Late May sunlight broke over the Ionian as the Ragusan ships glided into Glarentza's harbor. Katarina stood near the prow, fingers hidden in her cloak to disguise their tremble. She had known Glarentza was a busy port, her father had said as much, but she had not imagined this: a forest of masts and cranes, a city bristling with chimneys. Columns of smoke climbed into the sky; the air smelled of salt, tar, and burning wood. Across the water came the din of hammers and shouting dockhands. It was no picturesque bridal arrival. Yet something stirred in her chest. This city was building.
Beside her, Despot Đurađ Branković squinted at Glarentza's sprawl, his face tightening at the sight of a large wooden placard near the pier, a banner of timber and paint rather than silk. In bold black and white letters it read: WELCOME KATARINA. The script was startlingly clear, each letter vast and legible even from the deck.
No one had mentioned such a gesture. It was brash, even coarse beside the scrolls and heraldry she knew. Đurađ grunted, shaking his head. "Hmph. The things these Romans do."
Katarina found herself smiling despite him. The sign was simple, almost childlike, yet seeing her name proclaimed to the city made her feel, seen. Expected. She drew a breath and straightened. Whatever awaited her on shore, they had welcomed her, not only the princess.
The small fleet docked with practiced speed. Constantine's escort, the Kyreneia and two more ships bristling with new guns, held position in the outer harbor as honor guard. As Ragusan sailors cast ropes and lowered the gangplank, Katarina's heart quickened. She whispered a prayer her mother had taught her: Panagia, give me strength.
A crack split the air: a cannon salute from shore, smoke curling above the seawall. The boom startled a flock of gulls skyward. Katarina flinched, then steadied herself as the escorts replied in thunderous rhythm, a choreographed welcome.
On the pier below waited a cluster of figures. She recognized the vestments of a high Orthodox prelate, the Metropolitan, lifting a golden cross and jeweled Gospel. Beside him stood a tall man in dark-blue court dress, the sea wind tugging at his mantle. Around him, soldiers formed a shining line, breastplates catching the sun. Over their shoulders rested long fire-tubes, the pyrveloi her father had spoken of, said to have won the Emperor's battles.
As her father led the party ashore, Katarina descended the gangplank, lifting the hem of her green gown clear of the brine. The dock was firm beneath her feet. Hundreds of eyes watched, sailors, stevedores, townsfolk held at a respectful distance. The roar of foundries inland mingled with the slap of water and the harbor's mix of tar, woodsmoke, and fish. Not pleasant, but real. She kept her chin high, her face composed in practiced calm. Only the pulse at her throat betrayed her.
Sphrantzes stepped forward and bowed deeply. "Your Excellency," he greeted Đurađ, his voice carrying over the surf. "Despotess Irene, Princess Katarina, welcome to Glarentza. On behalf of His Imperial Majesty Constantine, Basileus of the Romans, I greet you with joy and honor." He placed a hand over his heart, offering a brief smile to Irene, then to Katarina.
Beside him, the Metropolitan raised the golden cross and intoned a blessing in Church Slavonic, a gracious touch for Đurađ's sake. The familiar cadence caught at Katarina's throat. Hearing her own tongue here, so far from home, was unexpectedly comforting. This is real, she thought. Her mother's hand found hers and gave a quiet, reassuring squeeze.
At Sphrantzes' signal, two servants approached with a polished tray bearing a round loaf of bread and a small dish of salt. Sphrantzes broke the loaf and offered a piece with a pinch of salt first to Đurađ, then to Irene, a traditional gesture of welcome.
Đurađ touched bread to salt and tasted it with a curt nod; Irene followed with quiet grace. When the tray reached Katarina, she felt every gaze upon her. For a heartbeat she hesitated, the last time she had performed this rite was a year ago, in Smederevo's cold hall, and the memory stung. She pushed it aside, composed a small, polite smile, and took the bread. The crust was still warm; it must have been baked fresh this morning. She dipped it lightly in the salt and placed it on her tongue. Its simple, honest flavor steadied her.
A lean Serbian knight from Đurađ's retinue stepped forward as envoy. Clearing his throat, he proclaimed:
"By the will of God and in loyal accord between Despot Đurađ and the Basileus Constantine, we present unto you the Lady Katarina Branković, his daughter, in token of alliance and affection. Thus is she delivered into the protection of the Roman Emperor, to be his wedded wife and our honored Basileia."
