WeTried Translations

Translator/Editor: Ceaseless

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◈ The Medieval Heretic King is Too Good at Developing ◈

Chapter 60: Sternberg's Holy Soap (4)

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At the entrance to the Great Audience Hall of the Royal Palace of Prague.

Francesco Foscari, Venice's special ambassador, swallowed hard.

Out of habit, he adjusted the collar of his crimson Florentine velvet cloak. The smooth fabric brushed against his fingertips.

Then he straightened the pure gold necklace imported through the Alexandria trade route. Its heavy weight reminded him of who he was.

His attire seemed designed to flaunt Venice's overwhelming wealth and authority.

Foscari repeated the words to himself like a spell.

'There's nothing to fear. He's only a twenty-year-old novice king from the Bohemian backwoods.'

The heretic king of Bohemia, excommunicated by the papacy and hunted by the Holy Roman Empire.

Rumors claimed he had made a pact with the devil or was Satan's child, but Foscari did not believe in such superstitions.

To a merchant, there were no devils in this world.

There were only those who profited and those who suffered losses.

To him, Ulrich von Sternberg was nothing more than a lucky country noble.

A greenhorn who had picked up a crown solely because he shared the bloodline of the late Emperor Charles IV.

He was surely surrounded by fanatical mobs and ignorant warlords, catering to their whims while serving as their puppet.

'Unlike him, I'm a Venetian diplomat who has weathered every storm.'

He had secured trade agreements before the Ottoman Sultan without batting an eye.

A man who calculated profit even before the blades of heathens could not possibly fail to handle one inexperienced king.

His objective was clear.

Steel and cannons.

The soap he had seen at the inn yesterday had been quite a shock... no, an enormous shock!

Still, soap was merely an additional source of income.

Venice's survival depended on military power alone.

Whether he flattered, threatened, or sweet-talked the Heretic King, he had to obtain the method for making steel or the cannons themselves.

"Whew..."

Foscari took a deep breath and composed his expression.

As always, he put on the perfectly calculated mask of a diplomat, proud yet courteous.

"His Excellency Francesco Foscari, special ambassador of Venice, enters!"

The chamberlain's booming cry echoed through the corridor.

Creeeak. Boom!

The heavy doors opened to either side, revealing the Great Audience Hall.

Foscari held his head high and stepped inside with confident strides.

The instant he took his first step, his brow twitched.

'This is...'

The hall looked nothing like what he had imagined.

He had expected a chaotic space filled with fanatical Hussite priests shouting at the top of their lungs and soldiers of peasant stock milling about in disorder. That was what a den of heretics ought to look like.

Instead, the sight before him was strangely orderly.

Bohemian nobles and officials stood in ranks along both sides of the hall. Their clothes were modest, but their precise lines and unwavering posture carried a chilling discipline.

Even the scent in the air was different. Instead of stale mold and blood, there was the heavy smell of ink and the cold scent of iron.

Suppressing the tension rising within him, Foscari turned his gaze toward the throne.

The first person he noticed was the huge man standing to its left.

'That man...'

A black eyepatch covering one eye.

A muscular body that looked as hard as stone.

No explanation was necessary. It was the one-eyed Jan Žižka, whose name was feared across Europe.

The legendary commander said to have destroyed the Emperor's crusaders and sent thousands of knights to hell.

"Hmm..."

With his arms crossed, he stared down at Foscari with his one remaining eye.

That gaze, like a beast watching for the throat of its prey, sent chills down Foscari's spine.

It was a fear he had never felt even before an Ottoman Janissary commander.

'...He has a monster like that under his command?'

Foscari quickly looked to the right of the throne.

There stood a boy who was the complete opposite of Žižka, still carrying traces of youth.

Black hair. A slender build. He could not have been more than fifteen or sixteen.

Foscari tilted his head.

'Why is a child like that standing there... a page?'

The moment their eyes met, though, his judgment changed.

The boy's gaze was cold and sharp, like a finely honed dagger. In those eyes flashed the look of a young wolf, seeking an intruder's weakness to tear into at once.

'His name is unknown to me, but... he's dangerous. That one is no ordinary boy either.'

The name János Hunyadi was not yet known in Europe.

Still, Foscari's seasoned instincts as a merchant told him the truth.

That boy had the makings of a monster who would one day rival Jan Žižka, perhaps even surpass him.

The god of war stood on the left.

A future hero stood on the right.

Guarded by those two terrifying wings, someone sat high in the center.

At last, Foscari's gaze reached the throne.

'That is... Ulrich, the Heretic King?'

He was far younger than expected.

No, he looked like a child.

His skin was pale enough to seem white, and his long, slender fingers looked more suited to holding a pen than a sword.

Yet the air surrounding that delicate appearance was not light in the slightest.

The king rested his chin on one hand and looked down at Foscari with an indifferent expression.

Those eyes.

Black pupils whose depths could not be measured.

There was no madness of a fanatic in them, nor the rashness of a novice. Only the cold, dispassionate reason of a scholar or merchant flickered within.

Foscari bowed deeply before the King of Bohemia.

"In the name of the Most Serene Republic, it is an honor to meet His Majesty Ulrich, the great lord of steel of Bohemia."

It was praise thick with flowery rhetoric, but the king on the throne responded with striking simplicity.

"Welcome, Ambassador. The journey across the Alps must have been difficult. You have traveled far."

"How could I call it hardship when I have come to behold Your Majesty's renown?"

Foscari answered smoothly and raised his head slightly.

The unexpectedly calm and orderly atmosphere had briefly unsettled him, but he was a seasoned Venetian merchant who had seen it all.

'I can't be overwhelmed by the atmosphere. I need to seize the initiative.'

