Chapter 23
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Translator: Wjin
Chapter: 023
Chapter Title: Papal Bull (3)
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Rome, Lateran Palace office.
"...What did you say?"
The Pope of Rome froze like a statue upon hearing the cardinal's report. The wine glass in his hand trembled precariously.
"Say that again. Bohemia’s tithes... what happened to them?"
"W-well... Bohemia’s king, Ulrich von Sternberg, has seized all the monasteries’ and cathedrals’ property."
"Seized?"
"Yes. Gold, silver, holy relics, land deeds... he’s taken every last bit."
The moment the cardinal finished his report.
Crash!
The Pope’s prized top-grade Venetian crystal glass shattered against the wall. Red wine trickled down like blood.
"That... that lightning-struck bastard!!"
The Pope’s roar echoed through the palace corridors.
Martin V.
Birth name: Oddone Colonna.
Later historians and theologians would remember him as the great pope who ended the Western Schism.
But reality was a bit different.
He was less a man of the cloth and more a brilliant political thug and ruthless corporate magnate.
The mastermind who, amid three rival popes and Europe’s church on the brink of chaos, had unified it at the Council of Constance.
The obsessive administrator who rebuilt Avignon-captivity ravaged Rome, poring over ledgers for every brick and nail.
To him, the Church was less God’s temple and more a massive enterprise he had to reconstruct.
And rebuilding Rome cost money.
A staggering, astronomical fortune.
Yet from the prime cut that was Bohemia, some no-name upstart had looted his entire vault.
"I! To scrape that money together! I pandered to the French, groveled to the Germans, while Rome’s roofs leaked and walls crumbled! And he dares steal my money? My money?!"
His rage wasn’t just at the heretic’s emergence.
It was far more primal. Far more capitalistic.
"1.3 million groschen? With that, I could repair Castel Sant’Angelo and still have change! Build two more bridges over the Tiber! Arrrgh!"
Oddone clutched his neck, staggering. His blood pressure surged to his skull.
"He’s no Christian! He’s Satan! No, even Satan wouldn’t steal my money! He’s worse than Satan!"
"Y-Your Holiness! Please, preserve your sacred health!"
"Excommunicate him! Write the bull now! Not with ink—with curses! May the Lord’s wrath be upon Ulrich von Sternberg!"
The next day, a Papal Bull in Martin V’s name scattered across Europe.
An excommunication decree aimed at Bohemia’s heretic king, Ulrich von Sternberg.
Exactly one week after looting the monastery vaults and fattening our coffers.
The expected guest arrived, bearing the expected gift.
"...Your Highness."
Janos entered the office with a tray. His expression was peculiar.
A mix of terror and that signature cynical curiosity, wondering how this mess would unfold.
On the tray lay a single scroll.
Tied with red silk ribbon, sealed with a heavy lead weight.
Lead. Bulla in Latin.
This was the infamous Papal Bull.
"It’s here."
I set aside my papers and picked up the bull. It was hefty. The lead seal bore the faces of Apostles Peter and Paul on one side, and the current pope’s name embossed on the reverse.
MARTINUS PP. V
"My lord, are you... really going to open it?"
Janos asked, edging back.
"Why? Afraid lightning’ll strike?"
"Honestly? A bit spooked. A papal curse and all. Feels like bad luck’ll stick."
"Never had any luck to begin with."
I smirked and untied the red ribbon.
Unfurling the parchment released a torrent of densely packed Latin curses.
I wasn’t alone in the office.
A noble in fine silk, pale as a corpse: Cenek z Vartemberka of Bartemberg.
And a theologian in black clerical robes: Jan Rokycana.
The future archbishop of the Hussites trembled like a leaf before me.
"I’ll read it aloud. Listen closely."
I cleared my throat and began reciting the bull.
"The servant of God’s servants, Pope Martin... blah blah, a wicked serpent has entered the Lord’s vineyard... yadda yadda."
The preamble dragged. I skipped to the meat.
"Here it is."
I lowered my voice, reading solemnly.
"Therefore, we declare in the name of Almighty God, the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit, and by the authority of the blessed Apostles Peter and Paul."
"..."
"The one who calls himself King of Bohemia, Ulrich von Sternberg, is an enemy of the Church, a blasphemer, and a betrayer of the faith."
Someone gulped dryly.
"We cast him out from the Christian community and strip him of all rights and honors. The ground he treads shall be cursed, the water he drinks shall be poison."
