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Bertrandon de la Broquière entered the grand hall of Dijon in the early spring of 1432, finding it illuminated by flickering torchlight and the warm glow of an immense fireplace. Despite the blaze, the ancient stone walls held a persistent chill. Yet what struck Bertrandon most was not the cold, but the opulence. Everything in Duke Philip the Good's orbit spoke of extravagance: tapestries of intricate weaves, courtiers adorned in cloth-of-gold, and the heady perfume of power that came from moving the Burgundian court—arguably the most splendid in all Europe.

Duke Philip, perched upon a high-backed chair with the self-assured poise of a seasoned statesman, was dressed in finery that showcased his taste for sumptuous fabrics. The collar of the Order of the Golden Fleece gleamed at his neck. Bertrandon recalled the whispers: Philip had founded that chivalric order in 1430 as a proud alternative to England's Order of the Garter. Now, the Golden Fleece had taken on a life of its own, recognized as a preeminent knightly order throughout Christendom.

Moving closer, Bertrandon became aware of the hush that had fallen. The court was normally abuzz with conversation—minstrels practicing music from the famed Burgundian chapel, knights from distant corners discussing the next joust or tournament, and scribes examining illuminated manuscripts commissioned by the Duke. But with a simple, subtle gesture, Philip commanded silence. He beckoned Bertrandon forward, his gaze level and cool.

"Bertrandon," the Duke began, "you have served me well on many journeys—observant and discreet. Now I have need of both qualities." He paused, letting his words settle amid the faint crackle of the fire. "This realm of ours, Burgundy… we stand at a crossroads. There is talk of a crusade against the Ottoman Empire. Plans were laid at my Feast of the Pheasant, but as you know, even the grandest feasts cannot guarantee action. Times change; so must our strategies."

Bertrandon bowed his head in deference. "Your Grace, how may I serve?"

Philip's eyes flicked to the tapestries depicting the myth of Jason and the Golden Fleece. "The East," he said finally, almost musing to himself. "Its rulers tremble before the Turk, its holy places remain hotly contested. If we are to contemplate alliances, trade agreements, or even a crusade, I must have reliable intelligence. You shall go there—visit Jerusalem's edges if you must, and Constantinople, too. See whether the rumors of decline are exaggerated or all too real."

Bertrandon nodded, already trying to piece together the route. The Duke then leaned forward, his expression sharpening. "There is another matter. You are aware of my interest in manuscripts. Our scribes toil endlessly, but at court we have been hearing of something new—an invention in the Morea that might render the quill nearly obsolete. The printed book." He let the words linger, as though testing Bertrandon's reaction.

Bertrandon hesitated. He had, in the margins of conversations with traveling merchants, heard whispers of such a marvel. But it sounded too miraculous: rows of perfect letters stamped onto parchment by a mechanical device. "Yes, Your Grace, a rumor among the caravans. But nothing I could confirm."

Philip's voice dropped low. "I have seen evidence that it is more than rumor. Two Bibles were delivered to my library—flawless in text, impeccable in layout. Not even Paris, nor my beloved Flemish illuminators, could match such precision at speed. They say this innovation stems from Constantine, the Byzantine Despot down in the Morea. Even the Pope has placed an order for these books. Imagine, Bertrandon, if we could bring such knowledge—such industry—here. The prosperity of Burgundy would eclipse that of every rival. Our tapestry weavers, our goldsmiths, our shipyards aided by Portuguese expertise… everything would flourish."

Bertrandon's mind raced, picturing a printing device among the looms and goldsmiths in Bruges. He recalled how the Duke had once sent Jan van Eyck to Portugal, forging a marriage alliance with the Infanta Isabella. The memory of that delicate portrait still lingered in courtly conversation. Now, the Duke was turning his gaze again to foreign shores in search of advantage.

He bowed slightly. "And you wish me to uncover its methods, Your Grace? Perhaps arrange a trade deal, if possible?"

"That, and more," the Duke replied, signaling to a steward who came forward with a small chest. "This purse will see to your travels. You will have a letter of passage under my seal." He produced a scroll pressed with the Golden Fleece insignia—an emblem recognized by many as a token of the Duke's formidable reach. "But do not let the printed book overshadow your greater purpose. Assess the temper of the East—its strengths, its vulnerabilities. Judge if a crusade is feasible or if there is another way to secure Burgundy's fortunes."

