The first rays of morning sunlight stirred the city to life. Church bells marked its awakening as streets gradually filled with early marketgoers and farmers from surrounding villages. Smoke rose from blacksmiths' chimneys, and the clanging of hammers rang far and wide. Merchants and buyers argued loudly, often descending into shouting matches.
Fishermen, weary from a night's toil, hurried to drag their freshly caught fish to the market, hoping to fetch the best prices—Venetian and Pisan merchants were known to pay more for superior freshness.
The citizens of Constantinople held conflicting feelings toward the Latin merchants. On one hand, they blamed them for the worsening of their lives. On the other, everyone knew that the city's survival increasingly hinged on support from the Western Latin world. Just the night before, citizens had raised glasses with Latins in celebration of the Crusaders' victories.
Outside church squares, fierce theological debates broke out among citizens—debates detached from daily life, known colloquially as "disputatio." This was an old habit of Constantinopolitans. Regardless of age or gender, everyone loved religion and looked forward to a passionate argument with strangers. Objectively, it fostered logical reasoning and helped stabilize internal religious unity. In the empire's heyday, it had been a proud tradition. But now, with the empire on the brink, it drew scorn from the Latins.
"Foolish Greeks—more concerned with verbal victories than with gold," the Latin merchants scoffed.
Currently, many citizens were furious about Emperor Ioannes's decision at the 1439 Council of Florence to agree to church unification with Rome. The religious atmosphere in the city was like an open powder keg, ready to explode at any spark.
None of this concerned Isaac, who had just finished breakfast and was now training in military arts under the watchful eye of Captain Michael, leader of his small personal guard.
Isaac's tiny guard consisted of only 20 horsemen, with Captain Michael doubling as his instructor. The imperial treasury was stretched thin—Isaac had the privilege of this guard only due to his uncle Ioannes's favor.
Michael was a kind middle-aged man of minor noble birth, and said to be a distant relative of the Palaiologos family. An experienced cavalry officer, he had defended Constantinople during the siege of 1422 and served under Isaac's father in campaigns against Latin remnants in Achaea. He was highly trusted.
"Isaac, what's gotten into you today? Training so hard?" Michael was clearly pleased. "Usually you'd rather be chanting Latin and French with that old tutor than spend a single extra second with us."
Isaac had just finished archery practice. He rubbed his sore shoulders, then picked up a nearby lance.
"Uncle Michael, I'm beginning to realize that grammar won't save the Empire. Its future rests on the soldier's lance."
Wiping the stinging sweat from his eyes, he mounted the saddle and gritted his teeth, raising the lance high.
No kidding. If I don't pick up some real skills, I won't even be able to escape when the time comes!
Michael stared for a moment at the scrawny but proud young knight shimmering in the sun.
Isaac had clearly never trained seriously before—his physical condition was poor. The three-meter lance trembled in his aching arms.
"Uncle Michael..."
"Child, that's not how you use a lance," Michael sighed, palm to forehead.
"Why didn't you say so earlier?!"
Isaac spent the whole morning in agonizing training, refusing to slack off even a second—doing the same drills as the guards.
At lunch, he declined invitations from noble friends and chose instead to pray and eat with the soldiers, sharing in their banter.
At first, the guards were awkward. They'd likely never dined with a purple-born prince before, and previously only saluted him from afar.
But today's prince was surprisingly easy to talk to. Slowly, the soldiers opened up. Isaac listened patiently as they shared joys and complaints, even offering helpful suggestions.
Today, something was different about His Highness, thought the men and their captain.
Isaac knew that winning their hearts with such gestures was naive. But this allowed him to understand their lives: what they lacked, what they wanted, what they dreamed of.
Everyone has interests. If I can represent someone's interest, he'll support me completely.
With his knowledge of historical trends, Isaac could only grasp general directions. These minor details, unworthy of historians, were of vital importance.
To rule wisely, one must understand the people. Such is the art of kingship.
In the afternoon, the guard was assigned to city patrol duty—tight budgets meant every coin had to be stretched.
Isaac used the time to tally his assets.
As a prince, Isaac had an annual stipend—most of it went to his guards' wages. The remainder wasn't much.
Sometimes his father, in a good mood, gave him pocket money. Isaac had saved it all in a small chest.
There were also trinkets and artworks of modest value.
