Michael Jameston, a 55-year-old American book sales executive and former silkscreen craftsman, awakens to an impossible reality: he now inhabits the body of Constantine Palaiologos, Despot of Morea and soon to be the last emperor of Byzantium. Initially questioning his sanity, Michael quickly embraces the extraordinary opportunity before him. Armed with his expertise in silkscreen printmaking, a passion for medieval battle reenactments, and a fascination with alternate history, he possesses knowledge of inventions and strategies centuries ahead of his time. Determined to survive and make a lasting impact, he sets out to reshape a world on the brink of monumental change.
A sharp, piercing noise shattered the quiet void of my mind, yanking me from the depths of sleep. Pain throbbed behind my eyes—dull yet persistent—as if someone had driven nails into my skull. I groaned, instinctively squeezing my eyes shut, hoping to push the ache away. Something was wrong. Very wrong.
The dense, cold, alien air brushed against my skin, sending a shiver crawling up my spine. Where was the gentle hum of the air conditioner? The familiar scent of last night's chamomile tea? My bed felt too firm, and the sheets were coarse, scratching my skin like sandpaper. Slowly, cautiously, I opened my eyes.
What greeted me was utterly foreign. Above, dark wooden beams stretched across the ceiling, polished and gleaming—not the smooth plaster of my bedroom. Stone walls loomed around me, the kind you'd expect to find in a medieval fortress. Panic surged in my chest as I pushed myself up, my muscles protesting in a way that felt off, wrong, foreign. I looked down at the hands in my lap.
These weren't my hands.
I remembered my hands—slightly wrinkled, the skin soft from years spent turning pages rather than wielding weapons. There was a small scar on my left index finger from when Jason and I had tried to build a treehouse. We'd laughed so hard when the plank slipped, and I'd nicked myself with the saw. The memory brought a pang of longing. What would my sons, Jason and Nick, think if they saw me now?
My heart raced as I stared at my chest, flat and muscled instead of comfortably padded like I was used to. My breath quickened, short and ragged. Swinging my legs over the bed, I nearly tripped over the edge of a heavy rug that covered the cold, stone floor.
A voice behind me, soft and gentle, pierced the panic. "Does something trouble you, my Despot?"
I froze, the word echoing in my mind. Despot. The term was in Greek—a language I knew bits of thanks to my Yaya. But this was different; I understood it perfectly, as if I had spoken it my entire life. The word floated at the edges of my memory, yet it felt wrong. Not my title. Not my life. I swallowed hard, turning slowly toward the voice.
A woman lay there, dark hair cascading over her shoulders, her features soft, though her eyes held concern as she studied me. She knew me. But I didn't know her.
I stared at her, my chest tightening. Who was she? More importantly—*who was I?*
Suddenly, memories flooded my mind—memories that didn't belong to me—stern, battle-hardened faces under crested helmets, battlefields drenched in blood, the thunderous clash of swords and shields, and Ottoman banners, black and gold, flapping in the wind.
The sensation was suffocating, like I was drowning in a sea of memories that weren't mine but somehow felt like they had always been there, waiting for me to remember them.
"No..." I muttered under my breath, gripping my head, my fingers digging into my scalp. "This can't be real."
I forced myself to look down at the hands again—youthful, scarred, marked by a life of battle. But whose life? Certainly not mine. The room spun, and I sank onto a nearby stool, the cold stone wall pressing against my back as I buried my face in my hands. Was this a dream? No, it felt too real. The smoky scent of burning wood, the chilly draft cutting through the room—everything was too vivid, too alive.
*Who am I?*
I tried to speak, to demand answers from the woman in the bed, but my voice faltered. When the words finally came, they were deep and resonant—a voice I did not recognize.
"I... I'm fine," I stammered, the unfamiliar voice grating against my ears.
Her face softened, relief washing over her as she leaned back into the bed. Her concern melted into sleepy reassurance. "You've been restless in your sleep," she said, her voice gentle and soothing.
Restless. That was an understatement. My mind was spinning, fragments of memories pushing their way to the surface, each more alarming than the last. Constantinople, its towering walls looming large against the horizon. Endless councils with generals, their faces etched with exhaustion. The weight of responsibility—both in metal and in spirit—is pressing down on me. The weight of a crown. But not just any crown.
*Constantine.*
The realization struck like a lightning bolt, cold and fierce, leaving me breathless. *Constantine Palaiologos.* The last emperor of Byzantium. How could that be? I wasn't him—I was Michael Jameston. A fifty-five-year-old American. I sold books, for God's sake.
But as I examined my hands—his hands—scarred and hardened from battle, the truth dug its claws into me. This body wasn't mine, yet somehow, it was. I was Constantine. Somehow, I was.
I rose shakily from the stool, gripping the wall for support, feeling the cold stone bite into my skin. Panic clawed at my throat, but I forced myself to breathe—in and out, slow and steady. I needed to think.
How? Why?
Constantine's memories, life, and struggles were pouring into me, overwhelming my sense of self. The more I resisted, the stronger the memories became. The Morea. The title she had used—*Despot*. My breath hitched. This was real. I was here, in his body, in his world.
I closed my eyes, hoping the darkness would provide some escape, some reprieve, but it only sharpened the flood of memories. I had stood in the halls of Constantinople, spoken with Emperor John VIII, and fought on the front lines of an empire on the brink of collapse.
I was Constantine Palaiologos.
The realization hit me like a blow to the chest, and I gasped for air, my hands trembling as I gripped the rough stone wall.
I couldn't be. Yet... I was.
The woman—*Theodora*, his wife—watched me with concern and confusion. She rose from the bed, her gown whispering against the floor as she approached. "Are you certain you're well?" she asked softly.
I forced myself to meet her gaze, seeing the genuine worry etched in her eyes. "I'm just... overwhelmed," I managed to say, the words foreign yet somehow fitting.
She offered a gentle smile. "You've taken on so much lately. The responsibilities here in the Morea, the matters with your brothers. It's no wonder you're feeling the weight of it all."
I nodded slowly, seizing on her words. "Yes, that's it. Just... the weight of everything."
Her hand rested lightly on my arm, a comforting gesture that only deepened the surreal nature of the moment. "Perhaps some fresh air would help clear your mind," she suggested. "Or a ride through the countryside?"
"Maybe later," I replied, attempting a reassuring smile. "I think I just need a moment."
She squeezed my arm gently before stepping back. "Of course. I'll have breakfast sent up for us."
As she approached the door, I took a deep breath, trying to steady myself. Once she was gone, I allowed myself to sink back onto the stool, running a hand through my hair.
I needed to understand what was happening. Was this some kind of vivid hallucination, a dream, or had I truly been transported into Constantine Palaiologos's body?
I tried to recall the last thing I remembered as Michael Jameston. Closing up the bookstore late at night, the scent of paper and ink lingering in the air. The sound of rain tapping against the windows. I had felt a sharp pain—a headache unlike any I'd experienced before—and then... darkness.
And now, I was here.
I stood and moved toward the window, pushing aside the heavy drapes. The view that greeted me stole the breath from my lungs. Rolling hills stretched toward the horizon, dotted with olive groves and vineyards. In the distance, the sun cast a golden glow over the rugged mountains. It was breathtaking—and entirely unlike anything I'd ever seen.
This was real.
I reached up to touch my face, feeling the stubble of a beard along my jaw. Turning, I caught sight of a polished metal mirror resting on a nearby table. Hesitant, I approached it.
The face that stared back was not my own. Dark hair framed a strong, angular face, with piercing eyes that held a depth I didn't recognize. A face young but hardened by years of responsibility and conflict.
I was Constantine.
A mix of fear and awe coursed through me. If this was real—if I indeed was in his body—then what did that mean? For me? For history?
I knew what was coming. The fall of Constantinople. The end of the Byzantine Empire. And here I was, inhabiting the body of the man who would be its last emperor.
Could I change it? Was I meant to?
A knock at the door jolted me from my thoughts. "Enter," I called out, the deep timbre of my voice still unsettling.
A young servant stepped inside, carrying a tray with bread, cheese, and fruit. "Your breakfast, Despot," he said with a bow.
"Thank you," I replied, watching as he set the tray on the table. As he turned to leave, I stopped him. "Wait."
He paused, glancing up at me with a mix of curiosity and caution.
"What is your name?" I asked.
"Alexios, Despot."
"How long have you served here, Alexios?"
"All my life, Despot. My father was a steward before me."
I nodded thoughtfully. "Thank you, Alexios. That will be all."
He bowed again before quietly exiting the room.
I sank into a chair by the table, staring at the simple meal before me. My mind raced with possibilities, questions, and fears. If I had this knowledge—if I knew what was to come—could I use it to change the course of history? To save the empire? Or would my interference only make things worse?
But another fear was gnawing at the edges of my thoughts: Could I ever go back? Was this some kind of nightmare I would wake from, or had I been pulled permanently into this world? Am I trapped here? The uncertainty clawed at me, making it hard to breathe.
