The carriage rattled over the cobblestones of Weltevreden, the upscale district of Batavia. Julian watched through the window as the scenery shifted. The chaotic, salt-stained docks of Tanjung Priok gave way to wide, leafy avenues lined with massive tamarind trees.
This was the "New Batavia"—a calculated attempt to recreate Europe in the tropics. Grand neoclassical buildings with towering white pillars stood like ghosts against the vibrant green of the jungle.
"You look unimpressed, Elias," Friedrich remarked, tapping his cane against the floor of the carriage.
"It looks like Amsterdam had a fever dream," Julian replied.
The carriage pulled up to the Paleis van den Gouverneur-Generaal. It was a monstrous white palace, glowing under the oppressive afternoon sun. As Julian stepped out, he felt the heat radiating from the stone. It was a heavy, wet heat that made every breath feel like swallowing warm water.
Inside, the air was slightly cooler, smelling of floor wax and old paper. Servants in crisp, white batik uniforms bowed so low their foreheads nearly touched the marble floor.
"Lunch is being prepared," Friedrich said, leading him toward a massive dining hall. "A proper Rijsttafel to welcome a Prince of the Blood."
The table was an ocean of porcelain. Julian stared as a line of servants began to place dozens of small plates before them.
"In Europe, we eat to live. In the Indies, we eat to dominate," Friedrich chuckled. He pointed to a small dish of dark, caramelized beef. "Rendang. And this," he pointed to a crimson paste, "is Sambal. Be careful, it has a temper."
Julian took a small portion of the beef. The flavor exploded—creamy coconut, sharp lemongrass, and a deep, earthy spice that made his Dutch palate reel. But it was the Sambal that changed everything. A tiny dab on his tongue sent a jolt of fire through his nerves. His eyes watered, and for a second, he couldn't breathe.
"Mijn God," he gasped, reaching for a glass of water.
"Water only makes it angry," Friedrich warned, his eyes glinting with amusement. "Eat the rice, Elias. It is the only way to survive the heat."
As Julian struggled to regain his composure, the doors opened. A woman entered, her footsteps silent on the marble. She wasn't a servant. She carried herself with the quiet authority of a queen in exile.
She wore a Kebaya of deep emerald silk, secured by a three-tiered gold Kerongsang brooch that glittered at her chest. Her hair was pulled back into a perfect Sanggul, adorned with a single white jasmine flower that filled the immediate air with a haunting perfume.
"Your Highness," Friedrich said, his tone shifting to something more formal, "may I introduce Raden Ajeng Kartikasari. She is our liaison to the local regents—and the most dangerous mind in Batavia."
Kartika offered a subtle, graceful tilt of her head. Her eyes, dark and sharp as obsidian, locked onto Julian's.
"Sugeng rawuh, Tuan Elias," she said. Her voice was like silk sliding over a blade. "I hope the spices are not too... overwhelming for a man from the north."
Julian felt a different kind of heat rise to his face. For the first time since he left the docks, he forgot about the starched collar and the humid air.
"The spices are manageable, Freule," Julian replied, using the Dutch title for a noblewoman. "It is the company that I find unexpected."
Kartika smiled, but it didn't reach her eyes. She sat across from him, her movements fluid and controlled. "In Batavia, Tuan, nothing is ever quite what it seems. We are all just characters in a play, waiting for the Dalang to tell us when to move."
Julian froze, the word Dalang—the puppet master—echoing the thoughts he had at the docks. He looked at Friedrich, then back at Kartika. The "hahahihi" of a pleasant lunch was beginning, but beneath the table, the gears of a much darker machine had started to turn.