Chapter 35
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Translator: Wjin
Chapter: 035
Chapter Title: Second Crusade (2)
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Holy Roman Empire.
As some Enlightenment thinker would later mock, it was neither holy, nor Roman, nor an empire—a bizarre nation.
So why was the Holy Roman Empire not holy, not Roman, and not even an empire?
The reason was clear.
It claimed the title of "holy" because it received its coronation from the Pope, but in truth, it was a country where the emperor and the Pope had been grabbing each other by the collar for centuries, wallowing in the mud.
It professed to be "Roman" as the heirs of Rome, but its bloodline was Germanic, not Latin—the glory of Rome slumbered in Italy's ruins while reality lurked in Germany's forests.
And above all, it wasn't an "empire" because it lacked a single powerful emperor ruling a centralized state.
Duchies, margraviates, counties, bishoprics, and hundreds of free cities each maintained their own armies, collected taxes, and fought among themselves at every opportunity—a loose feudal federation.
That was the true nature of the Holy Roman Empire.
And within that chaotic empire, the Kingdom of Bohemia stood out... no, it was more like a thorn in the eye.
While countless lords within the empire had to settle for ducal or comital titles, only Bohemia’s ruler was granted the title of king.
Among the seven prince-electors who chose the emperor, Bohemia’s king was the arch-elector, the empire's number two, personally offering the chalice to the emperor.
Moreover, the vast silver pouring from Bohemia’s Kuttenberg mines was the heartbeat sustaining the empire’s economy. It was no coincidence that Prague had been the imperial capital during the reign of the late Emperor Charles IV.
This special treatment for Bohemia was an unbearable insult and object of jealousy to the empire's German mainstream.
Slavic hillbillies who couldn't even speak properly holding the empire's highest title and monopolizing its greatest wealth?
Thus, this crusade provided the perfect pretext for the German princes.
North of Prague.
On the Letna Hills, an army of 100,000 filled the landscape.
Saxony's black and yellow stripes, Bavaria's blue diamonds, Austria's red shields...
Before the myriad banners gathered under the cry of exterminating heretics, whether the Bohemian Hussites were truly heretics mattered little to them.
Faith was mere window dressing; the true aim of the prince-electors was to legally plunder the wealthy Slavic kingdom and crush Czech arrogance to affirm German superiority.
'Disgusting banners.'
Sigismund von Luxembourg, emperor of the Holy Roman Empire and king of Hungary, knew this all too well.
'But it's necessary.'
Sigismund gazed down from horseback at the city sprawling beneath his feet.
Prague.
His hometown, the city that had rejected him.
The golden city with its hundred spires blazed red in the sunset.
It was beautiful.
And all the more hateful for it.
"Your Majesty. Quite the sight, isn't it?"
A voice laced with admiration came from beside him.
It was Frederick, the Elector of Saxony. He was draped in black sable fur over ornate plate armor, buzzing with excitement like a noble out on a hunt.
"That city of rebels is about to kneel at Your Majesty's feet. Our imperial army of 100,000 has them surrounded. Not even an ant could slip through."
Sigismund snorted in response.
Behind the emperor, across the plain, a sea of steel rippled—just as Frederick said.
Saxony, Bavaria, Austria, Brandenburg...
Banners from princes across the empire formed a forest, and the heat from the 100,000-strong host pushed back March's chill winds.
Tents and campfire smoke blanketing the horizon.
The ceaseless thud of hooves and soldiers' shouts.
An overwhelming, absolute numerical superiority that made defeat unimaginable.
"Your Majesty! Give the order to attack at once."
Frederick urged impatiently.
"Those walls are crumbling. Our Saxon siege hammers could breach the gates in half a day. Entrust the vanguard to me, and I'll plant Your Majesty's banner in Prague's palace by nightfall!"
The other princes chimed in.
"He's right! Inside are just ragtag peasants and heretics!"
"We must punish them in the name of God!"
"We'll trample them under our knights' hooves!"
They were fired up, like hounds slavering over the massive prey before them—Prague's riches and glory ripe for the taking.
