Glarentza, March 1436
The gulf wind rattled Clermont's shutters and pushed the sea's breath down the corridors. In the council chamber, a brazier of olive-wood charcoal glowed red, and maps lay pinned under knife-hilts and inkstones, their edges curled from use.
Servants moved quietly between table and sideboard, refilling cups with dark winter wine. Voices mingled, Thomas quick and eager, Andreas rough, George steady, Plethon dry, Theophilus precise. After months of letters instead of faces, the room felt newly full.
The door opened. Constantine entered last, Katarina beside him.
She moved more slowly now, one hand on the swell of her belly beneath a plain blue gown. Seven months' weight showed in her careful steps and the backward lean of her shoulders. The gold circlet in her hair caught the brazier light; the flush on her cheeks came from the climb.
The men rose, chairs scraping, boots scuffing stone, and for a moment the war-room softened into a household.
"Friends," Constantine said, "it is good to see you all together."
Thomas was the first to break ranks. He came around the table in three long strides and bowed to Katarina with an earnestness that almost tripped over itself.
"Lady sister," he said, switching from Greek into careful Serbian for the greeting, "it gladdens me to see you well… and to see that our house grows." He lifted his cup high toward her and then to Constantine. "To the Empress and the child. May God grant a strong son, and may he never know defeat."
The wine sloshed near the rim with the force of the gesture. The others followed at once. Andreas's thick fingers tightened around his cup; George's lift was smaller, more contained; even Plethon raised his in a motion more pious than he usually permitted himself.
"To a safe birth," George added.
"And a quiet labor," Theophilus murmured, ever practical. "For mother and child."
Katarina smiled, a little shy in the wall of male regard, and crossed herself. "May your words be heard," she said. The Greek was still accented, but more sure than it had been just a few months ago. She touched Constantine's hand briefly, then dropped it; she did not show the strain on her back, or the way the room's heat made her breath short.
Constantine drank, letting the wine cut the dryness in his throat. "Thank you," he said simply. "Your blessings are noted where it matters most."
He pressed Katarina's hand once, gently. "We'll not keep you standing." To the others: "The Empress will leave us to our quarrels. They're bad for a child's ears."
That earned a ripple of subdued laughter. Katarina inclined her head to the table. When the door closed behind her, the chamber seemed to grow narrower. The servants refilled cups once more and withdrew, leaving the council to the maps and the ticking of the brazier's heat.
Constantine paused at the head of the table, palm on the rolled map of Macedonia. The boards showed old scorch marks from scraped candle drippings. He drew a steady breath.
"Months of roads and storms between us," he said. "Now we sit together again. I'm glad of it. There is much to weigh. But let us begin not with fears, but with what we've won." He turned to the stocky man with the folio. "George," he began, "you have come from Thessaloniki with a full report, I trust."
George Sphrantzes rose, opening his leather folio only long enough to draw out a few neatly written pages. He didn't consult them; his thoughts were already in order.
"Your Majesty, friends, news from Thessaloniki and the north." His measured voice carried the calm of a scholar and the steel they all knew beneath it. "First: Thessaloniki. The walls are repaired and strengthened."
A satisfied murmur circled the table. " We raised two new towers at the western gate, where the defenses were weakest. I walked the perimeter personally; the ramparts are sound. The city is secure."
Andreas gave a grunt of approval. "Good. How many cannons?"
"Twelve in proper places," George said. "More if the foundry in Glarentza keeps to the schedule Luca boasted of." A nod toward Constantine. "The city sleeps more easily for each barrel it sees."
"And the mines?" Theophilus asked, the word almost overlapping. Mine-figures haunted his sleep more than cannon.
George's expression sharpened with tired pride. "Siderokausia is waking. The Kratova men are worth their one and a half pay packets." His hands moved unconsciously as if tracing shafts in the air. "The first months' yields were poor, as we cleared old rubble. But from then on, the ore has grown richer. Officer Kantakouzenos has proven steady. Keeps accounts, not just retinues."
"Kantakouzenos," Andreas repeated, tasting the name. "I saw him as a boy in Mystras. He's grown into his shoulders, then."
"He's grown into responsibility," George said. "Which is rarer."
"And the academy?" Constantine asked.
George's face warmed. "The first fifty have graduated. A small harvest, but a good one. They know how to read a map, how to keep a roster, how to reckon a wagon-train without guessing. I would trust ten of them to run a tagma tomorrow."
Andreas snorted. "Can they keep a line steady when men start screaming and horses shit themselves?"
"They will learn," George said, unruffled. "But they will not lose half a wagon train because they forgot to count the mules. That matters when roads are muddy and powder is dear."