The words hung in the air. Katarina lowered her eyes; her cheeks burned. Delivered, as though she were a parcel handed over. She felt exposed, suspended between her father's world and her future, belonging to neither. A flicker of doubt stirred, the same fear once whispered to her mother in candlelight. What if behind the hero's face is just another man who will hurt or use me? She banished the thought and focused on the worn boards under her feet, the damp scent of the dock holding her steady.
"I, George Sphrantzes, on behalf of His Imperial Majesty, receive Lady Katarina," he declared. "Our Basileus Constantine welcomes her in peace and with great joy, under the protection of Christ and in hope of a fruitful union between our houses."
He smiled as he spoke, and Katarina met his gaze. There was warmth there, a trace of humanity beneath the formality. She breathed a little easier. The handover was complete; from this moment, she was in Constantine's care.
The Metropolitan stepped forward, touching Katarina's forehead and then her father's with the golden cross, murmuring a final benediction in Greek. Sphrantzes presented Đurađ with a parchment sealed in the Emperor's red wax.
"His Majesty's letter of welcome," he said, "and an invitation to rest at the castle. The hour grows late."
Indeed, the sun was sinking, gilding the harbor in molten light. Katarina hadn't realized how long the rites had taken; her legs ached. Servants brought a bridal canopy, a square of brocade embroidered with golden oak leaves and the double-headed eagle of Palaiologos, and held it above her. An honor for high-born brides, to shade and signify them.
A small, nervous breath escaped her. Already beneath the imperial eagle, she thought. Her old life was gone. Steeling herself, she stepped forward under the canopy as the procession formed. Sphrantzes led them from the wharf.
Đurađ and Irene took their places beside their daughter as the honor guard formed up. They started toward the castle. Katarina glanced back once at the harbor; the great placard with her name still loomed above the quay, letters stark against the sky. Not so alone after all, she thought, and turned toward the city.
At the gate of the castle, Constantine flexed his gloved hands. Below, the town sprawled toward the sea, its roofs glinting in the evening light. The air carried its usual mix of soot and brine. Beside him, his brother Thomas shifted restlessly, grinning.
"I'm damned curious what she looks like," he muttered. "The painting made her seem perfect." He stroked his short beard, eyes bright with mischief.
Constantine exhaled a dry huff through his nose, a semblance of a chuckle. His gaze stayed on the winding street from the harbor, where townsfolk lined the way for the approaching procession.
"Paintings often lie," he said quietly, then after a pause added, almost under his breath, "I only hope this one doesn't."
He remembered the portrait sent months earlier: a demure face, dark eyes beneath a veil, a trace of a smile, no flaw, no truth. The artist's flattery had told him nothing of the woman herself. Would she be timid? Bitter? Resilient? He had chosen not to wonder. Reality was on its way up the hill beneath a bridal canopy.
He tugged at the collar of his formal tunic; the gold-threaded sash felt suddenly heavy. I have faced battles, assassins, even… time itself, he thought, but this… A bead of sweat slid down his temple; he brushed it away.
Thomas nudged him with a grin. "Nervous, big brother?"
Constantine managed a thin smirk. "I prefer focused."
Nervous was mild for what he felt. His stomach fluttered like a youth's before his first courtship. The marriage had been arranged for politics and survival, yet now, as the moment neared, it felt disarmingly personal. He straightened, forcing his breath steady. Around them, courtiers waited at a respectful distance. Behind him, the castle gates stood open, torchlight spilling into the dusk.
A rider galloped up from the harbor. "They are on their way, Basileus!" the guard called, breathless and grinning.
Constantine nodded. Beside him, Thomas smoothed his hair like a boy before presentation. Constantine smiled.
From a bend in the street, shapes emerged: standard-bearers first, the double-headed eagle and the Branković arms glinting above the crowd. Townsfolk craned as the bridal procession came into view.
Constantine's world narrowed to the advancing procession, the glint of armor, the canopy poles gleaming, the gold embroidery catching the last light. Beneath it walked a slender figure in silk. Katarina. Even at a distance, her composure drew his eye: calm, deliberate, assured, a stillness that seemed to hold something trembling within.
