfect choice to oversee the operation. His familial ties had earned him Michael's trust, but it was his unwavering dedication that solidified his place in the endeavor.

Before the presses were even built, Theophilus traveled through the monasteries of the Morea, seeking monks who were not only skilled in scripture but also aligned with a vision of change. His mission led him to the Monastery of St. Nicholas, a place known for its quiet endorsement of the controversial idea of church unification—a potential bridge between the Orthodox and Catholic faiths.

As he entered the stone courtyard, the faint echoes of chanting reverberated through the hallways. The abbot, a lean figure with thoughtful eyes, greeted him with a slight bow.

"Brother Dragas," the abbot said warmly. "It's an honor to receive you. I assume this visit is related to the emperor's ongoing efforts?"

Theophilus returned the bow. "It is, Father. I'm overseeing a project under the patronage of Despot Constantine, one that could further the cause of unity between the Eastern and Western churches. We aim to produce a Latin Bible—in multiple copies—so it can aid in the ongoing talks. However, I need men who not only possess the skill to handle the written word but also share the vision of bringing the Orthodox and Catholic churches closer together."

The abbot's brow furrowed in thought. "A Latin Bible, you say? A bold move, Brother Dragas. Our monastery has long supported the emperor's efforts to unite the faiths, but not all agree. However, this could be a powerful symbol, especially for those in the West who question our willingness to meet them halfway."

Leaning in slightly, Theophilus lowered his voice. "We're constructing a printing press—a device that will allow us to replicate texts faster than ever imagined. Imagine producing dozens of copies of the Holy Scriptures—perfect in every detail—in just a few weeks. But we must act quietly for now, as there are those who would see this innovation as a threat."

The abbot crossed himself thoughtfully. "It is a dangerous path you tread, but a necessary one. You're right—there are many who would resist such changes. But if this project supports the emperor's efforts to unify the faiths, we will assist. You seek men who can work discreetly yet with great skill?"

Theophilus smiled faintly. "Exactly, Father. I need craftsmen of the written word but also believers in a greater cause. Men who understand that we will help bridge the gap between East and West by producing this Latin Bible. Such an endeavor could strengthen the emperor's position in negotiations with the papacy."

The abbot beckoned Theophilus to follow him into the dimly lit scriptorium, where monks sat hunched over their desks, meticulously copying sacred texts by hand. "I'll introduce you to the ones I trust. Brother Manuel has transcribed the Gospels countless times, and his work has been praised even by those in the higher clergy. His precision is unmatched."

Theophilus observed as Brother Manuel carefully inked the pages in front of him, his movements steady and deliberate. "He will be an asset," Theophilus said, nodding. "And the others?"

The abbot led him to two younger monks, their focus unwavering as they worked. "Brothers Andronikos and Dionysios. They are loyal to the cause of unification and understand the importance of this task. Their devotion to the faith is absolute, and their work with scripture is exemplary."

Theophilus took a moment to observe them, then turned to the abbot. "They will serve this mission well."

The abbot paused, considering the weight of the task. "You understand that taking them from here is no small request, Brother Dragas. But I believe in the work you're doing. This Latin Bible could be a gesture that unites more than just the church."

Theophilus nodded solemnly. "I assure you, Father, that their work will not only serve the faith but may also help bring us closer to the long-desired union."Like Award Reply159sersorOct 12, 2024NewAdd bookmarkView discussionThreadmarks Chapter 12: Wheels in Motion New View contentsersorOct 14, 2024Add bookmark#73Clermont, May 1429

In the newly established arsenal near Clermont Castle, George Sphrantzes gathered a small, handpicked group of trusted artisans and blacksmiths. The air was thick with the scent of burning charcoal, and the soft glow of molten metal flickered off the stone walls. These men had been carefully chosen for their skills, discretion, and, most importantly, their loyalty to the Despot.

Many of the artisans had come from Constantinople, fleeing the constant Ottoman's threat, and had been personally recruited by George for this secretive project. Elias, the renowned bellmaker, had worked on some of the finest church bells in the empire before the siege forced him southward. Others, like Markos, had been recruited from the local workshops in the Glarentza—men with reputations for precision in metalwork and the forging of ceremonial pieces. They all knew what was at stake: the creation of weapons that could decide the fate of the empire.

But with such a critical task came the burden of secrecy. George glanced around the forge, his sharp gaze falling on each man. He was not a man to take chances. Unbeknownst to the artisans, George had placed several loyal servants—spies, in truth—among the workers. These men, though they appeared to be ordinary servants carrying out routine tasks, were tasked with watching the artisans closely, tracking their movements, noting who they met and what they spoke of outside the arsenal.

George had been clear: anyone caught leaking information would face swift and certain death.

"The work we do here," George began, his voice low and firm, "is vital to our survival. The Despot himself has entrusted us with this responsibility, and with that trust comes a price." He paused, letting the weight of his words settle over the group. "None of you will speak of what happens here. Not to your families, not to your fellow tradesmen. What we build here must remain hidden until the time is right."

He took a step forward, his eyes narrowing. "Understand this—any man who betrays our work, who dares speak even a word to those outside these walls, will meet his end swiftly. There are eyes on each of you, and there will be no second chances."

The room fell silent. The artisans exchanged uneasy glances, but none spoke. Each man knew that George's threat was no idle one. Whispers of betrayal had been silenced before, quietly, and word had spread of how little patience George had for disloyalty.

Nikolaos, standing by the anvil, finally broke the silence. He ran a hand over the rough surface of a bronze barrel, frowning. "This bronze," he murmured, "it is too brittle. It cannot withstand the pressure required for a hand weapon. It may serve well enough for cannons, but for the smaller hand ones—this will not do."

---

By the end of June, the arsenal and the "Morea" Publishing Company, along with a new cotton fabric workshop and a couple of watermill-powered paper mills, were bustling with activity. Over four hundred people were employed across these enterprises, all under Michael's diligent oversight. To manage these complex operations, he established a bureaucracy and logistics department staffed by twenty capable individuals, mostly learned monks.

Economic strains, though, were inevitable with such rapid expansion. One afternoon, Michael sat hunched over a ledger, the numbers blurring before his eyes. He contemplated seeking a loan from his brother Thomas or foreign traders. The thought weighed heavily on him.

Just then, a messenger arrived with a letter bearing a familiar seal. Michael's heart tightened as he read the news: his father-in-law, Carlo I Tocco, had passed away, succeeded by his nephew, Carlo II Tocco.

He set the letter down slowly, the implications swirling in his mind. The loss was personal, but it also carried political weight.

"Are you alright, my Despot?" A servant asked softly, noticing the pallor of Michael's face.

Michael forced a nod. "Yes, just... need a moment"

He rose and made his way to the balcony overlooking the village. The streets below seemed distant as he contemplated how to break the news to Theodora and what this change might mean for their alliances.

---

Late July brought a turn of fortune. Michael's efforts began to bear fruit. Cotton fabrics were successfully exported to the Republic of Ragusa, fetching higher prices than anticipated. At the same time, the paper produced by the mills—exceptional for the era—caught the eye of a Venetian trader named Lorenzo, who was visiting Glarentza. He was so impressed by their quality that he even placed an additional order for the following year. The revenue from these deals and a loan from a Genoese trader helped sustain the enterprises in the following months.

---

By September's end, the first copies of the Latin Bible emerged from the presses of "Morea" Publishing. The achievement was met with widespread acclaim—it was a genuinely historic moment.

Michael hosted a grand gathering in the hall of his castle to celebrate and promote this milestone, inviting traders from Venice and Genoa. The room was adorned with tapestries and lit by chandeliers, creating an atmosphere of both warmth and grandeur. Servants moved gracefully among the guests, offering fine wine and delicacies.

As the traders examined the Bibles laid out on display tables, their fingers traced the crisp, uniform pages. The books were bound in quality leather and embossed with intricate designs.

As Alessandro flipped through the pages, Michael noticed his eyes widen in surprise. 'Every page is identical in perfection,' Alessandro remarked.

Michael approached with a welcoming smile. "We have developed a new method—printing," he explained. "It allows us to produce books with unprecedented consistency and efficiency."

Michael noticed Alessandro's eyes narrow as he flipped through the Bible. Nearby, a Genoese trader, Marco, joined them, cradling a Bible in his hands. 'The size of these volumes is remarkable,' Marco said, running his fingers over the cover."

Michael nodded. "A smaller, more affordable Bible means that more people can own one."

Marco looked up from the Bible, his brow furrowed slightly. 'You are not only a man of vision but of commerce, Despot Constantine. I would be interested in securing several copies for my patrons if the price is right.'

