Glarentza, June 1435
Constantine's lungs burned as he sprinted down the wet sand in the morning light, two young officers struggling to keep pace behind him. He laughed and pushed himself faster for the final stretch, feeling intensely alive. At the top of the steps, Katarina waited with a linen towel and a bemused smile.
Constantine mounted the last steps two at a time, chest heaving, hair damp with salt.
"You see? The day feels lighter after a run," he said, grinning.
Katarina offered the towel. "I will never understand how you take joy in such exertion," she said. "You punish your body and call it entertainment."
He grinned and captured her hand briefly. "The ancients swore by exercise, a sound mind in a sound body. Maybe you'll join me next time?"
She blinked, surprised by the suggestion, then laughed softly as if to cover it. "Join you? I think not," she said, though a faint color rose in her cheeks. "Your council is waiting in the study. They've been enjoying their wine and figs while they wait."
Constantine dabbed his face with the towel and squeezed her hand in thanks. Her gentle smile followed him as he strode inside.
In the study, several of Constantine's advisers and senior officers rose to their feet as he entered. Sunlight fell through the tall windows onto maps and ledgers strewn across the table. Most would depart within days to their posts across the empire; this would be their last council for a time.
He took his seat at the head of the table. "Thank you for coming. I know most of you are preparing to depart," he said warmly. "It may be some time before we gather like this again." A brief hush fell, an unspoken acknowledgement of how far they had come together.
They spoke a while of the realm, garrisons and harvest levies, Thessaloniki's rebuilding, the situation in Constantinople, of Naples and the Italian powers as well, and the Ottomans still quarreling among themselves. When the list of errands was settled, Constantine cleared his throat and lifted a hand. "One last matter," he said, businesslike. He drew several stiff sheets of paper from a leather folio and passed them around. Each sheet bore dense printed text and a scarlet wax seal.
"I present to you," he said, "the first fruits of the Imperial Ledger Office, to Logarion as the people will know it. Our venture into new territory: imperial bonds and postal drafts."
Plethon peered closely at the unfamiliar document before him. General Andreas handled his gingerly, as if unsure what he held, while the other officers bent to theirs, tracing the seal and the pressed lines. George Sphrantzes and Theophilus, already privy to the plan, watched the others expectantly.
Andreas frowned down at his sheet. "Mine says two gold Solidi, payable at the Thessaloniki desk by the Synaxis of the Archangels," he noted, eyeing the bold text and the Emperor's stamped seal. He looked up with a mixture of curiosity and doubt. "Is this… some kind of loan, Majesty?"
"A pledge," Constantine replied. "An imperial bond, backed by very real assets. The silver tithe from our Siderokausia mines, the profits of the Morea Publishing Company, and the rising revenues from our paper production, all guarantee its value."
He tapped the parchment in Andreas's hand. "You pay less now; in a year, we pay the full amount. The difference is your profit."
He reached back into the folio and laid a low-sum bond and a Tachis Íppos letter before each man, seals still warm. "These are yours, the first strikes from the Office. Spend them, redeem them, or keep them to the term. I want you to feel how they move."
Wood creaked; a few officers laughed under their breath. Andreas turned the bond, the scarlet seal catching the light, then let the grin fade. "You speak as if this kind of debt is common."
Constantine nodded. "In Venice, it already is. Their Senate issues public loans repaid from the city's customs and salt dues. The people lend to their own state and call it prudence. Genoa does much the same. I've taken the shape, but not the yoke. Our revenues are imperial, not merchant, and the promise bears the eagle's seal."
Plethon rested a finger on the seal, his mouth tightening slightly. "So this is the shape of what you hinted at," he said. "Precedent, then—not fancy. You know my mind, Majesty: I have long urged the exchange of things for things, grain for timber, iron for wool, so value keeps the form of what feeds and clothes us. Paper is a pale stand-in. Yet if these notes never outrun the ships and wagons, if they stay yoked to dues, ore, and salt, I can accept their use, though not their spirit."
Andreas glanced up. "And the Church? Monks will name it usury the moment coin grows from paper. Will the clergy stomach this?"
Constantine nodded once. "Not usury, again, we do as Venice and Genoa do. We do not sell time; we pledge revenues. Each bond is sold under its face; the gain lies in the discount. Payment comes from named rents, books, and mines, set aside by edict before any other expense. Let the clergy see that we pay from dues, not from a man's need, and they will stomach it."
One of the senior officers inclined his head. "Your Majesty, do I understand aright? A common man may lend to the state and be repaid with profit?"
"Just so," Constantine said. "No more Venetian bankers at cruel rates. Our own people become the financiers, a merchant, a farmer, even a guild may invest in their Emperor and realm, and profit as the realm prospers."
