Constantine reined in his horse at the crest of a gentle rise, the late October sun casting long shadows from the ancient walls of Rome ahead. The city sprawled beyond in a patchwork of ochre roofs and spires, pierced by the proud silhouettes of bell towers and the dome of a venerable basilica. At the base of the slope, just outside the city gate, a small welcome party awaited. At its head stood Bessarion, his trusted agent in Rome, clad in a modest but well-cut robe of deep indigo. Even from a distance, Constantine recognized his slight, scholarly frame and the distinctive way he held himself, erect and composed, like a man used to balancing worlds on his shoulders. As Constantine guided his horse forward, the scrape of iron-shod hooves on stone announced his approach.
Bessarion stepped out from the group, a warm smile breaking across his bearded face despite the measured formality of a quick bow. "Your Majesty," Bessarion greeted, voice low and earnest as Constantine dismounted. The Emperor's boots hit the road with a thud; he adjusted to solid ground, feeling the mild ache in his knees from weeks of travel.
"It gladdens me to see you, Bessarion," Constantine said quietly, a genuine smile touching his lips beneath the road dust. "And in one piece, no less, Rome hasn't devoured you yet." Bessarion's dark eyes sparkled with restrained mirth. "Not for lack of trying," he replied wryly. He released Constantine's arm and stepped back, regaining a polite distance as a couple of Constantine's guards came forward to tend the horses. "Your journey, was it tolerable? We received word of your stops in Corfu and Naples. I trust all went smoothly?" Constantine nodded, casting a glance at the ancient Porta Appia looming behind Bessarion. The gate's stones were pitted with age, ivy curling through cracks like living veins. "As well as one could hope. Fair winds to Corfu, and an uneventful voyage onward." He paused, recalling the stiff formality of the Neapolitans, the courteous but cautious reception by Queen Joanna's courtiers. A faint smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. "Naples was… cordial. They send their regards, though I suspect they were more interested in our books and coins than our company." Bessarion huffed a quiet laugh and gestured to a covered carriage waiting by the roadside. "Rome will be no less mercenary, I fear. Come, I've prepared quarters at my palazzo."
"Much has changed since you were last here, I imagine," Bessarion said, breaking the silence. He watched Constantine with a keen sideways glance, as if reading his thoughts in the shifting light that filtered through the carriage slats.
Constantine chuckled softly, leaning back against the worn seat of the carriage. "Oh, indeed, more than you could possibly imagine. I've gathered many stories to share with you, my friend," he said, casting Bessarion an amused glance. "Though, from what I've seen so far, Rome itself seems untouched by time. I suspect the Eternal City has little use for change."
As if on cue, a squad of soldiers clattered by the carriage in the opposite direction, their boots striking the stones in disciplined unison. Constantine let the curtain drop slightly to observe. These were not civic guards; their polished breastplates bore a stylized lion emblem he did not immediately recognize, mercenaries, by the look of their hardened faces. The men's eyes were fixed forward, their posture rigid, but there was tension in their stride as if they expected trouble at any moment. Bessarion noticed Constantine's gaze and sighed. "Sforza's men," he murmured, keeping his voice low despite the carriage's rumble. "They arrived few days ago to reinforce the garrison. The city watch is none too pleased to have them." Constantine frowned, recalling what he knew of Francesco Sforza. "Already here in the city? Then the rumors are true. The Pope has retained Sforza's services once more." Bessarion folded his hands in his lap, fingers worrying slightly at one another. "Yes. As of a fortnight ago. Eugene has formally re-hired Sforza to lead the Papal armies. Word travels fast, Visconti in Milan is undoubtedly fuming. Those soldiers you see are just a vanguard. More arrived with Sforza himself; he's to be received at the Lateran any day now." Constantine absorbed that in silence for a moment.
