EMPIRE REWRITTEN
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Chapter 15: The Weight of Survival
🕑 Added 2024-10-09 16:06:16 +0000 UTCThe stench was unbearable, clinging to the thick, damp air like a suffocating cloak. No amount of scented incense could chase it away, and the servants’ diligent scrubbing only left the room reeking of wet stone, sweat, and lingering decay. Michael sat on the edge of the bed, hands limp on his knees, staring at the floor in silence.
His wife’s passing had opened a hollow, aching void inside him. He could still see her pale face, fresh in his memory though she lay buried days ago. And then there was their stillborn child—gone before she ever drew breath. The twin tragedies gnawed at him like a disease, devouring whatever resolve he had left. He had wanted so badly to save them both, yet he had been powerless.
The sense of helplessness never truly lifted. Every piece of this new world—the filth, the discomfort, the gloom—pressed in on him, and he realized grimly how little he had adapted. Since Theodora’s death, everything felt toxic. Everything smelled like rot.
A soft creak intruded on his thoughts. Michael glanced up, eyes dull with exhaustion, as the door inched open. Lukas, a young servant, stepped into the chamber, head bowed. The sight of the chamber pot cradled in his arms tightened the knot in Michael’s stomach. He resented its necessity; resented the humiliation, the stench, all of it.
“Just…take it and go,” Michael murmured, his voice rough. He lifted a hand to massage his temple. The gesture was reflexive, an attempt to stave off the grief pounding in his head.
Lukas moved briskly, heedless in his haste. A corner of the rug caught his foot, and he stumbled. The chamber pot slipped from his hands, crashing to the floor. Its contents spilled out, soaking into the crevices of the stone as the reek intensified—more pungent than before.
For an instant, Michael froze. His mind flashed with images of Theodora’s final moments: her rasping breaths, the spark of life flickering in her eyes, and that heavy cloak of helplessness that had smothered him then—and smothered him now.
“Goddamn it!” he roared, lurching to his feet. A pulse hammered in his ears, a drumbeat of fresh anger and grief.
Lukas flinched, scrambling back. “M-my lord,” he stuttered, face ashen. “I—I’m so sorry—”
“Shut up!” Michael lashed out, voice quavering with raw emotion. The stench and memory merged into a single, crushing wave, pressing against his chest. Lukas dropped to his knees, hands trembling as he tried to scoop up the mess with his bare fingers. The pitiful sight rattled Michael further, a mirror of his own powerlessness.
Before Michael could stop himself, he struck Lukas across the face. It was a desperate, unthinking act—born of anguish more than fury. The boy gasped and sprawled onto the floor, clutching his cheek.
A surge of guilt nearly drove Michael to his knees. He recognized the madness in his own actions. None of this was Lukas’s fault. The stench, the anguish, Theodora’s death, his child’s loss—it was too much, flooding his mind until he could barely tell right from wrong.
Michael’s hand sank to his side, fingers still curled from the blow. His voice came out in a thick whisper. “Get…get up.”
Trembling, Lukas stood, eyes brimming with equal parts terror and shame. Michael had no words left, just a tempest of regret simmering behind every breath.
“Clean it up,” he rasped, turning away so Lukas wouldn’t see the tears gathering in his eyes. He forced his gaze out the window, onto the rolling hills of the Morea. Clouds swarmed overhead, pregnant with an oncoming storm. “Clean it and go.”
He did not watch Lukas depart. The soft rustle of cloth, the scrape of pottery, and then the door shutting—each sound throbbed against his conscience. The stench lingered, clinging to his clothes, his hair, his very soul. But it was not the smell that haunted him most now.
It was knowing he was changing. The filth, the grief, the unrelenting harshness of this place—together, they were carving him into someone darker, someone crueler. And Michael felt it happening, powerless to stop it.
Clermont, February 1430
He stood by the window, staring across snow-dusted hills under a sky the color of ash. Winter had been a time of perpetual gray, the bitterness of the cold mirroring the chill in his soul. The memory of Theodora’s death still clawed at him, a wound that refused to heal. The memories of his old life—New York, his sons, familiar comforts—slipped further away with every passing day.
His only refuge, now, was work. If he lost himself in the printing press, the arsenal, and the unending administrative tasks, he found moments of distraction from the gnawing sorrow. The first press, once a strange marvel, had become a lifeline. The new furnace and additional cannons—Drakos models, they called them—were testament to his relentless push for progress. But the heavier his responsibilities grew, the more he felt the weight of a crown he’d never wanted in the first place.
A knock at the door—soft yet certain—broke through his reverie.
“Enter,” he called, voice still hoarse from grief and a poor night’s sleep.
George Sphrantzes slipped into the room. His steady presence had long been a comfort to Michael, though they seldom spoke of personal matters. “Despot,” George said with a formal bow, “the council meets this morning. I thought I might find you here before we begin.”
Michael nodded but didn’t leave the window. “I’ll be there,” he murmured. He let the silence stretch as he studied the pattern of snow on the distant fields. Then, almost reluctantly, he turned to face his advisor.
George stepped closer, clasping his hands behind his back. “I know these past months have been…difficult. For all of us, but especially you.”
Michael clenched his fists, feeling the tightness in his chest that always accompanied thoughts of Theodora. "It’s not just her, George," he said quietly. "It’s everything. I thought I could change things—make the empire stronger, more resilient. But every step forward feels like we're barely keeping our heads above water."
George rested a cautious hand on Michael’s shoulder. “Some progress, though, is there. The arsenal is taking shape; your press is operational. Just this month, we finished building the bigger furnace. We have new cannons and—” He hesitated, aware that good news could still grate on raw grief. “And your people see what you’re trying to do.”
Michael almost laughed—bitterly. “Yes…my people,” he repeated, though in truth, he still felt like an outsider in a borrowed life.
