EMPIRE REWRITTEN
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Book II/Chapter 7: Back home
🕑 Added 2025-05-12 22:25:23 +0000 UTCConstantine stepped off the Kyreneia onto solid ground, his boots scraping Glarentza’s weathered dock. A salt-stained wind tugged at his travel cloak and carried the sharp scent of brine and tar. He paused a moment, steadying himself after the long voyage. Overhead, gulls wheeled against a slate-grey sky, their cries mingling with the shouts of sailors unloading the galley. Despite the late hour, lanterns bobbed along the wharf where a small reception waited. At their head stood Theophilus Dragas, shoulders squared against the breeze, a torch in one hand lighting his lined, earnest face. As Constantine approached, Theophilus offered a deep bow. The firelight played over the older man’s close-cropped grey hair.
“Welcome home, Your Majesty. Your voyage… I trust it was fruitful?”
Constantine’s dark eyes flickered with guarded satisfaction. “Fruitful enough.” He allowed himself that much, though exhaustion tugged at him. “There’s movement, Theophilus. Real movement. A crusade gathering momentum.” He lowered his voice as a few guards and stevedores drew nearer with cargo. “Sigismund will raise thirty thousand men. Venice and even the Papal fleet are on board. And Burgundy…” He caught himself, stopping before the flood of information spilled unmeasured. A full report would wait for a secure room. Instead, Constantine exhaled a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. In a dry, almost self-mocking tone he added, “Oh, and I seem to have acquired a bride along the way.”
Theophilus blinked, momentarily at a loss. “A b-bride, Majesty?”
Constantine chuckled softly at his advisor’s startled tone. “All in good time, my friend. I’ll explain everything at Clermont. For now, let’s get out of this wind.” He cast a glance up at the darkening sky, where clouds were beginning to swallow the last dull orange band of sunset. “Have the horses ready? I’m eager to quit the docks.”
“Yes, Majesty. This way.” Theophilus signaled, and a pair of waiting horses were led forward by guards. Constantine swung into his saddle with practiced ease, ignoring the protest of travel-sore muscles.
Later that evening, a small fire crackled in the great hall of Clermont Castle, chasing a damp chill from the stone walls. Constantine sat at the head of a long oaken table. Golden lamplight played over half-empty dishes of roast kid and spiced lentils, though little food had been eaten. The meal had given way to strategy. Theophilus and Plethon flanked their Emperor on either side, leaning in to catch every word. A steward moved quietly along the periphery, refilling wine cups with a reverence that befitted the gravity in the room.
Constantine set down his silver goblet, its base clinking softly on the wood, and surveyed his two trusted advisors. In their expectant faces he saw reflections of all that had transpired – hope, worry, resolve. He cleared his throat, the sound loud in the hushed hall. “To business, then. I left Rome with commitments in hand. Emperor Sigismund has agreed to muster an army of thirty thousand for our cause.” He spoke evenly, but even he could not keep a note of satisfaction from coloring his voice. “He’ll draw levies from Hungary and the Empire, and intends to march by spring.”
Plethon’s eyes flashed with interest. The old philosopher’s white brows arched as he considered the news. “Sigismund… thirty thousand,” he repeated, as if tasting the import of the number. He toyed with the stem of his cup, lost in thought for a heartbeat. “A sizable force. If it materializes.”
“It will,” Constantine affirmed quietly, confident from the memory of Sigismund’s grave, lined face as the Emperor swore his support. “His pride is on the line. This crusade will be the crown of his reign, he wants it as much as we do.”
Theophilus exhaled, a cautious smile tugging at his lips. “That is more than we dared hope just months ago.” He exchanged a glance with Plethon. “And the others, Majesty? You mentioned Venice… and Burgundy?”
Constantine inclined his head. “Venice has expressed strong interest. The doge and the Pope’s envoy are in close contact. They smell opportunity in an alliance.” He allowed a thin smile. “Likely they imagine their galleys leading a triumphant entry into Constantinople. And the Papal fleet will join as well, if only to ensure Rome’s flag flies on the day of victory.”
