Glarentza, Late September 1435
On Glarentza's quay, Constantine watched the war galley slide in, oars beating time. The harbor was thick with masts, yet this ship drew every eye: the San Marco, under Sforza's serpent and the Pope's keys. The salt wind snapped Constantine's cloak and brought tar, charcoal, and furnace reek; where fishing fires once pricked the shore, new chimneys smeared the docks with haze.
"Welcome to Glarentza, Messer Francesco," Constantine called as the boarding plank thudded into place. He went to meet him, boots ringing on the wet planks. Sforza came down light on the balls of his feet, campaign-brown and watchful. Over a dark doublet, he wore a short cloak worked with the crossed keys, the Church's favor made visible. Constantine inclined his head. "Or must I say the Church's captain in Naples? Rome keeps a hard hand on its friends."
Sforza gave a half-bow. "Your Majesty, titles are wind. Naples needed a steady hand after that Aragonese mischief, and I happened to have one free." His voice was easy, but Constantine heard the undercurrent, the guarded pride in his appointment.
Sforza's gaze flickered past Constantine's shoulder, taking in the docks: men hauled bales of rag-paper and rolled pitch barrels, while two apprentices hurried by with a nail-keg between them. Constantine tipped his chin toward the far end of the harbor, where cranes and scaffolds crowded the ribs of a Great Ship. The hull's vast curve was already plain, bristling with beams and alive with men. "You see our latest project?"
Sforza followed his gaze. High atop the scaffolding, a pulley's wheel creaked as men hoisted a fresh-cut timber, the ship's future spine. "Hard to miss," Sforza murmured. "She'll be a queen of the seas, by the look of those bones. You build big these days, Emperor."
"And you fight big," Constantine answered warmly. "Word travels even here. We heard how you drove Visconti's men from Ancona. The Marches are in your debt."
Sforza inclined his head modestly. "Filippo Visconti won't give up easily, but we bloodied his nose. Next time, perhaps we break it." As they left the quay, he said, "Rome's new guns helped, good pieces, though nothing like your Drakos and Pyrvelos." He took in the air. "Salt and forge smoke. Your forges are busy."
Constantine matched his look with a small smile. "Our forges keep the hours the Church prescribes. Here, devotion is done at the anvil, Francesco."
Sforza's expression flickered, amusement, acknowledgment, perhaps a touch of envy. "With your forges so busy, you'll sell me some Pyrvelos at last? Since the Hexamilion," he murmured, low enough for only Constantine to hear, "I've dreamed of having a few hundred of these beauties on my side."
Constantine folded his hands behind his back, feeling the tension of the unspoken request settle between his shoulder blades. Sforza had bled beside him on the Hexamilion battlements; he had earned respect, and yet trust was a currency Constantine spent sparingly. "Come," Constantine said, gesturing toward the castle road where the horses waited. "Tonight, let's trade war stories over wine. Weapons can wait for morning."
Sforza accepted with an affable nod, though disappointment flickered in his dark eyes.
The Castle Dinner Hall
Polished oak tables gleamed in the great hall of Clermont Castle, set with simple ceramics and a few modest silver pieces. The feast was restrained: hearty fish stew, black bread, olives, and one spiced roast kid, plenty, but nothing decadent. Constantine preferred it so. Extravagance was a tax on the future, Plethon liked to say. Tonight especially, Constantine wanted focus, not indulgence.
Sforza sat at Constantine's left hand, in the seat of honor. To Constantine's right, Empress Katarina presided with quiet grace. She had insisted on joining despite the late hour, and now her presence lent the austere hall a gentle warmth. Katarina's gown was deep green, high-collared in the Serbian style, with a thin gold circlet in her dark hair. At her place setting lay a small psalter bound in crimson leather. As the first course was cleared, she opened it and, in a soft contralto, began to recite a brief blessing. Her voice was steady and low, carrying just enough for the company to hear over the crackle of the hearth. The simple melody of the psalm wound through the rafters like incense smoke. Conversations stilled; even the servants paused. Constantine watched Sforza's war-hardened face soften in surprise and appreciation at the unexpected music.
