Sforza gave a low whistle. "A prudent answer, my friend. And one that makes me all the more eager to see what you do next." His expression turned more serious as he gestured toward the bustling arsenal behind them.
Sforza exhaled, rubbing his jaw as he glanced toward the forge fires. "Which brings me to my purpose here. My contract is soon to expire, and while I have many choices before me, one thing is clear—I need weapons. You remember our last talk, Constantine?" he said, his tone measured. "Before the campaign, I told you I wanted to buy your Pyrvelos muskets and those field cannons that shattered the enemy lines at the Hexamilion. You told me to wait. Well, I have waited. The campaign is over, and I am here to ask again."
Constantine regarded him steadily, the flickering torchlight casting sharp shadows across his face. He had expected this moment. Sforza was a man who understood the shifting nature of war, a commander who saw where the future was heading and wanted to be at its forefront. That made him both a valuable ally and a potential risk.
"I haven't forgotten," Constantine said, his voice calm but firm. "And I understand why you want them. The battlefield is changing, and you are wise enough to recognize it. But my position hasn't changed, either. My forges are expanding, and my army needs every weapon I can produce. Murad will not stay idle for long. I cannot afford to weaken my forces, even for an ally."
Sforza tilted his head, studying him. "So, you still refuse to sell?"
"I said nothing of the sort," Constantine countered smoothly. "I will honor our discussion. You will have your weapons, but you'll have to wait until the next production cycle. My men come first, Sforza. You understand that better than most."
Sforza let out a short chuckle, shaking his head. "You drive a hard bargain, Despot. But I can hardly fault you for it." His smirk returned, though there was a glint of something more guarded in his eyes. "Very well, then. We have a deal."
They clasped forearms, sealing the agreement, but even as their grip tightened, an unspoken understanding passed between them. Sforza had gotten what he wanted—partially—but the game was far from over.
As Sforza rode out with his men, his silhouette fading into the dimming horizon, Constantine remained standing in the office, arms folded behind his back. The wind carried the distant sounds of the forge, where blacksmiths toiled to produce the very weapons that had drawn the mercenary's admiration—and his desire.
This was only the beginning. Today, Sforza was an ally, eager to adopt the tactics and weaponry that had reshaped the battlefield. But alliances, like fortunes in war, were ever-changing. One day, those same weapons might be turned against him. That was the nature of progress—no innovation remained a secret forever. The Pyrvelos muskets, the field cannons, the combined-arms tactics—eventually, they would be copied, refined, and used by those with the ambition to wield them.
Yet control was power. By dictating who received these weapons and when, Constantine could ensure that, even as their reach expanded, they did so on his terms, at least part. The Ottomans, the Venetians, and even men like Sforza would seek to unlock their secrets. War was never about who had the best weapons—it was about who dictated their use.
Clermont Castle, Council ChamberThe council chamber was alive with the murmur of discussion as advisors settled into their seats, parchment rustling and the faint scent of ink lingering in the air. Candles flickered against the stone walls, casting long shadows over the assembled men. At the head of the chamber, Constantine sat with an air of quiet authority, his fingers tapping thoughtfully against the polished wood of the table.
Theophilus cleared his throat, bringing the room to order. "My Despot, I have received updated reports regarding the Duke of Burgundy and the book trade. Sales continue to surge, particularly in Burgundy, the Papal States, and Florence. The demand for our texts has outpaced even our most ambitious projections."
A satisfied murmur spread through the chamber. Constantine allowed himself a small smile. The printing press had already proven its worth, but now it was fueling an economic revival unlike anything the Empire had seen in centuries.
"There is more," Theophilus continued. "The Duke of Burgundy's new wife is Portuguese. This presents an unexpected opportunity. Through her, we may establish a diplomatic connection with Lisbon—one that could be useful for securing shipbuilders, as you had inquired about before."
Constantine's eyes narrowed slightly. "Excellent news," he said, leaning forward. "I want letters sent to Burgundy immediately. Frame it as an expansion of our book trade and economic cooperation, but make sure there's room to explore further diplomatic ties. Do it carefully—I don't want the Venetians catching wind of our intentions just yet."
Theophilus nodded. "I will handle it personally."
Satisfied, Constantine turned to the following matter. "With our treasury brimming, the time has come to assert our independence economically. I will establish a new mint here in Glarentza, forging our own coin—stamped with the Palaiologos eagle, a declaration to the world that Byzantium will no longer trade under the mark of foreign powers."
A brief silence followed. Then Plethon, seated to Constantine's right, spoke with measured caution. "A bold move, my Despot. But the Emperor may not look kindly upon such a decision. The Venetians, the Genoese, and even the Ottomans dominate the coinage of trade. If we challenge that—"
Constantine raised a hand, silencing him with measured authority. "We are the heirs of Byzantium, yet we trade in the currency of foreigners like vassals. That must end. The Morea stands strong, and it is time we reclaim our economic identity. We will mint our own coinage—true Byzantine currency once more. Constantinople is in no position to object; they also surrendered their economy to Venetian ducats long ago."
Plethon considered the weight of the decision, his expression pensive before he gave a slow, approving nod. "Control of the mint is control of our destiny. With it, we dictate the flow of commerce, set the terms of trade, and reinforce our sovereignty."
"Precisely," Constantine affirmed. "Begin preparations immediately—I will oversee the process myself."
After an in-depth discussion of economic matters, the council shifted its focus to military affairs.
"The Hexamilion," Constantine began, his tone sharpening, "is our strongest line of defense against Ottoman incursions. Yet, for all its strength, it remains vulnerable without a dedicated garrison. It is time we finalize our plans and establish a permanent military presence there—one that ensures the wall is not merely a barrier but a fortress that will stand against any invasion."
There were nods of agreement, but also hesitation. Theophilus spoke first. "A stronghold at the wall will require resources—soldiers, provisions, infrastructure. Without a permanent supply chain, it will be difficult to sustain over the long term."
"We will allocate funds for a new weapons arsenal at the Hexamilion itself," Constantine countered. "It will serve as a production site for additional cannons and muskets. The operation we have now is insufficient. We must scale it up."
Plethon, ever the pragmatic voice, leaned forward. "And who will oversee this expansion? We need craftsmen, laborers, blacksmiths—men willing to uproot their lives for this project."
"Which is why Corinth must be transformed into a military-industrial center," Constantine replied. "The city will house expanded barracks and forges, supplying both the Hexamilion and our broader war effort. This is not merely about fortifications—it is about ensuring our survival."
Murmurs of agreement rippled through the chamber. The idea was ambitious, but it was also necessary.
"The sooner we begin, the better," Constantine said. "I want reports on supply chains, fortification materials, and recruitment strategies within the week. We cannot afford delays."
Theophilus nodded. "I will ensure that merchants and craftsmen receive incentives to relocate. Gold will always be a strong motivator."
Later that Evening, in Constantine's Private ChambersTheophilus lingered after the council meeting, his keen eyes studying Constantine as the others departed. Once they were alone, he spoke.
"You requested I find Portuguese shipbuilders, rather than Venetians," he said. "That struck me as… curious. The Venetians are masters of shipcraft. Why seek the Portuguese instead?"
Constantine leaned back in his chair, exhaling slowly. "I have heard rumors," he said carefully, choosing his words. "Whispers that the Portuguese are developing new types of vessels—ones more maneuverable, better suited for long voyages. If these rumors are true, we would be wise to learn from them before our rivals do."
Theophilus frowned slightly. "You trust these rumors?"
"I trust that innovation often comes from unexpected places," Constantine replied. "Venice has ruled the seas for too long. But dominance is never eternal. If another power is rising, I want to know before they do."
Theophilus studied him for a long moment before nodding. "I will make inquiries."
"Good," Constantine said. "The future of Morea depends not only on land but on the sea. If we control both, we control our own destiny."
As Theophilus left, Constantine turned to the map spread across his desk. His gaze settled on the western waters, where Portugal's influence was only beginning to stretch.
