The Spiritual War (3)
Rome, the Lateran Palace.
Pope Martin V stood by the window of his office, looking down at the priests and pilgrims bustling about below.
"It is about time for news to arrive."
He muttered, gently swirling the wine glass in his hand.
"Sigismund, that old fox, may be slow, but he is the Emperor of the Empire. Since I handed him the banner of the Crusade, gathering the princes should have been as easy as pie."
The cardinal guarding the Pope bowed his head respectfully.
"That is correct, Your Holiness. The Excommunication Decree you issued is a weapon more powerful than any army. Who would dare defy the will of God's representative?"
"Indeed, indeed."
Martin V nodded, seemingly satisfied.
He was the one who had unified the divided Church through the Council of Constance and ascended to the position of the sole Pope.
To him, the Hussites of Bohemia were a thorn in his side challenging his authority, but at the same time, they were a perfect prey to show off his power.
Without lifting a finger, he only had to send down a single decree, and the Emperor would handle the fundraising, gather the army, and clean up the heretics for him.
What a perfect and elegant form of governance.
Above all, since he could establish the Church's authority without spending a single penny of his own money, looking back, Martin V even felt grateful for the existence of the Hussites.
Since an external enemy is the best way to bind internal unity, he considered this heretic suppression a trial sent by the Lord to solidify the soil of Catholicism.
"The report is likely delayed due to the distribution of spoils. The gold and treasures of Prague must be quite substantial..."
It was then.
BANG!
The heavy door of the office swung open violently, without any regard for etiquette.
"Y-Your Holiness! Urgent news!"
Martin V furrowed his brows.
The cardinal reprimanded the messenger in his stead.
"What is the meaning of this recklessness! Have you no manners before the representative of God!"
"I-I apologize! But the news is so urgent that...!"
The messenger looked as if he had been riding for days without rest; his lips were chapped, and his eyes were hollow.
The Pope clicked his tongue and snatched the parchment scroll the messenger held out.
"Urgent? Don't make a fuss. Did the Emperor enter Prague? Or is he bringing back the head of the Heretic King?"
With leisurely movements, he tore off the red wax seal and unfolded the letter.
"Let's see. How much will Sigismund boast this time..."
And then.
"............"
As the Pope read the first line, his pupils slowly froze.
The relaxed smile vanished from his lips, and the fingertips holding the parchment began to tremble.
[...Annihilation. The 100,000-strong army has evaporated...]
[...His Imperial Majesty is fleeing to Hungary...]
[...The Devil's steel wagons... thunder and lightning...]
[...The Crusade, effectively disbanded...]
Each sentence was a string of incomprehensible words.
Martin V let out a hollow laugh.
"Ha, haha... What kind of joke is this?"
He looked down at the messenger and asked nervously.
"Who told you to pull such a prank? 100,000 troops defeated? By a bunch of peasants who aren't even regular soldiers? Speak something that makes sense!"
"Y-Your Holiness... It is the truth! I witnessed it myself!"
The messenger sobbed and banged his head against the floor.
"They are not human! They are demons! Walls made of steel moved on their own, and they spat fire from their mouths, tearing the knights to shreds! The Bavarian Knights melted away without even being able to strike a blow!"
"Steel walls? Spitting fire? What kind of absurd story is that!"
"It is the truth! His Imperial Majesty barely escaped with his life, and the Electors have scattered in all directions. Bohemia... has now fallen completely into the hands of that heretic, Ulrich!"
The parchment slipped from the Pope's hand and fell to the floor.
'Defeated? And a crushing defeat at that?'
At that moment, a cold chill crawled up Martin V's spine.
It was a war I blessed.
It was a holy war to strike down the one I excommunicated.
And yet, they lost.
The Crusade of the Catholic world had been thoroughly trampled by a mere heretic.
Now, people will doubt.
Is the Pope's excommunication decree nothing more than a piece of paper?
Does the blessing given by God's representative have no effect?
If so, where does God's will lie?
'I-I must stop this. Before this rumor spreads...!'
Martin V hurriedly approached the desk and picked up a quill.
"A decree! I must write a decree!"
With trembling hands, he pressed the pen onto the paper.
[Ulrich von Sternberg. That man is a minion of Satan. All who follow him are excommunicated. Let the monarchs of all Europe rise and strike down that demon...]
