“Then, Your Highness, we shall wait here for your return.”
Sphrantzes bowed his head as he spoke, having safely escorted the prince to the place where the Emperor awaited.
It was clear he had no intention of interfering in the meeting between the prince and the Emperor.
Naturally, even Ivania, who had offered to stand guard, had no excuse to follow when even the imperial secretary stepped back.
Fortunately, Ivania still seemed to be in high spirits as she saw the prince off.
“I would like nothing more than to stay by your side, but I’m sure important matters will be discussed. I’ll step back as well and wait patiently for your return, Your Highness.”
“You’re twice as demure as usual….Very well, then. Please do.”
The prince couldn’t fully rejoice, as he knew why such unusual behaviour was surfacing.
With a faintly uneasy look, he nodded. When both Sphrantzes and Ivania stepped back a few paces, the prince turned away from them and stepped into the chamber.
The room was plain, without any lavish decorations.
That wasn’t strange.
While perhaps not to the same degree as Prince Constantine, Emperor Manuel was also a man who did not indulge in luxury.
Thanks to that, anyone entering the room could be noticed immediately.
Even the slightest shift at the edge of his vision would catch Manuel’s attention.
Whether that was because of his aging senses or simply a personality trait, only the Emperor himself would know.
At any rate, he must have sensed someone’s approach.
Sitting at his desk with a solemn expression as he wrote, Manuel turned his gaze toward the prince.
“Constantine.”
“…It has truly been a long time, Father.”
Despite the years that made it feel like a second lifetime, the prince had finally, after much hesitation, come to call him Father.
Manuel, too, more often spoke as an emperor than as a father, and rarely used names in such a personal way.
But this was a private meeting.
Being called by his name, Constantine responded as a son rather than as a subject. Manuel welcomed his son’s reply with quiet joy.
“Indeed. It has been many years since we last looked upon each other’s faces.”
No matter how passionate and resolute a man may be, time leaves its mark.
Since the days of the Peloponnese reconquest, Emperor Manuel had been worn down by exhaustion.
His face was lined with wrinkles etched by years of hardship. And where youthful vigor once resided, only white hair and beard remained. Yet the aged Emperor recalled the days in Morea with a faint smile.
“You were quite bold, always pestering to be sent to the battlefield even at such a young age.”
“Those were anxious times in many ways.”
“And I was ashamed. That I placed such a heavy burden on one so young as you.”
Any decent adult would feel the same.
The prince had barely turned ten when he was sent to the front without a proper escort.
Of course, part of the reason for such a decision was the lack of suitable people and Manuel’s own state of exhaustion.
Still, to send a child who had not even grown into himself into battle—Wasn’t that an unfit action for a parent? Manuel had long wrestled with that guilt.
The prince could not fully understand all the torment in Manuel’s heart.
But the bitter smile on the aged Emperor’s face told him enough to grasp its weight.
Looking upon his son, the Emperor gestured to a seat.
“Sit down, Constantine. What we have to speak of won’t end quickly.”
“I’m ready to listen.”
From the moment he was summoned, Constantine had not expected the conversation to remain strictly between parent and child.
He nodded without hesitation and carefully took the seat placed before Manuel.
Despite the gravity of meeting the man who had sustained the empire for decades, there was no visible tension.
Constantine had a good guess why.
‘This feels familiar.’
Unlike other parts of the palace, where remnants of past grandeur still clung to the walls, Manuel’s room was barren from the outset.
It gave off the impression that only the essentials were kept, nothing more.
That same trait applied to Constantine as well.
Though perhaps not entirely like his father, he displayed a striking similarity in his cautious nature.
And Manuel seemed aware of this resemblance, following Constantine’s gaze as he looked around the empty room.
“Even John came to complain about it. I told him that, since I’ll soon be entering the monastery, what use do I have for luxuries?”
That remark immediately redirected the prince’s attention.
His interest in Manuel’s cautious nature vanished. In its place rose an uncontainable bubble of emotion, bubbling up from his chest. He blurted out the question before he could stop himself.
“Have you forgiven him?”
A natural question.
John, fearing for his position as Constantine gained his father’s continued support, had personally confined the Emperor.
Though he hadn’t stripped him of his title, John had exiled Manuel to a monastery and stripped him of all real power.
That alone was enough to inspire fury—especially after the suffering Morea endured as a result.
No matter how many gestures of reconciliation John made, it was difficult to accept.
Manuel could not have missed the emotions behind that question.
And he understood. The prince—Constantine—was experiencing feelings that Manuel had once known himself.