In another world, another time, the Portuguese would forge an empire on the seas, their caravels carrying them to lands unknown.
But this was a different timeline.
And Constantine intended to shape it his way.Like Award Reply116sersorMar 13, 2025NewAdd bookmarkView discussionThreadmarks Chapter 57: The Weight of Gold and Power New View contentsersorMar 17, 2025Add bookmark#498Clermont Castle, Glarentza – Late October 1432
The great hall of Clermont Castle shimmered beneath the soft glow of countless candles, their flickering light catching on the gilded banners of the Palaiologos dynasty. The air was warm with the scents of roasted lamb, fresh bread, and spiced wine, drifting amid the low hum of conversation.
For a few years now, Constantine had held an end-of-year banquet to solidify ties with the region's most influential traders—men who helped his thriving Morea Publishing House spread books throughout Europe. But tonight felt different. The unprecedented success of his printing operation had elevated Morea's standing, and every guest sensed a shift in power. Meanwhile, Constantine's astonishing victories on the battlefield had further enhanced his prestige and authority, reminding everyone that the might of the Despot did not rest on commerce alone.
Seated at the head of the long banquet table, Constantine surveyed the gathered guests with a keen eye. Local nobles, along with the key Venetian and Genoese merchants who handled his book sales across Europe, were all present. Niccolò di Monticelli, a shrewd Genoese merchant who had become one of the biggest buyers of his books, raised his goblet in a casual salute.
"Despot Constantine," Niccolò began smoothly, "I have heard fascinating news—rumors, perhaps—that you intend to mint a new coin for your realm. A solid gold coin. Is this true?"
The conversation around the table stilled; even goblets paused mid-air. Constantine let the silence linger before offering a faint smile.
"Indeed, the rumors are true dear Niccolò. We have begun striking coins of pure gold at our new mint. While Venice and Genoa enjoy respectable currencies, we must stand on our own. We can no longer be beholden to foreign mints for every transaction in our realm. I am sure you gentlemen understand."
A mixture of nods and wary looks met his statement. Local nobles straightened in their seats, some with glints of pride in their eyes. Meanwhile, the foreign traders exchanged cautious glances, clearly uneasy about any challenge to their coins' dominance.
Niccolò took a measured sip of wine. His smile deepened. "A fine ambition, my Despot. Still, acceptance of any new coin hinges on trust. Merchants will handle your gold—but only if they can rely on its purity and feel assured it will be accepted in the ports they visit next."
Constantine inclined his head in acknowledgment. "Trust is earned, no doubt. Yet we plan to mint our coin to the highest standard—matching, the integrity of the Venetian and Genoan currencies. And we shall see that it becomes widely recognized."
Satisfied that his point had been noted, Niccolò lifted his goblet in a small salute. "I am sure you will. Genoa, too, prides itself on ensuring its currency never loses credibility. Banco di San Giorgio is our pride."
Constantine's dark eyes narrowed slightly. A bank. The word took on far greater significance for him than anyone else in the room could know.
"Ah, the Banco di San Giorgio," Constantine said with polite curiosity. "I'm told it is far more significant than an ordinary moneylender. How does it manage to wield such clout, even beyond Genoa's walls?"
Niccolò's mouth curved into something between a smile and a guarded grin. He chose his words carefully. "Our bank manages a portion of the republic's taxes, invests in merchant fleets, and finances expeditions. Over time, it has even come to govern certain territories on behalf of Genoa. You see, Despot, gold need not lie idle in coffers; it can venture forth, multiply, and return in greater volume. That is our guiding principle."
Constantine stroked his beard, deep in thought. He remembered the banks of the modern world—vast networks of finance that controlled empires without raising a sword. The ability to raise capital without relying solely on taxation, to finance wars before the first soldier was recruited, and to stabilize a realm's economy in ways that medieval rulers had never conceived.
A bank…
Constantine nodded slowly, swirling the wine in his cup. "It sounds like the Banco di San Giorgio is central to Genoa's power. That alone is reason enough for your rivals to tread carefully."
Niccolò tilted his head, conceding the point but offering no further detail. "Well, I would not say it's a secret," he said with a faint smile, "but it does require discipline and, above all, a steady flow of commerce to keep the wheels turning."
"Discipline…" Constantine echoed thoughtfully. "I daresay discipline is not foreign to us here in the Morea."
He set down his goblet with a decisive clink, continuing, "You have given me much to think about, Niccolò. But tell me this—how does one build trust in such an institution? For without trust, gold remains stagnant."
Niccolò smiled knowingly. "Ah, Despot, that is the heart of it, isn't it? Trust must be cultivated through stability, strength… and wise men who understand the power of money as well as the power of the sword."
Constantine nodded, already making plans. Then he lifted his goblet, signalling an end to the moment of quiet intensity. "In any case," he said, his voice carrying across the table, "I trust our new gold coin will soon appear in your ledgers and your ships' holds. After all, trade thrives on fresh opportunity."
Niccolò inclined his goblet in return, a courteous smile on his lips. "Then here's to the new coin—and to the ventures we shall embark upon."
Laughter and conversation resumed, but questions hung in the air. As the feast wore on, Constantine allowed the chatter and the music to wash over him, his gaze occasionally drifting to Theophilus Dragaš. Tonight's banquet had unveiled more than a new coin; it had opened the door to a broader ambition, one involving far more than mere gold.
The Fire Spreads
Glarentza, Early November 1432
The last embers of dusk died beyond Glarentza's walls, replaced by the gentle glow of lanterns and torches. A cool autumn wind wafted in from the Ionian Sea, carrying the brine of distant waters and stirring the banners along the ramparts. Within the keep, a small council chamber flickered with candlelight, illuminating two figures bent over a cluttered table.
Constantine ran his fingers over the newly printed leaflets spread before him. The edges of the paper were still rough from the press, the ink fresh. A stylized cross rose defiantly on one poster; on another, a two-headed eagle spread its wings beneath bold letters proclaiming the Ieros Skopos—the Holy Cause.
Across from him sat Georgios Gemistos Plethon, the weight of his years evident in his lined face and silvered hair. Despite his age, his eyes shone with a keen, almost youthful intensity. He held one of the posters, tilting it to catch the candlelight.
"You've taken to this new form of heraldry with unexpected brilliance," Plethon mused, his voice measured. "Perhaps we philosophers have underestimated the power of images when paired with words."
Constantine smiled ruefully. "Images stir hearts before reason can speak," he replied. "The Ottomans have their scimitars and their timars. We have parchment and ink—a crude arsenal, but no less potent if wielded well."
Plethon set the poster down, turning his attention to a manuscript brimming with bold rhetoric—Constantine's recent speech, meticulously transcribed. "Your oration to the people of Glarentza was quite the spectacle. Half of them had likely never heard a speech delivered with such conviction. It reminded me of the orators of Athens… or even the Roman Forum."
Constantine's lips twitched into a faint grin. If only you knew what truly inspired me, he thought, remembering the politicians and generals of his past life. "My dear Pelthon, I've found that a good speech can galvanize a crowd as surely as a clarion call can rally soldiers," he said simply.
Plethon inclined his head. "Indeed. A single truth, spoken at the right moment, can ripple through generations. Your words have already traveled beyond the Morea, carried by agents, merchants, and monks who believe in the cause. These posters, tucked among their wares, reach every corner of the land. Ieros Skopos spreads, Constantine—faster than we dared hope. We have reports from Cephalonia, Leucada, and as far north as Arta. The Tocco lands are ripe for the taking, and rumors of the Ieros Skopos have reached even Thessaly."
He paused, a knowing smile playing at his lips. "And let us not forget, Despot—the fire spreads quickly in part because of your victories. The people see that you do not merely preach ideals; you embody them. Your triumph over Murad's forces at Hexamilion shook the Ottomans' veneer of invincibility. And the conquest of the Duchy of Athens?" Plethon let out a breath, as though still marveling at the feat. "To reclaim the very heart of the Hellenic world—these are not the deeds of a man clinging to a dying empire. They are the actions of a ruler forging a new one."
