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The following morning dawned gently over Terni, its slate rooftops gleaming in the hazy light as a procession of riders prepared to set forth for Florence. A faint chill lingered in the air as Constantine emerged from the modest lodging they had secured the night before. The town, though small, already bustled softly at this early hour: bakers stoked their ovens, a horseman clattered by with a message bag slung over his shoulder, and distant church bells tolled their measured notes.

Constantine's party had swelled beyond its original size. Alongside his steadfast aide, George Sphrantzes, and the small contingent of guards who had journeyed with them thus far, they were now joined by an escort of riders bearing the discreet yet unmistakable livery of the Medici family. These men, sent by Cosimo de' Medici himself, carried an air of quiet competence. Their movements were disciplined, their mounts expertly guided—a testament to the wealth and training behind them.

Bessarion had also rejoined the group, having arrived in Terni in the wake of the Medici escort. The scholar carried letters bearing the distinctive Medici seal, their weight both physical and symbolic. Cosimo's men had initially sought Constantine in Rome, only to discover he had departed for Terni. Ever resourceful, Bessarion had taken charge of the correspondence and traveled to meet Constantine there, arriving shortly after the ink on Francesco Sforza's contract had dried.

The invitation from Cosimo had been as generous as it was surprising. A heavy purse of one hundred gold florins came as both gift and incentive, along with letters of introduction that effectively opened the gates of Florence to Constantine's entourage. The Medici men who joined them made it clear that the city was eager to receive such an esteemed guest. The news had piqued George's curiosity, and Bessarion, always the scholar and diplomat, could hardly contain his excitement. He had spent much of the early morning discussing Cosimo's influence with Constantine.

"Your Grace," Bessarion explained softly as they mounted their horses, "Cosimo de' Medici is not merely a wealthy banker—he is Florence. Though he does not bear an official title, his family's wealth and patronage have shaped the city's fortunes. To treat with him is to treat with the spirit of the Republic. He is known to be a lover of books, a collector, a patron of the arts. This could be an extraordinary opportunity to further our ambitions."

George chimed in, adjusting his cloak against the morning chill. "He's one of the wealthiest men in Italy and wields great influence. Already, he sends gold and men to escort us—he clearly desires your presence."

Constantine nodded, reflecting on these words as they set out. He had come to Italy seeking alliances—some for trade and still others for the steel of mercenaries like Sforza. The Medici invitation was a welcome surprise. It suggested that the ripples he had sent through Rome—his negotiations with the Papacy, the sale of printed Bibles, and the whispered news of his victory against Turahan Bey—had spread wider than he anticipated. The seeds of his ambitions were taking root in unexpected places.

Their journey to Florence was unhurried but purposeful. The narrow roads wound through countryside fields flecked with grapevines and olive orchards, their leaves whispering in the autumn breeze. The occasional farmstead passed by, smoke curling lazily from chimneys as families stirred to begin their day. Mounted couriers and traders, some likely headed for the markets of Florence, greeted the travelers with curious glances.

Two days later, the entourage entered Florence through the city's impressive walls. Arches framed cobblestone streets, where artisans plied their trades beneath painted façades. The perfume of fresh bread and the calls of merchants drifted through lanes where sculptors' workshops opened onto the street and painters displayed their works, rich with color. The city was alive—restless yet harmonious, as if art, commerce, and intellect thrummed together in a hidden symphony.

Constantine's host, Cosimo de' Medici, awaited at the doors of his grand palazzo. Cosimo stood at the center of a small welcoming party, his presence immediately felt. Slightly shorter than Constantine and dressed in deep burgundy robes, Cosimo bore a ruler's confidence in all but name. His face was lined with thought and toil, his eyes keen and patient. He greeted Constantine warmly, clasping his forearm in a gesture more reminiscent of comrades-in-arms than of distant dignitaries.

"Despot Constantine," he said, his voice low and smooth, "welcome to Florence. Your reputation precedes you—from your victories in the Morea to the remarkable work you do with these printing presses." He stepped aside, ushering Constantine into the spacious courtyard. "It is an honor to receive you."

Over a sumptuous dinner that evening, Constantine observed his host closely. Cosimo's table groaned under the weight of roasted quail, spiced pears, fresh cheeses, and a selection of wines from the Tuscan hills. Yet, as they spoke, it became clear that Cosimo craved more than culinary delight. He spoke fondly of humanist scholars and scribes he had known and how the love of manuscripts had shaped his life. As a young man, he had owned only three books, but he spoke now of a collection of over two hundred. The gleam in his eye as he recounted their acquisition told Constantine that books, to Cosimo, were more precious than gold.

Constantine, ever attentive, shared tales of his printing endeavor. He described how his presses had produced Bibles that even the Pope had admired, and how their crisp typography and uniformity outshone the laborious work of scribes. Cosimo listened intently, occasionally drumming his fingers on the table, leaning forward as if he could pull every detail from the air.

"You must know," Cosimo said quietly after the formalities had softened into familiarity, "that I already possess a few of your Bibles and Psalters. Their quality surpasses anything I have seen." He smiled, an almost boyish grin lighting his face. "I find myself admiring how you have harnessed this new craft. The written word—multiplied without end. Imagine the knowledge we can spread." He paused, and his voice took on a more practical edge. "Such a venture must yield considerable profit as well."

Constantine inclined his head. "Indeed, Your Magnificence, it does. Yet the operation is not without limits. The presses are few, and their output is promised to many—chief among them, the Holy See."

