On the Road to Glarentza
Hooves beat a steady measure along the road to Glarentza, between rolling hills and olive groves. George Gemistos Plethon and his young protégé, Bessarion, rode side by side on sturdy horses, accompanied by a small entourage of servants and guards.
"Master," Bessarion began, "the Emperor's enthusiasm for Despot Constantine's books intrigues me. Do you think they will truly aid in unifying the Orthodox and Catholic Churches?"
Plethon stroked his long white beard. "The Emperor believes it could be instrumental in our efforts toward unification with the Catholics; we might bridge the chasm that has divided us for so long. Constantine's production of Latin Bibles is a bold step in that direction."
Bessarion nodded slowly. "And our own people? Theodore's men are already calling it surrender in the church porch."
"They are, and half the Church with them," Plethon said. "But Theodore has no army to put in front of the Turk, so he can afford his conscience. Constantine would rather swallow the shame and take whatever Rome will send. I have not yet decided which of them is the fool."
Bessarion glanced at him. "And you, Master? Where do you stand?"
A gull went over, complaining. Plethon watched it out of sight before he answered. "I stand three days in the saddle and I'd like to be off it." He nodded at the low sun. "We won't make the gate by dark at this crawl. Go tell that man to lead the mule instead of loving it."
Bessarion laughed and turned back down the line. Ahead, past a last rise, the walls of Glarentza showed grey against a sea already taking the color of the evening.
Upon their arrival at the castle gates, they were met by a delegation of courtiers and servants. A man in a plain dark coat stepped forward. "Master Plethon, welcome to Glarentza. George Sphrantzes—the Despot's right hand." He steadied the bridle himself as a groom came for it. "Constantine will receive you in the morning; he's asked me to see to your comfort first, after so long a road."
"Thank you, George," Plethon said. "We are most grateful for the hospitality."
Servants led them to their quarters within the castle, a suite of rooms overlooking the sea. As they settled in, Bessarion gazed out the window, the salty breeze ruffling his hair.
"Glarentza feels a world apart from Mistra," Bessarion said.
"It is," Plethon agreed, joining him at the window. For a while they only watched the harbor lights come up along the water. "Let us rest now; tomorrow we find out whether the man is worth the ink."
In the morning Constantine took them down into the town himself, with Sphrantzes and Theophilus Dragas a step behind. He was younger than Bessarion had pictured, dressed no better than a prosperous merchant, and he walked fast, the way men walk who are counting the hours.
"Master Plethon. Brother Bessarion. I trust you rested well?"
"Well enough, Despot, thank you," Plethon said. "Your hospitality is most gracious."
"I thought you might appreciate a tour of our endeavors here," Constantine said. "Shall we visit the town?"
They made their way through the bustling streets to a simple square building adorned with a sign bearing the emblem of Morea Publishing—a stylized M. Inside, the smell of fresh paper and ink met them at the door.
"Welcome to our bookstore," Constantine said. "I thought it fitting to show you this first." He held the door, and they stepped inside to find shelves lined with books: more than either scholar had ever seen in one place. Traders perused the volumes, and clerks assisted with purchases.
Plethon ran his fingers along the spine of a bound Bible. "Good binding, clean letters," he said, half to himself. He turned a few pages. "And every copy the same as the last." Bessarion picked up another and turned the crisp pages. "And so many of them."
"The presses run day and night," Constantine said. "Latin for now. Within the year we'll set Greek as well."
Plethon looked up from the Bible. "Then start with the ones nobody can read anymore. The texts down to a single copy, shut in a monastery where the last man who knew them is dead. Print one and it can't burn." He set the book down. "Give me a list, and I'll fill it."
"I'd hoped you might say that," Constantine replied. "If you have suggestions for what should be printed, we are eager to hear them."
The workshop behind the shop was louder. Six presses stood in two rows, worked in pairs—one man inking the type with a leather ball, the other running the bed under the platen and hauling the bar. The floor was black where the ink had gone down over months.
"We plan to double the presses by spring," Constantine said. "Slow, careful work. But it spreads."
Plethon watched a boy hang the finished sheets, dripping, on a line overhead, and said nothing. Beside him Bessarion had gone quiet, staring at the sheets as though he were counting them.
A dinner was held in the castle's banquet hall that evening. Plethon and Bessarion were seated near Constantine, along with George Sphrantzes and Theophilus Dragas.
As the meal progressed, the conversation turned to matters of philosophy and governance.
"Despot Constantine," Plethon began, "I must commend you on your vision. Your initiatives resonate deeply with some ideas I have long contemplated."
"Please, Master Plethon," Constantine replied, "I am eager to hear your thoughts."
Plethon set down his goblet. "I believe that by embracing the wisdom of our Hellenic ancestors, we can rejuvenate our society. The Peloponnese is the heartland of the ancient Hellenes—we are their descendants." He continued, "Imagine a revitalized state—a centralized monarchy advised by learned men of the middle class. An army composed of professional native soldiers, supported by the people. Public ownership of land to ensure equitable distribution and productivity."
