The Venetian Merchant's Miscalculation
The entrance to the Grand Audience Hall of the Prague Royal Palace.
Francesco Foscari, the special envoy from Venice, swallowed hard.
He habitually smoothed the collar of his crimson velvet cloak from Florence. The soft texture of the fabric flowed beneath his fingertips. He then adjusted the position of the solid gold necklace he had imported via the Alexandria trade route. The heavy weight of the gold served as a reminder of who he was.
His attire seemed to flaunt the overwhelming wealth and authority of Venice with every fiber.
Foscari repeated a mantra to himself, as if casting a spell.
"There is nothing to fear. My opponent is merely a twenty-year-old greenhorn king from a backwater village in Bohemia."
The heretic king of Bohemia, excommunicated by the Papacy and targeted for consumption by the Holy Roman Empire. Though rumors swirled that he had made a pact with the devil or was the spawn of Satan, Foscari did not believe in such superstitions.
To a merchant’s eyes, there were no devils in this world.
There were only those who sought to profit and those who suffered losses.
In his eyes, Ulrich von Sternberg was nothing more than a lucky provincial noble. A novice who had picked up a crown based solely on the claim of being of the bloodline of the late Emperor Charles IV. He was likely surrounded by fanatical mobs and ignorant warlords, acting as a puppet while reading their moods.
"Compared to him, I am a Venetian diplomat who has seen it all."
He was the man who had secured trade agreements without blinking even in front of the Ottoman Sultan. Having calculated profits even in the face of pagan blades, there was no way he couldn't handle a mere novice king.
His goal was clear.
Steel, and cannons.
The soap he had seen at the inn yesterday was quite shocking, but... no, it was actually very shocking! But soap was merely an additional source of revenue. The issue upon which Venice’s survival depended was military power.
Whether by cajoling, threatening, or sweet-talking the heretic king, he had to obtain the manufacturing methods for steel or cannons.
"Hoo..."
Foscari took a deep breath and composed his expression. He donned the mask of a perfectly calculated, arrogant yet polite diplomat, as he always did.
"Presenting the envoy of the Republic of Venice, Francesco Foscari!"
The chamberlain's booming voice echoed through the corridor.
Creak— Thud!
The heavy doors swung open to both sides, revealing the interior of the Grand Audience Hall.
Foscari held his head high and stepped into the hall with a confident stride. And the moment he took his first step, his eyebrows twitched minutely.
'This is...'
The interior of the audience hall was completely different from what he had imagined. He had expected a chaotic space where fanatical Hussite priests raised their voices or peasant-turned-soldiers mingled in disorder. That was how a heretic's den should be.
But the scene before him was bizarrely orderly. Bohemian nobles and officials lined up on both sides of the hall. Their attire was modest, but a chilling discipline could be felt in their razor-straight lines and unwavering posture.
The smell in the air was also different. Instead of the musty scent of mold or the smell of blood, the air was filled with the heavy aroma of ink and the cold scent of iron.
Suppressing his surging tension, Foscari shifted his gaze to examine the surroundings of the throne.
The first thing that caught his eye was the giant of a man standing to the left of the throne.
'That man is...'
A black eyepatch covering one eye. A muscular body that looked as solid as a rock. No explanation was needed. It was the one-eyed man, Jan Zizka, who was notorious throughout Europe. The legendary commander who had annihilated the Emperor's crusade and sent thousands of knights to hell.
"Hmm..."
He was looking down at Foscari with his only eye, arms crossed. Foscari felt goosebumps rise on his spine at the gaze, which felt like a predator eyeing the neck of its prey. It was a chill he hadn't even felt in front of the commander of the Ottoman Janissary corps.
'...He has a monster like that under his command?'
He forced himself to look away and gazed to the right of the throne. There, in contrast to Zizka, stood a boy who still retained a youthful air. Black hair and a slender build. Was he even in his mid-teens?
Foscari tilted his head.
'Why is such a young kid there... Is he a page?'
But the moment he made eye contact with the boy, Foscari's judgment changed instantly. The boy's gaze was as cold and sharp as a well-honed dagger. The eyes of a young wolf, ready to find an intruder's weakness and bite down in an instant, were flashing there.
'I don't know his name, but... he's dangerous. That kid isn't ordinary either.'
The name Janos Hunyadi was not yet known in Europe. But Foscari's seasoned merchant instincts told him: this boy was a talent who would one day become a monster equal to, or perhaps even greater than, Jan Zizka.
On the left, the God of War. On the right, the hero of the future. Guarded by those two terrifying wings, the existence sat in the high center.
Foscari's gaze finally turned to the throne.
'Is that... the heretic king, Ulrich?'
He was much younger than expected. No, he was young. His pale white skin and long, slender fingers looked more suited to holding a pen than a sword. However, the atmosphere dwelling within that fragile-looking appearance was by no means light.
The King was resting his chin on his hand, looking down at Foscari with an indifferent expression.
Those eyes.
Pitch-black eyes of unfathomable depth. There was no madness of a fanatic, nor the bravado of a greenhorn. Only a cold, detached reason, like that of a scholar or a merchant, was flashing there.
Foscari bowed deeply to pay his respects to the King of Bohemia.
"In the name of the Most Serene Republic (La Serenissima), it is an honor to meet your greatness, the great Iron Monarch of Bohemia, King Ulrich."
It was a tribute mixed with flowery rhetoric, but the reaction of the King on the throne was dry.
"Welcome, envoy. The journey across the Alps must have been difficult; you have gone to great lengths to come here."
"To see your greatness's reputation, how could I call it a hardship?"
Foscari retorted with eloquent speech and slightly lifted his head. He had been momentarily flustered by the air of the audience hall, which was much calmer and more orderly than expected, but he was a seasoned Venetian merchant who had seen it all.
