The Information Revolution (4)
After the heat of the square had somewhat subsided, we moved to the grand conference hall of the Prague Royal Palace.
Outside the window, the cheers of the citizens who had finally filled their bellies could still be heard faintly.
But the air inside the conference hall was cold and serious.
"The 50,000 bushels of wheat we brought have been immediately deposited into the state warehouses. We plan to send the rye to the mills starting tomorrow to be ground into flour," Abraham reported, spreading out his ledger.
"Excluding the most urgent supplies for the poverty relief centers and the military grain reserves, we plan to release the rest to the market. As you instructed, we have set the price at half the existing market rate."
I nodded.
"Good. Ensure you monitor the merchants closely so they don't hoard or price-gouge."
The stabilization of grain prices.
With this, I had secured the public sentiment for the time being.
Now that the internal bellies were full, it was time to address external matters.
"That reminds me, you said there was a message from King Jagiello?"
Abraham hesitated for a moment at my question.
He glanced once at the ministers lined up around the room, then opened his mouth with a mysterious smile.
"Yes, Your Majesty. The King of Poland has made a very personal proposal to you."
"A personal proposal?"
"He said that next time, you should not send an envoy, but come yourself. He suggested we share a glass of mead and catch up, old man to young man."
A drinking buddy proposal. Not bad.
But Abraham's next words completely defied my expectations.
"And he added... that at that drinking table, he would like to introduce you to his youngest daughter, Princess Jadwiga."
"……!"
For a moment, silence fell over the conference hall.
And one second later.
"Ohhh……!"
An irrepressible exclamation erupted from the ministers.
In particular, the eyes of Konrad, the Chief Chamberlain, shone brightly.
"If it is Princess Jadwiga... isn't she King Jagiello's only blood relative?"
"That is correct! Currently, there is no legitimate prince in the Polish royal family! If you were to marry the Princess...!"
I could almost hear the sound of calculators spinning wildly in the ministers' heads.
The King of Poland still had no son.
What if I married Princess Jadwiga, and Jagiello passed away without an heir?
The birth of a massive Eastern European union kingdom encompassing Bohemia, Poland, and Lithuania.
It was a scenario where I, Ulrich, would hold immense power as the co-ruler of that great empire, or as her husband.
I scoffed inwardly.
'The person who is supposed to give the rice cake hasn't even thought about it, yet these guys are already drinking the kimchi soup.'
Jagiello is a seasoned bear. There is no way he made such a proposal with the real intention of handing over the throne.
It must be a high-level political rhetoric to keep me tied under his influence, or simply testing the waters.
But the real reason I felt repulsion wasn't due to political calculations.
"Wait."
I raised my hand to calm the ministers who were so excited they were spitting.
"Abraham, that Princess Jadwiga... how old is she now?"
"I heard she turned thirteen this year."
"……."
I froze, mid-lift of my teacup.
'Thirteen?'
I am twenty. If you include my memories from my previous life, my mental age is over thirty.
And she's thirteen?
They want to set me up on a blind date with a little kid who just graduated elementary school and is entering middle school?
"This is insane……."
"Your Majesty?"
"No, has that old man lost his mind? Thirteen is just a child! What does he expect me to do with a kid who still smells like milk?"
The ministers looked bewildered at my disgusted reaction.
"Your Majesty, what are you talking about? Thirteen is the prime age for marriage."
"That's right. If anything, it's late, never early. Besides, what does the age gap matter in a royal marriage?"
Ah.
This wasn't 21st-century South Korea.
It was 15th-century medieval Europe, where life expectancy was short and political marriage was routine.
An age of barbarism where it was common sense to get engaged at seven and married at twelve.
A thirteen-year-old bride and a twenty-year-old groom?
Here, that was a combination described as a match made in heaven.
But the Park Gangjun inside me was screaming.
No matter how much it was a political marriage, my modern ethical standards could not possibly permit taking a middle-school girl I didn't even know as my wife.
I waved my hand, disgusted.
"Enough. There are countless other national grand plans we need to discuss right now. We will talk about that later... much, much later."
