The Holy Soap of Sternberg (5)
The location shifted from the Grand Audience Chamber to the training grounds behind the royal palace.
Heat shimmer rose from the sandy floor of the training ground, which lacked even a single patch of shade. It was a suffocating, breathless heat, yet Foscari could not utter a single complaint; he could only swallow his dry saliva.
I watched the Venetian envoy’s reaction from the corner of my eye and thought to myself.
'What a pathetic expression.'
It was as if he had shown the world’s most precious treasure to a backwater barbarian, only to witness that barbarian treat the treasure like a common pebble and kick it aside.
Even on the training grounds, his lips kept twitching. He likely wanted to launch into another long-winded lecture about how the mirror he’d shown me earlier was a masterpiece crafted with such painstaking effort by Venetian artisans, or how the sugar he brought was a precious commodity that had survived a treacherous trade route.
Mirrors and sugar.
Of course, I knew. I knew how luxurious and precious those items were considered in this 15th-century medieval Europe. I was well aware that Venetian glass-making technology was the best of its time and that sugar from the East was so rare it was often used as medicine.
But my soul came from 21st-century South Korea.
The mirror he brought was cruder than a thousand-won plastic mirror sold at a supermarket, and the sugar’s purity was far lower than the white sugar piled high in the seasoning aisle.
'So, how could I possibly be impressed?'
If he had brought saltpeter, sulfur, or even mercury, my reaction would have been different. Chemical raw materials were the resources I needed most right now—far more valuable than gold.
But the luxury goods he brought were, to me, nothing more than pretty trash.
Regardless.
On a long table set up in the center of the training grounds, covered in black velvet, the masterpieces of Bohemia that I boasted of were on display.
Steel swords and steel breastplates.
And a sallet helmet with sleek, striking curves.
There were no gaudy gold leaf decorations or jewels. Only the cold, heavy metallic luster exuded a sharp, formidable majesty.
Foscari asked cautiously.
“Are these… the items Your Majesty spoke of?”
“Indeed. Try holding one yourself.”
Once I gave my permission, Foscari carefully gripped the hilt of a steel sword.
“Hah…!”
The moment he lifted the sword, Foscari let out a short gasp of surprise without realizing it. It was not the weight he had expected.
With a standard longsword, one would have to brace for a heaviness that would make the wrist ache, but the Bohemian steel sword was surprisingly light.
“It is light. Unbelievably so.”
“It is not merely light.”
As I finished speaking, Janos stepped forward in silence.
In his hand, he held the same type of steel sword Foscari was holding, and opposite him stood a wooden mannequin. Fixed firmly in the mannequin’s hand was a common, mass-produced longsword borrowed from a Venetian guard.
“Envoy, open your eyes wide and watch closely. This is the value of the goods I am selling.”
Janos didn’t even bother to brace himself. He simply swung the sword horizontally, as lightly as if he were swatting a branch.
Clang—!
A sharp, tearing sound pierced the silence of the training ground. Along with the deafening roar of metal striking metal, sparks flew, and something went spinning through the air.
“……!”
Foscari’s jaw dropped. The Venetian-made longsword that had been fixed to the wooden mannequin was shattered in a gruesome fashion. The cut was jagged and mangled, and the blade, unable to withstand the impact, had bent like a piece of taffy.
Meanwhile, Janos turned the sword with a nonchalant face and offered the hilt to Foscari. Foscari took the sword and scrutinized the blade.
There was nothing.
Not a single chip, not even a microscopic scratch.
It had shattered the opponent’s sword while remaining perfectly intact itself. This was the perfect harmony of strength, elasticity, and heat treatment—the quintessence of modern metallurgy.
“What do you think, Envoy?”
I slowly approached him.
“You, of all people, should know what a sword that doesn’t break on the battlefield means. Surely this is more than enough to handle the scimitars wielded by the Ottoman Janissaries, is it not?”
Foscari swallowed hard instead of answering.
“Your Majesty.”
I could hear the sound of an abacus clicking frantically inside the Venetian merchant’s head from where I stood.
