The iron hull of the SS Prins Hendrik groaned as it finally yielded to the murky waters of Tanjung Priok. For Julian Valerius van de Berg, the sound was like the closing of a tomb. He stood at the railing, his hand tightening around the cold metal, watching the shoreline of Batavia emerge through a thick, sulfurous haze.
"Welcome to the 'Queen of the East', Your Highness," a voice dry as parchment spoke behind him.
Julian didn't turn. He was too busy struggling against his own clothes. He wore a formal Dutch military tunic, its stijve boord—the stiff, starched collar—digging into his throat like a dull blade. Back in Den Haag, this wool was a shield against the North Sea wind. Here, in the relentless humidity of 1880, it was a torture device.
"Dank je, Friedrich," Julian replied, his voice flat.
Standing on the pier was Governor-General Friedrich von Hoogen. He looked exactly as the newspapers described: a man carved out of granite and colonial ambition. He was surrounded by a sea of white uniforms, but it was the world beyond the soldiers that caught Julian's eye.
The air didn't just smell like salt; it smelled of things Julian had never known—the sharp sting of cloves, the earthy rot of the canals, and a sweetness he would later learn was jasmine.
As Julian descended the gangplank, the sensory assault began.
"Awas! Awas!" A group of bare-chested porters, their skin glistening like polished mahogany with sweat, hurried past him carrying crates of spices. Julian stopped, fascinated by their strength and the rhythmic, melodic flow of their language.
"Ignore them, Elias," Friedrich whispered, using Julian's chosen traveling name with a smirk that didn't reach his eyes. "The locals are but the background noise of this great enterprise."
Julian looked at a man sitting by a stack of crates. He was wearing a Peci, a simple black velvet cap, and was casually sipping coffee from a glass. The smell reached Julian—charred, thick, and potent. Kopi Tubruk. It was a world away from the delicate porcelain cups of the Palace.
"It is beautiful," Julian murmured, watching a woman in the distance. She wore a Kebaya Encim—a white blouse of fine lace with vibrant floral embroidery—paired with a Batik sarong that moved like liquid bronze as she walked.
Friedrich chuckled, a sound devoid of warmth. "Schoonheid is bedrieglijk (Beauty is deceptive), my Prince. Underneath that lace and those smiles, this land has a way of swallowing men whole."
Julian looked at the Governor, then back at the vibrant, chaotic city beyond the gates. He had come here to escape a crown, to find a place where he could simply be a man named Elias. He didn't know yet that the ink-black waters of the canals were already rising to meet him.
"Let us go to the Paleis," Friedrich said, gesturing toward a grand horse-drawn carriage. "We have much to discuss, and the sun in Hindia is not kind to those who linger in the open."
Julian stepped into the carriage, leaving the salt of the ocean for the secrets of the land. The journey had officially begun.