"But Your Majesty! This is also a matter of grave importance involving the state's grand plan!"
"That's right! If the blood of the Polish royal family is mixed in, Bohemia's legitimacy will be even more...!"
It was then.
Knock, knock.
A cautious but urgent knock broke the commotion in the conference hall.
"Your Majesty, an urgent message has arrived."
The door opened and an attendant entered. In his hand was a piece of paper stained with grease.
A moderate noble in the conference hall frowned, displeased that the conversation had been cut off.
"Who is it? We are in the middle of a meeting."
"It is a courier from the Sternberg estate. It is from that... technician called Gutenberg."
Gutenberg.
The moment I heard that name, my eyes snapped open.
"Bring it here."
I ignored the clamor of the ministers and snatched the note.
On the roughly torn parchment, a single sentence was scribbled in haste.
[Es ist vollbracht]
It is finished.
Or, it is completed.
The final words Jesus left on the cross in the Gospel of John, and a sentence announcing the completion of a great task.
A smile spread across my lips on its own.
The problem of marriage with a thirteen-year-old princess vanished cleanly from my mind.
I jumped up from my seat.
"The meeting ends here."
"Y, Your Majesty? We haven't reached a conclusion regarding Princess Jadwiga...!"
"That can wait. Something more important has happened."
I left the bewildered ministers behind and strode out of the conference hall, my cloak fluttering.
"Prepare the horses! We are going to Sternberg right now!"
My voice carried a stronger conviction and excitement than ever before.
I had filled their bellies with bread, so now it was time to fill their heads.
* * *
Clip-clop, clip-clop―
The sound of hooves striking the hard ground rang out rhythmically.
The distance from Prague to Sternberg was a one-day ride if the weather was good. I didn't want to waste even that one day, so I rode without rest.
My buttocks were sore from the saddle and the insides of my thighs were chafed, but my hands holding the reins were drenched in cold sweat.
A tension of a completely different kind than when heading to a battlefield enveloped my entire body.
A road to smell lead and oil, not the smell of blood.
Janos followed me silently.
Soon, as we crossed the ridge of the forest, the familiar view of the estate came into sight.
I pulled the reins and stopped for a moment. Janos, who had been following, stood side-by-side with me and let out a short exclamation.
"Huh, my lord. Is this really the backwater village we knew?"
He was right.
Sternberg, which had been reduced to ashes by the Hussite looting just a few months ago, was nowhere to be found.
In the place where green forests and quiet farmhouses should have been, huge black monsters now stood.
Rumble―
Black smoke billowing from dozens of chimneys.
The acrid smell of sulfur and burning coal drifted up the hill on the wind.
In the canal that diverted a tributary of the Sazava River, massive waterwheels spun incessantly, letting out dull screams, and the sound of bellows moving with that power echoed through the valley.
Steel mills, blacksmiths, and brick factories.
And the procession of hundreds of workers and coal carts moving between them.
The pastoral landscape of the Middle Ages had been thoroughly destroyed.
Instead, the heart of industry, exuding overwhelming power, was beating fiercely in its place.
"Let's go."
I kicked the horse's belly.
As we descended the hill and entered the factory district, the noise grew even louder.
The sound of hammering, sawing, and the shouting of workers mixed together, making my ears numb.
But I liked that noise.
It was proof that Bohemia was alive, and a signal that the system I had created was running without rest.
We stopped in front of the annex building at the very back, where tight security was posted.
It had originally been used as a grain warehouse, but now thick curtains were drawn over every window. Armed soldiers were guarding the entrance.
"Your Majesty!"
The guards were startled and lowered their spears.
I jumped off my horse immediately and threw the reins to a guard.
As I opened the door and entered, a strange smell hit my nose along with the heat.
The smell of burning pine resin. The smell of boiling lead.
The fishy scent of linseed oil.
The workshop was even noisier than outside.
"No! The temperature is too high! I told you to cool it down! Tighten the type fixing screws more! If they shake, the letters will dance!"
Johannes Gutenberg.
