Constantine stood at the edge of Preveza's wind-swept docks, cloak pulled tight against the salt breeze off the Ambracian Gulf. The harbor was small and still, unlike busy Glarentza, and its quiet stirred an old memory, childhood summers by Suisun Bay.
Three weeks had passed since Carlo Tocco had surrendered the citadel of Arta without a fight, ending his rule in Epirus with a whimper instead of the siege and bloodbath many had feared. Constantine's eyes drifted across the water toward the western horizon. Beyond it lay Cephalonia, the island where Tocco now languished in comfortable exile under imperial watch. He allowed himself a thin smile. Better a gilded cage than an open grave. It was a victory won by patience and pressure rather than steel, a victory without bloodshed, the kind he would gladly take every time.
On the quay behind him, a small garrison moved through its routines. A few soldiers in imperial livery paced the wharf, boots grinding on damp planks. Above them, the double-headed eagle hung from the old watchtower that once bore Tocco's chevrons.
Fishermen unloading their catch watched warily, unsure whether the Romans were saviors or new masters. Constantine caught their glances and couldn't blame them; here, emperors were only rumors. He had been in Preveza a week, and still the villagers hadn't grown used to seeing him on their docks each morning.
He was eager to settle the diplomacy and bring this brief campaign to its close. With Tocco gone, only formalities remained before the region could truly rest. Chief among them was the matter of Vonitsa, not a prize to claim, but a thread to tie off.
The small town, pledged by Tocco as collateral to Venice, meant little to Constantine; he could live without it. Still, its place at the gulf's mouth gave it weight. Venice would keep it; he only wanted that acknowledged openly to prevent future quarrels. The Republic was a thorn at times, but also a partner of necessity. Trade bound them in a delicate balance: Venetian merchants bought his books and, more recently, the fine paper from his mills. Profit and policy moved together, each wary of the other yet unwilling to part. Better, then, to face Venetian ambition in daylight than let it grow in shadow. So he waited, not to bargain for the town, but to seal the treaty that would make Epirus's peace official.
"Your Majesty," came a voice behind him. Constantine turned as General Andreas approached at a measured pace and saluted. "The lookouts think they see something," he reported, nodding toward the gulf. "A sail from the north." There was a glint of relief in his eyes; like his Emperor, Andreas had grown tired of waiting.
A spark of energy cut through Constantine's fatigue. He stepped to the dock's edge, boots scraping on the timbers, and followed Andreas's gesture. At first there was only glittering sea, then a white speck, a mast, and the sleek outline of a Venetian galley taking shape. Oars flashed in rhythm beneath the golden lion of Saint Mark snapping against a crimson sail. Venice had arrived at last.
As the galley drew nearer under oars, Constantine took a slow, steady breath. The Venetian officer aboard would carry the Republic's weight; Venice always had its interests. Likely a seasoned negotiator, perhaps a patrician. Constantine would meet him with courtesy first, firmness after. On the pier, an honor guard gathered, cloaks stirring as his aides waited for the signal.
"Prepare to receive our guest," Constantine said evenly. Andreas moved at once, issuing quiet orders to the men. The Emperor lingered a moment at the water's edge, collecting his thoughts. The Albanians had arrived a few days earlier, even Skanderbeg among them, their banners now visible on the headland beyond the small town. Soon he would meet them again, joined by the Venetian envoy newly arrived. These talks would shape the Treaty of Preveza, the accord meant to fix Epirus's borders and secure its peace. If I handle it right, he reminded himself.
By late morning, a small procession moved from the docks toward the rise overlooking the bay. Constantine rode at its head on a dapple-gray mare, the Venetian envoy beside him on a borrowed horse. Behind followed a handful of guards, the envoy's attendants, and a few locals trailing at a distance. The sky was clear, the air warming. From the hilltop ahead, the imperial pavilion came into view, its white canvas billowing beside banners featuring the double-headed eagle. A trumpet sounded from the camp, announcing their arrival.