Within a month, all sixty copies were sold at thirty gold ducats each, providing a much-needed influx of funds. The traders departed, marveling at the compact format of the books—so different from the oversized, handcrafted volumes they were accustomed to. Word of the revolutionary printing method began to spread across the Mediterranean, hinting at the profound impact that was yet to come.

---

Meanwhile, the arsenal focused on producing prototypes of muskets and cannons. It quickly became apparent that crafting a functional musket was far more challenging than anticipated. The intricate mechanisms required precision engineering and materials that strained their capabilities.

In the foundry, George Sphrantzes stood with Elias and the blacksmith, Nikolaos, examining a prototype musket laid out on a workbench cluttered with tools and metal shavings.

Elias shook his head as he gestured toward the musket. "The touch hole is misaligned, and the barrel won't withstand the pressure of the powder," he said, his voice strained. "These weapons could endanger us more than the enemy if we cannot ensure safety."

Nikolaos added, "Even if we solve these issues, the time and resources required to produce each hand weapon are prohibitive. We would need an army of artisans and blacksmiths.

George rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "Perhaps our efforts are better spent elsewhere. What progress have we made with the cannons?"

Elias face brightened slightly. "The bronze casting techniques we adapted for the cannons yield better results. The latest cannon mold is ready for testing."

George nodded. "Very well. Let us proceed with caution. We cannot afford more losses.

After a couple of failed attempts—tragically resulting in the deaths of two workers during testing—the first bronze cannon, named Drakos, was successfully cast and tested. The memory of the accidents weighed heavily on them, a stark reminder of the dangers inherent in their work.

On the day of the test, Michael joined George and the artillery crew on a field outside Clermont. The cannon stood proudly on its custom two-wheeled cart, its bronze surface gleaming in the sunlight. A crew of three stood ready.

George approached Michael, his expression somber. "We have taken every precaution, my Despot. The cannon has been tested thoroughly."

Michael nodded. "Let us proceed."

The crew loaded the nine-pounder with powder and shot, tamping it down carefully. They ignited the fuse, and everyone stepped back, holding their breath.

A thunderous boom echoed across the field as Drakos roared to life. The cannonball soared through the air, striking the target with a resounding impact.

Cheers erupted from the assembled workers. Michael felt a surge of triumph mixed with solemn respect for the power they had unleashed.

Michael saw George turn to him, a rare smile crossing his usually somber face. It had been hard-won, the result of sleepless nights, failures, and the loss of lives.

''A formidable weapon,'' George said.

"Indeed," Michael agreed. "It may very well tip the scales in battles to come."

George nodded gravely. "We shall continue to refine the design, ensuring reliability and safety."

Michael placed a hand on George's shoulder. "See to it that our men are well-trained in its use."

---

The influx of economic activity over the last year did not go unnoticed by the common folk. People slowly began to arrive in Glarentza and Andravida from the surrounding regions, drawn by the promise of steady work and the hope of a better life. The once-quiet streets now saw a constant flow of carts and foot traffic as merchants, laborers, and craftsmen mingled, sharing news and bartering goods.

Even from the prosperous city of Patras, families made their way South, resettling on the outskirts of Glarentza. Over a hundred households now dotted the landscape where fields had once stood empty. Simple homes and modest workshops began to appear, the sounds of construction blending with the distant hum of the town's growing workshops. Farmers found new buyers for their produce as the demand for grain, wool, and timber increased with each passing week.

The streets, though still modest compared to great cities like Constantinople, buzzed with a quiet energy. New workshops and small markets began to emerge, catering to the needs of the expanding population. Children ran through the narrow alleyways, and the scent of fresh bread and roasted meat wafted from makeshift stalls.

It wasn't a transformation yet, but the unmistakable feeling of growth existed. The weight of uncertainty that had long hung over Glarentza and the whole of Elis region, seemed to lift just a little. Where once there had been despair, now there was work to be done, and for many, that was enough.

From the balcony of his castle, Michael watched the activity below with a sense of guarded satisfaction. The foundations were laid, but the road ahead remained uncertain. Still, for the first time in a long while, there was a glimmer of something more—a future that might hold promise if only they could keep pushing forward.Like Award Reply175sersorOct 14, 2024NewAdd bookmarkView discussionThreadmarks Chapter 13: The Weight of Loss New View contentsersorOct 16, 2024Add bookmark#104The castle was suffocatingly silent.

In the early morning's dim, cold light, Michael paced the stone corridor outside Theodora's chamber. His footsteps echoed against the ancient walls, each creak of the wooden floorboards a stark reminder of the oppressive stillness. The chill seeped through his clothes, settling into his bones, and he pulled his cloak tighter around himself. He was far from the comforts of his 21st-century life—a life that now felt like a distant dream. Here, death lurked like a shadow in every corner.

He paused at the heavy oak door, pressing his ear against the rough wood. Muffled whispers, a stifled cry, the clatter of metal against metal—each sound tightened the knot in his stomach. Hours earlier, the midwife had barred him from entering, her eyes reflecting a mixture of respect and unwavering firmness

Now, he waited, helpless.

The silence was unbearable. He clenched his fists, nails digging into his palms until the pain grounded him. His hands—rough and calloused, a warrior's hands—trembled slightly. The absurdity of his situation gnawed at him. How had it come to this? A man armed with centuries of advanced knowledge, rendered powerless by the brutal realities of medieval life. They lacked even the most basic medical understanding that could save lives. He knew about antiseptics, germ theory, and procedures that could prevent complications. He had ordered the midwives and attendants to sterilize their hands, boil water, and cleanse the linens and instruments—simple measures that could be implemented even in this time. They had complied, albeit with puzzled expressions and whispered doubts about his peculiar directives. Yet, he was forced to stand idle as Theodora was taken away, her face pale, eyes wide with fear. Despite his efforts, he couldn't shake the foreboding that settled in his gut.

A faint creak jolted him from his thoughts. He turned sharply as the door inched open. One of the midwives stepped out, her face drawn and ashen, eyes red-rimmed from tears. The corridor seemed to close in around him, the silence heavy and foreboding.

"Despot..." she whispered, her voice barely audible. "Theodora has passed, and... the child did not survive."

The corridor tilted, and Michael felt as if the ground had vanished beneath him for a moment. He stared at her, uncomprehending.

"No," he said, shaking his head slowly. "No, that can't be."

"I'm so sorry," she whispered.

The midwife's gaze fell to the floor, a solitary tear tracing down her cheek. "It was God's will, my despot. She is at peace now."

"God's will." The phrase ignited a firestorm of anger and despair within him. A bitter taste filled his mouth as he struggled to contain the surge of emotion. How could they accept this so passively? With all his knowledge and precautions, he could not prevent this tragedy. Theodora was dead. Their child was dead. And he was expected to accept it as a divine decree?

He pushed past the midwife, the weight of grief propelling him into the chamber—the scent of beeswax candles and lingering traces of herbal remedies hung in the air. The room was dimly lit, shadows dancing along the stone walls.

His gaze fell upon Theodora. She lay upon the bed, her face serene, almost as if she were merely sleeping. Dark strands of hair framed her delicate features, spilling over the pillow like a raven's wing. Her hands were clasped gently over her chest, fingers entwined. Beside her, swathed in linen, was the still form of their daughter.

Michael's gaze fell on the small, swaddled form beside Theodora. Their daughter. A life that had never truly begun.

The child had represented more than just hope for him—it had been a symbol of their future, the bridge between his modern knowledge and this medieval world. With Theodora, he had allowed himself to imagine a future for their family, where their child would grow up in a world he had helped transform, a world where such tragedies were not inevitable. He had seen a future where their daughter might never know the hardships of this time—the suffering, the early deaths, the fear of illness and war.

But now, that future had been stolen from him. From them both.

He reached out and gently touched the linen-wrapped child. So small. So fragile. How had he been so powerless to save them? He had thought he could change everything. But he couldn't save the two lives that mattered most.

A soft sob escaped him as he approached. The world blurred, his vision clouded by tears he hadn't realized were forming. He reached out, his fingers brushing against Theodora's. Her skin was cold, the warmth of life extinguished.

As Michael knelt beside Theodora's still form, memories surged, sharp and relentless. It wasn't just her death that haunted him—it was the quiet moments, the ones that had drawn them closer over the last year.

In the beginning, their marriage had been necessary, a union born out of political alliance rather than love, even as Michael and not Constantine. But over time, things had changed. In the last year, they had bonded in ways he hadn't anticipated. With her sharp wit and fierce loyalty, Theodora had become his confidante, his partner. She had understood him in ways few others could, and her support was constant in the chaos surrounding them.