The most valuable were his late mother's dowry—2,000 ducats in cash and many ancient books.
No surprise. She was a merchant noblewoman—wealthy indeed.
All told, about 5,000 ducats.
A massive sum for the average person. In these times, a ducat had immense buying power—a soldier earned about 100 groschen annually, or 5 ducats.
But that didn't mean Isaac could suddenly raise an army of 1,000. Food, gear, and training devoured gold.
Clearing his mind, Isaac packed all his belongings, took his attendants, and headed for the Venetian quarter.
There, he sold off his father and uncle's gifts and his mother's treasured books to greedy Venetian merchants.
Turns out, books were rarer than Isaac expected—fetching higher prices.
After intense haggling, Isaac resisted the urge to punch the smug book dealer and walked away with 2,640 ducats.
The merchant beamed. Those fine editions would fetch a fortune in northern Italy.
Isaac counted his money: 5,633 ducats.
At 3.5 grams of gold per ducat, that was over 10 kilograms of gold, filling the carriage.
Next, Isaac visited the local representative of the Most Serene Republic of Venice—His Excellency Miloto.
After announcing his visit, Isaac was soon ushered into the magistrate's salon.
Miloto was puzzled—why was a Palaiologos prince here?
"How may I assist you, Your Highness?" His tone was polite but haughty, steeped in Venetian pride.
The room was elegant. Porcelain on the table hailed from the East. The wall frescoes were masterworks.
Facing the door hung a map of the Aegean, with Venetian colonies marked in gold: Crete, Negroponte, Corfu, Achaea, Corinth...
A chain of wounds carved into the empire's flesh.
Miloto himself was a well-groomed, stout man, lavishly dressed. His golden cane bore a ruby engraved with St. Mark's symbol.
Was that gold once part of Justinian's statue?
Was that gem once the emperor's treasure?
Damn it!
Isaac stepped forward with feigned humility.
"Your Excellency, may God bless you. Forgive my intrusion. As your most loyal friend and junior, I bring you a gift."
He unbuckled his sword.
"This sword was my mother's heirloom. It once belonged to a Crusader who fought in Jerusalem and drank heathen blood."
"Her ancestors bought it—it came to me."
He drew the blade. It rang out, chilling the room.
Its surface was scarred and shadowed with crimson in the sun.
Miloto examined it closely.
"Such a treasure... how can I accept it?"
Yet he fondled it lovingly.
"A Turkish proverb says, 'The bravest warrior deserves the sharpest blade.' Only in your hands can it reach its potential."
Miloto studied him, searching for deceit.
Isaac held his gaze, unflinching.
Take it, damn you. Take it!
Miloto smiled and set the sword aside.
"Now, what do you want?"
"His Majesty ordered me to transport supplies. We lack a warship to protect our merchant fleet. I'd like to buy a large galley, with slaves and sailors."
Miloto smirked.
"Is this your idea, or the emperor's?"
"His Majesty is terribly busy..."
Isaac braced himself.
"You know our Republic forbids selling warships to other states, yes?"
Isaac nodded.
"So, you wish to bypass Venice and Constantinople, and privately order a fully equipped warship with crew and slaves from me?"
He nodded again.
Silence. Miloto stroked the blade.
"Fine," he said slowly.
Isaac exhaled.
"Don't celebrate yet. I'll sell you such a ship—but not an official Venetian vessel. It will come from my family's private shipyard in Crete."
"Perfect. I trust your integrity, Excellency," Isaac said quickly.
"5,000 ducats."
"You—"
Later, Isaac declined Miloto's dinner invitation and stepped into the city streets.
His back was damp with sweat—but he'd succeeded.
Buying from a Venetian private shipyard had always been his goal. Selling private warships was how many merchant nobles made money.
For enough gold, they'd even sell to the Ottomans.
But that couldn't be said outright—hence the "friendly" sword gift.
The legendary sword was indeed from his mother's collection—but the story was fabricated to charm Miloto.
And 5,000 ducats was the standard rate—Miloto still profited.
Regardless, the first step was complete.
Seated in his carriage, the sea breeze in his face, Isaac looked toward the distant ocean.
Fishermen were sailing out with the tide. Behind them, the sun slowly sank.
Tomorrow morning, they would return full.
(The currency system of the time was complex. Here, the widely circulated and stable Venetian ducat and groschen systems are used.)