The guards at the gate straightened as she neared. Constantine stepped forward onto the threshold, the low sun casting his shadow down the slope toward her. For a moment he stood still, taking in the scene, the crowd along the road, banners dipping, Sphrantzes's proud smile, and beneath the canopy a young woman looking up at him. Her features were blurred by distance and dusk, but certain details caught him: small beside her broad-shouldered father, motionless as if holding back a tremor. A gold-edged veil draped her hair, and in her hands she carried a bouquet of wildflowers.
The party halted a few paces before the Emperor. Sphrantzes stepped forward. "Your Majesty, may I present Despot Đurađ Branković of Serbia, Despotissa Irene Kantakouzene, and their daughter, Lady Katarina." His eyes met Constantine's with a brief, knowing glint, here we are, my friend.
Đurađ stepped from beneath the canopy and gave a stiff bow, formal and measured. Constantine descended two steps to meet him. The Serbian despot, with graying hair and shrewd, deep-set eyes, hesitated only a heartbeat before clasping Constantine's forearm. Their grips were firm, testing.
"It is good to see you again, Despot Đurađ," Constantine said evenly. "Your presence honors us."
"We are glad to be here, Basileus," Đurađ said. "May this day mark the union of our houses and the strength of our peoples."
Polite, well-chosen words. Yet Constantine noticed his gaze shift upward, past him, to the chimneys rising behind the castle. A flicker of surprise there. No, Đurađ had not expected a palace shadowed by forges.
Constantine maintained his smile and let it pass. He set his other hand over Đurađ's in a gesture of cordial assent. "From this day, we are family," he said. "Be at home in my home."
Releasing Đurađ, Constantine turned to Irene Kantakouzene. She wore the composed half-smile of a Byzantine aristocrat, relief flickering at finding herself again among Greeks.
"Welcome, Despotissa," he said, inclining his head. "Welcome to Glarentza."
Her eyes, the same dark, steady ones he would later recognize in her daughter, studied him briefly before she inclined her head. "Thank you, Your Majesty. We are grateful for your welcome."
Her Greek carried the polished lilt of Constantinople. There was steel in her poise, and kindness too. She, at least, seemed at ease with what she saw.
At last, Constantine faced Katarina. For a moment he only looked, taking in his first true impression.
She stood beneath the canopy, hands clasped around the small bundle of wildflowers. Younger than he had imagined, poised between girlhood and womanhood, with a fine-boned face still soft with youth. Her beauty was quieter than the portrait's perfection: a gentle brow, straight nose, lips pressed in composure yet full of life. Lovely, solemn, and achingly human.
Her eyes held him. Large, dark-lashed, fixed on his, neither timid nor bold, but searching. Wonder, fear, and careful study all at once. A sudden urge to protect rose in him. She's so young, he thought. I must look ancient to her.
He realized belatedly he was still staring, wordless.
Constantine stepped forward and offered Katarina a gentle smile. She lowered her eyes and sank into a deep curtsey, graceful, yet not without a tremor.
He closed the distance, taking a silver cup from an attendant and holding it out. "My lady," he said softly, "after your long journey, please take water." His tone was warm, meant for her alone. It was not customary for an emperor to serve, but he wished to ease her nerves.
Through the veil, her eyes lifted in brief surprise before she accepted the cup. Her fingers brushed his, cold and slender. She sipped; a drop of water clung to her lip. Constantine offered a kerchief from his sleeve. She blushed and dabbed it away.
"Thank you, Your Majesty," she whispered. Her voice was softer than he'd imagined, the Greek touched by a lilting accent. When she returned the cup, Constantine bowed over her hand and kissed it lightly. Her knuckles were taut, but she did not draw back.
"Welcome, Princess," he said softly, for her and her mother's ears alone. "Welcome to Glarentza, and to your new home."
Katarina's lips parted as if to reply, then she only met his eyes. What he saw there was relief, quiet, genuine. A faint smile touched her mouth, fleeting but real.
The ceremony moved on. Constantine offered his arm; after a moment's hesitation, she placed her hand lightly in the crook of his elbow. Together they passed under the gate into the courtyard. Torches flared along the walls as servants and dignitaries shouted, "Long live the Emperor, long live the Empress." Flower petals drifted from the upper windows. One white blossom caught in Katarina's veil; Constantine reached to free it, earning another shy glance from his bride-to-be.
