After receiving the papal decree, Isaac shared the good news with Gutenberg.
At that moment, he finally put down the last stone weighing on his heart and ordered the presses to run at full capacity.
Isaac specially gifted several deluxe copies of the Bible to high-ranking archbishops in Rome and urgently printed a batch of lavishly covered, clearly printed Renaissance works to be sent to prominent merchants in northern Italy.
These were people with a strong demand. If they were impressed, they would naturally contact Isaac.
This would also give Isaac the opportunity to connect with secondary booksellers in northern Italy and open up downstream markets.
Additionally, Isaac required that all books printed at the press bear his coat of arms on the upper left corner of the cover—a purple double-headed eagle, one of the symbols of the Byzantine Empire.
"For this month, your task is to train more skilled workers and contact machine workshops to expand production," Isaac instructed Gutenberg, who diligently jotted down notes in a small notebook.
"Sales go through Steward Andrei, content with Archbishop Fulgial, technical matters are yours. Remember: quality is paramount!"
That was all he could do for now.
What Isaac aimed to capture was the first-mover advantage.
Printing technology couldn't be hidden forever—this pie was too big for him alone.
First, he would use the indulgence business to earn a fortune.
Second, he would build a reputation and establish his brand.
By the time other merchants caught on, he would already have seized a large portion of the market.
For the next few weeks, Isaac and his team were swamped with work—negotiating details with the Church, setting prices with merchants.
Normally cheerful, Fulgial was relentless at the negotiation table—let alone the inherently greedy merchants.
By the end of it, Isaac was thoroughly exhausted.
But watching a steady stream of funds flow into his coffers gave him a deep sense of accomplishment.
The factory continued to grow, more and more workers joined.
After all, indulgences were a license to print money.
When Isaac had first transmigrated, he drafted three plans. This was the first—and now it seemed mostly on track.
Then came news from afar.
Murad II had largely quelled the internal strife and began redirecting his armies.
Ottoman troops paraded before Constantinople with captured Varna Crusaders and their flags.
Inside the city, hearing of the emperor's resumed talks with Rome, a massive religious conflict broke out.
John VIII was bedridden, leaving ministers like George Sphrantzes to barely hold things together.
Even the relatively calm Athens region grew turbulent again.
One bad news after another crushed Isaac's good mood.
After tallying the printing house's dividends and donations from the merchant guilds, he had roughly 10,000 ducats.
Ibrahim had also sent 4,000 ducats from his raids in Epirus.
On February 5, 1445, Isaac convened his subordinates.
The arrangement was simple.
Andrei and Gutenberg would stay in Rome to oversee printing operations.
Fidel and Norwich would sail with Isaac.
Under the warm early spring sun of the Apennines, Italian life was peaceful and prosperous.
But Isaac's homeland was groaning beneath the Ottoman heel.
Plans had to accelerate.
After settling Roman affairs, Isaac wrote to Constantine:
"I will journey afar to seek salvation for the Empire."
On February 6, 1445, Isaac's fleet set sail from Rome.
They sailed along the western coast of Italy, and by February 10, arrived at the brightest gem of the western Mediterranean—Genoa.
Though Genoa had lost its monopoly on Mediterranean trade after being defeated by Venice in the Battle of Chioggia, it still held sway over many colonies in the Aegean and Black Sea, ruled by appointed governors.
Despite lacking the resources to sustain its colonial empire, political pressure forced it to persist—draining national strength in the process.
Decades later, Genoa would fall under French occupation, and though it regained independence, its former commercial empire vanished, leaving it a hub for loan sharks.
Still, Isaac was stunned by the city's splendor.
A textbook port city along the Ligurian coast, its deepwater harbor bustled with goods from around the world, flowing inland via river routes.
Until the Age of Exploration and the shift in trade routes, poverty was a distant concept here.
The markets overflowed with luxury; Renaissance flourished here in stark contrast to southeastern Europe's poverty.
If Rome was a gentle, devout cleric, Genoa was a blinged-out nouveau riche.
Armed with a credential from the Pope, Isaac secured a meeting with a Genoese nobleman named Ramses.
Though Genoa and Venice were nominally republics, actual power was held by merchant oligarchs through city councils.
Ramses treated Isaac courteously, aware of his identity.
After some bargaining, Isaac hired 100 Genoese crossbowmen for 2,000 ducats.
