On the vast Atlantic Ocean, fierce winds whipped up the waves as a fleet pressed forward under full sail, heading southwest.
The fleet appeared to consist of two factions. Leading the way were four caravels flying the banner of the Kingdom of Portugal—a white field bordered in red, adorned with five small blue shields arranged in a cross. Behind them followed two ships bearing the purple double-headed eagle, with several supply vessels trailing in the rear.
Inside the Grand Duke of Morea, Isaac sat in the cabin, forcing himself to suppress his seasickness as he wrote several letters.
One was addressed to his father, Constantine, urging him to monitor the Ottoman army's movements closely. If any large-scale mobilization was detected, he was to immediately abandon Athens and withdraw behind the Corinth Wall.
Isaac also advised him to abandon any illusions and begin evacuating the populations of Athens and Thebes as soon as possible.
A second letter was written to Pope Eugene IV, thanking him for his support of the printing press and explaining Isaac's recent charitable efforts in Montpellier. He openly disclosed the exploration effort, claiming it was for the spreading of Christ's gospel, and requested that the Pope formally recognize the expedition's findings.
This was a preemptive move in case the Portuguese ever turned against him—though the odds of that were slim.
The third letter was sent to Administrator André, who was overseeing the Montferrat Trading Company.
In it, Isaac praised young Lothair for his diligence and subtly hinted at promoting him to a higher position in the future. He outlined the company's new priorities: now that the first trade voyage had proven successful, all public funds were to be invested in expanding the fleet.
The Ottomans, he warned, were like a wounded wolf recovering from their 1444 defeat, ready to bare their fangs again. In the original timeline, Murad II had launched a punitive expedition in 1446, stormed through the Isthmus of Corinth, and captured over 60,000 people.
With Isaac's preparations in place, would the Corinth Wall hold this time?
Time was running out.
"Tell Kerman and Ibrahim to stay alert, never underestimate the enemy, and abandon any skirmish at the first sign of trouble."
"May you be well, and may the Empire endure."
Isaac put down his pen and chuckled at the messy scrawl on the paper—his handwriting had suffered terribly from the swaying ship. The lines were crooked, but the sentiment behind them was sincere.
Outside the cabin window, the silhouette of an island chain had begun to emerge on the horizon. Cheers erupted from the sailors on deck.
They had arrived at last.
The Madeira Islands, Portugal's Atlantic colony, housed a small town used for resupplying and repairing exploration ships.
The fleet stopped in Madeira for a day to replenish fresh water and food. Isaac handed over the letters to the island's governor, asking him to find a way to send them back to Lisbon.
After discussing with Captain Fernando, they agreed to give the crew some well-deserved shore leave to ease the tension of the journey.
By the next morning, the sailors had returned to their ships.
From Madeira southward, the fleet would enter the doldrums, and the barren Saharan coastline would be their only landmark—a stretch long considered the end of the world, one that had discouraged many past explorers.
After a headcount, the fleet set off again, planning to reach the Canary Islands the following day for one more supply stop before continuing their exploration of the West African coast.
Isaac glanced at their crude maps but couldn't glean much from them. Feeling dizzy, he retired to rest.
A day later, the fleet reached Teguise, the capital of the Canary Islands.
Although the journey had been rough, there were no major incidents.
The Kingdom of the Canary Islands, located southwest of Morocco, was currently ruled by the French explorer Jean de Béthencourt, who had discovered and conquered the archipelago in 1404 and submitted to Castile.
The native population was sparse, and conditions were average. Béthencourt had moved settlers to live here, using it as Castile's southern outpost.
Before the rise of tourism, the islands held little economic value. When Béthencourt died, his nephew had no interest in this far-flung colony and sold it to the Portuguese, sparking disputes between Portugal and Castile.
But that was all future conflict. For now, Isaac had his eye on securing a port in the Canaries as a base for Roman expeditions into West Africa.
The islands were primarily focused on Gran Canaria, with the eastern islands modestly populated. The western isles remained undeveloped, their native inhabitants living primitive lives.
Isaac set his sights on La Palma, west of Gran Canaria.
Its mild climate, lush vegetation, and a 10-kilometer-wide volcanic crater at the center made the soil exceptionally fertile—ideal for cultivation. The island's rugged terrain also made it a prime location for a defensible fortress.
Though the Kingdom of the Canaries claimed sovereignty, there was nothing of value on the island except native inhabitants. West Africa had not yet been fully explored, so the Canaries lacked their later strategic importance, and the Spanish wouldn't yet care.
The more Isaac thought about it, the more feasible the plan seemed.
"Lothair, go meet with Béthencourt and sound him out," Isaac ordered.
He then toured the port of Teguise with Fidel and Maruna.
It was an ordinary town, mostly Spaniards, with some French settlers and native islanders. Small but well-equipped, it had a church, market, blacksmith, slaughterhouse, and more.
Its most distinctive features were its abundance of shipyards and brothels—the expected economy of a port town.
Soon, a messenger returned: Béthencourt had invited Isaac to a meeting.
He arrived at the back garden with Fidel in tow.
"Help yourself, prince from afar," said Béthencourt, offering him afternoon tea.
The spread was classic French fare—jam-slathered bread, honey pastries, and a bottle of Burgundy wine.
Isaac dug in without reservation.
Béthencourt observed his hearty appetite.
Finally, Isaac sighed contentedly after devouring the last piece of bread.