He thought of the nights they would sit together in the gardens long after the rest of the castle had fallen silent. She had always been curious about him, questioning the oddness in his ideas, the way he spoke of the future as if it were something tangible, already written.

There were moments—brief, fleeting—when he had thought about telling her the truth. About the 21st century, about who he really was, and how he had come to be here. He had wondered, countless times, if she would believe him, if she could understand the weight of the knowledge he carried. But he had held back every time, fearing how it might change things. Would she still have loved him if she knew?

Now, that chance was gone forever. He had kept his secret, and she had died, never knowing the man she had truly loved. The thought gnawed at him, twisting the knife of grief even deeper.

"I'm so sorry," he whispered, his voice breaking. Memories flooded his mind—the way she laughed, the warmth of her smile, the hope they had shared for their future—moments that now felt like lifetimes ago.

A faint rustle sounded behind him. He turned to see a priest standing solemnly at the doorway, clad in dark robes, a silver cross gleaming against his chest. His eyes held a sorrowful understanding.

"She is with God now, Despot," the priest said softly, stepping into the room. "Her suffering has ended. She has found eternal peace."

Michael's jaw tightened. The urge to shout, to scream at the injustice, welled up within him. Peace? What peace was there in a world that stole away the innocent? But he knew his words would fall on deaf ears. In this time, faith was an unassailable fortress against reason.

"Yes," he managed to utter, his voice hollow. "God's will."

The priest approached, placing a gentle hand on Michael's shoulder. "We must find solace in His plan. Through our trials, we are brought closer to the divine."

Michael nodded mechanically, the priest's words washing over him without meaning. His gaze drifted back to Theodora. I failed you.

After offering a quiet prayer, the priest withdrew, leaving Michael alone with his grief. The door closed with a soft click, the finality of the sound echoing in the silent chamber.

He sank to his knees beside the bed, the cold stone floor biting through his clothes. The weight of his isolation pressed down upon him. He was still a stranger in this world, burdened with knowledge that set him apart yet rendered him powerless in the face of such loss.

He thought of his grandmother's stories—the legends of Byzantium, the fall of empires, the myths of the Marmaromenos Vasilias, the Marble Emperor destined to awaken and restore glory. He had cherished those tales, the way they bridged his modern life with the echoes of the past. But now, they felt like cruel mockeries.

A memory surfaced—Theodora laughing in the garden, the sunlight catching in her hair as she playfully scolded him for his clumsy attempts at handling a medieval sword. "You may have the mind of a scholar, but you wield a blade like a farmer swatting flies," she had teased. Her eyes had sparkled with mirth, a shared moment of joy amidst the uncertainty of their lives.

The recollection tore at him. He clenched his fists, nails biting into his palms. Why couldn't I save you? He had been so focused on grand plans—introducing printing presses, revolutionizing warfare, and altering history. He even tried implementing simple medical practices to safeguard those he cared about. But despite his efforts, he had overlooked the fragility of life in this era. Theodora had been his anchor, his connection to this time, and now she was gone.

He stood slowly, the numbness giving way to a cold resolve. Moving to the window, he pushed open the shutters. The crisp morning air rushed in, carrying the scents of dew-laden grass and distant woodsmoke. The horizon was tinged with dawn's first shades, pink and gold strokes piercing the darkness.

A sob escaped him. "I should have told you," he whispered. "I should have told you everything."

Wiping his eyes, he moved back to the bed. Resolve hardened within him. If he couldn't save them, he would honor them by changing this world—by dragging it into a future where such tragedies were preventable.

He leaned over, and kissed Theodora's forehead. "I promise you," he said softly, "I will make a difference."

As he left the chamber, the first light of dawn broke over the horizon. The castle was beginning to stir, unaware of the storm brewing within him.Like Award Reply161sersorOct 16, 2024NewAdd bookmarkView discussionThreadmarks News/Events Around the Area, 1429 AD New View contentsersorOct 17, 2024Add bookmark#114Siege of Thessalonica:

In early March 1429, an Ottoman fleet appeared before Thessalonica, capturing two Venetian vessels. Venice, already spending fifty thousand ducats per year on this seemingly futile conflict, was hesitant to commit more resources to the city, which lay dangerously close to Ottoman power. At the same time, Venice was also engaged in a conflict with the Duchy of Milan over control of northern Italy, making it reluctant to declare war on the Ottomans. However, the situation escalated as the Ottoman naval threat grew, with Genoese support from Chios and Lesbos. On March 29, 1429, the Great Council officially declared war against the Sultan, ordering more ships to join their fleet.

By June, Venice struggled to find leadership willing to take on the dangerous role of defending Thessalonica. On July 1, Mocenigo launched an attack on Ottoman ships at Gallipoli, but despite his bravery, his fleet suffered heavy casualties due to a lack of support from the other Venetian vessels. Venice remained reluctant to fully engage in the conflict, and efforts to form alliances with regional powers, including Ibrahim II of Karaman and Shah Rukh, Timur's son, were pursued. However, by the end of 1429, Shah Rukh had withdrawn to Azerbaijan, and the Ottomans remained a pressing threat.

Epirus:

In July 1429, Carlo II succeeded his uncle Carlo I in all his titles, but his succession was contested by Carlo I's illegitimate sons, led by Memnone, creating further political unrest in the region.

Author's Note:

The update above is not part of the story itself but rather a report on the broader world and events happening during the same time period for those interested in the historical context. It provides some insight into the geopolitical landscape and challenges that surround our main storyline. Enjoy!Like Award Reply

Theodore II Palaiologos sat in the dimly lit chamber of his palace in Mystras, the late afternoon sun casting long shadows across the stone floor. His hands rested on the arms of the intricately carved chair, his fingers tapping rhythmically as he stared at the missive before him. The wax seal had already been broken, but the contents gnawed at him still. He had read it several times, but each reading only deepened the knot of resentment in his chest.

It had been just a few weeks since word arrived of the death of his brother Constantine's wife, Theodora. Theodore had felt a fleeting pang of sympathy for his younger brother—such loss was inevitable in these times, though the sting never dulled. But this was not what weighed on him now.

No, what truly unsettled him was the news that followed.

A monk from Glarentza had passed through Mystras, bearing disturbing reports—rumors that Constantine had been seen commissioning Latin Bibles, of all things. Theodore's brow furrowed as the words of the letter burned in his mind: Catholic Bibles, printed with some unnatural device—an orange machine that sounded like some abomination from a foreign land. The idea was almost too absurd to contemplate, but if there was even a shred of truth to it…

His thoughts were interrupted by the arrival of Alexios, one of his most trusted advisors. The aging man entered quietly, bowing deeply before approaching Theodore with the air of one who bore troubling news.

"My lord," Alexios began, his tone calm but deliberate, "new intelligence has reached us from Glarentza. It confirms what we feared."

Theodore leaned forward, his fingers tightening around the armrest as though gripping a relic. "Speak plainly, Alexios."

Alexios inclined his head. "Despot Constantine is indeed distributing Latin scriptures. Not merely acquiring them—but producing them. And not by hand. He's using a mechanical press of foreign design—some say Venetian—capable of reproducing entire pages in moments."

Theodore's fingers paused mid-drum. "A machine to print the Word of God? As though it were a merchant's ledger?"

"Precisely, my lord. The monks describe it as resembling a wine press, though its function is far more insidious. It replicates sacred text with a speed and volume that strips away reverence. It commodifies scripture."

Theodore's gaze drifted momentarily to the window, where the fading sunlight cast long shadows across the city. He could almost hear the distant clamor of Glarentza's bustling workshops, the rhythmic thud of machinery disrupting the sacred silence.

Alexios continued, "This machine allows him to produce books in quantities unheard of, bypassing the painstaking work of scribes."

A chill settled over Theodore.. He had already suspected that Constantine was meddling in dangerous affairs, but this went beyond mere rumor. "And the Church?" he asked, his voice a quiet growl. "What of the Church?"

"The monks who witnessed these things have spoken of blasphemy, my lord," Alexios continued, his tone growing darker. "To produce the holy scriptures in Latin, and in such a manner… it undermines our faith, our traditions. This is nothing short of an affront to the Orthodox Church."

Theodore rose from his seat, the aged wooden floor creaking beneath his boots as he paced the length of the chamber. His rich, burgundy robes whispered against the cold stone, echoing the turmoil within. The scent of melting wax and aged parchment filled the air, mingling with the faint aroma of incense lingering from the morning prayers.