Constantine let the quiet praise soak in. Fifty officers. Once, that would have been the whole command class of the empire, such as it was. Now they were a first course.
"And the bonds?" he asked at last.
George's mouth tightened. He turned his cup between his fingers, watching the deep red tilt and right itself.
"They did not take root," he said. "We issued them as planned, but every man who received one took it the next day to the Logarion office for coin."
"Of course they did," Andreas muttered, leaning back so his chair legs creaked. "A man feeds his household with coin, not promises on paper. He can't put a seal in the pot."
A thin silence settled.
"So," Constantine said softly, "the instrument is sound enough, but the habit," he said. "We move too fast."
Plethon's beard twitched with something like amusement. "Habits of trust are forged slower than cannon, Basileus. You can drill peasants into Tagmata in a year. Teaching them to treat ink as iron will take a generation."
"Fortunately," Theophilus murmured, "we intend to have one."
That drew a faint flicker of humor around the table. Constantine let it pass, then steered them onward.
"Still," he said, "Thessaloniki's walls stand, her mines breathe, her officers multiply. That is no small sum of good news." His gaze settled again on George.
Thomas, who had been quiet through the talk of bonds and mines, affairs of coin never held his interest long, now tapped his empty cup, looking impatient. "All well and good, these repairs and revenues," he said, perhaps more brusquely than he intended. "Thessaloniki thrives, the coffers fill… but what of our enemies? What of the Turk?" He leaned forward, an eager light in his eyes. "How the Ottoman front fares. George?"
George shook his head. "Reports from Anatolia say the Ottomans are still tied up in a hard campaign against Karaman. Not a single Turkish rider has tested our patrols in months. They've honored the truce."
Andreas let out a dry chuckle. "Honored the truce, or lacked the men to break it."
Thomas's fingers drummed restlessly on the table. "They dare not because they know we'd cut them to pieces again," he declared, the confidence of victory brimming in him. "Karaman war or no, they remember Edessa's lesson well." He glanced around for agreement. Andreas answered with a firm nod; Theophilus pursed his lips but said nothing yet.
Constantine raised a hand thoughtfully. "We indeed dealt them a staggering blow," he said. His voice was measured in contrast to Thomas's bravado. "But a wounded beast can still lash out; we must not assume too much complacency on their part. Ali may be a child, but those guiding him – Halil, Zaganos, others – are seasoned and shrewd. They will rebuild their strength. Every month of quiet is a gift for them as much as for us."
Thomas opened his mouth to retort, but Plethon interjected softly before the spark could catch. "Peace, however fragile, can be a double-edged thing," the old man said. "It gives breathing space, and breeding space for new plans, on both sides." His tone was contemplative. "We must discern who uses this lull better: the builder or the invader. There lies fate."
A silence fell as they absorbed that, eyes flickering between the map and each other. It was Constantine who spoke next. "George, have you any new word from the north? How does Fruzhin's rising stand?"
"Ah, yes." George tapped a region on the map north of the Balkan range, near the great curve of the Danube. "Prince Fruzhin, the Bulgarian claimant… We've had word of his doings. He currently controls a handful of Danubian fortresses and villages, with the backing of some boyars in that region."
"The man who would be Tsar," Theophilus murmured.
George nodded. " The Ottomans have not yet made a serious move against him. Another sign that their hand is stretched."
"He wrote again?" Constantine asked.
"Twice," George said. "Each letter thicker than the last. He begs assistance—men, guns, coin. He offers to acknowledge you as overlord if we help him 'restore the Bulgarian crown'."
Thomas leaned forward, eyes bright. "They are stretched," he said. "Ottomans in Anatolia, war around Ankara, Fruzhin snatching their flanks. This is the moment. We should not sit polishing coins while God hands us the knife."
He slapped his palm flat on the map, over Thrace. "A new campaign this summer brother. We cross the Maritsa, smash them while they're scattered, finish what we began at Edessa."
The room took that in. The brazier hissed softly as a coal shifted.
Theophilus spoke first.
"Highness," he said, addresing Thomas, "we signed a truce. Three years. Ali, or whoever now rules in his name, has kept to it so far. Our merchants move, our ships are not molested. And frankly," his fingers came to rest on a ledger at his elbow, "no campaign will benefit the empire's purse this year. We are rebuilding faster than our coffers can breathe as it is."
Thomas turned to him, impatience in his shoulders. "A truce is a scrap of parchment when the other side weakens. Do you think they would hesitate, Theophilus, if our mines flooded or our tagmata dissolved? They'd be over the Isthmus before you finished balancing your column of figures."
