Isaac awoke, nestled in the softness of a grand bed.
He looked around. The walls were adorned with ancient bas-reliefs, and the furniture was eclectic—some bore distinct Gothic characteristics, while others were delicate objects from the East.
In contrast to the room's opulent antiquity, the decorations appeared somewhat desolate. The cabinet meant to house an amethyst pendant now held only dull glass; a marble statuette stood on a silver base; the gold once embedded in a bronze mirror was nowhere to be seen—perhaps stolen.
Isaac rushed to the mirror, examining his new reflection.
The young man in the mirror looked about ten years old. His face was pale but well-proportioned. Melancholy shone in his brown eyes, and his straight nose sat perfectly centered. His lips were slightly upturned with a hint of pride. Tousled chestnut curls framed his face, partially obscuring his fine eyebrows.
Looking at his handsome reflection and the extraordinary decor around him, Isaac smiled with satisfaction.
What better way to make the most of a second chance at life?
Knock. Knock. Knock!
"Come in!" The ease with which he spoke a language he had never learned surprised Isaac.
The heavy wooden door opened slowly. A man dressed in servant's attire entered and bowed deeply.
"Your Highness, I'm so pleased to see you awake. Your uncle, the great Basileus, was most concerned. If your health permits, please dress and come with me."
So economical with words!
He bowed again.
"Wait!"
The attendant stopped.
Brother, I haven't figured out what's going on yet—can't you give me a bit more information?
How should I ask without giving myself away?
Ahem—
"Who am I?"
Forget it! If I'm a prince, I'm allowed to be eccentric. Being mysterious is overrated.
The servant paused, puzzled.
"You are Isaac Palaiologos. Your uncle, the great Ioannes, is the Emperor of the Romans. Your father is the Despot of the Morea, Mystikos Constantine."
Isaac's face changed dramatically.
!!!
He had transmigrated into the waning days of the Byzantine Empire. His uncle Ioannes was the second-to-last emperor of Byzantium, and his father was none other than the famed Constantine XI.
But wait—Constantine XI had no children. Had his arrival changed history?
Another servant rushed in.
"Your Highness! Steward! His Majesty has concluded Mass at the Hagia Sophia and is now meeting envoys from Rome. He asks that you attend."
"Envoys from Rome?" The steward frowned. "Another debate about church unification?"
The servant glanced at him cautiously. "No. It's about the northern Crusaders."
"His Majesty seems quite pleased," he added.
Half an hour later, Isaac was dressed and seated in a carriage heading for the Grand Palace.
Along the way, the carriage passed through most of Constantinople, allowing Isaac to gain a deeper understanding of this dying empire.
Gone was the glorious city once hailed as "Queen of Cities, Mother of All Cities." It now resembled a massive rural market. Villages clustered against the city walls. In one, plainly dressed farmers knelt fearfully as the family-crest-adorned carriage passed, muttering prayers. The streets were hurried; artisans and merchants were rare. The most prosperous districts were inhabited by Latin merchants from Italy and Turkic settlers from Anatolia. The flag of St. Mark of Venice fluttered proudly in the sun, stabbing at the hearts of every Byzantine.
The panting horses pulled the carriage past the Theodosian and Constantine Squares. Ancient statues still stood—marble and bronze figures whose precious inlays had long since vanished. Two centuries earlier, a great catastrophe had stripped the empire of centuries of accumulated wealth. Though the capital had been reclaimed by the warriors of the Laskaris family, the wounds never fully healed, and the empire never recovered.
"We've arrived," the steward announced curtly.
The carriage stopped in front of the Grand Palace. Beside it stood the statue of Justinian. The nearby fields—once imperial training grounds—lay desolate. In the distance, the spires of the Hagia Sophia could be seen.
This was the emperor's residence, the heart of Rome, capital of the empire, the center of the world.
Once, these grounds thundered with armored knights. The squares echoed with the roars of Roman legions.
Once, Egyptian grain, Chinese porcelain, Baltic amber, Black Sea timber, and North African slaves all converged here.
Once, imperial decrees that shaped the world were issued from these halls. Well-trained militias assembled. Theme commanders rallied elite cavalry and archers. The emperor, clad in a purple robe atop a horse in matching barding, gleamed with the imperial eagle.
Priests at the Hagia Sophia prayed for victory. Wealthy merchants donated grain, weapons, and slaves. Citizens showered soldiers with petals, chanting, "Victory!"
Triumphant armies hurled captured banners and treasure at Justinian's statue, which grew ever more adorned.
