The morning sun bathed Glarentza harbor in a warm glow, each sea ripple catching the light and scattering it like a thousand diamonds. Constantine stood at the stern of the Kyrenia, the scent of salt and tar filling the air as a gentle breeze tugged at his cloak. His fingers traced the smooth, weathered wood of the railing, a silent witness to countless voyages across those ancient waters.

  The familiar cries of gulls circled overhead, their calls mingling with the distant clamor of the bustling port. Merchants shouted, sailors exchanged coarse jokes, and the rhythmic clatter of hooves on cobblestone echoed from the nearby streets. Amidst the vibrant mix of sounds, a flutter stirred in his stomach, a mix of excitement and unease that quickened his pulse.

  "All the cargo is aboard, right?" he asked Damianus for what must have been the third time since dawn. It was his first voyage since arriving in this world, in this body, two years earlier.

  "Aye, all's stowed and secured, Despot," Damianus called out, approaching with a seasoned sailor's stride. His weathered face bore a knowing grin. "She's heavy with cargo, but the Kyrenia dances with the waves like a dolphin eager to leap."

  Constantine turned to him, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "You've a poet's tongue today, Damianus."

  The sailor chuckled, his eyes crinkling with mirth. "Just calling it as I see it, my lord. The sea’s in a fine mood, and it’d be a shame to keep her waiting."

  The Kyrenia, a sturdy two-masted galley, the only ship he owned, was rigged with lateen sails, sleek for Mediterranean winds. The vessel had carried him here in 1427 and had been part of his brother’s fleet in the naval battle of Echinades. Now, with six Drakos cannons mounted, Constantine had made the Kyrenia the most formidable ship on those waters, a sleek predator, or so he believed.

  As he gazed across the deck, his mind drifted toward the future. He knew he was ahead of his time, possibly by a century or more. No one else was using cannons like this for naval warfare. Yet his plans grew larger with each passing day. He dreamed of constructing great carracks, Portuguese-style, built for the open sea and bristling with cannons. He could change the entire naval landscape of the Mediterranean, if he survived long enough to see it through.

  Nearby, the Venetian trade ship they had hired as a companion swayed gently, her crew bustling to secure the last of their provisions. The Venetians, renowned mariners though they were, had yet to embrace the true potential of naval artillery. Their heavy hold was prepared for cotton and goods from Ragusa, but they sailed without the thunderous power that rested within Constantine’s cannons.

  At the bow, George Sphrantzes stood engaged in earnest conversation with Damianus. George had become more than an advisor; he was a steadfast ally in a world that still felt foreign to Constantine. His calm logic grounded him when his thoughts raced ahead, plotting futures unknown to those around him.

  "Despot," Damianus said, his voice drawing Constantine back. "The wind favors us. Shall we set sail?"

  Constantine took a deep breath, savoring the salty air. "Yes. Let's not keep the sea waiting any longer."

  Damianus nodded and turned to the crew. "Lower the sails!" he bellowed, his voice carrying over the deck.

  The men responded swiftly, their movements practiced and sure. The sails caught the wind, and the Kyrenia began to pull away from the quay, gliding out into the open sea. The Venetian ship followed closely behind. As the wind filled their sails, Constantine turned to Damianus. "Do you think this breeze will hold?"

  "For a while," Damianus said with a nod. "If we’re lucky, we’ll reach Ragusa in under a week."

  Constantine smiled, though a part of him wished their first destination could be Constantinople. There was no time for sightseeing, however. Business awaited in Ragusa.

  The Pirate Encounter

  Three days into the voyage, the weather shifted, the once calm sea becoming restless under darkening clouds. They had made a stop at Corfu, a Venetian-controlled island, to resupply, but the sea north of Corfu was known to be treacherous, both for its storms and its pirates.

  Constantine was in his cabin when the shout came, sharp and urgent, cutting through the air. "Pirates!"

  He rushed out, the cold sea wind whipping his face as he joined Damianus and George at the helm. "Where?" he asked, scanning the horizon.