Blasphemy. The word pulsated in his mind, each syllable hammering like a drumbeat. The flickering flames of the wall-mounted torches cast dancing shadows, their light playing across tapestries depicting the glorious battles of their ancestors—a stark contrast to the insidious threats he now faced.

Ever since Constantine had embarked on his ventures in Glarentza— entangling himself with smooth-talking foreign traders—Theodore's unease had grown like a dark cloud. But this... producing Catholic Bibles? It was not just a line crossed; it was a dagger thrust into the heart of their traditions.

He paused by a narrow window, the cool evening breeze brushing his face. Below, the city of Mystras sprawled under the twilight, its terracotta roofs glowing softly. The distant bells of a monastery tolled, their melancholic tones weaving through the silence. Yet, even this serene vista offered no comfort.

That crossed a line.

"You understand my position on the union of churches, Alexios," Theodore said sharply, pausing mid-stride, his voice edged with fervent disdain. "I would rather die than see our Orthodox faith polluted by Rome's heresy. Our ancestors bled for the purity of our traditions; to compromise now would be an insult not only to their memory but to God Himself."

"Of course, my lord," Alexios responded carefully, his expression carefully neutral yet watchful. "However, the situation runs deeper than mere theology. Constantine's Latin Bibles serve a purpose beyond faith—they are diplomatic currency. He is already using them to cultivate alliances among Venetian and Genoese merchants, expanding his influence at their courts. Even Rome has begun to take notice; they whisper openly that your brother may yet become their champion of unity."

Theodore froze, his fists clenched as though grasping an invisible weapon. "Naturally," he hissed bitterly. "Constantine has always played the opportunist, pandering shamelessly to John's ambitions, no matter the spiritual cost."

The mention of John VIII, their elder brother, struck Theodore like a blow to the chest. Memories of his mother, Helena Dragas, flooded his mind—her proud gaze whenever John entered the room, the way her eyes lit up at Constantine's every word. She had always looked upon them as the heirs of greatness, the sons who would shape the future of the empire. And Theodore? He was the shadow that trailed behind them, the dutiful governor expected to support but never to lead.

He recalled a winter evening years ago, standing in the cold corridors of the palace while his mother and brothers warmed themselves by the grand hearth. He had approached them, eager to share news of a successful negotiation with a local governor. But Helena had barely acknowledged him, her attention fixed on John's tales of imperial court intrigues. The sting of that dismissal had never left him.

A knot tightened in his throat. Despite all his efforts, all his sacrifices for the realm, he remained unseen in his mother's eyes—a mere steward of the periphery, not a son of destiny.

But this? This was more than a simple rivalry. If Constantine was positioning himself as a champion of the unification of the churches, it would not only win him favor with John but undermine Theodore's own standing.

"Your Grace," Alexios interjected gently, his voice smooth and careful, interrupting Theodore's silent contemplation. "There is another complication that may interest you—your brother's financial entanglements."

"Financial entanglements?" Theodore's eyebrow rose, disdain tempered by wary intrigue.

Alexios inclined his head slightly. "Indeed. Constantine has quietly accumulated substantial debts, primarily to Genoese financiers. He has wagered immense sums on these ventures of his—workshops, sprawling paper mills, and this provocative publishing scheme. Reliable sources indicate his commitments now dangerously outweigh his assets, leaving him vulnerable."

Theodore absorbed the revelation in silence, before a grim, humorless smile formed on his lips. "Ah, Constantine," he said coldly, shaking his head. "Ever chasing grandeur, he now finds himself chained by his pride and greed. He thinks himself a modern Solomon, yet ignores the scripture's warning that pride precedes destruction."

Theodore crossed slowly toward the hearth, though even the warmth of the fire could not dispel the chill gnawing at his spirit. Flames flickered golden on his hardened features as memories stirred, bitter and sharp. "I remember clearly," he murmured, voice heavy with old resentments, "Constantine's grand promises as a boy—conquests, triumphs, a world remade. Mother's eyes would light as though hearing a prophet, and yet she tasked me always with humbler pursuits: duty, law, the faithful stewardship of tradition and Church."

He turned to face Alexios, his eyes reflecting a blend of bitterness and resolve. "Perhaps it is fitting that his lofty dreams now tether him to the very traders who would see our empire carved up for their gain.

"Indeed," Alexios said. "And yet, despite this, he continues to expand his influence. There are whispers that Constantine is using the Catholic Bibles not just to appease foreign traders, but to gain political leverage with our brother. He seeks to use these works to secure John's approval, to present himself as an ally of the Church and a man of modernity, one who is willing to embrace change."

"Modernity," Theodore muttered, the word laced with disdain. "All this talk of innovation, of progress. My brother is a fool. He thinks he can straddle both worlds—the world of Orthodoxy and the world of heresy—and in doing so, he will bring ruin upon us all."

Alexios hesitated before speaking again. "Constantine's actions seem not merely a matter of innovation, my lord. He is positioning himself to weaken your influence. The monks in Glarentza say that he is slowly gaining the support of John, presenting himself as a visionary, while you… well, your opposition to the unification may soon paint you as the one standing in the way of progress."

Theodore turned, his eyes flashing with anger. "Do you take me for a fool, Alexios? I see it all clearly now. This is not just about books or Bibles. This is about power. Constantine is trying to make me irrelevant in the eyes of the Emperor. He knows where our mother's favor lies. He knows how John looks to him for advice. He seeks to paint me as the backward brother, the one clinging to the past."

He stepped toward the window, his gaze hardening as he looked out over the hills of Mystras. "But he will not succeed."

"Theodore—" Alexios began, but the Despot raised a hand, silencing him.

"Enough. I will not let Constantine, nor any other, undermine me. He may think his books and his devices will win the future, but he forgets one thing: the people, the Church, they are not as eager for change as he believes. There is power in tradition, in faith, and I will wield it to stop him."

Alexios bowed his head. "What shall we do, my lord?"

He turned to Alexios, a steely determination settling over his features. "Constantine may bask in Mother's favor," he said quietly, a hint of old wounds surfacing in his tone. "He may dazzle others with his schemes and his grasping at the new. But he forgets—or perhaps chooses to ignore—that true power is not rooted in fleeting innovations. It is forged in the bonds of influence, the steadfastness of loyalty, and the unyielding defense of all we hold sacred."

Theodore's gaze drifted upward to a faded tapestry depicting the triumphs of their forebears, warriors who had safeguarded their heritage with blood and sacrifice. "He seeks to remake the world in his image," he murmured. A shadow crossed his face, a mixture of sorrow and resolve. "But he underestimates the world—and me."

His eyes met Alexios's, filled with a cold fire. "If he insists on walking this perilous path, then he must be prepared to face the consequences. I have stood in the shadows long enough, watching as others gambled with our legacy. No more."Last edited: Apr 8, 2025Like Award Reply148sersorOct 18, 2024NewAdd bookmarkView discussionThreadmarks Chapter 15: The Weight of Survival New View contentsersorOct 21, 2024Add bookmark#135The stench was unbearable, clinging to the thick, damp air like a suffocating cloak. No amount of scented incense could chase it away, and the servants' diligent scrubbing only left the room reeking of wet stone, sweat, and lingering decay. Michael sat on the edge of the bed, hands limp on his knees, staring at the floor in silence.

His wife's passing had opened a hollow, aching void inside him. He could still see her pale face, fresh in his memory though she lay buried days ago. And then there was their stillborn child—gone before she ever drew breath. The twin tragedies gnawed at him like a disease, devouring whatever resolve he had left. He had wanted so badly to save them both, yet he had been powerless.

The sense of helplessness never truly lifted. Every piece of this new world—the filth, the discomfort, the gloom—pressed in on him, and he realized grimly how little he had adapted. Since Theodora's death, everything felt toxic. Everything smelled like rot.

A soft creak intruded on his thoughts. Michael glanced up, eyes dull with exhaustion, as the door inched open. Lukas, a young servant, stepped into the chamber, head bowed. The sight of the chamber pot cradled in his arms tightened the knot in Michael's stomach. He resented its necessity; resented the humiliation, the stench, all of it.

"Just…take it and go," Michael murmured, his voice rough. He lifted a hand to massage his temple. The gesture was reflexive, an attempt to stave off the grief pounding in his head.

Lukas moved briskly, heedless in his haste. A corner of the rug caught his foot, and he stumbled. The chamber pot slipped from his hands, crashing to the floor. Its contents spilled out, soaking into the crevices of the stone as the reek intensified—more pungent than before.

For an instant, Michael froze. His mind flashed with images of Theodora's final moments: her rasping breaths, the spark of life flickering in her eyes, and that heavy cloak of helplessness that had smothered him then—and smothered him now.