The castle stirred with celebration, but his thoughts were already ahead. She carries herself well, he mused. Brave face, no tears. There is strength there. A cautious hope took root, perhaps this marriage could become more than politics.
That night, the Branković family lodged in the guest wing. Tradition kept the couple apart until the church ceremony. Constantine did not sleep. Lying in the dim room, he listened to a lone hammer striking somewhere in the forges, its rhythm echoing his own pulse. Tomorrow he would wed her.
He prayed, quietly: Let me be good to her. Let this be right
The Ceremony
The chapel of Panagia Hyperaspistria glowed with the light of a hundred beeswax candles. Golden icons of the Virgin and the saints looked on from the frescoed walls as Constantine and Katarina stepped before the flower-draped iconostasis. The air was thick with sweet incense, and the hushed expectancy of the gathered witnesses. Inside the small sanctuary, illustrious guests from across Christendom stood shoulder to shoulder, all gathered to bear witness to the union. Yet in that hallowed space, Constantine felt almost alone with Katarina at his side, both of them bathed in the amber glow of candlelight.
A trio of priests in shimmering vestments approached, led by the local Metropolitan. The ceremony began with the ancient chant of the Trisagion, the priests' deep voices echoing off the marble floor. Katarina kept her eyes on the icon of the Virgin Mary above the altar, lips moving in silent supplication. Constantine listened to the sonorous prayers and stole a glance at Katarina's face, serene but pale. He wished he could offer more comfort, but for now the solemn ritual commanded them both.
After the exchange of rings and sacred vows at the altar, the crowning ritual followed.
The Metropolitan then took up two ornate wedding crowns of gilded silver. With solemn prayers, he placed one upon Constantine's brow and the other upon Katarina's bowed head, officially crowning them husband and wife before God and all present.
A silk ribbon was then draped and loosely tied around Constantine's and Katarina's right hands, binding the couple together symbolically. Their fingers interlaced naturally, palm to palm, as the priest wound the ribbon and gently knotted it. Constantine felt Katarina's slender hand in his own, cool and trembling. Very softly, he gave a reassuring squeeze. Through the fine silk, she returned a faint, grateful pressure.
The choir swelled as priests led the bride and groom three times around the altar, sealing their union. Constantine and Katarina each held a beeswax candle, their flames wavering as they moved. On the first circuit, she whispered a psalm; on the second, she fell silent, the crowns heavy on their heads. On the third, her slipper caught the hem of her gown, and she stumbled with a soft gasp.
Constantine caught her arm before she fell. A murmur rippled through the congregation, then stilled as she righted herself, cheeks flushed. She started to whisper an apology, but he shook his head slightly. "It's all right," he murmured, eyes steady on hers. Their hands remained joined, the moment briefly theirs alone beneath the crowns.
They completed the final circle in slow unison. The priest ended the hymn, and the couple returned before the altar. As the Metropolitan pronounced the blessing and declared them husband and wife, a single tear slipped down Katarina's cheek, relief, sorrow, and fragile hope all at once. She turned to brush it away, but Constantine had already seen. Releasing her hand, he gently caught the tear with his thumb.
Startled, she looked up. His eyes held quiet concern, and the faintest smile eased his features. For a heartbeat, as the priests lifted their hands in proclamation, they shared a private moment of understanding, her vulnerability met by his kindness. She managed a trembling smile in return.
"What God has joined together, let no man put asunder," the bishop declared. He lifted their bound hands, then untied the silken ribbon, now united of their own will. In the pews, nobles crossed themselves; polite applause followed.
Crowned as Emperor and Empress Consort, Constantine and Katarina were husband and wife. Bells rang out from the belfry, their peal spilling through the open doors into the courtyard. Constantine offered his arm, and with measured steps they left the altar as a married pair.
Outside, dusk lay in a violet haze. As they emerged into the open air, a cheer rose from the crowd. According to imperial custom, baskets of bread and bowls of coins awaited. Constantine and Katarina paused at the church steps, then descended to share them with the crowd. He handed a loaf to an old man; she offered another to a small girl. At his nod, they cast handfuls of coins into the air. Cheers rose as silver scattered among outstretched hands.