Plethon let out a low, thoughtful hum. He set down his cup, untouched, and folded his fingers together. The firelight threw deep hollows across his cheeks and temples, making him appear as one of the sages of old. “Venice never extends a hand without expecting a reward in it,” he murmured. “If their Senate commits ships and men, they will name their price. We must be prepared for what that price is.”
Constantine leaned back slightly in his high-backed chair. He had anticipated this turn in the conversation. “I suspect we all know what their opening gambit will be.” His voice was dry. “Thessaloniki.”
Plethon gave a single, grave nod. In the shifting light his expression was hard to read, but his tone held a quiet resentment. “They have coveted Thessaloniki for generations. They briefly held it not long ago, until the Turk took it from them. In their mind it’s a Venetian possession unjustly lost.” He glanced at Constantine, eyes narrowed. “They will want it back.”
Silence fell except for the pop of an ember on the hearth. Constantine felt the weight of that truth. Thessaloniki—second city of the empire, once. A rich prize and a strategic port. To wrest it from the Ottomans only to hand it over to the Venetians would be a bitter bargain indeed. He traced a finger along a knot in the wood table, contemplating. “I gave no promises,” he said at last. “Only assurances that all contributions will be repaid in due course.”
Theophilus’s forehead creased. “Repaid how, if not in land?”
“Gold, trade privileges, those can be negotiated,” Constantine replied. He allowed steel to edge into his voice. “But I will not blithely pledge Greek cities as coin for foreign powers. Not unless absolutely necessary.”
Plethon’s head tilted approvingly. “Good.” The single word hung between them with the force of the elder scholar’s conviction. “We must be careful. Liberating a city from the infidel only to see a different foreign banner raised above its walls would be a hollow victory. Particularly Thessaloniki, which has been and must remain a bulwark of Hellenism.”
Theophilus tapped a finger on the table, considering both the Emperor’s words and Plethon’s warning. His voice, always measured, was cautious now. “Even so, without Venetian warships, Thessaloniki may never be liberated at all. We have, what, a handful of galleys between us? If battle comes by sea, or if we need to ferry troops…” He trailed off, shaking his head. “The reality is we do need Venice. At least for now.”
A log in the hearth shifted, sending a shower of sparks up the chimney and a brief flare of light over Constantine’s face. He saw Theophilus’s point written plainly in the man’s earnest frown. For all Plethon’s idealism, there was pragmatism in Theophilus’s eyes. Constantine steepled his fingers. “We will include Venice, certainly. But we keep our eyes open. If their demands grow too steep—”
“We find another way,” Plethon finished, with a thin-lipped smile. “Perhaps by reminding them that a strong Greek state can shield their precious trade routes better than a few ports under constant siege.”
Constantine noted the subtle emphasis Plethon placed on Greek state. The old mentor’s lifelong dream of a restored, proudly independent Hellenic empire burned as hot as ever. It was a flame Constantine shared, Ieros Skopos, though he knew it must be fed carefully, with realpolitik as much as passion. “Just so,” he agreed softly. “We’ll leverage their self-interest, but won’t be slaves to it.”
He shifted in his chair, and a servant ghosted forward to refill his wine. Constantine waved the pitcher away gently. His mind was too alert for more drink; wine would only blur the edges of the delicate balance they were parsing. Instead, he reached for a clay carafe of water and poured some into his cup. The water was cool and tasted faintly of the clay vessel. He took a sip and continued. “There is also the matter of Burgundy. Duke Philip is willing to contribute men and gold.”
Theophilus’s eyebrows rose. “Philip the Good, offering troops and money? So it's not merely florid letters filled with empty promises?”
A wry chuckle escaped Constantine. He remembered the Duke’s florid letters and the way the papal envoys had fairly glowed when discussing Burgundy’s zeal for a new crusade. “He styles himself the grand protector of the faith these days. It suits his interests, he’s consolidating power in the west, and crusading earns him prestige. I think the Pope and his cardinals have flattered him into it. Regardless, his support could be significant. Imagine Burgundian knights flying our banner against the Sultan’s armies.”