Author's Note: In early 1428, Byzantine Emperor John VIII Palaiologos launched a campaign against Glarentza. During the Battle of the Echinades, the Byzantine fleet successfully defeated Count Tocco's forces, ending his influence in the Morea. This victory led to a negotiated settlement where John VIII's brother, Constantine Palaiologos, married Carlo Tocco's niece. As part of her dowry, Constantine received Glarentza and other Tocco-held territories in the Morea. At this time, Constantine's brother Theodore Palaiologos controlled Messinia, Laconia, and parts of Arcadia, while their younger brother Thomas ruled over the region of Kalavryta in the northern Morea. Together, they managed the defense and administration of these key territories.
Theodora slept soundly beside him, her breath slow and even, a gentle rhythm against the chaos in Michael's mind. The rise and fall of her chest, the soft murmur as she shifted in her sleep—each minor detail was a reminder that she was part of this world, Constantine's world. A world that, for two long, torturous days, he had been trapped in.
Michael perched on the bed's edge, shadows cloaking the chamber. The silence pressed in, broken only by the distant tolling of a bell. Two days had passed since he'd awoken in this alien body, two days of wrestling with a reality that defied explanation. He could no longer hide.
Rising abruptly, he crossed to the window and threw open the shutters. The cold night air hit his face, sharp and invigorating. Below, the castle grounds stretched out, torches flickering along the walls. He needed to step into this world to confront whatever awaited.
He exhaled, the breath heavy, weary. **I can't keep pretending.** He knew that much. But what was he supposed to do? Hiding here, in this stone chamber, wasn't solving anything. And yet stepping into Constantine's life—**his life now**—felt like a prison. Every hour that passed was like the walls of that prison closing in tighter, suffocating him.
Slowly, careful not to wake Theodora, Michael rose from the bed and moved toward the narrow window. The cold stone floor chilled his feet, but he welcomed the sensation—it was something real, something he could feel. As he gazed out at the dark hills of the Morea, the distant flickers of firelight from the villages below did little to comfort him. This world, this **foreign** world, was now his reality.
He gripped the window ledge, his fingers tracing the rough stone, his hands calloused and scarred— Constantine's hands. They were strong, capable hands of a warrior. Michael stared down at them, still unable to reconcile the sight. **How long can I keep this up?** How long before someone saw through the mask and realized that the man they thought was their leader was an imposter, a fraud?
His thoughts drifted, unwillingly, to the family he had left behind. **What happened to my body?** Was he lying unconscious in a hospital, his ex-wife Ellen and his two sons, Jason and Nick, at his bedside? Or had he simply vanished from their world, leaving them to wonder if he had abandoned them completely? The thought cut deep. **Would they even notice I'm gone?**
Jason was always the ambitious one, diving headfirst into college and barely looking back. The last time we'd spoken, he'd been rushing off the phone, promising to visit "when things settled down." On the other hand, Nick was my quiet shadow, content with a good book and a cup of cocoa. We'd spend hours in comfortable silence, each lost in our own worlds yet together. Had I taken those moments for granted? A lump formed in my throat at the thought that I might never see them again.
He clenched his fists, frustration rising in his chest. **There might not be a 'later' anymore.** He had taken his time for granted, assuming there would be endless tomorrows to make things right. Now, those tomorrows felt as distant as the 21st century itself. Would his sons even realize how much he had cared? Or had they already written him off, just as Ellen had?
Ellen's laughter echoed faintly in my memory—the way she'd tilt her head back, eyes sparkling. We hadn't shared a laugh like that in years. Our last conversation had been strained, filled with awkward pauses and half-hearted promises to "catch up soon."
Ellen. His ex-wife. She was busy with her career and with her life. He knew she wouldn't miss him immediately— weeks could pass before she even realized he was gone. **And when she does?** The thought stung, but there was no escaping it. His life, the life he had worked so hard to rebuild after the divorce, was slipping away from him, just like everything else.
He sighed, leaning his forehead against the cold stone wall. **What does any of it matter now?** The 21st century was out of reach. His family, his old life—they were gone. And yet, they still haunted him no matter how far away they felt. How could he focus on this strange, medieval world when all he could think about were the people he had left behind?
Theodora stirred behind him, her soft voice mumbling something unintelligible in her sleep. She had been nothing but kind these last two days, offering him gentle words and space to recover from his supposed illness. But Michael couldn't bring himself to meet her kindness with anything but distance. This woman—Constantine's wife—looked at him with trust, with the comfort of a partner. And yet, he was a stranger. How long before she sensed it? Before the mask he wore slipped, and she realized the truth?
His mind wandered to his grandmother, the woman who had filled his childhood with tales of Byzantium, Constantinople, and the great emperors who had once ruled these lands. **If she could see me now...** But the thought wasn't as triumphant as he had once imagined it would be. Standing here, in the shadow of an empire on the brink of collapse, Michael felt nothing but the crushing weight of inevitability. His grandmother's stories had been full of glory and heroism. But this—this was suffocating.
He knew what was coming. The Ottomans. The fall of Constantinople. And here he was, in the thick of it. **How can I stop it?**
Michael gripped the windowsill tighter, the cold stone biting into his skin. Constantine's memories, his life, pressed in on him from all sides, drowning out his own thoughts. His hands, his muscles—everything felt different, as if Constantine was seeping into him, erasing who he had been. **I'm still Michael Jameston,** he told himself, but it felt less true with each passing moment. Each time someone called him "Despot," each time he looked into the mirror, that identity slipped further away.
**Twenty-five years.** He had twenty-five years before the final blow fell, before Constantinople crumbled. But what could he do in that time? He wasn't a leader. He wasn't a strategist. He was a man from the future, armed with knowledge but no idea how to wield it. **What if I can't change anything?**
The thought terrified him. What if he failed? What if this empire, this world, was destined to fall no matter what he did? His hands trembled as he pulled them away from the window, staring at them as if they didn't belong to him.
The weight of Constantine's life was overwhelming. **I'm not Constantine.** But here, in this world, he had no choice but to be. Could he become that man? Could he save the empire?
He leaned heavily against the wall, trying to still the rising panic. Michael's life—his family, job, modern comforts—was gone. But he still had something. He had **knowledge**. He could use that. He had to use it.
But even as he thought it, the doubt gnawed at him. Was he capable of changing history? Could one man— one man out of time—really save an empire?
He shook his head, unable to focus. His thoughts were a jumble, the weight of two worlds pressing down on him. Tomorrow, he would have to leave this room. He couldn't hide forever. He would need to start... something. But tonight, just for a little longer, he allowed himself to mourn. To be Michael Jameston, a father, a man from a future he might never see again.
It was the third day since I woke up in this body, and today, I decided it was time to stop pretending.
For two days, I had told Theodora and the court that I was too ill to leave my chambers, too weak to fulfill the duties of Despot. But the charade couldn't last forever. Today, I would finally step out of my isolation and face this new life to see what awaited me beyond these stone walls. I had no choice. The world would not wait.
As I walked through the cold stone halls of Clermont Castle, the weight of expectation settled heavily on my shoulders. Servants tiptoed, bowing as I passed, their gazes averted in silent deference. I tried to move purposefully, to mimic the confidence of the man they thought I was. But everything felt wrong—the heavy Byzantine robes clung to my skin, the layered fabric stiff and unfamiliar. Even the air in these halls felt thick with history and duty, and I was a stranger walking in someone else's life.
Constantine's memories surged within me, vivid scenes of battlefields and council chambers flashing like lightning strikes. The weight of his past pressed against my mind, but the finer threads—those everyday nuances—remained frustratingly out of reach.
Servants and courtiers paused as I passed through the grand corridor, their whispers hushed but perceptible. Their gazes followed me, expectant and probing. A pair of guards snapped to attention, their armor clinking softly. I straightened my posture, forcing a confident stride. If I couldn't be Constantine, I would at least appear to be.
I turned a corner and came face to face with George Sphrantzes, Constantine's most trusted advisor. He bowed slightly, his sharp gaze never leaving my face, as though searching for something beneath the surface.
"Despot," he said, his tone smooth but testing. "I am heartened to see you in better spirits, truly. It was worrisome to see you so burdened." He paused, then continued with a hint of familiarity. "The lords of the region await your council in the coming days. This will be your first formal meeting with them, and there are matters that require your attention before we convene."
The "first council". My heart raced. Constantine had only recently taken control of the region, so the lords and nobles here didn't know him—didn't know me. This would be their first real look at their new Despot, the man they expected to lead them. And I wasn't ready.
"Yes, of course," I replied, fighting to keep my voice calm, though the knot in my stomach tightened. "What matters, exactly?"
As soon as I asked, I felt that familiar fog creeping into my mind. I had his memories, but not all of them. Significant events, battles, decisions—those were clear, like vivid scenes from a life that wasn't mine. But the more minor details, the ones I needed now, remained frustratingly blurry. It was as if Constantine's mind was a puzzle, and I had only the corner pieces, leaving the rest incomplete. I knew enough to seem like him, but not enough to be him.
George raised an eyebrow, though his expression remained unreadable. "The grain stores, the fortifications around Clermont, and the skirmishes along the borders of Morea with the Duchy of Athens," he recited, his tone formal, as if reminding me of matters I should already know. "You requested updates before the council convenes."
