The King of the Farmers
The Republic of Venice, the Doge's Palace.
In the Doge’s reception room, the blue waves of the Adriatic Sea shimmered outside the window. Beneath a ceiling adorned with magnificent frescoes, the Republic’s supreme ruler, Tommaso Mocenigo, stared at a ledger with his deeply furrowed brow knitted tight.
The gaze of the seasoned, seventy-year-old Doge was as dry and sharp as a winter sea.
"Foscari."
The Doge’s eyes shifted to the man sitting opposite him.
"The gold you’ve poured into Bohemia has left Venice’s treasury empty. The old men in the Senate have been foaming at the mouth and coming at me since this morning. They ask if you intend to bankrupt the Republic."
Francesco Foscari.
The Inspector of St. Mark, the most bellicose and ambitious young power player in the Republic, eyeing the position of the next Doge. Despite the Doge’s reprimand, he swirled his wine glass with ease.
"Bankrupt, Your Excellency? This is an investment."
"An investment?"
"Yes. And we have already recovered half of the principal. In just one month."
Foscari gestured lightly. A waiting attendant placed a box on the table.
Click—
The moment the box opened, a fragrant, refreshing herbal scent instantly pushed the musty air of the office away. It was a white, smooth block of solid matter. It was the highest-grade soap from Sternberg.
"This white lump is currently worth its weight in gold at the Rialto market. Noblewomen are desperate to get their hands on it, and orders are flooding in from the royal courts of England and Burgundy."
"Luxury goods always sell well. But trends are like the wind; they disappear just as quickly."
"Your Excellency, I dare say the value of this item is far more than a mere luxury."
Foscari’s eyes flashed with conviction.
"The doctors at the University of Padua are obsessed with this. They say that since midwives started washing their hands with this soap before delivering babies, mothers dying of puerperal fever have miraculously vanished."
"What?"
Mocenigo’s eyebrows twitched. Dying in childbirth was a divine punishment that neither noble nor commoner could avoid. Yet, a mere piece of soap had broken that chain of death?
"The doctors' argument is this: they believe mothers are killed by bad air, and that the holy scent of this soap drives away that evil stench, protecting both mother and child."
This was where Ulrich’s cunning shone through. If Ulrich had rambled about microbiology or bacteria, the people of the Middle Ages would have treated him like a madman. But in an era where the Miasma theory—that disease stems from bad air—was common sense, the plausible packaging of protecting the body with scent became the perfect key to opening the wallets of medieval people.
"Thanks to that, hospitals in Venice are clamoring to secure this holy scented soap, even offering to pay a premium. We can't keep it in stock. Furthermore, though it is not yet certain, rumors are even circulating that the scent of this soap prevents the Black Death."
"What? Even the Black Death?"
Mocenigo stared intently at the white block of soap.
"Protecting the body with the scent of consecrated soap... it sounds quite plausible. If it truly is effective, it is certainly something money cannot buy."
"That is not all."
Foscari added triumphantly.
"The steel swords and breastplates brought from Bohemia are also selling like wildfire. Renowned mercenary captains are clamoring to buy them from one another. They say the hardness of the swords is reminiscent of the famous Damascus steel, and the breastplates and helmets are tougher than Milanese plate armor. Yet, the price is half that, so we cannot keep those in stock either."
Mocenigo nodded slowly. Hygiene products that were nearly medicinal, and top-tier weaponry. In an era plagued by constant war and disease, there was no surer gold mine than this. Even to his seasoned eyes, this was clearly a profitable business.
"Good. Let’s say the trade is a success. But that is not the real reason I sent you all the way to Prague, is it?"
The Doge’s gaze sharpened.
"The cannons? Did you bring the Bohemian cannons that are said to spew that devilish firepower?"
The situation in the Ottoman Empire, where a new Sultan had just ascended, was ominous, and in the west, war with the Duchy of Milan was imminent. What Venice desperately needed was not fragrant soap, but overwhelming firepower to crush enemy walls. However, Foscari shook his head.
"Unfortunately, I failed to purchase the cannons themselves."
"What? You poured that massive amount of gold into it and came back empty-handed!"
"Instead, I obtained a promise that they would lend us an artillery corps. In the form of a mercenary unit operated directly by the Bohemian army. The condition is that they handle the maintenance of the cannons and the supply of gunpowder exclusively."
"Hmph..."
Mocenigo let out a hollow laugh, as if he were dumbfounded. Not selling the weapons, but providing the firepower of an army.
"You’re quite talented. They intend to maintain their own army with our money while gaining combat experience."
"That is correct. But, Your Excellency, it is not an entirely losing deal for us either. Our soldiers won't need to train to master unfamiliar cannons, and there is no risk of gunpowder blowing up in our faces. Isn't it enough for us if the shells simply fall accurately on the heads of our enemies?"
"...Well, that's not wrong."
The Doge smacked his lips bitterly. It was a pity he couldn't get his hands on the technology itself, but he had to be grateful just to have secured firepower that could be used in war immediately.
"Fine. Foscari, you were right. The deal with Bohemia is a success."
Mocenigo leaned back into his chair, relaxing his tension.
"But, what did that young king demand in return? What did he say he would buy from Venice with that massive amount of gold he took from us? Murano glass? Spices from the East? Or perhaps information?"
Logically, a monarch preparing for war and building an industry would demand strategic materials. But Foscari pulled a thin sheet of paper from his pocket and slid it across the table.