He was shouting at his assistants in the middle of the workshop, not even knowing I had entered.
Clothes covered in grease and ink.
Hollowed-out eyes and dark circles reaching his chin.
But his eyes were burning with life.
I didn't bother calling him, but quietly approached behind him.
On the workbench, small metal pieces shining with a silver-gray light were piled up like a mountain.
Type.
Bullets of knowledge made by mixing lead, tin, and antimony in perfect proportions.
Gutenberg picked up a piece of type with tweezers, held it up to the light, and muttered.
"Edges... good. No shrinkage. No air bubbles. Perfect."
He smiled satisfactorily, then turned around, perhaps sensing a presence.
"Uh...?"
The moment his eyes met mine, his expression went blank.
He almost dropped the tweezers in his hand and hurriedly bowed his waist.
"Y, Your Majesty! You have come! How could you... without any notice!"
"It's fine. It was good to see you focused on your work."
I raised my hand to stop his fuss and pointed to the center of the workbench with my chin.
"Show me. That Word you said you completed."
An irrepressible pride spread across Gutenberg's lips.
He was no longer a fugitive chased by creditors.
He had the face of a craftsman offering his masterpiece to his monarch.
"This way."
A huge machine was crouching in the place he guided me to.
A heavy frame made of solid oak.
A thick screw shaft penetrating its center.
And a flat metal platen placed beneath it.
"Hoho..."
Janos let out an exclamation.
It was crude but sturdy. A pure mechanical structure that existed solely for pressure, where no excess could be found.
"It's not over yet. I will show you my masterpiece now, Your Majesty."
Gutenberg gestured toward his assistants.
"Prepare it."
At his short command, the assistants moved in perfect order.
One assistant applied sticky black ink to a leather-wrapped cotton swab.
It was a special oil-based ink formulated with soot and oil to adhere well to the metal surface.
Tap, tap-tap―
The assistant began to tap the type plate with the cotton swab.
Along with the rhythmic sound, the surface of the silver-gray type was dyed black.
Gutenberg picked up a sheet of paper himself.
It was a thick, tough paper, though it had a rough texture made by crushing rags.
He inserted the paper into the fixing pins of the frame.
His fingertips were trembling slightly, but it was a tremor caused by thrill, not palsy.
"Here it goes."
He covered the frame with the paper over the inked type plate.
And he pushed the entire plate onto the rail, positioning it directly under the massive screw shaft.
All preparations were complete.
Silence flowed in the workshop. Even Janos held his breath and stared at the machine.
Gutenberg took a deep breath.
And he grabbed the massive wooden lever with both hands.
"Hnnngh!"
He pulled the lever, putting his entire body weight into it.
Creak―!
The screw shaft turned, and the massive platen descended vertically.
The sound of paper and type, ink and fiber being crushed together under intense pressure.
The wooden frame screamed, but Gutenberg didn't stop.
He pulled the lever to the very end as if wringing out his soul.
Perfect compression.
Gutenberg let out a rough breath and released the lever.
He didn't even wipe the sweat from his forehead, but pushed the lever in the opposite direction to lift the platen.
Squeak―
He carefully pulled the plate out.
And he opened the cover.
Chirp.
The subtle friction sound of the paper peeling off the type plate broke the silence.
Gutenberg carefully picked up the freshly printed paper.
His fingertips were trembling slightly, but the motion of handing it to me was as polite as could be.
"The first replicated Word of Truth, Your Majesty."
I took the paper.
The ink hadn't dried yet, so the smell of oil was pungent, but to me, it felt more fragrant than any perfume.
Because this was the smell of revolution.
On the white paper, black letters clearly stamped in rows and columns.
There was no trace of the crookedness or ink smudging characteristic of manuscripts written by human hands.
Sharp strokes as if cut by a knife.
Mechanical uniformity that allowed no error.
I looked down at the sentence on the paper as if bewitched.
There, the first verse of the Gospel of John, printed in Czech, was stamped as if carved in steel.
[Na počátku bylo Slovo, a to Slovo bylo u Boha, a to Slovo byl Bůh.]
(In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God.)