Constantine had requested those updates, not me. I swallowed hard, trying not to let my uncertainty show. These memories and responsibilities belonged to him, not me. But I had to act as though they were mine.
"I see," I said, forcing a nod. "Remind me of the... most pressing of these."
George's gaze flickered momentarily, and I could sense a sliver of doubt in his eyes. "The fortifications, Despot," he replied carefully. "The defenses around Clermont are weak, and the local lords fear an Ottoman raid. We must decide whether to divert resources to reinforce the western walls or strengthen our watch along the Morea borders."
I took a slow breath, trying to remain steady. I had access to the grand strokes of Constantine's memory, but the tactical decisions, the names, the intricate politics of this world—the gaps that made everything feel like it was slipping through my fingers. The Ottomans were a known threat—one that would loom over this world for years to come—but my knowledge of how to address them now, at this moment, was clouded by Constantine's incomplete recollections.
"We will... discuss it soon," I managed to say, hoping I sounded calm, though inside, I was reeling. "Ensure that everything is ready for the council."
George bowed again, though there was something in his eyes—a flicker of doubt or perhaps concern. He watched me closely, waiting for Constantine to reveal himself. But I wasn't Constantine.
"As you command, Despot," he said, his voice steady, before turning and walking away down the corridor, leaving me standing alone with my thoughts.
I exhaled, releasing a breath I hadn't realized I was holding. I had bought myself a little more time, but not much. The council was fast approaching, and soon, these lords would expect answers—decisive leadership. They didn't know me yet, but they would soon enough.
And that terrified me. Because I didn't know if I could be the man they needed. I had Constantine's memories, yes. But they were fragmented, blurred in the places where I needed clarity the most. I was an outsider, trying to fill the shoes of a Despot.
After George departed, the stone walls of Clermont Castle pressed in around me, the air thick with the scent of burning torches. My breaths grew shallow. I needed to escape.
Moments later, I emerged into the courtyard, the sun casting long shadows. Two guards stepped behind me without a word, their chainmail rustling—a constant, metallic reminder of my new reality.
"Where to, Despot?" one guard asked.
I glanced back at the looming castle walls. "Into the village," I said. "I wish to see it."
We walked out, the path winding down toward the cluster of homes and shops that made up the village. As we approached, the sounds of daily life reached my ears—the murmur of voices, the clatter of a blacksmith's hammer, the distant laughter of children. The air was thick with the smell of woodsmoke, damp earth, and the faint odor of livestock. It was a far cry from the sanitized world I once knew, but this was reality now.
As I walked down the dirt path, the guards keeping pace behind me, I couldn't help but feel the weight of every step. I was supposed to be their ruler, walking with purpose, with command. But inside, I felt like a stranger, but to them, I was the Despot, their protector.
The quiet of this world unnerved me. There was no hum of machines, no rush of cars, only the creak of wooden carts and the occasional bleating of goats in the distance. Everything felt fragile. The village, the people —this whole world seemed so delicate, as if one gust of wind could tear it all apart.
I scanned the village, trying to take it all in. Children played in the dirt, their laughter rising above the murmurs of working men and women. A group of men patched a barn roof with straw, while women knelt by a cottage, washing clothes. The cottages were crooked, their walls streaked with mud and soot, looking as though they barely held together. **How did they survive this?** How was I supposed to help them when I didn't even know how to survive this world myself?
As I neared the village square, I spotted an elderly woman by a stone well. Her hands moved carefully as she arranged a small collection of goods on a worn cloth —two wheels of cheese, a jar of honey, and a loaf of bread. She glanced up and saw me, her eyes widening.
Immediately, she bowed deeply, her posture stiff and awkward, her eyes dropping to the ground. She didn't speak—didn't even look up again. Someone like her wouldn't dare address a ruler in this world first. The deference was clear, and for a moment, I hesitated. **I'm not used to this.**
Steeling myself, I stepped forward and broke the silence. "What do you have there?" I asked, my voice soft but steady.
She started at my address, hastily bowing her head. "My Lord Despot, forgive me. I offer but humble fare—a bit of cheese, some honey, and fresh-baked bread. This is modest but made with care."
Her fear and awe cut into me. She wasn't afraid for her life, not exactly, but there was a deep respect, a reverence that I hadn't earned. That belonged to Constantine. I gestured to the bread. "This looks well made. Did you bake it yourself?"
She blinked, her face brightening just a little as pride crept into her voice. "Aye, Despot. My daughter grinds the flour, and I do the baking. The rains came late this year, so the crops aren't what they used to be. But God willing, we manage." Her wrinkled hands smoothed the cloth as she spoke, the motions as much habit as necessity.
I nodded, though my stomach twisted in hunger. "And do you sell this in the market?"
Her expression faltered, and she shook her head slightly. "Not as much as we used to, Despot. Folks here have little to spare these days. Some days, it's enough just to keep bread on the table." She hesitated, glancing at the guards beside me. "My son helps when he can, but he's away more often now. There's work in the nearby town, but it's hard. Hard for a mother to see her boy go."
I could hear the quiet desperation in her voice. It wasn't in what she said, but in her eyes—the way they darted back and forth and spoke of her son without directly asking for help. Life here was tough. Every day was a struggle, and yet they carried on. How was I supposed to help them? **How was I supposed to lead them when I couldn't even lead myself?**
I glanced at the guards standing beside me, their hands resting lightly on the hilts of their swords. Protection. **My protection.** But I knew how thin that protection really was. Constantinople would fall in less than twenty- five years. The empire was already a shadow of its former self. And yet, these people—this woman—trusted me. They believed that **Constantine** could keep them safe.
"I assure you, we are doing everything we can," I said, though the words felt heavy in my mouth. "We will keep the village strong, and the harvest will improve."
The woman's face lit up with gratitude, her faith unwavering. "Aye, Despot, we know you will."
Her words were like a weight pressing down on my chest. These people depended on me—**Michael Jameston**, a middle-aged book salesman from another time who had no idea how to rule an empire. And yet, to them, I was Constantine Palaiologos, their protector. Their Despot.
I nodded again, forcing a smile, but the burden felt too great. As we made our way back toward the castle, the village receding behind me, the weight of it all gnawed at my thoughts. Every face I had seen, every word spoken, reminded me of the responsibility I had inherited. These people trusted me to lead them.
The guards followed silently behind me, but their presence deepened my isolation. The fragility of this world, I felt a knot tighten in my stomach—a mix of pity and responsibility that settled like a stone.
A few more days had passed since I woke in this strange, medieval world, still struggling to balance Constantine's fragmented memories with mine. Every day brought new insights but also new questions. Constantine's life was slowly becoming more apparent, yet the gaps remained frustrating. Today, however, was different —the day of my first meeting with the local lords and advisors. It was a test of leadership, and I couldn't shake the anxiety gnawing at me as I prepared to face them.
I sat at a heavy wooden table in the sunlit dining chamber, a simple but hearty breakfast spread before me—the aroma of freshly baked bread mingled with the earthy scent of olive oil and herbs. Across from me, Theodora sipped her herbal infusion, watching me with soft concern. Her presence was gentle, but her gaze told me she could sense my unrest.
"The honey is from our hives," she said, attempting to ease me into conversation. "It's delightful."
I nodded absently, pushing the bread around my plate as my mind spiraled. I had been a Despot in the Morea for a few months, but I had only genuinely settled into this role over the last month. There was still so much I didn't know—so much Constantine's memories couldn't provide in full detail. The weight of that knowledge, the responsibility to act on it, had been bearing down on me for days.
I forced a smile in Theodora's direction. "It's excellent," I replied, though I barely tasted it. My thoughts were miles away, circling around the looming meeting with the local lords and the weight of what they would expect from me.
She reached across the table, her fingers lightly brushing mine. "You seem distant again," she observed softly. "Is something troubling you?"
I took a breath, glancing into her concerned eyes. "It's just the usual matters—affairs of state. Nothing you need to worry about," I said, though my words felt thin. How could I explain that I was still an outsider, drowning in memories not my own?
A knock at the door interrupted us, and *George Sphrantzes* entered, bowing deeply. "My Despot," he said, his tone respectful. "The council is assembled and awaits your presence. The local lords are eager for your insights."
I stood, grateful for the distraction, but expectation still pressed heavily on my shoulders. "Duty calls," Theodora said softly, offering me a supportive and knowing smile.
With a nod, I followed George out of the chamber. The stone corridor echoed with our footsteps, and I could sense George's curiosity as we walked. His glances were brief, but I knew he was trying to read me, trying to understand whats wrong with me.
"You seem... different today, my Despot," George ventured cautiously. "Is everything well?"
I nodded, though I wasn't entirely sure. "These are challenging times," I replied carefully. "I've been reflecting on our position—our holdings, our future."
George nodded thoughtfully. "Indeed, Elis and Arcadia holds great potential, but there are weaknesses. The Ottomans watch us closely, and the local nobility is still... adjusting to your rule. Not to mention your brothers..."
His words were a reminder of how little time I had truly spent here. Though I had been named Despot a few months ago, I had only recently begun to settle into my position. The lords had yet to see much of me, and today's meeting would be their first real opportunity to gauge me as a leader.
