Port of Glarentza, April 1430

The morning sun bathed Glarentza harbor in a warm glow, each sea ripple catching the light and scattering it like a thousand diamonds. I stood at the stern of the Kyrenia, the scent of salt and tar filling the air as a gentle breeze tugged at my cloak. My fingers traced the smooth, weathered wood of the railing—a silent witness to countless voyages across these ancient waters.

The familiar cries of gulls circled overhead, their calls mingling with the distant clamor of the bustling port. Merchants shouted, and sailors exchanged coarse jokes. The rhythmic clatter of hooves on cobblestone echoed from the nearby streets. Amidst the vibrant mix of sounds, a flutter stirred in my stomach—a mix of excitement and unease that quickened my pulse.

"All the cargo is aboard, right?" I asked Damianus for what must have been the third time since dawn. This was my first voyage since arriving in this world—this body—two years ago.

"Aye, all's stowed and secured, Despot," Damianus called out, approaching with a seasoned sailor's stride. His weathered face bore a knowing grin. "She's heavy with cargo, but the Kyrenia dances with the waves like a dolphin eager to leap."

I turned to him, a smile tugging at the corners of my mouth. "You've a poet's tongue today, Damianus."

He chuckled, his eyes crinkling with mirth. "Just calling it as I see it, my lord. The sea's in a fine mood, and it'd be a shame to keep her waiting."

The Kyrenia—a sturdy two-masted galley, the only ship I owned—was rigged with lateen sails, sleek for Mediterranean winds. This ship had carried me here in 1427 and had been part of my brother’s fleet in the naval battle of Echinades. Now, with six Drakos cannons mounted, I had made the Kyrenia the most formidable ship on these waters—a sleek predator— or so I believed.

As I stared across the deck, my mind wandered to the future. I knew I was ahead of my time, possibly by a century or more. No one else was using cannons like this for naval warfare. And yet... my plans grew larger with each passing day. I dreamed of constructing great carracks, Portuguese-style, built for the open sea and bristling with cannons. I could change the entire naval landscape of the Mediterranean—if I survived long enough to see it through.

Nearby, the Venetian trade ship we'd hired as a companion swayed gently, her crew bustling to secure the last of their provisions. The Venetians, renowned mariners though they were, had yet to embrace the true potential of naval artillery. Their heavy hold was prepared for cotton and goods from Ragusa, but they sailed without the thunderous power that rested within our cannons.

At the bow, George Sphrantzes stood engaged in earnest conversation with Damianus. George had become more than an advisor—he was a steadfast ally in this world that was still foreign to me. His calm logic grounded me when my thoughts raced ahead, plotting futures unknown to those around me.

"Despot," Damianus said, his voice drawing me back. "The wind favors us. Shall we set sail?"

I took a deep breath, savoring the salty air. "Yes. Let's not keep the sea waiting any longer."

Damianus nodded and turned to the crew. "Lower the sails!" he bellowed, his voice carrying over the deck.

The men responded swiftly and efficiently, their movements practiced and sure. The sails caught the wind, and the Kyrenia began to pull away from the quay, gliding out into the open sea. The Venetian ship followed closely behind. As the wind filled our sails, I turned to Damianus. "Do you think this breeze will hold?"

"For a while," he said, nodding. "If we’re lucky, we’ll reach Ragusa in under a week."

I smiled, though a part of me wished our first destination could be Constantinople. There was no time for sightseeing now, however. Business awaited in Ragusa.

Three days into the voyage, the weather shifted, the once calm sea becoming restless under darkening clouds. We had made a stop at Corfu, a Venetian-controlled island, to resupply, but the sea north of Corfu was known to be treacherous, both because of the weather and the pirates.

I was in my cabin when I heard the shout, sharp and urgent, cutting through the air. "Pirates!"

I rushed out, the cold sea wind whipping my face as I joined Damianus and George at the helm. "Where?" I asked breathlessly, scanning the horizon.

"There," he said, pointing toward a fast-moving ship cresting the waves, bearing down on us with alarming speed. Its low, sleek hull identified it as a Dalmatian pirate vessel.

"Damn it," I muttered. I had known piracy was a risk, but facing it firsthand was something else entirely. "How close?"

"They’re gaining," Damianus said, his voice tight. "They’re preparing to ram us."

My heart raced. I had to act quickly. "Prepare the Drakos," I ordered, my voice shaking with both fear and exhilaration.

The crew moved swiftly, manning the cannons I had designed. This was it—the test of my innovations, of whether my modern knowledge could truly give me an edge in this brutal world.

"Fire!" I shouted as the pirate ship closed the distance. The first cannon roared, belching smoke and flame, but the shot missed, the ball splashing uselessly into the sea.

"Fire again!" I commanded, gritting my teeth. The second shot hit its mark, striking the pirate ship’s hull with a thunderous crack. The crew cheered, but the pirates kept coming.

As they closed in, the next barrage of cannon fire struck home, splintering the pirate ship’s side. The deck exploded in chaos as pirates scrambled to control their vessel, but it was too late. The Drakos cannons had done their work.