"Goddamn it!" he roared, lurching to his feet. A pulse hammered in his ears, a drumbeat of fresh anger and grief.

Lukas flinched, scrambling back. "M-my lord," he stuttered, face ashen. "I—I'm so sorry—"

"Shut up!" Michael lashed out, voice quavering with raw emotion. The stench and memory merged into a single, crushing wave, pressing against his chest. Lukas dropped to his knees, hands trembling as he tried to scoop up the mess with his bare fingers. The pitiful sight rattled Michael further, a mirror of his own powerlessness.

Before Michael could stop himself, he struck Lukas across the face. It was a desperate, unthinking act—born of anguish more than fury. The boy gasped and sprawled onto the floor, clutching his cheek.

A surge of guilt nearly drove Michael to his knees. He recognized the madness in his own actions. None of this was Lukas's fault. The stench, the anguish, Theodora's death, his child's loss—it was too much, flooding his mind until he could barely tell right from wrong.

Michael's hand sank to his side, fingers still curled from the blow. His voice came out in a thick whisper. "Get…get up."

Trembling, Lukas stood, eyes brimming with equal parts terror and shame. Michael had no words left, just a tempest of regret simmering behind every breath.

"Clean it up," he rasped, turning away so Lukas wouldn't see the tears gathering in his eyes. He forced his gaze out the window, onto the rolling hills of the Morea. Clouds swarmed overhead, pregnant with an oncoming storm. "Clean it and go."

He did not watch Lukas depart. The soft rustle of cloth, the scrape of pottery, and then the door shutting—each sound throbbed against his conscience. The stench lingered, clinging to his clothes, his hair, his very soul. But it was not the smell that haunted him most now.

It was knowing he was changing. The filth, the grief, the unrelenting harshness of this place—together, they were carving him into someone darker, someone crueler. And Michael felt it happening, powerless to stop it.

Clermont, February 1430

He stood by the window, staring across snow-dusted hills under a sky the color of ash. Winter had been a time of perpetual gray, the bitterness of the cold mirroring the chill in his soul. The memory of Theodora's death still clawed at him, a wound that refused to heal. The memories of his old life—New York, his sons, familiar comforts—slipped further away with every passing day.

His only refuge, now, was work. If he lost himself in the printing press, the arsenal, and the unending administrative tasks, he found moments of distraction from the gnawing sorrow. The first press, once a strange marvel, had become a lifeline. The new furnace and additional cannons—Drakos models, they called them—were testament to his relentless push for progress. But the heavier his responsibilities grew, the more he felt the weight of a crown he'd never wanted in the first place.

A knock at the door—soft yet certain—broke through his reverie.

"Enter," he called, voice still hoarse from grief and a poor night's sleep.

George Sphrantzes slipped into the room. His steady presence had long been a comfort to Michael, though they seldom spoke of personal matters. "Despot," George said with a formal bow, "the council meets this morning. I thought I might find you here before we begin."

Michael nodded but didn't leave the window. "I'll be there," he murmured. He let the silence stretch as he studied the pattern of snow on the distant fields. Then, almost reluctantly, he turned to face his advisor.

George stepped closer, clasping his hands behind his back. "I know these past months have been…difficult. For all of us, but especially you."

Michael clenched his fists, feeling the tightness in his chest that always accompanied thoughts of Theodora. "It's not just her, George," he said quietly. "It's everything. I thought I could change things—make the empire stronger, more resilient. But every step forward feels like we're barely keeping our heads above water."

George rested a cautious hand on Michael's shoulder. "Some progress, though, is there. The arsenal is taking shape; your press is operational. Just this month, we finished building the bigger furnace. We have new cannons and—" He hesitated, aware that good news could still grate on raw grief. "And your people see what you're trying to do."

Michael almost laughed—bitterly. "Yes…my people," he repeated, though in truth, he still felt like an outsider in a borrowed life.

George cleared his throat and continued more cautiously, "We've also received troubling word from Ioannina. Carlo II has succeeded his uncle, but he's contending with his illegitimate cousins—Memnone and the rest—who appealed to Sultan Murad for help. They say an Ottoman force under Sinan is already on the move."

Michael's jaw tightened at the news. "And Theodora's death... "

Michael then stared at the flickering flames, the enormity of their situation weighing on him. "For now, we focus on what we can control. Secure the traders, sell what we must. We'll deal with the Ottomans when we have to, but right now, our survival depends on our trade."

Just then, a servant entered the room, carrying a small bundle of letters. "Despot, these arrived from Constantinople."

Michael took the letters, recognizing the familiar seals. The first was from his mother, Helena Dragas, now residing in a monastery in the capital. He broke the seal and unfolded the letter, her comforting words filling the room as he read.

"My son, I grieve with you for Theodora. No words can ease your pain, but know that I pray for her soul and for you. Grief is a burden we must all carry in this life, but in time, the weight will lessen. I am proud of all you have accomplished, and I know Theodora is watching over you from Heaven. Be strong, my son. The Empire needs you now more than ever. With love, your mother."

Michael's hands trembled slightly as he folded the letter back. Though Helena Dragas was not really his mother, her words carried a warmth and comfort that he hadn't realized he needed.

The next letter bore the imperial seal of his brother, Emperor John VIII. Michael opened it cautiously, unsure of what to expect.

"Brother, I am deeply saddened by the news of Theodora's passing. I know this loss weighs heavily upon you, and I share in your sorrow. I wanted to thank you personally for the Latin Bible you sent. It is a truly remarkable creation, and I believe it will aid in the unification of the churches, as we have long hoped. I plan to visit you in Glarentza when I can, to see this miraculous printing press you've built. You have my gratitude, and my support, always."

Michael set the letter down, mixed emotions swirling within him. His brother's words, while kind, were a reminder of the political weight that still rested on his shoulders. The unification of the churches—an ambitious plan, but one fraught with danger. Not everyone supported the idea, and he knew his efforts with the Latin Bible had stirred resentment among traditionalists like his brother Theodore.

"Good news?" George asked.

Michael sighed. "John is pleased with the Latin Bible. He thinks it will help with the unification. He's even talking about visiting Glarentza to see the press for himself."

George raised an eyebrow. "That could be...interesting."

"Yes," Michael muttered. "Interesting is one way to put it."

The Council Meeting

Later that morning, Michael sat at the head of the large table in the council chamber. The room was sparsely lit, the fire casting long shadows across the stone walls. A large blackboard stood against one wall, a new addition to the meetings—a simple yet effective tool for demonstrating the state of their logistics, their stockpiles, and their debts. White chalk lines crisscrossed the board, showing figures for resources, projections, and supply chains. It was a modern idea for a medieval world, but one that had quickly proven its worth.

Around the table sat George Sphrantzes, Theophilus Dragas, Petros—the newly appointed steward—and two senior officials. Their expressions reflected a mix of anticipation and concern as they prepared to address the pressing issues of the day.

Petros stepped forward, ledger in hand. He looked younger than his years—keen, a little anxious, and determined to make a good impression. "Despot," he began carefully, "the winter's been harsh. Much of the cotton crop was damaged, so we don't have enough raw material for all the new presses. With four in operation, our paper reserves are nearly empty."

Theophilus, grave as ever, added in a low voice, "And the Venetians still expect their paper shipment. We've used most of our stock printing Bibles. If we don't secure fresh cotton—or some alternate source of paper—production halts."

Michael's gaze traveled to the blackboard. He pictured the mountains of tasks overshadowing him, their weight pressing harder each day. He pinned Theophilus with a searching look. "How many Bibles do we have finished? And how many can we manage by spring?"

"Four hundred are completed. We could push to six hundred by spring, if we find enough paper," Theophilus replied. "If the Venetians and Genoese buy them, we'd bring in enough gold to ease our debts for months."

Petros rose from his seat and moved to the blackboard, quickly sketching out the figures. "Even if we price each Bible conservatively at twenty gold ducats, the revenue from the sale would more than cover our current debts. However," he paused, tapping the board with the chalk, "without addressing the paper shortage caused by the damaged cotton fields, this success will be short-lived."

Michael's gaze swept over the figures on the board, weighing their options. "Our immediate priority is clear. We need to sell the Bibles to clear our debts and ensure the treasury can support us through the coming months. But we cannot overlook the paper shortage. Securing more cotton is vital for sustaining production, or the presses will grind to a halt."

George's voice was thoughtful. "We have maybe a dozen new pieces, but the bronze is nearly gone, and our powder stock is dangerously low. Producing gunpowder locally hasn't been possible with the knowledge and materials we have."

