The Information Revolution (2)
Kingdom of Poland, capital city of Krakow.
The Great Audience Hall of Wawel Castle.
Massive stone pillars supporting the high ceiling had silently endured hundreds of years of history, and the tapestries adorning the walls boasted the majesty of the Polish White Eagle emblem, embroidered in gold thread. Sunlight pouring through the windows illuminated even the dust in the air with a sacred glow, while hundreds of flickering candles added to the solemnity.
Under that light, the great nobles and high-ranking clergy who sustained Poland filled the hall. Nobles draped in luxurious silk and fur, knights in gleaming plate armor, and bishops in red cardinal robes—but at this moment, all their gazes were fixed on a single point, piercing like daggers.
There was no welcome. Only raw contempt and disgust, as if they wished to peel the skin from his bones.
"Envoy of His Majesty Ulrich I, King of the Kingdom of Bohemia! Abraham ben Eliezer, enter!"
The chamberlain's cry rang out dryly through the hall.
Thud, thud.
The sound of footsteps echoing on the marble floor was unusually loud. The man walking in from the distance was an alien presence, the least fitting figure for this magnificent and sacred space.
A black tunic that looked plain to the point of being shabby. A curly beard and a distinctive hat. And the thick ledgers and letters clutched to his chest.
Murmurs erupted among the nobles, unable to contain themselves.
“A Jew? The Bohemian envoy is a Jew?”
“Good heavens, that heretic king must have lost his mind.”
“To bring the race that sold out Jesus into the sacred Wawel Castle! This is an insult to Poland!”
Insulting remarks flew like daggers. Nobles openly mimicked spitting on the floor, and the clergy made the sign of the cross as if they had seen a demon, stepping backward.
In Poland, a devout Catholic nation, the fact that a Jew had been sent to an audience with the King was the worst kind of provocation, striking at the very pride of the nation.
Had he been an ordinary Jew, he would have collapsed on the spot, crushed by the murderous atmosphere. But Abraham did not stop. Though cold sweat ran down his spine and his heart hammered like a madman's, his expression was strangely calm.
Abraham kept his lips tightly sealed, his gaze fixed on the throne ahead as he walked on in silence.
'Do not be afraid. I am not a usurer.'
He clenched his hand, damp with sweat, inside his sleeve.
'I am the representative of the Iron King, His Majesty Ulrich I. If I bow my head, my liege bows his head.'
The King had promised him. He would create a country where Jews no longer had to hide and could live with dignity. And as proof, he had placed the extraordinary title of ‘Plenipotentiary Ambassador of the King’—a position no Jew in history had ever dared to dream of—upon his shoulders.
Behind Abraham stood the steel army of Bohemia, and in his hands, he held the massive capital that would shake the nation. That pride was holding the spine of Abraham, a Jew who had lived his whole life being despised, as straight as steel.
Click.
Finally, stopping at the designated spot before the throne, Abraham bowed with disciplined precision to pay his respects.
"On behalf of His Majesty Ulrich I, King of Bohemia, I greet His Majesty Władysław II Jagiełło, the great King of Poland."
His voice did not tremble. Instead, it rang out clearly and distinctly through the hall, embedding itself firmly in the King's ears.
Only then did the old man, who had been sitting askew on the throne as if dozing, slowly open his eyes.
Władysław II Jagiełło. The monarch of the united Kingdom of Poland and Lithuania. The victor who had trampled the Teutonic Knights on the fields of Tannenberg and seized hegemony over Eastern Europe. An old, seasoned bear whose teeth had not yet fallen out.
His deep, murky eyes scanned Abraham from head to toe.
"······."
Jagiełło said nothing. As the silence lengthened, the nobles' fury surged toward a breaking point.
"Your Majesty! You must drag that insolent wretch away at once!"
"To dare look upon Your Majesty's countenance, a mere merchant! This is a national insult!"
A young knight, unable to hold back, stepped forward and shouted.
"We must cut off his head and send it back to Bohemia! Only then will that heretic king not look down on Poland!"
The atmosphere in the hall turned hostile. They looked ready to draw their swords at any moment. A bead of cold sweat rolled down Abraham's forehead. But he did not blink an eye. Instead, he held his head high, looking directly at the nobles who glared at him as if to kill him, and then at the King on the throne.
That was when it happened.
"Be silent."
The King's low, yet icy command. The nobles, who had been rampaging and reaching for their swords, fell silent all at once as if doused in cold water.
"Interesting."
What flowed from Jagiełło's lips was not anger. It held a strange sense of intrigue. He rested his chin on his hand, staring intently at the shabby Jew standing below the throne.
‘Ulrich von Sternberg... I knew he was a madman, but he’s even crazier than I thought.’
A typical monarch would have sent a noble in flashy clothes or the most eloquent bishop to forge an alliance. That was the diplomatic custom and etiquette of Europe. But Ulrich had sent a Jew. And for their most important first meeting, at that.
‘He looks at neither lineage, nor religion, nor custom. He is a man who looks only at results.’
Jagiełło had originally been a pagan Grand Duke of Lithuania. He had converted to Catholicism to marry the Queen of Poland and ascend the throne, but he had spent his entire life surviving under the suspicious gazes of those who questioned his origins and faith. To such a man, Ulrich’s radical pragmatism evoked a strange sense of camaraderie and catharsis.
“Either the King of Bohemia understands me very well, or he is testing me. It must be one of the two.”