"Despot!" Damianus called out. "The ship is sinking."

I felt a strange thrill course through me, something primal and fierce. "I don’t care," I barked.

"Fire again!"

“Again!”

As the pirate vessel slipped beneath the waves, I felt a heavy knot in my stomach. The thrill of battle had given way to a sobering reality. Lives had been lost by my command. It was necessary, but the weight of it settled upon me like a cold mantle.

The crew began to chant my name, "Constantine! Constantine!" Their faces shone admiring, but I could only manage a faint smile.

Port of Ragusa

Ragusa’s towering white stone walls gleamed in the midday sun as the Kyrenia entered the busy harbor. With its blend of East and West, the city was as much a symbol of wealth and trade as it was a fortress against the ever-growing threats of the Mediterranean.

However, our arrival was delayed by Ragusa’s strict quarantine policies, as was customary for all ships arriving by sea. Seven days of enforced isolation were not what I had anticipated, but the wait gave me ample time to reflect on our journey and plan for the challenges ahead.

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It also gave me time to notice something—or rather, someone—who had been watching us closely throughout the quarantine. The son of the Venetian trade captain, a young and inquisitive man, had taken an unusual interest in the Kyrenia. From the moment we docked, his eyes had rarely left our ship. He approached me several times during the quarantine, his questions seemingly innocent at first—about the cannons, the ship’s modifications for them, and our recent encounter with pirates.

At first, I answered his queries with a measured tone, keeping my explanations vague and noncommittal. But as the days wore on, I became increasingly cautious. His interest was far too keen, his gaze lingering too long on the cannons mounted along the deck. He seemed particularly fascinated by the Drakos and the ease with which we had repelled the pirate attack.

"Your ship handled the pirates remarkably well, Despot," he remarked one afternoon, his voice casual but his eyes sharp. "Those cannons... I've never seen anything like them. And the way your crew fired them—so precise."

I offered a polite smile, though my guard was up. "We've made some improvements, yes. But any well-trained crew can do the same with enough practice."

"Still," he continued, glancing again at the Kyrenia, "the design is... unusual. Your cannons seem more advanced than anything i seen”

"Perhaps," I replied evenly, careful not to reveal too much. "We’ve made a few modifications. But the sea demands creativity, doesn’t it?"

The young Venetian smiled, but there was a glint in his eyes that put me on edge. He wasn’t asking out of casual curiosity—he was studying us, and that made me uneasy. Over the course of the quarantine, I caught him multiple times examining the Kyrenia closely, walking around her under the guise of admiring the ship, his eyes tracing the cannons and the modifications, as if memorizing every detail.

He kept a low profile, careful not to disclose much about himself or his reasons for such keen interest. Whenever I pressed him about his background or his future plans, he deflected with practiced ease, steering the conversation back to the ship or the cannons.

By the end of the week, I knew I had to be even more guarded. As I watched him now, lingering once more near the edge of the dock, his gaze fixed on the Kyrenia, I felt a growing sense of caution.

"That one is trouble," George remarked quietly, stepping up beside me. His voice was low, his eyes tracking the young Venetian.

I nodded, my jaw tightening. "He’s asking too many questions. And he’s paying far too much attention to those cannons."

George’s eyes narrowed. “I am sure he will report this to someone in Venice”

"Possibly," I muttered, my gaze still fixed on the young man. "Whatever the case, we’ll need to keep a close eye on him once we return to Glarentza. We’ll have to find a way to keep his mouth shut."

George nodded in agreement. "Best not to take chances, Despot."

I watched as the young Venetian stepped away from the ship, my mind already turning over the possibilities. Whether he was acting on behalf of the Venetians or simply too curious for his own good, I couldn’t afford any loose ends. One way or another, I’d make sure he didn’t become a threat.

George scouted the local market for cotton, and his report was what I expected but hoped to avoid. "The prices are high, my Despot," he said, frowning as he walked beside me through the crowded streets of Ragusa’s commercial district. "Far higher than we would pay elsewhere."

"I expected as much," I replied, glancing at the stalls lined with fabrics, spices, and other goods from across the Mediterranean. "But we need the cotton, and there's little time to negotiate."

We moved through the busy marketplace, carefully navigating the crowd of merchants and customers haggling over everything from silk to olive oil. The cotton merchants stood behind carefully guarded stalls, their goods protected from the elements by delicate cloth canopies. Though the quality was exceptional, the prices were steep—far more than I would have liked to pay. Still, we had little choice.

After several rounds of tense negotiations, I secured the cotton we needed, though at a considerable price. It wasn’t a deal that brought me joy, but it ensured we could continue producing books at the printing press back in the Morea, still with significant profits. As much as it stung to pay so much, the investment would pay off in time.

Satisfied that the cotton was secured, we went to the more formal part of our visit—a meeting with the Rector of Ragusa and the city’s ruling council. It was a courtesy, mostly, but I had another purpose in mind.