We arrived at the doors of the council chamber, the murmur of voices beyond falling silent as George pushed them open. Inside, the gathered lords and advisors turned to face me, their expressions a mix of curiosity and expectation. Some offered respectful nods, while others merely watched, waiting to see what kind of man I truly was.
I took my seat at the head of the table, my heart pounding as I met their gazes. *This is it.* They didn't know me, not yet. I would need to tread carefully, to use the knowledge I had from Constantine's memories without revealing my uncertainties.
"Gentlemen," I began, letting my voice carry across the room, "as you know, I was appointed Despot of the Morea several months ago. However, I've only just begun to fully settle here over the last month or so." I allowed my gaze to sweep the room, seeing their curiosity deepen. "Today, I ask for your reports and insights. Together, we will chart the best course for the prosperity and safety of this region."
George nodded in approval before stepping forward. "My Despot, Elis and Arcadia are rich in resources, but vulnerable. Our villages have suffered poor harvests this season, the roads are in disrepair, and our defenses at *Clermont Castle* are weakening."
Leaning forward, I surveyed the council chamber. Sunlight streamed through high windows, illuminating dust motes that danced above the polished table. The faces of the gathered lords were etched with concern, lines deepening around their eyes.
"Tell me of our realm," I said, my voice steady but edged with urgency. "How many souls inhabit our lands? How does our treasury fare?"
Nikolas, his hands clasped tightly before him, glanced at Markos. "Despot," he began, his voice gravelly with age, "we reckon between sixty and eighty thousand souls dwell within Elis and Arcadia. Many seek work elsewhere, so numbers shift like sand."
Markos shifted in his seat, the young lord's brow furrowed. "The late rains have cursed us," he said quietly. "Harvests fail, and our coffers feel the strain. We've but fifteen thousand silver stavrata and two thousand gold ducats remaining. If the drought holds..."
An uneasy silence fell. I could feel the weight of their unspoken fears, the desperation that clung to the air like a damp fog. My gaze swept the room, noting the downcast eyes, the subtle tension in their shoulders.
George then added: "The treasury has another two thousand gold ducats, my Despot"
I nodded, processing the information. The population wasn't large, and the drop in profits was significant, but not disastrous. It was something we could manage—if we took the right steps. "We need to focus on stabilizing the harvests," I said. "If the drought worsens, what measures can we take to ensure water reaches the fields?"
George leaned forward. "We have water mills in some areas, but many villages are relying on outdated methods. We could allocate resources to repair and expand the water mills."
"Good," I said, feeling a flicker of confidence. "Let's start with the villages most affected. Allocate resources to strengthen their irrigation systems. We can't afford another poor harvest next year."
The lords exchanged approving nods. It wasn't a radical plan, but it was practical—a step toward ensuring stability in a time of uncertainty.
"What about the roads?" I asked, turning to Markos. "You mentioned they're in disrepair."
Markos nodded. "Yes, Despot. The roads between Clermont and the smaller villages have become difficult to traverse, especially for merchants. Trade has slowed as a result."
I considered that. Trade was essential, both for the economy and for keeping the region connected. "We'll prioritize repairing the main trade routes. Start with the roads between Clermont and the larger towns. Once that's done, we'll focus on the more remote areas."
There was a murmur of agreement around the table. It was another practical solution, and one that wouldn't stretch our resources too thin.
George cleared his throat. "There is also the matter of defense, Despot. The western walls of Clermont Castle are weakening, and our patrols along the borders are sparse. There have been minor skirmishes with bandits, but nothing major—yet."
I frowned. The memories of Constantine's military knowledge stirred in my mind. The western defenses were crucial, but so were the borders. The Ottomans loomed like a shadow over this region, and I knew from history what was coming.
"We need to strengthen both," I said, my voice firm. "Reinforce the western walls immediately, but don't neglect the borders. Increase the number of patrols along the key routes, and make sure we have enough men to handle any raids."
George nodded approvingly. "A wise decision, Despot."
I glanced around the table, seeing a mixture of relief and approval in the faces of the lords. They had expected leadership, and while my solutions weren't revolutionary, they were grounded in practicality. It was enough for now.
"There's one more thing I'll need," I said, leaning back in my chair. "I want detailed reports on the population, the current state of the villages, and our trade deals. I need to know exactly what we're working with if we're to make the right decisions going forward."
Nikolas nodded. "We'll have those reports compiled for you, Despot."
I gave a small nod, feeling the tension in the room ease slightly. The meeting had gone well, but the pressure was far from over. There was still so much to do, and every decision I made felt like it was being scrutinized, weighed against the expectations of the man they thought I was.
The rest of the meeting passed with discussions of smaller issues—minor adjustments to agricultural planning, trade routes, and village patrols. The lords seemed comfortable with the direction I was taking, and for now, that was enough.
As the meeting adjourned, the lords rose and filed out of the chamber, offering respectful nods as they departed. George lingered behind, waiting until the others had left before approaching me.
"You handled that well," he said quietly. "Your decisions were clear, and the lords respect that."
I nodded, though the weight of it all still pressed down on me. "
The sea breeze from the Ionian Sea wafted through the open windows of my tower chamber, carrying the crisp scent of salt and the distant murmur of waves. Seated at the highest point of Clermont Castle, I gazed out over the sun-splashed waters, cradling a cup of bitter herbal brew in my hands. The taste was unfamiliar, but its warmth grounded me—a small comfort in a world that still felt foreign.
Two weeks. It had been two weeks since I awoke in this world, in this body: Constantine Palaiologos, Despot of Morea.
The initial shock had mostly subsided, replaced by a restless energy. Ideas coursed through me—ideas born from a future I remembered vividly but could no longer access. The knowledge I possessed was potent enough to alter the fate of empires. The question that weighed on me now was how to wield it wisely.
Leaning back, I allowed my thoughts to drift. Visions of maps, trade routes, and innovations from the modern world flashed through my mind—gunpowder, factories, printing presses. *Columbus hadn't even been born yet*, I reminded myself. What if I could lead the charge in discovering new lands, meeting the Aztecs and Incas decades ahead of time? The thought tempted me, tantalized my imagination.
But reality has a way of tempering dreams. Discovery and expansion were long-term goals. Right now, survival was paramount. The Ottomans were closing in, and Constantinople's days were numbered. My thoughts returned to the present danger. I had knowledge of advanced weaponry—firearms that could turn the tide of battle—but how does one recreate muskets and cannons without modern machinery?
A soft knock at the door pulled me from my reverie. George Sphrantzes, entered with the quiet confidence I'd come to rely on over these past weeks.
"Good morning, my Despot," he said, offering a slight bow.
"Good morning, George," I replied, gesturing for him to sit. "We have much to discuss."
He took a seat opposite me, his sharp eyes studying my face. He had no doubt sensed the shift in me over the past few days. Two weeks ago, I was adrift; now, a plan —still nascent—was taking shape.
"I've reached a decision," I began, setting my cup aside. "In the last two weeks, I've been reflecting on what must be done to safeguard the whole of Morea—and possibly more."
His eyebrows rose slightly, but he remained silent, waiting for me to elaborate.
"You've noticed my renewed interest in technology, agriculture, and trade. I believe these are the keys to strengthening our land. If we act swiftly and wisely, we can restore prosperity to the region, but we must be bold in our approach. The Ottomans won't wait for us to catch up."
George nodded thoughtfully. "And how do you propose we achieve this, my Despot?"
I leaned forward, feeling a surge of excitement. "We start by focusing on what we have—our resources, our strategic location. There are methods and strategies that haven't been tried before. With the right investments and careful planning, we can make Morea into something much greater than it is now."
His eyes narrowed slightly, not in suspicion, but in thought. "You speak of innovations," he said slowly. "New ideas. But how can we be certain they will work?"
A slight smile tugged at my lips. He had no idea the true source of my knowledge, and that was probably for the best. "Small steps, George. We'll start with what we know, what's within our grasp, and then build from there."
George paused, his gaze thoughtful. "Step by step," he murmured, as if testing the idea. "A prudent course, my lord."
A subtle sense of relief eased the tension in my shoulders. His agreement, though cautious, was a vital first step.
"Very well," I replied, rising from my seat. "We have much work ahead. Funds must be secured, craftsmen summoned, materials gathered." I met his eyes. "We shall commence without delay."
---
Foundations of a Plan
The chamber felt emptier after George departed, the silence amplifying the weight of the decisions ahead. The faint smell of burning olive oil from the lanterns lingered in the air as I paced by the window, my mind racing. Anxiety twisted in my gut, the unease that always comes before embarking on something monumental.
If my vision was to succeed, I needed funds— a significant amount of gold to finance the first steps. I returned to my desk and unrolled a fresh sheet of parchment, dipping my quill into ink. I began drafting a letter addressed to Constantinople.
"Dear Mother," I wrote, the words flowing more easily now. "I have made a decision to sell my holdings in Selymbria."
The admission stung. Selymbria, once a prosperous town on the Sea of Marmara, had been a valuable asset for years. Its fertile lands and strategic position were a point of pride, even in the face of Ottoman raids. But now, sentiment had to take a backseat to practicality. Selling the land would provide the funds I needed to turn my ambitions for Morea into reality. I sealed the letter and placed it atop a stack of documents for George.
