In the times of King Vladislaus Jagiellon, when shadows lengthened over Prague’s rooftops and the chill of stone walls breathed upon them, a newly built tower stood on the very edge of Prague Castle, on the slope above the deep Deer Moat. It was the work of Master Benedikt Ried, who imprinted upon it the seal of majesty and destruction at the same time. This tower, round and massive, stood at the end of the picturesque Golden Lane like an unyielding guardian, and it had not yet been named. Soon, however, it was to acquire a name that carried within it an echo of sadness and wondrous music – Daliborka.
It was in the year fourteen ninety-six, when rumors of discontent and defiance spread across the land. In the distant Litoměřice region, where arable land stretched to the horizon, serfs suffered under the cruel hand of Lord Adam Ploskovský of Drahonice. His dominion was a place of lament and despair, where daily toil brought only further oppression. One day, when the cup of patience overflowed, the serfs rose up as one man. The spark of despair and the desire for freedom ignited rebellion in them. They captured Adam’s stronghold, and although they were not accustomed to weapons, their determination broke the resistance. They forced the cruel lord to release them from serfdom, an unheard-of act and a terrifying one for many nobles.
The rebels, knowing that the king’s wrath would be great, sought protection. They took refuge under the wings of the young nobleman, Dalibor of Kozojedy, a brave and courageous man who resided nearby. Dalibor, whether out of pure compassion or perhaps with the hope of expanding his own influence, accepted them and provided them with refuge. King Vladislaus Jagiellon himself, however, could not bear such a rebellion against the authorities, especially when a nobleman stood behind it. And so Dalibor of Kozojedy, despite his bravery and willingness to help the weak, was accused of supporting the serf uprising, and even of inciting rebellion and appropriating the property of Adam Ploskovský.
The verdict was cruel and relentless. Dalibor was arrested and brought to Prague, to that newly built tower at the Castle, which had not yet been named. It was a tall and dark tower, with thick walls that absorbed light and hope. And so Dalibor of Kozojedy became its first and most famous prisoner. From then on, it was called nothing but Daliborka.
Days in the tower stretched like endless threads of grey twilight. The chill of stone penetrated to the bones, the silence was oppressive, and the solitude crushing. Dalibor, a man accustomed to the freedom of wide fields and forests, suffered in chains more than anyone could imagine. His mind wandered through memories of his homeland, of laughter and sunshine, which were now just a distant dream. To ward off the burden of long hours and endless despair, and perhaps even to preserve the last remnants of his humanity, he learned to play the violin in prison. It was mysterious how he acquired the instrument, whether someone smuggled it to him out of mercy, or whether he perhaps crafted it himself from pieces of wood and strings. What is certain is that wondrous tunes began to emanate from the depths of Daliborka.
At first, they were just screeching, clumsy sounds that were lost within the castle walls. But with each passing day, with each hour, Dalibor’s skill improved. His fingers, at first clumsy, became more agile, and from the instrument began to emerge melodies full of longing, pain, but also a wondrous, fragile beauty. It was not cheerful or boisterous music, but deeply melancholic tones that touched the very soul. They were tones that spoke of lost freedom, of injustice, and of an endless yearning for light.
These sweet, though sad, tones began to carry from Daliborka tower across the Deer Moat, rising up to the castle walls and spreading along the Golden Lane, until they reached the ears of Prague’s inhabitants. First in whispers, then louder, people began to talk about the mysterious music from the tower. Who could play so mournfully and beautifully from the depths of a prison? Curiosity mingled with compassion. Prague citizens, whether craftsmen from the Golden Lane or merchants from Malá Strana, would walk beneath the castle walls just to listen to that extraordinary playing. They stood there, listening in silence, and in their hearts, sadness mingled with a strange admiration.
And so it happened that Dalibor’s music became a part of the daily life of the Castle and its surroundings. People, moved and compassionate, lowered gifts to him in a basket into the tower – a piece of bread, fruit, sometimes even a few coins, so that the prisoner would not suffer from hunger and thirst. It was a silent communion between the prisoner and the free, a communion woven from tones and human kindness. Everyone knew that as long as the violin sounded from the tower, Dalibor lived. Its sound was a sign of hope for them, that perhaps injustice would not have the last word.
But fate, it was relentless. The king’s court delivered the final verdict. Dalibor of Kozojedy was sentenced to death by beheading. The date of execution was set for the thirteenth of March, fourteen ninety-eight.
That morning, when a thick, cold fog hung over Prague, the people of Prague waited beneath the castle walls. They waited for the familiar tones, for the sad melody that accompanied their days. But not a single sound came from Daliborka tower. The silence that settled was more oppressive than the most mournful song. It was a silence that spoke of an end. And so the people understood.
Dalibor of Kozojedy was led out of the tower. The procession headed towards the small square between the Burgrave’s House and the Black Tower, or perhaps to Opyš, where the path to today’s vineyard led. There, under the grey sky, the sentence was carried out. The executioner’s axe ended the life of a man who dared to stand up for the oppressed and whose violin told of human suffering and beauty.
From that day on, no violin was ever heard from Daliborka tower again. Only a silent memory remained there of the man whose name the tower bears to this day. And although some claim that the violin was merely a euphemism for the torture instrument, the rack, and his playing just a lament, the Prague legend has preserved the more beautiful, albeit more tragic, version. The memory of Dalibor of Kozojedy and his poignant music lives on in the stone walls of Prague Castle, as an eternal testament to the cruelty of power, but also to the strength of the human spirit, which even in the greatest suffering can create something beautiful that touches the hearts of others. And so Daliborka stands to this day, silent, but full of echoes of ancient stories.