  "There," Damianus said, pointing toward a fast-moving ship cresting the waves, bearing down with alarming speed. Its low, sleek hull marked it unmistakably as a Dalmatian pirate vessel.

  "Damn it," Constantine muttered. He had known piracy was a risk, but facing it firsthand was something else entirely. "How close?"

  "They’re gaining," Damianus said tightly. "They’re preparing to ram us."

  Constantine’s heart pounded. "Prepare the Drakos," he ordered, his voice trembling with both fear and exhilaration.

  The crew moved swiftly, manning the cannons he had designed. This was the test, the moment that would prove whether his modern knowledge could truly give him an edge in this brutal world.

  "Fire!" he shouted as the pirate ship closed the distance. The first cannon roared, belching smoke and flame, but the shot missed, the ball splashing uselessly into the sea.

  "Fire again!" he commanded, gritting his teeth. The second shot hit its mark, striking the pirate ship’s hull with a thunderous crack. The crew cheered, but the pirates kept coming.

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  As they closed in, the next barrage of cannon fire struck home, splintering the ship’s side. The deck erupted in chaos as pirates scrambled to control their vessel, but it was too late. The Drakos cannons had done their work.

  "Despot!" Damianus called out. "The ship is sinking."

  A strange thrill coursed through Constantine, something primal and fierce. "I don’t care," he barked.

  "Fire again!"

  "Again!"

  As the pirate vessel slipped beneath the waves, a heavy knot formed in his stomach. The thrill of battle gave way to a sobering reality. Lives had been lost by his command. It was necessary, but the weight of it settled upon him like a cold mantle.

  The crew began to chant his name, "Constantine! Constantine!", their faces alight with admiration. He could only manage a faint smile.

  Port of Ragusa

  Ragusa’s towering white stone walls gleamed in the midday sun as the Kyrenia entered the harbor. With its blend of East and West, the city stood as both a symbol of wealth and a fortress against the growing threats of the Mediterranean.

  Their arrival was delayed by Ragusa’s strict quarantine policies, as was customary for all ships arriving by sea. Seven days of enforced isolation were not what Constantine had anticipated, but the wait gave him time to reflect and plan for the challenges ahead.

  It also gave him time to notice someone who had been watching closely throughout the quarantine, the son of the Venetian trade captain, a young and inquisitive man. From the moment they docked, his eyes had rarely left the Kyrenia. He approached Constantine several times during the quarantine, his questions seemingly innocent at first, about the cannons, the ship’s modifications, and the encounter with pirates.

  At first, Constantine answered with measured calm, keeping his explanations vague. But as the days wore on, he grew cautious. The young man’s curiosity was too sharp, his gaze too focused on the cannons. He seemed particularly fascinated by the Drakos guns and the ease with which they had repelled the pirate attack.

  "Your ship handled the pirates remarkably well, Despot," he remarked one afternoon, his tone casual though his eyes were sharp. "Those cannons... I've never seen anything like them. And the way your crew fired them, so precise."

  Constantine smiled politely, keeping his guard up. "We’ve made some improvements, yes. But any well-trained crew can do the same with enough practice."

  "Still," the young man continued, glancing again at the Kyrenia, "the design is... unusual. Your cannons seem more advanced than anything I’ve seen."

  "Perhaps," Constantine said evenly. "We’ve made a few modifications. But the sea demands creativity, doesn’t it?"

  The young Venetian smiled, but a glint in his eyes unsettled Constantine. He wasn’t merely curious, he was studying. Several times, Constantine caught him walking around the Kyrenia, his gaze tracing the cannons as if memorizing every detail.

  "That one is trouble," George murmured one afternoon, stepping beside him. His voice was low. "He’s asking too many questions."

  Constantine nodded. "And paying far too much attention to those cannons."

  George’s eyes narrowed. "I’m sure he’ll report this to someone in Venice."

  "Possibly," Constantine muttered. "Whatever the case, we’ll have to keep an eye on him, and find a way to keep his mouth shut."