"Oh, Lord..."
"Those who follow him shall share the same curse, and whosoever slays him shall bear no sin of murder but receive heavenly reward."
"Anathema. Be cursed."
"Anathema Maranatha. Cursed forever until the Lord comes."
The recitation ended.
A heavy silence blanketed the office.
Like a funeral parlor. No, an execution ground.
Excommunication.
In medieval society, it wasn’t mere religious discipline. It was social annihilation in Christendom.
First, feudal contracts dissolved. Knights and lords sworn to me could now legally betray me. Nay, they must.
Second, legal protections revoked. Stab me on the roadside, lop my head—even that makes you no murderer, but a ‘defender of the Church.’
Third, diplomatic isolation. No European king or merchant could trade with me. Bohemia became an island on land.
"...Your Highness."
Cenek spoke in a quavering voice.
"This... there’s no turning back. All Europe will hunt us now."
He was right. Sigismund had no better pretext.
Now he’d rally a crusade with imperial authority and the Vicar of Christ’s blessing.
"We’re done for...!"
Cenek clutched his head.
"Trade routes cut, not a grain of salt incoming. Mercenaries breaking contracts, neighbors carving up our lands!"
"Calm yourself, Lord Cenek."
"Calm? How?! Excommunication! We’re all hellbound!"
Then, silent Jan Rokycana slowly raised his head.
The esteemed theologian’s eyes swam with despair. But his fear wasn’t Cenek’s worldly ruin.
"Your Highness."
Rokycana’s voice was steady, but the terror within ran deeper, darker.
"Do you truly not grasp what this means?"
"Tell me."
"It’s an Interdict."
Rokycana pointed to the bull.
"All Bohemia’s churches must close. No bells toll, no masses held."
"And?"
"And?!"
Rokycana shot to his feet.
"No baptisms for newborns! Those innocents go to hell unwashed of original sin! No funeral masses for the dead! Their souls wander purgatory in eternal torment!"
His cry bordered on a wail.
Cenek decried political bankruptcy; Rokycana, spiritual.
Their reactions were utterly medieval. Utterly rational.
But.
"So what?"
I crumpled the bull nonchalantly and tossed it on the desk.
"...Pardon?"
Rokycana blinked dumbly.
"Does excommunication ruin your appetite? Stop your breath?"
"Th-that... your soul burns in hell..."
"Rokycana."
I leaned back, steepling my fingers.
"Hell isn’t a place you go after death."
Rokycana gaped.
His mind, forged in theology and Church authority, couldn’t process my heresy on the spot.
"Think, Rokycana."
I nodded at the bull.
"Does that scrap of paper cut your flesh? That lead lump break your bones?"
"N-no, but... the soul’s peace..."
"Soul’s peace."
I chuckled, rising and striding to the window. I flung it wide.
Prague’s chill winter air flooded in. Far off, St. Vitus Cathedral’s spire pierced the sky; below, the huddled city sprawled.
Streets crawled with filth-clad beggars, skeletal children sifting mud.
"Look down there."
I pointed outside.
"Thousands starve despite papal blessings. During the Black Death, did the faithful live while heretics died?"
"Th-that..."
"No. Everyone died."
I locked eyes with Rokycana.
"Prayers didn’t save. Curses didn’t kill. Good died, bad died. Only those who ate well, drank clean water, slept warm survived."
Rokycana’s pupils quivered.
He yearned to refute— theologically, doctrinally, I was wrong.
But realistically, I was brutally right.
"God doesn’t redeem poverty."
I emphasized each word.
"Bread redeems poverty. Medicine beats plague, not prayer. Steel slays foes, not curses."
I snatched the bull again. The lead seal clinked.
"This? Just parchment and lead. A receipt from some pope flexing authority."
"A receipt...?"
"Yep. Confirmation we received 1.3 million groschen."
Cenek’s jaw dropped; Janos stifled giggles. Rokycana stared like I was the devil.
"Your Highness... you mean it? Trade the world’s curse for pocket change? They hate you without reason!"
"Without reason?"
I tossed the bull back and approached Rokycana.
"Sure, it stings. I haven’t even started the deeds to make ‘em quake."
"...What do you mean?"
"If you’re gonna get hate, earn it proper."
I curled my lip.
"Those hating me for nothing? Time to give ‘em damn good reasons. Manners, right?"
My mind already sketched the next phase.
A bomb to shock Europe, dwarfing that puny bull.