WeTried Translations
Translator/Editor: Ceaseless
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◈ The Medieval Heretic King is Too Good at Developing ◈
Chapter 95: To the Balkans (2)
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Outside Prague’s southern gate, in a secret storage yard on the banks of the Vltava River.
Thick river fog lay heavily over the clearing, while the bluish darkness of dawn had yet to fade.
Through the mist, dozens of wagons stretched in a long line like a procession of ghosts.
It was the Bohemian artillery corps, bound for the Balkans.
I pulled my cloak tight and headed toward the front of the wagon train. János Hunyadi raised a torch to light my way.
“How is the disguise?”
“Perfect. See for yourself.”
János gestured toward one of the wagons.
It looked like an entirely ordinary four-wheeled freight wagon.
Its bed was piled with wine barrels and crates of glassware, and a Venetian golden lion banner fluttered from its pole.
To any observer, it looked like a merchant caravan returning across the Alps after making a fortune in Bohemia.
But it was nothing more than an elaborate deception.
“Open it.”
At my signal, a soldier dressed as a porter pushed the wine barrels aside. A hidden false floor beneath the wagon bed came into view.
Creeeak.
When he lifted the floorboards, the silvery gleam of metal buried beneath a heap of hay caught the torchlight and shone coldly.
It was the disassembled barrel of Ulrich No. 1.
This was a trick possible only because it was a steel cannon. Had it been a conventional cast-iron or bronze cannon, such a disguise would have been unthinkable.
Hide a monster whose barrel alone weighed well over a ton beneath a wagon floor?
Either the axle would have broken, or the horses would have collapsed foaming at the mouth.
But Ulrich No. 1’s barrel, made thin from Bessemer steel, weighed just over three hundred kilograms.
If its wheels, barrel, and carriage were properly divided among the wagons, even ordinary cargo wagons could carry the load.
“What about the cannonballs and Gunpowder?”
“We split them between the rear wagons. The cannonballs are inside wine barrels packed with sawdust, so they won’t make any suspicious sounds if struck. The Gunpowder was sealed twice against moisture and hidden between the wine crates. There may be a faint smell of Gunpowder, but the strong scent of wine will conceal it completely.”
Excellent. Unless the Austrians completely dismantled a wagon, they would have trouble finding it.
I nodded in satisfaction and headed toward the center of the convoy.
A fierce-looking merchant master stood there with his arms crossed.
“Is everything ready, General?”
Jan Žižka slowly turned their head at my voice.
The old plate armor with which Jan Žižka had commanded battlefields was gone. They wore a thick sheepskin coat and a loose fur hat pulled low over their head.
Žižka’s beard gleamed with oil. Instead of Žižka’s familiar mace, a short cutlass fit for a merchant and a heavy money pouch hung from their belt.
Žižka looked exactly like a mercenary captain of an armed merchant caravan.
Žižka tapped the wagon bed with their rough hand.
“There are no problems, Your Highness. The steel cannons, cannonballs, Gunpowder, and even the soldiers to handle them. Nothing has been left behind. I trained every one of those men myself, so they’ll cross even the harsh Alps without trouble.”
Žižka’s gaze swept over the porters wandering around the wagons. They looked like ordinary laborers, but every one of them had thick knuckles and sharp eyes.
Žižka was no different. Even in different clothes, the chilling pressure they gave off remained unchanged.
The one eye that gleamed beyond Žižka’s eyepatch did not shine with a merchant’s calculations, but with a hunter’s instinct.
“...”
Jan Žižka.
Bohemia’s living god of war.
A warrior of faith who had never suffered defeat in their life and believed that piling the corpses of enemies into mountains was the Lord’s will.
The Jan Žižka remembered by history was a fanatical Hussite soldier.
What did this journey, undertaken to aid the Eastern Roman Empire, mean to Jan Žižka?
“General. Tell me honestly.”
“What would you have me say?”
“Do you like this expedition?”
One of Žižka’s eyebrows twitched at my question.
“We aren’t going to help fellow Christians. We are going to help the Eastern Orthodox, people you find just as troublesome as the Roman Catholic Church.”
To the Hussites of Bohemia at the time, the world contained only two kinds of people.
Us, who followed God’s will, and the papacy, the servants of the corrupt Antichrist.
To them, the Eastern Orthodox Church was troublesome in a different way from Catholicism.
They denied the Pope just as the Hussites did, but they worshipped icons and followed different rites.
More importantly, they treated us as Latin heretics and looked upon us as if we were barbarians.
For Žižka, who had wielded a sword all his life for the purity of faith, an order to fight for Venetian merchants and the Eastern Roman Empire might have felt like an insult.
“Ha ha ha!”
But Žižka laughed.
Žižka’s scarred mouth twisted into a long grin.
“Your Highness, it is true that I do not care for the Orthodox. Aren’t they nothing but bearded softies?”
The laughter vanished in an instant, and a fanatical fire blazed in their eye.
“But I hear those eastern Turks are an army of heathens who shatter crosses, burn churches, and blaspheme the name of Jesus.”
Žižka clenched their fist.
“The Catholics only talk about heretics and God’s punishment, but when heathens invade, they run like rats. Look at Sigismund. Sigismund only displays the authority of an emperor when trampling powerless peasants, and is utterly helpless before a real enemy.”
