There was a time when nearly all order within the Empire had collapsed.
No one had the right to lay blame on anyone else.
The downfall was the price paid for prioritizing internal power struggles over uniting against the invasion of foreign forces. The decline proceeded with terrifying speed.
That this hopeless situation even managed to change at all was thanks only to a stroke of luck bordering on divine providence—and to the devotion of Emperor Manuel. And only at the very brink of ruin did a “final hope” emerge to begin building a new order to replace the old.
That hope was none other than Emperor Dragasēs.
Even standing at the edge between destruction and survival, the Emperor never stopped looking beyond it.
Years ago, when the capital had lost its vitality under heavy pressure and constraint from the Ottomans, Dragasēs had brought a large number of scholars and intellectuals who had fled to Morea into his service.
Among them were even those deemed heretics by the Church for promoting radical ideas—such as Gemistos Plethon, now serving as the academy’s director.
So, when a messenger brought news concerning the Academy, the Emperor naturally assumed that the opposition he had long anticipated from the Church was finally surfacing.
It was fortunate that he realized this assumption was mistaken as he made his way to the site.
“A debate is escalating?”
“It seems something Director Gemistos said during his lecture caused a stir. Another scholar who had come seeking academic exchange objected to his claim, and the atmosphere became increasingly hostile.”
“Hostile enough to warrant military intervention?”
“Not many are actively joining sides yet. But since this was meant to be a public lecture…”
“It seems the director is making an effort.”
Striving to encourage diverse scholarly exchange while drawing public interest—it was certainly a commendable effort. It gave the impression of preparing for the future.
The Emperor allowed himself a subtle smile. The Academy had been neglected for too long due to the overwhelming demands of governance. As a patron, it wasn’t ideal to interfere too much, but being too indifferent wasn’t wise either.
“That’s the place, Your Majesty.”
“Hmm… At least it looks respectable.”
The Emperor had provided funding and land for the Academy, but this was his first time actually visiting it.
The compensation for the land had been so generous—by medieval standards—that there had been virtually no backlash or need for follow-up reports.
Though the Academy didn’t possess the grandeur or ornate quality of a cultural landmark, it wasn’t shabby either, having been refurbished from a former manor. Its style leaned toward practical simplicity overall.
The only particularly eye-catching feature was the outdoor lecture hall created by remodeling the garden.
From there, loud voices could be heard clearly—even by the Emperor.
The Academy wasn’t far from the central court of the city, so naturally passersby had started gathering. As the messenger had said, it was the kind of situation that could easily spiral into a public brawl.
To prevent that, a familiar face had appeared with a group of soldiers.
“This could turn into a riot. Prevent civilians from approaching recklessly! Maintain the perimeter until His Majesty decides how to proceed!”
Perhaps due to spending most of her time training future officers, the once-smooth blonde hair of the knight had dulled with dust. Yet her commanding presence had only grown sharper.
She had clearly mobilized immediately upon hearing the news, though she had only a dozen soldiers in tow. Still, they were heavily armed. The clinking of their armor alone caused curious citizens to instinctively back away.
Letting out a sigh of relief, Ivania turned her head—only to lock eyes with the Emperor. The weariness on her face was quickly replaced by a burst of energy.
The golden-haired knight ran up without hesitation, a bright smile blooming on her face.
“Your Majesty!”
“I’m glad to see you’re devoted to training.”
“I—I didn’t expect to meet Your Majesty under such circumstances…”
Only then remembering her dust-covered, sweat-stained appearance, Ivania lowered her head in embarrassment. She even took a subtle step back, wary of possibly offending the Emperor’s senses.
Though he could have teased her about it, the Emperor chose instead to spare her the discomfort by focusing on the matter at hand.
“You moved quickly despite your training schedule. Maintain the blockade as it is.”
“By Your command, Your Majesty.”
With so many eyes on them, Ivania could not let go of formal protocol. Even so, she couldn’t quite hide the flush that had spread across her cheeks.
Once again, the Emperor turned away as if he hadn’t noticed, and walked toward the Academy along the path cleared by the retreating crowd. In his path, Ivania stood alone, barely holding back a laugh as she clenched her fist in silent triumph.
By the time the Emperor reached the vicinity of the outdoor lecture hall, it was clear who had been raising their voices loud enough to stop passersby in their tracks.
“I’m not saying every reform you propose is wrong. But it’s undeniable that some of your ideas are completely outdated!”
“Outdated? They’re time-tested systems! What do you think forms the foundation of a nation?”