Constantine took one of the printed sheets, running his fingers over the inked words. "Indeed, Plethon. I wanted a message that spoke not to nobles or generals, but to those who bear the heaviest burdens—the peasants crushed under Ottoman taxes, the priests who temper their faith for fear of the Sultan's wrath, the merchants paying tribute in silent bitterness." He paused, voice firm with conviction. "They must understand that Byzantium is not just a memory to mourn, but a birthright to reclaim. We are not the remnants of a fallen empire—we are its rightful heirs, and we will rise."
Plethon placed his hands on the table, leaning forward. "And so the Holy Cause becomes bigger than us all. The Ieros Skopos is uniting people who once believed themselves alone in their suffering."
Constantine nodded, recalling the roars of approval in Glarentza's square just days earlier. He had spoken of identity, not just faith—of every Christian who remembered the empire's glory being part of something greater. The response was immediate, almost desperate; they had been waiting to believe.
"They've taken hold of it," Plethon continued. "Like a man clinging to a torch in the darkness. But remember, light attracts eyes—both friendly and hostile. The Sultan's watchful gaze will soon turn upon us once again."
A flicker of tension crossed Constantine's face, but he steadied himself. "Yes, the Ottomans will not stand idle for long. Still, the seeds are planted. Even if we are struck down, these ideals—this hope—will live on in the hearts of the faithful. An idea is not so easily extinguished."
The philosopher studied the younger man. "I warned you that words can inspire—and they can destabilize. We are calling people to question their subjugation. Once that flame is lit, it's hard to contain. Even the rightful claims of the Despot can get lost in the din of revolt."
Constantine ran a hand across his brow. "I know the risks. But if we do nothing, we consign ourselves to slow decay. Better to risk chaos than accept oblivion."
Outside, a gust of wind rattled the shutters. The low hum of voices in the courtyard below signaled the presence of guards, or perhaps travelers arriving at the keep. Somewhere, a horse neighed, punctuating the night with a sharp cry.
Constantine nodded. "That is the heart of the Ieros Skopos: faith and identity. If the old empires fell because their people lost the will to defend them, we must restore that will. We do it by calling on faith—by calling on the shared heritage that lingers in every church and every village."
Plethon's gaze flickered with both admiration and caution. "And now we see the spark. Greeks, Albanians, Serbs, Bulgarians—fellow Christians from all corners—speak of a day when the Cross will rise high once more. The Ieros Skopos is no mere campaign, Constantine. It can be the start of something that extends far beyond our lifetimes."
Constantine looked down at a line of text on one pamphlet:
"Rhomaioi! Heirs of the Church and Hellenic Wisdom—arise!"
It still stirred him to see those words in bold print, to imagine them spoken from the Morea to the shadow of the Hagia Sophia. "When men who have knelt for so long finally stand," he said softly, "the world trembles. Let the Sultan tremble, if that is the cost of freedom."
Plethon rose, his robe rustling against the stone floor. "True, my Despot. We must gather allies, expand our reach… shape the Ieros Skopos into the cornerstone of a restored Byzantium, and keep watch for those who would twist our purpose."
Constantine stared at the stack of posters, imagining them tacked to tavern walls or clutched by fervent believers. The Ieros Skopos was hope incarnate, a flame spreading from hearth to hearth. Perhaps it burned brighter than he had ever dared imagine—yet perhaps it threatened to consume them all if they failed to guide it.
He lifted his gaze, meeting Plethon's steady regard. "The risk is there," he said quietly. "But if this is the cost of reclaiming what was lost, so be it. We fight with hope—and that hope is more powerful than any chain."
Plethon placed a hand gently on Constantine's shoulder. "Then let us see it through, my Despot. May our words kindle a fire that reshapes this land—and may we stand strong in its light."
In the silence that followed, the distant murmur of the sea seemed to echo the vow forged in that chamber. Tomorrow, and the countless tomorrows to come, would carry the Ieros Skopos deeper into the hearts of the oppressed. They had lit the torch; now, the Holy Cause would either guide the faithful to salvation—or become a conflagration that changed the world forever.Like Award Reply104sersorMar 17, 2025NewAdd bookmarkView discussionThreadmarks Chapter 58: Men, Money, and Steel New View contentsersorMar 20, 2025Add bookmark#502Glarentza barracks, late October 1432
The flames flickered against the stone walls of the war room, casting long, wavering shadows over the maps and parchment-strewn table. Smoke curled from the iron sconces, mixing with the sharp scent of burning wax and the faint tang of ink. The air was thick—thick with tension, thick with the weight of decisions that could shape the future of an empire hanging by a thread.
Constantine had just returned from inspecting the recruits, his mind still focused on what he had seen. The morning drills had become a fixed tradition over the last two years—a ritual designed to instil discipline, endurance, companionship, and strength in the men who would one day stand against the enemy. The recruits were becoming professional soldiers as they learned his system.
He had watched with satisfaction as the officers led the recruits through their paces, correcting stances, ensuring formations were tight, movements sharp. The morning gymnastics—running, endurance drills, strength training—had started as an innovation, but now they were as much a part of the routine as weapons practice. Constantine ran with the troops a couple of times a week, not only to lead by example but because he found something unexpectedly satisfying.
He hadn't always been fond of running. Back in his old life, when he was still married, Ellen had insisted they go running together every Sunday morning in Central Park. He had grumbled about it back then, preferring a slow morning with coffee and a book. But now, that memory was something else entirely—a distant thread connecting him to a past that felt both near and impossibly far away. And somehow, here in this world, running had taken on a different meaning. It was a test, a challenge, and a way to ground himself in reality, clear his thoughts, and push the limits of both his body and mind.
After today's session, the recruits had stood in formation, breath still heavy from exertion, awaiting his assessment. Constantine's gaze had swept over them, their tunics damp with sweat, their chests rising and falling. He knew the look of true exhaustion—but he also knew determination when he saw it.
"You've done well today," he had proclaimed, his voice carrying across the training yard.
One young soldier stood out—a recruit with an unshaken stance, his eyes burning with quiet resolve. Constantine recognized that fire. Without hesitation, he reached into his belt pouch and retrieved a small silver token, stepping forward and placing it firmly into the soldier's palm.
It was a habit of his—one he had started last year. Each year, a couple of soldiers would receive this token, not as a mere reward, but as a mark of challenge. A reminder that their fight was not just against an enemy, but against weakness, doubt, and complacency.
"This is not a gift," Constantine had said, his voice firm. "It is a challenge—to you, and to every man standing here. Every day, you must forge yourselves anew, shaping mind and body into something unbreakable. Strength fades, but discipline endures."
A murmur of approval had rippled through the ranks. They were starting to believe.
Now, back in the war room, that same fire still burned in Constantine's chest—but war was not just fought in the training grounds. It was fought here, on paper, in strategy, in decisions made long before a single sword was drawn.
Across the table, Theophilus Dragas observed him in silence, arms crossed, his sharp gaze scrutinizing every detail. The reports before them held the cold, hard truth of their situation—supplies, troop numbers, fortifications, and the ever-present burden of cost.
A knock at the heavy wooden door broke the quiet.
"Enter," Constantine called.
Theologos stepped inside, the dim light catching the gold trim of his dark red tunic. He moved with the discipline expected of an officer, yet there was a stiffness to his posture, a slight hesitation in his step. This was his first formal report before Constantine, and the weight of the moment was not lost on him.
He bowed deeply before clasping his hands behind his back.
"Despot," Theologos said, his voice steady but betraying the slightest edge of unease. "As per your orders, I bring the latest reports."
Constantine studied him for a moment, noting the tension in his shoulders, the way his fingers pressed tightly together. A good officer, competent, but young in his role. He knew that pressure well—he had felt it himself, not just as Constantine Palaiologos, but as Michael Jameston, standing before executives and clients, needing to project confidence even when doubt gnawed at his gut.
