Constantine stood as Cardinal Bessarion entered the small banquet hall, arms open in welcome. "Bessarion! At last. It seems ages since Rome." He crossed the distance and clasped the Cardinal in a firm embrace. "Come, give an old friend a proper greeting. No need for ceremony among brothers."

Bessarion returned the hug, laughing softly. "Your Majesty honors me," he replied, then added with genuine affection, "It gladdens my heart to find you well, Constantine." He stepped back, hands still on Constantine's shoulders, and inclined his head respectfully toward the older man standing nearby. "And Master Plethon, my dear old mentor, seeing you here is a blessing. I fear I've missed your lessons more than I knew."

Constantine shot a playful glance at Plethon, who watched the reunion with a twinkle in his eye. "I suspect our learned Cardinal mostly missed debating his old teacher. The poor man has had nothing but theology and politics in Rome."

Plethon answered with dry humor, spreading his palms in mock innocence. "On the contrary, Majesty. Our good Cardinal has enjoyed ample peace of late; I confined my lectures to paper, mercifully easy to ignore."

Bessarion chuckled, shaking his head. "It seems some things never change. Master Plethon scolded me into silence often enough in my younger days. I confess I used to doze off to the rhythm of his voice—just as in his lectures." He gave Plethon a sly look. "Rest assured, Your Majesty, his letters keep me honest; seeing him again reminds me how much I've missed those lessons."

"Come, sit. Tonight we dine in private, just us three." The table was set for an intimate supper: a few dishes of spiced lamb and olives, a round of bread, and a flagon of dark wine from Corinth. "Bessarion, you must be hungry after the trip. Please." He waited until Plethon and Bessarion took their seats before resuming his own. A servant glided forward to pour wine into their cups, then melted back toward the shadows, leaving the trio to speak freely.

Bessarion raised his cup. "First, allow me to offer congratulations, Constantine, on your upcoming wedding. Katarina Branković is a fortunate lady, and you a fortunate man, to secure Serbia's friendship in such a bond."

Constantine inclined his head gratefully. "Thank you, my friend. After so much war, it feels strange to speak of flowers and music." He sighed with a wry smile. "But if ever the Empire needed a joyful day, it is now. I'm grateful you've come; your presence will be a blessing."

"Gladly," Bessarion said. "I wouldn't miss it. His Holiness Pope Eugene was pleased to hear of a wedding, though I suspect he'd have preferred a different bride." He sipped his wine, watching Constantine's reaction.

The Emperor arched an eyebrow and exchanged a knowing glance with Plethon. "Agnes," he said, amused. "I chose a woman and a border, not a child and a ribbon." A short chuckle escaped him. "Rome was bound to take it ill that I passed Burgundy by."

Plethon let out a dry sniff. "A Burgundian bride might have appeased the Pope, but setting a child at your side would have done more harm than any quarrel with Rome."

"I have no doubt," Bessarion agreed gently. "Still, the Pope was not delighted by your polite refusal of his matchmaking. He had hoped to tie you to Burgundy's house, and thereby to one of the strongest Catholic powers. When Your Majesty chose a Serbian princess instead, it ruffled some feathers in Rome." The Cardinal offered a conciliatory smile. "Eugene will get over it in time. Especially if the Serbian alliance bears fruit on the battlefield."

Constantine nodded, his expression unapologetic. "Serbia holds our flank and shares our faith. Agnes is a noble lady, but Katarina brings me Đurađ Branković as a father-in-law, and with him an army at my side. The Pope, of all people, should grasp the value of that." He took a long draught of wine and then leaned forward, eyes intent. "Tell me, Bessarion, how fares our friend in the Vatican? I trust you bring news from Pope Eugene."

Bessarion set down his cup. "Displeased with the bride, delighted with the man. His Holiness is elated by your victory over the Turk. In Rome you are held up as a champion raised by Providence; he names you to princes and prelates as proof that Heaven has not abandoned Christendom. The crusade's success has burnished his own authority as well; his letters now carry farther across Europe."

Constantine made a small, courteous gesture for him to go on.

"The praise comes with a spur," Bessarion said. "He presses me to urge you toward the union talks again, some public step to hearten the West. He would like a sign, if not a settlement."

Plethon's hands folded. "As expected," he said, voice cool. "His Holiness sees a window of opportunity and means to seize it, to bring our Church under Rome's mantle as the price for the Western steel." The old philosopher's tone was gently sardonic, though not hostile. He glanced at Constantine. "The question is, how do we answer? You know how delicate the union issue remains."

