Mystras – Summer 1432

The council chamber in Mystras, long accustomed to dithering and cautious half-measures, now bristled with an unfamiliar energy. Lamps flickered, casting shadows that seemed to jostle and clash as the men gathered around the oak table. Their murmurs—low, distrustful—suggested that each was measuring not only Constantine’s words but the weight behind them. The heavy air reeked of wax and sweat, and the scent of mountain pines drifting through the narrow windows felt like an unwelcome intruder.

Constantine stood at the head of the table, his presence a study in contrasts. Here was a despot who wore power not as a gaudy mantle but like chainmail beneath his skin; each word and gesture was deliberate, almost surgical. He surveyed the room with the detached focus of a hunter on the trail of prey. A brass marker spun idly between his fingers, gliding over the worn surface of a map. The idle motion belied the tension in his voice.

“The numbers are clear,” Constantine said, his tone measured, almost conspiratorial. “Mystras is no longer a jewel in someone else’s diadem. It is a forge—wealth, strength, security. All of it must be smelted here.”

Across the table, a cleric, his eyes shrouded by the shadows of his hood, cleared his throat. “Your Grace, wealth is no shield against heresy or rebellion. Already, there are whispers among the Albanians to the northeast of Mystras. They resent the weight of your rule, as they resented Theodore’s. If you tighten the noose too quickly, they will break the rope.”

Constantine’s eyes flicked toward the cleric, sharp and sudden. “No, they won’t,” he said quietly, the words landing like the tip of a dagger. “They’ll learn to breathe more efficiently.”

The cleric leaned back, unnerved by Constantine’s calm authority. Before he could muster a reply, George Sphrantzes, seated to Constantine’s right, spoke up.

“His Grace is correct,” Sphrantzes said, folding his hands neatly on the table. His voice carried the tone of a trusted operator who had navigated too many crises to suffer amateurs. “We need order, and order begins with stability. Taxes will flow not by force but by making Mystras indispensable to every village and manor within a hundred leagues. Trade, justice, roads—let them see these not as gifts, but investments.”

“Investments,” muttered the noble to Constantine’s left, a wiry, sharp-featured man with a hawk’s nose and a Venetian-tinged accent. “We are not merchants, Lord Sphrantzes. Taxes don’t build loyalty; bread and blood do. Let them feel your steel, Your Grace. The rest will fall in line.”

Constantine’s smile was slow, humorless, and brief. “Bread and blood,” he repeated, tasting the words as if sampling a wine he did not trust. He spun the brass marker once more before pinning it down on the map. “I have no interest in spilling blood without necessity nor in handing out bread to those who’ve burnt their ovens.”

The hawk-nosed man stiffened, but Constantine pressed on. “This is not Theodore’s Mystras. We are not beggars clutching relics. If we are to endure—no, if we are to prevail—we must think not like a dying empire, but like an empire yet to be born. Roads will be paved; ports will hum with trade. The people will not rebel against a Despot who feeds them while giving them the tools to till their soil and the arms to defend it. That is how you build a foundation.”

The room fell silent save for the scratch of quills jotting down his words.

Constantine took a slow breath, letting his gaze sweep over the councilors. The flickering lamplight turned them into specters—watchful and waiting. It was a dangerous room filled with men who knew too much and trusted too little.

But Constantine knew how to wield that. They needed his ambition, even as it unsettled them. That was a contrast with his first council meeting in Glarentza a few years ago when he was clearly clueless in those types of affairs, fumbling through debates and struggling to assert his authority. Now, he commanded the room with a presence that demanded respect and left little room for doubt.

“Every man at this table has a role to play,” Constantine continued, his voice softening but losing none of its edge. “Some of you will prepare for recruitment. Others will gather the artisans and merchants. And the clergy will do what they do best—remind the people that the Lord rewards order and punishes chaos. None of this is negotiable.”

The hawk-nosed noble began to speak, but Constantine raised a hand. “Let me be clear. This council is not a debating society. You are here to ensure the survival of Mystras—and of Byzantium itself. If that is beyond your ambition, I suggest you leave now and find comfort in irrelevance.”

No one moved. The nobleman closed his mouth, his lips pressing into a thin, reluctant line.

Constantine nodded, satisfied. “Then let us begin.”

