Sparta

Vitus's words to Agnes had come true.

After a week of preparations, the two faced an even more elaborate and lengthy ceremony. Though the Eastern Roman Empire was in decline, it still upheld its ancient traditions, displaying the supreme authority of the emperor to the people.

In early August, Vitus and Agnes sailed back to Florence.

He found his old partner, Piero, and used the man's connections to recruit two thousand mercenaries. Their wages and other expenses came to four thousand Florins a month.

Meanwhile, his own Tuna Mercenary Group had grown to five hundred men. It was divided into an infantry company, a heavy artillery company with six siege cannons, and a field artillery company with twelve Three-Pounders.

"I still have forty-six thousand Florins in the Di Maggio Bank. That should last ten months."

Before Vitus set out, Manuel gave him a clear answer: Constantinople couldn't pay the troops or send reinforcements. The only thing it could do was provide food, and Manuel hoped Vitus and Theodore, the second prince and Despot of Morea, would work together to fight the Duke of Achaea.

Vitus had never been close to his second eldest brother. It was understandable. While he stayed in the palace, reading and tending to his illness, his other brothers rode horses and practiced archery together, learning the art of war. Over time, he had grown distant from them.

He wants me to work with my second brother, but will he even help me?

Vitus sighed as he made his way to the artillery workshop south of the city and asked the manager when his order would be ready. The answer was disappointing. He had ordered a thousand gun barrels, but they had completed only fifty.

The manager led him to a warehouse and pointed to a pile of discarded iron tubes in the corner, lamenting, "It's not that our workmanship is poor. Your requirements are too high. The barrels you need are so thin and long that we can't get the success rate up. We'll need to extend the order until the end of next year."

Next year?

Vitus glared at the man, but in the end, he said nothing.

Even without matchlocks, he was still confident he could reclaim Achaea. If he couldn't manage that, how would he ever face the mighty Ottoman Empire?

In October 1424, Vitus led twenty-five hundred soldiers by ship to Passavas, a harbor on the southeastern tip of the Peloponnese. A low stone wall ringed the outer port, and the flag of the Eastern Roman Empire flew from its towers.

Vitus organized the troops' landing. The harbor facilities were primitive, so the soldiers had to build a treadwheel crane themselves to hoist the heavy siege cannons ashore.

The following afternoon, a party of riders arrived at Passavas, caked in dust from the road. At their head was Theodore Palaiologos. For many years, he had been the happiest of all the brothers.

The eldest prince, John, had to bear the fate of the entire country. The weight of his duties had left him exhausted in body and mind. The third prince, Andronikos, had been sent to a lonely coastal city, Thessaloniki, and ultimately had no choice but to sell it to Venice. Now disillusioned, he devoted all his energy to prayer and penance.

The remaining brothers, Vitus, Constantine, and the others, had no lands of their own and spent their days confined to the palace. Only Theodore had been fortunate enough to rule Morea in his own right, with a population of more than two hundred thousand, and marry the pope's niece. He was now twenty-eight, yet looked as young as nineteen-year-old Constantine.

"Vitus, you got here quickly. I thought you'd spend the winter in Italy."

Theodore dismounted and embraced his younger brother without waiting to be asked. After a few pleasantries, he turned his attention to the Italian mercenaries. "Are these the soldiers of your wealthy father-in-law?"

"No, I hired them with my own money. They have nothing to do with the Di Maggio family."

Theodore looked somewhat surprised. It seemed the rumors about his fourth brother were true. Vitus had done well in Italy—well enough to afford more than two thousand professional mercenaries.

"It's been years since we last met. Let's leave business aside for now and have a good time at my place for a few days."

At his elder brother's insistence, Vitus followed him inland to Mistra, the capital of Morea. The mountain roads were rugged, and now and then they passed the ruins of abandoned ancient citadels.

Beyond the mountains stretched a narrow plain running north to south. The Eurotas River flowed southward through it, nourishing this precious valley—"Sparta" meant "cultivable plain."

Mistra stood on the western side of the valley, built into the mountainside. A grand, lavish palace crowned the summit, while red-tiled roofs cascaded down the slopes below. It was a magnificent sight, and the city could rightly be called the most prosperous on the Peloponnese.

But Vitus wasn't in a hurry to enter the city. He asked to visit the ancient city of Sparta, more than ten miles away.

"What's so interesting about those broken stones? Are you hoping to find treasure in the ruins?" Theodore wondered if his brother had lost his mind. After trying to persuade him for several minutes, he finally left on his own. "Don't take too long. Remember to come into the city for dinner."

As they rode down the winding mountain road, the air gradually grew warmer and heavier. Flat farmland stretched out before them, with ranges of hills rising in the distance.

The city of Sparta had fallen into ruin. The buildings of the Spartans, along with the arches, arenas, and temples built in Roman times, had all crumbled into piles of stone.

Among the sprawling ruins, Vitus found a small village with only a couple dozen households. He held up a Florin coin. "Who knows where King Menelaus and Queen Helen's palace stood? It's from the Iliad: Queen Helen ran away with another man, setting off the Trojan War."

No one answered. The villagers looked uneasy, suspecting that this band of cavalrymen were tax collectors sent by the despot.

Vitus didn't give up. "King Leonidas—do you know where any of his remains are?"

The villagers remained silent. They spent their days planting crops and tending sheep, occasionally going to church to pray. Their hard labor consumed all their energy, leaving them no time to learn the legends of ancient Sparta—even though the ruins lay right beside them.

Vitus reluctantly dismissed the villagers and wandered alone through the empty, ancient ruins. Weeds grew thick, and the cold wind howled. When he occasionally looked up, he saw Mistra towering majestically along the distant ridge.

Clearly, the city of Sparta, symbol of the Classical Age, had perished and become a tomb of the past. Mistra represented the present, gathering scholars and books in great numbers. Sadly, in a few decades, the Ottoman armies would sweep in, and Mistra would meet the same fate.

"All glory must eventually return to dust."

Vitus picked up a piece of rubble and tucked it into the pouch beside his saddle. Then he rode west to the foot of Mistra's mountain, where vast groves of olive trees and grapevines grew. Following the zigzagging road up the slope, he entered the outer city. Dense monasteries and houses lined both sides of the road.