He offered Theologos a brief nod, allowing a small but reassuring smile to touch his lips. "You've been handling things well," he said, his tone calm yet firm. "The reports coming from the barracks have been thorough. Speak freely."
Theologos blinked, exhaling almost imperceptibly, the tension in his stance easing just slightly.
"Yes, Despot," he said with more confidence.
Constantine motioned for him to proceed.
"Regarding the recruitment efforts," Theologos began, "we have two thousand four hundred men currently undergoing training in pike formations, soon to be assigned to the tagma units. Another two hundred and fifty are in Pyrvelos training. Additionally, ten field cannons have been forged, and their crews are in active training."
Constantine gave a slow nod. Good. They were expanding, growing—but not nearly fast enough. Not fast enough.
"And the Hexamilion?" he asked, his voice measured.
Theologos turned slightly toward Theophilus, who took over.
"Captain Andreas is overseeing the defenses. Three tagma of pike infantry, two hundred Pyrvelos marksmen, and ten field cannons have been strategically positioned. An additional seven hundred men are stationed across the Duchy of Athens in garrison duties." He paused, flipping through a parchment. "Twelve hundred more are being trained at the Hexamilion camp. Additionally, the forges in Corinth are fully operational—they have just completed two Drakos cannons."
Theophilus tapped a section of the report, his expression tightening. "Captain Andreas is meeting our timetables. His leadership is solid." He exhaled, rubbing his temple. "But the costs... they are spiraling beyond our initial estimations. It is nearly twice what we had projected."
Constantine exhaled slowly. A familiar frustration twisted in his gut. The burden never relented.
"And what of Mystras? How is my friend George faring?" he pressed.
Theologos nodded. "George Sphrantzes has recruited one thousand men, many of them Albanians from the villages northeast of Mystras. They are en route to Hexamilion for training, mostly to reinforce our garrisons."
Theologos continued, "Additionally, the new dormitory sections in the barracks are completed. The new recruits will no longer have to sleep in makeshift tents outside."
A small relief. Constantine allowed himself a brief nod. Infrastructure. Stability. Discipline. These were the foundation stones of an army that could endure.
"And provisions?" he asked, shifting his focus.
"For now, we face no major issues," Theophilus replied. "Food supplies are stable. Gunpowder stocks are sufficient but will need replenishing before the next year."
Constantine nodded again. "Good. Keep monitoring closely."
Theologos gave a deep bow and excused himself.
A moment of silence stretched between Constantine and Theophilus, the only sounds the soft crackling of fire and the distant clank of armor from the courtyard below.
"You will never rest, will you?" Theophilus finally said, his voice laced with dry amusement.
Constantine smirked. "Would you rather I be content with what we have?"
Theophilus sighed, rubbing his temples. "No. But we are already expanding faster than we can sustain. The treasury is holding, but just barely. We simply spend too much."
Constantine straightened, his hands resting on the table's edge. "We need more recruits. More men. The Ottomans are not going to sit idle."
Theophilus crossed his arms. "And where, exactly, do you propose we find these men—and more importantly, how do you expect us to pay for them? More mercenaries? Sforza's company already drained our coffers last year."
Constantine gave him a measured look. Theophilus had always been cautious, pragmatic—but lately, he was becoming downright whiny. Every conversation these past couple of months seemed to circle back to expenditures, costs, budgets.They even paused ship construction at the new shipyard to cut costs. He understood the necessity of watching the treasury—he wasn't blind to their limitations—but they couldn't afford to think small. Not when their survival depended on being bold.
"Yes, I know. Sforza had been useful, but costly. His absence left a gap—one that had to be filled," he admitted, his fingers drumming against the wood. They needed more gold, more resources, and more ways to sustain their expansion.
His mind drifted back to a conversation he had a few nights ago over dinner with Niccolò, the Genoese trader. They had spoken at length about the Banco di San Giorgio, the powerful Genoese institution that financed wars, managed debts, and wielded immense influence over trade.
How could something like that work for Byzantium? A Byzantine banking system? A structured way to manage funds, secure loans, and expand their economy?
It was a radical idea, but the more he considered it, the more it made sense.
But before he could explore the idea more, another knock came.
"Enter," Constantine called.
The heavy wooden door creaked open, and Elias, the master blacksmith, stepped inside. Soot streaked his face, smudging his forehead and the creases of his weathered hands. The familiar scent of molten metal and singed leather clung to his clothes, marking him as a man who lived and breathed the forge. In his calloused hands, he clutched a tightly rolled parchment, smudged at the edges with charcoal and grease.
"Despot," Elias began, offering a quick but respectful bow. "I'm ready to report our progress."
Constantine gestured toward a chair. "Sit, Elias."
As Elias took his seat, Constantine leaned forward slightly, studying the blacksmith's rugged appearance. The man had clearly come straight from the forge, the heat of the furnaces still radiating from his clothes.
"I see you've come straight from work," Constantine remarked, allowing a small smile. "How is your family?"
Elias blinked, momentarily caught off guard by the question. He hesitated only for a second before his lips curled into a proud, soot-streaked grin.
"I enjoy working the forge myself, Despot. I can't just stand there and bark orders." He flexed his fingers slightly, as if feeling the lingering heat of the hammer in his grip. "And my family is well. My eldest son has begun working in the forge—he's learning quickly." There was unmistakable pride in his voice.
Constantine nodded, pleased. "Good. Great to hear that. A strong craft runs in the blood. I'm sure he'll make you proud."
Elias dipped his head in gratitude.
"Now," Constantine continued, his expression turning serious as he gestured toward the parchment in Elias' hands, "tell me what you have."
Elias passed the report to Theophilus and cleared his throat. "Despite our best efforts, the production of Pyrvelos remains slow. We've increased from one hundred and fifty to two hundred and fifty per year, but it's still far from the goals we set."
Constantine's jaw tightened. "Even with the artisans and additional blacksmiths we recruited?"
Elias nodded. "Even with the 'production chain' you proposed, my Despot. It helps, but there are still limitations."
"What about materials?" Theophilus asked, scanning the reports. "Bronze costs have risen i see."
Elias sighed. "We use a great deal of bronze. The cost to import it has increased. We're spending almost three ducats per Pyrvelos. A full gold ducat of that is just for the bronze."
Constantine drummed his fingers against the table. His mind drifted for a moment, back to the weapons of his previous life—steel swords, rifled muskets, even the mass-produced firearms of later centuries. Steel had been the foundation of military technology for centuries in the world he once knew. It was stronger than bronze, more durable, and far cheaper to produce on a large scale.
Constantine drummed his fingers. "What about steel?"
Elias shook his head. "Steel for firearms? It's difficult to work with, Despot. Unlike bronze, which pours smoothly and cools evenly, steel can be unpredictable. If handled poorly, it can become brittle or develop impurities that weaken it. But if we can learn the right techniques, steel could be cheaper and stronger than bronze."
He hesitated.
"Speak," Constantine ordered.
"I've been experimenting," Elias admitted, "with new techniques—specifically, improving the standardization of our casting molds. It's helping with bronze casting and will boost our production to an extent." He paused for a moment before continuing. "But there's something else. I've been in contact with a Venetian merchant for several months now—careful not to reveal too much, of course—but he's been asking about our Pyrvelos and cannons. In one of our conversations, he mentioned something… intriguing."
Constantine narrowed his eyes. "Go on."
"In Venice, they use finery forges—a more advanced method of refining iron into steel. It's different from what we use here. More efficient. The Venetians have been improving these techniques for years, and from what I've gathered, they're beginning to produce higher-quality iron and steel in larger quantities." Elias paused, his expression thoughtful. "If we could learn how they do it… we might be able to replicate it ourselves. Not for cannons or Pyrvelos, our bronze casting is already superior, but for armor, weapons, and even better tools for the army. Stronger steel would mean sharper blades and sturdier armor." He met Constantine's gaze. "With the right knowledge, we could equip our men with weapons and armor superior to anything we have now."
