At dawn the light came through the tall windows of the new Morea Publishing headquarters in Glarentza. The building had grown out of the original bookstore, and in two years the town around it had changed from a quiet coastal settlement into a center of trade and learning. Its streets were full of merchants and scholars, and the hammering in the artisans' workshops had already begun.
In a spacious chamber lined with shelves of freshly bound books, Constantine sat at the head of a long oak table. The room served as the council chamber. Around him sat his newly formed Morea Publishing Council: the philosopher Plethon; Plethon's assistant, the monk Bessarion; Theophilus Dragas, the overseer of the Morea Company; and Petros, who had in effect become his finance minister.
Plethon, who had settled permanently in Glarentza only weeks before, adjusted his robes and looked round the room. What the Despot had built here was remarkable, he said, and to see the old wisdom and the new arts under one roof warmed an old philosopher's heart. Bessarion said he had never seen work done as it was in Glarentza, where the scribes, the printers and the artisans each did one part and passed it on to the next.
"It is the work of everyone at this table," Constantine said. "Theophilus, the figures."
Theophilus leaned forward and unrolled a paper of figures. With the new presses they printed more than twice what they had before. They had produced large quantities of the Latin and Greek Bibles and of the new Latin and Greek Psalters, and they would soon begin printing Plato's Dialogues.
"The Latin edition of the Dialogues will be a fine book, and I must thank you for it, Master Plethon," Constantine said. "The West longs for direct access to the wisdom of our ancestors, and this could bring the old learning back to life there."
Plethon said that it brought him great joy to see Plato's teachings live again, and Bessarion that the books might be a bridge between East and West and in time lead to a deeper unity between them. Petros had the sales projections in front of him. If the spring trading season went as they expected, he said, the profits could pass thirty thousand gold ducats in the first months alone, and a murmur went round the table.
Theophilus had a letter as well. It had come from Ragusa the evening before, and the negotiations there had borne fruit: the Senate had granted them a ten-year monopoly to keep a permanent bookstore in the city, and in return a tenth of what the shop took would go to Ragusa each year.
"It is a fair price for the Adriatic," Petros said.
The profits would pay for a great deal, Theophilus said, but every shop they opened would need paper, and once again their sources of cotton might not keep up as the demand grew. Constantine wanted agreements with cotton growers in new markets, so that no single source could leave them short, and Plethon thought they might grow flax or hemp in the Morea and depend less on what came in by sea. Little cotton was grown in the Morea, Constantine said, so flax and hemp were the likelier crops, and better methods in the fields could raise their yield.
"Ragusa need not be the last," Bessarion said. "We might consider shops in other cities as well: Venice, Florence, Rome."
Plethon stroked his beard thoughtfully. "While the prospect is enticing, we must tread with caution. The Italian states are fiercely protective of their markets. Venice, in particular, may view our expansion as encroachment. They currently procure our books in bulk; we would not want to disturb that trade."
"We must weigh that, Master Plethon," Constantine said, and leaned forward. "But there is another road. The Papacy has expressed interest in buying our works in large quantities, and a special arrangement with Rome could carry them further than any shop."
A thoughtful silence settled over the room.
"The Papacy?" Theophilus said. "There is great promise in it, in revenue and in influence. But it also ties us to the politics of the Church, which never stand still."
"Think of it, though," Constantine said. "Tens of thousands of our books across Christendom."
Bessarion raised a measured hand. "Despot, the Emperor's efforts toward the union of the churches are delicate. A bargain with Rome could help them or cut across them. Perhaps we should write to Constantinople before anything is signed."
"Time is a commodity we may not have in abundance, Bessarion," Constantine said. "I will keep my brother's plans in mind, but I will not wait on them."
Petros was for moving now. An order from Rome on that scale would bring in more than any market they had, he said, and they could not turn away money like that. Theophilus thought monopolies were the best way to keep their advantage, since their methods were fast losing their novelty, but he reminded them that many Orthodox monks already disliked the Latin Bibles, and a bargain with the Pope would give them more to preach against. There had to be a balance, he said. Plethon thought the moment worth taking, for the money and for the old learning. Bessarion said nothing more.
Constantine rose, and the others rose with him. "I thank you all. What we begin in Glarentza may reach the whole of Europe."
Plethon placed a hand over his heart. Theophilus and Petros bowed, and Bessarion bowed last.
"Now," Constantine said, "let us set these plans into motion."
Clermont castle
The council chamber at Clermont faced west, and by the end of the afternoon the sun came in low across the map of the Morea on the table. Constantine stood over it while George went through the business of the state, and when George came to the reports from Mystras, Constantine stopped him.
