Glarentza, May 1429
By the glow of the forge, Michael watched molten metal run into the molds. Hot metal and charcoal hung thick in the air. Beside him Demetrios, a master goldsmith out of Constantinople, wiped his brow and turned a tiny metal letter over in his fingers.
"Two hundred of the letter e," Demetrios said, turning the tiny piece in his fingers. "I have cast chalices for the Pantokrator, Despot. Nobody ever asked me for two hundred of anything, all identical." He set it down in the tray with its brothers. "The fourth mold is truest. We will recast the first batch."
"How long?"
"A week, if the tin holds out. Ask me for one beautiful thing and I could tell you to the day. Two hundred identical ones, this is a new trade you have invented, and it keeps its own time."
A few weeks later the workshop was full past sundown, rows of new-cast type glinting under the candles. The first page was being assembled. Monks in plain robes moved among the benches, setting letters into the forme piece by piece, slower than their own copying hands wanted to go.
Michael noticed Theophilus Dragas watching the monks, his gaze settling on a young monk fumbling with a piece of type.
"Mind your placement, Brother Manuel," Theophilus advised gently. "If the letters aren't aligned, the words won't read true."
The monk flushed slightly. "Apologies, Master Dragas. I'll be more careful."
Michael observed the exchange across the room, appreciating Theophilus's patience and attention to detail. Stepping forward, he addressed the gathered team.
"Well," he said. "Let us see what we have built."
He carefully inked the type and laid the paper. The room went quiet. He brought the screw down, the wooden frame groaning under it, held it a breath, and wound it back. Then he lifted the platen and peeled the paper away, and there it was: a full page of text, clean, the ink still wet.
For a moment, silence reigned. Then, a wave of exhilaration swept through the room.
"By God's grace, we've done it!" one of the monks exclaimed, breaking the silence.
Cheers erupted around him. Michael felt his heart race as the printing press produced its first flawless page. The monks gathered closely, staring in awe at the inked text, the letters crisp and perfect.
He gently picked up the page, his fingers trembling slightly as he held the smooth, crisp parchment. His eyes reflected the flickering candlelight.
For a moment the workshop noise went far away. He was a long way back, in the basement of a university dormitory, a cluttered table of notes and blueprints, a project built with classmates for a student fair. A homemade printing press, movable type, made to show how ink met paper in true alignment, nothing more.
He could still picture the grease-stained hands of his friend Greg, always wearing an old band T-shirt and tinkering with anything mechanical. "You handle the design, Mike. I'll handle the build." They had cobbled it from scrap metal and scavenged parts from the university workshop, and it had worked.
That machine had been a toy, a fun experiment, a challenge meant to impress professors at the student fair. It was nothing compared to creating the first functional printing press in Morea, a world that didn't even know the name Gutenberg yet.
Gutenberg. Michael let the name sit. He had studied the man, back when the man was a chapter and not a boy somewhere in the German lands who had built nothing yet. The press that made knowledge cheap, the pamphlets, the Reformation riding out of Mainz on paper, whole shelves in his shop had stood downstream of that one machine. He knew the story the way a bookseller knows it, from the spines in.
And here he was now, standing at the edge of that exact moment in history, not as a student, not as a hobbyist, but as the man bringing this invention to life before it was meant to exist.
What would Greg say? He almost laughed. Somewhere under the candle smoke and the wet ink there was a man who should have been shelving paperbacks in the rain, holding the first printed page in the world, and nobody in the room knew what they had watched him do. He swallowed and set the thought down.
He stared down at the flawlessly printed page in his hands. The ink was drying evenly, the letters sharp against the parchment. A year ago, he was just a middle-aged guy in New York, playing with silkscreen printing for fun. And now, he'd just held the first page from the first printing press in the world. If only Yaya could see me now. She always told me Byzantium's destiny wasn't over.
He took a deep breath. Every word printed here would travel beyond these walls, into the hands of monks, scholars, traders, and there was no calling it back once it went. Peace between the churches, or chaos. The press did not care which it fed.
He looked up. They were watching him, waiting on the page in his hand.
"Print it again," Michael said, and handed the page to Brother Manuel. "And again after that, until the light goes. I want to know what breaks first."
The screw came down a second time, and the room leaned in to watch a thing no one in it had ever seen: the same page, twice.
The press was given a name and a charter: the Morea Publishing Company, the first house of its kind. Under Michael's patronage a team had assembled through the winter, nine metalworkers from Constantinople, two goldsmiths and three silversmiths among them, four monks, and a master carpenter. Over the whole of it stood Theophilus Dragas. His blood ties to the family had opened the door; what kept him there was that nothing left his hands unchecked.
Before the presses were even built, Theophilus traveled through the monasteries of the Morea, seeking monks who could handle scripture and would not balk at where it was going. His mission led him to the Monastery of St. Nicholas, a place known for its quiet endorsement of the controversial idea of church unification, a potential bridge between the Orthodox and Catholic faiths.
As he entered the stone courtyard, the faint echoes of chanting reverberated through the hallways. The abbot, a lean figure with thoughtful eyes, greeted him with a slight bow.
"Brother Dragas," the abbot said warmly. "It's an honor to receive you. I assume this visit is related to the emperor's ongoing efforts?"
Theophilus returned the bow. "It is, Father. I'm overseeing a project under the patronage of Despot Constantine, one that could further the cause of unity between the Eastern and Western churches. We aim to produce a Latin Bible, in multiple copies, so it can aid in the ongoing talks. For that I need men who can handle scripture, and who will not weep over the Latin while they set it."
The abbot's brow furrowed in thought. "A Latin Bible, you say? A bold move, Brother Dragas. Our monastery has long supported the emperor's efforts to unite the faiths, but not all agree. However, this could be a powerful symbol, especially for those in the West who question our willingness to meet them halfway."
Theophilus lowered his voice. "There is a device building at Glarentza. It sets a page in metal letters and pulls copies of it, each the same as the last, dozens in the time a scribe rules his margins. I have watched it work. I would rather the Metropolitan heard of it from finished Bibles than from rumor, so I ask for quiet along with the men."
The abbot crossed himself. "It is a dangerous path you tread, but a necessary one. You're right, there are many who would resist such changes. But if this project supports the emperor's efforts to unify the faiths, we will assist. You seek men who can work discreetly yet with great skill?"
Theophilus smiled faintly. "Exactly, Father. Craftsmen of the written word, and believers besides. A Bible like this is an argument as much as a book, and the Emperor will need arguments in Rome."
The abbot led him into the scriptorium, where monks sat hunched over their desks, copying by the light of small lamps."I'll introduce you to the ones I trust. Brother Manuel has transcribed the Gospels countless times, and his work has been praised even by those in the higher clergy. His precision is unmatched."
Theophilus observed as Brother Manuel carefully inked the pages in front of him, his movements steady and deliberate. "He will do," Theophilus said, nodding. "And the others?"
The abbot led him to two younger monks, their focus unwavering as they worked. "Brothers Andronikos and Dionysios. They are loyal to the cause of unification and understand the importance of this task. Their devotion to the faith is absolute, and their work with scripture is exemplary."
Theophilus took a moment to observe them, then turned to the abbot. "They will serve this mission well."
The abbot paused, considering the weight of the task. "You understand that taking them from here is no small request, Brother Dragas. But I believe in the work you're doing. This Latin Bible could be a gesture that unites more than just the church."
Theophilus nodded. "Then I will put them to work, Father. The first Bible off the press comes here."