Constantine's mind clicked into place. Industrial espionage. He had seen it in his previous life—corporations fighting tooth and nail for an edge, sending men into the shadows to steal the secrets of their rivals. If it worked in the modern world, why not here?
He didn't need to be a metallurgist himself. What mattered was knowing who had the knowledge and how to bring it to the Morea.
He turned to Elias, his voice sharp and certain. "Prepare to leave immediately."
Elias blinked. "Leave? To where, my Despot?"
"Rome first," Constantine said. "Find Bessarion. He has the right connections—he'll know who to talk to. From there, Venice. Find out about those techniques of theirs. I want names—craftsmen, metallurgists, anyone with knowledge worth having. Offer them gold, high wages—whatever it takes to bring that expertise back to us."
Elias hesitated. "You want me to… steal Venetian metallurgy secrets?"
Constantine's lips curled into a half-smile. "Not steal—learn. We take what works, improve on what we already have, and make it our own."
Then, a thought struck him. In this time, there were no patents, no intellectual property laws. No treaties or courts to protect knowledge. But secrecy still had its guardians—guilds, workshops, states. They controlled their crafts by restricting apprenticeships, barring foreigners from learning their methods, and in some cases, forbidding craftsmen from leaving entirely.
He exhaled slowly. This would have to be handled carefully.
His expression hardened. "No—Elias, I've changed my mind. You're too valuable to risk. Send an apprentice, someone who understands the techniques. He'll travel with a few of my trusted agents, men who know how to be discreet."
Elias frowned. "And if the Venetians suspect?"
"Then he vanishes before they can act." Constantine crossed his arms. "No sudden moves. No obvious bribes. If Venice is too well-guarded, move on—Florence, Milan, even beyond. Italy isn't the only place with skilled smiths."
He leaned forward slightly, his gaze unwavering. "What I need from your apprentice is his expertise—a deep understanding of why their steel is superior, how they refine their iron, and anything else worth learning. If we know that, we can recreate and improve upon it here."
For a moment, Elias was silent. Then he nodded. "I have someone in mind."
"Good." Constantine's voice dropped, final and absolute. "Make sure he understands—if he's caught, he knows nothing. He was never there."
From the corner, Theophilus let out a low chuckle, shaking his head. "By the Holy Mother… you are truly mad."
Constantine let out a short laugh. 'I suspect you'd not wish for me to change, Theophilus."Like Award Reply122
Constantinople late 1432
The carriage rattled over the ancient stones of the city; each jolt served as a sharp reminder of how long it had been since Theodore last laid eyes on Constantinople. Once, he would have marveled at the great capital—the glimmering mosaics of the churches, the scent of spice and salt drifting from the harbors, the domes rising like celestial orbs above the city's uneven skyline.
Now, each shimmer of torchlight on golden tiles felt like a jeer.
He sat rigid in the carriage, fingers drumming against his knee, his face a careful mask of indifference. The streets outside bustled with life—merchants hawking wares, priests murmuring evening prayers, children darting through alleys like shadows. There was a time when such sights had stirred something in him, a quiet reverence for the empire's resilience.
That time had passed.
Selymbria had been a cage, gilded with duty but stifling nonetheless. His removal there, disguised as a reward, had been nothing short of exile. A message. One he had read clearly.
His lips curled in distaste as the carriage neared the Theodosian Walls, their weathered stones standing defiant against time, even as the empire behind them crumbled. This city still clung to the illusion of grandeur, like a beggar draped in the robes of an emperor long dead. The Blachernae quarter loomed in the distance, its silhouette dark against the fading dusk. It was there that the next act of this empire's tragedy would unfold.
A soldier riding alongside his carriage slowed to match his pace. "My lord, we will reach the Palace of Blachernae before the evening bells."
Theodore gave a slow nod, his gaze lingering on the Hagia Sophia as they passed within sight of its massive dome.
A monument to faith. A monument to compromise.
His grip on the seat's edge tightened. Soon, he would stand before his brother, Emperor John, who still entertained his foolish delusions of unity with the Latins. A sick man trying to bargain with the gravedigger, thinking a few kind words would delay the burial.
He exhaled, slowly and steadily, forcing his mind into clarity.
He had waited long enough.
Soon, the city that had cast him aside would witness his return—not as a humbled vassal, but as something greater. As something worthy of the throne.
Theodore stepped from the carriage, boots striking the polished stones of the palace courtyard. The Blachernae Palace rose before him—a fortress and a relic in equal measure, its high walls and isolated towers standing in defiant contrast to the slow decay of the empire it sheltered. Once, it had been a place of triumph, the seat of emperors who led armies into battle. Now, it felt more like a tomb.
Servants moved swiftly around him, eyes lowered, their robes whispering against the marble floors as they escorted him through the dimly lit corridors. The palace still clung to its opulence—vaulted ceilings adorned with fading gold leaf, frescoes of long-dead emperors watching from the walls, their painted gazes hollow with time. Yet, to Theodore, these were no longer symbols of majesty but ornaments of decline, reminders of a throne more fragile than ever.
At the doors to the imperial chamber, a servant paused to study him before announcing his presence.
"Theodore Palaiologos, Despot of Selymbria."
The doors groaned open.
Inside, Emperor John VIII Palaiologos sat on a modest throne, his robes of deep blue embroidered with golden double-headed eagles. The candlelight cast shadows across his lined face, accentuating the quiet weariness beneath his dignified composure. Beside him stood his advisors, their expressions carefully neutral, their presence a reminder that no meeting in this court was ever private.
Theodore approached, bowing stiffly.
"Your Majesty," he said, his voice controlled.
John VIII studied him for a long moment before speaking. "Theodore, it has been too long."
"Indeed, Majesty."
A pause stretched between them, a quiet weighing of intentions.
The Emperor gestured for him to rise. "I am pleased to hear that the transition of power in Mystras was smooth. The empire has need of loyal hands, now more than ever."
Theodore's mouth thinned. "Loyal hands." Words chosen carefully—words that reminded him he was being watched. Judged.
"My loyalty is to the empire, Majesty," he replied evenly.
John VIII's lips curved in something like amusement. "Yes. And to Orthodoxy, as you have often said."
The shift in conversation was deliberate. Theodore could feel the Emperor steering them toward the inevitable topic.
"We have had success in securing further support from the West," John continued, his voice calm but pointed. "With Constantine's efforts in Italy, his dealings with the Pope, and the victory at the Hexamilion against Murad's forces, we have more than just words—we have momentum. The Franks and Venetians see us as a cause worth backing, but they will not commit unless we stand united."
Theodore did not answer immediately. He had known this was coming.
"You speak of the union," he said at last.
"I do." The Emperor leaned forward slightly, his fingers clasped together. "This city—this empire—cannot stand alone against the Sultan. We must present a united front. The union is not merely a matter of faith, but of survival."
Theodore inhaled slowly, forcing the sharpness from his tone. "Survival at what cost?"
John's gaze did not waver. "At the cost of necessity."
There it was.
"Majesty," Theodore began carefully, his jaw tight, "to compromise the faith for political gain—"
"Is it compromise," John interrupted, "or is it wisdom? You believe the Latins will consume our traditions, but I tell you, it is the Ottomans who will consume our very existence if we do nothing."
Theodore's fingers curled into his sleeves, hidden from view. "Our people will not accept it. And neither will I."
The Emperor exhaled softly, a trace of something unreadable in his expression—disappointment, perhaps, or resignation.
"Then we are at an impasse," John murmured. "Again."
Silence settled between them, heavy with unspoken grievances.
Then, with a measured tone, the Emperor added, "You would do well to learn from your brother, Constantine. He understands the weight of these decisions."
Theodore felt a flicker of something close to fury, though he mastered it before it showed.
"My brother," he said carefully, "is not here."
John VIII watched him for a moment longer, then finally leaned back in his seat. "No. He is not."
A subtle dismissal.
Theodore bowed once more, turning on his heel and striding from the chamber, the Emperor's words pressing against his thoughts like a blade at his throat.
