The Medieval Heretic King is Too Good at Developing - Chapter 59

WeTried Translations

Translator/Editor: Ceaseless

◈ The Medieval Heretic King is Too Good at Developing ◈

Chapter 59: Sternberg's Holy Soap (3)

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Time passed, and by the time the fragrance of soap had spread beyond Prague and throughout Bohemia, the season had reached the heart of July, when the greenery had grown so lush that it seemed to blaze dark blue-green.

The blazing midday sun showed no mercy. High overhead, it scorched the earth, while heat haze rising from the ground warped the view.

Through the suffocating heat and thick clouds of dust, a long procession crossed Bohemia's border.

Rattle, rattle-

A winged lion was engraved on the sides of the carriages.

They were envoys from Venice, master of the Mediterranean and queen of the Adriatic.

Their journey north across the eternal snows of the Alps had been an ordeal in itself.

They had battled bitter cold while crossing the mountains, only to be swallowed by stifling heat as soon as they descended from the highlands and entered the interior.

Inside one of those sweltering carriages, Venice's special envoy, Francesco Foscari, never stopped fanning himself.

"Haah..."

He irritably tugged at the collar of his sweat-soaked linen shirt, which clung to the back of his neck.

He was accustomed to Venice's humid heat, but the dry, searing heat of the inland was a different kind of torment.

'If not for those damned cannons, I would've never needed to come to a place like this...'

Foscari's mission was important.

With tensions rising against the Ottoman Empire following the accession of the new Sultan, Murad II, faith was not what Venice needed.

They needed steel that could turn aside every enemy spear, sword, and arrow.

They needed powerful cannons that could bring down castle walls.

Rumor had it that Bohemia's Heretic King possessed both.

'Best case, I extract their steelmaking techniques. If that fails, I should at least buy the goods themselves.'

His destination was Prague, the stronghold of Ulrich von Sternberg, the heretic king scorned throughout Europe.

Venice would join hands even with heathens if necessary. Trading with a heretic would not trouble its conscience in the slightest.

Clatter, clatter-

Foscari's sharp eyes swept over the peaceful, pastoral scenery passing beyond the window.

Excommunication by the papacy, accusations of heresy, and pressure from the Empire.

Despite every disadvantage, Bohemia was said to be growing with strange speed and remarkable calm.

'For a country that fought a war so recently... it's far too peaceful.'

Creak-

The carriage slowed.

"My lord, we've arrived in Kuttenberg."

Kuttenberg, Bohemia's second-largest city and a city of silver mines.

Foscari opened the carriage door and stepped outside.

His expectation of war-ravaged ruins was thoroughly shattered.

The market overflowed with life, and the roads were well maintained.

More than anything, there was no shadow over the people's faces.

The passersby moving through the streets wore shabby clothes, but they carried an odd vitality.

'Is it because this city has silver in abundance?'

Feigning indifference, he headed for the Emperor Charles Inn, said to be the largest and most expensive inn in the city.

His body felt unbearably heavy after the long journey. He wanted to throw off his sweat- and dust-covered clothes at once.

Foscari tossed a Venetian ducat gold coin to the innkeeper.

"Give me your finest room. And prepare bathwater immediately. The heat is enough to choke me."

"Yes, my lord! I'll have it prepared at once!"

At the appearance of a wealthy Venetian noble, the innkeeper nearly bent double with ingratiating bows.

Before long, a large wooden tub was carried into the room.

A young maid filled it with cold water, then set a towel and a small basket on the table.

As Foscari sat down to remove his boots, he glanced at the basket.

Then he frowned.

"You."

"Yes, my lord?"

"What is this?"

He pointed at an ivory-colored rectangular object inside the basket.

Its smooth surface gleamed, releasing a faint, sweet fruit scent that filled the room.

It was clearly premium soap, the sort of luxury item only noblewomen in Venice would use.

Foscari's eyes narrowed.

'They're trying to overcharge me because I'm a foreigner.'

Glaring at the maid, he snapped, "I never ordered something this expensive. I only told you to bring bathwater. Were you planning to slip it in and charge me extra?"

Trying to use merchant tricks against a Venetian merchant. They had chosen the wrong target.

Yet the maid's reaction was unexpected.

Rather than looking flustered or frightened, she burst into laughter.

"Oh, my lord, you're quite the joker."

"A joker?"

"We don't charge for that. It's a service for guests staying at our inn."

Foscari doubted his own ears.

"A service... You mean it's free?"

"Yes, that's what I said. It's included in the bathing fee."

Foscari picked up the soap from the basket.

It was heavy and firm, as smooth as marble beneath his fingertips.

When he brought it close to his nose, the fresh scent of apples filled his lungs.

Soap this fragrant and fine would cost half a gold coin even in Venice's Rialto Market.

Yet they gave it away for free at a rural inn in Bohemia, at least by his standards?

"Don't lie to me. How can something like this be free? Is it perhaps all shine on the outside and rotten within?"