Quietly, Bertrandon accepted the purse and scroll. He felt the weight of the coins through the worn leather, a tangible reminder of the Duke's expectations. Behind him, the courtiers watched with measured curiosity, some adjusting the fur collars of their cloaks or fingering the collars of their own Golden Fleece medallions. The flicker of the fire, the rustle of rich fabrics—these were the subtle tokens of a court used to orchestrating spectacle. They knew that wealth, piety, and martial glory all had their place in Burgundian life, but so did subtlety and cunning.

Philip's tone grew hushed: "I've poured fortunes into my palaces and my feasts, my tapestries, my mechanical wonders at Hesdin, and my music in the chapel. Yet the real power lies in anticipating the next great development. If you succeed, Bertrandon, we will stand at the forefront—not merely of chivalric pomp, but of a Europe transformed by knowledge."

Bertrandon bowed low, feeling the hush of expectation once again settle over the chamber. "Your Grace, I shall do all in my power to fulfill your command."

"Then go," Philip said, leaning back, his gaze drifting momentarily to a newly commissioned tapestry of Jason's triumphant quest. "Return to me with the truth."

Bertrandon turned on his heel, crossing the hall with brisk steps. He passed gilded pillars and richly woven tapestries that depicted mythical hunts and holy parables. A few courtiers offered polite smiles; others darted curious glances. Yet the moment he stepped beyond the ornate doors and into the courtyard's bracing chill, he felt the solitude of duty settle upon him.

Outside, the Burgundian flags snapped in the cold breeze. The ring of hooves on cobblestone echoed across the courtyard as a pair of mounted knights of the Golden Fleece trotted by, their armor glinting in the torchlight. Bertrandon paused, pulling his cloak closer, and carefully inspected the Duke's scroll once more. The seal caught the glow of a lantern, revealing a faint, stylized golden ram. That seal was a key—one that would open doors and hearts, or perhaps rouse suspicions in distant courts.

Arrival in Glarentza

Bertrandon stood by the ship's railing, feeling the sea spray on his cheeks as the Genoese vessel eased into the port of Glarentza. From the deck, the town was already a spectacle of bustle and color—easily one of the busiest ports he had ever seen. Swaths of vessels crowded the docks, flags of Venice and Genoa snapping in the breeze next to Byzantine standards.

Stepping onto the quay, he adjusted his travel-worn cloak, conscious of curious glances from merchants and travelers alike. The streets ahead teemed with purpose: traders hawking goods in Greek, Italian, and half a dozen other tongues, while the scents of salt and spices mingled with the tang of freshly baked bread. Byzantine guards, polished armor gleaming, kept vigilant watch at the gates.

Bertrandon took it all in, moving through the knot of humanity with practiced ease. He was no stranger to the energy of major ports, yet Glarentza crackled with an extra spark—an undercurrent of transformation. Hammers clanged in some hidden forge, beating out a steady rhythm that underscored the town's industrious character. A street vendor's stall promised roasted lamb, its aroma drifting temptingly on the sea breeze.

But it was a looming sign at the end of a wide, meticulously paved street that truly seized Bertrandon's attention: a stylized phoenix, wings spread in triumphant ascent, posted above the entrance to a large, stately building. "Morea Publishing," read the golden letters beneath in Greek and Latin, as though proclaiming the rebirth not just of Glarentza, but of a shifting world.

Patrons flowed in and out of the bookstore, carrying leather-bound tomes or pausing to study posters advertising new releases. The hum of conversation near the doorway all but drowned out the swirl of street noises behind him. Bertrandon paused, murmuring to himself, "A marvel… books in such numbers?"

He approached slowly, eyes flicking over the illustrated announcements—fifteen gold ducats for a Latin Bible, a sum beyond the common purse yet far cheaper than a hand-copied manuscript. That very thought lodged in his mind: how a single invention could change the trajectory of commerce, education, and power across Europe.

Once inside, he found himself in a realm of orderly shelves and neat rows of books, each volume consistent in its flawless printing. The aroma of ink and parchment combined with the faint perfume of polished wood. Clerks in deep-blue tunics moved among the patrons with efficient politeness, directing them to various sections or explaining the merits of particular editions. A distinct hush pervaded the space—a reverent quiet, as if the place were part library, part chapel.

