After reading the Pope’s letter in its entirety, I uttered only one word.
“Nonsense.”
Right after meeting with the Venetian envoy, I had rushed into my office, unable to contain my excitement, and torn open the sealed letter—only to find this.
It made me grit my teeth in frustration.
A coronation?
Why should I do something that benefits only the Pope?
And that wasn’t even the worst of it. There was also a request for me to participate in a crusade to suppress the Hussites.
What kind of demand was that? It was only natural that irritation welled up within me.
Of course, it was undeniably a rare opportunity to encounter Jan Žižka, a general of unparalleled brilliance. But there were far more pressing matters at hand.
“I’m sorry, Your Holiness, but I am already too busy managing affairs here.”
That being said, I couldn’t deny the unusual nature of the Pope’s message.
Granting me the authority to attend the Council alone was significant enough. A council was a crucial assembly where theological debates brought the Church closer to the truth.
But for the Empire, its significance extended beyond mere doctrine. Throughout history, Popes had shown great interest in the unification of the Eastern and Western Churches.
Consequently, councils had come to serve as diplomatic arenas between the West and the Empire.
The fact that I had been invited to such a gathering meant that I was, in effect, being recognized as the Empire’s representative.
The message had not been addressed to the Emperor in Constantinople, but to me, the ruler of Morea.
The implication was clear—the Pope was more interested in tangible military support for the Crusade than the symbolic authority of an Emperor.
That much was obvious.
“Even if Your Holiness were to promise a crusade, there’s nothing to be done.”
Muttering to myself, I slowly nodded in understanding.
The stabilization of occupied territories was still unfinished. Leaving my post in such a dangerous situation was out of the question.
And yet, I could see the Pope’s reasoning.
If he had gone so far as to send a request to a mere provincial ruler in Greece, he must have been truly desperate.
That only deepened my respect for Jan Žižka.
Defeating multiple crusades with his own strength alone—what experience could I possibly bring to a battle against such a commander?
Even if I were to go, it would only wear down my already weary body.
Challenging someone of his caliber was nothing short of a fool’s job.
I had learned that lesson the hard way while facing Murad.
One does not cross swords with an enemy unless multiple chains have been set in place to restrain their movements first.
Rather than engaging the Hussites in battle, it would be far more effective to use the Council as a means to sow discord among them.
In an ideal world, I would welcome all the Hussites under my banner and call for Jan Žižka to join my cause.
But with the Pope already set on a crusade, such a proposal wouldn’t even be entertained.
Instead of wasting my breath on a fruitless plea, it would be far more productive to list out the reasons I couldn’t participate.
“Still, at least I now know that the Pope has his eyes on Greece.”
No matter how many plans I devised, I knew better than anyone that without resolving the most fundamental issue, the Empire’s survival was impossible.
Dreaming of victory against the ever-strengthening Ottomans without Western crusaders on our side was nothing short of a sin.
The Ottomans were the chosen of history—the ones history had favoured.
If nothing else, this letter confirmed that forming a crusade would be far easier than I had anticipated. Once the issue with the Hussites was resolved, a crusade for the reclamation of Greece wouldn’t be far off.
Just thinking about it made it difficult to suppress the emotions welling up inside me.
That uncertain, distant future—one day, a crusade would rise against the mighty Ottomans. If this letter had given me even the slightest insight into that possibility, then it had served its purpose.
And more than that, it had forced me to reconsider the most pressing issue among the many that troubled me.
“The Pope sent this letter because he foresees an impending succession dispute and wishes to lend his support to me.”
Before the war had broken out, John had conspired with his younger brother Theodoros to purge or imprison my father and his loyalists, who had been sympathetic to my cause.
At the time, I had been forced to bow my head due to the more immediate external threats.
But the conflict between the capital and Morea had never truly ended. Ever since my father’s imprisonment, the rift between us had been beyond repair.
The capital had succeeded in purging my influence entirely—it was only natural that hostilities persisted.
Of course, the timeline of events had shifted somewhat, but Morea had once sought to sever ties with the capital by demanding the establishment of an independent archbishopric.
Never before had a nation housed two archbishops. Since the archbishop’s coronation was a testament to a ruler’s legitimacy, Morea’s demand for an independent archbishopric was a clear declaration of its intent to reject both the Patriarch’s and the Emperor’s authority.
I had done everything in my power to avoid this confrontation, but in the end, the clash between these two forces had become inevitable.
In the upcoming [decisive battle], the Ottomans, having eliminated all internal threats, would bear down on the Empire with a united and formidable force. To stand against them, the Empire, too, needed to become one.
John, who wielded his authority through the legacy and traditions of the thousand-year-old imperial capital, and I, who asserted mine by controlling southern and central Greece—our conflict was inevitable.
“—Then what must I do?”
Once the succession crisis erupted in full force, whether I had undergone a coronation would be a crucial factor in establishing my legitimacy as Emperor.
The Patriarch, who stood with the capital and the Emperor, would never grant me such a ceremony. If I failed to receive a coronation, my rule would be seen as nothing more than rebellion, splitting public opinion in the capital.
Moreover, Constantinople—the Queen of Cities—was encircled on all sides by the Ottomans. Protected by its formidable triple walls, breaking through with a mere handful of Morean forces was an impossible feat.
And that wasn’t the only issue. A coronation done by a pope would provoke immense backlash, as hostility toward the Latins had yet to fade completely. The Empire would fracture beyond repair, collapsing helplessly before the nearing Ottoman invasion.
Yet maintaining the status norm or lowering my head once more was just as unthinkable.
The transfer of Thessalonica to Venice had been agreed upon through a secret pact with our other brother, Andronikos, but it was too great of a compromise for the rest of the Empire to simply accept.
For now, people remained silent, relieved that the Ottomans had retreated, but opposition was inevitable. There would be those who questioned whether I even had the authority to surrender Thessalonica in the first place.
And such legal disputes would be a severe liability for me, a direct threat to my claim to the throne.
Worse yet, they would seek to strip me of my position altogether—to curb my growing power. If I bowed my head again, I would have no choice but to relinquish all authority and be dragged to the capital. The only fate awaiting me there was imprisonment or death.
After much deliberation, I finally resolved to convey the Pope’s intentions to the capital.
“Now then, what will you do?”
Even without the Patriarch, I could still receive a coronation from the Pope. Just the knowledge of this possibility would put immense pressure on them. If the Prince of Morea were crowned by the Pope, the Empire would be split in two. If they still expected me to bow my head for the Empire’s sake, they would come to regret it.
Time was running out.
They could either swear loyalty—or I would take up my sword.
After centuries of decline, only this choice remained.
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