Though Emperor Dragasēs devoted much of his time to overseeing military reorganization and the outcomes of the popular assemblies, that didn’t mean he neglected other matters.
Among them, the issue he pursued most fervently was the abolition of small and mid-sized monasteries.
The emperor granted a three-month grace period and warned of severe consequences for those who refused the audit.
Some, intimidated by the threat, submitted to the process.
But not all.
A significant number of monasteries responded to the emperor’s threatening policies not with words, but with silence.
In return for that silence, the emperor launched an unprecedentedly harsh civilian policy: he confiscated all monastic property and forcibly relocated those who returned to secular life.
Naturally, this provoked fierce backlash.
Monks from monasteries on the verge of dissolution organized and made their way to Mistra to express their protest.
Even clergy who were usually friendly toward the emperor found themselves unable to remain silent this time.
Only Bishop Nikephoros busied himself trying to quell direct resistance from the Church.
Amid these tensions, the monks requested an audience—and the emperor granted it.
And the very first words spoken to him were words of condemnation.
“Your Majesty, we fear that your recent victory has blinded you. You swore to be the protector of the Church and the faith—how can you persecute monasteries so harshly simply because they are small? Since when did worship require size or scale? Do you intend to violate the principle of ‘Render unto God what is God’s, and to Caesar what is Caesar’s’?”
The emperor, too, knew that persecuting the small simply for being small was not just.
Their words were not without reason.
But he couldn’t back down.
Morea had to be run with maximum efficiency, and the overabundance of monasteries had become a burden, a source of inefficiency.
If they wished to remain, some new condition would be required.
And so, the emperor presented the idea he had already prepared.
“Then perhaps you might consider serving God in a different way. The Knights Hospitaller, who stole the island of Rhodes from us—they are a monastic order too, are they not? Would you be willing to form a knightly monastic order like those Latins, for the glory of God?”
“That would go against our doctrine. We live only to pray in silence.”
“There are already enough who pray. All who follow me pray to God every single day without fail. What I need now are those who will take up sword and spear.”
“Your Majesty, we ask you not to drag us, who hold no interest in worldly affairs, into a blood-stained swamp. We wish only to reach the Kingdom of Heaven after death.”
“If you speak of what comes after death, then I will speak of your lives. While you live, I am your emperor. You will comply with taxation. You will respond to labor conscription. You will take up arms against the infidels.”
The eyes of monk and emperor locked.
But in the face of the emperor’s resolved gaze, the monk’s resistance held no weight.
Especially now, when Emperor Dragases had restored control as far as Larissa, his support among the people was strong.
Public opinion clearly leaned in his favour.
Even the Church, which might once have stepped in to defend the monasteries, now stood by, merely watching.
From the beginning, it had been clear which side would kneel.
“…Your Majesty, the day will come when your interference in the affairs of faith and the Church will come back to haunt you.”
“What I said still stands. Those unwilling to dissolve may gather and form a knightly order. To those alone, I shall grant the same privileges as before.”
The monk lowered his head quietly and withdrew.
He had no choice but to comply with the forced relocations the emperor had ordered.
There was further resistance, but far weaker than before.
Still, the knightly order the emperor had quietly hoped for never came to be.
Regretting the loss of what could have been a new pool of manpower, the emperor sat once more in his office, sighing heavily.
“At least the immediate finances are secured.”
The emperor had enforced harsh policies of confiscation and forced relocation on small monasteries for two reasons.
First was to bolster the treasury.
With the cost of entrenching the new regime and training soldiers still uncertain, every coin mattered.
Second was to hasten the post-war restoration of occupied regions.
Even places untouched by fire bore the mark of war.
Fearing the spread of conflict, many had already fled ahead of time.
While it would be fine if they returned later, many refugees who had come to the relatively safe Morea had no intention of leaving.
Naturally so—it was the one region largely spared from the horrors of war.
Seizing the land of dissolved monasteries under the state’s name and leasing or selling it to nearby landowners or farming communities could yield profit.