"The King of Bohemia demanded... this."
Mocenigo picked up the paper. It was filled with a list of items the King of Bohemia had requested to purchase through the Venetian merchant guild.
"...?"
Mocenigo doubted his own eyes. He brought the paper close to the candlelight, checking again to see if he had misread the letters due to his failing eyesight. But the words on the paper did not change.
"Is this... everything? Truly?"
"Yes, Your Excellency. That is all."
The Doge looked up. His expression was one of such bewilderment that he was beyond frustrated.
"He took away a mountain of gold... and he wants to buy only these?"
"Yes. He told me to bring as much as possible, loaded onto wagons like a mountain."
"Hmph."
The Doge scanned the contents of the paper once more. No matter how many times he crunched the numbers with the instincts of a seasoned merchant who had lived his whole life in a world of profit and loss, it was a riddle of a list that yielded no answer. After a moment of silence, Mocenigo let out a bitter laugh and said:
"It must be one of two things. Either the King of Bohemia is a mad wizard as the rumors say, or..."
The Doge’s gaze turned toward the window. Toward the far north, in the direction of Bohemia.
"...he possesses eyes that see something we do not."
***
Time flowed in an instant, to March 1422. By the time the winter general, who had been clinging to the edge of winter, finally retreated.
While others were sharpening their swords for war or rebellion, I had been silently holding a shovel all winter long.
The past winter was truly a series of digging. The success of the Prague sewer construction spread across Bohemia in a flash. The vivid testimonies of citizens liberated from streets overflowing with filth were more powerful than any advertisement, and thanks to that, the silver mine owners of Kuttenberg and the beer masters of Plzen came rushing to the royal palace with bundles of money.
"Please, dig up our city too!"
"We will pay any amount of taxes!"
Is there any reason to refuse when they offer to pay? Thanks to the construction that continued throughout the winter, the miners of Kuttenberg could now relieve their worries in comfortable public restrooms, and the wastewater from the breweries of Plzen was collected into septic tanks through underground channels to become fertile fertilizer.
The Sternberg industrial complex also continued to expand. The fourth and fifth blast furnaces began to spew fire, and the cement factory and soap workshops churned out goods day and night.
But among the projects I completed during the winter, there was one that satisfied me the most.
Sewers? Of course, they are important. Hygiene is the foundation of national power. Industrial complex? Naturally, it is essential. Productivity is the measure of national power. But compared to clearing the arteries of the nation, those were peripheral issues.
I gripped the terrace railing and looked with pride at the gray line stretching endlessly toward the southeast.
Total length: 50km.
The Prague-Sternberg Direct Expressway.
Originally, medieval roads were far from romantic. Mud pits that reached the knees when it rained swallowed carriage wheels, and when the weather cleared, hardened lumps of dirt and uneven rocks tripped horses. It was harder to avoid mud pits than to avoid bandit gangs, so it was common to take two full days to travel a mere 50km.
But that road was different.
14 meters wide, four lanes round-trip. Wide enough for four carriages to travel simultaneously. The center line was clear, and the lanes were separated, so there was no such thing as traffic jams. The Cant structure, designed with the center of the road slightly higher so that rainwater flowed naturally into the drainage ditches on both sides, easily handled heavy rain during the monsoon season.
Unless physically blocked by heavy snow, that road was an artery of logistics open 24 hours a day, 365 days a year.
The effect of the road was immediate. The miracle of fresh soap and steel farm tools, just off the factory line, departing in the morning and filling the Prague markets by lunch, with empty wagons returning to Sternberg before sunset.
The fact that the speed of logistics had doubled or tripled did not just mean goods arrived quickly. It meant the speed at which capital rotated, and the speed at which national power expanded, had accelerated just as much.
'This is not the end.'
For now, it only connected Prague and Sternberg. But what if this gray artery connected all the major cities like Kuttenberg, Plzen, and Cesky Krumlov? Furthermore, what if all the small villages and major cities in every province were tied together with a dense network of concrete roads?
'The completion of a daily living zone.'
A life where a rural farmer loads vegetables harvested in the morning, goes to sell them at a big city market, and returns home in the evening to eat a warm soup with his family. The moment all of Bohemia is connected like a single organism, the economic ripple effect will be beyond imagination.
But I saw beyond that.
What is the absolute condition needed to break down the old feudalism of the Middle Ages and build a solid centralized state upon it? In my opinion, these two things were more essential than anything else.
The army, and the roads.
A country where the King's army can arrive at a lord's gate in just one day, even before a rebellion can break out. Could a fool who dreams of treason exist in such a country?
"The days of nobles holing up in their territories and acting like kings are coming to an end."
Within a few years, I will completely strip the old, cumbersome clothes of feudalism from this land. Thus, I will let all of Bohemia know that I am the only King of Bohemia, and that all power in this land flows only through me.
For that, raising the living income of the people was absolutely necessary. A nation where capital stagnates and rots in the pockets of a few nobles has no future. Because water must flow, and money must circulate. To break that solidified flow, the first thing to touch was—.
Clop, clop—
Just then, I saw a massive procession approaching Prague, kicking up dust beyond the horizon. The direction was south, toward Venice.
At the head of the procession, the golden lion flag symbolizing Venice was fluttering majestically in the spring breeze. I looked down at the sight and wore a deep smile on my lips.
"They've finally arrived."
The seeds of true abundance that will dye the barren farmland of Bohemia in gold.