The carriage had turned onto a wider street; they passed a grand basilica fronted by a colonnade, Santa Maria Maggiore, its white façade glowing in the sun. Pilgrims knelt on its steps, and a knot of clerics conversed at the gate. Constantine's eye caught a piece of parchment plastered to a nearby wall, fluttering in the breeze. It bore bold Latin script, of which he could only make out a fragment as they rolled past: "…excommunication of… who aid the traitor…" The rest blurred away, but his jaw tightened regardless. There was an undercurrent of conflict here, seeping into public notice. Bessarion continued softly, "It's a delicate moment. The Pope's condottieri were paid off and sent away not a year past; now he welcomes them back. Some in the Curia counsel caution, Francesco Sforza is not a man to leash lightly. But Eugene finds himself with few choices. Milan's Duke threatens rebellion against Papal influence in Italy, and the Pope would rather employ the wolf than face its teeth."
Constantine let out a slow breath, the weight of his cloak pressing at his back as he leaned against the seat. "Francesco will take the Pope's coin and fight today's enemy," he said quietly. "But wolves are wolves. If Visconti dangles a richer lure tomorrow…." He didn't finish the thought; he didn't need to.
Bessarion's lips pressed into a thin line. "Indeed. There are whispers that Milan's agents are courting discontented Roman Nobles, men who remember when popes were absent and weak, and who chafe at Eugene's assertiveness. Constantine realized his hand had drifted to rest near the hilt of his sword, a habit from the field whenever uncertainty gnawed at him. Gently, he flexed his fingers and let his hand fall away from the weapon. "We'll speak more of this soon," he said, nodding to acknowledge the gravity of Bessarion's words. "In private, when we're safely indoors."
Bessarion returned the nod, understanding. The carriage picked up pace again once clear of the ox-carts. They were entering a more affluent district now; the din of the central city faded behind them. Through the window, Constantine glimpsed broader houses, tidy courtyards, and the occasional well-dressed matron strolling with an entourage of servants. The streets here were calmer, the clatter of the carriage more pronounced in the relative quiet.
At length, they turned through an open gate into the courtyard of Bessarion's palazzo. It was a handsome, modest estate by Roman standards, three stories of pale travertine stone, with arched windows trimmed in faded red paint. Ivy climbed one side of the building where a small inner garden held the soothing trickle of a fountain. As Constantine stepped out of the carriage, his boots met the flagstones with a dull scrape, and he took a moment to stretch his legs.
Bessarion's servants hurried ahead to open the heavy wooden doors of the palazzo. Inside, the air was cooler and carried a subtle scent of parchment and wax. Constantine swept off his travel cloak, suddenly aware of the sweat and dust it held. Attendants quickly approached, helping Constantine and his guards remove their travel-stained cloaks and gear. One young servant nearly buckled under the surprising heft of Constantine's heavy wool cloak. Constantine murmured his thanks and offered a quick apology, earning a sheepish grin from the boy as he staggered off to hang it. Nearby, his guards gratefully relinquished their heavy packs and helmets, quietly sighing in relief as the servants swiftly carried them away.
"This way, Majesty," Bessarion said, guiding him through a tiled entry hall where late sunlight fell in golden shafts from high windows. Their footsteps echoed against marble as they passed under a carved lintel into an intimate study lined with shelves of manuscripts and books. Constantine's eyes were drawn immediately to a familiar sight on a central table: a thick volume bound in leather, its cover stamped with the seal of the Papacy. He recognized it at once, one of the special edition Bibles from their printing presses.
Bessarion noticed his gaze and smiled. "I keep it close at hand these days," he said, leading Constantine toward the table. "An object of study, and of pride."
Constantine approached slowly. The room was dimmer than the hall, lit by a single latticed window to the west, so he ran his fingers lightly over the cover by touch.
"One among thousands now," Bessarion said softly at his side. He turned a page with reverence. "You've wrought a small miracle, Constantine. Rome is enamored of these Bibles."
Constantine glanced up to find Bessarion regarding him with genuine admiration. A flush of humility, perhaps even pride, warmed Constantine's cheeks. "The miracle was a collective effort," he replied. "And perhaps more duplicative craftsmanship than divine intervention." He allowed himself a wry smile, recalling how only a few years ago he had stood in a workshop in Glarentza dreaming of this very outcome.
Bessarion chuckled. "Craftsmanship or not, many here call it the Word of God made abundant." He moved around the table, idly straightening a scroll on a lectern. "We can scarcely keep up with demand, as I wrote to you."