Even so, he could not give the answer Constantine wanted.
“…Yes. I forgave him. Though there were conditions.”
“The reason.”
A brief, pointed reply. Their eyes met. The old emperor and the young prince.
In the demanding gaze of the heir, the weary ruler saw a reflection of his younger self.
“Tell me a reason I can accept.”
It might sound arrogant.
It could even seem like audacity.
But Manuel did not take it as such—for he too had once asked the same question.
Among his many children, Constantine walked a path most similar to his own.
The only difference was that, unlike Manuel, Constantine might actually get the answer he sought. Manuel closed his eyes, slowly and silently, and then spoke.
“I forgave John because you needed an ally.”
“An ally? The very emperor who endangered this nation that barely held on?”
“…Constantine, in you I saw myself.”
Even considering their bond as father and son, the resemblance between Emperor Manuel and Prince Constantine was striking.
They had both risen during times of collapse, fought against overwhelming foes, rallied the people’s support.
Both had committed contradictory acts—sacrificing parts to protect the whole.
When Manuel heard of the horror at Nemeapatre, he clenched his teeth to keep from spitting blood.
And that was precisely why they could not be completely alike.
“Now that I think of it, I’ve never told you about my younger days myself. Will you listen, to the story of this wretched father’s past?”
“…Gladly.”
Constantine knew this was no casual change of topic.
It had meaning.
There was a thread here he needed to follow. Nodding silently, he gave his consent. Watching his son with quiet affection, Manuel began, in a calm voice.
“It was after the Serbians and their allied army were defeated.”
This was the era when the strengthening Ottomans struck fear into their neighbours, and the Serbs had rallied under the banner of defending Orthodoxy.
Emperor John V, Manuel’s father, had desperately sought allies, and his efforts peaked in the Serbian coalition.
But they were defeated by the Ottomans. For Constantinople, praying for Ottoman collapse, it was a crushing blow. That was when Manuel rose.
“I knew that, at this rate, even Thessalonica would fall. So I rallied the retreating Serbian forces.”
Manuel had judged the situation correctly.
While others crumbled before the Ottoman army, he led his own troops and reclaimed Serres, reestablishing influence over Thessalonica.
Though enraged, the Ottomans were too exhausted from constant campaigns to give an effective response. Manuel repelled the Ottoman forces and held Thessalonica.
“But I couldn’t win over everyone’s hearts.”
Despite his military success, he couldn’t dispel the fear that had taken root.
Among those now terrified of the Ottomans was his father, Emperor John V.
He viewed Manuel’s resistance as reckless, likely to incite Ottoman wrath. And so, he refused to help. Believing that inaction would protect the empire from retribution.
“Even those who once followed me eventually turned their backs.”
Four years passed without anyone coming to his aid.
Four years spent in utter neglect was a painfully long time—long enough to extinguish any man’s passion.
The citizens of Thessalonica, faced with the growing threat of the Ottomans, chose submission over resistance. Disappointed, Manuel left Thessalonica and returned to his father. And when he did, Emperor John V, his father, greeted his son coldly after four years of absence.
“Did I not tell you it was meaningless?”
John V exiled Manuel to an island.
It didn’t take long for word of Manuel’s defeat to spread.
The very Ottomans Manuel had once fought as enemies were the first to summon him. The Sultan demanded an oath of vassalage. Having lost everything, Manuel had no choice left.
And so, with tears in his eyes, Manuel kissed the Sultan’s feet.
“…Even so, there were those who still believed in me—and it was thanks to them that I could rise to the throne. But naturally, this displeased the Ottomans. The Sultan wanted me to serve in his army, and I had no choice but to obey.”
The Sultan never wished for Manuel to become emperor.
That’s why he punished the empire for installing Manuel as emperor without first seeking his approval.
As a result, Manuel and his nephew, who had been crowned together, were forced to serve in the Sultan’s army. And when Manuel discovered where the Sultan intended to send him—
He clenched his teeth.
“Philadelphia.”
The Ottoman invasion had swiftly swallowed much of Asia Minor, but Philadelphia was one city they had yet to conquer.
Surrounded by Turks, the city had nonetheless held out for decades, refusing to surrender. Its people had endured, clinging to the faded glory of the past and hoping that help would come someday.
“It was a place I should have protected.”
And it was also a city he had no choice but to weigh against the empire itself.
Philadelphia was a city that, as emperor, he was duty-bound to protect. But he also had to protect the empire. Faced with the Sultan’s cruel ultimatum, Manuel had only one choice.
The city fell.