The council chamber emptied slowly, its occupants trailing out like conspirators unwilling to leave the scene of their plotting. Constantine remained seated at the head of the table, fingers drumming lightly against the oak. The air was cooler now, the lamps burning lower, throwing longer shadows into the room. George Sphrantzes lingered by the doorway, his discerning eyes following the last of the nobles before he slipped back inside and shut the heavy door behind him.

“You didn’t mince words,” George said, folding his arms as he leaned against the wall. “I half-expected one of them to storm out—hawk-nose in particular.”

Constantine allowed himself a wry smile. “If they stormed out, they wouldn’t have returned. And they will return, George. Men like them thrive in proximity to power—they just need to be reminded who wields it.”

George nodded, stepping closer to the table and sliding into a seat beside Constantine. He reached into his robe and withdrew a leather-bound ledger, its corners softened by use. “Speaking of power,” he said, placing it on the table, “you’ll want to see this.”

Constantine arched a brow, leaning forward. “What is it now? More problems with taxes?”

“No, not quite,” George replied, flipping the ledger open with practiced precision. The pages were filled with neat columns of writing, interspersed with notes in the margins. “It’s about Mystras—and what it can give us.”

He pointed to a figure halfway down the page. “Despite Theodore’s mismanagement—the fact that he left the coffers nearly empty—we can still expect an annual income of ten to fifteen thousand ducats from the region.”

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Constantine sat back, crossing his arms. “From taxation alone?”

George nodded. “Primarily. Taxes on agricultural output, Monemvasia’s trade tariffs, and a few other sources. And that doesn’t include the potential if we expand trade further. With proper management, this region could bolster your ambitions.”

“And the people?” Constantine asked, his tone edged with caution. “Doubling my territory means doubling my responsibilities. Not all of them will be thrilled by the change in leadership.”

“True enough,” George said. “The Albanians in the northeast are particularly restless. They’ve never been fond of Byzantine rule, and Theodore’s heavy-handed approach left scars. If we’re not careful, they’ll rebel outright.”

Constantine’s gaze sharpened. “Then we must show them what competent rule looks like—swift justice, fair taxes, and a reason to believe rebellion isn’t worth the cost.”

George turned the page, revealing a map of the Morea marked with annotations. “If I may, Despot, this region is an opportunity. The additional grain, wine, and olives now under your control could stabilize the supply chain for the entire Morea and especially Glarentza. And with the revenues from the new book sales and deals, we’re in a position to invest.”

Constantine’s expression softened slightly as he absorbed the possibilities. “Invest… Yes, but we also need to expand the army significantly. We need at least 3,000 new men to bolster the tagmata—trained, disciplined soldiers, not the rabble we’ve had to scrape together before.”

George nodded, already making mental notes. “Glarentza and the Hexamilion will need to house and train them. You’ll want a recruitment campaign that doesn’t strain the villages too much.”

“Take what time you need,” Constantine said, his voice steady. “But make no mistake, George—we’re building an army not just to defend but to project power. Sforza’s contract won’t last forever, and I won’t rely on mercenaries to safeguard Byzantium’s future.”

George hesitated for a moment. “Speaking of projecting power… The Emperor will have questions about Athens. He may want to redistribute its governance—or worse, appoint another despot in the region.”

“The Emperor will see reason,” Constantine said, though the edge in his voice suggested he had doubts. “My brother is pragmatic. He knows what happens if we lose Athens again—it becomes a staging ground for the Ottomans. We’re not holding it for glory, George; we’re holding it because we must.”

George allowed himself a faint smile, though his eyes remained cautious. “And yet, there will be whispers in Constantinople. Some may suggest a new despot be appointed, someone who can ‘dedicate themselves fully’ to Athens. Perhaps one of your brothers...”

Constantine’s jaw tightened. “The last thing we need is a court-appointed fool playing politics in a city that could determine our survival. Athens is vulnerable—its walls are crumbling, its people uncertain. Antonio Acciaioli’s reign left scars. If the Emperor demands I relinquish control, I’ll remind him of the realities we face. Murad could march south at any moment, and when he does, we’ll need Athens fortified, not squabbling under some puppet despot.”

George nodded, his gaze steady. “You know how delicate this is, though. John may not openly oppose you, but others will see an opportunity. Your success here has shifted power, and not everyone is pleased.”

“Let them be displeased,” Constantine said, his voice hardening. “I’ll deal with their schemes when they come. For now, I’m focusing on making Athens defensible. Strengthen its walls, bolster its garrison, and integrate its resources into our system. If John wants a despot in Athens, he’ll have to admit that no one can hold it better than I can—not while Murad still breathes.”