Constantine's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. "Bessarion, you understand the bind I am in. I owe much to the Pope's support. I want to keep faith with him. Yet if I announce tomorrow that I will bend the knee to Rome in matters of doctrine, many of those same loyal men would feel betrayed. The old fears run deep."

Plethon nodded, his lined face approving. He turned to Bessarion to add context. "The phrase Ieros Skopos, is on every tongue in the market and every banner on the walls. It binds Greeks of every walk to the idea of fighting for our faith and freedom. It is deliberately ours, eastern. If Constantine is seen suddenly prostrating to the Latin rite, the spell may break." The old man's eyes flashed. "Union, even discussed in abstract, still splits our court and clergy. Politically, it remains a powder keg. The Emperor must tread carefully."

Bessarion absorbed their words in silence, his fingers steepled beneath his chin. Finally, he sighed. "You know that I, too, desire what is best for our people, Constantine. I have walked a fine line in Rome, serving the Church while serving our homeland's interests. I assure you, I've counseled Eugene that you are no intransigent schismatic, merely a pragmatic ruler stabilizing his realm." He managed a slight smile. "I can delay him, soothe him with careful words. But I cannot do so forever."

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Constantine reached across and clasped Bessarion's forearm. "I know the burden on you, my friend, and I thank you for buying us time.. We will seek concord with Rome when the hour is right and on fair, equal terms. God willing, I will not be the emperor who spurns aid until it is too late." His gaze hardened. "But neither will I tear this realm in two by forcing union at sword-point. Demetrios's treachery in Constantinople gives us, at least, a grim reprieve, a pretext to delay without insult."

Plethon snorted softly. "Indeed. With that Ottoman puppet sitting on the throne in Constantinople, any union negotiated today would be a hollow deed. We said it before, and we say it again: the City must be free, or any union is parchment and air. A convenient pretext to tell Rome: How can we discuss union when the Patriarch and the City are still hostage to the Sultan?" He allowed himself a thin smile. "A most useful delay, courtesy of your usurping brother."

At the mention of Demetrios, a flicker of anger passed over Bessarion's face, quickly masked by a sign of the cross. "A tragic state of affairs," he murmured. " It pains me as much as it does either of you. But you're correct: as long as that tyrant holds the Hagia Sophia, no union decree from Rome would have legitimacy among Greeks." He straightened in his chair, resolved. "I will make this clear to His Holiness. The politics must wait until the City is free. In the meantime, I can promise him your continued goodwill and an eventual council, just at a safer juncture."

Constantine exhaled, relieved. "Thank you, Bessarion. That is all I ask. Tell the Pope that I remain committed to the ideal of unity against the infidel. I will not shy away from a council when the time is right."

"That will do," Bessarion said, satisfied. "It buys us time. And it keeps the Pope's hand outstretched without forcing yours."

"Then we are agreed." He touched the Cardinal's wrist lightly. "You have my trust, Bessarion. I would strengthen your hand as well. You are a Prince of the Church; allies will serve us both."

Bessarion tilted his head. "Go on."

"Rome moves on patronage, learning, and gold," Constantine went on. "We have manuscripts and printed copies. Tell me what might sway the hearts of learned Italian cardinals, and I'll send it. Be it rare books or funds for their charities, I will support you." He smiled. "Consider it an investment in our cause within the halls of St. Peter's."

Bessarion's eyes warmed. "Books and coin will do it. Many in the Curia hunger for Greek letters; a fine Plato or Aristotle opens doors, and a gift to a hospital keeps them open. I'll use it wisely."

Constantine reached and briefly squeezed Bessarion's shoulder. "I have no doubt you will. Now—" he sat back, a contented look on his face as he regarded his two companions, "—enough of Eugenius for the moment. I want to hear of Italy. We sit here on the edge of Christendom; sometimes I feel we get news too late. What's the latest from that ever-quarrelsome peninsula? You mentioned Pope Eugene rehired Sforza when we spoke last year. How does our condottiere friend fare against the Milanese these days?"

Bessarion's features brightened at the change of topic. He wiped his hands on a linen and began, "Italy is as turbulent as ever, but Francesco Sforza has distinguished himself once more. Just this spring, Visconti of Milan tried to push into the Papal States, some incursion in the Marche, near Urbino. "Sforza intercepted the Milanese brilliantly," the Cardinal said, grinning. "It was your doctrine in another man's hand. It was a sight by all accounts."

