T/N: Sorry for the extended delay, I was really caught up with exams and homework and writing my own fics, I simply neglected this work. But fear not, I am determined to plow through this book chapter by chapter. Thank you for following the translation of this fic :)
:: Three ::
"'Dearest Duchess of Lorraine, Maria Theresa,'" read aloud Roderich, "'Being aware of our neighbouring kingdoms' reluctance to recognise your Grace's ascension to the throne, Prussia, as a part of the Holy Roman Empire, and also having signed the 1713 Peace Treaty, has no wish to cause unrest with other nations. However, after the Berlin Treaty of 1728, Prussia has not received the benefits promised by the late King Charles the Sixth of Berk Park, thus, has no liability to fulfill the conditions of the treaty of 1713. In this time of turmoil and instability, my own kingdom, too, has suffered the loss of a beloved and virtuous king and I myself am consumed by the sorrow of losing a parent. Thus I can sympathise fully with your Grace's turbulent emotions. Prussia offers our condolences at this troubled time, and would like to establish positive diplomatic relations with your nation. As you know, Prussia is a barren land of bitter winters, and the fruits of the earth that we can coax from the soil is pitiful. Therefore we would like to request for the fertile lands of Silesia to save my people. and also as a show of willingness to fulfill the benefits promised by the treaty of 1713 to support its continued validity. If such conditions are satisfied, Prussia is willing to lend its power to your kingdom, and fight by your side with all its resources and people…"
"What nonsense," Maria Theresa could not help but exclaim. "To mention the Berlin Treaty at this time, obviously they plan to seize what little benefit they can while we are weak and defenseless! 'No wish to cause unrest with other nations' - what, have they already forgotten the secret conference in Bavaria? I am sorry, Roderich, I interrupted your reading. Do continue. What else is written on the letter?"
"'...Ambassadors from Prussia will arrive in Vienna soon to discuss these matters in detail with your Grace. Yours sincerely, Frederick II, King of Prussia.'" Roderich raised his head, meeting the Duchess's questioning gaze.
"They have dispatched ambassadors to Vienna? Has he mentioned who he has sent?"
"No, he hasn't. I've already read out all that is written on the letter." Roderich handed the piece of paper to Maria.
"Those ambassadors - they should be people we're acquainted with," Maria sighed. "Is this letter written by Frederick himself?" She looked at the sprawling cursive on the paper, an ancient Central European style, which, to her eyes, was difficult to decipher.
"The signature is by his own hand. It is identical to the one on his other documents. But the contents of the letter itself…..." Roderich hesitated, but spoke his verdict. "No."
"But why?" asked Maria.
"It means nothing, my child," said Roderich. "The letter is written by somebody else – perhaps that exhibitionist king wished to disguise the guile of his heart with the beauty and elegance of penmanship." He shot a sideways glance at Maria, who was nodding in agreement. Roderich was somewhat reassured. She doesn't know, he told himself. Thank God, she doesn't know…
Many years ago, before Maria Theresa had been born, this particular style of cursive handwriting had often been used. Roderich knew of one person, dwelling within Prussia's palace walls, who had such admirable handwriting. Despite him being a brash, reckless fighter who loved to mingle with the soldiers on the front lines in times of war, and whiled away his time in the forest in times of peace, rarely could anyone point out any fault in his penmanship. Roderich thought that he was probably not as rash or callous as he appeared to others. It was only because he was so unrestrained and sought for freedom so passionately, that he appeared so. The words he wrote were like a reflection of his personality. Within the lines of ink, it was as if you could see his silhouette, the flickers of a warrior atop a galloping horse.
Gilbert Beilschmidt, they had known each other for too long, too well. Roderich was certain he had not recognised wrongly the handwriting on the letter. But what was the reason behind its appearance…?
"Why have you requested me to accompany you, Herr Prussia?" Maurits Leopold, had been born in 1712, the same year as the king, with an imposing air and a sonorous voice, and he put it to good use now. Although the carriage clanked loudly upon the pebbled forest path, it could not overwhelm his shout from entering the carriage. He was General Anhalt-Dessau's youngest son, raised in the army since youth. At the same time, as Frederick did not enjoy horse-riding or archery, he was Gilbert's good hunting companion. Old General Dessau came from a famed and great family, but he trusted his son and bowed to the whims and fancies of his young son. Maurits was a bold and forthright man, and Gilbert felt like he was a man after his own heart more than the brooding king himself.