Constantine.
The favored son. The one whose absence was now being used as a rebuke.
He forced his anger down, focusing instead on what lay ahead. This meeting had only confirmed what he already knew.
John would never change.
Which meant neither could he.
The empire needed stronger hands to guide it. His hands.
Night had fallen over Constantinople, thick with silence and the scent of the Bosphorus—a humid mix of salt and decay. The lanterns lining the streets flickered, casting long, restless shadows along the ancient walls of the city.
Theodore stood at the edge of a deserted alley near the Kaligaria Gate, his cloak drawn tightly over his shoulders, his breath slow and controlled. He had spent the evening at the palace, enduring veiled admonitions and lectures on unity, on patience, on the necessity of bowing to the inevitable.
But patience had long since worn thin. He had bowed enough.
Beyond the gate, the city murmured with distant life—merchants closing their stalls, the occasional drunken laughter from the taverns near the harbor. But here, near the northernmost walls of Blachernae, all was quiet. Too quiet.
The sound of footsteps reached him first. Deliberate. Measured.
Theodore turned his head slightly, though he did not move from the shadows. He recognized the tread before he saw the man.
A hooded figure emerged from the gloom, his form briefly illuminated by the lanternlight before slipping back into darkness.
"The men are in position," the figure murmured.
Theodore nodded, his gaze shifting past him toward the gate. He had chosen the Kaligaria Gate precisely for this reason—it was less used, often overlooked, a perfect entry point for those who wished to come and go unseen.
"How many?" Theodore asked.
"Fifty are stationed within the city, waiting for your signal," the figure replied. "Another thirty are just outside the walls, concealed near the monastery ruins. And Demetrios's forces…" He hesitated. "They will come when the time is right."
Demetrios.
His brother had sworn loyalty to the cause, but Theodore knew better than to trust his word completely. Loyalty was a currency in this empire—one that could be spent or stolen.
Still, there was no turning back now.
Theodore exhaled slowly, his hand tightening into a fist.
"This is the only way," he murmured, more to himself than to his companion. "The Emperor clings to ruin. He does not see the danger before him."
The man at his side hesitated before speaking. "And if he resists?"
Theodore's expression did not change. He already knew the answer.
"Then he will be removed."
A gust of wind stirred the leaves near the walls, a whisper of movement in an otherwise breathless night.
Theodore turned, the flickering torchlight catching the sharp edge of his profile.
"Tell the men to wait for my command. When the gate opens, we move."
The figure gave a curt nod before vanishing into the darkness, leaving Theodore alone once more.
He lifted his gaze to the walls of Blachernae, the imperial residence that would soon be his.
No turning back now.
The iron hinges groaned softly as the Kaligaria Gate swung open.
For a moment, there was only silence—the kind that lingers before a storm, before the first strike of steel. Then came the hush of boots against cobblestone, the muted rustle of cloaks drawn tightly around armored men.
Theodore exhaled, his breath misting in the cold night air. No turning back now.
From the darkness beyond the gate, Demetrios's vanguard poured in—a force of a hundred men, half of them Ottomans, their weapons glinting faintly in the dim torchlight. Their presence was a bitter necessity. Allies of convenience. Nothing more.
Theodore watched as his own men—the loyalists he had gathered in secret—moved into formation, their expressions grim, their hands steady on the hilts of their weapons.
"We move quickly," Theodore murmured to the commander at his side. "No war cries, no wasted breath. By the time the palace wakes, it will be too late."
The commander nodded and signaled forward.
Eighty men—his best soldiers and a handful of loyal anti-unionist sympathizers—broke off toward the palace interior, disappearing into the labyrinthine halls of Blachernae. Their orders were clear:
Silence the guards before they could raise the alarm.Secure the imperial chambers.Take—or kill—the Emperor.Thirty others fanned out through the nearby streets, blocking key roads to prevent reinforcements from reaching the palace. The remaining twenty held the gate, waiting for Demetrios's main force—three hundred more men—to enter.
The first kill came swiftly.
A palace guard, barely alert, barely aware, barely breathing before his throat was opened with a single slice. His body was caught before it hit the ground, dragged into the shadows as his blood seeped into the cracks of the stone.
The attack unfolded like clockwork.
Shadowed figures slipped through corridors, steel flashing in the dim glow of torchlight. Blade met flesh. Armor met silence.
Theodore advanced through the palace halls, the distant echoes of struggle growing louder. His hand rested on the pommel of his sword, though he had not yet drawn it. Not yet.
Another cry—brief, stifled, gone.
A door flung open. A guard stumbled backward, blood pooling at his feet. The attackers moved with precision, cutting through the palace defenses before resistance could form.
Then came the first true clash.
A group of imperial guards, roused from their chambers, stumbled into the corridors—eyes wide, swords half-drawn, caught between sleep and battle.
"Traitors!" one of them roared, but the word was swallowed by the sound of steel.
A brutal melee erupted.
Theodore stepped aside as one of his men lunged forward, driving his blade into a guard's chest. The air filled with the raw, desperate sounds of battle—steel scraping against steel, grunts of pain, the dull thud of bodies hitting marble floors.
Then—a sudden thunder of boots.
More soldiers. The alarm was spreading. Not fast enough.
Theodore's pulse quickened, but his expression remained cold. This was war. It was never going to be clean.
Somewhere deeper within the palace, the Emperor still lived.
Not for long.
As if on cue, the palace doors burst open. Through them came the rest of Demetrios's army.
The clash of steel and the cries of the dying echoed through the Blachernae Palace, a once-grand Palace now reduced to a slaughterhouse. Blood smeared the marble floors, staining the imperial halls that had stood for centuries.
The imperial chambers lay ahead, the great doors shut, their gilded surface marred with fresh gouges from desperate blades. The guards inside were loyal, but outnumbered.
Theodore stepped over a fallen soldier, his breath steady, his grip firm around the pommel of his sword.
A single nod. A signal.
His men surged forward.
Axes splintered the doors apart.
Torchlight spilled into the Emperor's private chamber, illuminating the final, gasping remnants of resistance—five imperial guards, their swords raised, standing between their sovereign and death.
For a moment, time stretched thin.
Then, the silence shattered.
The battle was short and merciless.
The last of the guards fell, their lifeblood pooling across the marble tiles. And there, standing among the wreckage of his kingdom, was Emperor John VIII Palaiologos.
The sovereign of Byzantium. The man who had ruled an empire in decline.
Theodore stepped forward, his shadow stretching long across the room. John did not cower.
"Is this your remedy, Theodore?" the Emperor asked, his voice quiet, controlled. He looked upon the corpses of his guards, then back at his betrayer. "Will the Latins come to save us now?"
Theodore hesitated. For the first time.
He had imagined this moment many times. Yet now, standing before the man he had called Emperor, there was no satisfaction, no triumph—only inevitability.
"This empire has rotted under your weakness," Theodore said, his voice tight. "You barter with Rome like a beggar, believing their mercy will save us. You would sell our faith for the illusion of salvation."
John's lips curled into something almost amused. "And you would have me kneel before the Sultan instead?"
Theodore did not answer.
Behind him, footsteps approached. Heavy, certain.
Demetrios.
Theodore turned as his brother entered the chamber, his expression unreadable. Behind him, Ottoman soldiers stood in quiet observation. A reminder. A warning.
Demetrios stepped forward, studying the scene—the fallen guards, the shattered door, the Emperor standing tall even in defeat. Then, he drew his sword.
John VIII did not flinch.
Theodore tensed. "We take him alive."
Demetrios tilted his head, a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes. Pity, perhaps. Or something colder.
Then, without hesitation, he drove his sword into the Emperor's chest.
Theodore's breath caught.
John gasped, a sharp, wet sound, his body jerking before the strength left his legs. He crumpled to the floor, blood seeping across his robes, his lips parting as if to speak—but no words came.
The Emperor was dead.
Theodore's fury ignited. "Why did you do that?"