Spring was close, and with it the reckoning with Theodore they had settled on after the ambush. There were rumors now that he was gathering men, and Constantine said that if they waited any longer they would lose the initiative. A campaign against Mystras would end it. George thought it might come to that, but the walls of Mystras were strong, and the cannons they had would not breach them. There were other ways, he said, and men inside Mystras who might be persuaded. Constantine said there were harsher ways still, assassination or sabotage, but any of them done without warning would anger John.
"We were our mother's favorite sons, and I am perhaps the closest of his brothers," he said. "If he sees rebellion in this, it will go badly for us, and he is in the middle of his talks with the West." Thomas would likely stand with them if it came to fighting. John was the danger, and they could not afford to fight on two fronts.
Constantine gazed out the window, watching as the sun began its descent behind the distant mountains. Memories of his past life came back to him, of contracts and negotiations and quarrels settled with words rather than swords.
"There is another matter that cannot wait, Despot," George said, "the Hexamilion Wall. It must be reinforced, and soon."
"With next month's revenues we can rebuild it properly," Constantine said, "and hire more men for the standing forces. Have we reached a hundred Pyrvelos yet?"
George rubbed his chin thoughtfully, his gaze drifting toward a chest in the corner where reports were piled high. "You ask me that almost every day, Despot," he said with a wry smile. "Ninety-six so far. The work is still slow, but with the new craftsmen we have trained it is finally starting to pick up."
"They are worth little until we have them in numbers," Constantine said. "If we must move against Theodore, enough of them might make him think twice before he fights."
George was about to answer when Theophilus came in without knocking. He was pale, and he had a letter open in his hand.
"From Thomas, Despot," he said. "Turahan Bey has breached the Hexamilion Wall. Our garrison was overrun. They were too few to hold. Turahan leads a force of several thousand cavalry, advancing toward Kalavryta. Thomas pleads for aid to defend his city."
A heavy silence filled the chamber. Constantine's jaw tightened. "We cannot let Kalavryta fall. If Turahan gains a foothold there, the entire Morea could be at risk."
"What are your orders, Despot?" George asked quietly.
Constantine straightened. "We must meet Turahan head-on. He will not expect us to engage him so swiftly, nor will he anticipate our new weaponry."
George did not answer at once. "Behind walls we know what our guns can do, Despot. In open country we have never tried them against their horse."
"Risk is unavoidable," Constantine said. "But with the element of surprise and the Pyrvelos and Drakos, we have a chance to turn the tide."
George looked at the map for a while before he nodded. "Very well. I will see to it. Supplies, scouts, and messengers will be ready."
Constantine turned to Theophilus. "Send word to Thomas immediately. Tell him to hold as best he can, we are coming."
Theophilus bowed deeply. "At once, Despot."
As Theophilus exited, Constantine looked back at George. "We need Captain Andreas. I want a full report on our troop readiness."
"I will summon him," George said, heading toward the door.
"Thank you, my friend," Constantine said.
Minutes later, Captain Andreas strode into the chamber, his armor clinking softly with each step. He bowed respectfully. "Despot, Lord Sphrantzes, you requested my presence."
"We did," Constantine said, gesturing for him to take a seat. "There is news you should hear. Turahan Bey's forces have crossed our borders. His invasion is underway."
Andreas's jaw set, his voice taut. "So it is war, then. That vulture will not stop until he has picked the Morea clean."
Constantine gave a grim nod. "We will need every man ready for a swift march. Give us your assessment, Captain. What is the state of our troops?"
They were in good shape, Andreas said. The drills had paid off: the pikemen held their lines, the Pyrvelos marksmen shot well, the light cavalry was quick, and the field cannon crews had grown faster.
"Morale?" Constantine asked.
"High," Andreas said, and squared his shoulders. "They believe in your command, Despot."
"We must bolster our numbers," George said, stepping forward. "Have we the capacity to summon additional troops on such short notice?"
Andreas inclined his head, and his armor clinked faintly. "I will send riders to the nearby villages. There are plenty who will answer the summons if we offer them arms. Our stock of pikes and equipment should be enough to outfit them."
"Make it so," Constantine said. "We march as soon as possible."
Andreas gave a curt nod. "Consider it done." He put his fist to his chest and went out, and his boots echoed down the corridor.
Left alone with George, Constantine asked, "Do you think me reckless?"
"Turahan chose the day, Despot," George said. "We did not."
A faint echo of his yaya's voice came back to Constantine, her tales of men who stood firm against worse odds than these, and the legend of the Marmaromenos Vasilias with them, the Marble Emperor who would rise to save Byzantium. Below in the yard, Andreas's riders were already mounting for the villages.