Michael studied the blackboard's tally of figures one more time. "After we pay off pressing debts with Bible sales, we'll use the rest to buy more materials—cotton, bronze, sulfur, charcoal, saltpeter. Then we can keep both the presses and the foundry alive."

As the meeting drew to a close and the council members began to disperse, Michael lingered by the blackboard, his eyes tracing the lines and numbers. He felt a sense of focus returning—a determination to push through the difficulties. They had come this far, and now they had a plan to ensure their efforts weren't wasted.

Michael's thoughts drifted to the new steward, Petros. The young man had risen quickly through the ranks, thanks to his sharp mind and practical approach. Watching him work, Michael couldn't help but feel a pang of nostalgia. Petros reminded him of his own son—Jason—not in appearance, but in character. Both were driven by an unwavering dedication and a keen sense of responsibility, qualities that had always impressed Michael.Last edited: Apr 5, 2025Like Award Reply135sersorOct 21, 2024NewAdd bookmarkView discussionThreadmarks Chapter 16: Trade Winds New View contentsersorOct 23, 2024Add bookmark#146The first blush of dawn painted the horizon in hues of rose and gold as the sun began its ascent over Glarentza. The icy grasp of winter still lingered, its breath visible in the crisp morning air, but hints of warmth teased the senses, promising the renewal of spring. The scent of saltwater mingled with the earthy aroma of thawing soil, while the rhythmic creaking of ships at anchor filled the harbor with a melody of anticipation.

The port was a hive of activity. Sailors shouted orders as they prepared their vessels for departure, ropes strained against moorings, and the fluttering sails of ships bore the proud banners of Venice and Genoa. The Lion of Saint Mark and the Cross of Saint George danced upon the breeze, symbols of maritime prowess and mercantile ambition.

On the bustling docks, Venetian and Genoese traders moved with purposeful strides, their eyes alight with eagerness. Word had spread like wildfire across the Mediterranean: Glarentza was the source of a remarkable treasure—the Latin Bibles that had taken the markets of Venice and Genoa by storm. These books were not only religious texts but objects of unparalleled craftsmanship, their pages uniform and flawless, produced with a speed and consistency that bordered on the miraculous.

The port of Glarentza had not witnessed such activity in many decades—not since the prosperous days of the Principality of Achaea. The harbor, which had grown quiet over the years, now saw a steady increase in ships arriving from various parts of the Mediterranean. The docks were busier than they had been in a long time, with more vessels than usual vying for docking space.

Sailors carefully maneuvered their ships, occasionally waiting their turn to approach the piers. A few ships anchored just offshore, their crews ferrying goods and passengers to land in small boats. The harbor master oversaw the proceedings with a satisfied air, pleased to see the port again thriving.

"Looks like Glarentza is regaining its old glory," remarked a seasoned local sailor to his companion as they secured their vessel. "It's been decades since we've had this many ships in port."

"Aye," his friend agreed. "The word about these Bibles has certainly stirred interest."

The increased traffic brought a sense of renewed energy to the town. Dockworkers busily loaded and unloaded cargo, merchants haggled over prices, and the local taverns enjoyed brisk business. While not overwhelming, the influx signaled a positive shift in Glarentza's fortunes.

Amidst this revival, the Latin Bibles remained the prized commodity, drawing traders from Venice, Genoa, and beyond. The town had become a noteworthy destination in the world of commerce, its name once again appearing on the lips of merchants and sailors across the Mediterranean.

Among the throng, Lorenzo navigated the familiar pathways of Glarentza with a renewed sense of purpose. The success of his last venture had exceeded all expectations, and he was determined to capitalize on the burgeoning demand for the Bibles. The profits could elevate his status within the Venetian trading community, but more importantly, they had ignited his curiosity.

He felt a tap on his shoulder as he made his way through the bustling market. Turning, he saw Marco, a fellow Venetian trader, grinning broadly.

"Marco! I didn't expect to see you here so soon," Lorenzo exclaimed, warmly clasping his friend's hand.

"How could I stay away after hearing of your remarkable success?" Marco replied. "But there's something you must see. They've started selling the Bibles in a new place—a dedicated store they've built just for books."

"A store just for books?" Lorenzo repeated, surprised. "That's unprecedented."

"Indeed it is. They call it a 'bookstore,' and it's unlike anything I've encountered. It's near the port, not far from here."

Lorenzo's intrigue deepened. "Lead the way. I must see this for myself."

They navigated through the crowds, the sounds of haggling merchants and clinking coins providing a lively backdrop. As they left the port, a new edifice came into view—a structure that stood out amidst the traditional buildings of Glarentza.

The building was simple yet impressive, with clean lines and a prominent façade. Above the entrance, a large sign was boldly painted with the words "Morea publishing" in an elegant, stylized script unlike any Lorenzo had seen before. The lettering was captivating—a sweeping 'M' that seemed both simple and majestic. Below it, the words were inscribed in both Greek and Latin, further emphasizing its importance.

Two sentries stood at either side of the entrance, their stances alert but welcoming. Their presence added an air of exclusivity and security to the establishment.

"This is extraordinary," Lorenzo remarked, taking in the sight. "They've certainly invested in presentation."

"Wait until you see inside," Marco said, motioning toward the door.

As they stepped closer, Lorenzo noticed posters affixed to the exterior walls. The posters featured the same stylish 'M' logo and advertised special offers: "Latin Bibles—40 Gold Ducats Each. Bulk Orders—29 Ducats Each for 10 or More." Other notices announced upcoming releases, hinting at new works that would soon be available.

"They're using visual displays to promote their goods," Lorenzo observed. "A fascinating approach."

They entered the bookstore, a bell chiming softly above the door. Inside, the atmosphere was both hushed and bustling. The large space was well-lit, with sunlight streaming through high windows. Along one side, traders waited their turn in a designated area, seated on benches arranged neatly. At the front, a long counter served as a customer service desk, behind which several employees attended to clients.

Shelves lined the walls, though they held only a few books at the moment. Large posters adorned the spaces between the shelves—stylized illustrations featuring the Morea Publishing logo.The clerks—five young men—were all dressed in matching tunics of deep blue, an unusual uniformity that caught Lorenzo's eye. Each bore a small parchment tag affixed to their chest with their name elegantly inscribed—a practice unheard.

"This is unlike any merchant establishment I've seen," Lorenzo whispered, intrigued. "They've introduced a level of organization and presentation that's entirely new."

Marco nodded, observing the neatly arranged waiting area and the orderly manner in which customers were attended. "Even the way they manage patrons—having them sit and wait their turn—it's remarkably efficient."

"Not to mention the promotional posters and the way the staff engages with clients," Lorenzo added. "It's as if they've crafted a ceremony, not just a transaction."

"Indeed," Marco agreed. "The organization, the icons—it's all very deliberate."

Around them, other merchants examined sample Bibles displayed on a central table, discussing the quality and pricing with the staff. The atmosphere was one of eager anticipation mixed with professional efficiency.

One of the clerks approached Lorenzo and Marco with a respectful bow, speaking in a humble yet formal manner. "Noble sirs, I bid you welcome to Morea Publishing. How may I be of service to you this day?"

"We seek to purchase copies of the Latin Bible," Lorenzo said, his tone measured. "A substantial quantity, if such can be procured."

The clerk offered a courteous smile. "It would be our great honor to assist in this matter. However, I must inform you that our current stock is much diminished. A fresh supply is expected within a month's time. Should it please you, we can reserve the number you require."

Lorenzo glanced at Marco before replying. "That will suffice. How many copies remain at present?"

"At this moment, we hold but ten copies in our possession," the clerk responded, inclining his head. "However, we can assuredly set aside more from the forthcoming shipment."

"Only ten?" Lorenzo said, his voice betraying a hint of disappointment. "Very well, we shall take the ten that remain and place an order for fifty more."

"Most excellent, my lord," the clerk said, retrieving a ledger. "If you would be so kind as to provide your name and details, we shall finalize the arrangements. Moreover, for orders exceeding ten copies, the price is lowered to twenty-nine gold ducats per volume."

"That is good to hear," Marco interjected. "We are grateful for your assistance."

As they conducted the transaction, Lorenzo couldn't help but feel a growing unease beneath his professional demeanor. The efficiency of the process was impressive—perhaps too much so. The employee was knowledgeable and polite, guiding them through the steps with practiced ease. Yet, his manner had a subtle rigidity, as if he were following a carefully rehearsed script.

"I must say," Lorenzo remarked, "this establishment is most impressive. The manner in which you conduct your affairs is... most novel."

