Clermont, May 1429
In the newly established arsenal near Clermont Castle, George Sphrantzes gathered a handpicked group of artisans and blacksmiths. The air smelled of burning charcoal, and the glow of molten metal moved on the stone walls. He had the door barred behind the last man in. Most of them had come south from Constantinople, fleeing the constant Ottoman threat, and George had recruited them one by one. Elias the bellmaker had cast for the churches of the capital until the commissions stopped coming. Others, like Markos, came from the local workshops in Glarentza, each vouched for twice over by masters George knew. Even so, three of his own men worked among the laborers, hired on as porters and charcoal-carriers, and their business was to note who each artisan met outside the walls and what was said there.
"The work we do here," George said, "is vital to our survival. The Despot himself has entrusted it to us, and with that trust comes a price." He paused. The coals ticked in the quiet. "None of you will speak of what happens here. Not to your families, not to your fellow tradesmen. What we build stays inside these walls until the Despot says otherwise."
He took a step forward. "Understand this. Any man who speaks a word of our work beyond that door will die for it. There are eyes on each of you." No one spoke. No one looked at the man beside him.
It was Nikolaos who spoke first. He set his hand on the trial barrel lying by the anvil, still rough from the mold. "This bronze is too brittle," he said. "Cast thick, it will serve for a cannon. A piece a man carries must be cast thin, and thin, it will burst."
By the end of June, the arsenal, the "Morea" Publishing Company, a new cotton-cloth workshop, and two water-driven paper mills employed over four hundred people between them. To keep the accounts and the stores in order, Michael set up an office of twenty clerks, most of them monks lent by the monasteries for their letters. One afternoon he sat over the wage ledger. Timber, copper, raw cotton, wages twice a month, and nothing yet coming back in. A loan, then. He could ask Thomas, or he could ask the Italians.
A messenger came in with a letter under the Tocco seal. Michael broke it standing. Carlo Tocco was dead. His nephew, another Carlo, held Epirus and the islands now. He set the letter down. Carlo had given Theodora her dowry and stood for her at the wedding, the closest thing to a father she had left. Now the seal on every letter from Arta would carry a different hand.
"Are you well, my Despot?" a servant asked.
"Yes, just... need a moment." He went out to the balcony. Below, a cart stood at the warehouse door while two men argued over the tally. He watched them settle it before he went to find Theodora.
He found her in the upper room, at the embroidery frame, a christening gown stretched on it, one of her women winding thread beside her. He waited while the woman gathered her spools and went out, then told her plainly: Carlo was dead, and Epirus had passed to her brother.
Theodora's needle stopped.
"Dead," she said. "He was well at Christmas. His letters said he was well."
"It was quick, by the letter."
She looked down at the cloth. "He sent me a comb of tortoiseshell from Venice when I turned twelve. I wore it until the teeth broke, and he laughed and promised me another, and I told him I would keep the old one." Her voice held to the end of it and no further. She put her hand over her mouth.
Michael went to her. She turned into him and wept, one fist closed on the front of his robe, and he held her and said nothing. The spools sat where the woman had left them.
When it passed, she drew back and pressed the heels of her hands to her eyes, one and then the other.
"Was it a good death?"
"In his bed. His confessor was with him."
"Then God rest him." She crossed herself, and her breath was still uneven. "There must be a service here. He would want it sung."
"I will speak to the bishop today."
"And I must write to my brother." She smoothed the cloth on the frame, though it did not need smoothing. Michael drew a stool beside her and sat, and the light moved along the floor before either of them spoke again.
Late July brought good news. Cotton fabrics sold at Ragusa for higher prices than expected. Around the same time, a Venetian trader named Lorenzo, visiting Glarentza, took an interest in the mills' paper and placed an order for the following year. Between that and a loan from a Genoese trader, the enterprises had enough to see them through the coming months.
By September's end, the first copies of the Latin Bible came off the presses of "Morea" Publishing. Michael hosted a gathering in the castle hall to mark it, and sent invitations to the Venetian and Genoese traders in the city. Tapestries went up along the walls, and the chandeliers were lit for the first time since the wedding. Servants carried wine and trays of small dishes among the guests. As the traders examined the Bibles laid out on the tables, their fingers traced the crisp, even pages. The books were bound in quality leather and embossed with intricate designs.