Cosimo steepled his fingers thoughtfully. "You have struck a mighty bargain with the Pope, I am told. Thousands of Papacy Edition Bibles. A remarkable undertaking." He chuckled softly. "I understand your caution. Supply must match demand, and demand will only increase. I want to be a part of this world you are forging." He sipped his wine, then continued. "I would like to establish a 'Medici Publishing' house here in Florence—exclusively selling your books. I imagine a bookstore under my patronage, with shelves lined not only with Scriptures but philosophical treatises, histories, and scholarly works. I can provide capital—considerable capital—to expand your production."

Constantine exchanged a glance with George Sphrantzes, who stood discreetly in the shadows, then returned his attention to Cosimo. "Such an undertaking requires a delicate balance, Signore de' Medici. The Papacy has its claim on a large portion of our output, and I have a mandate to open a bookstore in Rome and Naples. My capacity is limited by how many presses I can operate. Each press must be manned by skilled craftsmen who understand the fragile mechanisms and intricate matrices of letters." He spread his hands, palms up, inviting dialogue rather than refusing.

Cosimo nodded, understanding perfectly. "If it is machines you need, let me finance the creation of more presses. I have the means to procure materials and artisans. Invest 20,000 gold florins, you say? Agreed—so long as my investment buys me advantages: a special price of four gold florins per book for my Medici Publishing House, exclusive rights to sell them under the Medici name, and a modest share of the profits from the sales of Morea Publishing's books in the Florence bookstore."

Constantine considered this. He had initially proposed a higher price, though he understood that Cosimo, like any banker, would bargain hard. After all, 20,000 florins was a princely sum—more than enough to buy the lumber, metals, and skilled labor to build multiple presses. In truth, Constantine estimated that the expansion would require only 5,000 to 7,000 florins at most, leaving the remainder as pure profit—a significant boon to his coffers. With Cosimo's backing, the capacity to print more volumes would increase dramatically, securing financial stability and greater influence for his endeavors.

Eventually, they settled the terms: four gold florins per book, with an exclusive Florence franchise—"Medici Publishing"—that would handle all Morean volumes in the city. Cosimo would claim thirty percent of the profits generated from these sales, thus ensuring that both parties benefited from the venture. They also agreed that after two years of successful cooperation, they might discuss the possibility of selling a press to Cosimo, granting him direct access to the technology. For now, the presses would remain under Constantine's careful supervision.

When they sealed the deal, Cosimo placed a hand over Constantine's forearm, his gaze earnest. "It is not just profit I seek. Let us not forget that knowledge elevates the soul. These books—religious texts, classical philosophies, new ideas—will shape minds. I dream of a day when Florence might boast a grand library open to scholars, a place where anyone may come and drink from the fountain of wisdom." His voice caught slightly, betraying how deeply he felt about this vision. "A public library, Despot. Imagine it. Works from Byzantium, Rome, Athens, Egypt—everything gathered and shared."

Constantine smiled gently. In his old life, as Michael, he had known of the Medici's famed patronage and their role in the flourishing of the Renaissance. He knew what seeds were being planted here. "I believe such a library would be a gift to all future generations, Signore de' Medici. I would be proud to see my books—our books—on those shelves."

They spoke next of the world beyond Florence: the lingering threat of the Ottomans and the mercenaries who might hold them at bay. Cosimo, leaning back in his chair, studied Constantine closely. "I have heard you seek Francesco Sforza's sword," he said. "They say you've made arrangements to hire him."

Constantine nodded. "It is true. I've just concluded an agreement with him in Terni. He will bring his condottieri to the Morea next year to strengthen our defenses against the Ottoman menace. The cost is immense but necessary."

Cosimo offered a solemn inclination of his head. "Sforza is a man of exceptional skill. If anyone can shape the battlefield to your advantage, it is he. I suppose the coin you gain from our arrangement and from the Papacy will help finance this army?"

Constantine met Cosimo's gaze. "Yes, Your Magnificence. To secure our homeland's future and to ensure that the seeds of knowledge we plant here can thrive, we must first ensure that Christendom stands firm."

Cosimo nodded, clearly satisfied. The evening's formality slowly receded, and they turned to lighter subjects: the beauty of Tuscan hillsides, the subtlety of Umbrian wines, and the fresh translations of Plato that had begun to circulate among Florentine intellectuals. Laughter warmed the corridors, and servants discreetly cleared the table.

Later, as Constantine took his leave for the night, Cosimo escorted him to a corridor lined with murals—depictions of scholars at work, illuminated scripts, and distant cities renowned for their libraries. Here, Cosimo's voice softened, almost reverent. "We stand at a threshold, Despot. With these printing presses of yours, we have a key. A key that can open the gates of learning. A century from now, they may speak of how a Byzantine prince and a Florentine banker forged a partnership that changed the flow of knowledge forever."

Constantine pressed his palm to the ornate frame of the corridor's threshold. "May it be so, Signore de' Medici. May we both be worthy stewards of this new age."

When he returned to his chambers that night, George Sphrantzes joined him, eyes bright with cautious optimism. "You handled that well, my Lord. We have secured not only capital, but the goodwill of one of Italy's most powerful families."

Constantine nodded, a thoughtful smile curling his lips. "Yes, George. And in doing so, we have invested in more than just books. We have invested in an idea—an idea that knowledge can outlast armies, and that the written word can bridge worlds." He paused, gazing out at the Florentine night. "This alliance may not win our wars, but it will help us endure. And perhaps it will ensure that, long after our battles are forgotten, our words and wisdom remain."