Constantine listened intently. "Some of that I have already begun. Some would take a generation."
George chimed in, "Master Plethon, how do you see this affecting our current challenges, especially the threat from the Ottomans?"
"By fostering unity and strength from within," Plethon explained. "A professional army, well-trained and loyal, could stand firm against external foes."
Constantine's eyes lit up. "It's fascinating that you mention it. I have begun assembling a core of such troops. The empire never lacked for brave men—it lacked the coin to keep them past a campaign, and the drill to hold their ground when the horse came on. That is what I am building. Pikes, cannon set among them, the same men kept together year after year."
"Like the Spartans of old," Plethon remarked with a smile.
"Precisely," Constantine replied. "And with cannon on the Hexamilion, the wall need not fall the way it always has."
George Sphrantzes interjected, "The Hexamilion is a vital barrier against the Ottomans. Reinforcing it is a sound strategy."
The talk turned to trade and the treasury. Theophilus had been quiet, and stayed quiet a beat longer than the others. "You'll want to remake the treasury too, then, Master. Most men who talk of a new state mean to touch the coin sooner or later."
"I do," Plethon said. "Land held for the state, a share of every harvest owed to it. Trade turned toward our own goods and away from the Venetian. And coin cut back to almost nothing—let a man trade his grain for iron and keep the moneylenders out of it altogether."
Theophilus set down his spoon. "Barter does not pay a garrison, Master. Nor six presses, nor a wall of masons. Grain for iron moves a village. It moves none of what the Despot is building here."
"It moved empires before yours was born," Plethon said, unruffled. "But I'll grant you the garrison."
"There Theophilus has the right of it," Constantine said. "Strip the coin out and I lose the presses inside a year, the men who cast my guns want silver they can spend, not my gratitude." He inclined his head to Plethon. "But the rest I'd hear more of."
"Then hear this," Plethon said, unoffended. "Cap what a man may take in interest, and tie the land to the men who work it. And reform our laws: abolish the maimings, the cutting of hands and noses. A people held by justice serves better than one held by fear."
Constantine nodded. "Some of that I can begin now. The rest is for the Emperor to decide, and for a peace we don't have. Perhaps, together, we may lay the groundwork."
He kept his face still. The old man was centuries ahead of his time, and did not know it. He filled the cup himself, and let the talk run on—philosophy, governance, the future of their beleaguered empire.
Later that night, Constantine invited Plethon to his private chamber, a modest room with shelves of books and maps along the walls.
"Master Plethon," he said, pouring wine into two goblets, "your words tonight have given me much to consider."
"I am glad to hear it," Plethon replied, taking the offered drink.
They sat by a window overlooking the moonlit sea, and for a moment neither spoke.
"The Emperor plans to visit the Morea next year," Constantine said finally. "He hopes to coordinate our efforts for a potential journey to Rome."
Plethon nodded. "A significant undertaking. Do you believe the union with the Western Church will truly aid us against the Ottomans?"
Constantine sighed softly. "In truth, I don't. Political alliances are fickle, and the promises of aid may not materialize as we hope."
"Then you pursue it with your eyes open," Plethon said. "That is more than most can say."
"And I will strengthen us from within regardless, as you have argued." Constantine leaned forward. "Which brings me to it. I would have you stay. Not for a visit. Move to Glarentza. The Emperor's visit, the journey to Rome, the work we spoke of at supper: all of it would go faster with you in the room than writing me once a season from Mistra."
Plethon was taken aback. "I am surprised by your offer. I must admit, I am drawn to what you are building here."
"Then consider it," Constantine urged. "Together, we can lay the foundations for a renaissance of knowledge and strength."
"I will give it serious thought," Plethon promised. "What I have seen here fills me with hope."
After a couple of days, Plethon and Bessarion prepared to depart. As they rode away from Glarentza, the younger man sensed a change in his mentor.
"Master, you seem deep in thought," Bessarion remarked.
"Our visit has given me much to ponder," Plethon said. "The Despot is a remarkable man. Half his own court doesn't yet know what he's building under their feet."
"An unusual man," Bessarion agreed. "His openness to new ideas is uncommon among leaders of his age."
Bessarion hesitated before asking, "Do you think his plans will succeed?"
"There is great potential," Plethon replied. "The printing press alone could remake our society, the ability to spread knowledge so widely is a powerful tool."
They rode in silence for a moment before Plethon continued. "Bessarion, I have decided to accept Constantine's offer to move to Glarentza."
His student looked at him with surprise. "Truly, Master?"
"Yes. Working beside him, I think we can bring about real change. With the Emperor's arrival and the journey to Rome, our efforts could reach further than anything we might do from Mistra."
Bessarion smiled. "I am glad to hear it. Glarentza seems fertile ground for your ideas."
"It does. And I hope you will join me, your abilities would be greatly valued."
"I would be honored, Master," Bessarion replied earnestly. "I am eager to contribute however I can."
"You have much to offer, my young friend." Plethon placed a hand on his shoulder.
As they rode on, the distant silhouette of Mistra came into view, and Plethon set his horse toward it without hurrying.