"Long live the Emperor, long live the Empress." voices cried in Greek, Serbian, and Latin.
The Wedding Feast
Night had fallen by the time the wedding banquet filled the great hall with music and laughter. The imperial couple sat together at the high dais under the glow of hundreds of candles, wearing simple golden circlets in place of their heavy crowns. Around them at the high table were gathered the most honored guests and family, all feasting and lifting cups to the health of bride and groom. Katarina's father Đurađ, already rosy-cheeked from the wine.
Despite the lavish spread of roasted meats and honeyed fruits laid before them, Constantine and Katarina found they had little appetite. The excitement and emotion of the day had filled them more than any meal. Instead, they turned to one another in quiet conversation amidst the merry din, gradually shedding the stiffness of strangers as they spoke.
Constantine leaned closer to Katarina as a particularly loud burst of laughter from Durad momentarily covered the clamor. "How are you faring, my lady?" he asked gently. "Is the feast to your liking?"
Katarina glanced around at the bustling hall, the joyful faces, the colorful paintigs on the walls, the musicians playing in the gallery , and finally back at her husband. "It is more splendid than any I have seen," she replied earnestly. "Truly. Your people are celebrating as if… as if they are happy for us. For this union."
"They are," Constantine assured her.
Katarina flushed at the kind words and lowered her eyes modestly. "You honor me, Your Majesty." After a brief pause, she added in a more tentative tone, "I meant to say, the sign you had painted at the harbor… that was a wonderful surprise. I never imagined seeing my name hailed so boldly." A shy smile touched her lips. "Thank you. It made me feel truly welcome."
Constantine's face lit with pleasure. He chuckled softly. "I'm glad. I wanted the first sight of your new home to bring you comfort. The artisans may have grumbled about the size of that placard, but I was determined." He watched her smile grow, and his own broadened in return. "Seeing you arrive with a smile was worth it."
She met his gaze, her eyes warming. In that exchange, another small brick of trust was laid between them.
A spoon clinked against a goblet, cutting through the din. Đurađ Branković had risen unsteadily, swaying as he raised his wine cup. His cheeks were flushed, his voice loud with drink. Conversation faded as nearby guests noticed the Serbian Despot standing. Constantine and Katarina turned toward him. Her hand tightened around her cup; she knew that gleam in her father's eye.
"My friends!" Đurađ bellowed, smiling broadly. "My noble allies, gracious hosts, Your Majesties!" He nodded deeply to Constantine and Katarina. Wine sloshed near the rim of his cup. "Tonight, our two families, our two nations, are bound by blood! Let us drink to that!" A cheer went up, cups raised around the hall. Katarina forced a smile and lifted her goblet along with Constantine, hoping that would suffice. But Đurađ was only gathering steam.
"And," he continued, buoyed by the initial applause, "let us also drink to the promise this marriage brings, the promise that together we shall make war on all who threaten us!" A few gasps mingled with nervous titters. Đurađ barreled on, unabashed. "By God, the Turks and any others who dare trouble our lands will soon learn that our realms stand united. May our enemies tremble and our swords be sharp. To the future victories we will win together!" He thrust his cup upward, arm trembling with fervor.
For a moment, silence. Queen Irene closed her eyes as if offering a quick prayer that the hall's roof not collapse from the impropriety. Then Thomas Palaiologos let out a bold "Hear, hear!" and several knights and officers joined him, thumping their cups in agreement. The hall cautiously followed with a rumble of cheers. Servants hurried to refill cups as Đurađ drained his own in one triumphant gulp and sat back down heavily.
Constantine kept his smile, though his jaw tightened. Beneath the table, he found Katarina's hand and gave it a gentle squeeze; her fingers were cold. She held her composure, eyes lowered, cheeks flushed with worry and embarrassment. She knew her father meant no harm, this was his rough form of blessing.
Constantine leaned close to her, his voice low and meant for her ears alone. "Take heart," he murmured. "No battle will be fought tonight." There was a note of dry humor in his tone that made Katarina glance at him despite herself. He was smiling softly, calm and steady. "We will face whatever comes, when it comes. Until then, let us enjoy this night."