Plethon stroked his beard, wary. "It is a delicate thing, wealth conjured on paper: trust and ink. Once, only gold or silver in hand stood for value."
Across the table, General Andreas cleared his throat. "Faith or not, you know soldiers, Majesty, we still pay troops and buy grain in coin," he said bluntly. "How do these bits of paper help my quartermasters in the field?"
"Directly," Constantine answered. He lifted another sheet from the folio, this one headed with the imperial double-headed eagle and stamped Tachis Ippos Letter. He handed it to Andreas. "A treasury letter, your men buy grain with it; the seller goes to the nearest Ledger Office and is paid in coin. A Fast-Horse rider carries notice ahead so the coffer is primed."
Andreas turned the letter in his callused hands. "So instead of dragging a chest of silver over the Pindos, I carry a stack of these, and promise the merchants they'll see coin at the desk. Yes?"
"Exactly," Constantine said. "Logistics will be simpler and safer." He let his gaze travel the table; most faces showed cautious puzzlement. In front of each lay the new instruments of finance: promises of coin on paper, sealed with the imperial eagle. "One bond, one draft, two desks. We start small, Glarentza here and Thessaloniki in the north. We learn the public's hand before we trust it with savings. This will not take in a day; trust is taught slowly, habit by habit." He glanced to Sphrantzes and Theophilus, who had helped shape the scheme. "A modest trial. We'll watch how readily people take to these notes, and only then widen the net."
George Sphrantzes allowed himself a slight smile. "No new taxes; with a steady chest, we might ease the hearth levy a notch. They'll come around soon enough."
Plethon raised a finger, eyes glinting. "It all rides on trust. If honored, these promises could bind people to the throne in common interest. If betrayed…" He left the rest unsaid, the warning clear.
Constantine met the old philosopher's gaze solemnly. "If ever I broke my word, no seal or law could give it value. But I won't break it," he said quietly. He placed his hand over one of the bond certificates on the table. "We are asking our people to believe in us. We must prove ourselves worthy of that belief."
Around the table, the men exchanged firm looks. They understood. This plan would tie crown and commoner together in a new way. If it failed, the damage would be as dire as any lost battle. But if it succeeded…
Constantine exhaled slowly. "The legal edicts are ready." He unrolled three paper scrolls, each bearing a wax seal. "The Law of the Imperial Bond, the Law of the Road, and the Rule of Seals. By sunset today, these will be proclaimed throughout the realm."
He took up a quill and signed each edict with a flourish. Wax was melted and stamped with the double-headed eagle, sealing the new laws. By nightfall, heralds would be posting these decrees in Glarentza. Within weeks, the first bonds and drafts would quietly enter circulation.
"Well, gentlemen," Constantine said, looking around at the faces of his council—faces he trusted as brothers. "It's done."
Plethon nodded, a rare glint of optimism in his eyes. "May it bear the fruit we hope for."
"It will," Constantine replied, conviction in his voice. "Each of you knows your part."
George Sphrantzes carefully tucked the signed scrolls into a leather case. "I'll carry these north first thing tomorrow. Thessaloniki will have its bonds before the week is out."
Theophilus tapped one of the draft notes, smiling. "The press is standing by to run off as many notes and certificates as needed. Every bond will be logged, every draft's record sent out by courier at once."
General Andreas pushed back his chair, clearly eager to return to his troops. "I ride for Arta by midday. I'll put this before the quartermasters, but don't expect cheers. Old hands will call it sleight until bread and barley change hands for these scratches."
Constantine rose, and the others stood with him. The meeting was at an end.
"Safe journeys, my friends," Constantine said softly. He clasped each man's forearm in turn. "George, send word from Thessaloniki about the harbor and the mines." George nodded. "Andreas, Arta is in your hands. I know you'll keep Epirus secure." The general thumped a fist to his chest in salute. Plethon and Theophilus would remain with Constantine in Glarentza, but he met their eyes gratefully. No words were needed.
Within the hour, the council had dispersed, each man off to his charge. Constantine walked with them to the villa courtyard, watching as horses were saddled and documents secured for the journeys ahead. His heart swelled with pride and a touch of melancholy at the parting, barely ten days after his wedding, and already his closest companions were scattering to the winds of duty.
As he turned back toward the colonnade, a soft tread sounded behind a pillar. Katarina stepped from the shadow, the hem of her dress dusted with courtyard grit.
"I listened from the passage," she said without apology. "Stone carries voices. You gave them paper and asked for belief."
Constantine smiled faintly. "Belief and habit."