When he returned from Constantinople, I would have the resources to begin in earnest.
George had been right to question the scope of my plans. But I had clarity now: Clarentza, Elis, would become a hub of industry—factories, trade, and innovation. The small cotton fields of Messinia would serve as the foundation for producing paper for my printing presses. I believed I could attempt to recreate a rudimentary movable type printing press, though the challenges were immense. Without precision tools or refined metals, the mechanics would be crude at best. I would need to find skilled craftsmen willing to experiment, to push the boundaries of their traditional methods. It wouldn't be easy, and failure was almost certain at first. But perhaps, starting small we could gradually innovate.
I recalled how we analyzed, during my university days, the revolutionary impact of Johannes Gutenberg's invention, which transformed society by facilitating mass communication and literacy, allowing ideas to spread rapidly and widely. My background in silk printing provided me with practical knowledge of materials and techniques, enhancing my ability to innovate. I realized that I was on the brink of altering the course of history myself—by adapting and improving upon the printing press, I could leave a lasting mark on my era. This system would not only make information accessible to the populace but also empower them—a concept entirely novel for this time. The thought of introducing such an innovation thrilled me; it was a way to elevate the collective consciousness of the whole world.
Meanwhile, just yesterday, I was surprised to see a Venetian mercenary at the port of Clarentza, accompanied by a trader, selling a primitive hand culverin. I hadn't realised such weapons were already emerging! From what I had learned and Constantine memories, even cannons were still in their infancy, primarily used for sieges by both Western Kings and the Ottomans. It cost me a small fortune to acquire the hand culverin, but I couldn't let the opportunity slip away. I planned to study its design, hopefully improve upon it, and ultimately create an arsenal capable of defending this land against the looming Ottoman threat.
Footsteps approached, and the door creaked open. George entered, his expression serious but expectant.
"My Despot," he began, offering a slight bow, "all is prepared for my journey to Constantinople."
I handed him the sealed letter and a detailed list of supplies. "Recruit skilled men—blacksmiths, craftsmen, scribes, anyone who can help us build what we need. We'll require materials as well. There are innovations I plan to introduce."
George glanced over the list, his brow furrowing slightly. "You're planning something beyond immediate defense, aren't you?"
I met his gaze steadily. "Yes. But it's all connected. By building up our infrastructure , we can finance and equip a more formidable army. We need to think beyond mere survival. We must build for the future."
George pressed his lips together, clearly weighing the implications. Finally, he nodded. "As you command, my Despot. I will return with what you need."
"Safe travels, my friend," I said, my voice full of the confidence I knew I needed to project.
As George departed, a wave of determination surged through me. *Clarentza*, this modest coastal town, would become the heart of my grand vision. Factories would rise, and the town would become a center of trade and wealth. The seed had been planted, and now the real work would begin.
It was early morning when Theodora found herself pacing the cold stone floor of her chamber in Clermont Castle. A letter lay open on her desk, its contents lingering in her mind. Written in the elegant yet pointed hand of her brother, Carlo II Tocco, the message was both cordial and subtly insistent.
"Creusa," it began—he always used her birth name when writing in private. "I trust this letter finds you in good health and high spirits. I have often wondered how you fare in the court of the Despot. Is Constantine treating you with the respect and care you deserve? I hope you have begun to find your place among the Byzantine nobles and that your transition to life in Morea has been as smooth as possible."
Theodora read the next part with a mix of frustration and resignation.
"But let me speak plainly, sister. You know as well as I that securing your position—and our family's standing—requires the blessing of children. Have you discussed this with Constantine? The sooner you produce an heir, the stronger your influence will become, both in the Morea and our family."
She could almost hear his warm but stern voice reminding her of the unspoken duty that weighed upon her every day. The expectation to bear a child was ever-present, but the thought of pressing Constantine on the matter, given his recent behavior, filled her with uncertainty.
Carlo continued, turning his attention to the troubles brewing in Epirus.
"I must also share some troubling rumors," he wrote. "There are whispers that Memnone and his supporters have grown restless. I do not have solid proof yet, but they may be courting the Ottomans to undermine our rule. I do not mean to alarm you, Creusa, but remain vigilant. Should you hear anything, or should Constantine have any insights, I would value your counsel."
Theodora's eyes lingered on this final passage, her mind swirling with its implications. Carlo's words were more of a warning than a direct request for help, but they placed her in a precarious position. She had married into the Byzantine court and sworn her loyalty to Constantine, yet now her brother was reminding her of the ties that still bound her to her family's fortunes.
The heavy oak door creaked open, and Constantine entered, his presence as steady and imposing as the stone walls around them. His eyes softened when he saw her near the window, the morning light casting a warm glow on her troubled face.
"Theodora," he greeted, his voice gentle but probing. "You seem preoccupied. Has something happened?"
For a heartbeat, Theodora considered revealing the letter, asking for his advice as a partner. Yet, an instinct held her back. How could she speak of Carlo's subtle urgings to produce an heir or the rumors of rebellion in Epirus when Constantine already bore the weight of the empire on his shoulders? He had enough concerns without her adding to them.
"It's just a letter from my brother," she replied softly, folding the parchment and tucking it into the folds of her gown. "He wishes to know how I am adjusting to life here, that is all."
Constantine nodded, though the furrow in his brow deepened. "Does he need anything? Your family is important to you, and therefore to me."
She hesitated, choosing her words carefully. "He only expresses the usual concerns." Her voice faltered at the end, the enormity of their situation pressing upon her. "But nothing that you need trouble yourself with, not now."
"Still," he persisted, his gaze steady. "If there is something you need, you should tell me. I would not have you worry alone."
The tenderness in his words warmed her, yet it also tightened the knot of anxiety in her chest. He was trying to be supportive, but there were matters he could not solve simply by being there. "Thank you," she managed, a faint smile gracing her lips. "But I can handle this. Our people need your strength more than I need your comfort at this moment."
Constantine studied her for a moment longer, his eyes searching hers for an unspoken truth. Finally, he nodded, though reluctance shaded his expression. "Very well. I'll be back in time for supper. If you need anything, just call for the servants."
With a brief, tender kiss on her forehead, he turned and left, his footsteps echoing down the stone corridor. Theodora watched him go, a wave of relief mingled with guilt washing over her. He deserved to know more, to be kept in the loop about the tensions brewing in Epirus, yet she held back, uncertain how he would react to her brother's demands and suspicions.
Once alone, Theodora returned to her desk, smoothing the letter again. The last few lines gnawed at her. Her brother was not asking outright for Constantine's involvement; he was planting the seed, expecting her to tend to it. Carlo was not naive; he knew Constantine held influence and army, and if he chose to intervene, it could tip the balance of power. Yet bringing such matters to her husband's attention could also draw him into a conflict he might be unprepared for. More than that, it risked exposing her as a conduit for her family's ambitions rather than as a loyal Despotess.
She sighed, pressing fingers to her temples. The weight of Carlo's letter lingered. How much should she reveal? After a moment's hesitation, she pulled a sheet of parchment closer.
The quill hovered above the page before she began, each word chosen carefully.
"My dearest brother," she wrote. "Your letter brought me great joy. The Morea is a land of contrasts, and I discover something new daily."
She paused, the tip of the quill tapping softly. Should she mention Constantine's transformation? Deciding, she continued.
"Constantine has been most attentive, though he has faced his own trials recently. There was a time when he seemed quite distant, lost even, but in the past few days, I have noticed a change in him. He carries a renewed sense of purpose, as if something has awakened within him."
She paused, staring at the ink that glistened on the parchment. It was not a lie, but it was not the full truth either. Constantine's change had indeed been dramatic; one moment, he was brooding and withdrawn, and now he seemed determined, almost driven. Yet this newfound vigor unsettled her. Was it the pressure of impending war? A surge of inspiration? Or something else entirely?
Shaking her head, she continued.
"As for your concerns about an heir, know that the matter is not lost on me. I understand well the importance of securing our family's future. Rest assured, I will broach the subject with my husband when the time is right. However, such matters require delicacy. I must navigate these waters carefully, and I ask for your patience in this."
Theodora hesitated again, her quill hovering over the paper. Carlo's suspicions about Memnone and his supporters needed addressing, but she did not want to appear overly concerned. She decided to strike a middle ground.
"As for the unrest in Epirus, I shall keep my ears open. The Morea has its share of troubles, and Constantine's attention is spread thin. Nonetheless, I will try to discern what I can. Be vigilant, dear brother, and remember that the walls have ears, even here in Morea. We must tread carefully."
Satisfied with her words, she signed the letter and set it aside to dry. It was a measured response, one that did not promise more than she could offer. She had left out details of the turmoil in her heart and the sense of being caught between two worlds—her life as Creusa Tocco, bound by family and blood, and her new identity as Theodora, Despotess of the Morea, sworn to her husband and his cause.
Rising from her chair, she moved to the window and gazed out at the sprawling landscape of the Morea. The sun had climbed higher, casting long shadows over the rugged hills and valleys below. This was her new reality, her new home, yet it felt foreign in so many ways. The path ahead was unclear, but one truth stood out starkly: whatever course she chose, it would define not just her future, but the future of all those she loved.
