EMPIRE REWRITTEN

Chapter 39: Quills, Gold, and Power

The sea breeze carried a subtle tang of sun-warmed earth as the galley's oars dipped and rose, guiding Constantine's fleet into the port of Ostia. The harbor, though modest compared to Naples, pulsed with its own life: bare-chested dockworkers shouted instructions over the creak of timber gangplanks, and foreign merchants—Genoese, Venetians, and the occasional Moor—bickered in a dozen tongues. The scent of brine mingled with whiffs of exotic spices and the pungent sweat of horses, creating a heady perfume that made Constantine's head swim. He took a deep breath, filling his lungs with this ancient air.

"Rome," he whispered as the sailors tethered the ship and placed a broad plank onto the worn stone quay. It was exhilarating to speak that name and know he stood in the fifteenth century. He knew this city from his vacations, high-definition images, and well-thumbed guidebooks. He had strolled its streets once as a comfortable tourist, marveling at the Renaissance grandeur of St. Peter's Basilica, craning his neck at the painted glories of the Sistine Chapel, and sipping espresso in tiny cafés wedged between centuries-old structures. But that Rome—the Rome of the future—did not exist here. There would be no Baroque fountains splashing under electric lights, no cafés fragrant with dark-roasted coffee beans. Instead, this was a Rome on the cusp of transformation: one foot in the medieval world, the other edging toward the Renaissance.

The journey from Ostia to Rome passed quickly, the dusty road lined with olive groves and the occasional crumbling aqueduct—a haunting reminder of the city's ancient past. As they entered Rome's gates, Constantine's party was greeted by Bessarion, his confidant.

"Despot," Bessarion said warmly, bowing deeply. He had been in Rome for several months and had clearly adapted well. His eyes sparkled with excitement. "Welcome to the Eternal City. I trust your journey was smooth?"

"It was," Constantine replied, clasping Bessarion's arm in a rare show of familiarity. "How have you found Rome?"

"Fascinating," Bessarion said, voice brimming with enthusiasm. "The Pope and the local clergy are deeply impressed by our books, especially the Bibles. They marvel at the clarity of the script and the quality of the binding. Your work has made quite an impression." He lowered his voice slightly. "Your victory against the Ottomans has made you the talk of the town."

Constantine raised an eyebrow. "I suppose that explains the flood of invitations I've been receiving."

Bessarion grinned. "Indeed, my Despot. The city's most esteemed cardinals and nobles are eager to host you. Their tables groan with wine and delicacies, yet their conversations always circle back to two things: the books and the union of our churches."

Constantine chuckled softly. "And these books of ours—have they made themselves comfortable in such esteemed company?"

Bessarion's grin widened. "More than two hundred copies sold already, some for as much as twenty gold florins apiece. By my reckoning, that's over three thousand florins in total." His expression grew thoughtful. "There's more, Despot. The local nobility and priesthood are increasingly drawn to ancient Greek philosophy—Plato, Aristotle, and the works of the ancients. There's a hunger for knowledge that mirrors our aspirations for unity and cultural revival."

Constantine leaned forward, a playful smirk on his lips. "It seems you've not only become a successful book salesman, Bessarion, but also an ambassador of philosophy."

Bessarion laughed, a rich and hearty sound. "Who would have thought? A monk turned merchant, and now, it seems, a purveyor of wisdom—and, I daresay, a rather prosperous one."

A few days later, Constantine was summoned to the Apostolic Palace for an audience with Pope Eugene IV. The Pontiff had recently returned from the Council of Basel.