But Sigismund's eyes remained coldly sunken.
'Idiots.'
To these German princes, war was a tournament on well-groomed plains, knights charging with lances to vie for honor.
They didn't know the era had come when peasants with farm tools slit knights' throats.
That mobs drunk on religious fervor turned into vicious beasts.
If this were Hungary, he'd have beheaded the fool flapping his insolent jaw on the spot.
But unfortunately, these were not his vassals—they were the empire's prince-electors.
Greedy allies whose fat asses you had to coax, cajole, and bribe to move.
"Duke Frederick."
Sigismund spoke. His low, dry voice carried such authority that the princes' clamor died down.
"Have you heard the name Jan Zizka?"
"Zizka? That one-eyed old codger? Word is he's just a bumpkin leading bandit rabble."
Frederick scoffed.
"A barbarian who knows nothing of chivalry. What kind of army could he command? Untrained peasants against our empire's elite knights? No chance..."
"Those peasants."
Sigismund cut him off. His gray eyes bored heavily into Frederick.
"Smashed the last crusade."
"..."
"Those ragtag mobs circled their wagons, hid inside, then smashed our knights' skulls with flails and pierced armor with matchlocks as we approached. That's Jan Zizka's Wagenburg."
A memory from just months ago flashed through Sigismund's mind.
Wagenburg. A hellish formation that neutralized cavalry charges, dragged knights from their horses, and beat them to death like dogs.
Intelligence reported it had been reinforced this time. Rumors even spoke of steel plates melted with dragonfire.
Exaggeration, no doubt, but under Jan Zizka's command and funded by that enigmatic young heretic king Ulrich, it was no threat to dismiss.
Yet these fool princes were howling to charge the walls on numbers alone.
Sigismund pointed beyond Prague's walls.
"Every narrow alley will be barricaded with wagons. When your precious knights squeeze into those gaps, boiling oil and rocks will rain from the rooftops. That's the glorious end you want for your charge."
At the emperor's icy warning, Duke Frederick's face flushed red.
He opened his mouth to retort but could only cough awkwardly under the emperor's steely gaze.
"Th-then what? Suck our thumbs while prey dangles right there? If the empire's 100,000 can't breach one crumbling wall, the world will laugh!"
"Laughter fades in a moment, but defeat lasts forever."
Sigismund wheeled his horse around.
His gaze lingered on Prague's walls and the red roofs beyond.
"We needn't spill blood. Bohemia is isolated. Enemies on all sides, no reinforcements. How much food do you think those trapped rats have?"
He nodded toward the walls.
"The city's already bursting. Overflowing with refugees from the countryside. Plenty of mouths, short on food. Time and hunger will fight for us without drawing a sword."
"A siege... is that it?"
"Starve 'em out. Set up trebuchets and lob rocks and rotten corpses day and night. No need to breach the walls. Just poison their wells, deny them sleep, sow terror."
A cruel smile curled Sigismund's lips.
"A month will do. Starving mobs will cut off that heretic king's head and toss it beyond the gates themselves. We'll stroll in then and toast at leisure."
The emperor's proposal was utterly rational—and brutally pragmatic.
Even the bloodthirsty German princes had no grounds to argue against victory without losses.
They grumbled but nodded one by one.
"If that's Your Majesty's will..."
"Hmm, sparing knights' lives is a lord's virtue, indeed."
As the princes dispersed to fortify the encirclement, Sigismund finally exhaled a held breath.
'Leisure? Hah, what a joke.'
He adjusted his cloak to hide his trembling hands.
In truth, he had no such luxury.
He'd only feigned calm before those idiot princes; inside, he was burning black.
100,000 strong.
100,000 sounded grand, but sustaining this beast for a day cost astronomical sums.
Soldiers' pay, horse feed, provisions... the treasury ebbed like the tide with each passing day.
Where did all that money come from?
He'd broken a taboo for this campaign: raiding the Jewish ghetto that propped up the empire's economy.
The emperor's guard sealed Vienna's Jewish quarter, dragging out men, women, and children alike. They killed resistors and even severed the wrists of beggars for mercy to extract hidden wealth.