The nib of the pen, which had been writing frantically, suddenly snapped. Ink splattered, staining the white paper black.
The Pope stared blankly at the black stain.
'...What is the point of all this?'
Excommunication? He was already excommunicated.
Heretic verdict? Already done.
Crusade? 100,000 were sent, and they were defeated.
The fact that no matter how much he twisted his pen and poured out God's curses, it would have no impact on that Heretic King of Bohemia hit him to the bone.
"Ughhhhh...!"
A beast-like groan leaked from between his lips.
Fear turned into fierce rage in an instant.
Rage toward the incompetent people who had caused all this.
"Sigismund... you crippled, incompetent bastard!!!"
CRASH!
The Pope, his eyes rolling back, swept everything off his desk.
The Bible tumbled to the floor, and the ink bottle shattered, soaking the red carpet black.
"Ughhhhhhh!!"
The enraged Pope's scream echoed through Rome for a long time.
***
The northern forest flowed with a different kind of silence than the Roman office.
The smell of damp moss.
The smell of rotting leaves.
And the musky scent of beasts.
The King of Poland, Władysław II Jagiełło, maintained an upright posture on his horse despite his age of over seventy.
His eyes were deeply wrinkled, but the glint flashing within them was still the same as when he was the Grand Duke of Lithuania, slaughtering the Teutonic Knights in his youth.
"Your Majesty, it's a deer! The beast is exhausted!"
The hounds barked and cornered the large deer.
Jagiełło raised a hand to stop the accompanying knights who were about to step forward with spears.
"Stand back. It is my share."
Licking his lips like an old bear, he drew the longbow slung over his shoulder and pulled the string.
His taut muscles screamed, but the excitement of the hunt made him forget the pain.
Whoosh— Thwack!
The arrow pierced the prey's neck precisely. The deer collapsed into the grass with a final cry.
"Magnificent, Your Majesty! It was a scene that recreated the glory of Grunwald!"
Young nobles approached, fawning over him, but Jagiełło indifferently dismounted and kicked the deer's carcass.
"Hmph, it's an old deer, so the leather will be tough. Just like the face of that fox, Sigismund."
Sigismund, the Emperor of the Holy Roman Empire, his greatest rival and thorn in his side.
Even out in the hunting grounds, the mere mention of that name left a bitter taste in his mouth.
"By the way, is there no news from the south yet? I heard that fox went to catch the peasants of Bohemia."
Jagiełło asked as if he were indifferent, but his ears were perked up.
In fact, it was an open secret that Poland was supporting the Hussite heretics of Bohemia.
Before Ulrich's appearance, the nobles of Prague had intended to offer the Bohemian throne to Jagiełło for that very reason.
However, when an unprecedented figure named Ulrich appeared and a massive storm of excommunication and crusades swept across Europe, Jagiełło cunningly took a step back.
It was because he feared that if he got too deeply involved, the sparks of heresy might fly all the way to Poland.
Of course, that didn't mean Jagiełło was wishing for the Crusade's victory.
If Sigismund were to swallow Bohemia, his greedy blade would inevitably aim for the heart of Poland.
The Teutonic Knights in the north and the Holy Roman Empire in the south.
Since the fate of Poland, caught between two beasts, was always like walking on thin ice, he hoped this chaos would last a long time.
At that moment, the sound of urgent hoofbeats came from across the forest path.
Clatter, clatter, clatter—!
"Your Majesty! U-Urgent news! From Bohemia...!"
"Catch your breath and speak. Why? Did the Emperor finally burn Prague?"
"No! The Emperor's Crusade... has been annihilated!"
For a moment, silence flowed through the forest.
"...What did you say?"
"Bohemia has won! The Emperor barely escaped with his life and fled to Hungary, and the 100,000-strong army has scattered, effectively meaning they have been wiped out!"
The surrounding nobles murmured.
"That's impossible..."
"100,000? By mere peasants?"
"Is this not incorrect information?"
But Jagiełło slowly, very slowly, curled up the corners of his mouth.
"Ke, kek..."
The Polish King's shoulders began to heave.
"Kwahahahaha!"
A sudden burst of laughter shook the forest.
The ministers looked at each other in confusion, but the King's laughter did not stop. Jagiełło held his stomach and laughed until he shed tears.