When Katarina finished with the sign of the cross, a respectful silence lingered. She closed the psalter and offered it across Constantine to Sforza. "A gift for you, Lord Sforza," she said in careful Italian. Her words were accented but clear. "One of the first copies, Psalms in Latin and Greek, side by side." Sforza took the slim volume as if it were made of glass.
He bowed his head. "Your Majesty honors me. I shall treasure it." As he opened the cover, a tiny sprig of dried mint slipped out from between the pages. Katarina smiled with a touch of shyness.
"I pressed a bit of mint from our garden inside," she explained. "For a fresh scent. In my father's court, we tuck herbs into our prayer books." Constantine saw a faint pink on her cheeks; whether from the heat of the fire or the courage it took to speak up, he couldn't tell.
Sforza raised the sprig to his nose and inhaled. "Mint and psalms, medicine for soul and stomach. Much appreciated after long weeks at sea." The hall eased into gentle laughter.
Once the meal resumed, Sforza rose. "To His Majesty Constantine, and to the Most Gracious Empress," he said, lifting his cup. "On your marriage, may God grant concord, long years, and heirs, and bless this house and the friendship between our realms." He drank; the hall followed. The wine was young and a little tart, but Sforza did not flinch.
Constantine rose next. He met Sforza's eyes, then Katarina's, and raised his cup a second time. "To old comrades in arms, reunited in peace." His voice was warm but measured. "And to new beginnings." Gently he laid his free hand over Katarina's where it rested on the tablecloth. Only she and Plethon, seated nearby, understood the fuller meaning: the child quietly beginning in her womb. Katarina's fingers curled around his for an instant, a private acknowledgment. Constantine lifted his cup higher. "May our labors now forge a world where our children will know more peace than war."
A soft murmur of approval traveled the table. Plethon nodded gravely at those words, and even Theophilus, sitting farther down, allowed himself a tiny smile over his stew. Sforza tilted his head, perhaps taken slightly off-guard by the toast's intimacy, but he answered with a firm, respectful incline of his cup. "Alle speranze condivise," he said quietly in Italian. "To hopes shared."
Silver platters were cleared, and a honeyed cheese with almonds was brought out. As servants poured a final round of spiced wine, the conversation turned, as it often did with Plethon at the table, to matters of state cloaked in philosophy. The old scholar, white-bearded and keen-eyed, toyed with his wine cup and addressed Sforza with a polite smile.
"My lord Sforza," Plethon began, "Rome has seen fit to entrust you with the keys of Naples. A weighty responsibility. Do you find the throne's cushion comfortable?"
Constantine suppressed a wince at the thinly veiled edge in Plethon's tone. Katarina had quietly excused herself moments before, retiring early with a promise that the mint tisane she'd instructed the cooks to prepare would be brought for Sforza's digestion. With her warmth gone, a certain coolness settled at the table.
Sforza turned the wine cup in his hands. "Comfortable enough, Signore," he replied evenly. "Though I don't sit on the throne, merely beside it. As Custodian, I keep it empty and safe." He offered a cordial grin. "Naples is a fine city. I recommend it, should you ever tire of Glarentza's smoke."
Plethon chuckled, the candlelight casting craggy shadows across his brow. "Empty thrones have a way of drawing claimants. One hears King René of Anjou still languishes in Duke Philip's custody, up in Burgundy. And now King Alfonso of Aragon 'holidays' in Milan." He tsked lightly, as if discussing the weather. "Two kings captive, and a condottiero holding their prize between them. It sounds positively Homeric."
Sforza inclined his head, accepting the thrust of the remark without offense. "Homeric, perhaps. But unlike the epics, I hope to avoid too much blood on the carpet. Duke René is well-loved; we all pray for his swift release." He gave a thin smile. "As for Alfonso, Filippo Visconti keeps him under comfortable guard. Milan's Duke is nobody's fool, he'll ransom the Aragonese or turn him into an ally, depending on which yields more advantage. In the meantime, yes, I sit in Naples by the Pope's will. I am there to prevent chaos until one claimant or the other can truly rule." He drank, then added matter-of-factly, "It's a caretaker's job, really. If I do it well, hopefully no one notices."