Its decades-long resistance received no reward.
And amid the looting and fires that raged through its streets, Manuel saw a man who had reached out to him—only to die before his eyes.
Only then did Manuel truly grasp the weight of sacrifice. He came to understand, with piercing clarity, what it meant to destroy something for the sake of protection.
“With these hands, I brought down a city. And only much later did I come to realize something—something I learned through a life marked by failure. Constantine…”
The old emperor’s hands began to tremble faintly. At the same time, his long recounting of the past came to an end.
Prince Constantine, who had listened silently despite already knowing much of Manuel’s story, looked at the emperor’s trembling hands.
“…I won’t deny that, as a father, I wished to forgive my child.”
Manuel was not only an emperor, but also a father. And he was not the sort of man who would coldly cast out a son who had come to him seeking punishment for his mistakes.
He had always cherished and loved his wife and children and had done his best to be a devoted father.
—However.
“But it was as emperor that I forgave John.”
Even as his hands continued to tremble, the resolute emperor did not shed a tear.
He, who had upheld the empire alone for decades, was not shaken by helplessness.
Emperor Manuel and Prince Constantine—once again, their determined gazes met in the air.
“To rule as both Prince of Morea and Emperor of Constantinople is no easy feat. Eventually, one of the two—either your rule in Morea or public support in the capital—will falter. Even without that, it’s easy to imagine how difficult it would be to govern two divided lands at once.
But Morea is where the last of our strength for resistance has gathered. Even considering the capital’s importance, it cannot be abandoned so easily. And your influence there has already taken too deep a root for someone else to easily take your place. I could not choose a successor lightly. So I needed someone to oversee the capital in your stead, while you focused on Morea.”
“…That was the reason?”
“If there’s one more reason, it’s because of something you once said to me, Constantine.”
At his puzzled expression, Manuel gave a weary smile and answered.
“Do you remember asking me for time and opportunity?”
“……………”
“Then let the man who was once destined to become a mere monk now make his request to the young man who will become the new emperor..”
As emperor, Manuel no longer stood in this place. The moment he realized this, the prince reached out and placed his hand atop Manuel’s trembling one.
The warmth he had so often cherished now returned to embrace him.
Even for Manuel, who had endured countless trials and experiences, it was something unfamiliar. Only then did he truly understand.
The burdens that had weighed down his shoulders for so long had finally come to an end.
And so, Manuel requested:
“Fulfill the lifelong wish of a father who sent his son into the jaws of death.”
It was a feeble plea, spoken by one who had endured countless hardships without ever giving up—by one who had suffered an unfathomable number of defeats.
A wish he had been forced to abandon in order to protect, now finally stood before him.
The last glimmer of hope, appearing at the end of so many powerless struggles.
Constantine’s presence was that hope—even for Manuel, who had fought a lonely battle all his life.
And standing before the vulnerable side of his father—a side he had never shown to anyone—Constantine only became stronger.
“I will take up your challenge.”
Some would say that giving up and accepting fate was the wiser choice.
Even Constantine himself had, in some corner of his heart, felt the same—what more was there to say? If he had simply turned his back on a crumbling homeland, he would never have gone through such agonizing experiences. It was a decision not easily made.
Chains of promised prosperity and submission.
Sovereignty and freedom on barren soil.
No one could say for certain which choice was right.
But one thing was clear—whichever path he chose, the amount of blood that would be spilled on this land was all too predictable. Many would choose the former for this reason, thinking resistance was futile.
And yet, Manuel had fought back. For the faintest sliver of hope.
He believed he had failed to convince others, but because of him, that belief was false. The bitter struggle he had endured left behind a final seed of pride in people’s hearts. Without that, none would have dared even dream of resisting the Ottomans.
Still, Constantine’s challenge was certain to drench the land in an ocean of blood.
“Even if it comes with countless sacrifices, I will not give up.”
To speak of victory would be absurd.
The disparity between the Ottomans and the empire was that despairing—and the difference in power was not something easily overcome. No matter how much blood was spilled, that truth would remain unchanged.
—And that was precisely why Manuel could place his faith in Constantine.
“This is the only vow I can offer you.”
“…It’s enough. It’s more than enough…”
The blood that would flow on this land would be the blood of those who still held faith.
Red faith, spilled by those who fought for prophecy and those who fought against fate. And with that blood and that faith, the cross would rise once more.
Not to be white as innocence, nor black as despair.
But red—because it had been soaked in blood.
The [Red Cross], born of blood and destined to bring peace, was now laid upon the shoulders of the prince.