“Have you spent so long chasing the false gods of Olympus that your entire worldview has regressed to the past? These delusions of yours are laughable!”
“Aha! So you’re just another one of those blinded by the Church’s nonsense. Clinging to lofty fantasies that only drag our people deeper into ruin!”
These were not the stylish techniques of esteemed scholars. The anger and disappointment they felt toward each other were far too raw.
Other attendees, caught in the middle, looked visibly uncomfortable and couldn’t bring themselves to intervene. The situation was clearly in need of an outside force to break the impasse.
The Emperor was more than willing to be that force.
“It seems the Academy has grown lively in the time I’ve been away, burdened with my duties.”
The calm, weighty voice cut through the noise like a blade. Everyone turned reflexively toward it—and the moment they recognized the figure who had spoken, gasps and shouts of surprise rang out.
“Y-Your Majesty!”
“It’s Emperor Dragasēs!”
“What!? That’s Emperor Dragasēs!?”
Elders with years of experience and young scholars burning with passion alike jumped to their feet in astonishment. It wasn’t just the authority of the crown—Emperor Dragasēs commanded overwhelming support among the people of the Empire, including Morea.
Nearly everyone present counted themselves among his admirers.
Naturally, the two scholars at the heart of the conflict couldn’t possibly continue their quarrel in his presence.
“We are honored by your presence, Emperor Dragasēs.”
“Constantinos, Your Majesty.”
Only Gemistos Plethon, who had a measure of personal connection with the Emperor, used his given name, Constantinos. But Dragasēs and Constantinos were both names of the Emperor.
Accepting their greetings with grace, he looked from one scholar to the other, as they still stiffened with tension.
“I had thought it was a simple academic debate driven by enthusiasm for scholarship, but upon listening more closely, it seems the two held quite strongly different views. It sounded more like a dispute over the direction this nation should take.”
Though there had been no formal ceremony prepared, he stood with the same composure as always.
The Emperor had no intention of asserting authority in front of scholars who had attained such learning in their own right.
After all, had he not personally invited Gemistos Plethon himself?
No matter how lofty an Emperor may be, someone like Plethon deserved respect.
And this very attitude was the embodiment of the ideal ruler people had long dreamed of.
The two scholars, once again bowing deeply to show their respect, began speaking through Plethon.
“It is shameful to have troubled Your Majesty with our dispute. I fear something I said during the lecture unintentionally offended someone, and in turn, provoked a rebuttal to the reforms I have long advocated. You may rest easy, Your Majesty.”
“Plethon speaks thus. What say you?”
“It pains me that a scholar of such stature would try to smooth over this matter in such a way. However, since Your Majesty first heard of the controversy over the reform proposal, it would be proper to address that matter first.”
The scholar who had debated Plethon still looked visibly tense.
Yet he hadn’t lost himself in anger so far as to forget whose presence he was in—his voice gradually grew more composed.
“Georgios Gemistos Plethon, a man who has achieved considerable scholarly merit in his own right, argued for the necessity of reform on the grounds that the Church and monasteries own far too much land and wealth. I do not deny this. In fact, I even praised Your Majesty’s past reforms that abolished several monasteries.”
“No issue so far…”
“The problem lies in his call for the restoration of the themata system.”
“You take issue with restoring the themata?”
“It simply no longer fits the current realities of our nation.”
The themata system.
A policy once created during the Empire’s time of crisis, it was essentially a form of military land grant system.
By assigning soldiers to specific territories, it enabled rapid mobilization in times of need—its goal was to repel foreign invasions.
Its effectiveness was clear, having supported the Empire for centuries.
And yet, the scholar standing before them was openly denying the restoration of the themata.
“What made the themata possible was the attachment of soldiers to land. And we had a population large enough to mobilize a sizable army. But do we still have enough land and people left? While we struggle to stabilize recently recovered regions like Thessaly and Athens, how many people can realistically be mobilized?”
“Land has already been secured through prior reforms. As for the declining population, it has simply not been properly counted due to the prolonged wars. But if we include the number of refugees flocking to the now-stable and thriving Morea, the implementation is certainly within reach, is it not?”
Unable to endure the critique any longer, Gemistos Plethon finally countered.
But it was as if the opposing scholar had been waiting for this—he raised another objection.
“Then how do you propose we control the themata? Even during the Empire’s golden age, we failed to fully suppress rebellions led by factions. And now, with the central government barely functioning and most of its authority in ruins, how can we be certain of the themata’s loyalty?”
