In ancient times, when a mysterious aura of old ages hovered over the Czech land and people still believed in the power of ancient prophecies, there lived in Prague a man whose name would one day be spoken with both reverence and fear. He was Jan Žižka of Trocnov, a brave knight who left his native Trocnov region to serve at the court of Queen Sophia of Bavaria, wife of King Wenceslaus IV. In Prague, around 1409, Žižka was a chamberlain and closely observed the events in the royal city, where new ideas were beginning to emerge and old orders were shaking at their foundations.
He often accompanied the queen to sermons at Bethlehem Chapel, where the voice of Master Jan Hus resonated. Žižka, a man of simple but firm principles, listened to Hus’s words about truth, justice, and church reform with an open heart. The teachings of Master Jan Hus captivated him and deeply touched him, imprinting themselves on his soul and becoming a compass for his future path. Not only Žižka, but many Prague citizens felt that change was approaching, that the old world was crumbling and a new one, albeit cruel, was pushing its way into the light.
Then, after Hus’s burning at Constance around 1419, tension in Prague reached its peak, and King Wenceslaus IV ordered the Prague councilors to surrender all weapons. It was Žižka who advised wisely. “Let them appear at Vyšehrad in full armor,” he said, “and show the king that Prague is not defenseless.” And so it happened. The councilors, led by those from the New Town, gathered and, in full armor, with gleaming helmets and swords at their sides, set off for Vyšehrad. King Wenceslaus IV, accustomed to obedience, was so surprised by this unexpected display of strength and determination that he preferred to retreat and abandon his decree.
However, it was not long before the ferment in Prague erupted into open conflict. On July 30 of the same year, Žižka actively participated in the events that led to the First Prague Defenestration at the New Town Hall. Together with Jan Želivský, a fiery preacher, he stood at the head of an enraged crowd that threw the councilors from the windows of the town hall. At that moment, it became clear that Žižka was not only a loyal servant but also a fearless warrior and leader who was not afraid to stand up for what he believed in, even if it meant shedding blood.
Fate, however, had a difficult trial in store for Žižka. In the times when he led the Hussite armies, a rumor spread about a magical musician at Vlčinec Castle who, with his tunes, confused and seduced soldiers. Žižka, an uncompromising man, would not tolerate such things and had the musician shot to get rid of the evil power. But even that did not protect him from a dark prophecy. Before the siege of Rabí Castle in 1421, somewhere on the road, an old woman or a nun, whose eyes saw into the future, stood before Žižka. With a trembling voice, she prophesied his blindness. Žižka, accustomed to battles and wounds, perhaps smiled at this.
It was said that fate was fulfilled soon after. During the siege of Rabí, where he fought side by side with Captain Matěj Louda of Chlumčany, an arrow or shot struck Žižka in his remaining eye. It was the archer Přibík Kocovský who became the instrument of fate. Darkness enveloped Žižka’s eyes. He was transported to Prague for treatment, where he settled in the house “At the Black Lamb” in the Old Town. Many thought that this was the end for him, that a man who could not see could not lead an army. But they were mistaken.
Žižka, though completely blind, lost none of his will and determination. His mind was sharper than ever before, and his senses, deprived of sight, became heightened. He continued to lead the Hussite armies, directing battles from the wagon on which he stood, and his voice, booming and unwavering, struck terror into his enemies. He led his troops from one victorious battle to another, becoming a legend during his lifetime, a bogeyman for Catholic Europe.
His life’s journey, however, was not endless. In 1424, during the siege of Přibyslav, another, invisible enemy caught up with Žižka – the plague. The illness took his life. It was said that his last wish was for his skin to be flayed and made into a drum that would terrify enemies even after his death. It was just a legend, but so powerful that enemies feared it more than the living Žižka.
After his death, his companions, loyal to him until the end, called themselves orphans, for they had lost their father and leader. And so ended the earthly journey of Jan Žižka of Trocnov, a man who rose from a queen’s chamberlain to a blind warlord, whose name remained etched in the history of the Czech land as a symbol of courage, steadfastness, and faith. And even though his eyes could not see, his spirit saw more clearly than many with open eyes.