Right now, Maurits was seated upon the driver's seat at the front, handling the carriage like the war chariot of an Ancient Roman warrior.
"God knows," Gilbert lay on his back on the carriage seat, but he had to clutch the seat with both hands in order to keep himself from falling off onto the floor. "Why the heck did he ask us two specifically to go to Vienna to mediate? And also specifically to take this ramshackle carriage that's about to fall apart…" shouted back Gilbert.
The carriage wheels caught on a shard of rock at the edge of the road and the entire thing shuddered violently, rattling the poor person within. Gilbert cursed violently, while Maurits only laughed loudly from his front seat.
"I would much rather have simply gone there on horseback!" cried Maurits. "I don't see why we have to take this shoddy carriage? Herr Prussia, do you understand King Frederick?"
"If you asked me," Gilbert said, "other than his sister Wilhemine, who formulates just as many plots as he does that nobody else understands, I would say that no one else knows what he's thinking." Gilbert stuck his head out from the window of the carriage, crying, "Maurits, stop the carriage! You brat, let me drive the carriage, and you can sit back and 'enjoy' the experience of being in the carriage!"
The wind whistled through the forest. In the descending dusk, Gilbert watched the white puffs of his exhaled breath whipping past him quickly. The road before him was silent and empty, and only the clanking of the horse's hooves and the carriage wheels could be heard. It was November, and the winter of Central Europe had arrived. Fallen leaves littered the road, its scent mixing with that of the earth, surrounding the entire world. In this season, many nobles brought their families to Venice to flee from the bitter cold. The south was not like this forest, where the bare branches of trees dripped with desolation. There, it was always spring.
The carriage had already left Bosnian territory and entered on Austrian soil. In the carriage, Maurits was studying a map, marking down the time on it.
"At this pace, we will be in Linz after two hours. We'll be just in time for a beer at a local pub."
"Then let's pick up the speed, while the sky's still bright … This goddamned weather is getting colder and colder. It's so wet in the forests, I worry that there'll be mist." Gilbert said, flicking the reins, shouting "giddy-up" to the horse.
"His Majesty has said that we should follow the five-day plan to arrange our itinerary. Today's just the third day. Tomorrow, at noon, we will reach Vienna."
"Had the wheel not broke in the middle of the way, we would perhaps be at Vienna's gate already." Gilbert snorted. Frederick had arranged a magnificent but impractical carriage for them, but on the same day they left, he had arranged for a messenger to deliver the letter that Gilbert had penned. Gilbert knew that the letter should have arrived in Austria before them. Frederick's intention for them to take the slower carriage was no doubt to allow Austria to have ample time to prepare for negotiation.
"Maurits, do you remember the landforms of the route we took?" Gilbert asked, somewhat absentmindedly.
"Of course I do. You know that I am from the Survey Corps, Herr Prussia. King Frederick has even asked me to mark our route and travelling time on the map."
So this was how he wanted to play this game…. Gilbert could not help but curse Frederick in his mind. To send a soldier to participate in a negotiation was never a good idea, especially when said soldier had a powerful family background but no knowledge whatsoever of diplomatic relations. But every move of the king's game of chess was not a desperate clutch at straws, nor was it some simple, trivial game. How optimistic he was on the outcome of this peace negotiation, how much had he gambled on said outcome, only the king himself knew. Maurits' extraordinary memory likely was not only intended to be used as a navigator, even though Maurits knew not of the king's plans. How many others had the king sent to other nations, Gilbert did not know. Frederick had never hid anything from him if he asked, but he also had not offered up to Gilbert his plots and thoughts. Frederick was careful, scheming, the Sphinx who spoke in riddles. Could Oedipus answer his riddles and guess the intention behind his words correctly every time? He was the chess player who controlled the fate of the game; everyone were his pawns, but who knew what place they held on the game board?
The dawn before they had left, King Frederick had tapped the carriage door with his slender fingers, smiling as he spoke, "Just treat it as a holiday to the south. Right now, that opera Castor et Pollux(1) is showing in Vienna, a work much liked by that venerable teacher (2). You would not have such an opportunity in Berlin."
Footnotes, as included in the original work:
1. Castor and Pollux is one of French composer Jean-Philippe Rameau's most renowned work.
2. He is referring to Voltaire, French writer, philosopher and historian.