“At the time, the Empire was in a transitional period lacking firm legitimacy. Most emperors failed to get support from across the social spectrum as Your Majesty has, through your struggle against the Ottomans. But Your Majesty is different. In the darkest hour, when all others had given up, Your Majesty stood alone and led an impossible campaign—and triumphed. You have demonstrated both your ability and your legitimacy as a true protector! If that legitimacy is what sustains this nation, then restoring the themata is entirely feasible!”
“No one man’s authority lasts forever! Your Majesty, it was because my own thoughts aligned with yours that I came to Mistra in great hope. But the idea of governing the provinces through direct control is all but impossible now. Your promise to free the provinces must fully end the era of oppressive centralized rule. Please do not forget, Your Majesty: the more the state tries to control everything, the more its resources and finances are drained.”
“Your Majesty, the themata have already proven their value in times of crisis. I can say with confidence that there is no better system currently available to bolster our insufficient military. Even if implementing them in full is difficult under current conditions, the pursuit alone may yield viable solutions.”
Though the two seemed to be locked in heated debate, they soon remembered who the true judge was—and both turned their words toward the Emperor.
For the Emperor, it was both unsettling and compelling—each side made valid points.
Indeed, it would be a lie to say the idea of restoring the themata had never crossed his mind as a solution to the military shortage.
It was, after all, one of the most useful concepts among the few he had learned.
And yet, as he listened to Plethon’s opponent, he realized it was not such a simple or sweet solution after all.
The restoration of the themata would not solve everything.
It was an obvious truth, but one he found himself contemplating anew.
Sensing this shift in the air, the opposing scholar seized the opportunity to press further.
“Your Majesty, while the themata were once useful, they are wholly incompatible with today’s circumstances. Beyond what I’ve already said, if we attempt to field a force larger than our capabilities, how will we manage logistics? What about equipment? What about troop readiness? A decline in quality is inevitable. Moreover, tying troops to local regions would slow mobilization—should we miss a crucial opportunity to go on the offensive, how much farther will our goal decline? To reclaim the lands that once belonged to the Empire, we need a system that allows for flexible movement. Please, Your Majesty—make the bold decisions needed to restore the reign of this nation, this Empire, this Rome.”
—Until now, Plethon had kept his composure despite his passion.
But at this final statement, he let out a cry that was almost a scream.
“Rome! Always Rome again!”
Tears streamed down from the furrows beside Plethon’s eyes.
The old scholar clutched his chest and wept openly—so different from his usual calm demeanor.
“How long must people keep dying in the name of Rome? Even after seeing this nation, and the people living in it, collapse while chasing after unattainable glory, how do you still not understand?”
Unattainable glory.
That phrase darkened the faces of all in the lecture hall.
Some may have simply found it distasteful.
But others felt a bitter truth in it, and a few quietly bowed their heads.
Though most could not accept Plethon’s wailing, there were some who understood deeply.
Among them was Emperor Dragases himself.
“….”
“Your Majesty… I believe that you know. You must know what caused this nation’s painful fall. Think of how many sacrifices were forced upon us in the name of Rome. And if even more sacrifices are needed for that name, then I would gladly give up being Roman.”
“…Plethon.”
“Your Majesty, do not forget. We are not Romans. We are Greeks—Greeks who have no need to be bound by the name of Rome.”
For an emperor who had already chosen to prioritize the people who followed him over past glories, it was only natural that Plethon’s words would tug at his heart.
But he couldn’t just repeat Plethon’s ideas.
The people did not want to be Greeks—they wanted to be Romans.
They had vowed to resist their fate as Romans, and saw themselves as heirs to Rome’s legacy and traditions.
And so, rather than respond to Plethon’s words, the Emperor asked the other scholar for his name.
“…It would be best to avoid topics like reforms or policy for the time being. I will arrange a more suitable venue for productive discussion later. For now, both of you are dismissed. What is your name?”
“…Thomas Magistros, Your Majesty.”
Still deep in thought over Plethon’s anguished cry, the scholar gave his name.
Thomas Magistros.
The Emperor spoke it once aloud, gave a small nod, and issued his final order.
“Though it was a debate, raising one’s voice so harshly in a public lecture is still unseemly. There will be a light reprimand for this—you shall accompany me.”
“If that is Your Majesty’s will.”
Magistros accepted the command without resistance.
Now that the new scholar’s stance had been made clear, there was no need to remain longer.
Without hesitation, the Emperor turned away from the academy—leaving behind the many gazes fixed upon him.
Leave a Reply