Demetrios turned to him, the blood still warm on his blade.
Then, he struck.
Pain—white-hot, searing—erupted in Theodore's side as Demetrios drove the sword into him. Deep. Merciless.
Theodore staggered, his breath stolen from his lungs, his vision narrowing to the sight of his brother's face—impassive, resolved.
"You hesitated," Demetrios murmured. "That's why you die now."
Theodore gasped, his knees buckling. His hands grasped for something—his sword, his brother, his empire.
His fingers curled around nothing.
He fell.
His blood mingled with the Emperor's.
His vision blurred, darkness creeping in.
His last breath was not a plea, nor a curse, but a truth whispered through crimson lips:
"You think you saved the empire, brother? No… you've doomed it."
Demetrios stepped over his dying form, his soldiers already moving to subdue the last remnants of Theodore's men.
He turned to the Ottoman warriors who had watched in silence.
"It is done."
Outside, the bells of the Hagia Sophia tolled.
The bodies of John VIII and Theodore lay for a full day in the courtyard of Blachernae, a grim warning to those who might dare resist. But there was no uprising, no attempt to avenge the fallen emperor.
There was no one left to fight for him.
The city had already lost many of its pro-unionists—those who had stood by John's dream of unity with Rome. Many had been purged in the chaos of the coup, cut down alongside the palace guards or arrested in the hours that followed. Others, seeing the inevitability of their defeat, fled into exile or took refuge in monasteries, hoping for mercy that would never come.
This left Constantinople's true majority in control: the anti-unionists.
And Demetrios was their emperor.
Unlike John, Demetrios saw the union with Rome as heresy, a betrayal of Orthodoxy, a desperate illusion that would never bring salvation. His rise to power, though violent, was welcomed by many as a return to the true faith. The clergy—those who had quietly resented John's negotiations with the Pope—did not weep for their fallen emperor.
The Patriarch, however, hesitated. Though he was no a true friend of the Latins, John VIII had still been the rightful ruler. A murder in the dark, a throne taken by blood—this was not how the Church wanted an emperor crowned.
But Demetrios had the army. The army and the city garrison had already accepted his rule. The nobles, too, saw where the wind was blowing and bent the knee before they could be labeled enemies.
And so, the Patriarch was forced to agree. Unwilling, but powerless, he blessed the new emperor.
Only one voice openly opposed Demetrios—his mother, Helena Dragas. As Empress Dowager, she refused to recognize him as Emperor, declaring that Constantine was John's rightful successor. She had hoped to serve as regent until Constantine could return from Morea, believing that only he could truly save Byzantium.
But her claim was ignored.
Within days, Demetrios ordered her sent to a monastery in Selymbria. It was not an execution, but it was no act of mercy either—she was a prisoner in all but name, condemned to live out her days in isolation.
She had been spared only because she was his mother.
Within days, the city had accepted its new emperor.
The streets did not rejoice, but they did not resist. For the people of Constantinople, this was not the first time a ruler had been overthrown, nor would it be the last.
Demetrios had taken the throne.
But now, he had to keep it.
The Ottomans had helped him rise—but what price would they demand? The Venetians and the Pope, who had once seen Byzantium as a cause worth aiding, would now turn away.
And then, there was Constantine.
He was far away now, in Morea. But he would return.
And when he did, the empire would bleed again.
Author note: In the original timeline, Demetrios twice attempted to claim the throne—first in 1442 with Ottoman support( He sought Murad II's support to overthrow John VIII. With Ottoman backing, he marched on Constantinople to claim the throne.) and later in 1448, hoping to be proclaimed emperor after John VIII's death. He was also a well-known anti-unionist, likely more for political reasons than religious conviction. In this timeline, however, events have accelerated, leading to an earlier confrontationLike Award Reply117sersorMar 24, 2025New
Late January 1433, Glarentza
The cold sand pressed against Constantine's bare feet as he ran along the shoreline, the rhythmic thud of his soldiers' footsteps merging with the crashing waves. The salt-laced wind whipped against his skin, filling his lungs with the crisp morning air. He welcomed the burn in his muscles, the strain in his calves—it grounded him, reminding him that no matter the weight of empire and duty, his body remained strong.
The men running beside him understood why their Despot trained this way. He was not simply their ruler; he was one of them. They ran as a unit, each breath shared, each stride mirroring the next. For Constantine, these moments were a brief escape—no courtiers, no politics, just the raw simplicity of movement and discipline.
Ahead, the Ionian Sea stretched endlessly, its surface shifting under the pale winter sky. The sun had barely begun its ascent when one of the officers running beside him, Manuel Laskaris, suddenly slowed.
"Despot," Manuel called, his voice firm but edged with curiosity. "There's a ship."
Constantine followed his gaze, shielding his eyes with one hand as he spotted the vessel in the distance. It moved deliberately toward Glarentza's harbor, its dark sails stark against the pale mist rising from the water.
"A ship?" Constantine murmured, furrowing his brow.
Manuel wiped the sweat from his forehead, keeping pace beside him. "Strange to see one this time of year. Most merchants avoid the winter waters unless their business is urgent."
"Or desperate," Constantine added, eyes narrowing. "And that is no merchant vessel."
Manuel nodded. "A messenger, then? Or worse—one carrying trouble from across the sea."
Constantine exhaled sharply, refocusing. He gestured toward the men still running ahead. "We'll find out soon enough. Let's finish the run."
They pressed on, the ship a dark omen lingering on the horizon.
Castle of Clermont, Glarentza – Late Morning
The hall was silent, save for the distant echo of boots on stone as Constantine entered. The morning's exertion still clung to his skin, the salt of the sea and sweat drying on his arms, but his mind had long since shifted away from the shore.
A ship arriving in the heart of winter was no trivial matter. He had known, even before stepping into the hall, that whatever news it carried would not be good.
Two men stood before him, their faces weary, their cloaks still damp from the journey. The older of the two, Diocles Argyropoulos, had been a known follower of Emperor John—a man whose loyalty to the imperial family stretched back generations. The younger, Alexios Doukas, bore the unmistakable weight of a man who had seen too much in too short a time.
Constantine stepped forward, his expression shifting from measured authority to something more familiar as his gaze settled on Diocles Argyropoulos.
"It has been many years, old friend," Constantine said, his voice carrying a warmth that momentarily cut through the tension in the hall. "I did not expect to see you again under such circumstances, but it is good to have you here."
Diocles gave a weary smile, the lines on his face deepened by age and hardship. "And it is good to see you, Despot. Though I wish our journey had been made under better skies."
Constantine's eyes flickered between him and the younger man, Alexios Doukas, whose haggard features told of restless nights and urgent flight. His warmth was quickly tempered by concern.
"You have braved winter waters, risked the storms that prey upon these coasts." His voice lowered, edged with curiosity. "Whatever has brought you here—it could not wait for a safer voyage in spring?"
The silence that followed was answer enough.
Diocles sighed, his shoulders heavy with the weight of his message. "No, Despot. It could not."
Constantine's stomach tightened.
"Then speak," he said, his tone no longer welcoming but wary. "What has happened?"
Diocles met his gaze and took a breath. "Despot, your brother, the Emperor is dead. Assassinated in the palace."
The words struck like a blade to the chest.
Constantine remained still, though the world around him seemed to tilt.
John is dead.
It shouldn't have been a shock. John had always been a man too willing to place his fate in the hands of others. Still, an assassination? And in the heart of his own palace?
"How?" he asked, the word cold, measured.
Diocles hesitated only a moment before speaking. "There was a coup in the capital." He glanced at Alexios before continuing. "Theodore and Demetrios turned against John. They stormed the palace, cut down his guards, and murdered him."
Constantine inhaled slowly. Theodore? That he could believe. His brother had never hidden his ambitions. He had been simmering with resentment for years, waiting for the right moment to claim what he saw as his due.
But then Diocles continued, and the air in the room seemed to freeze.
