Athens’ resistance proved futile.
Before they could recover from their defeat in battle, Venice’s navy appeared. The few ships Athens had were promptly captured, and the port was blockaded by the Venetians. When Venetian mercenaries, over thirty ships strong, flooded into the city, Athens’ fate was sealed.
By the time Prince Constantine arrived with his reassembled forces.
Athens had already fallen.
Initially trembling with fear and hatred at the sight of the Venetian flag, the public soon erupted in cheers at the sight of the Morean army led by the prince. After 200 years, their faith, long maintained despite the oppressive actions of the Western Church, had finally been justified.
Amidst the passionate welcome, the first destination of the prince was the court where the duke awaited. The Venetians who had taken over the court were well aware of the significance of the prince’s arrival.
“Congratulations on your victory, Your Highness.”
Admiral Foscarini, the commander of this landing, greeted him with a confident smile and a respectful, though not overly deferential, bow. The prince recognized him as the leader of this operation. While expelling Venice’s influence was a future concern, this was a time to maintain decorum. The prince, too, could not afford to dampen the celebratory mood.
“You’ve done well. It seems the Ottoman fleet has yet to make an appearance.”
“Those Turks are likely still preoccupied with subduing Serbia and only just becoming aware of our actions here. Even so, they can’t afford to withdraw their forces from Serbia, not with a claimant to the throne in play.”
Indeed, despite proclaiming their alliance with the Ottomans, the conquest of Athens rendered that controversial. The initial goal was to avoid drawing Ottoman attention by merging forces.
“Now, let us meet with the duke. It’s time to sign the peace treaty, isn’t it?”
Guided by the admiral, they arrived at a room where a middle-aged man awaited, under the watchful eyes of the Venetians. He sat with his head bowed in dejection, but upon hearing the approaching footsteps, he looked up. His eyes, unfocused and dim, betrayed the spirit of a man broken.
“…I thought we had more time.”
Time, he thought. The prince mulled over the word as he observed the disheartened duke. If he too believed there was more time, he might face a similar end. It was time to hold him accountable for his unwarranted optimism.
“You were overly optimistic. Did you believe you could survive indefinitely between the Empire and the Ottomans? Surely, you must have foreseen that if the Ottomans grew any stronger, they would simply take over.”
“True. But I never imagined we would fall to the Empire instead of the Ottomans.”
The duke slowly shook his head, his face a portrait of disbelief.
“Why have you done this? You, of all people, must understand the implications of attacking a duchy under Ottoman sovereignty. Do you truly believe you can win? Do you think victory is possible against the Turks?”
His words were undeniably accurate. The prince knew this was a gamble. Yet, he had no choice but to act.
“If we had merely watched, all anti-Ottoman forces in the Balkans would have been eradicated. Moreover, the number of extremists within the Empire was growing. I had to satisfy their ambitions somewhat to prevent them from acting recklessly. Otherwise, we would simply be waiting to be devoured.”
“…And now? What do you plan to do, prince?”
“I will require you to sign a treaty of humiliation.”
With those words, the prince presented the terms.
The Duchy of Athens, formerly ruled by the duke, is hereby declared an illegal occupation without the Empire’s sanction, and all rights previously claimed are nullified. Henceforth, imperial laws will replace the previously enacted local statutes. Additionally, a Venetian settlement will be established at the port of Athens, with exclusive tax off privileges granted to Venetians for the next ten years.
“As a gesture of respect for your noble status, should you choose to relocate to Mistra, you will receive a pension and may be eligible for public office following due process.”
“Stripping me of everything and calling it generosity?”
At the duke’s mocking remark, the prince replied with equal coldness.
“This is not generosity; it is mercy. Listen well.”
No one in the room missed the duke’s momentary flinch. It wasn’t long before he was engulfed in deep humiliation. As a ruler, his dignity and competence were overshadowed by the young man before him. It was a bitter reminder of the world’s inherent unfairness.
Finally, he managed to utter a single question.
“Do you think you can succeed?”
The prince closed his eyes, mulling over the question. Success? That was not a question for a monarch entrusted with power by the people. The answer for a ruler is always clear.
“I do not wear this mantle because I believe I can succeed, nor do I wear a crown out of arrogance.”
Only then did the duke understand what drove the prince. A rare young man indeed—no, perhaps still a boy in his untainted idealism.
A ruler motivated by duty and responsibility rather than ambition, struggling to prevent collapse at the expense of personal desires.
It was a pitiful and foolish sight.
Yet, it was also one of honor and nobility.
“May the Lord watch over you, Prince Dragases.”
Without a word, the prince watched as the duke stamped his seal to the treaty.
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