As they neared, Skanderbeg stepped from the tent, flanked by two armored retainers. Tall and broad-shouldered, with a close-cropped beard and a red cloak over plain mail, he carried the easy authority of command. Constantine caught a flicker of tension as the Venetian envoy dismounted; old grudges die hard in Albanian hills, but Skanderbeg's scarred face stayed composed. He bowed briefly and clasped Constantine's forearm in greeting.
"Lord Skanderbeg," Constantine said warmly, "thank you for your patience. Our final guest has arrived." He turned and gestured courteously toward the Venetian. "Allow me to present Messer Luciano Mocenigo, representative of the Most Serene Republic." The Venetian gave a quick, elegant bow to Skanderbeg, his eyes appraising the warrior before him.
Skanderbeg nodded in return. "Venice is welcome to our council," he said in a measured tone, his Greek heavily accented but clear. "We all seek an understanding here." It was politely said, if a bit flat. Constantine knew Skanderbeg's true feelings were likely more complicated, Venice had both armed and opposed various Albanian factions over the years, but the man was too savvy to show his hand at the outset.
Together, they entered the pavilion. Inside, a round table stood at the center, surrounded by plain wooden chairs. Constantine's seat bore the imperial emblem but little else set him apart, no throne, no dais. Sunlight filtered through the canvas, gilding the map of Epirus and Albania spread across the table.
Inside waited Prince Thomas Palaiologos and several Albanian chieftains. Thomas rose at once, impatience plain on his face. Dressed more for parade than parley, he tapped a gloved hand on his sword hilt and offered the envoy a curt bow before fixing Constantine with a look that said, finally.
The gathering was a wary mix. Constantine took his seat with Andreas beside him, solid and silent. Across the table clustered Skanderbeg's captains—hard-eyed men in mismatched mail, mountain chiefs more used to ambush than diplomacy. They gave the brief nods courtesy required, but their respect was cautious and conditional.
Lastly, the Venetian envoy made a slow circuit of the table, studying each face even as he offered courteous greetings in practiced Greek. Messer Luciano Mocenigo's movements were smooth, almost cat-like. He was clearly determined to project calm confidence. Constantine noticed how the Venetian's gaze lingered a half-second longer on Thomas's ornate armor, a hint of a smile playing at his lips, before he took his own seat at the table's far side. Likely Mocenigo recognized Thomas's type: the impatient young noble eager for glory. Constantine decided he'd have to keep a close eye on both of them.
When all were finally seated, a hush fell. The only sounds within the pavilion were the faint flapping of canvas and the clink of armor as a guard shifted by the entrance. Constantine let his gaze travel around the table, meeting each man's eyes in turn. This gathering was his doing, and he would guide it. He only hoped these disparate personalities could find common ground today.
"My lords," Constantine began, his voice measured in the stillness, "thank you for coming together. We are here to bring peace and order to Epirus and the borderlands, on terms honorable to all." He set his hands on the map before him. "The chapters of Murad and of Carlo Tocco are closed. A new one begins, and we shall write it here in Preveza."
He saw a few of the Albanians exchange glances at that, and Thomas shifted in his seat as if to speak. But Constantine pressed on, determined to set a cooperative tone. He nodded toward Skanderbeg first. "General Kastrioti has fought tirelessly for the freedom of his people. Without his valor and yours," he inclined his head toward the other Albanian captains, "much of these lands would still lie under the Turk's yoke."
Skanderbeg's stern features softened slightly."We fought for our homes and families, Majesty," Skanderbeg replied. His deep voice had a rough edge, but not an unfriendly one. "If those fights aided your cause, so be it. We are glad to see an Emperor who keeps his word." This last was delivered with a meaningful arch of his brow. Skanderbeg had taken a risk trusting Constantine's promises of fair treatment and autonomy if they cooperated. So far, Constantine had honored those promises.
