NOVEL WEB Chapter Six: The Seed of Ambition
Clermont Castle, Late October 1428
The sea breeze from the Ionian Sea wafted through the open windows of my tower chamber, carrying the crisp scent of salt and the distant murmur of waves. Seated at the highest point of Clermont Castle, I gazed out over the sun-splashed waters, cradling a cup of bitter herbal brew in my hands. The taste was unfamiliar, but its warmth grounded me—a small comfort in a world that still felt foreign.
Two weeks. It had been two weeks since I awoke in this world, in this body: Constantine Palaiologos, Despot of Morea.
The initial shock had mostly subsided, replaced by a restless energy. Ideas coursed through me—ideas born from a future I remembered vividly but could no longer access. The knowledge I possessed was potent enough to alter the fate of empires. The question that weighed on me now was how to wield it wisely.
Leaning back, I allowed my thoughts to drift. Visions of maps, trade routes, and innovations from the modern world flashed through my mind—gunpowder, factories, printing presses. *Columbus hadn’t even been born yet*, I reminded myself. What if I could lead the charge in discovering new lands, meeting the Aztecs and Incas decades ahead of time? The thought tempted me, tantalized my imagination.
But reality has a way of tempering dreams. Discovery and expansion were long-term goals. Right now, survival was paramount. The Ottomans were closing in, and Constantinople’s days were numbered. My thoughts returned to the present danger. I had knowledge of advanced weaponry—firearms that could turn the tide of battle—but how does one recreate muskets and cannons without modern machinery?
A soft knock at the door pulled me from my reverie. George Sphrantzes, entered with the quiet confidence I’d come to rely on over these past weeks.
“Good morning, my Despot,” he said, offering a slight bow.
“Good morning, George,” I replied, gesturing for him to sit. “We have much to discuss.”
He took a seat opposite me, his sharp eyes studying my face. He had no doubt sensed the shift in me over the past few days. Two weeks ago, I was adrift; now, a plan —still nascent—was taking shape.
“I’ve reached a decision,” I began, setting my cup aside. “In the last two weeks, I’ve been reflecting on what must be done to safeguard the whole of Morea—and possibly more.”
His eyebrows rose slightly, but he remained silent, waiting for me to elaborate.
“You’ve noticed my renewed interest in technology, agriculture, and trade. I believe these are the keys to strengthening our land. If we act swiftly and wisely, we can restore prosperity to the region, but we must be bold in our approach. The Ottomans won’t wait for us to catch up.”
George nodded thoughtfully. “And how do you propose we achieve this, my Despot?”
I leaned forward, feeling a surge of excitement. “We start by focusing on what we have—our resources, our strategic location. There are methods and strategies that haven’t been tried before. With the right investments and careful planning, we can make Morea into something much greater than it is now.”
His eyes narrowed slightly, not in suspicion, but in thought. “You speak of innovations,” he said slowly. “New ideas. But how can we be certain they will work?”
A slight smile tugged at my lips. He had no idea the true source of my knowledge, and that was probably for the best. “Small steps, George. We’ll start with what we know, what’s within our grasp, and then build from there.”
George paused, his gaze thoughtful. "Step by step," he murmured, as if testing the idea. "A prudent course, my lord."
A subtle sense of relief eased the tension in my shoulders. His agreement, though cautious, was a vital first step.
"Very well," I replied, rising from my seat. "We have much work ahead. Funds must be secured, craftsmen summoned, materials gathered." I met his eyes. "We shall commence without delay."
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Foundations of a Plan
The chamber felt emptier after George departed, the silence amplifying the weight of the decisions ahead. The faint smell of burning olive oil from the lanterns lingered in the air as I paced by the window, my mind racing. Anxiety twisted in my gut, the unease that always comes before embarking on something monumental.
If my vision was to succeed, I needed funds— a significant amount of gold to finance the first steps. I returned to my desk and unrolled a fresh sheet of parchment, dipping my quill into ink. I began drafting a letter addressed to Constantinople.
“Dear Mother,” I wrote, the words flowing more easily now. “I have made a decision to sell my holdings in Selymbria.”
The admission stung. Selymbria, once a prosperous town on the Sea of Marmara, had been a valuable asset for years. Its fertile lands and strategic position were a point of pride, even in the face of Ottoman raids. But now, sentiment had to take a backseat to practicality. Selling the land would provide the funds I needed to turn my ambitions for Morea into reality. I sealed the letter and placed it atop a stack of documents for George.
When he returned from Constantinople, I would have the resources to begin in earnest.
George had been right to question the scope of my plans. But I had clarity now: Clarentza, Elis, would become a hub of industry—factories, trade, and innovation. The small cotton fields of Messinia would serve as the foundation for producing paper for my printing presses. I believed I could attempt to recreate a rudimentary movable type printing press, though the challenges were immense. Without precision tools or refined metals, the mechanics would be crude at best. I would need to find skilled craftsmen willing to experiment, to push the boundaries of their traditional methods. It wouldn't be easy, and failure was almost certain at first. But perhaps, starting small we could gradually innovate.
I recalled how we analyzed, during my university days, the revolutionary impact of Johannes Gutenberg’s invention, which transformed society by facilitating mass communication and literacy, allowing ideas to spread rapidly and widely. My background in silk printing provided me with practical knowledge of materials and techniques, enhancing my ability to innovate. I realized that I was on the brink of altering the course of history myself—by adapting and improving upon the printing press, I could leave a lasting mark on my era. This system would not only make information accessible to the populace but also empower them—a concept entirely novel for this time. The thought of introducing such an innovation thrilled me; it was a way to elevate the collective consciousness of the whole world.
Meanwhile, just yesterday, I was surprised to see a Venetian mercenary at the port of Clarentza, accompanied by a trader, selling a primitive hand culverin. I hadn’t realised such weapons were already emerging! From what I had learned and Constantine memories, even cannons were still in their infancy, primarily used for sieges by both Western Kings and the Ottomans. It cost me a small fortune to acquire the hand culverin, but I couldn’t let the opportunity slip away. I planned to study its design, hopefully improve upon it, and ultimately create an arsenal capable of defending this land against the looming Ottoman threat.
Footsteps approached, and the door creaked open. George entered, his expression serious but expectant.
“My Despot,” he began, offering a slight bow, “all is prepared for my journey to Constantinople.”
I handed him the sealed letter and a detailed list of supplies. “Recruit skilled men—blacksmiths, craftsmen, scribes, anyone who can help us build what we need. We’ll require materials as well. There are innovations I plan to introduce.”
George glanced over the list, his brow furrowing slightly. “You’re planning something beyond immediate defense, aren’t you?”
I met his gaze steadily. “Yes. But it’s all connected. By building up our infrastructure , we can finance and equip a more formidable army. We need to think beyond mere survival. We must build for the future.”
George pressed his lips together, clearly weighing the implications. Finally, he nodded. “As you command, my Despot. I will return with what you need.”
“Safe travels, my friend,” I said, my voice full of the confidence I knew I needed to project.
As George departed, a wave of determination surged through me. *Clarentza*, this modest coastal town, would become the heart of my grand vision. Factories would rise, and the town would become a center of trade and wealth. The seed had been planted, and now the real work would begin.