He gestured for Constantine to join him at a pair of chairs near the arched window, where a cool draft wafted in, stirring the edges of scattered papers on a desk. Constantine sat, sinking gratefully into the padded seat. Bessarion poured wine from a flagon already set out. The deep red liquid swirled into two silver cups. Constantine accepted one, the metal cool against his road-worn palm.
Bessarion took the seat opposite, pausing a moment with the cup cradled between his hands. "To give you the full report: all ten thousand copies that His Holiness requested are either delivered or in transit. His Holiness has distributed them to churches, monasteries, universities, anywhere they might spread both the Holy Word and goodwill toward his reign. It's a masterstroke, really."
Constantine took a sip of the wine "So Eugene reaps the credit while we remain the quiet providers," he said, one eyebrow lifting in dry amusement. There was no bitterness; this had been the plan from the start. Still, hearing the Pope praised for work done in Constantine's own realm tickled his ironic side.
Bessarion inclined his head." Eugene is extremely pleased. You've earned considerable favor with him, more than any ruler in recent memory. And the coin…" He set his wine down and leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "The coin is flowing, Majesty. Not just to the Pope, but to us. Our local bookstore is thriving as well."
"Thank you, Bessarion. Your stewardship here has been… invaluable."Constantine said.
At that, Bessarion actually looked away for a moment, a faint color rising in his cheeks. He lifted his cup to take a modest sip, masking his pleasure at the praise. "I merely oversee what you set in motion, Majesty. But I won't deny, it gladdens me to see monks and merchants alike clamoring for books. If you'll forgive a touch of pride, as a scholar, it warms my heart." He smiled more openly now, an ease coming over him. In that smile, Constantine saw a glimpse of the enthusiastic young monk he'd recruited years ago, before politics and intrigue had weighed on him.
They drank in companionable silence for a few moments. From somewhere deeper in the house came the muffled clink of pottery and a distant voice humming a hymn, servants preparing the evening meal, most likely. It was a comforting domestic sound that contrasted with the high matters of their discussion. Constantine let his shoulders relax, setting his cup down on the broad wooden arm of his chair.
"A profitable enterprise, then," he summed up lightly, watching motes of dust dance in a sunbeam that had crept across the floorboards. "Not just in coin, but in influence. If our Bibles carry the Pope's name and goodwill to every corner of Europe, that's a soft power worth more than a battalion or two." He ran a hand over his beard thoughtfully. "It may help when the time comes to rally support against the Ottomans. People are more inclined to heed a call from a Pope who's given them the word of God in hand."
Bessarion nodded, though the brightness in his expression dimmed at the mention of the Ottomans. "One would hope. Nothing rallies Europe like fear of the infidel, and your victories have stirred that fear as much as hope." He sighed, placing his cup aside. "We may need that unity sooner rather than later, if Italy fractures over this Sforza business."
Constantine's mouth curved downward. He set his own wine aside, the taste suddenly gone sour in his mouth at the reminder. "Let's speak plainly about that now. You've painted a worrisome picture on our ride. Fill in the rest for me."
Bessarion rose, an undercurrent of agitation evident as he walked a few paces to the open window. Constantine could see only his back now, the slight hunch of shoulders under the scholar's robe, one hand gripping the stone sill. The sun outside was lower, burnishing the sky with hues of copper and violet.
"You know the broad strokes," Bessarion said. "Sforza is rehired. Milan is livid. To be more specific: Visconti has recalled his ambassadors from Rome in protest. He's reportedly massing troops near the Po, ostensibly for 'defense.' Florence and Venice quietly support the Pope's move, since they fear Visconti's expansions. We're likely not on the brink of war so much as caught in a delicate balance of power. After the last few years of conflict, no one seems particularly eager to start the next round." His voice was even, but there was tension in it, like a lute string pulled too tight.
Constantine stood as well, drawn by both the information and the tension in his friend's posture. He joined Bessarion at the window. Outside, the sun dipped behind a rooftop, and shadows stretched long across the courtyard. In the fading light, two servants crossed below carrying baskets of kindling. Such a peaceful domestic scene, belying the storm gathering beyond. Constantine braced his hands on the sill; the stone felt warm from the day's heat, solid under his fingers.