"You honor us with your kind words," the clerk replied humbly. "We are ever at your service. Should you require aught else, pray do not hesitate to call upon us."

After concluding their business, Lorenzo paused to cast his gaze about the room once more. "The banners, the attire of the clerks, the manner of arrangement—it is all most deliberate," he remarked softly to Marco.

"Indeed, it is truly remarkable," Marco agreed.

As they exited the bookstore, the sun was beginning to dip lower in the sky. The guards nodded politely as they passed, and the bustle of the port resumed around them.

"We need to confirm our suspicions about their production methods," Lorenzo said thoughtfully. "I know they're using some form of mechanical press, but we need more informations"

"Agreed," Marco said. "But how do you propose we uncover their secrets? They've been careful not to reveal too much."

Just then, they noticed one of the bookstore clerks exiting the building, glancing over his shoulder before slipping down a narrow alley with a satchel slung over his shoulder. His furtive movements caught their attention.

"There's our chance," Lorenzo whispered, a hint of urgency in his voice.

Marco hesitated. "Are you sure about this? If they catch us prying, it could mean serious trouble."

Lorenzo's eyes narrowed. "Knowledge is power, my friend. But we must be cautious. One misstep, and we could find ourselves in a dungeon—or worse."

They followed discreetly until the clerk paused in a quiet corner to adjust his belongings. Lorenzo approached him with a friendly smile.

"Good day to you, friend," he began. "You serve at the bookstore, do you not?"

The young man looked up, his expression wary. "Aye, my lord, that I do."

"I must offer my praise for the fine service and the quality of the Bibles," Lorenzo continued. "They are truly most remarkable."

"Your kind words are appreciated," the clerk replied cautiously.

"My associate and I are merchants from Venice," Lorenzo explained. "We are much intrigued by the skill with which such fine books are made and in such abundance. We hoped you might enlighten us."

The clerk hesitated, his gaze shifting uneasily to the empty street. "I beg your pardon, my lord, but I am not at liberty to speak of such matters with those from beyond our lands. The Despot's laws are strict."

"Of course, we understand," Lorenzo said, his voice smooth. He produced a small pouch of coins, the weight of it evident. "But perhaps you could share a little, as a professional courtesy. Your secret would be safe with us."

The young man swallowed hard, eyeing the pouch. "If anyone learned I spoke of this, it could cost me dearly."

"We give you our word," Marco interjected softly, "not a breath of this shall escape us."

After a tense pause, the clerk accepted the pouch with trembling hands. He leaned in, his voice barely a whisper. "I ought not to speak of it, but... the books are made with a device—a press—that imprints the pages swiftly, by pressing inked metal letters onto paper."

"Metal letters?" Marco echoed, feigning surprise.

"Aye," the clerk confirmed, casting another anxious glance about. "But you must understand, the workshop is a most guarded secret. It lies beyond the outskirts of Glarentza, and only a chosen few may enter. The guards are ever vigilant, and the Despot has decreed harsh penalties for any who would dare to betray its secrecy."

Lorenzo raised an eyebrow. "It would seem the Despot guards his secrets well."

"More than you know," the clerk replied. "I shouldn't say more. If word got out that I spoke of this..." He trailed off, fear evident in his eyes.

As Lorenzo and Marco made their way back toward the harbor, Marco shook his head in amazement.

"If we could learn more about this press and perhaps replicate it, we could revolutionize the book trade in Venice," Lorenzo mused.

"But gaining access to such a guarded secret will be challenging," Marco cautioned.

"We'll need to be discreet and resourceful," Lorenzo agreed. "Perhaps there are others who can provide more information or ways to observe the operation without arousing suspicion."

"For now, securing the Bibles we've ordered is important," Marco pointed out.

"True," Lorenzo conceded. "But we must not lose sight of the larger opportunity. This could change everything."

They continued toward the docks, the gears of ambition turning in their minds as the sun cast long shadows over Glarentza. The sea breeze carried the scent of salt and possibility, and Lorenzo felt a thrill at the prospect of what lay ahead.

A week later at Clermont Castle, Michael sat at the head of the council table, his gaze steady as he surveyed his assembled advisors. A crackling fire warmed the room, the scent of burning wood mingling with that of parchment and ink. George Sphrantzes sat to his right, his expression attentive. Theophilus Dragas and Petros the steward were present, along with the senior officials who had become familiar faces in these meetings.

"Gentlemen," Michael began, "I am pleased to report that all our stock of Latin Bibles has been sold, and we have received orders for at least another nine hundred copies."

A murmur of satisfaction rippled through the room.

"Your decision to establish the bookstore has proven wise my despot," Theophilus added. "Not only has it facilitated sales, but it has also increased our visibility and reputation."

Petros stood, referencing a ledger before him. "With the proceeds from the sales, we have cleared our debts and fortified the treasury. We have also secured a significant quantity of gunpowder, enough to sustain our arsenal's operations for the foreseeable future."

"Excellent," Michael said. "Our pricing strategy of 29 gold ducats whole sale per Bible has yielded substantial profits while remaining attractive to our buyers."

George leaned forward, his brow furrowed. "However, we must address a pressing concern—the dire state of our paper supply. The cotton shortage caused by the harsh winter continues to cripple our production capacity."

Michael sighed. "Indeed. Without sufficient paper, our presses fall silent, and we risk losing the market we've worked so hard to build."

Theophilus spoke up, his voice measured. "Perhaps we should consider scaling back our expansion, focusing on local markets until we stabilize our resources."

Petros shook his head. "But scaling back now could signal weakness. The demand from Venice and Genoa is soaring. If we cannot meet it, they may turn elsewhere—or worse, seek to uncover our methods."

"May I propose a course of action?" George suggested.

"Please do." Michael replied.

"Now that our treasury is replenished, we can afford to purchase cotton from external sources. The market of Ragusa offers ample supplies, and they are amenable to trade with us. I recommend organizing an expedition to secure the necessary materials."

Theophilus concurred. "Establishing a reliable supply chain is crucial. We should also consider forming long-term trade agreements to prevent future shortages."

"Agreed," Michael said. "Let's make the necessary arrangements. George, I entrust you with coordinating the expedition to Ragusa."

"Thank you, Despot. I will ensure its success."

Petros interjected. "Additionally, our success with the bookstore in Glarentza suggests we could replicate this model in other towns, expanding our reach- as you mention already my Despot."

"A promising idea," Michael acknowledged. "But let's prioritize stabilizing our production capabilities first."

The meeting continued with discussions on resource allocation, infrastructure improvements, and the expansion of the arsenal. The mood was one of cautious optimism.

As the council members began to depart, Michael gestured for George to stay behind.

"George," Michael began, a sincere warmth in his voice, "your efforts have been invaluable. I want you to know how much I appreciate your counsel and dedication."

George met his gaze, a hint of gratitude in his eyes. "I am honored to serve, Despot. Together, we are forging a path to a stronger future."

Michael walked over to the window, the sun now bathing the landscape in a warm glow. He watched as the golden light stretched over the fields, a serene contrast to the weight on his shoulders. "There's still much to be done," he mused. "But for the first time in a long while, I feel we're moving in the right direction."

"Indeed," George agreed, joining him by the window. "The challenges ahead are significant, but so are the opportunities."

Michael turned to face him, a thoughtful expression crossing his features. "We must remain vigilant. The Ottomans are preoccupied for now, but that may not last. Our preparations must continue unabated." He paused, then added, "I've decided to accompany you on the trip to Ragusa. A change of scenery might do me some good."

George raised an eyebrow, mildly surprised. "Are you certain, Despot? The journey is long, and your presence here is invaluable."

"I'm certain," Michael affirmed. He hesitated for a moment, his gaze drifting back to the window. Inwardly, he felt a stir of excitement—a flicker of the wanderlust he remembered from his previous life. The thrill of exploring new places, the rush of travel, the simple joy of movement—all things he dearly missed from the 21st century. Perhaps this journey would rekindle that spirit within him.

"I believe the trip will be beneficial," he continued. "Not only can I assist in securing the trade agreements, but it will also provide an opportunity to observe and learn."

George nodded thoughtfully. "Very well. Your presence will undoubtedly strengthen our position in Ragusa. Rest assured, the arsenal will continue its work during our absence, and I'll ensure we are kept informed of any developments."Like Award Reply129sersorOct 23, 2024NewAdd bookmarkView discussionThreadmarks Chapter 17: On the Sea New View contentsersorOct 28, 2024Add bookmark#151Port of Glarentza, April 1430

The morning sun bathed Glarentza harbor in a warm glow, each sea ripple catching the light and scattering it like a thousand diamonds. I stood at the stern of the Kyrenia, the scent of salt and tar filling the air as a gentle breeze tugged at my cloak. My fingers traced the smooth, weathered wood of the railing—a silent witness to countless voyages across these ancient waters.