"After the deed was done, Demetrios turned on Theodore. He betrayed him—had him killed. It was all planned."
A long silence followed.
Constantine's hand tightened into a fist.
Theodore was reckless, but he was no fool. Had he truly believed Demetrios would share power? Or had he, even in the end, failed to see the knife coming?
"And now?" Constantine forced the words out.
"Demetrios has been crowned Emperor."
The cold in his veins deepened.
"The Sultan backs him," Alexios added bitterly. "He has already secured his throne with Ottoman support. He rules with their hand on his shoulder."
Constantine exhaled slowly, his mind racing through the implications.
His brothers were dead. Constantinople had fallen—not to a siege, but to treachery from within. And Demetrios, their mother's most wayward son, had sold himself to the Turks.
He looked at Diocles and Alexios, the weight of their words still settling.
"Is my mother safe?"
Diocles nodded. "She lives. But she refused to acknowledge Demetrios. He has sent her to a monastery in Selymbria."
Of course, she had refused. Helena Dragas was not a woman who bent easily, even to her own sons.
Constantine took another slow breath, willing himself to remain composed. His mind drifted briefly to the history he had once known, the past that had once seemed inevitable. John had not died like this. Theodore had not perished by treachery.
His actions had caused this world to change in unexpected ways—not only through his victories against Murad and his printing presses, but in every aspect.
Finally, he straightened, his voice steady despite the storm brewing beneath the surface. "Then we have much to discuss."
The empire was bleeding.
The council chamber flickered with the warm glow of candlelight, casting long shadows against the stone walls. Outside, the winter wind howled through the streets, rattling wooden shutters and sending bursts of chill through the cracks in the castle walls. Inside, however, the air was thick with tension.
Constantine sat at the head of the table, his fingers pressed together as he looked at his two trusted advisors. Theophilus Dragas was seated to his right, his usual composed demeanor unshaken, though his eyes carried the weight of grim realization. Georgios Gemistos Plethon, on his left, stroked his beard thoughtfully, his keen mind already dissecting the crisis at hand.
"Demetrios has the throne," Constantine said at last, his voice low but firm. "And the Ottomans hold him."
Theophilus leaned forward, his expression darkening. "Then, in truth, Constantinople is under the Sultan's shadow. Demetrios may wear the purple, but he is no emperor—he is Murad's steward in all but name."
"Not officially," Plethon interjected, his tone measured but filled with certainty. "But in spirit, yes. And if the people do not yet see that, we must make them."
Constantine's gaze locked onto the philosopher. "What do you suggest, Plethon?"
Plethon leaned forward slightly, the candlelight flickering against the deep lines of his face. "The Ieros Skopos network can be used to spread the truth of Demetrios's treachery. In Morea, in the Duchy of Athens—perhaps even in the capital itself." He tapped his fingers on the table. "The people must learn that their emperor was murdered in cold blood, not by a foreign invader, but by his own kin. And more than that, that Demetrios does not rule as a Byzantine sovereign, but as a mere extension of the Sultan's will."
Constantine exhaled slowly. A war of words before a war of swords. It was not the decisive strike he longed for, but it was the only battlefield they could fight on for now.
"And the West?" he asked, shifting his focus to Theophilus. "Would they recognize my claim?"
Theophilus nodded, already anticipating the question. "They must. The Pope, the Venetians, the Genoese—all have vested interests in Byzantium's survival. And more importantly, they rely on us for trade, for books, for knowledge." He gestured slightly. "Demetrios will bring the city further into Ottoman dependency. That alone will concern them. They will not abandon their investments so easily."
Plethon's gaze sharpened. "Then you must be crowned."
Constantine arched a brow. "Here? In Glarentza?"
"No," Plethon said, his voice firm. "In Mystras. A formal ceremony, legitimate in the eyes of our people and the world. Mystras carries weight—it is a city of culture, history, and authority. A proper coronation must be held swiftly, and letters must be sent to the courts of Europe proclaiming you as the true emperor."
He let his words settle before adding, "The Latin world may not love us, but they will not love a Sultan's puppet, either."
Constantine exhaled through his nose. It made sense. He could not march on Constantinople. Not yet. They lacked the army, the fleet, the resources to challenge Murad head-on. But what they could do—what they must do—was declare themselves, build legitimacy, gather support, and prepare for the day when the empire could be reclaimed.
He turned to Theophilus. "Send word to Captain Andreas at the Hexamilion. I want him on high alert for any movement—whether from the Ottomans or from Demetrios" He paused, considering. "Also, dispatch a message to George Sphrantzes in Mystras. He must begin preparations for the coronation."
Theophilus inclined his head. "It will be done."
Plethon leaned back in his chair, his gaze thoughtful. "In the meantime, we must also prepare the Morea for what is to come. There will be those who hesitate to recognize you. Some nobles will fear Ottoman reprisal, others might see an opportunity to maneuver for their own gain. We must ensure that our base of support is strong."
Constantine nodded, absorbing the truth in his words. They could not afford division—not now.
He sat back, exhaling slowly. The pieces were in motion.
Within a month, the coronation would take place. The letters would be sent. The Ieros Skopos network would whisper Demetrios's betrayal into every shadowed corridor from Morea to Constantinople.
For now, it was all they could do.
That night, Constantine stood alone on the battlements of Clermont Castle, gazing at the dark, restless sea in the distance. The wind had a sharp bite to it, rolling in from the Ionian depths, carrying with it the briny scent of salt and the distant whisper of waves crashing against the shore. The moon hung low in the sky, its silver glow shimmering on the water, stretching toward the horizon like a path leading to the unknown.
He had stood here before—many nights, many times—seeking solace in the vastness of the sea, as if its endless expanse could provide the answers he sought. But tonight was different. Tonight, he carried the weight of a world shifting beneath his feet.
His mind replayed the events of the day in unrelenting clarity. John—dead. Theodore—betrayed and slain. Demetrios—enthroned in the capital with Ottoman chains wrapped around his wrists. His brothers were gone, and the empire he had sworn to defend had been stolen from within.
History had begun to slip through his fingers.
A slow exhale left his lips, curling into the cold night air. He had taken the name of an emperor destined to fall: Constantine XI Palaiologos. In another life, in another time, that name had been a death sentence—his reign the last breath of a dying empire.
But this timeline was no longer the one he had once known. Far from it.
He turned the thought over in his mind again, measuring it against the memories of a past that had not yet come to pass. John had not died this way. Theodore had not been struck down in treachery. Demetrios had never ruled Constantinople. These were not mere ripples in time; they were fractures—deep and irreversible.
Yes, he had known his actions would change the course of history. The introduction of the printing press, the spread of knowledge, the victories against Murad—he had accepted that these things would reshape the future. That was the point. That was why he had fought so hard, why he had embraced this strange, impossible fate.
But this—this was something else entirely. This was a side effect of huge proportions, one he had never anticipated.
The pieces of the world were no longer falling into familiar places. He had spent years preparing for a future he believed he understood—one where the great clash with the Ottomans still loomed on the horizon, one where the weight of the past had already dictated its course. But now? Now he had no map, no guide.
And that terrified him.
Because if this could happen—if his presence had set in motion a coup that had never been, had undone the fates of his brothers—what else had he changed without realizing it?
What other fractures in time had he already caused?
What other unseen consequences would his actions bring?
The future he had once known was now nothing more than a fading specter, slipping further and further beyond his grasp.
His fists clenched at his sides. Was that a gift? Or a warning?
The sea offered no answers. It never did.
The wind howled through the stone parapets, carrying with it the sounds of the sleeping city in the distance. Glarentza lay in quiet slumber, unaware of the tides of history shifting in the darkness. But Constantine knew. He felt it in his bones.
Would he steer Byzantium toward survival? Could he? Or had his very presence in this world only hastened its doom?
The thought lingered, unwelcome and heavy.Like Award Reply111sersorMar 27, 2025NewAdd bookmarkView discussionThreadmarks Chapter 61: On the Road to Kingship New View contentsersor