Centuries of Jewish usury and trade fortunes flooded into the imperial coffers overnight.
But it was like slitting the golden goose.
Sigismund knew Jews were prime tax sources—better to keep them alive and squeeze periodically.
But he had no time for tomorrow.
'This is the last shot.'
Bohemia's rebellion grew fiercer with each passing year.
The Papacy lambasted the incompetent emperor daily for failing to crush the heretics, and his coronation was endlessly postponed.
Then this upstart Ulrich appeared, claiming Bohemia’s crown and openly defying imperial authority.
Ironically, though hailed as Holy Roman Emperor and ruling the empire, Sigismund hadn't held the most crucial coronation.
Despite the election ending a decade ago in 1410.
The reason was obvious. When first elected King of the Romans, Europe was mired in the Western Schism's chaos.
Only the Roman Pope could crown the emperor, but with three rival popes, kneeling to which for legitimacy was unclear.
That was why Sigismund so fervently convened the Council of Constance to end the schism.
Only a single pope could make him emperor in full.
He succeeded in sorting the popes and installing Martin V—but then Bohemia erupted.
Not just any revolt, but a "heretical" one, most loathed by Christendom.
Could a man who let heretics turn his own Bohemia into a den dare march to Rome for coronation as Catholicism's defender and emperor?
The European princes would mock him; even Pope Martin V wouldn't tolerate it.
The pope demanded—subtly at first, then openly.
'Purify Bohemia first. Then I'll crown you.'
Thus, for Sigismund, this war was not just for Bohemia’s crown and silver—it decided if he'd ever be recognized as true emperor.
Failure here?
The empire would disintegrate. Princes would turn away laughing, and House Luxembourg's glory would end.
'I must win. Dry up their seed entirely.'
He glared at Prague's walls. No more careless losses like last time.
Starve them, tear them apart—secure victory utterly.
"Your Majesty! Trebuchets are ready!"
"Good. Attack at sunset..."
Sigismund was about to issue the order.
KREEEEEEEK—!
A massive groan pierced the battlefield din.
Sigismund's brow twitched. Knights scanning ahead shouted urgently.
"Your Majesty! Look there!"
"The gates... Prague's gates are opening!"
Sigismund rose in his stirrups.
Prague's main gate yawned wide.
For a moment, hopeful speculation flashed in his mind.
'Surrender?'
Terror-stricken citizens binding their king to offer him up? Or an embassy begging mercy?
But from the gate's shadows emerged no white-flag envoy.
RUMBLE RUMBLE RUMBLE—
The ground shook with heavy vibrations.
Bursting from the gates was a procession of massive wagons.
But.
'Are those... wagons?'
Silver-gray behemoths gleaming in the sunset.
Smooth steel plating instead of wooden planks, gun barrels bristling on all sides—steel fortresses.
Not one. Two, three, ten, twenty...
Like a giant serpent slithering from its lair, steel Wagenburgs poured out in a chain.
"Wh-what are those?"
"Wagons? No, iron war machines?"
The German princes buzzed in confusion. It defied their common sense.
Wagenburgs were defensive, circled on plains to repel charges.
With a siege already taxing them, why crawl out voluntarily?
Duke Frederick muttered in disbelief.
"Madmen... suicide?"
But Sigismund was different. His gray eyes trembled faintly.
The steel wagons didn't form a circle outside.
Instead, they spread wide in a battle line, cannons aimed frontally at the imperial army—like cavalry forming for a charge.
At the formation's center.
Aboard the largest, most ornate command Panzer, a blue banner fluttered.
An eight-pointed golden star.
Beneath it, a young man in a red cloak stood arrogantly, arms crossed, staring down 100,000.
Ulrich von Sternberg.
He'd never planned to hunker behind walls.
He intended a massive pitched battle on the plains against this host.
20,000 versus 100,000.
Overwhelming disadvantage.
Yet the heretic king flung open the gates, pointing his blade at the emperor's army.
As if he were the hunter.
"Ha..."
Laughter escaped Sigismund's lips.