George cleared his throat and continued more cautiously, “We’ve also received troubling word from Ioannina. Carlo II has succeeded his uncle, but he’s contending with his illegitimate cousins—Memnone and the rest—who appealed to Sultan Murad for help. They say an Ottoman force under Sinan is already on the move.”
Michael’s jaw tightened at the news. "And Theodora’s death... "
Michael then stared at the flickering flames, the enormity of their situation weighing on him. "For now, we focus on what we can control. Secure the traders, sell what we must. We’ll deal with the Ottomans when we have to, but right now, our survival depends on our trade."
Just then, a servant entered the room, carrying a small bundle of letters. "Despot, these arrived from Constantinople."
Michael took the letters, recognizing the familiar seals. The first was from his mother, Helena Dragas, now residing in a monastery in the capital. He broke the seal and unfolded the letter, her comforting words filling the room as he read.
"My son, I grieve with you for Theodora. No words can ease your pain, but know that I pray for her soul and for you. Grief is a burden we must all carry in this life, but in time, the weight will lessen. I am proud of all you have accomplished, and I know Theodora is watching over you from Heaven. Be strong, my son. The Empire needs you now more than ever. With love, your mother."
Michael’s hands trembled slightly as he folded the letter back. Though Helena Dragas was not really his mother, her words carried a warmth and comfort that he hadn't realized he needed.
The next letter bore the imperial seal of his brother, Emperor John VIII. Michael opened it cautiously, unsure of what to expect.
"Brother, I am deeply saddened by the news of Theodora’s passing. I know this loss weighs heavily upon you, and I share in your sorrow. I wanted to thank you personally for the Latin Bible you sent. It is a truly remarkable creation, and I believe it will aid in the unification of the churches, as we have long hoped. I plan to visit you in Glarentza when I can, to see this miraculous printing press you’ve built. You have my gratitude, and my support, always."
Michael set the letter down, mixed emotions swirling within him. His brother’s words, while kind, were a reminder of the political weight that still rested on his shoulders. The unification of the churches—an ambitious plan, but one fraught with danger. Not everyone supported the idea, and he knew his efforts with the Latin Bible had stirred resentment among traditionalists like his brother Theodore.
"Good news?" George asked.
Michael sighed. "John is pleased with the Latin Bible. He thinks it will help with the unification. He’s even talking about visiting Glarentza to see the press for himself."
George raised an eyebrow. "That could be...interesting."
"Yes," Michael muttered. "Interesting is one way to put it."
The Council Meeting
Later that morning, Michael sat at the head of the large table in the council chamber. The room was sparsely lit, the fire casting long shadows across the stone walls. A large blackboard stood against one wall, a new addition to the meetings—a simple yet effective tool for demonstrating the state of their logistics, their stockpiles, and their debts. White chalk lines crisscrossed the board, showing figures for resources, projections, and supply chains. It was a modern idea for a medieval world, but one that had quickly proven its worth.
Around the table sat George Sphrantzes, Theophilus Dragas, Petros—the newly appointed steward—and two senior officials. Their expressions reflected a mix of anticipation and concern as they prepared to address the pressing issues of the day.
Petros stepped forward, ledger in hand. He looked younger than his years—keen, a little anxious, and determined to make a good impression. “Despot,” he began carefully, “the winter’s been harsh. Much of the cotton crop was damaged, so we don’t have enough raw material for all the new presses. With four in operation, our paper reserves are nearly empty.”
Theophilus, grave as ever, added in a low voice, “And the Venetians still expect their paper shipment. We’ve used most of our stock printing Bibles. If we don’t secure fresh cotton—or some alternate source of paper—production halts.”
Michael’s gaze traveled to the blackboard. He pictured the mountains of tasks overshadowing him, their weight pressing harder each day. He pinned Theophilus with a searching look. “How many Bibles do we have finished? And how many can we manage by spring?”
“Four hundred are completed. We could push to six hundred by spring, if we find enough paper,” Theophilus replied. “If the Venetians and Genoese buy them, we’d bring in enough gold to ease our debts for months.”
Petros rose from his seat and moved to the blackboard, quickly sketching out the figures. "Even if we price each Bible conservatively at twenty gold ducats, the revenue from the sale would more than cover our current debts. However," he paused, tapping the board with the chalk, "without addressing the paper shortage caused by the damaged cotton fields, this success will be short-lived."
Michael’s gaze swept over the figures on the board, weighing their options. "Our immediate priority is clear. We need to sell the Bibles to clear our debts and ensure the treasury can support us through the coming months. But we cannot overlook the paper shortage. Securing more cotton is vital for sustaining production, or the presses will grind to a halt."
George’s voice was thoughtful. “We have maybe a dozen new pieces, but the bronze is nearly gone, and our powder stock is dangerously low. Producing gunpowder locally hasn’t been possible with the knowledge and materials we have.”
Michael studied the blackboard’s tally of figures one more time. “After we pay off pressing debts with Bible sales, we’ll use the rest to buy more materials—cotton, bronze, sulfur, charcoal, saltpeter. Then we can keep both the presses and the foundry alive.”
As the meeting drew to a close and the council members began to disperse, Michael lingered by the blackboard, his eyes tracing the lines and numbers. He felt a sense of focus returning—a determination to push through the difficulties. They had come this far, and now they had a plan to ensure their efforts weren’t wasted.
Michael’s thoughts drifted to the new steward, Petros. The young man had risen quickly through the ranks, thanks to his sharp mind and practical approach. Watching him work, Michael couldn’t help but feel a pang of nostalgia. Petros reminded him of his own son—Jason—not in appearance, but in character. Both were driven by an unwavering dedication and a keen sense of responsibility, qualities that had always impressed Michael.