He decided to bring out his surest and most powerful weapon.

Wealth.

At Foscari's gesture, the attendants waiting behind him carefully stepped forward with trays covered in silk.

"Your Majesty, this is a small token offered by a humble merchant of the Adriatic Sea to Bohemia's great ruler."

Putting on an air of modesty, Foscari lifted the cover from the first tray.

Rustle.

As the silk cloth slipped away, the air in the audience hall seemed to freeze.

Sunlight streamed through the window and struck the object on the tray, scattering into a blindingly clear brilliance that spread in every direction.

It was a mercury mirror, a work of art crafted by the artisans of Murano at the risk of their lives.

"Oh..."

Astonished gasps rose from the Bohemian nobles.

Foscari smiled in satisfaction at their reaction.

"It is the newest mirror, made by Venetian artisans by coating glass with mercury and tin. It should be more than worthy of reflecting Your Majesty's noble features exactly as they are."

This should be enough to seize the initiative.

Only months ago, the king had been a noble in the Bohemian countryside. He could never have seen such an object in his life.

He might pretend to remain calm, but inwardly, he had to be stunned.

The king's reaction, however, was strange.

Rather than admire it, he removed the hand supporting his chin and gestured for an attendant to bring him the mirror.

Then, instead of carefully receiving it with both hands, he casually snatched it up in one hand as if picking up a stone from the ground.

"Gasp!"

Foscari's heart dropped.

Do you have any idea how much that costs? If it slipped from his hand, it would be like watching an entire house vanish into thin air.

Ulrich did not care. He turned the mirror this way and that.

He was not admiring his own reflection. His eyes were examining the quality of its finish and the refractive index of the glass surface.

"A mercury amalgam method. The glass is fairly clear. They handled the bubbles well. But..."

He held the mirror at an angle to the light and frowned.

"As expected of mercury, the reflectivity is poor. The image is too dark overall. The edges are uneven as well, causing distortion. Forget silver plating. It isn't even as good as an aluminum mirror."

"Excuse me...?"

It had been a mutter, but Foscari heard it clearly. Even so, he doubted his own ears.

Silver plating?

The idea of coating the back of glass with silver was a technique that existed only in the delusions of alchemists.

If liquid silver were spread across a mirror, the heat would shatter the glass every time.

That was why the mercury amalgam method, which allowed metal to adhere to glass at room temperature without heat, was the Republic's secret technique. Venice guarded it so fiercely that it confined its artisans to Murano.

And aluminum? What kind of metal was that supposed to be?

As Foscari stood there with his mouth opening and closing in confusion, Ulrich carelessly tossed the mirror aside.

"Well, it isn't bad. It will be useful to have one in my bedroom."

That was all.

He spoke of Venice's finest treasure as if he intended to use it for nothing more than wiping the sleep from his eyes in the morning.

A crack ran through Foscari's pride.

Suppressing his twisted expression, he gestured for his second gambit.

'Fine. If he's unmoved by what he sees, perhaps something that pleases the tongue will be different.'

He signaled to his attendants.

The second tray was brought forward.

"Your Majesty, this time I wish to show you a mysterious medicinal ingredient from the East."

With a solemn movement, Foscari lifted the cover.

White, cone-shaped blocks were stacked like a tower inside.

At first glance, they resembled salt crystals, but their color was milky white.

The nobles tilted their heads.

"Salt?"

"No, the grains are too fine for salt."

This time, Foscari proudly straightened his back.

These white crystals were the essence of Venetian trade, white gold worth more than the same weight in gold.

"It is not salt. This is a miraculous sweetener and cure for all illnesses, produced only in distant India and Arabia..."

Foscari was about to launch into the speech he had prepared.

He planned to explain at length how precious it was and how many dangerous seas Venetian fleets had crossed to obtain it, all to raise its value.

Ulrich did not give him the chance.

"Sugar?"

"...Pardon?"

Ulrich rose from his seat and walked down to the tray.

Without hesitation, he snapped off a corner of one of the white cones with his fingers.

'Gasp! That, that precious thing!'

Before Foscari could cry out, Ulrich popped the piece into his mouth.

Crunch.

The crisp sound of chewing rang through the audience hall.

Ulrich savored the sweetness on his tongue and nodded.

"It tastes like sugar."

It was an unbearably dry assessment.

"It has an unpleasant aftertaste, perhaps because it hasn't been refined enough... but this is probably the limit of current technology."

The king even brushed the powder from his fingers and gestured to the chamberlain.

"Konrad, send this to the kitchen."

"Yes, Your Majesty."

"Tell them to use it in tonight's dessert. I've been craving something sweet for the first time in a while."

Foscari could only watch with his mouth hanging open.

The precious sugar, consumed at royal banquets only in minute quantities like medicine, and he intended to use it merely to flavor tonight's meal?

Did sugar roll about the streets of Bohemia?

Foscari's assessment of the King of Bohemia was being overturned from its very foundation.

Either he was familiar with every luxury and glory in the world.

Or he was a madman who regarded gold as stones.

It did not matter which.

The important thing was that his plan to overwhelm the king by displaying Venice's wealth had failed completely.

"Ambassador."

The king had already leaned back deep into his throne.

His legs crossed, his chin resting on one hand, he looked down at Foscari. The casualness with which he had crunched sugar moments ago was nowhere to be seen.

Only the dignity of a cool-headed ruler remained.

"I have received the gifts well. Venice's sincerity has been sufficiently demonstrated..."

Ulrich leaned forward. A cold smile spread across his shadowed face.

It was the smile of a merchant about to make a deal, and the expression of a gambler certain of victory.

"Then it is time for me to show you my goods, is it not?"

Footnotes:

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