"Thank you, Your Majesty. I haven't had such a fine tea since leaving Lisbon."
Béthencourt shrugged.
"I hear you want a harbor out west—to keep me company?"
"Yes," Isaac answered plainly.
No need for games between foxes.
Béthencourt poured himself wine.
"How do you plan to deal with the Spanish?"
"In a few years, they'll come with their fleets and take everything you've built."
Isaac didn't seem concerned.
Iberia was still a mess—the Reconquista wasn't finished, and Castile was far from becoming the mighty Spanish Empire.
By the time they turned their eyes to the sea, decades would have passed.
Who would be stronger by then was anyone's guess.
Isaac didn't answer the question. He simply smiled.
"Which island did you want?"
"La Palma."
Béthencourt pondered.
"That volcanic island? What do you want with it?"
The next day, Isaac planted the purple double-headed eagle on the shores of La Palma Island.
It had cost him 1,000 gold ducats.
"Your Highness, though barren now, this land is rich in soil and ocean resources—enough to support many people," Lothair said, gripping a handful of volcanic soil and stomping on the soft earth.
Isaac planned to build a port settlement, not to enrich the treasury but to make it self-sustaining.
"Lothair, return to Lisbon. Find Conti, have him bring the refugees here to settle."
"Here are 1,000 ducats. Send someone to the slave markets and purchase Slavic slaves—make sure they're Orthodox Christians."
"Yes, sir!"
It was Lothair's first major assignment, and he was visibly excited.
Isaac's goal was for the town to reach a population of 5,000, just enough to sustain itself.
Though the island had good rainfall and soil, the steep terrain and limited flat land made large-scale development costly.
The native Guanches, seeing Isaac's ships, had fled into the interior.
Once Conti arrived, they would need to secure the area.
Two days later, Captain Fernando sent word: it was time to resume the expedition.
The fleet departed the Canaries and sailed south.
The coasts grew more desolate, the waves more ferocious.
That night, a storm hit.
Waves meters high crashed against the hull, wind and rain poured down in sheets, and lightning split the sky like claws.
Isaac forced himself onto the deck.
Captain Fidel rushed about, shouting orders.
"Drop the sails! Hurry, you bastard!"
"Gunnery chief! Check the cannon mounts—unless you want a metal frame flying into your skull!"
"First mate! Check for flooding—don't let the grain get soaked!"
Seeing Isaac, Fidel rushed over to steady him.
"Your Highness, go back inside—I'll handle this!"
"How are the other ships? I can't see anything!"
"We're separated! I think we're still on course, but two transport ships have capsized!"
"And the St. Nicholas—we've lost contact!"
CRACK!
A mast snapped, crashing onto the deck.
A wave hit, knocking a sailor into Fidel, sending him overboard—half his body dangling.
Isaac lunged forward and, with all his strength, pulled Fidel back.
Around them, sailors were trying to repair the deck, secure cannons, or were crying and clutching crosses.
Isaac felt a flame rise within.
Without a word, he grabbed the fallen mast and tried to move it to safety.
Waterlogged and heavy, it barely budged. The slippery deck made things worse.
Fidel rushed to help.
"Your Highness, I—"
The rigging chief approached, guilty and apologetic.
Isaac forced a smile.
"Belisarius never scolded a soldier for a first mistake."
"Your Highness…"
Enough already. Stop staring and lend a hand!
"Why are you standing there? Help us!" Fidel barked.
The rigging chief joined in.
More and more crew came forward to help their prince.
The second mate, gunnery chief, sergeants—then sailors, gunners, even the cook…
Even the Genoese crossbowmen, under Maruna's command, joined in.
"One, two, three—lift!"
Together, they hoisted the mast and secured it.
Cheers erupted.
"Your Highness, please return inside—I've got this," Fidel said, panting.
"No, I—"
A wave struck. Isaac lost his footing, slamming into the railing.
Before blacking out, he saw the entire crew rushing toward him, faces filled with concern.
…
He awoke on a soft bed.
Fidel handed him a cup of water.
He drank it all.
"Where are we, Captain?"
"We're on Graciosa, a Portuguese island. After you passed out, the storm stopped. Captain Fernando found us and brought us here."
Then, Fidel lowered his head.
"We've lost contact with the St. Nicholas."
Isaac shook his head and, with Fidel's help, stepped outside.
Dozens of eyes turned to him at once.
The sailors were waiting—for their prince.
Isaac looked at them. So many familiar faces were missing.
They had not survived the storm.
But those who had—they were changed. Hardened.
He spoke slowly.
"Yesterday, we faced a catastrophe unlike anything before. We lost many dear friends and brothers. We nearly drowned in the vast ocean."
Many eyes turned red.
"Some may wonder why I risk your lives—why we sail into danger."
He paused.
"I promise you—this time, we will return triumphant. We'll bring back gold and slaves. We'll bring back legends and glory!"
"We will make the women admire us, the clergy bless us!"
"We will make the Venetians gape and the Ottomans grind their teeth!"
"And when you are old, sitting by a fire, telling your children about your past…"
"You will proudly say: I followed the Prince of Rome to the Land of Gold. In God's name, we conquered the world!"
"Long live Rome! May glorious Rome and her people live forever!"
Silence.
Then, someone in the crowd raised their hands and shouted:
"Long live Rome!"
The chant grew louder. More joined in.
The roar pierced the sky, shattered the clouds, and spread across the land once called the Gold Coast.