With a sigh, Theodora folded the letter and sealed it with wax, pressing her family's crest into the soft material. She would send it off later, and then, she knew, the waiting would begin. She would wait to see how Carlo would respond, waiting for the right moment to speak to Constantine, waiting for the forces at play in Epirus and the Morea to reveal their true intentions.
But for now, she needed to attend to her duties. Turning away from the window, she straightened her gown and moved to leave her chambers. There was much to do, and while her heart remained troubled, she would not allow herself to be paralyzed by indecision. She was Theodora, Despotess of Morea, and for better or worse, her path was now entwined with Constantine's.
As she stepped into the corridor, she whispered a silent prayer, hoping that whatever the days ahead held, she would find the strength to navigate them with grace and resolve. She would need every ounce of both in the delicate balance between family and duty.
The soft glow of candlelight bathed Michael's private chamber, casting long shadows across the scattered parchments and sketches that covered his wooden table. Night had settled over the Morea, and the usual bustle of Clermont Castle had quieted to a hushed calm. Michael sat alone, quill in hand, as he meticulously revised his designs for the printing press. With George still away in Constantinople gathering artisans and supplies, Michael seized the solitude to advance his plans.
Earlier that week, he had met discreetly with Dimitrios the carpenter and Nikolaos the blacksmith. Their practical insights had been invaluable, helping him adjust his designs to align with the materials and techniques available. They discussed the feasibility of constructing the press's frame, selecting sturdy oak for its durability, and debated the crafting of the screw mechanism—an untested endeavor that Nikolaos was cautiously optimistic about.
As Michael reviewed his notes, a new thought struck him. Initially, he had planned to produce texts in Greek, catering to the local clergy and nobility. However, after conducting some inquiries, he realized that books were luxury items, often costing between 40 to 80 gold florins. The market within the Morea was rather limited, but the demand in Western Europe, where Latin was the lingua franca of the Church and academia, was vast.
If I produce texts in Latin, he mused, I could tap into a much larger market, generating substantial profits. These funds could support his other projects and strengthen the Morea's economy. Moreover, producing Latin texts might align with his brother's efforts to unite the Eastern Orthodox and Roman Catholic Churches—a strategic move that could attract Western support against the Ottomans.
Determined, Michael began reworking his movable type designs to accommodate the Latin alphabet. He carefully sketched each letter, ensuring uniformity and legibility. His knowledge of typography helped him optimize the size and spacing of the type, aiming to make the books more compact and cost-effective without sacrificing readability.
To produce a Latin Bible—the most logical and profitable starting point—he needed a reference copy. He decided to acquire one from the Catholic Bishop in Patras, a city under Venetian control not far from Clermont. The bishop was reputed to have an extensive library of Western texts. Michael drafted a letter requesting an audience, framing his interest as scholarly.
Turning his attention to the production of ink and paper, he set plans in motion to establish small workshops. He had spoken with local craftsmen about sourcing linseed oil and lampblack for ink, experimenting with mixtures to achieve the right consistency. For paper, he proposed using cotton and linen rags to produce high-quality sheets, collaborating with Elias, a miller intrigued by the venture.
A gentle knock at the door pulled him from his thoughts. Michael quickly organized his parchments, ensuring sensitive documents were tucked away. "Enter," he called out.
The door opened slowly, and Theodora stepped inside, her features softly illuminated by the candlelight. "Still awake at this hour?" she asked with a faint smile.
Michael looked up, masking his surprise. "Time seems to slip away when I'm engrossed in these matters."
She approached the table, her gaze drifting over the assortment of sketches and notes. "You've been quite occupied lately. The servants mention you've been meeting with various craftsmen."
"Just attending to some administrative tasks," he replied lightly. "There are always repairs and improvements needed around the estate."
She nodded, her expression thoughtful. "I suppose the duties of a despot are never-ending."
"Indeed," he agreed, hoping to steer the conversation away from specifics.
Theodora picked up a parchment displaying architectural drawings of a warehouse. "Is this a new building you're planning?"
"Yes, a storage facility," Michael said smoothly. "With the harvest season approaching, we'll need additional space."
"That seems prudent," she remarked, placing the parchment back on the table. "You've always been forward-thinking."
He offered a modest smile. "I try to anticipate our needs."
A brief silence settled between them. Sensing her lingering curiosity, Michael decided to shift the focus. "And how have you been? I hope the preparations for the upcoming festival aren't too burdensome."
She seemed to accept the change in topic. "They keep me busy, but it's a welcome distraction. The people could use something to lift their spirits."
"Agreed," he said. "It's important to maintain our traditions, especially in challenging times."
Theodora glanced around the room once more. "Well, I didn't mean to interrupt your work. I just wanted to ensure you weren't overexerting yourself."
"I appreciate your concern," Michael replied sincerely. "I was just wrapping up for the night."
She gave a slight nod. "Very well. Don't forget to rest."
"I won't," he assured her.
As she turned to leave, Michael felt a pang of guilt for withholding information from her. Theodora had been a steadfast companion, but the nature of his projects required discretion. He watched as she quietly closed the door behind her, the soft echo of her footsteps fading down the corridor.
Once alone again, Michael exhaled slowly. He retrieved the hidden parchments from beneath the architectural plans. The musket designs remained concealed, a secret even more guarded than the printing press. The potential ramifications of introducing advanced weaponry were immense, and he couldn't risk the information falling into the wrong hands.
Refocusing on his work, he revisited the list of materials needed for the printing press and the workshops:
- *Printing Press Materials*:
- Sturdy oak for the frame
- Iron and steel for the screw mechanism
- Lead, tin, and antimony for casting movable type
- *Ink Production*:
- Linseed oil
- Lampblack (soot)
- *Paper Production*:
- Cotton and linen rags
- Equipment for pulping and pressing fibers
He made annotations next to each item, noting potential suppliers and any logistical challenges. The acquisition of antimony might prove difficult, but he hoped George would have success in sourcing it from Constantinople.
Michael then drafted the letter to the Bishop of Patras:
"Your Excellency,
I trust this letter finds you in good health and high spirits. I am eager to discuss matters of mutual interest that could enrich our region's cultural and spiritual life. At your convenience, I would appreciate the opportunity to meet with you.
Respectfully,
Constantine Palaiologos, Despot of the Morea"
Sealing the letter, he set it aside for dispatch in the morning. The thought of obtaining a Latin Bible filled him with a sense of urgency. The sooner he had a reference, the sooner he could proceed with producing a work that might open doors both economically and diplomatically.
As the candles burned low, Michael organized his parchments, ensuring that sensitive documents were securely stored. He placed the most critical designs into a leather satchel, which he locked inside a wooden chest concealed behind a tapestry—a necessary precaution.
Extinguishing the candles, he moved to the window. The night air was cool, and the stars shimmered like distant lanterns. He allowed himself a moment of quiet contemplation. The path he had chosen was fraught with challenges, but each step brought him closer to his goals.
"Knowledge is power," he whispered to himself. "And with it, i can forge a new destiny."
Turning away from the window, Michael prepared to rest. Tomorrow would bring new tasks and, hopefully, progress. As he lay down, his mind buzzed with plans and contingencies. Trust was a luxury he could scarcely afford, but discretion was essential. The weight of secrecy pressed upon him, but he bore it willingly.
The sun hung low over Mystras, casting a golden hue across the city's winding streets and ancient walls. Inside the castle's stone corridors, an air of tension simmered. Theodore Palaiologos stood by the narrow window of his private chamber, gazing out at the distant hills. His thoughts were troubled, swirling around the emperor's latest attempt to unify the Orthodox and Catholic churches—a proposition he found deeply unsettling.
A soft knock at the door pulled him from his reverie. A servant entered, bowing deeply. "Master Plethon awaits you, my lord."
Theodore's expression hardened. "Show him in," he replied curtly, his voice tinged with a mix of irritation and reluctant anticipation.
The door opened to reveal *Georgios Gemistos Plethon*. At nearly seventy years of age, Plethon carried himself with the dignity of a seasoned sage. His long beard, streaked with white, framed a face marked by wisdom and years of contemplation. Dressed in traditional Byzantine robes that reflected both his status as a scholar and a magistrate, he exuded an aura of quiet authority.
"Theodore," Plethon greeted with a slight nod, his sharp eyes reflecting both respect and concern.
"Plethon," Theodore acknowledged, gesturing to a chair opposite him. "Sit. We have much to discuss."
Plethon settled into the seat, folding his hands gracefully in his lap. "I assume this is about the emperor's efforts toward church unification."
Theodore's eyes flashed with a mixture of anger and unease. "You have been advising my brother on this matter. Tell me, do you truly support this union? Do you advocate surrendering our faith to the whims of Rome?"
Plethon met his gaze steadily. "I support the survival of our people, Theodore. The emperor believes that unifying the churches may secure the aid we desperately need from the West to withstand the Ottomans."