Constantine decided to intervene before Plethon grew sharper. The philosopher was circling Sforza's pride like a fox around a henhouse. "All of Italy has noticed your recent victories, Lord Sforza," Constantine said, clapping a hand lightly on Sforza's shoulder. "Your campaign against Milan was outstanding. We received the reports with relief and gratitude. The Pope could not have chosen a better shield for St. Peter's lands."
Sforza's tense shoulders eased under Constantine's hand. He responded with modest humility, though a spark of pride lit his eyes. "You overpraise me, Majesty. Visconti tested our borders, and we pushed him back, nothing more." He swirled the wine in his cup and allowed a confident smile. "Though I suspect he'll think twice before he troubles the Papal States again. His mercenaries left a trail of pikes and broken cannon across the Marche for their trouble."
"Let us hope he learns his lesson," Plethon murmured, not quite ready to surrender the floor. The old man steepled his fingers. "Yet Milan still stands, proud and rich. The Duke nurses his grievances even now, I wager." He peered at Sforza.
Sforza set down his cup, meeting Plethon's gaze with frank realism. "Stubborn and dangerous," he answered. "Visconti bides his time to rebuild his armies. With Alfonso of Aragon as his… guest", Sforza's lips twisted at the euphemism, "Milan may soon have Aragonese gold. We must be pragmatic." He counted on his fingers calmly: "René remains in Burgundy with no ransom paid; Visconti remains in power; Venice and Florence sniff opportunity but hesitate to commit; and the Pope has more gold than he has swords." A wry smile. "So, we make do. We secure alliances where we can, keep Naples loyal, and prepare to finish the war quickly if fortune allows."
Constantine nodded slowly. This was the Sforza he knew: clear-eyed, unsentimental. The table had fallen quiet, all listening to the famed general outline Italy's chessboard. Constantine decided to send one more ripple across that board. "Fortune favors the bold. When the time comes to finish Visconti," he said, "I am confident you will carry the day. After all, you know the value of new methods."
"Sforza raised his cup and smiled. 'War changes. The Hexamilion taught me that."
A servant returned with a small tray of mint tea, courtesy of Katarina, and Sforza accepted a cup gratefully, noting the Empress's thoughtfulness. Outside the high windows, the wind carried the distant sound of waves. Autumn storms were gathering beyond the horizon. In the shelter of the lamplight, they talked of poetry and tactics, but Constantine could sense greater tempests brewing, storms that would demand hard bargains before the dawn.
Constantine's Study
Shelves of scripture, law, and manuals lined the walls; a large painted map of the Balkans hung opposite. Sforza stood before it now, one hand on his hip and the other cradling his wine cup, studying the lay of coasts and frontiers as if assessing a battlefield.
Constantine watched him. Ceremony had slipped: Sforza's doublet open at the throat; Constantine in a dark tunic, his imperial signet the only gold. For a moment they might have been two soldiers conferring after a march.
"Your city's thriving," Sforza remarked at length, eyes still on the map. "The chimneys, the shipyard, these new docks… I almost didn't recognize Glarentza when we arrived. Three years ago, it was half asleep. Now it hums like a forge."
Constantine inclined his head. "We've been fortunate. And busy."
Sforza traced a finger along the Italian coast depicted on the wall. "Busy, yes. And profitable, I suspect. The Papacy's coffers are rather fuller thanks to your presswork" He shot Constantine a sidelong glance. "Bibliæ Papales. Every parish from the Alps to Calabria has one now. A miracle of carriage." His tone was unreadable, both admiring and something else.
Constantine smiled thinly. "God's word should be plentiful, should it not? And Pope Eugene paid well per copy. You hinted earlier at fortune and making do. Let us speak plainly now."
Sforza faced him fully. "Plainly, then. The Pope is determined to end the war with Milan swiftly. If we strike hard by spring, we can break Milan's power. But to do that, we need an edge. More men, yes, but more importantly, better weapons. Pyrvelos and Drakos." His voice gained a passionate intensity, the battlefield commander in him rising. "Give me those, and I can bring Visconti to his knees. Milan can be finished. Italy united, at peace."
Constantine listened, arms folded. Italy united and at peace. He cleared his throat. "You mentioned men as well. What exactly do you ask, Francesco? Say it in full."
Sforza met his gaze. "I ask for your help. Arms and, if you can spare them, men. A contingent to join the Papal and Venetian forces. Even a few hundred of your seasoned soldiers, could turn the tide in the final assault on Milan."