"That high-nosed fox of Luxembourg! He blew 100,000 men and ran away with his tail between his legs? To think the Emperor ended up in a cesspool! Ah, never in my life have I heard such thrilling news!"
"Y-Your Majesty. Please maintain your dignity."
The Polish Chancellor, Zbigniew Oleśnicki, stepped forward with a troubled expression.
"This is not something to laugh about. A group of heretics has defeated the Crusade. The authority of the Church has fallen to the ground, and the order of Europe is shaking. We, Poland, cannot just sit by..."
"Chancellor."
Jagiełło wiped away his laughter and looked at him with cold eyes.
The gaze of the old man who had been laughing heartily just a moment ago had instantly turned into that of a calculating politician.
"Is the Pope's cross important to you, or is Poland important?"
"W-Well... obviously Poland."
"Sigismund has been crushed. That means the southern border has become safe."
Jagiełło stroked his chin with satisfaction.
"The Emperor has lost his power. For the time being, the Empire cannot touch us. Then all that remains is the Teutonic Knights, those damn Germans."
Although they had been broken at the Battle of Grunwald, the Teutonic Knights were still the greatest threat tightening the noose around Poland.
"Ulrich von Sternberg..."
According to the messenger's report, he called himself the King of Steel and even mocked the Pope's excommunication.
Powerful military force. Antagonism toward the Catholic order. And hostility toward the Germans.
"...The enemy of my enemy is my friend."
Jagiełło pulled up the corners of his mouth.
It was the cunning smile of an old bear.
***
The news that the Emperor's Crusade had been defeated.
It made monarchs all over Europe, not just in Rome and Poland, tremble.
Italy, Republic of Venice.
In the Doge's office, it was not politics or religion, but only numbers that were being exchanged.
"The quality of Bohemia's steel is that good?"
"Yes, they wiped out the Emperor's Crusade with cannons. Furthermore, the gunpowder they made is also of the highest quality."
"Hmm... Even if the Papal Curia issues excommunications or whatever, money has no religion."
The old Doge gave secret instructions to the merchants.
"Pioneer a secret route over the Alps. And make contact with the King of Bohemia to find a way to purchase that steel at any cost."
He narrowed his eyes as he clicked the abacus beads.
"The longer the war lasts, the more money the one selling the weapons makes."
***
Paris, France, Louvre Palace.
Henry V, the conqueror of England, scoffed.
"Cannons... aren't those the weapons of cowards?"
He threw the report onto the table. And began to wipe his sword with a cloth.
"The Bohemians don't seem to have the spirit of a man. Instead of a knight fighting fairly head-on, they hide behind wagons and pop off gunpowder."
To him, who had slaughtered French knights with longbows at the Battle of Agincourt, guns and cannons looked like nothing more than noisy, smelly toys.
"If it had been our English longbowmen, they would have turned those wagons into honeycombs. Wouldn't they?"
The English generals standing by his side giggled as if in agreement.
***
At the same time, Bourges, France.
The temporary court of the Valois dynasty, where the prospect of defeat was thick.
"...Is that really true?"
The future Charles VII, Crown Prince Charles, clutched the report with an unbelievable expression.
'The Emperor's knights fell in vain before steel wagons and barrels spitting fire.'
To him, who had been defeated repeatedly by the English army and had even been driven out after losing the capital, Paris, the news that the Emperor's 100,000-strong army had been defeated was a shock in itself.
'If that power were mine... If that steel were in France, couldn't I drive out the English bastards?'
Charles looked out the window with melancholy eyes.
The fact that a miracle-like power to save the country existed in that distant heretic kingdom, and that it was not his own, made him feel even more miserable.
***
Ottoman Empire, Edirne.
Sultan Murad II spread out a map of Europe and smiled with satisfaction.
"Praise be to Allah."
He muttered, putting a spoonful of cool sherbet into his mouth instead of red wine.
"The Christians have bitten and fought among themselves and destroyed themselves... Where could there be better news than this?"
Hungary and the Holy Roman Empire were the greatest shields blocking the Ottoman Empire's advance into Europe.
But that shield had broken on its own. Even though the Ottomans had just sat back and watched.
"Since Sigismund's power has waned, the gates to the Balkans will swing wide open. I should send a gift of gratitude to that pagan in Bohemia."
The Sultan's eyes flashed toward the west.
It felt as if the road beyond Constantinople, all the way to Rome, had become a little closer.