Theodore rose abruptly, pacing the room with restless energy. "Survival at what cost?" he exclaimed. "Have you forgotten the Fourth Crusade? The Latins desecrated Constantinople, defiled our sanctuaries. They are not our allies but invaders cloaked in the guise of faith."
Plethon sighed softly, his gaze distant as if recalling memories of the troubled past. "I have not forgotten. The scars of those days remain with us all. But I also see the encroaching shadow of the Ottomans, growing darker each day. If we stand alone, our heritage and beliefs may be extinguished entirely."
Theodore stopped by a table where an icon of the Virgin Mary rested, illuminated by flickering candlelight. He traced the edge of the icon with his finger, his voice dropping to a somber tone. "By aligning with Rome, we risk corrupting the essence of our Orthodoxy. The filioque, papal supremacy—these are not trivial matters but fundamental contradictions to our faith."
Plethon leaned forward, his expression earnest. "I understand your concerns, but consider this: Could a temporary compromise preserve our people and, ultimately, our faith? Adaptation does not mean abandonment. We might negotiate terms that protect our traditions while gaining the support we need."
Theodore turned to face him, his eyes searching Plethon's face. "You speak of negotiation, yet history shows us that the Latins seek domination, not alliance. They would see us kneel before their pope, forsaking our own patriarch."
Plethon's eyes reflected a depth of wisdom born from years of study and contemplation. "Theodore, throughout my life, I have devoted myself to understanding the philosophies that shaped our world. Plato taught us the importance of the greater good and the need for unity in the face of adversity. Perhaps, in this moment, we must embrace such ideals."
Theodore's brow furrowed. "I know well your admiration for the ancient philosophers. Your teachings have enlightened many, including myself. But this is not a theoretical debate—it is about the very soul of our people."
Plethon nodded thoughtfully. "Indeed, and that is why we must consider all paths. Our empire stands at a crossroads. The choices we make now will echo through generations. I fear that rigid adherence to tradition may lead us to ruin."
A silence settled between them. Theodore felt a pang of uncertainty, a crack in the armor of his convictions. "You have always been a visionary, Plethon, advocating for reforms and new ways of thinking. But some of your ideas—returning to Hellenic traditions, reviving ancient philosophies—they border on heresy."
Plethon smiled faintly, a glint of amusement in his eyes. "Is seeking wisdom heretical? I believe that understanding our past can guide us toward a better future. My proposals are meant to strengthen, not undermine, our society."
Theodore shook his head. "Perhaps, but the people are not ready for such radical changes. They cling to their faith as a beacon in these dark times."
Plethon's expression grew more serious. "And if that beacon leads them off a cliff? Leadership requires difficult decisions. Sometimes, we must guide the people toward what they need, not what they want."
Theodore resumed his pacing. "You speak as if you would reshape the very foundations of our world."
"Only to fortify them," Plethon replied calmly. "Imagine an empire revitalized by the wisdom of our ancestors, unified in purpose, and strong enough to resist any foe."
Theodore paused, considering the vision painted before him. For a moment, he glimpsed the passion that drove Plethon—a deep desire to revive the greatness of Hellenic culture and philosophy. Yet, the practicalities seemed insurmountable.
"Our differences run deep," Theodore said quietly. "The church would never accept such changes. Nor would the people."
"Change is seldom easy," Plethon acknowledged. "But it is necessary for survival. I do not suggest abandoning our faith but enriching it, ensuring it endures through the trials ahead."
Theodore looked into Plethon's eyes, seeing both the idealistic visionary and the pragmatic thinker. "Your words have merit, but they also carry great risk. Aligning with the Latins, embracing new philosophies—it could lead to unrest, even rebellion."
"True," Plethon conceded. "But what is the alternative? To stand still while the world changes around us? To cling to the past until it crumbles beneath us?"
A heavy sigh escaped Theodore's lips. "I must consider the well-being of my people. Their faith gives them comfort, a sense of identity. I cannot strip that away."
Plethon rose from his seat, his aged form still commanding respect. "I do not ask you to strip away their faith, but to strengthen it through wisdom and resilience. To prepare them for the challenges ahead."
Theodore felt the weight of leadership pressing upon him. Memories of his father's teachings echoed in his mind—lessons of faith, duty, and the burdens of rule. "I will ponder your counsel, old friend. But I cannot promise to embrace your path."
Plethon offered a slight bow. "That is all I ask—that you consider it. May wisdom guide your decisions."
As Plethon turned to leave, Theodore called after him. "Plethon."
The philosopher paused at the doorway, glancing back.
"Despite our differences, I value your insight. Perhaps there is a path that honors both our traditions and the need for survival."
A gentle smile touched Plethon's lips. "There is always a way for those willing to seek it."
He departed, his footsteps echoing softly down the corridor. Theodore stood alone, the flickering candles casting dancing shadows across the chamber walls. He looked once more at the icon of the Virgin Mary, her serene gaze offering no clear answers.
"Am I blind to the realities before me?" he whispered. Doubt gnawed at the edges of his resolve, yet he clung to his convictions.
He moved to the window, the cool evening air brushing against his face. The stars began to emerge, tiny beacons of light in the vast darkness. Somewhere beyond those hills, enemies gathered strength, and the fate of his people hung in the balance.
"Faith must be our anchor," he murmured, though uncertainty lingered in his heart.
Theodore remained there long after darkness fell, wrestling with the echoes of their conversation. He grappled with the tension between preserving the soul of his people and ensuring their survival—a dilemma with no easy answers.
"That was delicious, my dear," I said, setting my fork down after savoring the last bite of the lamb chops.
Theodora smiled softly. "I'm glad you enjoyed it, my Despot."
I looked at her curiously. "You've barely touched yours."
She hesitated, glancing down at her plate before answering. "I haven't had much appetite these past few days."
A thought struck me, bringing memories of my sister in my previous life. "Do you think you might be pregnant?"
Theodora nodded. "I believe I am, my Despot."
Pregnant. A child... though doubt crept in almost immediately. Is it truly mine? Technically, I'm not Constantine. I'm Michael, a man thrust into another life, into another body. But the thought of having a child in this new reality brought an unexpected warmth, a flicker of hope amidst the chaos.
During the winter months, I was anything but idle. Most of my time was spent sketching blueprints for various projects, which I kept under strict secrecy.
The prototype for the printing press began to take shape—wooden frames assembled discreetly in the workshop. Early tests with homemade paper and ink left my fingers stained but spirits high.
My firearm designs progressed surprisingly well, partly thanks to the Venetian hand culverin, which gave me insights. The musket design was coming together—my memory of paper cartridges and the stability of bronze for cannons was proving invaluable. If only George would return with the craftsmen," I mused, rolling a bronze prototype between my palms. Skilled hands were needed to breathe life into these designs. Acquiring gunpowder would be trickier; I'd have to look toward the Venetians to procure the necessary ingredients for local production.
One amusing incident this winter was introducing double-entry bookkeeping to one of my tax collectors. The poor man was utterly baffled by the concept; it was a simple innovation in my time, but here it was revolutionary. Moments like that reminded me of the advantages I held—not just technological knowledge but the organizational skills of the 21st century. The thought filled me with a surge of confidence. If I could survive long enough, these innovations might change the course of history.
While waiting for George's return from Constantinople, I busied myself with organizing the region. My "triple base" strategy was beginning to take shape: Andravida would serve as the agricultural hub, collecting and distributing crops from the fertile lands of Elis. Clermont Castle would become the center of my military operations and home to a new arsenal. Glarentza would be the commercial and trade hub, housing workshops, assembly lines, and, eventually, a new shipyard and port. Plans for a hospital, theater, and distillery danced in my mind, though those would have to wait until the treasury allowed for such expenses.
But the reality of my finances was becoming painfully clear. The costs of building new infrastructure was already draining my limited resources. My treasury was running low, and I had been forced to sell some of my new estates in Arcadia to keep the projects going. It was a temporary solution, a patch over a leaking ship. I could only hope that George would return with adequate funds; otherwise, my grand designs might collapse before they could fully take root.
In the meantime, my workers were busy improving the roads between these districts and building a large warehouse adjacent to the castle, which would serve as a new arsenal and workshop for the printing press. The labor scarcity was a growing concern; with fewer than fifteen thousand souls in Glarentza and its surroundings, I needed to attract more settlers.
I extended offers of land grants to Christians from other regions, especially those suffering under Ottoman rule. Within a few months, fifty Tsakonian families, some Serbians from my mother's homeland, and even a few wealthy Thessalonian families had answered the call. By March, the population had swelled by a couple of thousand—still insufficient, but a promising start.
My military, however, remained my Achilles' heel. I had a small force of forty horsemen, twenty crossbowmen, fifty archers, and about two hundred and fifty infantry. In times of crisis, I could levy around two thousand light infantry from the local populace, but they were poorly trained and of limited use. My brother Thomas, stationed in Kalavryta, could be relied upon for support if needed. However, I held no such confidence in Theodore, who resided in Mystras, more concerned with his spiritual musings than the defense of our lands.
As for the Venetians, I needed to tread carefully. Their holdings in the Peloponnese could be both a threat and an opportunity. I couldn't afford hostility with them if I was to stand any chance against the Ottomans.