He raised a palm preemptively. "I know it's no small request. But consider: if Milan falls, the major wars in Italy end. The Pope will stand supreme. A general peace can follow, and then the Pope can turn resources east. To your war. To our common war, against the Turk." His eyes shone as he spoke, the flame of crusade fervor kindling. "Help me end this Italian conflict now, and when the time comes to face the Sultan, you will have the full strength of a united Italy at your back. This I swear."
Constantine felt the weight of Sforza's words settling on him. They were compelling, earnest… and costly. He paced a few steps, fingers rapping lightly on the top of a leather-bound ledger that lay on his desk. The fire popped, as if urging him to speak. "Your vision is persuasive. But you know my reality."
He stepped closer to Sforza, placing a hand on the man's shoulder. "Francesco, as much as my heart wants to send troops to fight alongside you, I cannot strip my defenses. I won't send Greek sons to die on Lombard plains while the Turk still lurks at my gate." He felt Sforza's muscles tighten, the first sign of disappointment or frustration. Constantine squeezed the shoulder amicably. "But arms… arms I can do. Weapons and expertise, those I can share."
Sforza's jaw worked for a moment. The scar along his cheek went white. When he spoke, his tone was careful, controlled. "How many weapons?"
Constantine allowed himself a small inward sigh of relief, Sforza was nothing if not pragmatic. He's willing to negotiate on this middle ground. The Emperor moved to his desk, beckoning Sforza to join him. He picked up a quill and inked a quick column of numbers on a scrap of paper. "Two hundred Pyrvelos," he said, tapping the number. "I'll include the powder and shot for each, enough for a sustained campaign. In addition, four field cannons. And with them, fourgunners. They'll train your men in maintenance and tactics for these guns."
Sforza's eyes lit up at the list. He leaned over the desk, nodding slowly as he imagined the firepower. "That," he said, "would do nicely." Then he caught himself, straightening. "It would more than do, it could change the war. I… Grazie." The Italian's voice softened briefly with genuine gratitude. But just as quickly, his shrewdness returned. "In exchange, what do you require? Price, terms, I assume you have conditions?"
Constantine drew a fresh sheet of parchment from the stack and began to enumerate. "Payment. It won't be cheap." He glanced up; Sforza didn't blink. If anything, the condottiero looked relieved.
"Papal gold is good," Sforza agreed. "Coin is coin. We expected to pay handsomely."
Author's Note:
As this chapter opens (late September 1435), Italy is a table with the pieces still rattling from a hard move. Alfonso V of Aragon has just been taken at Ponza and delivered to Filippo Maria Visconti in Milan as a "guest." For the moment Visconti holds an Aragonese king like a coin he has not yet spent.
René of Anjou fares little better. He remains effectively in the keeping of Philip the Good. In OTL Isabella, his vigorous wife, sails south in October to keep his Neapolitan claim alive with her person and her will.
Here, the timeline forks. In ours, Rome's hand is heavier. The Bibliæ Papales, have filled parishes and, more importantly, papal coffers. Plus the Crusade of 1434 has burnished the tiara. With money and prestige in one purse, Eugene can hire, feed, and keep an army without leaning on the usual fickle patrons. That is why Sforza, hard-headed and habitually freelance in OTL, stands closer to the Curia now. He is the Pope's strong right hand, not merely his occasionally rented one.
"Custodian of Naples" is the office i invent to make that leverage legible: a caretaker's chair beside an empty throne. While René is bottled in Burgundy and Alfonso sits under Milan's eye, Rome places Sforza in Naples to keep the city still, no plunder, no faction, no sudden claimant raising his standard in the night. From that seat, Sforza can do two things at once: steady Isabella (René's proxy and partner) and pressure Visconti, tightening the ring until a settlement, or a strike, becomes inevitable.
The papal aim in this telling is simple and imperial: break Milan's will, settle Naples under a client who owes Rome, and announce a peace made in the Lateran's image. Only then, with Italy quiet and revenue sure, does the Pope promise to turn west's strength eastward, toward Constantine's war. That is the bargain Sforza carries in his cup: buy me guns now, and I will buy you time and allies later.