“This sword, how much for one? No, how many can you supply? A hundred? A thousand? I will pay whatever it takes. I will empty the Republic’s treasury if I must. However…”
Foscari’s gaze drifted toward the massive object covered by a black cloth behind Janos.
“Is that also included in the trade list?”
It was a cannon.
My secret weapon that could topple fortress walls and flip the tide of battle.
“Please, give me that cannon as well. Do not ask for the price. Whatever Your Majesty names shall be the price.”
Foscari’s eyes glistened with greed. However, I shook my head firmly.
“Regrettably, the cannon is not for sale.”
Foscari’s expression stiffened in an instant. The eyes that had been glistening with greed while looking at the steel sword were now filled with bewilderment.
“Why? If the price is the issue, do not worry. The Republic possesses more gold coins than Your Majesty could possibly imagine.”
“It is not a matter of money. This is a matter concerning the security of Bohemia.”
The cannon was a strategic asset on a completely different level from the steel sword. They were legendary technology thieves who had stolen Byzantine techniques to perfect glass-making and had copied Ottoman shipbuilding to improve their galleys.
A sword was, at most, a weapon wielded by a single soldier. Even if they copied it, it would only slightly improve the quality of their infantry. But the cannon was different. The cannon-casting technology and gunpowder mixing ratios in my head were clearly over-technology that far surpassed the technical capabilities of the 15th century.
What if I handed this over as a finished product?
Venetian engineers would immediately dismantle the cannon and analyze the molten metal. They would examine the black powder down to every single grain of dust.
It was obvious that within a year, replicas of my cannon would be covering the Adriatic Sea. No one knew when those muzzles might be turned toward me.
“I have heard that Venice would trade with the devil himself for profit. What guarantee do I have that the cannon I sell won’t eventually be used to shatter my own fortress walls?”
“Your Majesty! Are you insulting the Republic? We hold contracts sacred!”
“A merchant’s contract is nothing but a scrap of paper in the face of greater profit.”
Foscari shut his mouth. It was an undeniable fact. But if he couldn’t obtain the cannon, there was no point in having traveled this long distance. And I, too, had no intention of sending him back empty-handed. The foundation of negotiation lies in blocking the opponent’s desire and then opening a new path.
“Of course, I am well aware that you need firepower to fight the Ottomans. So, I will make a proposal.”
I pulled out a new card.
“I cannot sell you the cannon, but I can lend you the people who fire it.”
“……People, you say?”
“Hire our Bohemian artillery corps. I will lend you a package that includes the cannons, shells, gunpowder, and the professional troops who handle them.”
Foscari’s eyes narrowed.
“Are you… speaking of mercenaries?”
“To be precise, let’s call it a firepower support service. You don’t need to worry about complicated maintenance or training. Just designate the target, and my soldiers will blow it away for you.”
A two-pronged strategy: arming my army with Venetian capital while simultaneously blocking technology leaks at the source.
Foscari stroked his chin, lost in thought. It wasn’t a bad proposal. For them, desperate for the firepower to topple Ottoman walls, it would be an attractive option.
“Your Majesty’s proposal is interesting, but…”
He glanced sideways at the cannon covered by the black cloth.
“To be honest, we want the cannon itself. Don’t mercenaries leave whenever their contract ends? The Republic wants the power to defend itself.”
But he was a merchant to the bone. He was reluctant to pay a massive sum of money to use someone else’s hands without getting the item into his own.
“Janos.”
As I signaled, Janos whipped the black cloth away.
Flap—
A massive lump of metal was revealed. Foscari’s eyes sparkled with anticipation. But what he saw was not the sleek luster of steel. It was a black, lumpy mass of iron with a rough, crude surface.
A cast-iron cannon.
An early model, hastily cast to face Sigismund’s crusaders.
“Look at this, Envoy.”
I tapped the barrel of the cannon. A dull sound rang out.
“You might see this as a magnificent weapon.”
“It looks excellent, but…”
“In my eyes, it is trash.”
“……Excuse me?”
I shrugged as I watched the bewildered Foscari.