Near the center, a polished table was surrounded by eager onlookers. A young clerk showcased a freshly printed Latin Bible, its text sharp and elegant, the margins uniform and unblemished. The clerk's words carried the confidence of one who knew the store's offerings were unmatched.

"This, my friends," the clerk announced, "is our latest edition of the Latin Bible. Its clarity and accuracy surpass any hand-copied manuscript, all thanks to the Despot's marvelous printing press."

Bertrandon stepped closer, curiosity winning out. He lifted the Bible and turned its pages slowly. The precise alignment of the words struck him immediately—no stray ink blot, no smudged lines. His admiration was tinged with a sense of caution: knowledge so swiftly multiplied could reshape thrones and topple old hierarchies.

A soft voice made him glance up. An older man in scholar's robes was smiling warmly, noticing Bertrandon's absorbed fascination.

"You are impressed, traveler? You are not alone. This store is Glarentza's pride—and, I would say, its future."

Bertrandon returned the smile, inclining his head in greeting. "It exceeds all I've witnessed. So it truly comes from the Despot's press? I've heard rumors of this invention, but to see it firsthand…"

"Yes," the scholar confirmed. "Constantine Palaiologos is behind it. And these books—Bibles, histories, treatises—are available to all who can afford them. Our Despot believes in lifting the learning of the many, not merely the few."

Bertrandon carefully closed the Bible. His mind whirred with the implications. Here, in a bustling port town, the seeds of a vast transformation were being planted: a formidable machine capable of outpacing even the most tireless monastery scribe. He set the book aside, acknowledging that his own mission, ostensibly about observing the East's political and military state, now took on a striking new dimension.

Noting his heightened interest, the store's clerk approached discreetly. Bertrandon introduced himself as a Burgundian envoy and indicated a desire for a formal meeting on behalf of his Duke. Eyes bright with enthusiasm, the clerk promised to relay the request at once.

By the time Bertrandon emerged into the mid-afternoon sunlight, the phoenix emblem overhead cast a long shadow across the cobbled street. The Bible he had purchased felt solid in his hands, an emblem of the future Glarentza was already living.

As he wove through the lively port, Bertrandon turned over questions of diplomacy, trade, and alliances in his mind. So much of this place—the neatly organized streets, the determined hum of labor, the commerce that tied East and West—spoke to the Despot's vision.

In quiet reflection, Bertrandon clutched the printed Bible more tightly. This was bigger than curiosity or profit: it was about the knowledge that could tip the balance of empires. And as he made his way to his lodging for the evening, his breath caught with an inkling of the power that resided in Glarentza's printing presses—a power he suspected would demand as much caution as admiration.

Appointment with Theophilus Dragas

Theophilus Dragas' office was a study in purposeful order. Shelves brimming with manuscripts and ledgers stretched toward the ceiling, while a modest brazier in the corner cast flickering shadows that danced across the room's worn stone walls. The sharp scent of parchment and ink filled the air, mingling with the faint tang of the Mediterranean carried in through a narrow, latticed window.

Bertrandon de la Broquière presented Duke Philip's sealed letter, his gloved hands steady despite the weight of expectation. Theophilus accepted it with the care of a man who valued detail above all else. With a small, deliberate knife, he broke the wax bearing the Golden Fleece emblem and silently read the Duke's words.

When he finished, he set the parchment aside and regarded Bertrandon with a calculating gaze. "An arrangement to acquire books—always an excellent investment," he mused, his tone shifting to something more engaged and welcoming. "Your Duke is wise to seek what we offer here in Glarentza. Our printing press is not just a curiosity, my friend; it is a force capable of reshaping every corner of Europe."

He leaned forward, hands folded atop a ledger on his desk. "Picture entire libraries copied in months, rather than years. Think of universities bustling with students, each with a text of their own. Imagine courtiers—even merchants—able to access the same knowledge once reserved only for lords and bishops. That is the promise we hold."

Bertrandon inclined his head. "His Grace, Duke Philip, is most intrigued by such possibilities. He wishes to see how swiftly and accurately your press can produce manuscripts—or entire volumes. His ambition goes beyond mere display; he hopes to foster a lasting partnership."