The familiar cries of gulls circled overhead, their calls mingling with the distant clamor of the bustling port. Merchants shouted, and sailors exchanged coarse jokes. The rhythmic clatter of hooves on cobblestone echoed from the nearby streets. Amidst the vibrant mix of sounds, a flutter stirred in my stomach—a mix of excitement and unease that quickened my pulse.

"All the cargo is aboard, right?" I asked Damianus for what must have been the third time since dawn. This was my first voyage since arriving in this world—this body—two years ago.

"Aye, all's stowed and secured, Despot," Damianus called out, approaching with a seasoned sailor's stride. His weathered face bore a knowing grin. "She's heavy with cargo, but the Kyrenia dances with the waves like a dolphin eager to leap."

I turned to him, a smile tugging at the corners of my mouth. "You've a poet's tongue today, Damianus."

He chuckled, his eyes crinkling with mirth. "Just calling it as I see it, my lord. The sea's in a fine mood, and it'd be a shame to keep her waiting."

The Kyrenia—a sturdy two-masted galley, the only ship I owned—was rigged with lateen sails, sleek for Mediterranean winds. This ship had carried me here in 1427 and had been part of my brother's fleet in the naval battle of Echinades. Now, with six Drakos cannons mounted, I had made the Kyrenia the most formidable ship on these waters—a sleek predator— or so I believed.

As I stared across the deck, my mind wandered to the future. I knew I was ahead of my time, possibly by a century or more. No one else was using cannons like this for naval warfare. And yet... my plans grew larger with each passing day. I dreamed of constructing great carracks, Portuguese-style, built for the open sea and bristling with cannons. I could change the entire naval landscape of the Mediterranean—if I survived long enough to see it through.

Nearby, the Venetian trade ship we'd hired as a companion swayed gently, her crew bustling to secure the last of their provisions. The Venetians, renowned mariners though they were, had yet to embrace the true potential of naval artillery. Their heavy hold was prepared for cotton and goods from Ragusa, but they sailed without the thunderous power that rested within our cannons.

At the bow, George Sphrantzes stood engaged in earnest conversation with Damianus. George had become more than an advisor—he was a steadfast ally in this world that was still foreign to me. His calm logic grounded me when my thoughts raced ahead, plotting futures unknown to those around me.

"Despot," Damianus said, his voice drawing me back. "The wind favors us. Shall we set sail?"

I took a deep breath, savoring the salty air. "Yes. Let's not keep the sea waiting any longer."

Damianus nodded and turned to the crew. "Lower the sails!" he bellowed, his voice carrying over the deck.

The men responded swiftly and efficiently, their movements practiced and sure. The sails caught the wind, and the Kyrenia began to pull away from the quay, gliding out into the open sea. The Venetian ship followed closely behind. As the wind filled our sails, I turned to Damianus. "Do you think this breeze will hold?"

"For a while," he said, nodding. "If we're lucky, we'll reach Ragusa in under a week."

I smiled, though a part of me wished our first destination could be Constantinople. There was no time for sightseeing now, however. Business awaited in Ragusa.

Three days into the voyage, the weather shifted, the once calm sea becoming restless under darkening clouds. We had made a stop at Corfu, a Venetian-controlled island, to resupply, but the sea north of Corfu was known to be treacherous, both because of the weather and the pirates.

I was in my cabin when I heard the shout, sharp and urgent, cutting through the air. "Pirates!"

I rushed out, the cold sea wind whipping my face as I joined Damianus and George at the helm. "Where?" I asked breathlessly, scanning the horizon.

"There," he said, pointing toward a fast-moving ship cresting the waves, bearing down on us with alarming speed. Its low, sleek hull identified it as a Dalmatian pirate vessel.

"Damn it," I muttered. I had known piracy was a risk, but facing it firsthand was something else entirely. "How close?"

"They're gaining," Damianus said, his voice tight. "They're preparing to ram us."

My heart raced. I had to act quickly. "Prepare the Drakos," I ordered, my voice shaking with both fear and exhilaration.

The crew moved swiftly, manning the cannons I had designed. This was it—the test of my innovations, of whether my modern knowledge could truly give me an edge in this brutal world.

"Fire!" I shouted as the pirate ship closed the distance. The first cannon roared, belching smoke and flame, but the shot missed, the ball splashing uselessly into the sea.

"Fire again!" I commanded, gritting my teeth. The second shot hit its mark, striking the pirate ship's hull with a thunderous crack. The crew cheered, but the pirates kept coming.

As they closed in, the next barrage of cannon fire struck home, splintering the pirate ship's side. The deck exploded in chaos as pirates scrambled to control their vessel, but it was too late. The Drakos cannons had done their work.

"Despot!" Damianus called out. "The ship is sinking."

I felt a strange thrill course through me, something primal and fierce. "I don't care," I barked.

"Fire again!"

"Again!"

As the pirate vessel slipped beneath the waves, I felt a heavy knot in my stomach. The thrill of battle had given way to a sobering reality. Lives had been lost by my command. It was necessary, but the weight of it settled upon me like a cold mantle.

The crew began to chant my name, "Constantine! Constantine!" Their faces shone admiring, but I could only manage a faint smile.

Port of Ragusa

Ragusa's towering white stone walls gleamed in the midday sun as the Kyrenia entered the busy harbor. With its blend of East and West, the city was as much a symbol of wealth and trade as it was a fortress against the ever-growing threats of the Mediterranean.

However, our arrival was delayed by Ragusa's strict quarantine policies, as was customary for all ships arriving by sea. Seven days of enforced isolation were not what I had anticipated, but the wait gave me ample time to reflect on our journey and plan for the challenges ahead.

It also gave me time to notice something—or rather, someone—who had been watching us closely throughout the quarantine. The son of the Venetian trade captain, a young and inquisitive man, had taken an unusual interest in the Kyrenia. From the moment we docked, his eyes had rarely left our ship. He approached me several times during the quarantine, his questions seemingly innocent at first—about the cannons, the ship's modifications for them, and our recent encounter with pirates.

At first, I answered his queries with a measured tone, keeping my explanations vague and noncommittal. But as the days wore on, I became increasingly cautious. His interest was far too keen, his gaze lingering too long on the cannons mounted along the deck. He seemed particularly fascinated by the Drakos and the ease with which we had repelled the pirate attack.

"Your ship handled the pirates remarkably well, Despot," he remarked one afternoon, his voice casual but his eyes sharp. "Those cannons... I've never seen anything like them. And the way your crew fired them—so precise."

I offered a polite smile, though my guard was up. "We've made some improvements, yes. But any well-trained crew can do the same with enough practice."

"Still," he continued, glancing again at the Kyrenia, "the design is... unusual. Your cannons seem more advanced than anything i seen"

"Perhaps," I replied evenly, careful not to reveal too much. "We've made a few modifications. But the sea demands creativity, doesn't it?"

The young Venetian smiled, but there was a glint in his eyes that put me on edge. He wasn't asking out of casual curiosity—he was studying us, and that made me uneasy. Over the course of the quarantine, I caught him multiple times examining the Kyrenia closely, walking around her under the guise of admiring the ship, his eyes tracing the cannons and the modifications, as if memorizing every detail.

He kept a low profile, careful not to disclose much about himself or his reasons for such keen interest. Whenever I pressed him about his background or his future plans, he deflected with practiced ease, steering the conversation back to the ship or the cannons.

By the end of the week, I knew I had to be even more guarded. As I watched him now, lingering once more near the edge of the dock, his gaze fixed on the Kyrenia, I felt a growing sense of caution.

"That one is trouble," George remarked quietly, stepping up beside me. His voice was low, his eyes tracking the young Venetian.

I nodded, my jaw tightening. "He's asking too many questions. And he's paying far too much attention to those cannons."

George's eyes narrowed. "I am sure he will report this to someone in Venice"

"Possibly," I muttered, my gaze still fixed on the young man. "Whatever the case, we'll need to keep a close eye on him once we return to Glarentza. We'll have to find a way to keep his mouth shut."

George nodded in agreement. "Best not to take chances, Despot."

I watched as the young Venetian stepped away from the ship, my mind already turning over the possibilities. Whether he was acting on behalf of the Venetians or simply too curious for his own good, I couldn't afford any loose ends. One way or another, I'd make sure he didn't become a threat.