“This is made of cast iron, not steel. It is merely heavy, its durability is abysmal, and if you put in even a little too much gunpowder, the barrel is prone to bursting. It kills your own men before it kills the enemy—it is nothing more than a glass cannon.”
Cast-iron cannons are easy to make but weak against impact. After firing a dozen shots, the barrel would crack, making it a mere consumable item to be discarded.
“Let’s say you buy this. Do you want to pour gold coins into a lump of scrap metal that will burst after only a few shots?”
Foscari’s expression twisted strangely.
“Then… are you saying Your Majesty’s army uses such defective goods?”
“No.”
I curled the corners of my mouth.
“This is an old model. I intend to produce a cannon made of real steel soon that cannot even be compared to this. A monster that is light, sturdy, and won’t budge even after firing hundreds of rounds.”
A steel cannon.
A weapon of the future that could only be made by applying the Puddling process or Bessemer converters.
“The artillery corps I am proposing is a unit armed with that new steel cannon. If you hire my artillery corps instead of buying this scrap metal now, Venice will be the first in Europe to taste the firepower of that monster.”
Foscari’s eyes wavered. My proposal was simple.
Would he buy the current obsolete cannon?
Or would he hire the strongest future force?
However, the last shred of hesitation remained on his face. Promises of the future are uncertain, and merchants always want a tangible profit in their hands right now.
'Time to drive the final wedge.'
I signaled Janos once more. Janos pulled a small box from under the table. It was a gorgeous, gold-leafed box that shone strangely among the crude weapons.
“Envoy, if you have eyes and ears, you must have heard the rumors on the street.”
I opened the box.
Click—
An overwhelming fragrance, a blend of the sensuality of roses, the elegance of lavender, and the deep weight of musk, instantly spread through the training ground where the cold, metallic scent of steel had been vibrating.
Inside the box, colorful soaps as smooth as jewels were placed on silk cloth, and the Bohemian royal lion emblem was clearly engraved on their surfaces.
“This is…!”
Foscari stepped forward without realizing it. He knew just by looking. It was on a different level from the 1-groschen apple soap that was common in the market. It was a top-tier luxury item that only European royalty would use—no, one that even they would be desperate to obtain.
“This is different from the one-groschen soap floating around the market. Because it was ground and compressed three times using the triple-milled method, it is as hard as stone, and the scent is maintained until the very last piece disappears.”
I picked up a bar of soap and shook it in front of Foscari’s nose.
“And above all… this scent has a special power.”
“A special power, you say…?”
“The power to repel the plague.”
Foscari’s eyes widened.
The story that puerperal fever had disappeared. The legend that the Black Death had avoided Bohemia.
“I, is that truly a fact? Not just a mere rumor from the marketplace?”
“Indeed. I stake my name and honor on its efficacy.”
Rumors from a merchant’s mouth and a king’s guarantee carry different weights. Even if those words came from the mouth of a heretic king.
“T, the price… how much is it?”
“10 groschen per piece.”
“……!”
Foscari’s breath hitched. 10 groschen. It was half the price of Castilian soap. The quality was overwhelming, the price was half, and it even had the incredible efficacy of plague prevention. Even if he took it to Venice and sold it for 30 groschen, noblewomen would be lining up for it.
“I will grant the exclusive rights to this soap to Venice.”
I declared as I placed the soap back into the box.
“However, there is a condition. You must sign a formal mercenary contract with our artillery corps.”
Foscari’s eyes shook violently. The disappointment of not being able to buy the cannon was already out of his mind. He could get the firepower just by hiring the artillery corps anyway. That alone was a profitable deal, and on top of that, he was being handed the goose that laid the golden egg: the exclusive rights to the soap.
If he refused this proposal, he would have no excuse if he returned to Venice and had his head cut off by the Doge.
Foscari smoothed his clothes with trembling hands and bowed deeply toward me. It was an infinite respect as a merchant for a trading partner who had brought him immense profit.
“I am at a loss for words at Your Majesty’s boundless grace. That proposal, I accept with gratitude in the name of the Venetian Republic!”