George's voice slid in, calm water over stones. "True, they are spread thin. But every month we continue to build—mines, officers, ships—our hand grows stronger too. To strike now is to wager fresh gains against an arm that is still knitting bone."
Andreas snorted. "Or we let the broken bone set crooked." He leaned forward, eyes bright with energy. "The Turks are weak. You know it, Constantine. We bloodied them at Domokos, we burned them at Edessa. Their new child-sultans and viziers are tearing each other apart over in Anatolia. The army we have now is not the same as it was two years ago. We field fifteen tagmata." His fist thumped the table in rhythm with the number. "Fifteen. Think of it. At Edessa, we had six in the line. Six. Now, almost triple. More guns, better steel, officers who can actually count barrels. The men drill until their shoulders ache and their hands blister around the pyrvelos stocks. They are ready to move."
He looked around the table, sweeping each face. "Give me the order and I will march them north. The Ottomans will not stand."
Constantine let his eyes rest on Andreas's broad knuckles, the scar across the back of his hand silvered by the brazier's light.
"Our firepower is tripled," he conceded quietly. "In men, in guns, in skill. The hexamilion of flesh is thicker than it has ever been."
Thomas seized on that like a hound on a scent. "Exactly. Who cares for the truce?" he said. "They would break it in a heartbeat if we faltered. We take Edirne, and then we march on Constantinople." His voice roughened at the next words. "Our mother is there, Constantine. Helena sits in that snake's nest under Demetrios's thumb. Are we to wait politely while she grows old behind his walls?"
His knuckles were white on the cup. For a moment he looked very young.
"The desire is just," Plethon said softly. "The timing… requires finer measures."
Theophilus had been turning his ledger's corner between thumb and forefinger as if it were a worry-bead. Now he flattened it, as if pinning a thought.
"We can afford a campaign," he said. "Barely. Let us be honest: the mines of Siderokausia are rising, yes. The revenues from paper and ink have not slackened, Rome still pays its ducats for its holy books, Venice for our paper. But the shipyard and your other projects devour silver faster than we can mint it."
He ticked off on his fingers, each word a weight. "Wood. Bronze. Iron. Pitch. Sailcloth. Wages. You asked for a floating fortress, Basileus; Diogo and Afonso are eating a forest to build it. Every rib and plank pulls coin out of our chests. The hospitals you promised Katarina. Every pyrvelos we bore out of that arsenal begs powder, and powder eats gold by the barrel. A campaign is not just men and banners. It is fodder, grain, shoes, wagon-axles, mules, and above all powder. All marching away from the furnaces that keep our strength growing."
He met Constantine's gaze levelly. "We could wage a campaign this summer. We would win ground. But it would cost us a fortune that might be worth twice as much in a year, when the mines and shipyards have had time to ripen."
George nodded fractionally. "And with Italy in the mess it is, we cannot expect much help from the West. Sforza will be up to his neck holding the Pope's frontiers together. No Papal host is sailing east this year."
He pointed with a forefinger to the drawn sea around Constantinople. "If we truly mean to take the City, we will need a fleet that we do not yet have. Right now the Kyreneia and two other hulls mount cannon, and a handful of smaller craft bristle with a gun at the prow. Your great ship, the one meant to carry a wall of guns along her sides, is months from launch yet. You yourself told me so. Would you march to Constantinople with our backs pinned to a sea we do not command, trusting Venetian charity?"
"A charity they would charge by the barrel of wine," Theophilus added drily. "If Venice helps us at all, it will be for a mountain of coin and favors that bleed us for a generation. And if we looked like taking the Bosporus for ourselves…" He shrugged. "They might decide they preferred a weakened Turk to a resurgent Roman navy in those waters."
Silence spread, the words settling like dust.
Plethon broke it, leaning forward, his old hands cupping the curve of his cup as if warming them.
"Do not be so sure," he said, "that if we came before Constantinople the gates would not open of their own accord." His eyes had a fire in them that age had not quenched. "Ieros Skopos rises fast in that city. There are men behind those walls who wait for the true Emperor."
He lifted one long finger. "If we break this truce—and I say when, not if—the blow must be killing. A strike that shatters their power in Europe. We cannot afford half-measures. But when that hour comes, do not imagine you will be alone before the Golden Gate."
Constantine listened, his fingers steepled before his lips. The words carried no scandal to his ear. A truce was a tool, not a sacrament. The ink in Serres had bought him time, a heir on the way. It had not bought Ali or Demetrios the right to his obedience unto death.