If he were to oppose Emperor Sigismund, having a madman like this by his side wouldn't be a bad idea. Jagiełło tapped his fingers against the armrest of the throne.
“You knew my subjects would foam at the mouth and object, yet you sent him... that must mean you are confident in the bundle you brought, right?”
He gestured with his chin toward Abraham.
“Tell me. Is what your master sent me an insult, or a gift?”
Abraham bowed deeply once more.
"Before that, I shall first offer the reply to the letter Your Majesty sent."
Abraham took a parchment scroll sealed with red wax from his robes. It was the formal response to the secret envoy King Jagiełło had sent.
"A mutual non-aggression pact, and a bilateral military alliance."
Abraham's voice rang out clearly in the audience hall.
"The proposal that if the Teutonic Knights of the North invade Poland, the steel army of Bohemia will strike their flank, and if the Holy Roman Empire of the West threatens us, the knights of Poland will become our shield..."
He held the scroll high and declared.
"My liege, His Majesty Ulrich I, has gladly signed that proposal."
A stir went through the hall. But Abraham did not stop.
"However, my liege said this: A pledge written on paper can fade before the ink is even dry."
He handed the letter to the chamberlain and reached back into his robes.
"An alliance is, in the end, a trust where we entrust each other with our backs. And he said that such trust does not come from empty promises, but from the practical power to satisfy each other's hunger."
Abraham pulled out a heavy leather pouch.
"So, I have brought this."
Without hesitation, he untied the string of the pouch and poured the contents onto the floor.
Clatter-!
A clear, resonant metallic sound echoed through the hall. What spilled onto the floor were hundreds of silver coins. Bohemian Prague Groschen, minted from the highest quality silver without impurities. The silver waves, flashing under the candlelight, embroidered the marble floor.
"Gasp!"
The nobles' contemptuous gazes instantly turned greasy with greed. Abraham did not miss the reaction and calmly opened his mouth.
“My liege said this: The most necessary thing for making friends is not flowery rhetoric, but bread and faith that can fill each other's stomachs.”
He pointed to the silver coins scattered on the floor.
“This is the down payment, Your Majesty.”
"Down payment?"
“Bohemia is currently starving. We won the war, but the tables of our people are empty.”
Abraham spread his arms wide.
“We desire Poland's abundant wheat and rye. We will buy everything, even the old grain rotting in your warehouses. The price is...”
He paused for a moment, then declared in a voice that overwhelmed the room.
“We will pay 20 percent above the current market price. In full cash. We will calculate it immediately, right here.”
The audience hall was in an uproar. This time, it was not anger, but astonishment. 20 percent above market price? And in full cash? To the Polish nobles, who suffered from chronic financial shortages, it was nothing less than a devil's temptation they could not refuse.
King Jagiełło narrowed his eyes as if intrigued.
“It seems Bohemia is overflowing with money. For a country that just fought a war, you are quite extravagant.”
“It is merely a strong will to save our people.”
“Let us say that is so. However, the envoy I sent must have proposed a military alliance? I need a sword to strike the Teutonic Knights, not the calculations of a merchant.”
Abraham answered without a single step of retreat.
“Your Majesty, a soldier can only wield a sword when his belly is full. With this trade, Poland will turn rotting grain into gold to secure military funds, and Bohemia will obtain food to stabilize our rear.”
Abraham's eyes stared directly at the King.
“Is this not the very cornerstone of a true alliance where we can entrust each other with our backs?”
Silence flowed through the hall. A moment later.
Jagiełło burst into a hearty laugh that shook the audience hall.
“Hahahaha! Excellent! You speak much better sense than those who prattle on about chivalry and honor!”
Jagiełło slowly rose from his throne. When he had been buried in the chair, he had looked like nothing more than a shabby old man, but as he straightened his back, a heavy shadow like a bear covered Abraham.
“I like it. I know why your master sent you. He hates wasting time on useless formalities, doesn't he? Just like me.”
He trudged down from the throne and picked up one of the silver coins rolling on the floor. The luster of the silver was brilliant.
“My barns are overflowing with old grain that the rats are eating. Rather than letting it rot, it is better to trade it for the miracle your master performed by defeating the Emperor's 100,000-man army.”
Jagiełło placed his hand on Abraham's shoulder. His grip was as firm as one would find hard to believe for a man in his 70s.
“Go and tell him. I like the guts he showed by sending a Jew as an envoy. And next time, tell your master to come himself. Tell him we shall have a drink together, this old man and he.”
Abraham suppressed his emotion and bowed his head deeply, very deeply.
“Your grace is boundless, Your Majesty. This trade shall be a blessing for both our nations.”
***
By the time Abraham had withdrawn and the audience hall became noisy once again, King Jagiełło was buried back in his throne, stroking his beard.
‘Ulrich von Sternberg...’
The heretic king he had only heard of in rumors. The radical monarch who crushed the crusaders, messed with the Pope, and promoted Jews. Young, capable, and above all, an ambitious man not bound by custom.
Jagiełło’s eyes narrowed.
‘It would be a waste to leave him as just an ally.’
For the sake of the future of the united Kingdom of Poland and Lithuania, wouldn't it be better to firmly hold the leash of a mad dog like that and make him my own?
He suddenly thought of his youngest daughter.
"Jadwiga... how old is that child this year?"
A meaningful smile hung on the King's lips. Something more than a simple alliance. The thought that a bond forged in blood might be necessary brushed through the old bear's mind.