Emperor

April 1424, Constantinople.

One morning, after attending matins at the Hagia Sophia, Manuel II was suddenly seized by the whim to take a stroll through the ruins of the Great Palace in the southeastern corner of the city.

From the fourth to the eleventh century, the Great Palace had served as the Eastern Roman emperors' principal residence and administrative center. It covered a vast area, overlooking the Sea of Marmara and the Bosphorus Strait to the east.

In 1204, the Fourth Crusade passed through the Eastern Roman Empire. At the instigation of the Venetian doge, the Crusaders suddenly attacked their allies, capturing and sacking Constantinople. The Great Palace suffered devastating damage, and countless treasures found their way west.

In 1261, Michael VIII recaptured Constantinople. By then, the Eastern Roman Empire had been gravely weakened, and the Palaiologos Dynasty lacked the funds to repair the Great Palace. They could only move to the smaller, easier-to-maintain Blachernae Palace.

"What had the Great Palace looked like in its heyday?"

Leaning on his cane, the emperor slowly toured the familiar yet strange ruins. The broken walls cast long shadows in the sunlight, and weeds grew wild between the stones. Here and there, he could still spot purple lavender and a few clusters of little yellow flowers he didn't recognize. Shattered mosaics had fallen from the crumbling walls, their fragments faintly reflecting the splendor of the past.

Half an hour later, he rounded a massive fallen pillar, crunching over rubble beneath his feet, and finally reached a relatively intact terrace.

Warm sunlight poured down, and the emperor felt a peace that was almost extravagant. He set down his cane and sat on a fairly level stone step, savoring this rare moment of rest.

The terrace faced the Sea of Marmara to the east. Its waters were blue, glittering beneath the brilliant sun, while the white sails of a few merchant ships dotted the surface, moving slowly across it.

After a long while, John arrived clutching a stack of letters. "Father, there's news from Florence."

Vitus? Manuel immediately thought of this neglected fourth son. As far as he was concerned, the young man had been cooped up in the palace for more than a decade and had rarely ventured out. It was inevitable that he'd indulge himself a little. As long as he didn't go too far, Manuel had no intention of pursuing the matter.

"Open the letters and see what Vitus has been up to. Got into a fight, gotten drunk, run up a mountain of debt, or fathered an illegitimate child with some woman?"

John opened the three letters. His expression turned exceedingly strange, and for a moment, he couldn't find the words.

The topmost letter was from the magistrate, Albizzi. He praised Vitus's command and skill with artillery in glowing terms, attributing them to the excellent education he had received at the Eastern Roman court. He implored the emperor to send scholars to tutor his youngest son.

The second was from Giulio Di Maggio, asking whether the emperor had already arranged a marriage for Vitus. If not, he proposed an alliance through marriage, offering his daughter, Agnes, as Vitus's bride.

The third letter was from Vitus, and by far the most detailed. It ran to a full three pages. He briefly recounted what he had really been doing over the past year or so, then spent several long paragraphs explaining why he'd kept it secret. After reading it with a frown, the emperor murmured:

"Vitus claimed he was going to study art in Florence, but that was just an excuse. The fellow had been fighting from the very beginning, and it seems he's been doing rather well."

John was reluctant to believe it. "I remember Vitus as a recluse who liked nothing more than sitting in his room with a book from childhood. He never received any military training. He was a frail young man who couldn't even ride a horse and sprained his ankle on a mountain path. Is this news reliable?"

Manuel also found it hard to believe, but the magistrate of Florence was hardly one to joke. Stroking his gray-white beard, he recalled the son who had never drawn much attention.

Two years earlier, when the Ottomans besieged Constantinople, Vitus had suddenly changed his ways. He gave up the philosophy books of the classical era and turned to military treatises, even mastering a form of precision artillery.

The emperor didn't know whether to laugh or cry. A young man with no military experience had spent just a few months reading books, then, in the blink of an eye, become Italy's most famous mercenary. His other sons had all received a full military education—including combat skills, horsemanship, and strategy—yet none had shown any outstanding ability as a commander.

"What does this mean? The son I raised with such care is mediocre, while the son I neglected turns out to be a military genius. Could there be something wrong with my way of educating them?"

After a long sigh, the emperor suddenly asked, "When you passed through Florence and attended a local banquet, did you get an impression of Giulio Di Maggio?"

John searched his memory. "The man has no noble title. His only virtue is his considerable wealth, which means he can provide a generous dowry. I'd guess that's what Vitus is after."

Vitus had neither a fief nor any hope of inheriting the throne. The Eastern Roman elite had never taken him seriously, and for years he had seemed like a shadow wandering the halls of Blachernae Palace. John had no objection to his younger brother marrying into a merchant family. It wasn't as if Vitus had a better option.

Meanwhile, in southeastern France.

Prompted by his attendants, the Dauphin finally remembered the Italian mercenaries. He issued an order summoning the Mercenary Regiment captains to Bourges as quickly as possible.

Vitus had spent a month at a country estate and was already sick of the tedious life there. He and another mercenary captain set off at once. The other man happened to be an old acquaintance of his: Piero of the Rotten Herring Mercenary Group.

After several days on the road, the party crossed the gentle hills of Berry and finally caught sight of Bourges, nestled along the Yèvre River.

As France's "Royal Capital" for the time being, Bourges looked dreadful, like one enormous refuge and barracks rolled into one. Flags fluttered atop the walls, each representing a lord who had pledged allegiance to the Dauphin. Before they even reached the gates, Vitus caught a faint whiff of something foul.

After the guards checked their credentials, Vitus entered Bourges. The streets were narrow and muddy, and refugees from the north were everywhere, huddled in corners and begging passing soldiers for food.

Not far away, a large crowd of soldiers had gathered in an open space to watch a duel. Two knights fought with longswords, while someone outside the ring wandered about with a little notebook, apparently recording the bets.

"Their discipline is appalling—worse even than the Italian mercenaries. No wonder they lose to the English, despite having more men."

Vitus instantly lost any desire to look around. He quickened his pace toward the Dauphin's temporary court. Compared with the villas he had seen in Italy, this residence seemed cramped and bare.

The hall was packed with people waiting for an audience. Officials, officers, clerics, and nobles clustered in groups of two or three, their conversations blending into a constant buzz. Anxiety and worry showed on every face, and their eyes kept darting toward the closed door at the far end of the hall.

After a long wait, a court attendant found Vitus and Piero and led them into the inner chamber.

The room was not large. Sunlight streamed through the glass windows, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air. At the far end of the room, seated on an oak chair, was the Dauphin of France, Charles VII.