"If war erupts between the Pope and Milan, it could affect us dearly," he said anxiously.
Bessarion glanced at him, then back out into the twilight street where a lone rider trotted by, hooves clacking. "Indeed. That could mean delays, or even distractions, in any new crusade he's contemplating to aid you."
Constantine grimaced. Pope Eugene had promised much in his exuberant letters after Domokos and Hexamilion were won. Men, money, a grand alliance against the Ottomans. But if he became mired in an Italian war… "He gave me his word," Constantine said, unable to keep a blade of bitterness from cutting into his tone. The memory of Eugene's florid praises and assurances still lingered in his mind. "Will those fine words wither on the vine?"
Bessarion turned to face him, leaning back against the window frame. The dusk outlined his profile in gray. "The Pope has played his hand rather well," he said thoughtfully. "He's rehired Sforza and secured a formidable mercenary force. Just a couple of months ago, he crowned Sigismund, and with the Emperor's backing, he's managed to strike a balance, at least for now, with the Council of Basel. That, combined with the steady stream of gold from the book sales, has strengthened his position considerably."
Constantine nodded slowly. "That does sound… somewhat reassuring," he said, a hint of cautious optimism in his voice.
Outside, a bell began tolling the hour from a nearby church, rich and sonorous in the evening air. The sound reminded Constantine how far he was from home, yet this city also held allies and refuge. He stepped back from the window. "Let's sit. There's more on your mind, isn't there?" He had caught something in Bessarion's eyes, an unspoken weight beyond Sforza and printed books.
Bessarion lingered at the window for a heartbeat, then followed Constantine back to the table. The sunbeam that had lit the room was gone, leaving the study in a gentle gloom. Shadows pooled in the corners, and the gilded titles on book spines were dim. Bessarion picked up a taper from the sideboard and lit it from a smoldering coal in a small brazier. The flame flared, and he carried the new candle to set it between them on the table, its warm glow carving islands of light on their faces.
Constantine watched the candlelight dance in Bessarion's eyes. Clearly, there was something more. He waited, giving his friend the space to broach it.
After a long moment, Bessarion drew a breath. "Majesty, I have always been forthright with you. In that spirit, I must share news that… may affect our work, and our relationship as well."
Constantine felt a small chill, despite the mild evening. He set his hands on the table, bracing himself. "Go on," he said softly.
Bessarion looked down at his hands, turning the silver cup slowly in place. "Just a few days ago, I was summoned to a private audience with His Holiness." He managed a faint smile. "He wanted to personally express his gratitude for my, how did he phrase it?, 'invaluable service to the Church and Christendom.'" Bessarion gave a self-conscious huff. "I suspect he meant my coordination of the Bible project, among other counsel I've given regarding relations with our empire."
Constantine nodded slowly, not wanting to interrupt. A sense of anticipation coiled within him. He had an inkling of where this might lead, but he let Bessarion speak it.
Bessarion continued, voice steady but betraying a hint of emotion, "He was in a generous mood. Very gracious. And then… Pope Eugene made me a proposition. He asked if I would do him the honor of accepting elevation to the College of Cardinals."
For an instant, the quiet crackle of the candle was the only sound. Constantine's mind blanked; then a surge of surprise and elation, and wariness, rushed in. He sat up straighter, scarcely able to contain his reaction. "He wants to make you a cardinal?" he said, as if testing the words. Despite his effort at composure, astonishment colored his voice.
Bessarion nodded, a measured dip of the chin. "Yes. It would be announced at the next consistory, early in the new year. The red hat, the office of Cardinal-Deacon of the Holy Roman Church… all of it." He lifted his gaze to meet Constantine's, searching. "I did not give him an answer immediately. I begged a little time to pray and consider."
He paused, then added quietly, " I wanted to speak with you first, to hear your thoughts before I gave him my answer."
Constantine realized he had risen slightly from his chair in surprise. He settled back, a broad grin breaking over his face. "That is extraordinary! My friend, a cardinal of Rome! How could I be anything but overjoyed for you?"
Relief visibly washed over Bessarion. He hadn't quite been holding his breath, but now he exhaled deeply and allowed himself a smile that reached his eyes. Still, he spoke with caution. "Truly? I feared you might think… that I'm being co-opted. That I'd be less yours and more the Pope's man if I accept."
