EMPIRE REWRITTEN
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Chapter Three: The Weight of Expectations
🕑 Added 2024-10-01 11:48:07 +0000 UTCIt was the third morning since I had awakened in this body—since fate cast me as Constantine Palaiologos, Despot of the Morea. By now, I knew I could no longer hide behind the pretense of illness. My two days of enforced solitude in the austere chambers of Clermont Castle had run their course. The lords and courtiers beyond my door were growing restless; no further feigned weakness could hold them at bay.
I lingered a moment in the semi-darkness of my chamber, gathering my nerve. A single narrow window let in a slant of gray dawn light, illuminating barren stone walls and a simple wooden crucifix hung above a hard narrow bed. A young attendant arrived at first light with an ewer of hot water and laid out the garments I was expected to wear. With his help, I donned the elaborate attire piece by piece, trying not to gape at each brocaded layer. A long tunic of deep crimson silk, heavy with golden embroidery, fell to my calves. Over that went a velvet mantle trimmed in ermine fur, clasped at my shoulder by a jeweled brooch. I fumbled with an ornate leather belt, uncertain how to fasten it, until the servant stepped forward to discreetly guide the buckle into place. His eyes remained respectfully lowered, but I still felt a flush of embarrassment at needing help with something as simple as dressing. The weight of the cloak and the unfamiliar tightness of the high collar made me stand stiffly. I forced myself to straighten my shoulders. This is how a Despot dresses, I reminded myself, and this is how a Despot must carry himself.
Just as I reached for the door latch, a soft knock sounded. Before I could respond, the door creaked open and Theodora stepped inside. She was a vision of modest nobility—draped in a gown of midnight blue damask, with a gauzy veil of cream-colored silk covering her braided hair. A jeweled crucifix rested against her bosom. Her hands were folded primly at her waist, but I could see tension in the way she clasped them.
The moment Theodora’s eyes met mine, they lit with relief. “Constantine—” she breathed, her voice low and earnest. “Thanks be to God, you are up and about.” She moved toward me, and I noticed a faint tremble in her composure that betrayed how worried she had been. “These past two days, I have prayed incessantly for your health. Seeing you on your feet eases my heart more than you know.”
I managed a gentle smile and inclined my head to her. “Theodora… I am sorry to have caused you worry,” I said quietly. My tongue stumbled for a moment, unsure if Constantine would have used an endearment or a formal address for his wife. In the end, I simply repeated, “I’m truly sorry. I assure you I feel much improved now.”
She came closer and reached up as if to touch my forehead, checking for fever like a concerned spouse. I had to resist the instinct to flinch at the unfamiliar intimacy. Her cool fingers brushed my brow for an instant, then she let her hand rest lightly on my forearm. I gently laid my hand over hers, hoping the gesture seemed natural for a husband. The soft fabric of her sleeve and the warmth of her skin were oddly grounding.
“There is no need for apology,” Theodora said kindly. Her lips curved in a small smile, though worry still lingered in her dark eyes. “I am simply glad your sickness has passed. You must take care not to overexert yourself today.” She paused, her gaze searching my face. In that moment I wondered if she sensed anything different about me. Could she see that the man before her was not truly her Constantine? If the thought crossed her mind, she gave no sign.
Her words were meant to encourage, but they only underscored the pressure looming over me. I replied, trying to sound confident. “Rest assured, I am ready to do what must be done.”
Two attendants who had been stationed just outside instantly dropped into low bows at my appearance. One was an older steward in a neat tunic, the other a young guardsman in half-armor. Farther down the passage, I glimpsed a pair of courtiers who had been lingering in whispered conversation. At the sound of my door, they fell silent and turned; upon seeing me, they, too, inclined their heads deeply. It struck me that they had likely been hovering here out of concern or curiosity, waiting to glimpse their recovering lord.
I cleared my throat and inclined my head in return, acknowledging their bows without stopping. I remembered not to smile too much, nor to appear too hurried. Measured steps, chin up, just as a leader should, I instructed myself. Best to maintain an air of composed dignity and let them believe I was every bit the Constantine they expected.
As I made my way down the corridor, the cold air of the castle hall grazed my face, helping to wake me fully. Clermont Castle was austere and imposing in the morning gloom. High, vaulted ceilings loomed overhead, and the walls were bare stone except for an occasional banner depicting double-headed eagles. My footsteps echoed against the stones with an unnerving loudness as if to announce the approach of authority—whether I felt like that authority or not.
Squaring my shoulders once more, I continued down the corridor. I had nearly reached the arcaded gallery leading toward the council chamber when I turned a corner and almost collided with a robed figure coming the other way. I halted, startled, and took a half-step back.
It was George Sphrantzes, Constantine’s closest advisor and friend—now my advisor, whether I was ready or not. He was a lean man of about thirty, with carefully groomed dark hair and a short beard that framed a thoughtful, serious face. Upon recognizing me, Sphrantzes immediately dropped to one knee in a deep bow.