"Oh, you really are suspicious."

The maid placed her hands on her hips as though she could not believe him.

"They're everywhere in the market. One silver coin buys one, so why would we cheat a guest?"

The soap nearly slipped from Foscari's hand.

"...How much?"

"One Groschen. Bohemia isn't so poor that we can't afford a bar of soap."

Humming to herself, the maid left the room.

Left alone, Foscari stared blankly at the soap.

One Groschen.

Premium scented soap fit for royalty, bought with such a trifling sum?

'Impossible.'

With trembling hands, he carried the soap into the tub. He wet it and rubbed it over his body.

Bubble, bubble-

Rich, dense lather rose at once. Soft as whipped cream, it wrapped around his skin while the faint fragrance of apples filled the room.

Foscari let out a hollow laugh.

"Hah..."

It was good.

He hated to admit it, but it was far better than the finest Castile soap he used at home.

It cleaned perfectly, leaving his skin squeaky clean yet moist.

After bathing, Foscari dressed while still reeling from a shock greater than the refreshing wash itself.

Once he dried his hair and went downstairs, he found the innkeeper organizing his account books at the counter.

"Innkeeper."

"Oh, my lord. Do you feel refreshed? Did you like the soap?"

"Yes, it was excellent. But there's something I wish to ask."

Foscari took the soap from his coat and placed it on the counter.

"What exactly is this? Where is it made?"

"Ah, that?"

With a kindly smile, the innkeeper pointed to a portrait hanging on the wall.

It depicted a young man with sharp eyes and an intelligent expression, King Ulrich of Bohemia.

"Our king made it. People in the city call it royal soap, or apple soap."

"The king... makes soap?"

"Yes. His Majesty cares deeply for the health of his people. Do you know what happened in our city after this soap appeared?"

The innkeeper lowered his voice and whispered confidentially.

"Don't be surprised. The Black Death disappeared."

"...What?"

Foscari snorted.

"Innkeeper, I admit that the soap is excellent, but that's quite an exaggeration. A plague such as the Black Death cannot be driven away by washing with soap. That lies in God's domain."

Foscari's reaction was perfectly reasonable.

To Europeans of that era, the Black Death was terror itself, an irresistible horror beyond human power.

It was the worst epidemic, one that even the fervent prayers of His Holiness the Pope and every remedy prescribed by the greatest physicians of the age had failed to stop.

Venice had even sealed off the entire city and burned spices to purify the air, yet that had not stopped death.

And they claimed such a catastrophe had been eliminated by a mere cleanser made from oil and lye?

To him, it was nothing more than the sort of absurd lie a third-rate charlatan would use beneath the Rialto Bridge.

"It was probably just good fortune. Was Bohemia not famous for being largely spared the Black Death to begin with?"

Foscari's words were historically true.

During the great Black Death pandemic that swept across Europe in the mid-fourteenth century, half the population of Western Europe, including France and Italy, died in a living hell.

Yet Bohemia had suffered strangely little from the plague.

Later historians and physicians concluded that the damage had been minimized by Bohemia's low population density, its geographical location, and Charles IV's swift and thorough border closures.

The people of the time, however, did not know why.

They only believed that the plague had passed Bohemia by because God's grace remained upon the land, or because Charles IV's virtue had reached Heaven.

That was one reason the people of Bohemia still revered and missed their late emperor.

"It must be the same this time. Perhaps the wind was favorable, or perhaps God took pity on this land. It wasn't because of soap."

"...Well, my lord, since the Black Death cannot be seen, perhaps you're right. Who can say whether it was God's will or the soap?"

"Good. The product is good enough that you needn't add such lies..."

"But, my lord."

Interrupting Foscari, the innkeeper leaned closer and whispered cautiously.

"What if I told you that puerperal fever has disappeared? Would you believe that?"

Foscari's brow twitched.

"...Puerperal fever?"

"Yes. That terrible fever where mothers burn like fire and die while giving birth."

The innkeeper pointed out the window.

"Until a month ago, many women in this city died giving birth. Everyone had accepted it, saying the devil grew jealous and took them away. Then His Majesty issued an order. Midwives were to scrub their hands and arms up to the elbows with soap before delivering a child. He warned them that any midwife who failed to wash until white foam rose would lose their qualifications."

"And?"

"Don't be surprised. Only a few weeks have passed since that order was issued, yet not one mother in this city has died in childbirth since."

Foscari fell silent.

"...Is that true?"

"I swear it. The undertakers have not sold a single coffin for a mother in the past few weeks. If that isn't a miracle, what is?"

A cold shiver ran down Foscari's spine.

Puerperal fever.

The shadow of death feared by every woman in Europe.

Unlike the Black Death, puerperal fever was a statistic. Death that could be seen.

Even Venetian noblewomen wrote their wills before giving birth.

Yet they had controlled that disaster with a single bar of soap, in only a few weeks?

'Was it a coincidence? Or...'