"Just so," Constantine agreed, a faint smile touching his lips. "And I intend to keep every oath made. That is why we gather at this table, to put our understandings into writing, so that no future quarrel or doubt may sunder us." He gestured to a scroll lying ready at the table's center: a preliminary draft of a treaty, inked and ready to be amended as needed.
"Let us put an end to any doubts about Epirus' future," he continued, his tone cordial but firm. "These lands have suffered too long from division and distrust. I hope today we choose a different path, cooperation, for the good of all our peoples."
One of the Albanians, Lord Arianiti, gave a skeptical grunt. "Fine words," he said in accented Greek, arms folded. "We've heard many such from rulers before. Forgive us if we weigh deeds more heavily than promises."
The Emperor inclined his head, unruffled by the bluntness. "Of course," he answered evenly. "Deeds indeed. We have already shed blood side by side against common enemies. That is a better testament than any proclamation."
At this, another Albanian Lord, Depë Zenebishi, said, "True enough, at Gjirokastër, your cannons opened the way and our men stormed through. We haven't forgotten that help, Emperor."
Captain Aristos allowed himself a tight smile. "Your men fought bravely there," he replied. "No wall can stand against courage on both sides of the breach."
Zenebishi let out a rough chuckle. "It also helped that your kegs of powder made a fine fireworks show," he said, flashing a grin. "We appreciated those, Captain." A ripple of laughter went around the tent, easing tension like a released breath.
Constantine smiled and reached for the parchment lying ready at the table's center, its seals already affixed, ink pots set beside it. "Then let us put our understanding into writing," he said. He drew the sheet toward him and nodded to Aristos, the captain who had first gone to Ioannina to open talks with the Albanians. Aristos stepped forward, unrolling the document and reading the terms aloud in a clear, deliberate voice.
Across the table, Lord Zenebishi stroked his gray-streaked beard and gave Aristos a faint, familiar nod. He clearly remembered their meeting in Ioannina, when the first outlines of this peace had been traced in rougher ink.
Aristos spoke clearly, enumerating each point they had agreed upon. First: both the Empire and the Republic would formally recognize the Albanian League and its current holdings, guaranteeing its autonomy within its borders.
Next: the domains Carlo Tocco once ruled, Arta and its surrounding lands, Preveza, Angelokastron and Rogoi, and the islands of Cephalonia and Zakynthos – would henceforth belong to the Empire, with imperial garrisons already installed. In turn, the Albanian lords would retain control of the northern Epirus territories they currently hold, including the city of Ioannina, free from any imperial interference. At the mention of Ioannina, Skanderbeg nodded in quiet satisfaction; that city had been a hard-won prize for his rebels. The reading continued: the League of the Albanians would, in turn, recognize the territories held by Venice within their region, and the empire would do the same with the town of Vonitsa on the Ambracian Gulf. At this clause, the heavyset Lord Thopia clicked his tongue and spat on the ground in disgust. The Venetian envoy stiffened but held his silence, merely noting the reaction in his folio.
Then Luciano Mocenigo broke the silence. "Your Majesty, this is a most sensible proposal," he said, inclining his head. "Venice is not eager to seize new territories here, not when our friendship with the Empire has been so profitable of late. But we are willing to shoulder the burden of Vonitsa's security." He gave a thin smile. "For the good of all, of course."
"Of course," Constantine echoed with a slight smile of his own.
"So be it," Constantine said, letting authority ring in his voice. He looked around. "Does anyone object to these terms?"
Thomas exhaled through his nose, but he gave a curt shake of his head. None of the Albanians voiced dissent; Skanderbeg offered a single firm nod in agreement. Mocenigo tapped the table lightly with two fingers, an understated sign of approval.
"Good," Constantine said, relief surging within, though he kept his composure.
Thus, the Treaty of Preveza was sealed, not only in ink and wax, but in the goodwill cautiously kindled around that table. It was a fragile flame, to be sure, but Constantine vowed to tend it carefully.