  Commerce and Diplomacy

  George scouted the local market for cotton, and his report was as grim as Constantine expected. "The prices are high, my Despot," he said, frowning as they walked through the crowded streets. "Far higher than elsewhere."

  "I expected as much," Constantine replied. "But we need the cotton, and there’s little time to negotiate."

  The marketplace teemed with merchants haggling over silk, oil, and spice. The cotton sellers guarded their wares under delicate canopies. The quality was exceptional; the prices, ruinous. Still, they had little choice.

  After tense bargaining, Constantine secured what they needed at a steep cost, a purchase that pained him but would sustain the printing press in the Morea. Profit would come later. For now, continuity mattered.

  Later came the formal meeting with the Rector of Ragusa and the city’s ruling council. The Rector, sharp-eyed and robed in crimson, received them in a sunlit chamber. After polite courtesies, Constantine presented a finely bound Latin Bible, a gift from the Morea.

  "A most exquisite gift, Despot Constantine," the Rector said, tracing the printed script. "I have not seen its like before."

  "Thank you," Constantine replied evenly. "We hope this marks the beginning of a prosperous relationship. In fact, I wished to inquire about establishing a bookstore here in Ragusa. Our press in the Morea is growing. Ragusa could become a center for trade, and learning."

  The Senators exchanged glances, clearly surprised and intrigued by the idea, though they said nothing. The Rector remained thoughtful, tapping a finger against the Bible's cover as he considered my request.

  "A bookstore?" he repeated. "That is an interesting proposition. Ragusa has always been a city of trade, but knowledge... knowledge is a different kind of commodity." He paused, his gaze sharp. "We are open to the idea, Despot, though such matters will need to be discussed further with the council. Permissions must be granted, and terms agreed upon."

  "I understand," Constantine said. "I look forward to those discussions."

  The meeting ended positively. Though nothing was settled, Constantine sensed opportunity, a chance to extend not just trade, but influence.

  On the way home

  As the sun dipped toward the horizon, casting a golden glow over the harbor of Parga, Constantine stood on the deck of the Kyrenia, watching the last of the cargo being loaded. They had left Ragusa days earlier; this brief stop, in the quiet Venetian town of Parga, was for resupply before the final leg to Glarentza. The port was hushed, the day’s business waning. He longed for home.

  A crewman approached, his face tense, followed by a thin man with drawn features and wary eyes. His plain clothes and nervous glances betrayed a man accustomed to danger.

  "Despot," the crewman said, bowing. "This man wishes to speak with you. He says he has important information."

  Constantine studied the stranger. "Who are you?"

  The man bowed. "My name is Niketas, my lord. I beg a moment of your time."

  "Very well. Speak."

  "I couldn’t help but notice your ship — the cannons. They’re unlike any I’ve seen."

  "You have an eye for cannons?" Constantine asked.

  "Yes, my lord. I was a gunpowder maker serving the Ottomans, working on the siege bombards for Sultan Murad II."

  Constantine’s attention sharpened. "Go on."

  The man’s expression darkened. "An Ottoman Suba?? wronged my family, he violated my wife. In my rage, I killed him. We fled to Ioannina, but even that refuge has fallen. Murad’s forces took the city. The Tocco heir could not hold it."

  Constantine’s voice softened. "I’m sorry for your suffering. But why come to me?"

  "I seek refuge and purpose," Niketas said, straightening. "Your cannons show innovation. I can offer my skills, I know how to make stronger powder, better barrels. All I ask is protection for my family."

  Constantine glanced at George, who gave a slight nod. Niketas’s knowledge could be invaluable.

  "You’re willing to swear loyalty to me?" Constantine asked.

  "With all my heart, my lord. The Ottomans took everything from me. Let me help you stand against them."

  Constantine hesitated, then nodded. "Very well. You and your family will have safe passage to the Morea. There, you’ll put your skills to worthy use."

  Relief flooded Niketas’s face. "Thank you, Despot. I won’t disappoint you."

  "See that your family is ready to depart promptly," Constantine said. "We sail with the tide."