Rome, the study of the Lateran Palace.
"...What did you say?"
The Pope of Rome had frozen like a stone statue upon hearing the cardinal's report. The wine cup in his hand rattled precariously.
"Say that again. The tithes of Bohemia... what happened to them?"
"Th-that is... the King of Bohemia, Ulrich von Šternberk, has confiscated all property of the monasteries and churches."
"Confiscated?"
"Yes. Gold, silver, holy relics, even land deeds... they say he stripped it all clean."
The moment the cardinal's report ended.
CRASH!
The Pope's cherished finest Venetian crystal cup struck the wall and shattered into fragments. Red wine ran streaming down the wall like blood.
"That... that bastard, striking him with lightning would not be enough!!"
The Pope's bellow rang echoing through the cloisters of the palace.
Martin V.
Born Oddone Colonna.
Later students of history and theologians would remember him as the great Pope who ended the Western Schism.
But the reality was somewhat different.
Rather than a man of the cloth, he was closer to an outstanding political thug and a ruthless businessman.
The operator who at the Council of Constance had somehow welded back into one the churches of Europe, which had been five minutes from ruin with three popes running loose at once.
The relentless administrator who, to rebuild the Rome left in ruins by the Avignon Papacy, personally combed the ledgers over every last brick and nail.
To him the Church, before it was the temple of God, was a vast enterprise that he had to rebuild.
And rebuilding Rome cost money.
An enormous, astronomical amount of money.
And now, in a prime piece of land called Bohemia, some fellow without a lineage to his name had emptied his vault outright.
"I! To gather that money! Flattered the French and fawned over the Germans! The roof of Rome is leaking and the walls are crumbling down, and he dares take my money? He runs off with my money?!"
He was not enraged merely at the fact that a heretic had appeared.
His rage was far more primal, and far more capitalistic.
"One million three hundred thousand groschen? With that money I could repair Castel Sant'Angelo and have some left over! I could put two more bridges across the Tiber! Aaaaagh!"
Oddone clutched the back of his neck and staggered. His blood pressure had risen to the top of his skull.
"That man is no Christian! That man is Satan! No, even Satan does not steal my money! That man is worse than Satan!"
"Y-Your Holiness! Please preserve your health!"
"Excommunication! Write the bull at once! Write it not with ink but with a curse stamped into it! Let the curse of the Lord be upon the name of Ulrich von Šternberk!"
The next day, a papal bull in the name of Martin V was scattered throughout Europe.
It was a decree of excommunication aimed at the Heretic King of Bohemia, Ulrich von Šternberk.
***
Exactly one week after we had stripped the monastery vaults and filled our bellies.
The expected guest came, bearing the expected gift.
"...Your Grace."
János came into the study carrying a tray. The look on his face was peculiar.
It seemed frightened, and at the same time seemed to find it thrilling to see how this affair would roll along, that cynical curiosity of his hanging over him.
On the tray lay a single scroll.
Parchment bound with a red silk cord, with a heavy lump of lead hanging from it.
Lead. In Latin, 'Bulla'.
This was that notorious 'papal bull'.
"So it has come."
I closed the document I had been reading and picked up the bull. It was heavy. On the lead seal the faces of the apostles Peter and Paul were embossed, and on the reverse the name of the current Pope stood out clearly.
MARTINUS PP. V
"My lord, are you... going to open that?"
János asked, edging back a step.
"Why? Afraid lightning will strike if I open it?"
"Honestly speaking, I am a little rattled. The curse of a Pope, I mean. Does it not seem likely to bring bad luck down on us?"
"I never had any luck to begin with."
I snorted and untied the red cord.
When I unfolded the rustling parchment, the phrases of the curse, packed densely in Latin, came pouring out.
I was not alone in the study.
A nobleman in gorgeous silk clothing but with a complexion as pale as a corpse, Čeněk of Wartenberg.
And a theologian in a black cassock, Jan Rokycana.
The talent who would one day become the archbishop of the Hussites was at this moment trembling before me like aspen leaves.
"I will read it aloud myself. Listen well."
I cleared my throat once and began to recite the contents of the bull.
"The servant of the servants of God, Pope Martin... blah blah, a wicked serpent has entered the vineyard of the Lord... et cetera."
The preamble was long. I skipped over it roughly and dropped my gaze to the central passage.
"Here it is."
I lowered my voice and read down solemnly.
"Therefore we declare, in the name of Almighty God, the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit, and by the authority of the blessed apostles Peter and Paul."
"..."
"The man who calls himself King of Bohemia, Ulrich von Šternberk, is an enemy of the Church, a blasphemer, and a betrayer of the faith."
I heard the sound of someone swallowing dryly.
"We expel him from the Christian community and strip him of every right and honor he has enjoyed. The ground he treads shall be cursed, and the water he drinks shall become poison."
"Oh, Lord..."
Rokycana muttered as though groaning. He had his two hands clasped and his eyes squeezed shut.
"Those who follow him shall receive the same curse, and he who kills him shall not be charged with murder but shall instead receive a reward in heaven."
"Anathema. Let there be a curse."
"Anathema Maranatha. Let him be cursed forever, until the Lord comes."
The recitation ended.
Inside the study only a heavy silence hung.