The Rector received us in a chamber within the city’s grand hall. It was a simple room by Constantinople standards, but elegant in its own right, with paintings on the walls and large windows letting in the late afternoon light. The Rector, dressed in the formal crimson robes of his office, greeted us with polite formality. His sharp eyes studied me as we exchanged pleasantries, and the Senators who flanked him, each wearing a look of measured curiosity, mirrored his careful gaze.

After the introductions, I presented the Bible—a beautifully bound volume printed for exceptional cases. The Rector’s hands traced the fine leather cover, his fingers lingering over the meticulously printed Latin script. He was clearly impressed, though his expression remained diplomatic.

"A gift from the Morea",” I said, bowing slightly. "To show our appreciation for the hospitality of Ragusa."

The Rector nodded, a faint smile breaking through his otherwise serious demeanor.

"A most exquisite gift, Despot Constantine. The craftsmanship is remarkable. I have not seen its like before."

"Thank you," I replied, keeping my tone measured. "We hope this is just the beginning of a prosperous relationship. In fact, I wished to inquire about establishing a more permanent presence here in Ragusa—a small bookstore where we could sell such volumes. Our press in the Morea is growing, and I believe Ragusa could become an important center for learning, trade, and knowledge."

The Senators exchanged glances, clearly surprised and intrigued by the idea, though they said nothing. The Rector remained thoughtful, tapping a finger against the Bible's cover as he considered my request.

"A bookstore?" he repeated. "That is an interesting proposition. Ragusa has always been a city of trade, but knowledge... knowledge is a different kind of commodity." He paused, his gaze sharp. "We are open to the idea, Despot, though such matters will need to be discussed further with the council. Permissions must be granted, and terms agreed upon."

"I understand, of course," I said smoothly. "I look forward to those discussions."

The meeting ended positively, with the Rector expressing cautious interest in the idea. Though nothing was finalized, I felt confident that Ragusa would eventually agree. A bookstore in such a city could provide not just profit but influence—spreading ideas and knowledge while subtly expanding my reach beyond the Morea.

On the way home

As the sun dipped toward the horizon, casting a warm, golden glow over the harbor of Parga, I stood on the deck of the Kyrenia, watching as the last of the cargo was loaded aboard. We had left Ragusa days earlier, and this brief stop in Parga—another Venetian-controlled Greek town along the coast of Epirus—was meant to resupply before continuing our journey back to Glarentza. The port here was quieter than Ragusa, the hustle of merchants slowing as the day's business drew to a close. It had been a productive but exhausting few days, and I was eager to return home.

A crewman approached me, his face tense, and behind him trailed a thin man with drawn features, his eyes wide with a mix of exhaustion and fear. His clothes were plain, and his nervous posture suggested he was accustomed to looking over his shoulder.

"Despot," the crewman said, bowing slightly. "This man wishes to speak with you. He says he has important information."

I studied the stranger carefully. His eyes darted around as if expecting danger at any moment, his posture tense, as though he was ready to flee at the slightest provocation.

"Who are you?" I asked, maintaining a cordial but cautious tone.

He stepped forward, bowing slightly. "My name is Niketas, my lord. I beg a moment of your time."

"Very well. Speak."

He glanced around nervously before continuing, his voice low. "I couldn't help but notice your ship—the cannons you have mounted. They're unlike any I've seen."

I raised an eyebrow. "You have an eye for cannons?”

"Yes, my lord. I was a gunpowder maker serving the Ottomans—working on the siege bombards for Sultan Murad II."

A flicker of interest sparked within me. "Go on."

His jaw tightened, a shadow passing over his features. "An Ottoman Subaşı wronged my family—he violated my wife. In my rage, I killed him. We had to flee, and I brought my family to Ioannina, hoping to find refuge there."

He paused, his face tense with emotion. "But even that refuge has been lost. Ioannina has fallen to the Ottomans. Sultan Murad’s forces took the city, and now there is no safe place for us. The Tocco heir couldn’t hold the city, and the Ottomans took unopposed.

"I'm sorry for your suffering," I said sincerely. "But why come to me?"

"I seek refuge and purpose," he replied, straightening his posture. Your cannons show innovation. I can offer my skills. I know the secrets of gunpowder, how to make it more potent, how to cast stronger barrels. All I ask is protection for my family."

I glanced at George Sphrantzes, who had been listening intently. His subtle nod indicated his agreement that Niketas could be valuable.

"You're willing to swear loyalty to me?" I asked.

"With all my heart, my lord. The Ottomans took everything from me. Let me help you stand against them."

I considered him for a moment, if that’s true, his knowledge could be a significant asset, and his personal vendetta against the Ottomans aligned with our struggles.

"Very well, Niketas," I said. "You and your family will have safe passage to the Morea. There, you'll be able to use your skills for a worthy cause."

Relief washed over his face, his eyes glistening. "Thank you, Despot. I won't disappoint you."

"See to it that your family is ready to depart promptly," I instructed. "We sail with the tide."