Constantine gave a low, pleased laugh. "Ha! I knew he'd adapt, he wore me out with questions on drill and line, and he still sends to buy our Pyrvelos. If he's copying my tricks, I'm flattered." He tore another morsel of lamb, thoughtful. "So, Visconti's offensive was repelled?"

"Soundly," Bessarion confirmed. "In gratitude and to formalize his loyalty, the Pope named Sforza Vicar of Ancona and the Marches. He now effectively governs the eastern Papal territories in Eugene's name. A reward, and a way to bind him closer to Rome."

Plethon interjected, stroking his gray beard. "Clever, indeed. Give a mercenary a stake to defend, and he'll fight all the harder. Ancona's a rich port. Sforza won't want Milan's claws near it."

"Exactly," said Bessarion. He continued, eyes flickering with concern now. "But while the Pope secures his north, the south of Italy is erupting in conflict. Queen Joanna of Naples passed away in February, and as you know, she left no heir of her body. Now King Alfonso of Aragon presses his claim to Naples."

Constantine exchanged a glance with Plethon. They both knew Alfonso well by reputation: an ambitious monarch already ruling Sicily and Aragon, hungry to unite the southern Italian kingdom under his crown. "Alfonso won't have an easy time, I expect," Constantine said. "The Angevins and the French will contest that prize, no?"

Bessarion nodded. "They already are. René of Anjou claims Naples by Joanna's adoption. But Alfonso wasted no time, he landed with an army. Right now he's besieging Gaeta, the key to Naples by sea. The Aragonese fleet blocks the harbor, and his cannon pound the walls. Gaeta's fall would open the road to Naples city."

"And how do the Italians respond?" Constantine asked, intent. "I doubt the other powers sit idle while Aragon makes himself King of Naples."

"They do not," Bessarion assured. "Duke Filippo Visconti of Milan controls Genoa, and he has sent Genoese ships southward. Rumor has it a fleet gathers at Genoa's behest to relieve Gaeta or at least harass Alfonso's supply lines. If the Genoese engage, we could see a naval clash any day now."

Constantine's brow furrowed. "Milan and Aragon at war… that could redraw alliances. And Venice? Florence?"

"Watching warily," the Cardinal replied. "Venice fears any single power dominating the trade routes, but for now they've stayed out. Florence likewise keeps her armies home, though she leans toward the Pope and thus against Visconti. It's a stalemate of suspicions, everyone waits to see if Alfonso triumphs quickly or if the contest drags on."

Plethon tapped a finger on the table, a distant look in his eyes. "Naples," he mused quietly. "How far that sounds, yet… how close it truly is."

Constantine looked to him curiously. "What do you mean, Master Plethon?"

The old philosopher smiled faintly. "I think of lands across the Adriatic, Terra d'Otranto, Calabria." He peered at Constantine and Bessarion in turn. "Do you realize there are numerous villages in the heel of Italy where Greek is still spoken in the fields? Where the liturgy of Saint Basil is whispered in hidden chapels, passed down the generations under Latin bishops' noses?"

Bessarion's eyes widened slightly. "I'd heard of a few enclaves in Calabria, yes. But it's been centuries since those themes fell. Surely only a handful of old folk still keep the tongue."

Plethon chuckled. "More than a handful, I assure you. The flame of our culture endures. Why, some of my correspondents in Taranto say you can hear Greek spoken in the markets if you listen for it." He lowered his voice conspiratorially. "In recent months, some discreet friends of ours have traveled among these villages. Preachers and healers carrying posters and gospel leaflets… and speaking of Ieros skopos"

Constantine set down his cup with a soft thud, interest keen. "You've been sowing the seeds in Naples?" There was both admiration and concern in his tone. "You should have asked me first, where we sow Ieros Skopos, I must know."

Plethon shrugged mildly. "Planting ideas, nothing more. A hint here, a rumor there, that a Greek Emperor rises who has not forgotten them. That one day, perhaps, those who share the Eastern rite might be welcomed into a great alliance of faith, freed from both Turk and overbearing Latin alike." He smiled almost wistfully. "Ieros Skopos is not merely for Greeks under the Sultan's yoke. Any soul who remembers the old ways might take it to heart. Today a prayer in Calabria, tomorrow… who knows? Perhaps a friendly port on that side of the sea when we need one."

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