A pleased gleam lit Theophilus' eyes. "I admire a man of vision. The Duke's renown reaches even our shores. And I will not deny, this invention is transforming Glarentza into a new kind of power. We are proud to supply Rome, Florence, your Duke… anyone who understands the true value of expanding knowledge."

Bertrandon nodded, recalling the rows of flawless books he had seen in the Morea Publishing shop. "He believes knowledge is power—and that such power must be wielded judiciously."

"Wise indeed," Theophilus said. "Still, your Duke should know that creating and distributing these books demands substantial resources: skilled craftsmen, costly materials, and, above all, stability. Glarentza thrives on trade, but our region"—his gaze flickered toward the window—"well, the Ottomans remain a formidable threat."

Bertrandon, remembering the talk in the streets, ventured, "So the Despot has taken the field?"

"He has," Theophilus confirmed, his voice quieting. "Constantine Palaiologos leads his army to the Hexamilion Wall even now, determined to keep the Ottomans at bay. That conflict unfolds as we speak, yet here in Glarentza, we press on. Constantine believes scholarship and progress need not halt for war."

Bertrandon considered the precarious balance: a realm under threat, yet determined to invest in a machine that could outpace even the most meticulous scribe. "The press here never ceases, then?"

"Not for a moment." Theophilus' expression brightened with genuine pride, as though this was his finest selling point. "Our craftsmen labor day and night. Bibles, treatises, even the occasional Greek or Latin classic—our goal is to make them available on a scale once deemed impossible. So, you see, what we offer your Duke is far more than mere books. We offer participation in a movement that could define the whole world."

Bertrandon exhaled, sensing the magnitude of this negotiation. "I will relay all of this to the Duke. Establishing a bookstore in Burgundy or importing these works requires infrastructure and trust." He straightened. "The Duke is prepared to meet such terms. He sees this as an investment not only in his court but in his realm's future."

Theophilus studied him for a long moment before nodding. "Very well. I will draft a formal proposal, which we will send to Burgundy in due course. But there is another matter." He moved to his desk and retrieved a folded map, spreading it open with deliberate precision. "This region—this empire—is a fragile thing. Tell your Duke that the true value of our books lies not just in their knowledge but in their timing. They come from a land standing on the brink. If Burgundy wishes to invest, let it be with eyes wide open."

As Bertrandon stepped into the afternoon sun, the bustling streets of Glarentza buzzing around him, Theophilus' words lingered. The Hexamilion Wall, the press, the books—all threads woven tightly together. He clutched the mental image of the Despot on the march, even as he contemplated how best to relay what he had learned to Duke Philip.

 Departure from Glarentza

The quay of Glarentza was alive with clamor and color. Dockworkers shouted to one another over the thudding of crates, sailors scrambled across gangplanks, and merchants haggled noisily with robed traders.

Bertrandon de la Broquière stood at the edge of the pier, cloak pulled close against the chill wind that blew in off the Ionian Sea.

He carried few possessions—only what he needed for the next leg of his journey east. Yet he also bore a new understanding of the Morea's singular resilience, shaped by Constantine Palaiologos' determination to wage war when necessary and still nurture innovation at home. Bertrandon could not help but reflect that in Glarentza, knowledge was as much a fortress as the great walls defending the peninsula.

A bell rang out, signaling final boarding for the Genoese cog bound for the eastern ports. Bertrandon inhaled the briny air once more before stepping aboard. The plank dipped beneath his feet, and he steadied himself as a deckhand offered a curt nod of greeting. Almost immediately, the pace of life on the ship enveloped him: rigging creaked, and the sails rustled overhead like a migrating flock about to take flight.

He had barely found a quiet spot near the railing when a soft, confident voice spoke up in Italian—albeit with a curious accent:

"You seem lost in contemplation, my friend."

Bertrandon turned to see a man of medium build, dressed in a simple yet well-tailored tunic. His Tatar features—high cheekbones and a narrow gaze—stood out among the mostly Genoese crew. Threads of silver ran through his dark hair, lending him an air of seasoned wisdom. He bowed his head politely.

"Iskander," the stranger said. "I'm told we share this voyage."