“Despot,” he greeted me, his head still inclined low, his tone composed yet penetrating. “Your Radiance, it brings considerable relief to see you recovered at last. Your absence has caused... considerable speculation.”
His voice was calm and measured, yet I detected a current of genuine relief in it. He rose from his bow and studied me with a careful gaze, as if examining my posture and complexion for any lingering sign of illness. Though his demeanor was respectful, I caught a wary gleam in his eyes, as though he were searching my face for something – perhaps the familiar assurance of the Constantine he knew.
I realized I must speak and quickly gathered myself. “Good morning, Sphrantzes,” I said, making sure to use a firm tone. “I am feeling much better.” I offered a small, reassuring smile. “Thanks to the Almighty, I seem to have shaken off that malady.”
Sphrantzes straightened fully and released a soft breath that might have been a sigh of relief.
“Indeed, thanks be to God,” he echoed carefully. “The court was beginning to whisper, though none dared openly speculate in my presence. Theodora and the entire court have been praying fervently for your health. I assured them repeatedly you were merely unwell, nothing more... complicated.”
He hesitated a moment, and I sensed he was choosing his words carefully.
“If you are ready, Your Lordship, shall I inform the council to assemble? Your nobles have grown rather restless—there are delicate matters awaiting your immediate judgment.”
A pang of anxiety shot through me at the thought of all those lords waiting to finally meet their new Despot. I clasped my hands behind me to hide a slight tremor in my fingers. “Yes… of course,” I replied. “We have kept them waiting long enough.”
Sphrantzes gave a brisk nod. “Very good, Despot.” He paused, then continued in a quieter voice meant only for me.
“As you instructed before your illness, I prepared a thorough report on those... pressing state concerns. Everything is ready, as discreetly as possible, of course. Whenever it suits your convenience, we can speak privately to ensure you have all necessary details. One misstep could weaken your position at a crucial moment.”
I felt my stomach flip. Reports? Matters of state I requested? Constantine’s recollections stirred faintly in the back of my mind, but I could not immediately recall the specifics. The past two days I had been so preoccupied with simply orienting myself in this body that I hadn’t delved into whatever plans Constantine had already set in motion. I knew Sphrantzes expected me to remember, and the last thing I wanted was to raise his suspicions by asking blankly what he meant. I needed to tread carefully.
“Yes… the reports,” I echoed, buying myself a moment as my heart began to thud harder. In that moment, a cold realization washed over me: this would be the first time Constantine (and thus I) presided over a council of the local nobility. He had only recently taken control of the Despotate, so many of these men had never met him before. This council was essentially their first full introduction to their new ruler. They would scrutinize everything—my words, my decisions, even my demeanor—for signs of what kind of leader I might be.
I could feel the weight of Sphrantzes’ expectant gaze and knew I had to respond decisively. Forcing a confident smile, I inclined my head. “Thank you for gathering those, my friend.” The word friend slipped out naturally, though I was uncertain if Constantine would have used it so freely. Sphrantzes didn’t seem to mind; if anything, his expression softened a touch. “I regret my illness interrupted our plans, especially at such a sensitive juncture. Let us waste no further time. The council will convene shortly.” I cleared my throat, then added in as steady a voice as I could muster, “Remind me— which of those matters requires our immediate attention? We shall address the most urgent first.”
There was a brief, almost imperceptible pause. Sphrantzes raised one eyebrow ever so slightly. I realized too late that my question might have sounded odd; Constantine should have already known which issue was most urgent. But if Sphrantzes found it strange, he was too tactful to show it openly. He folded his hands and dutifully answered my question.
“Of course, Despot,” he said, inclining his head smoothly. “Above all else, I strongly advise addressing the state of our fortifications immediately.”
“Fortifications?” I repeated, trying to recall. Yes—images flickered in my mind of battlements and walls… Constantine had indeed been worried about the state of some castle defenses here. I nodded for Sphrantzes to continue.
He spoke crisply, as if delivering a prepared report. “Our defensive situation is precarious. Clermont’s outer ramparts have been neglected for years, leaving us dangerously exposed. Our scouts report increased Ottoman activity. Certain lords suggest reinforcing immediately, while others believe our limited soldiers would be better deployed in patrols along the frontier passes. A difficult strategic choice—but crucially necessary. Your decisive voice will quell dissent and secure loyalty.”
As he talked, fragments of Constantine’s memory began slotting into place. Yes—the Ottomans. Constantine had indeed been worried about Ottoman incursions into the Morea. The mention of Turks caused a chill to run through me for more than one reason. But I had to focus on the present problem. Sphrantzes was still explaining.
“Some of our advisors suggest immediately diverting resources and manpower to shore up the western ramparts of Clermont,” he continued. “Others argue that our limited troops would be better used patrolling the mountain passes along the frontier. It is a difficult allocation of resources, and your decision on this is eagerly awaited.”