Contempt dripped from their voice.
“So we must show them who is a true warrior of God, who is the true sword that defends the cross.”
“...”
“I will pour a baptism of steel upon those Turks’ heads and carve into their bones just how fierce and terrifying Bohemian faith can be. I do not care whether the Orthodox are grateful or not. I am only going to prove my faith.”
I nodded.
“Impressive.”
The priorities of their faith were clear.
If Catholics and Orthodox were corrupt and foolish brothers, then the Ottomans were demons who denied God.
Pure religious zeal and a fighting spirit.
That was likely the force that had made Jan Žižka an undefeated commander.
“That spirit is excellent. But General, remember this.”
I placed a hand on Žižka’s shoulder and spoke firmly.
“The purpose of this expedition is not conquest. Defend Thessalonica, but put our soldiers’ lives first. There is no need to spill Bohemian blood for Venice or the Eastern Romans.”
“Yes...?”
“If it becomes too dangerous, withdraw whenever you must. I do not care if you leave the cannons behind. No, if the battle turns against you and you need to retreat, destroy the cannons without hesitation and get your men out.”
Žižka’s one eye widened.
“Your Highness? Did you not spend sleepless nights making those with the engineers? And you are telling me to abandon them?”
“Cannons can be made again.”
I gripped his shoulder tightly.
“We can always make more metal. But what about trained soldiers? Your men, with years of battlefield experience, cannot be made in a blast furnace. One soldier you bring back alive is worth more than a cannon.”
An ordinary ruler would have regretted losing weapons and regarded soldiers’ lives as expendable.
But I was telling him the exact opposite.
“People come first. Equipment comes after. Do you understand?”
Žižka stared at me as though they had forgotten how to speak.
The muscles in Žižka’s rough face trembled slightly.
Then Žižka struck their chest hard with their rough hand.
Thud.
“I will carve my lord’s will into my bones. I will return without losing a single subordinate in vain.”
Something beyond loyalty passed through their eye.
I added one final warning.
“And do not trust the Venetians too much.”
I glanced at the golden lion banner fixed to the lead wagon.
“They are merchants. For profit, they will smile and shake hands with yesterday’s enemy, and if necessary, they will drive a knife into an ally’s back. If things go wrong, they may try to seize our cannons or bribe our engineers.”
“Do not worry, Your Highness.”
Žižka gave a chilling smile. The teeth visible between his parted lips gleamed like those of a beast.
“My blade will reach them before the Venetians can so much as move a finger. They may take my eye, but they will never dare steal Your Highness’s cannons.”
I nodded in satisfaction and signaled to János. He brought over a small wooden box and handed it to Žižka.
“Take this as well, General.”
“What is this? Another new weapon?”
“Open it.”
Žižka opened the lid with a puzzled expression. Inside were neatly stacked square blocks.
Instead of the acrid smell of Gunpowder, a strange fragrance of mild herbs and heavy oil filled the air. It was the finest soap from Sternberg.
“Is this... soap?”
“That’s right. Wherever you go, make sure to wash thoroughly. Consider it a royal command, and obey it without fail.”
“...??”
The Jan Žižka of history had not died in defeat on the battlefield. Jan Žižka had died of illness.
The records gave no details, but given the circumstances, it had most likely been the Black Death.
It was supposed to happen next year, and history had changed now, but one could never be too careful.
‘You need to keep working under me for a long, long time. It would be troublesome if you got sick.’
Then grumbling rose from the rear of the convoy.
“Oh, what a fate I have. To cross the Alps again with this old body...”
It was Oswald. Dressed in extravagant travel clothes with a quill tucked behind their ear, Oswald climbed into a wagon with a mournful expression.
Yet despite the complaints leaving their lips, Oswald clutched a thick notebook and a bundle of pencils tightly to their chest.
“Sir Oswald. Are you ready?”
“Yes, Your Highness. In body and spirit... no, my spirit is not quite ready yet, but I have packed everything.”
Though they trembled, Oswald puffed out their chest in an effort to appear confident.
“Do not worry. I have memorized every path around Brenner Pass. I know every shortcut that will get us safely to Venice.”
“Yes, I am counting on you. That silver tongue of yours may prove a more powerful weapon than a cannon.”
I smiled and added,
“And I look forward to the account of this expedition. I hope it will be prose worthy of comparison to Caesar crossing the Rubicon.”
“...I have already chosen the title.”
Oswald tapped the notebook tucked inside their coat with a solemn expression.
“‘The Steel Legion Crosses the Alps.’ What do you think? Is it not magnificent? People may call it the greatest march since Hannibal.”
Just then, the eastern sky turned red.
The fog over the Vltava River slowly cleared, and the spires of Prague Castle began to glow gold beneath the morning sun.
It was time to depart.
I stepped back and gave the signal.
Žižka, who had been sniffing their own scent from atop their horse, seized the reins with their rough hand.
Crack!
The sharp sound of the driver’s whip tore through the air. With a rattling clatter, the convoy slowly moved into the fog.
The procession headed south.
Through the Empire, toward distant Italy and the Balkans.
Footnotes:
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