The next day.
After breakfast with the Emperor, we immediately set out to tour Constantinople.
Our first destination: the Venetian and Genoese quarters — the economic enclaves.
The moment we stepped inside, Marco came rushing toward me.
"Your Highness! Your Highness!"
He was practically panting.
Like a fish thrown back into water.
"I've heard you intend to sponsor a grand festival. Is it true?"
"You are well-informed. Where did you hear that?"
"A merchant's greatest treasure is information," he replied smugly. "And no festival is complete without food, wine, and performances."
His belly shook as he spoke.
"Especially in Constantinople. If you entrust the arrangements to the Venetian guilds, we can guarantee the fastest delivery at the most reasonable—"
"Before that," I interrupted with a faint smile, "there is something you should hear."
He was already drinking the kimchi soup before it had been served.
At breakfast, I had made a request of the Emperor.
A carrot.
A very large carrot.
"His Majesty expressed willingness to revise certain clauses of the Golden Bull," I said casually.
"Particularly those concerning tariffs."
Marco's eyes widened.
"That… that is true?"
Good.
That was the correct reaction.
The Golden Bull.
Imperial privileges granted to the maritime republics:
Reduced tariffs.
Commercial autonomy.
Foreign quarters.
Venice had once been a Byzantine dependency.
With wealth and naval power, they secured de facto independence.
And every Golden Bull issued had been meant to draw their money back into imperial hands.
But after multiple conflicts over dominance, the balance shifted.
Most recently, Emperor Manuel — Alexios' father — had defeated Venice.
Since then, Venetian merchants had been crushed under heavy tariffs.
"His Majesty is open to reducing those tariffs," I continued smoothly.
Time to shake the carrot.
"But you are aware that many Byzantines resent Venice deeply."
Marco grimaced.
"Yes. Petty merchants who fear competition use every trick to drive us out."
"Yes, yes. Regardless — lowering tariffs in this climate would damage His Majesty's standing."
I cut him off before he spiraled into a rant.
Anti-Latin resentment in Constantinople was intense.
Foreigners paying little tax while extracting immense profit.
The anger simmered beneath the surface.
History would one day explode because of it.
"I have proposed a solution," I said calmly. "One His Majesty accepted."
"And that is…?"
"Venice — and the Latin quarters — will contribute an appropriate donation."
"For the festival."
Marco blinked.
"That… is difficult. We are willing to show goodwill, of course. But excessive sums? Venice would not approve. I would lose my head before paying such an expense."
"I am not extorting you," I replied with a smile.
I was not foolish enough to ruin relations with Venice.
"You will oversee festival logistics — at minimal profit. That is effectively your contribution. Is it not?"
My meaning was simple.
Work almost for free.
But with a prize at the end.
"If this festival succeeds, Roman public opinion will shift. Tariff reduction becomes politically feasible. I trust you understand."
Marco swallowed.
"Yes… I do."
"I recommended this proposal with your interests in mind. So please do not manipulate pricing."
I produced a parchment.
"Let us review the specifications."
Hours passed before we reached agreement.
But this was only the first front.
"That is the charitable complex established by Emperor Alexios I," a nobleman explained.
"This entire district beneath the dome is part of the institution."
We had stopped three times already.
Every stretch of road brought another noble eager to guide us.
Did the Emperor assign them as tour escorts?
I half-listened.
But Aig was enthralled.
"That entire district… is charity?"
A massive circular dome rose over countless attached buildings.
"It's like another city inside the city."
"It's easily a hundred times larger than the Hospitaller headquarters in Jerusalem," I murmured.
Constantinople did nothing small.
Everything was monumental.
No wonder they viewed Europe as provincial.
"If only I had known," I muttered inwardly. "I might have applied for an exchange program to Turkey."
Though, in my century, it was Istanbul.
We continued.
"And over there," the nobleman gestured grandly, "is the Pantokrator Monastery, built by Emperor John II and Empress Irene. Hundreds of hospital beds. Skilled physicians…"
His explanation went on endlessly.
At last, we reached our destination.
Hagia Sophia.
The cathedral where emperors were crowned.
"It was completed after six years of great labor," the noble declared proudly.
Six years?
I stared at the colossal dome.
The scale defied reason.
Worshippers filled the interior.
"It is magnificent," Hugh muttered, "but it lacks the sanctity of the Church of the Holy Sepulchre."
"No stone can replicate that," I replied with a smile.
We entered.
Clergy gathered around us.
Similar vestments to Jerusalem — but subtly different.
Orthodox.
The formal schism had not yet fully hardened.
Ironically, the Crusades began at Byzantine request.
And would one day destroy them.
A white-robed elder approached.
The Patriarch of Constantinople.
"May Christ show mercy. I, Theodosius, humbly greet the noble guest from the Holy City."
"I greet Your Holiness with humility."
This ritual politeness never became comfortable.
Rome and Constantinople —
Two patriarchates forever circling each other like rival heirs.
"You have come to pray? We were about to begin the liturgy."
"Before that, I have something to present. Somewhere private."
In a side chamber, Aig signaled the soldiers.
Chests were laid before the Patriarch.
His eyebrow lifted.
"This is…?"
"A donation for the Christians of Constantinople. And one hundred silver pieces for each senior cleric."
"A generous offering," Theodosius said slowly.
"None have given so much."
He smiled faintly.
"I wonder… what inspires such generosity?"
Translation:
What do you want?
I answered evenly.
"I have heard Latins have caused discord in the Empire. If this donation may ease suffering and strengthen unity — it is a small price."
"And support the authority of His Majesty."
Translation:
Calm your flock.
The Patriarch smiled knowingly.
"All Christians of the Empire shall know of Jerusalem's generosity."
"Thank you, Your Holiness."
Wine money funding charity.
The irony was delicious.
"And now, let us pray."
Aig leaned close as we left.
"Venetians this morning. The Church now. And next?"
"The great nobles," I replied lightly. "They'll receive elixir."
Citizens — festivals.
Clergy — donations.
Nobles — elixir.
Aig muttered,
"If someone overheard, they'd think you were buying Constantinople itself."
"I am."
The bells began to ring.
I sighed.
I wondered how long Byzantine liturgy lasted.
Constantinople.
One year after the young Emperor's accession.
A rumor began to spread.
A massive festival.
"Have you heard? A celebration for the Jerusalem delegation."
"For that? Wasteful."
"A tax disaster."
At first, the citizens scoffed.
Then the next rumor arrived.
"The delegation is paying for it?"
"Free food? Chariot races?"
Suddenly—
Excitement.
Money flowed.
The streets brightened.
Clergy spoke kindly of Latins.
And the rumors did not stop there.
"They say Prince Baldwin personally visits hospitals."
"A nobleman doing that?"
Perhaps Jerusalem was different.
As the year 1181 drew toward its end—
It became both the warmest and coldest year in the capital.
And the storm had only begun.