He turned his gaze inward, away from the play of light on wine and maps.
Fifteen tagmata. Tripled fire. Officers who could read more than the first line of an order. Somewhere to the east, Karamanid banners whipping under a pale Anatolian sun. To the north, Fruzhin posturing under a borrowed raven.
It was, as Thomas said, a perfect-looking moment.
It was also, as Theophilus and George said, a moment perched on half-grown foundations.
"You all speak truth," he said. "Each from his corner of the field."
"And you?" Thomas asked quietly. "What do you see, brother?"
Constantine's mouth twitched. "I see an empire that is finally beginning to stand on its own legs," he said. "Not yet fully grown, but no longer crawling in rags." His hand moved over the map, pointing to Glarentza, Thessaloniki. "I see a line of work that must not be broken lightly. And I see a woman upstairs who carries not just my child, but the future of this house and all this labor."
He let his hand fall.
"I am not scandalized by breaking a truce," he went on. "The Ottomans would break it as soon as it suited them. But I will not start a new campaign, one that could shake our whole house, while my wife is heavy with child and my heir not yet safely born." His eyes met Thomas's, then Andreas's, holding each. "I will not leave her to labor alone while I gamble the army on the Thracian plain. I will not march north while the line of Palaiologos hangs on a midwife's hands."
The words were simple. They landed like hammer-blows.
Thomas's jaw tightened, but he did not speak. Andreas looked away.
"In the meantime," Constantine said, more briskly, "we are not idle. We continue to build. We watch." He glanced at the small calendar scratched on a slate near the hearth. "In May, when the roads are firm and the spring levy can move, I will decide whether we campaign this year or not. By then we will know more, about Anatolia, about Fruzhin, about the child in Katarina's arms."
He let his gaze sweep the table. "Until that day, this plan lives in this room alone. Rumor sharpens knives faster than our grindstones."
One by one, they inclined their heads.
"George," Constantine said, turning to his friend, "you will write to Fruzhin. Give him… hope, but not promises. Praise his courage. Tell him we look with favor on anyone who weakens the Turk. Hint that we consider how best to coordinate when the time is right. But bind ourselves to nothing, not in ink, not between the lines."
George's lips curled faintly. "My hand has not lost its craft," he said. "He will read what he wishes into it and curse us later, but by then, perhaps it will not matter."
"Theophilus," Constantine continued, "you will write to my father-in-law. With all proper courtesies. Ask plainly what forces he could offer for a campaign, should we choose to move against the Turk in the near future. Men, horse, provisions, gold. Do not promise a date. I want to know what weight he would put on the scales if we called."
Theophilus's quill-shaped fingers flexed. "I will draft it tonight," he said. "Serbia may answer slowly, but they answer."
"Andreas," Constantine said, "keep the tagmata hungry and ready. Drill them, test your officers, march them in the hills so they remember what a hard road feels like. When I say 'march,' I want them able to move within a week, not a month."
Andreas's chest swelled. "They will sleep in their boots if need be," he said. "When the order comes, they'll move like a fist, not an open hand."
"Plethon," Constantine said, "you will continue your… sermons and whispers. In Crete, in Calabria, in the City. Fan Ieros Skopos where it can burn without drawing the bailiff's lash too soon. But coordinate with George, so that our words and our banners match when they finally appear beneath those walls."
Plethon's eyes gleamed. "The soil is ready," he murmured. "Seeds have been planted."
"So we do nothing," Thomas said, the words half-whispered, half-accusation. "Mother grows old in that viper's nest. The City rots. But we sleep under good roofs and count our barrels of powder and wait for the midwife to tell us whether your heir lives."
The air in the chamber tightened. Andreas looked down; George's jaw shifted.
Constantine's eyes sharpened, but his voice stayed level. "Choose your words, Thomas," he said. "You are not the only son who remembers our mother."
Thomas swallowed—pride, anger, or both—and exhaled through his nose. "So we wait," he said. The edge was gone from his voice, but not the hurt.
"We prepare," Constantine answered. The gentleness was real, but it carried iron beneath it. "Waiting is what beggars do at church doors. We are not beggars." He looked around the table, meeting each gaze except Thomas's. "We are builders. We lay out our tools, stoke our fires, and choose the day we strike."
No one spoke. The brazier popped, a small sound in the tight room.
"When the time is right," he said more quietly, "we will smash the Ottomans. Until then, we keep our patience sharper than our swords."
He reached for his cup, raising it only a hand's height.
"To May," he said. "To the child to come. To the work between now and then."
The others lifted their cups in uneven silence. Thomas raised his last, not looking at his brother.