67

Glarentza, May 1433

Glarentza awoke with the dawn, unfurling into a hive of activity beneath a pink and gold sky. The port city bustled like a marketplace at festival time. Long caravans of carts creaked through the gates, heavily loaded with various supplies. At the harbor, sailors shouted in a babel of tongues— Greek, Venetian, Genoese, Iberian, Burgundian—as they loaded wooden crates stamped with Morea's publishing seal onto ships riding low in the water. The salty air was tinged with the sharp scent of fresh ink and paper, the new perfume of prosperity that had come to define Glarentza's transformation. The main thoroughfare was alive, with traders hawking goods and locals rushing to fill orders.

Intermingled with the commercial fervor were the unmistakable preparations for war. Down by the docks, a line of ox-drawn wagons stood ready, packed with barrels of grain, salted meat, and amphorae of wine to fuel the coming campaign. Blacksmiths' forges glowed hot as armorers hammered out the final dents in breastplates and sharpened swords for the soldiers who would carry them. A squad of pikemen marched past in step, their boots drumming against the cobbles; their spear tips caught the morning light. Townswomen paused in their errands to watch the warriors go by, offering silent prayers or small cheers, while children ran alongside the formation with wooden swords, pretending to be heroes bound for glory. Glarentza thrummed with purpose—a city preparing its mind for trade and its heart for battle, united under Constantine's guiding hand.

Constantine rode slowly through the streets on his way to the castle, absorbing the sights and sounds with quiet pride.

At the castle's council champer, Constantine found Theophilus Dragas already awaiting him beside a long oak table strewn with parchment, ledgers, and a single Bible bound in leather. Theophilus's lined face broke into a relieved smile as his liege entered.

"Good morning, my Emperor," he greeted, inclining his head. Despite the formal words, there was a warmth between the two men born of hard-won successes and shared vision. Constantine returned the smile and clasped Theophilus's forearm in friendship before taking his seat at the head of the table.

"We live in extraordinary times," Constantine said as he ran his hand reverently over the cover of the Bible. The volume was one of the special Papal Edition copies—its pages still smelling of fresh ink. He opened it to a page where the black print of the movable type stood uniform and precise. "Ten thousand Bibles for Pope Eugene," he murmured, as if to himself. The reality of it still amazed him—just a couple of years ago, such a thing would have been unimaginable.

Theophilus's eyes shone with pride. "And the first four thousand are bound and ready for shipment, as you see." He tapped a parchment inventory. "The rest are in production around the clock. Our printing-press workshops have not been silent for a moment these past months. We even had to hire two dozen more apprentices to keep the presses fed with paper and ink." He chuckled softly, the sound echoing in the vast hall. "The coffers of Glarentza are heavier every day. Gold flows in as steadily as the Eurotas River in spring."

His tone turned more earnest as he continued. "In the past month alone, twelve Venetian and seven Genoese ships have docked here specifically to buy books. Burgundian traders have also started to arrive—the Duke is clearly pleased with our arrangement for scholarly works for his libraries. He's expressed his satisfaction in our recent correspondence."

Constantine allowed himself a tight smile of satisfaction. The Duke of Burgundy was one of the most powerful men in Europe; the ongoing trade and exchange of letters further cemented their relationship. "We will continue to accommodate them," Constantine said. "Since our initial agreement is proving fruitful, and given our established correspondence, if Burgundy desires more books, then by Christ, more books he shall have. Perhaps we can formalize a dedicated bookstore north. We've established a strong presence in Italy already; a more robust partnership with Burgundy is the next natural step."

"Just so," agreed Theophilus. He unrolled another parchment, revealing columns of figures and notes. "Our bookstore in Ragusa reports that every volume we sent last month sold out within days. The same in Naples. In Rome, Bessarion writes that the storefront we established near the forum is drawing throngs of curious clergy and lay scholars alike. We can scarcely keep up with demand. The scribes in those cities have taken to calling our shopfronts 'miracle markets.'"