But now, the palace stood half-abandoned. The emperor had few guests and fewer coins to maintain the grand halls.
The racetrack was empty. The gold had long since been stripped from Justinian's statue. Even the cathedral's bells rang with sorrow.
This was the final chapter of Byzantium—the last Rome.
Isaac composed himself, bowed deeply to Justinian, and entered.
A wizened eunuch led him through the palace to the council chamber, from which came laughter.
He pushed open the door.
At the head sat a middle-aged man, his hair half-gray, his face thin, cheekbones high, and eyes surrounded by deep lines—signs of long-term strain.
But today, his face was flushed and smiling.
"Ah! Isaac, my boy! I heard you're feeling better. Come, let me look at you!" Emperor Ioannes VIII said cheerfully.
"Let me introduce you to the envoy from Rome—Bishop Foggia's assistant."
Isaac glanced over. Seated nearby was a smiling middle-aged man in white clerical robes, wearing a Roman Catholic cross.
Isaac gave a polite bow.
"Your Majesty, I'm fully recovered. It's an honor to meet you and this esteemed guest. May you both enjoy good health and spirits."
Ioannes waved for him to sit beside him.
"Your Majesty, what brings you such joy?"
"Bishop Foggia brings great news. The Polish and Hungarian King Władysław III has taken a Turkish border fortress and reached Varna. The Serbian Grand Duke and Bohemian mercenaries, under Hunyadi, will soon join him. Their numbers and strength will surpass young Mehmed's."
"Moreover, by order of Pope Eugene IV, the Venetian fleet has blockaded the Dardanelles. Murad II, recently withdrawn from Karaman, will be unable to cross Anatolia in time. The crusade has a great chance of success," the bishop added, stressing "by order of the Pope."
Ioannes clearly caught the implication. He stood and placed a hand over his chest.
"May God forever bless him—the great Pope and holy warrior." He bowed slowly, expression unreadable.
Foggia also stood, praying for the Pope.
Isaac, inwardly cursing both the Pope and Władysław's mother, pretended to pray solemnly.
They would not be laughing for long.
Premature celebration was a fool's path.
After the envoy left, only the jubilant uncle and exasperated nephew remained.
Ioannes was still basking in the envoy's painted dream—reclaiming lands and reviving the glory of Alexios I and Michael VIII.
But Isaac already knew the end.
Though Venice blockaded the Dardanelles, their rivals, the Genoese, took a hefty bribe and ferried Murad II's forces across.
Murad stormed through Thrace to Varna. In the decisive battle, despite favorable odds, young Władysław ignored Hunyadi's advice and charged the Sultan's tent with his knights.
He was slain by a common soldier.
The crusaders collapsed.
Władysław died in battle. Hunyadi barely escaped.
With this, Western Christendom's major aid to Constantinople ceased. The Ottomans' name echoed across Europe. Latin kingdoms dared not challenge them for generations.
Traditional Christian lands fell. Ottoman hooves thundered across southeastern Europe—from Constantinople to Vienna.
But that was all yet to come.
"Isaac, you're nearly twelve. If we reclaim territory, I'll appoint you as governor!" Ioannes beamed.
"Thank you, Your Majesty. I seek no fief—only the Empire's survival and your good health."
Ioannes pouted. "You're not like your father. He'd already be bargaining with me by now."
"Speaking of your father—he's marching north through the Peloponnese to join the crusade. I hear it's going well."
He handed Isaac a letter.
The handwriting was strong and flowing—a warrior's script.
After scanning it, Isaac understood: Constantine's campaign faced little resistance but lacked supplies. He asked for aid.
He also sent warm regards to his brother and mother, and affection to Isaac.
"Your Majesty," Isaac looked up.
"Let me handle the supply transport. I want to contribute to the Empire's war."
Ioannes seemed surprised, examining his nephew.
"You're only twelve. Your father at that age still clung to my saddle..."
"But Mehmed was twelve when he became Sultan."
Isaac lifted his chin, meeting his uncle's gray-brown eyes.
That night, Isaac sat at his desk, pondering the day's news.
His transmigration was certain—but this was a losing game.
Varna's defeat was inevitable. Murad had likely crossed the strait.
Constantinople was a mess. The more jubilant they were now, the more terrified they'd be when defeat arrived.
His uncle had agreed to let him leave the capital—his chance.
He had to do something. To save Byzantium—and himself!
With resolve, Isaac scribbled a few names onto a slip of paper and handed it to the steward outside.
"Andre, send someone to investigate these people. Then meet me in the south."
The steward nodded silently, just as he had that morning.