These famous mercenaries were lavishly equipped and battle-hardened, often seen in major European battles.
Next, Isaac expressed interest in purchasing modern Genoese warships.
Ramses agreed—then took him to a shipyard filled with junked vessels.
Seriously?
These ships had been decommissioned a decade ago and were useless in naval warfare.
Isaac refused his "kind offer," and went to receive his mercenaries.
He soothed and befriended their commander, Maruna—a seasoned, money-minded mercenary from Tuscany.
Such people were the easiest to handle.
The dangerous ones were the zealots who would brand Isaac a heretic on sight—still plentiful in the Catholic world.
It was exactly this prejudice that kept Catholic support for Constantinople lukewarm.
Isaac only stayed one day in Genoa, not bothering to seek an audience with its doge.
The proud Genoese barely respected the Pope or the Byzantine Emperor—let alone a prince from a dying empire.
He then traveled for two days through the well-paved roads of northern Italy to reach his real destination—Montferrat.
This small marquisate, nestled between Milan, Genoa, and Savoy, was ruled by John IV Palaiologos—a distant cousin.
It's a long story.
Byzantine Emperor Andronikos II had married Irene, daughter of the famous Marquis William VII of Montferrat, and fathered children.
Later, when the Montferrat male line died out, Irene pushed for her son Theodore to inherit the land.
With support from Genoa and recognition from the Holy Roman Emperor, the Palaiologos family took control of Montferrat.
Years of war and internal Byzantine strife broke ties between the two branches.
Isaac's visit was to revive this connection and seek cooperation.
In William VII's time, Montferrat was a dominant northern Italian power, once holding Genoa, Turin, and Milan.
But hostility from neighbors and successive early deaths of its rulers left only the core territories—and Montferrat became a vassal of Savoy.
Upon arrival at the family castle—having sent word ahead—Isaac was greeted at the drawbridge.
"Welcome, dear brother!" John and his younger brother William called out in broken Greek.
Isaac was moved. After all these years, they hadn't forgotten their Greek heritage.
He leapt off his horse and strode forward.
"Thank you for hosting me, dear cousins John and William!"
John nodded silently, while William embraced him warmly.
Following protocol, Isaac left Maruna and the mercenaries outside the castle and entered with a few attendants for the banquet.
Though the ailing Marquis Gian greeted Isaac briefly, he instructed his sons to entertain their cousin well.
Historically, Gian would die within weeks, and John IV would succeed him.
As a youth, John IV had been held hostage by his uncle, the former Duke of Savoy Amadeus VIII, shaping his reserved nature.
Still, he was a good man—kind to both his subjects and his brother.
He was the second key contact Isaac had sought.
Over dinner, the three Palaiologoi drank heartily and opened up.
William, fourteen, did most of the talking: losing bets at tournaments, unrequited crushes, dreams of glory—the usual teenage angst.
After all, when trouble comes, father and big brother will handle it.
John, by contrast, worried over his father's health and the territory's grim situation.
Post-war, many had fled; lands lay fallow; knights lacked equipment; no money for irrigation or granaries…
He used to donate to monasteries and orphanages, but could no longer afford to.
Isaac immediately offered him 10,000 ducats—interest-free, repayable whenever.
William was stunned.
John was also shocked.
He had expected Isaac to ask for aid and had even scraped together some funds.
Now, that pouch sat useless in his room.
"Did you steal the emperor's treasury?" William blurted. "Should've taken you to the joust—we could've made a killing!"
John, however, refused.
"You need it more than we do. Hire more troops—it may mean survival."
Isaac gave a wry smile.
Constantinople was a black hole—no matter how much gold went in, nothing came out.
He showed them the papal decree and explained where the money came from, shoving the pouch into John's hands.
Montferrat had fertile lands, strategic location, thriving trade, and dense population—connecting Milan, Genoa, and Turin.
Its temporary woes stemmed from his good-uncle Amadeus VIII: hijacking tolls, relocating peasants, raiding caravans, imposing war reparations.
These issues would pass.
Isaac had no doubts about John repaying him.
John finally accepted the money and clasped Isaac's hand in silence.
William babbled on, inviting Isaac to the jousting tournament next week.
That night, Isaac stayed in the Palaiologos castle.
Noticing the Greek-style decor, he felt a brief wave of nostalgia.
And slept a dreamless sleep.