Constantine chuckled at the thought. "Miracle markets? If only Gutenberg could hear that." He caught himself and cleared his throat, waving a hand as if to dismiss a stray thought. "I mean, if only the scholars of Constantinople could see what a humble press can do."

Theophilus raised an eyebrow at the unfamiliar name that had nearly slipped from Constantine's tongue, but said nothing as his lord smoothly continued, "Despite our recent expansions—made possible by Cosimo's generous investment—it's clear we've already reached our capacity. The demand for our books greatly exceeds our production capabilities."

He paused, glancing calmly at Theophilus Dragas, who stood quietly, observing him with thoughtful eyes. "Our coffers are full, thanks to your management and the success of these partnerships. We should establish yet another printing warehouse here in Glarentza, solely for secular works. The existing presses must remain focused exclusively on the religious texts. We cannot afford delays."

Theophilus considered this proposal carefully before responding, his voice soft yet carrying a steady authority. "You speak wisely, Despot. Cosimo's funding has already provided us ample room to grow. Indeed, our revenues confirm your vision's success. We have sufficient gold at our disposal to finance further expansion ourselves, without depending on foreign patrons."

He hesitated briefly, his expression calm but pragmatic. "Yet we must proceed cautiously, Constantine. Expanding too rapidly risks spreading ourselves thin."

Constantine met his advisor's eyes and saw the unspoken worry there. Above them hung the question of survival against the Ottomans, along with the hope of reclaiming lost territories. He gave a firm nod. "That is precisely why we've pushed so hard on these fronts. The gold from book sales builds our army and feeds our people, but the alliances and goodwill they foster might one day tip the balance in a larger struggle," Constantine said, his voice echoing in the hall.

"Now, we must turn our minds fully to the campaign. The army is prepared to march at first light tomorrow. Let's ensure everything is in order for our departure."

Theophilus rose quietly, carefully tucking the ledger under one arm. "Earlier this morning, I took the liberty of inspecting the supply convoys at the docks," he said calmly, as they walked together toward the arched doorway. Sunlight spilled through, illuminating the hall with warm, golden shafts. "All provisions are loaded exactly as planned. Officer Marcos has wisely organized the wagons into two columns—they'll depart an hour ahead of the main army to gain a head start on the journey. He also ensured fresh horses are stationed at Andravida to keep the supply lines swift and steady."

Constantine nodded, clearly pleased. "Excellent. And the troops themselves?"

"They remain in high spirits," Theophilus replied softly, his voice measured and reassuring. "But perhaps you should observe them yourself. They're drilling now, just outside the main gate, awaiting your inspection."

"I will," Constantine agreed. He paused at the doorway, placing a hand thoughtfully on Theophilus's shoulder in farewell. "Take good care of the city in my absence, Theophilus. Glarentza and the Morea now rest in your capable hands. Keep the presses running, the trade flowing, and above all, our people safe."

Theophilus inclined his head respectfully, his calm eyes quietly reassuring. "By God's grace, I shall. Glarentza will stand ready to welcome you home in victory." He hesitated briefly, then spoke in an even softer tone, "And Constantine—be cautious. Remember, you carry more than the soldiers' hopes. The unity we seek depends greatly on your safe return."

Constantine offered a reassuring smile. "I'll return. Count on it." With that, he stepped confidently into the midday sun, striding toward the mustering field to review his waiting men.

Outside the city's main gate, a broad field stretched toward the olive groves, now trampled flat by weeks of training and encampment. As Constantine approached on horseback, a trumpet blew a sharp call, and the assembled ranks of soldiers snapped to attention. The sight before him made his chest swell with a mixture of pride and determination. Nearly five thousand men stood arrayed in companies. Sunlight gleamed off polished helms and the tips of thousands of spears held upright. Banners fluttered in the midday breeze: the imperial double-headed eagle and other standards marking the contingents of the Tagmata.

To one side of the field, rows of horses nickered and stamped, the cavalry forming up under their captain's watchful eye. Constantine noted with satisfaction that many of the riders now bore new lances and wore half-armor purchased with the newfound wealth of Glarentza.

