EMPIRE REWRITTEN [Isekai ? Alt-History ? Strategy]

On the Road to Glarentza

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The sun hung low in the sky, draping the rolling hills and olive groves in a golden glow. On the winding road to Glarentza, two riders—George Gemistos Plethon and his young protégé, Bessarion—traveled at a calm pace. Their small entourage of servants and guards followed close behind, horses snorting softly as hooves clopped against the packed earth.

A gentle breeze swept across the countryside, stirring Plethon's long white beard. His gaze drifted over the landscape with quiet appreciation, as if searching for something in the play of light and shadow. Bessarion, riding at his mentor's side, finally broke the silence.

"Master," the younger scholar began, concern mingling with curiosity in his voice, "the Emperor's enthusiasm for Despot Constantine's books... do you think they will truly help unify our Church with Rome? The divide has been centuries in the making."

Bessarion had heard rumor after rumor about efforts to reconcile the Orthodox and Latin churches. Some said it was mere politics; others hoped it might heal old wounds. He wasn't sure what to believe, but he couldn't deny the tension that lingered in every theological debate back home.

Plethon exhaled slowly before answering. "His Imperial Majesty believes that producing Latin Bibles and cooperating with the West could be a bridge—one that might help both sides remember what we share rather than what sets us apart. It is bold, yes, but sometimes boldness is the only remedy for wounds long ignored."

Bessarion nodded, though doubt flickered in his eyes. "Our people cling tightly to their traditions. Many resent the idea of union, especially when it seems forced by foreign pressures."

"True," Plethon replied gravely. "When convictions run this deep, fear often follows any call for change. Yet alliances, especially in these perilous times, can be powerful. Constantine and the Emperor both see potential there."

They continued in silence, passing groves of gnarled olive trees that had weathered centuries of conflict, their roots steadfast in the rocky soil. Bessarion ventured another question after a time.

"May I ask, Master... how do you view Constantine's plans? Are you inclined to support them?"

A contemplative smile touched Plethon's lips. "I stand where reason leads, my young friend. Let us see with our own eyes what Glarentza holds. Only then can we judge fairly."

By dusk, the silhouette of Glarentza's walls rose on the horizon, stark against the Ionian Sea. The city's turrets and domes glimmered in the final rays of daylight. The bustle of commerce and life inside those walls seemed to call out across the plains.

"There it is," Plethon said, pointing with quiet admiration. "A sight indeed. Constantine must be pouring heart and wealth into his domain."

"It seems... new," Bessarion observed. "I wonder how his reforms have been received here."

Plethon nodded. "Change can birth both excitement and unrest. Let us hope we find more of the former."

At the city gates, they were met by a welcoming party of courtiers and servants. A tall, affable man stepped forward, bowing with practiced grace.

"Master Plethon, Brother Bessarion," he said warmly. "I am George Sphrantzes, the Despot's aide. I bring greetings from Despot Constantine. He insists you rest after your journey—he would have you comfortable before any lengthy discussions."

The travelers were led into the castle and shown to a suite of rooms overlooking the sea. Bessarion lingered by the window, breathing in the briny air. "It feels so different from Mistra," he murmured.