Constantine kept his hold on Bessarion's arm, the candlelight illuminating both their expressions. "It will change many things, no denying that," he said gently. "But not our friendship, and not my trust in you. If anything, having one of my closest allies in the College of Cardinals is cause for reassurance, not concern."
Bessarion's posture eased. He let out a breath he might not have realized he was holding. The tension unspooled from his shoulders. "I had worried… perhaps irrationally, that you'd see it as a kind of betrayal."
Constantine gave a soft snort and released Bessarion's arm to pat it once. "Betrayal? No. You were never mine to betray, Bessarion. You have always served a cause larger than either of us, our faith, our people. You've been my ally and friend because we share that cause. That doesn't change with a new title or a different color of robe."
Bessarion's eyes shone, and he nodded gratefully. "Thank you, Majesty." His voice nearly caught on the honorific, and he corrected himself with a more personal tone. "Thank you… Constantine. Your blessing means the world to me." He sat back, visibly lighter now that the secret was spoken and well-received.
Constantine leaned back as well, a thoughtful smile on his face. In truth, his mind was already churning through the implications, but he kept his tone optimistic. "Tell me your thoughts. How will this elevation change things, from your perspective?"
Bessarion's scholar instincts seemed to kick in as he organized his thoughts aloud. "For one, I would have to step back from some of our more, ah, covert enterprises. At least openly. A cardinal conspiring in mercantile ventures or espionage would attract… unwanted scrutiny. I would need to be seen as above such things, a clergyman focused on high matters." He raised a hand as if to forestall worry, continuing, "But in exchange, I gain access and influence at the very heart of the Church. A seat in the consistory, a voice in curial councils. I could steer conversations, gently, in favor of aid to our empire, advocate for a Council of Union, push for concrete support against the Ottomans when the time is ripe." His eyes lit up with the possibilities, his words picking up speed. "Imagine, a voice in the room when they debate where to send funds or ambassadors. I could do more for our cause from within those chambers than I ever could from the outside."
Constantine nodded along, sharing in the genuine excitement radiating from Bessarion. It was hard not to. He could already envision it: Bessarion in scarlet, deftly guiding discussions among princes of the Church, planting seeds of support for a crusade, for East-West alliance. It was a heartening image. And yet… he tempered his enthusiasm with a dose of realism. "It sounds ideal. But you'll also be beholden to Eugene in a new way. I imagine he sees this as binding you, and by extension me, closer to him."
Bessarion's expression turned a touch rueful. "No doubt. It's a savvy move on his part. By making me a Prince of the Church, he not only honors and secures my loyalty, he also tightens Rome's embrace around your empire. I would stand as living proof of the Pope's goodwill towards the Greeks, evidence of reconciliation even before a formal union." He gave a half-smile. "Eugene likely thinks that having me so elevated will ensure you remain aligned with him and not, say, tempted by the Council at Basel's overtures. It's as much political as it is personal."
Constantine couldn't suppress a chuckle at the layered strategy. "In fairness, he's not wrong. It certainly makes me less inclined to ever waver in support of him. Not that I planned to, but this weaves our fortunes closer, no doubt." His face grew a bit more serious then. "There is one thing, though. You'll owe fealty to the Pope first and foremost. If ever there's a conflict between what's best for Rome and what's best for our empire… that could be a hard path to tread."
Bessarion's gaze grew solemn. "I have thought of that. I pray those interests align, indeed, I work so they will align. What is good for Christendom is good for both. Still, if I am forced to choose…" He lifted his chin, resolving aloud, "I will do my duty to God's Church as my conscience guides. But know that my heart will always seek the preservation of our heritage and people. I would not accept this red hat were I not convinced I could serve both aims: the West and the East."
Constantine reached out and clasped Bessarion's shoulder firmly. "I believe you. And I have no doubt your conscience is as true as they come. We'll manage any such conflicts if they arise, together. We've managed plenty already." He offered a reassuring smile. "Ieros skopos," he added quietly.
Bessarion met his gaze steadily, sincerity evident in his voice as he echoed, "Ieros skopos."