Andravida Crop Fields, March1429
The sun blazed overhead, its warmth seeping into the fertile soil of the Andravida fields. Beads of sweat trickled down my forehead as I stood among the rows of young wheat, the rich scent of earth and budding crops filling the air. A gentle breeze rustled the leaves, but it did little to alleviate the heat—or my mounting frustration.
"Observe carefully," I called out, my voice carrying over the murmurs of the assembled farmers. Grasping the handles of the new heavy plough, I guided it forward, the metal blade slicing through the earth with ease. "With this design, your oxen can turn the soil more deeply and efficiently, enriching it for a better harvest."
The farmers exchanged wary glances. An elder among them, his face weathered by years under the sun, stepped forward. "Despot," he began cautiously, tugging at the brim of his worn hat, "we have tilled these lands as our fathers and grandfathers did before us. Such a contraption is... unfamiliar. Our oxen might not take kindly to it."
I clenched my jaw, feeling the tension knotting in my shoulders. "Change brings prosperity," I replied, striving to keep my tone patient. "The old ways have served well, but with this plough, you can work faster and yield more."
A younger farmer shifted his weight, eyeing the plough skeptically. "But what if it breaks the oxen's stride? Or damages the soil? The risk seems great."
Suppressing a sigh, I gestured to the rich, dark furrows the plough had already carved. "The evidence lies before you. The soil turns smoothly, and the oxen bear the weight without strain."
Yet their doubtful expressions remained. The chorus of hesitant murmurs grew, each concern a barrier I struggled to dismantle. I ran a hand through my hair, the strands damp with sweat. Patience, Constantine, I reminded myself. These men need reassurance, not reprimand.
Just then, the distant thud of hooves reached my ears, growing louder against the backdrop of rustling crops. I turned to see a lone rider galloping toward us, dust trailing in his wake. The farmers parted as he reined in his horse, the animal snorting and pawing at the ground.
"Despot," the messenger panted, dismounting swiftly and offering a hurried bow. "George Sphrantzes has returned from Constantinople. He awaits you at the castle in Clermont."
A surge of energy coursed through me, momentarily dispelling my frustration. "Thank you," I replied, my gaze shifting back to the farmers. Their eyes reflected curiosity and perhaps a hint of relief at the interruption.
"We shall continue this demonstration another time," I announced. "Consider what you've seen today."
Without further delay, I mounted my horse, a chestnut mare who responded eagerly to my touch. As I spurred her forward, the wind whipped against my face, carrying with it the mingled scents of wildflowers and freshly tilled earth. The fields and scattered cottages blurred past, my thoughts racing even faster than the landscape.
George has returned. What news does he bring? Have craftsmen agreed to come?
The journey to Glarentza was swift, and the familiar landmarks of the Morean countryside flew by. The sun cast long shadows as it began its descent, painting the sky with hues of gold and crimson. My anticipation grew with each passing mile, a mixture of hope and apprehension settling in my chest.
As I approached the castle gates, the stone walls rising proudly against the horizon, I noticed an unusual bustle. A crowd had gathered—men, women, and children clustered together, their belongings piled onto carts or strapped to weary mules. The murmur of countless voices filled the air, a mixture of dialects and accents.
Dismounting, I handed the reins to a waiting stable boy. My gaze swept over the scene before me. George stood near the entrance, his posture straight despite the weariness evident in his eyes. Beside him stood a dignified man in simple but well-made robes, his hands clasped before him.
"George," I called out, striding toward them. "Your return is most welcome."
He turned, a genuine smile breaking through his tired features. "Despot," he replied, inclining his head. "The journey was long but fruitful."
"I see you've brought companions," I noted, glancing at the assembled crowd.
"Indeed," George affirmed. "More than we anticipated."
The robed man stepped forward, bowing deeply. "Greetings, Despot Constantine. I am Theophilus Dragaš, at your service. Your mother, Her Holiness, sends her blessings and this letter." He extended a sealed parchment toward me.
Accepting the letter, I studied the man before me. Theophilus Dragaš—a name that stirred faint echoes within Constantine's memories. A scholar and distant relative, respected for his wisdom and piety. His eyes held a keen intelligence, and his bearing had a calm steadiness.
"Welcome to Glarentza, Theophilus," I said warmly. "Your arrival is timely. We have much to discuss."
He nodded appreciatively. "I am honored to be of service, Despot."
Turning back to George, I couldn't contain my curiosity. "Tell me, what news from Constantinople?"
George's expression grew more serious, yet there was a spark of satisfaction in his eyes. "We managed to secure two-thirds of the gold we sought," he reported. "But more importantly, word of your endeavors has spread. Over twenty skilled craftsmen and their families agreed to accompany us. Blacksmiths, carpenters, masons—all eager to build a new future here."
I felt a swell of gratitude and excitement. "This exceeds my hopes, George. You've done exceptional work."
He continued, "Nearly two hundred others have come—displaced nobles, scholars, and laborers seeking refuge and purpose. The situation in the capital grows dire, and the promise of stability in the Morea is a beacon for many."
I surveyed the faces in the crowd—some weary, others hopeful. Children clung to their mothers' skirts, wide-eyed and curious. Men stood protectively by their families, gazes reflecting uncertainty and determination.
"These people will find a home here," I declared. "We shall make the Morea a place of prosperity and safety for all who dwell within its borders."
A murmur of relief and gratitude rippled through those nearby. George gestured toward a stout man with soot-stained hands. "Despot, allow me to introduce Elias, a master bell maker renowned in the capital."
Elias bowed deeply. "At your service, Despot. I've heard of your plans and am eager to contribute."
I clasped his forearm in a gesture of camaraderie. "Your skills will be invaluable, Elias. We have a lot of need for talented hands like yours."
Theophilus stepped forward once more. "Despot, I have also brought texts and manuscripts from the remnants of the imperial library."
"Excellent," I replied, envisioning the wealth of information those works could contain. "Your contributions are most welcome."
As we moved toward the castle entrance, the sun dipping lower on the horizon, I felt a renewed sense of purpose. The obstacles ahead were formidable, but with these new resources—both human and material—the path to strengthening the Morea seemed more attainable.
"George," I said quietly as we walked, "did you encounter any difficulties on your journey?"
He nodded solemnly. "There were challenges. Pirates in the sea, and tensions in the capital are high. The Ottomans press closer each day."
A shadow passed over my thoughts. The urgency of our mission weighed heavily upon me. "We must accelerate our efforts," I asserted. "Time is not a luxury we possess."
"Agreed," George replied. "I shall begin organizing the craftsmen immediately."
"Good. And Theophilus," I added, turning to the scholar, "we will convene soon to discuss how best to utilize the knowledge you've brought."
He inclined his head. "As you wish, Despot."
Before we could proceed further, a familiar figure approached—Theodora, her gown flowing gracefully as she walked. Her eyes met mine, reflecting warmth and quiet strength.
"Constantine," she greeted softly. "I heard of George's return. It's wonderful news."
"Indeed," I replied, taking her hands gently. "His journey was a success beyond measure."
She smiled, a hint of relief in her expression. "This will bolster our efforts."
Noticing the subtle shadows under her eyes, I felt a pang of concern. "Are you feeling well?" I asked quietly.
She nodded. "Just a bit tired, but nothing to worry over."
I squeezed her hands lightly. "Remember to rest. The welfare of you and our child is paramount."
A soft blush colored her cheeks. "I promise I will."
Turning back to George and Theophilus, I addressed them with renewed determination. "There is much to be done, but tonight, we shall rest and welcome our new companions. Tomorrow, we forge ahead."
They both nodded, understanding the significance of this convergence of events.
As evening settled in, the castle came alive with activity. Fires were lit, meals prepared, and the newcomers began to settle. The air was filled with a sense of cautious optimism—a stark contrast to the uncertainty that had loomed for so long.
I stood on the balcony overlooking the courtyard, watching as people found places to sit, sharing food and stories. Laughter mingled with the crackling of flames, and children chased one another under the watchful eyes of their parents.
Theodora joined me, slipping her arm through mine. "Look at them," she said softly. "Perhaps this is the beginning of something new."
"Indeed," I agreed, my gaze sweeping over the scene. "A foundation upon which we can build a future."
She rested her head on my shoulder. "I have faith in you, in us."
Her words warmed me. "Together, we will shape the destiny of this land."
She looked up at me, her eyes reflecting the flickering light. "I wanted to tell you—I've received a letter from my brother."
"Carlo?" I inquired. "What news does he bring?"
She hesitated briefly. "He writes of concerns in Epirus. Tensions with neighboring lords and whispers of Ottoman movements. He... also inquires about the prospects of an alliance."
I considered her words carefully. "An alliance could be beneficial, but we must tread cautiously. The political landscape is delicate."
She nodded. "I thought as much. I will draft a reply, but I wanted your counsel."
"Your wisdom is invaluable, Theodora," I assured her. "We will discuss it further and decide the best course of action."
A comfortable silence settled between us as we watched the festivities below. The challenges ahead were numerous, but with allies by my side and a vision for the future, I felt a steadfast resolve.
We will rise to meet the trials before us, I vowed silently. For the sake of all who look to us, and for the generations yet to come.