A stocky officer in a crested helmet broke away from the front line and marched toward Constantine's group, saluting smartly. It was Officer Kastorios, one of the seasoned commanders Constantine had come to rely upon.

"The men await your review, Emperor," Kastorios said in a loud, clear voice.

Constantine dismounted, handing his reins to a waiting aide, and stepped forward to stand beside Kastorios. "At ease!" he called, projecting his voice across the field. The lines of soldiers relaxed slightly, though their eyes remained fixed on their emperor. Constantine paced down the first rank, with Kastorios at his side, surveying the troops. Many of these men he had personally recruited or trained with over the past year; he knew their faces if not their names. Here was Nikolaos, the former farmer who had volunteered after his village was raided last spring—now standing tall with spear in hand and resolve in his eyes. There, young Apostolos from Zakynthos, one of the mercenaries who fled a fallen fortress to seek service in the Morea—he gave a broad grin under his iron cap as Constantine passed. And at the end of the row, veteran Stephanos, who had fought for the Empire decades ago and now, in his greying years, had taken up his sword again for this final campaign. Constantine greeted each with a nod or a clasp on the shoulder, murmuring words of encouragement.

He stopped before a group of officers gathered near an open map spread atop a barrel. Among them were quartermasters and captains responsible for various units. "Gentlemen," Constantine addressed them, returning their salutes. "Report on our readiness."

One older officer with a neatly trimmed beard—Logothete Dukas, master of provisions—stepped forward. "Emperor, the army is well-supplied. We have rations for thirty days on the march without resupply. The wagon trains you saw in the city carry flour, dried meat, and olives, as well as gunpowder and other necessities."

"Very good," Constantine acknowledged.

Officer Kastorios spoke up. "Captain Andreas sends word that he's shored up his forces at the Hexamilion and drilled them there daily. He has three thousand men holding the wall now."

Constantine placed a finger on the map, tracing the line of the Hexamilion. "We'll join Andreas soon," he affirmed. "If the Ottoman Sultan's forces push down toward us, they'll find the wall well defended once again."

A murmur of agreement rippled through the officers.

"On that note," he continued, "George Sphrantzes is marching from Mystras as we speak with reinforcements. I expect him to reach us shortly after we make camp at the wall. He brings another three thousand—fresh recruits and some of the garrison from Mystras."

Kastorios drew a breath and clapped his hands decisively. "Morale is high, Emperor. The men are eager to march. They've been training hard and are hungry to prove themselves."

As if to underscore the point, one of the soldiers in the front rank raised his voice in a bold shout: "For the Ieros Skopos!" A chorus of assent rose behind him. Spears thumped against shields in a rhythmic din. "Ieros Skopos! Ieros Skopos!" the men chanted, eyes bright with fervor.

Constantine felt a surge of emotion at the sight of his army rallying to the cry. Holy Purpose—that was their oath and their aim. He lifted his arm, and the chanting fell silent in respectful anticipation of their leader's words.

"My brothers!" Constantine called out. "You have worked hard, trained without cease, and strengthened both your bodies and your spirit. Look around you. See your comrades at your side, each one as determined as you to defend our homes, our families, and our faith. Tomorrow, we march as one."

A wave of cheering answered him. He continued, his voice steady and carrying: "I am proud of each and every one of you. Proud to lead you. When we reach the Hexamilion, Captain Andreas and our fellow warriors there will join us, and together we will form an unbreakable line. The ancestors at Plataea and Marathon, the heroes of old, will look down and see that their blood still runs strong in our veins!"

Another cheer, louder than the last, erupted at the reference to ancient victories over invaders. Constantine raised his voice over it, finishing, "Rest tonight knowing you are ready. Tomorrow, we fulfill our sacred duty—our Ieros Skopos. For God, for Byzantium, for our people!"

At that, the entire field roared as men pumped their weapons in the air. "For God, for Byzantium, for Constantine!" someone hollered, and a new chant began to ripple outward: "Constantine! Constantine!"