The forced relocations from the monasteries also involved a significant number—an estimated thousand people had been moved.
This alone testified to how many monasteries had been crowding the land.
Of course, some monasteries passed inspection and were allowed to remain.
And it was precisely this inspection process that helped quell what could’ve been a full-blown outcry from the Church.
“That’s not all. Thanks to Your Majesty’s foresight, it seems many have found their complaints soothed—at least somewhat. Whether it leads to positive change or to chaos… we’ll have to wait and see.”
Bishop Nikephoros, who had offered the emperor unwavering support since boyhood, grinned with cheerful confidence.
The emperor smiled back, lightened by his presence.
The reason the Church ultimately restrained its anger was simple.
The emperor had arranged things so that the Church would gain influence over donations.
He designated the Church as the authority to determine which monasteries were in most urgent need of financial aid or merited recognition for their accomplishments.
In other words, any donation to a monastery would first pass through the Church, rather than going directly.
If a donation was deemed inappropriate, half of it would be claimed by the Church, and the remaining half returned to the goverment.
In simpler terms, the emperor had provided a convenient justification for himself and the Church to divide up donated wealth.
Naturally, this was ripe for abuse.
It was all but certain that some clergy were already scheming how to exploit it.
And that, too, was part of the emperor’s plan.
Once people realized that their donations weren’t being properly delivered, they would lose faith in the Church.
Except the devout few, most would no longer entrust their land or property to it.
As a result, donations to monasteries and the Church would inevitably decline.
The Church’s influence would gradually wither away.
The Church had chosen silence now, chasing after immediate gains—but once they saw the deeper game at play, would they remain silent still?
With these thoughts in mind, the emperor conversed casually with Bishop Nikephoros.
“You’ve been smiling more often these days.”
“It’s thanks to the belief that we’re moving toward a better future—one Your Majesty has granted us.”
“Even after seeing how I handled the monasteries, you still think so?”
“Of course. Too many were hiding behind the veil of faith. Though… that doesn’t mean I don’t understand them.”
“Oh? You understand?”
“Yes. This land has been crumbling for far too long. Faced with such a grim reality, it’s not strange that many chose to look away.”
“…Indeed.”
The emperor let out a quiet sigh without realizing it.
Regaining lost trust is no easy feat.
And if those who’ve turned their backs on the world did so because they lost trust in it—what could one even offer them?
They likely resented him already.
But such excuses would only hold for so long.
When the time came to act, those who continued to look away would only cause others to suffer.
Recalling his old vow to raise even the unwilling to their feet, the emperor answered firmly.
“Even so, I couldn’t just leave them be. This nation needs every last person it can get.”
“Just as Your Majesty says. We need even one more drop of faith. All we can do is wait—until even they can hold onto hope again.”
“They told me they wait only for the Kingdom of Heaven after death. Isn’t that already living with hope?”
Bishop Nikephoros gave a gentle smile at the emperor’s question.
His eyes were warm, like those of a guardian watching over a cherished child.
“Of course, our scriptures tell us to prepare for what lies beyond death. But, Your Majesty—can we truly call it hope if one lives only for death, without gratitude for the life they’ve been given?”
“…Indeed…”
Whether Bishop Nikephoros was right remained uncertain.
But it was clear the words had stirred something in the emperor’s heart.
Hope.
A word he had spoken countless times—yet for the first time, it felt unfamiliar.
Unfamiliar, yes.
Bathed in the sunlight filtering through the glass, the emperor leaned back.
In that warm, gentle light, he slowly closed his eyes.
A ticklish sensation—one he had never truly noticed before—began to rise in his chest.
“Perhaps…”
Perhaps the reason the word ‘hope’ felt so foreign… was because this was the first time he was truly feeling it.
The only one who could answer that question had already drifted off without knowing.
And as he watched the emperor surrender himself to the peace brought by sunlight, Bishop Nikephoros traced the sign of the cross with a soft smile—then quietly left the office.
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