I pressed my lips together thoughtfully, trying to appear deep in concentration while panic churned inside me. Fortifications… Ottomans… This was no trivial matter. Lives hung in the balance depending on what I decided. I rifled through Constantine’s memories for anything relevant: perhaps a recent conversation about the state of the armory, or a map of the defenses. I got flashes—an image of Constantine inspecting a crumbling section of wall, a memory of a debate about whether to request engineers from Constantinople—but nothing concrete enough to give me the plan Constantine had intended.
I had inherited many of his broad experiences—visions of battles, the sense of commanding men, the faces of his brothers and allies. But the finer details, the day-to-day knowledge that a ruler needs—those things were like loose, unattached threads. I grasped at them and came up empty. I knew enough to seem like Constantine in broad strokes, but not enough to truly be him when it came to specifics.
I realized Sphrantzes was watching me closely, awaiting my response. I could feel the concern behind his courteous mask. I must have hesitated a beat too long. Gathering myself, I drew in a breath and gave what I hoped was a decisive nod. “Very well. The question of fortifications and patrols is indeed critical,” I said, choosing my words with care. “We shall address it directly in the council, with all voices heard, before I render a decision. In the meantime, ensure that any relevant documents or accounts—maps of the defenses, reports from our border scouts—are brought to the council chamber. I want everything ready for our discussion.”
My answer was deliberately non-committal, but I delivered it with a tone of authority, as if I had already been pondering the problem. It would buy me a little time to hear what others recommended once the council was in session. I only hoped it sounded like something Constantine would say.
Sphrantzes bowed again, one hand over his chest. “As you command, Despot,” he replied. His obedience was immediate, but I did not miss the slight furrow of his brow as he bent his head. Was that a flicker of doubt I saw? Did he find my response oddly vague? Or perhaps he was simply relieved that I was taking charge again after my absence. I couldn’t be sure. By the time he straightened up, his expression was once more neutral and professional.
“I shall see to it at once,” Sphrantzes continued. “The council chamber will be prepared for your arrival, and the lords summoned.” He allowed himself the ghost of a cautious smile. “It is good to have you well again, my Despot.”
“And it is good to be back,” I lied smoothly. In truth, I felt anything but “well”—my mind was still racing and my palms were damp inside Constantine’s embroidered gloves. But I returned his smile with what confidence I could fake. “Thank you, Sphrantzes. I will join you all shortly.”
He dipped his head respectfully. “Very good. I shall inform the others.” With that, Sphrantzes took a step back, then pivoted on his heel. He did not turn his back fully to me until he had withdrawn a few paces—an old court etiquette, never to turn your back on a prince. I watched him stride briskly down the corridor, his dark blue cloak fluttering behind him, until he disappeared around the next bend.
The moment he was gone, I let out a long breath I hadn’t realized I was holding. My composure cracked, just for an instant, as I raked a hand through my hair. That was close. I had managed to navigate the exchange without raising alarm, I hoped, but the real test was yet to come.
I had bought myself only a few minutes’ respite at best. Very soon, I would have to walk into that council chamber and sit at the head of the table as a Despot of the Morea. Half a dozen, perhaps a dozen, noblemen and military officers would be arrayed before me, awaiting my judgments on matters great and small. They would expect Constantine—the real Constantine—to lead them with confidence and wisdom. They would expect decisive answers, commands issued, problems solved.
I pressed my back against the stone wall and closed my eyes briefly, feeling a tremor of fear roll through me. How in heaven’s name am I going to do this? If I misspoke, if I stumbled, if I gave a nonsensical order… they would notice. And then? What will they do if they realize their Despot is… not himself?
I bit down on the inside of my cheek, willing the surge of panic to ebb. No. I can’t afford those doubts now. I stood up straight, adjusted the drape of the fur-lined mantle around my shoulders, and forced myself to take steady breaths. One step at a time. Get through the council meeting. Listen more than you speak. Use what you do know. Perhaps I could even turn my lack of specific knowledge into an advantage by inviting my councilors to give their opinions first. Yes—that might be the way. Let them talk, let Sphrantzes and the others lay out options, and glean what I needed from them before deciding. That was something a wise ruler might do anyway.
They didn’t know me yet, these lords of Morea. In a sense, that was a blessing. If I behaved oddly, they might simply chalk it up to first-day-in-power jitters or lingering effects of illness. I would only have this one grace period, though. Soon enough, by my words and deeds, they would come to know their new Despot—for better or worse. And that thought absolutely terrified me.
Clenching my jaw, I banished that thought and moved forward. As long as necessary, I decided. I would maintain this pretense for as long as I had to—one day, one hour at a time.
For now, that would have to be enough. And with that, I strode on toward the awaiting council, every step a prayer that I could indeed live up to the weight of their expectations.