Lorenzo turned through the pages slowly, then held two of them open side by side, comparing. "Every page is identical," he said.
Michael approached with a welcoming smile. "We have developed a new method, printing," he explained. "It allows us to produce books with unprecedented consistency and efficiency."
Nearby, a Genoese trader, Marco, joined them, a Bible cradled in his hands. "The size of these volumes is remarkable," he said, running his fingers over the cover.
Michael nodded. "A smaller, more affordable Bible means that more people can own one."
Marco looked up from the Bible. "I would be interested in securing several copies for my patrons, Despot, if the price is right."
Within a month, all sixty copies were sold at thirty gold ducats each, a welcome influx of funds. The traders departed, remarking on the compact format of the books, so different from the oversized, handcrafted volumes they were used to.
Meanwhile, the arsenal worked on prototypes of muskets and cannon. Crafting a functional musket proved far more difficult than the cannon. Every part, the touch hole, the barrel wall, had to hold to a tolerance the local smiths had never been asked for before.
In the foundry, George Sphrantzes stood with Elias and the blacksmith Nikolaos, examining a prototype musket laid out on a workbench cluttered with tools and metal shavings. Elias shook his head. "The touch hole is misaligned, and the barrel will not hold the pressure of the powder," he said. "As it stands, this will do more harm to the man who fires it than to the enemy."
"Even if we solve all these issues," Nikolaos said, "the time and resources required to produce each piece are prohibitive. We would need an army of artisans and blacksmiths."
George rubbed his chin. "Perhaps our efforts are better spent elsewhere. What progress with the cannons?"
Elias's face brightened. "The casting we adapted from the bells serves the cannon far better. The latest mold is ready for testing."
George nodded. "Very well. Let us proceed with caution. We cannot afford more losses."
After two failed castings, and two workers dead in the testing, the first bronze cannon came out of the mold whole. They named it Drakos.
On the day of the firing, Michael rode down with George to a fallow field outside Clermont. The cannon stood on its two-wheeled cart at the near end, and at four hundred paces the crew had raised a target frame of planks, about the width of a cart. Beside the gun was an earth berm, waist-high, the spade marks still fresh in it.
George brought Michael to a spot well off to the side and stood between him and the gun. "We have taken every precaution, my Despot. The cannon has been tested thoroughly."
"Then proceed. I have been eager for this day."
The crew loaded the nine-pounder with powder and shot and tamped it down. The gunner laid his match to the touch hole, and everyone stepped back. Drakos fired with a crack that rolled off the hills. The carriage leapt, smoke drifted back over the crew, and downfield the ball struck the target square. Cheers went up from the workers. George turned to Michael, smiling. Michael had not seen him smile since the work began.
"A formidable weapon," George said.
"Indeed. How quickly can they load and fire again?"
"A few minutes between shots, with this crew," George said. "But after three or four rounds the bronze holds too much heat. She must stand and cool, or the charge will take fire from the metal itself."
Michael walked to the gun and set his palm on the breech. The metal was warm through already. "See to it that our men are well-trained in its use. By spring I want crews who can serve her in the dark."
"Then I will need more powder for the training as well as the war, my Despot."
The influx of economic activity did not go unnoticed. People began to arrive in Glarentza and Andravida from the surrounding regions, drawn by the promise of steady work. The once-quiet streets now saw a constant flow of carts and foot traffic as merchants, laborers, and craftsmen mingled. Even from the prosperous city of Patras, families made their way south, resettling on the outskirts of Glarentza. Over a hundred households now stood where fields had once been empty.
Among the first was a tanner who came down with his wife, three sons, and the tools of his trade on a single mule; by autumn his pits were dug and lined on the east field, downwind of the houses. Simple homes and modest workshops began to appear, and the sound of hammering carried through the day. Farmers found new buyers for their produce as the demand for grain, wool, and timber grew with each passing week.
New workshops and small markets emerged, catering to the growing population. Children ran through the narrow alleyways, and the smell of fresh bread and roasted meat drifted from the makeshift stalls. Where once there had been despair, now there was work to be done, and for many, that was enough.
From the balcony of his castle, Michael watched the activity below. The foundations were laid, but the road ahead remained long. He watched the smoke rise over the new rooftops a while longer, then went back inside to the ledger.