George’s expression softened slightly, his diplomatic instincts stirring. “The Emperor values loyalty, Constantine. Present this as you say—a necessity rather than a conquest—and he’ll understand. But remember: even pragmatism has its limits.”

Constantine leaned back in his chair, exhaling slowly. “It’s not just about the Emperor, George. It’s the city itself. Athens is more than a prize or a liability—it’s a symbol. For centuries, it has been a beacon of Byzantine culture, even under Latin rule. Now it’s back in Byzantine hands, and the people expect something from us.”

“Ieros Skopos,” George said quietly. “A promise that we can still protect what remains of this empire.”

“Exactly.” Constantine’s gaze sharpened. “And that starts with proving we mean to hold it. The people of Athens need to see soldiers in the streets, workers rebuilding the walls, and merchants returning to the ports. They need to believe that Byzantium is not just surviving—it’s reclaiming.”

George offered a faint, approving smile as Constantine paused to study the map. Before he could speak, Constantine’s voice cut through the quiet air with measured weight.

“By the way, there’s something you should know, George,” Constantine said. “Word reached me when I was in Thebes of unrest in Albania. Local lords defy Ottoman rule, stirring against Murad’s authority. It’s not the first time, and it won’t be the last.”

George arched a brow, his expression keen. “Albania? Unexpected but useful. An opportunity or a distraction?”

“It could be both,” Constantine replied, tracing a line northward on the map. “But I’ve already taken the first step. I dispatched a mission shortly after I heard the news—quietly, as it must be. Their orders are simple: assess the strength of these rebels, understand their grievances, and see if they can be persuaded to align with us.”

George tapped his fingers on the table, thoughtful. “A calculated move, Despot. What promises have we made to these would-be allies?”

“None,” Constantine said firmly, meeting George’s gaze. “And we won’t, until we know exactly what we’re dealing with. I won’t risk overextending our position for a rebellion that could crumble at the first sign of Ottoman retaliation.”

George nodded, his admiration evident. “Prudent, as always. Still, a delicate play. If it draws Murad’s attention, it might buy us time to strengthen our defenses here.”

“Exactly,” Constantine said. “If they fail, we lose nothing. But if they rise, if they bleed the Ottomans and keep them occupied in the north, it could shift the balance in ways Murad won't expect.”

George’s faint smile returned. “You think further ahead than most.”

Constantine allowed himself a brief smile, though his gaze remained fixed on the map. “One must, George. If we’re to survive what’s coming, we have to stay three steps ahead—or risk being swept away like so many before us.”

“Understood,” George said, closing the ledger. “One more thing—your Tachis Ippos. It’s an ambitious plan that will cost us a significant amount of gold.”

“It’s necessary,” Constantine replied. “Eight stations from Glarentza to Mystras, and ten more to the Hexamilion. Riders will carry messages faster than ever. Communication is the foundation of any strong state, and it’s time we built ours.”

George’s admiration was clear, though tempered with pragmatism. “You do think ahead, Despot. Far ahead.”

Constantine’s lips curved in a faint smile that did not reach his eyes. “Not far enough, George. Not yet.”

As George rose, collecting his notes and maps, Constantine’s gaze lingered on the spread of ink and parchment before him. He barely noticed the quiet click of the door as George left, his thoughts drifting beyond the flickering lamplight.

The Tachis Ippos. He turned the name over in his mind. He couldn’t help recalling the tales of the Pony Express—those daring riders of the Wild West who braved hostile terrain and relentless danger to carry messages across vast plains. It had all seemed romantic in another life: a story of grit and speed from a future that now felt so distant. Yet here he was, building his own version of that system, etched into the roads and hills of the Morea.

But this wasn’t a grand adventure for restless riders. This was survival—Byzantium’s survival. If messages could move faster than armies, if orders arrived by galloping horse rather than lumbering caravan, it could mean the difference between holding the Hexamilion and watching it crumble again. Every station, every rider, every mile of this Tachis Ippos would be another thread woven into the web of a stronger, more connected empire.

The lamps burned low, their light casting lean, restless shadows across the map. Constantine traced the roads he envisioned—the arteries of his empire, pulsing with life and purpose. His lips formed a thin line, his mind racing through strategies that combined the lessons of his modern sensibilities with the brutal realities of this ancient world.

Beyond the chamber’s walls, the city of Mystras slept. But there was no rest for Constantine. Not yet.