Plethon allowed himself a rare smile, thin but genuine. “Fortune smiles on us, it would seem. The West’s great princes lining up behind a Byzantine cause… who would have imagined?”
“It’s not merely fortune,” Theophilus interjected, his voice carrying quiet satisfaction. “It’s your doing, Majesty, your victories, perseverance and even the book trade. They profit from it as much as we do, and it’s opened more doors than some realize.You’ve secured allies many believed impossible.” He raised his cup respectfully toward Constantine.
Constantine felt a flush of humility and determination at Theophilus’s praise. “I’ve planted seeds, nothing more. They’ve yet to blossom into real banners and ships on our shores. We have promises; we must turn them into deeds.” He set his cup down and leaned forward, hands flat on the table. “Which brings us to another promise made in Rome… one I had to deftly deflect for the time being.”
Plethon’s knowing glance darted to Theophilus and back to Constantine. “Ah. The matter of the Churches, I presume.”
Constantine inclined his head gravely. “His Holiness pressed me, as expected. He wants formal progress on uniting the Latin and Orthodox churches, and soon.” He paused, the memory of the Pope’s insistent eyes in Rome still vivid. “In fact, he would have liked a declaration signed on the spot. I… persuaded him that such a step is untenable at this moment.”
Plethon snorted softly, unable to contain his disdain. “Tenable or not, the man is relentless.” The elderly scholar’s voice carried the bite of a philosopher who had little patience for papal maneuvering. “They always demand spiritual submission in exchange for aid. A most usurious bargain.”
Theophilus shot Plethon a mild chiding look. A devout man as well as a pragmatist, Theophilus was ever careful when speaking of the Pope. “We do seek their aid, after all. One can hardly blame His Holiness for wanting to heal the Great Schism on terms favorable to Rome.” He turned to Constantine, brow furrowed in concern. “How firmly did you defer him, Majesty? The last thing we need is to alienate the Pope when so much hangs in the balance.”
Constantine felt the tension behind his eyes as he recalled the delicate verbal dance. In the hearth’s glow, he chose his words now as carefully as he had before the Pope. “I assured him that I hold the goal of unity in my heart, that I recognize its importance. But I argued that we face a more immediate obstacle: Constantinople still languishes under Demetrios’s misrule. The empire is split against itself. I told him our first step must be reclaiming our capital and restoring order. Only then can we tend to the unity of Christendom in earnest.”
Plethon’s chin dipped in approval. “Sensibly put. Hard to join East and West when East is at war with itself.”
Theophilus, more sanguine, released a slow breath. “And the Pope accepted this… delay?”
“For now,” Constantine said. “He wasn’t pleased, but he cannot force the issue. He needs this crusade to succeed as much as we do. Openly quarreling with me would only fracture the alliance before it’s truly formed.” A thin smile came to Constantine’s face. “Still, His Holiness made it clear he expects a serious discussion, if not outright concessions, on church unity the moment Constantinople is freed.”
Plethon muttered something under his breath about foxes and henhouses while staring into the fire. Theophilus gave a small nod. “That was inevitable. But we’ll handle that bridge when we cross it. Perhaps by then, with God’s grace, we will be negotiating from a position of strength.”
“Indeed. We shall make our stand in Constantinople first. Church matters come after.” He let that settle, then cleared his throat, feeling a slight tightness of nerves at the next topic. “Now… to the last matter from my travels. The one you’ve both been itching to hear more about, I suspect.” He tried to inject a lighter note into his voice and glanced sidelong at Theophilus. “My alleged new bride.”
Theophilus set his cup down very deliberately. “I had hoped that was merely a jest, Majesty,” he said, though a trace of humor in his eyes mirrored Constantine’s own. “It seems there is truth to it?”
Plethon turned his full attention to Constantine, curiosity plainly evident.
Constantine rolled the stem of his cup between his fingers, the gesture almost self-conscious. “While in Rome, Pope Eugenius made an… offer. A marriage alliance to bind us to Burgundy’s cause. He proposed that I wed Agnes of Cleves, niece to Duke Philip of Burgundy.”