He felt heat rise to his face at hearing his name shouted with such ardor. Humbly, he lowered his head a moment in acknowledgment, then signaled for the officers to dismiss the troops back to their tasks. The men broke formation gradually, many still energized and talking excitedly as they went about checking their gear or finding their tents to prepare for the journey.

Officer Kastorios turned to Constantine with a grin. "That should give them enough fire to march all the way to Thessalonica, my lord."

Constantine let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. "Let's hope it carries them as far as needed," he replied with a smile. "Thank you, Kastorios. You and the other officers have done excellent work."

Kastorios inclined his head. "We could not have done otherwise, not with the example you set, my Emperor. By dawn, all will be in order."

Constantine clasped forearms with Kastorios. "I have faith in you all. Until dawn, then." With that, and one last proud look over the field—where his men moved with renewed vigor—Constantine remounted his horse. He left the training ground at a canter, mind already churning with the plans and uncertainties of the battles to come.

Before the first light of dawn the next day, the army assembled at Glarentza's eastern gate by torchlight. A hush of anticipation hung in the cool predawn air. Officers barked final orders as soldiers strapped on helmets and shouldered their packs. Horses nickered and stamped, their breath misting white in the faint glow of lanterns. Despite the early hour, a great crowd of citizens had gathered along the city walls and roads to see them off. Many held candles or lamps, turning the darkened streets into a sea of trembling light.

Constantine rode to the head of his column, clad in half-armor over a padded gambeson and a crimson cloak that caught the morning breeze. At his side hung his sword, newly reforged and polished, and on his breastplate gleamed the emblem of the double-headed eagle picked out in gold. He took a moment to gaze back at the ranks of his men—a living serpent of steel and hope about to uncoil toward the horizon. His heart swelled with resolve and protectiveness. These men were his responsibility, as were the countless souls still within Glarentza's walls who depended on this army's success.

Dawn broke as a pale line on the horizon, and with it the church bells of Glarentza began to toll. The Archbishop of the city, clad in his vestments, stepped forward to give a final blessing. He raised a silver-cross-tipped staff and intoned prayers in Greek that rolled over the assembled host. Constantine bowed his head, making the sign of the cross, and heard thousands of soldiers murmuring "Amen" in unison at the prayer's conclusion. The Archbishop then walked along the front ranks, sprinkling holy water on the men and their banners, his voice ringing out, "May the Lord guard you and grant victory to your cause—your Ieros Skopos!"

As the first rays of sun peeked over distant hills, painting the sky in hues of rose and gold, Constantine turned to address the crowd one last time. He lifted his right hand and spoke, his voice firm enough to carry: "People of Glarentza! We go now to do our duty. We carry your hopes with us to the battlefield, and by God's grace we shall return victorious!" He paused as a cheer went up, then called out in a resonant voice, "For the safety of our homes, for the future of our children, for our Holy Purpose—pray for us, as we fight for you!"

For a heartbeat, silence followed his words—a collective intake of breath. Then a roar of voices answered, swelling from the walls and road. "Ieros Skopos! Ieros Skopos!" the people cried, raising fists and waving kerchiefs. The soldiers took up the cry as well, pounding spear butts against the earth in thunderous accord. "Ieros Skopos!" The phrase echoed off the stone battlements. Amid that crescendo came another refrain interwoven with it: "Constantine! Constantine!" The sound was like a rolling wave that washed over the departing army.

Constantine felt the sting of tears at the corners of his eyes as he witnessed the outpouring of support. He steeled himself, keeping his composure, but allowed a proud, grateful smile to cross his face. Beside him, Officer Kastorios raised his sword to salute the crowd, and other officers did likewise. Theophilus stood on the ramparts above the gate, hand on the parapet, watching with a mixture of worry and pride as his cousin and lord prepared to depart. Constantine met his eyes for a brief moment and offered a confident nod.

With the bells still pealing and the people chanting, Constantine faced forward toward the road that led east, toward the Hexamilion wall and the uncertain miles beyond. "Forward, march!" he commanded. A drum sounded a steady rhythm. The column began to move, shuffling at first, then settling into the cadence of a long march.