The atmosphere was like a funeral hall, no, like an execution ground.
Excommunication.
In medieval society, excommunication was not a mere religious discipline but meant social annihilation within the Christian world.
First, the voiding of feudal contracts. The knights and lords who had sworn loyalty to me could now legally betray me. No, they were obliged to betray me.
Second, the stripping away of legal protection. If someone stabbed me on the roadside with a knife and carried off my head, he would not be a murderer but would be praised as a 'defender of the Church'.
Third, diplomatic isolation. No king in Europe, no merchant, could trade with me. Bohemia had become an island on dry land.
"...Your Grace."
Čeněk opened his mouth with a trembling voice.
"This is... irreversible. Now all of Europe will come to hunt us."
He was right. For Emperor Sigismund there could be no better justification than this.
Now he would recruit his crusade with not only the emperor's authority but the blessing of God's vicar at his back.
"We are finished...!"
Čeněk clutched his head with both hands.
"Now the trade routes will be cut, and not a single grain of salt will come in. The mercenaries will void their contracts and leave, and the neighboring states will come rushing to tear our territory to shreds!"
"Calm yourself, Lord Čeněk."
"Calm myself! Is this a matter to be calm about? It is excommunication, excommunication! We will all be cast into the fires of hell!"
Just then, Jan Rokycana, who had kept his silence, slowly raised his head.
The eyes of the celebrated theologian were wet with despair. But what he feared was not the worldly ruin that Čeněk feared.
"Your Grace."
Rokycana's voice was calm, but the terror contained within it was far deeper and darker.
"Do you truly not understand what this means?"
"Tell me."
"It is an Interdict."
Rokycana said, pointing at the writ of excommunication.
"Now every church in Bohemia must close its doors. The bells will not ring, and the Mass will not be celebrated."
"And so?"
"And so, you say!"
Rokycana sprang to his feet.
"When a child is born we cannot give it baptism! Those children must go to hell without washing away original sin! When a man dies we cannot hold a funeral Mass! The souls of the dead must wander purgatory and suffer forever!"
His shout was closer to a scream.
Čeněk was pronouncing political bankruptcy, and Rokycana spiritual bankruptcy.
The reactions of the two men were utterly medieval, and utterly normal.
But.
"So what?"
I rolled up the bull as though it were nothing of consequence and tossed it onto the desk.
"...What?"
Rokycana asked back with a blank expression.
"Does being excommunicated ruin your appetite? Or does it stop you breathing?"
"Wh-what do you mean... the soul, in the fires of hell..."
"Rokycana."
I leaned deep into my chair and laced my fingers.
"Hell is not a place you go after you die."
At my words Rokycana's mouth opened and closed.
It seemed that the structure of his brain, having lived a whole life inside theological logic and the authority of the Church, could not process my heretical remark at once.
"Think about it, Rokycana."
I gestured with my chin at the writ of excommunication lying on the desk.
"Did that scrap of paper cut your flesh? Did that lump of lead break your bones?"
"Th-that it did not, but... the rest of the soul..."
"The rest of the soul, is it."
I snorted and rose from the chair. Then I walked slowly to the window and threw the great window wide open.
The cold winter air of Prague pressed into the study. Far off, the spire of St. Vitus Cathedral was visible, and beneath it the streets of Prague huddled close together came into view.
In the streets, beggars covered in filth were crouching, and gaunt, wasted children were rummaging through the mud.
"Look down there."
I pointed out the window.
"Out there right now, there are thousands of children starving to death even with the Pope's blessing. When the Black Death went round, did the devout live and only the heretics die?"
"Th-that is..."
"No. They all died."
I looked Rokycana straight in the eyes.
"The ones who prayed died and the ones who cursed died. The good died and the wicked died. Only those who ate well, drank clean water, and slept somewhere warm survived."
Rokycana's pupils wavered.
He must have wanted to refute it. Theologically, doctrinally, my words were wrong.
But in practical terms my words were correct to a cruel degree.
"God does not save poverty."
I spoke, putting force into each single word.
"What saves poverty is bread. And what defeats disease is not prayer but medicine, and what kills an enemy is not a curse but steel."
I strode over and picked up the writ of excommunication from the desk again. The heavy lead seal dangled.
"This is just parchment and a lump of lead. It is like a receipt sent by some fellow called the Pope to show off his own authority."
"A receipt... you say?"
"That is right. A certificate confirming that we duly received one million three hundred thousand groschen."
Čeněk could not close his mouth, and János snickered and held back his laughter. Rokycana stared at me with eyes that seemed to be looking at a devil.
"Your Grace... are you in earnest? Do you mean to trade this entire catastrophe for a few paltry coins? The world is cursing Your Grace. It hates Your Grace without reason!"
"Without reason?"
I threw the writ of excommunication back onto the desk and stepped toward Rokycana.
"Yes, that is unfair, I suppose. I have not even begun the things that would really set them shivering."
"...What do you mean by that?"
"If I am going to be reviled anyway, I ought to be reviled properly."
I twisted the corner of my mouth upward.
"To those who dislike me without reason, is it not only courteous to give them a very definite reason?"
In my head the blueprint for the next stage was already drawn.
A bomb that would appall the whole of Europe, on a scale beyond all comparison with some writ of excommunication.