'I must not be suppressed by the atmosphere. I must take the initiative.'
He decided to bring out his most certain and powerful weapon. It was wealth.
As Foscari signaled, the attendants who had been waiting brought out trays covered in silk.
"Your Majesty, this is a small token of sincerity from a humble merchant of the Adriatic Sea to the great monarch of Bohemia."
Foscari feigned humility and lifted the cover of the first tray.
Shhh—
As the silk cloth slipped away, the air in the audience hall stopped for a moment. The sunlight entering through the window struck the object on the tray, shattering into pieces, and a blindingly transparent radiance spread in all directions.
It was a mercury mirror, an artwork crafted by the artisans of Murano, Venice, at the risk of their lives.
"Oh...!"
Gasps of surprise erupted among the Bohemian nobles. Foscari smiled with satisfaction at the reaction of those around him.
"This is the latest mirror made by Venetian artisans by coating glass with mercury and tin. It will be more than sufficient to reflect your Majesty's noble countenance as it is."
This should be enough to seize the initiative. The King, who had been a noble of backwater Bohemia just a few months ago, would have never seen such an object in his life. He would likely be internally astonished, even if he pretended to be calm on the outside.
But the reaction of the King on the throne was strange. Instead of admiration, he let go of his chin and signaled the attendant to bring the mirror. Then, instead of carefully holding the mirror with both hands, he grabbed it nonchalantly with one hand, as if picking up a rolling pebble.
"Huck!"
Foscari's heart sank. How much was that worth! If he had slipped, a whole house would have disintegrated into thin air.
However, Ulrich turned the mirror over and over without caring. His gaze was not admiring his own face, but checking the finish of the mirror and the refractive index of the glass surface.
"Mercury amalgam method, I see. The transparency of the glass is quite good. You caught the bubbles well. But..."
He squinted, tilting the mirror toward the light.
"As expected of mercury, the reflectivity is low. The image is dark overall. Furthermore, the edge finish is not uniform, causing distortion. It's worse than an aluminum mirror, let alone silver plating."
"Ex...cuse me?"
It was a mutter, but he heard it clearly. Yet Foscari doubted his own ears. Silver plating? The idea of coating the back of glass with silver was a technology that existed only in the delusions of alchemists. Because if you spread liquid silver on a mirror, the mirror would break a hundred times out of a hundred due to the intense heat.
That was why the mercury-amalgam technique, which adsorbs metal to glass at room temperature without applying heat, was a top-secret technology of the Republic that Venice was guarding even by imprisoning artisans on Murano Island. Besides, aluminum? What kind of metal was that?
While Foscari was gaping in confusion, Ulrich tossed the mirror aside nonchalantly.
"Well, it's not bad. It'll be useful to have one in the bedroom."
That was the end of it. It was a tone that suggested he would use Venice's greatest treasure for nothing more than picking sleep out of his eyes in the morning. Foscari's pride was cracked.
He composed his face, which was trying to distort, and signaled to play his second trump card.
'Fine. If he is not impressed by what he sees, the stimulation of his tongue will be different.'
He signaled to the attendant. The second tray came forward.
"Your Majesty, this time I would like to show you a mysterious medicinal herb from the East."
Foscari lifted the cover with a resolute hand. There, white conical lumps were piled up like a tower. At first glance, they looked like salt crystals, but the color was more milky white. The nobles tilted their heads.
"Is it salt?"
"No, the particles are too fine to be salt."
This time, Foscari proudly puffed out his chest. This white crystal was the essence of Venetian trade, the white gold that was more expensive than its weight in gold.
"It is not salt. This is a miracle sweetener and panacea produced only in far-off India and Arabia..."
Foscari intended to launch into the long-winded speech he had prepared. He planned to inflate its value by explaining in detail how precious this item was and how treacherous the seas the Venetian fleet had crossed to obtain it. But Ulrich did not give him the time.
"Is it sugar?"
"...Excuse me?"
Ulrich stood up and walked down to the tray. And without hesitation, he snapped off a corner of the white conical lump with his fingers.
'Gasp! That, that precious thing!'
Before Foscari could scream, Ulrich popped the piece into his mouth.
Crunch—
A crisp chewing sound echoed through the audience hall. Ulrich savored the sweetness on the tip of his tongue and nodded.
"It's just the taste of sugar."
It was a very dry appraisal. "Perhaps because it's not refined enough, the aftertaste is a bit bitter, but... well, this is probably the limit with current technology."
The King even brushed the powder off his hands and signaled to the chamberlain.
"Konrad, send this to the kitchen."
"Yes, Your Majesty."
"Tell them to use it for dessert tonight. I've been craving something sweet for a while."
Foscari watched the scene with his mouth hanging open. Use the precious sugar, which was eaten only in tiny amounts like medicine at royal banquets, as a mere seasoning for tonight's dinner? Was Bohemia a country where sugar rolled around on the streets?
The evaluation of the Bohemian King in Foscari's head was being shaken to its core. Either he was a man who had mastered all the riches and honors of the world, or he was a madman who treated gold like stone. It didn't matter which. What mattered was the fact that his plan to seize the initiative by flaunting Venice's wealth had gone completely awry.
"Envoy."
The King was already leaning deep into his throne. In the posture of him crossing his legs and resting his chin on his hand, the lightness of him crunching on sugar just a moment ago was nowhere to be found. Only the dignity of a cold-headed monarch remained.
"I have received your gifts well. Since I have sufficiently confirmed Venice's sincerity..."
Ulrich leaned forward. A chilling smile spread across his shadowed face. It was the smile of a merchant facing a deal, and at the same time, the expression of a gambler who was certain of victory.
"Then, is it my turn to show you my goods?"