"Bertrandon de la Broquière," he returned the greeting, inclining his head. "Envoy of the Duke of Burgundy."

A faint smile tugged at Iskander's lips. "Traveling for trade, for diplomacy, or for something more elusive—knowledge, perhaps?"

Bertrandon studied the man's curious expression. "A bit of each," he replied truthfully. "Though I suspect you already know that Glarentza is rich in the latter."

Iskander leaned against the rail, the wind tousling his hair. "Indeed. A city that wields knowledge as a weapon is rare. Still, a printing press does not protect one from outside threats."

Bertrandon nodded. "The Ottomans loom over every Byzantine horizon these days. Yet Glarentza finds ways to prosper—perhaps because the Despot dares to invest in progress even while defending his realm."

Iskander's gaze slid out over the water, where fishing vessels bobbed like dots on the azure surface. "And your Duke—does he share such convictions, that progress can endure even in times of war?"

"He does," Bertrandon said. "He's fascinated by the idea of multiplying books, spreading learning among his court and beyond."

At this, Iskander's eyes flicked back to Bertrandon with quiet intensity. "The spread of ideas—when harnessed—can move entire peoples. Stir the heart of a kingdom or, if mismanaged, invite ruin. Would you agree?"

Bertrandon detected an undercurrent of personal conviction in Iskander's voice. Intrigued, he answered carefully. "I have seen enough of courts and councils to know knowledge is the most cunning form of power. Weapons can be turned upon their wielders—but ideas can spread even as swords rest in scabbards."

"Precisely." Iskander's tone softened to a near murmur. "Knowledge can raise armies of the mind. In the right hands, it can topple tyrants without a single arrow loosed."

A small knot of sailors passed, carting barrels below deck. As their footsteps clattered on the wooden planks, Bertrandon mulled over Iskander's words. He sensed something personal—perhaps an echo of old wars or an unspoken cause.

"You're a scholar?" Bertrandon asked, keeping his tone light. "Your accent suggests you've traveled extensively."

Iskander inclined his head. "I've journeyed across Anatolia, Thrace, and beyond, following the trail of manuscripts, debates, and ideas. Once, I believed such pursuits might reshape the world." He paused, almost catching himself, then added more briskly, "Now, I simply move where the winds of opportunity blow."

Bertrandon listened, noticing how a shadow of something heavier seemed to pass behind Iskander's calm demeanor—a memory of loss or disillusionment. But he kept his curiosity in check, mindful that strangers on the same vessel did not always reveal their entire histories.

They spoke for a while longer, drifting into discussions of philosophy and the state of the empire—how Byzantium's old glories clashed with the harsh realities of Ottoman encroachment. Iskander displayed a keen mind, weaving references to mystics and theological debates with ease. He asked Bertrandon about the Burgundian court, about Duke Philip's fascination with chivalry and commerce, and about rumoured crusades that might or might not come to fruition.

All the while, Bertrandon felt that Iskander was probing, gauging how one might bend the flow of power and knowledge in times of upheaval. There was an urgency beneath his measured words. Something told Bertrandon that Iskander's interest was not mere scholarly curiosity.

Eventually, the ship pulled away from the harbor. Glarentza's rooftops and bustling docks receded, and the vessel found the open sea. Timbers creaked in the shifting waves, and the wind sang through the rigging. Bertrandon cast a last look at the receding port—a place where ink and steel danced side by side in defiance of history's tides.

Iskander rested his hands on the rail, turning to Bertrandon with a reflective glint in his eyes. "We have a fair journey ahead. I look forward to sharing more thoughts—and hearing more of Burgundy's ambitions."

Bertrandon nodded, though inwardly he was unsettled by the sense that this Tatar scholar's story ran far deeper than he admitted. "Yes, I suspect we'll have time for many discussions."

They parted, each with his own thoughts hidden like cargo in the ship's hold. Bertrandon withdrew to his cramped quarters, somewhat uneasy yet strangely drawn to Iskander's passion. He recognized a mind alight with restless purpose—but what purpose exactly?

Unbeknownst to him, as the ship cut eastward through turquoise waters, Iskander carried more than a scholar's notes in his satchel. He bore a manifesto-in-progress and letters that could spark rebellion in Anatolia.