Theophilus’s lips parted in surprise, and even Plethon looked momentarily taken aback. Agnes of Cleves. The name hung in the lamplit air. Constantine could almost see the calculations forming behind his counselors’ eyes. Agnes was of high birth, connected to one of the wealthiest powers in Christendom. A marriage to her could draw Burgundy irrevocably to their side. It could also complicate matters immensely.
Plethon was first to break the silence. He leaned forward, palms flat on the table. “Agnes of Cleves… a niece of Burgundy.” His tone was musing, but a spark of energy had entered the old man’s demeanor. “That would indeed cement Philip’s commitment. Blood ties weigh heavily with him, by all accounts. If you marry his kin, he’s honor-bound to see our cause through.”
Theophilus, however, wore a more guarded expression. “Agnes… She’s what, perhaps seventeen summers?”
“Eleven...” Constantine murmured, dissatisfaction coloring his voice.
Theophilus sighed through his nose, a habit of his when moving from shock to analysis. “Eleven? She is just a child, Your Majesty, and unfamiliar with our language, our ways… There will be difficulties adjusting. And,” he hesitated, choosing his words gently, “we must consider the urgency of securing an heir. Time is not an endless luxury for us.” He looked apologetic to have to voice it so plainly. “Every year that passes without a child is… a risk. To stability.”
Constantine absorbed Theophilus’s concerns without outward offense. In truth, the same worries had crossed his own mind during many a sleepless night on the ship. He was Emperor of a broken empire, with no son or daughter to carry on should fate strike him down. The thought tightened a cold band around his heart. “I know,” he said, meeting Theophilus’s gaze. “I am well aware of my duty in that regard.”
Plethon gave a soft harrumph. “The girl’s age might be an asset, in fact. She’s young, likely pliable to our customs given time, and with many fertile years ahead of her. You're hardly an old man yourself, Constantine,” He offered a gentle smile, his teasing affectionate. “Besides, we can arrange this match now, and until the girl comes of age, perhaps circumstances will shift enough to reconsider, should something else better suit our interests by then. Just don’t delay too long, I’d like to see a son of yours toddling through these halls before I depart this world.”
A gentle laugh escaped Theophilus, breaking the tension, and Constantine couldn’t help but smile. “Nor would I, old friend,” he said quietly. He raised his cup, now filled only with water, in a small toast. “To the future then. To alliances, to victories, and to heirs, God willing.”
Plethon and Theophilus lifted their cups in answer. “To the future,” they echoed together.
Comments
RENAISSANSE SI
Yeah, that betrothal is definitely a tough one to stomach, especially for someone with a 21st-century mindset suddenly navigating 15th-century politics and marriage norms.
RENAISSANSE SI
Thank you!
Hugo23
I just realized that Plethon gave Constantine the ammo he needs to back Eugene into a corner. If Constantine says yes it requires Eugene to admit the differences in Customs and practice require a council, in addition to losing potential influence with both Burgundy and Constantine. It lets him get to the heart of the schism without appearing aggressive about it and let's him detail all the wrongs that were committed against the Eastern traditions. I mean even acknowledging Constantine as an emperor hurts the HRE and the pope's authority, excellent chapter! Especially considering the shall we say actions of the West towards them in the proceeding centuries, *Genoa* cough cough
Elaine
good chappie
Anonykor
Oof, that betrothal would be hard to stomach. And he'd probably want to wait at least five years before trying for an heir, for biological reasons. That's a long time. And the other parties involved might not be as understanding of his reasoning. It could look like he's stalling. Then again, they probably would be amenable to a long engagement, seeing as Constantine hasn't won yet. Lock him down with an engagement but they have an out if things don't look like they're working out.
ioshf fikry
What about the craftsmen? Did Constantine meet them in Rome?
RENAISSANSE SI
Next chapter!
Jan Mantsch
Nothing on the Smith that was such a big deal a couple of weeks ago? Kinda seems like that plot point got forgotten no?
RENAISSANSE SI
Man, I can’t wait to start posting the Crusade chapters, this is going to be epic!
russell marsh
To the future
