Recruiting Future Legends
This was no way to leave empty-handed with just the Spanish ropera that my brother was offering. And not just any brother—this was the man ruling the mightiest power in Europe, Spain. He wouldn't send me off with nothing, of course, but taking only gold felt like a raw deal.
Then a thought struck me. If I was going anyway, I needed to snag a talent before he caught on.
This guy wouldn't die peacefully in his bed under my brother. His exceptional administrative skills were exactly what I needed, so I planned to impress him early and often. Of course... trying too hard too soon might backfire a bit.
"Your Highness."
"Do you have a request, Count of Malaga?"
With the French delegation present, he addressed me casually as a natural show of hierarchy. I nodded to my brother.
"Though I humbly received Your Highness's grace and full plenipotentiary authority, the responsibility weighs heavy. I fear I might err and bring harm to you."
A groveling pose straight out of a historical drama. In this era, Europe wasn't centralized yet—few nobles bowed this low. The king-vassal bond was more like a contract; fail your duties, and you'd get replaced. No big deal.
But I had two reasons for this deference before my brother. First, operating solo as plenipotentiary would put my name out there alone in European society. It'd spread eventually, but not yet. Sure, I was already known as Philip II's half-brother from mighty Spain—that was it. If I went to Rome now, met Paul IV, and sealed a peace treaty, it'd launch me into noble circles proper. Too soon. If he saw me as a rival or threat, I'd be dead. No power, no money, no troops—my life was worth less than a fly's.
So even on diplomatic missions, I had to drag in crowds to spread the aggro.
Second, to get what I wanted: an administrator. My current staff was too thin to run a country. Isabel Gomara was great as a long-term secretary... but old Chancellor Sancho Núñez? Jermi Walli pocketing bribes in plain sight? That Seville Bishop slathering perfume on his hair? No way I was taking them.
I needed my people. So this time, I'd bring him along. And one more for good measure... Ideally my man too, but unlikely. Still, adding him would erase brother's doubts completely—he'd welcome it.
I gathered my thoughts and cautiously met my brother's eyes.
"To keep me from arrogance, I humbly request permission to travel with Admiral Álvaro de Bazán and the Duke of Medina Sidonia."
"Hmm..."
He stroked his jaw—classic cautious Philip. Even a proposal benefiting him got deep thought.
Lepanto hero, future Marquis of Santa Cruz. Álvaro de Bazán, a navy man through and through since enlisting under his father. His marquisate came in 1569; until then, he was Admiral Álvaro de Bazán, military governor of Gibraltar Fortress.
At 32, he'd already racked up feats before Lepanto, enough for my brother to notice. History might shift—would he join the original Jerba expedition? Unknown. But taking him to Italy? Brother wouldn't show it, but he'd be thrilled.
Most Spanish culverins came from Italy. For a navy prioritizing bronze guns, sending the next-gen talent to Rome was prime experience. Spain's sword-and-buckler obsession might overlook it, but still—Admiral Álvaro de Bazán was that good.
Wish he was mine... but he was sworn to brother body and soul. Impossible.
So my real target: the Duke of Medina Sidonia.
Alonso Pérez de Guzmán el Bueno, 7th Duke, lucked into the title at just 8. Tweaked history—father and grandfather died a year early, thanks to me? Anyway, future successor to Santa Cruz. Post-Lepanto, he'd command the "Invincible" Armada, God's blessed fleet, into Calais.
No military experience originally, yet he shone in logistics—the key to war. Crafted an absurdly advanced 16th-century naval manual. Brother's meddling tanked it... but without that, England might be Spanish now.
Administrative genius. I'd poach him young.
"I see Admiral Álvaro de Bazán, but why the boy Duke of Medina Sidonia, freshly titled?"
Sharp question. I answered straight.
"I am honored as a Habsburg, but merely a count. Surely our delegation needs someone matching the Kingdom of Spain's dignity."
"Makes sense."
He nodded. Lucky—Philip II, who loved this, didn't dig deeper. My "don't kill me" gesture worked again.
My Luxembourg ducal inheritance claim. Recognize it, and I'd negotiate as Duke, not Count of Malaga. Dukes were figureheads historically, counts did the work. But envoys? Usually dukes.
French side: arrogant count leading. Brother was miffed early on. His "calm" nature let them survive their filibuster. Ottomans? Christian galley slaves forever.
Field players were counts. Rome treaty? They'd send Andrea Doria, Genoa's duke-in-waiting. Old but spry—perfect mascot.
Spain? Me leading. Half-brother status gave gravitas, but no ducal title nagged. Brother could grant Luxembourg... but I groveled pre-emptively: no intent.
Marrying Elizabeth I was bounty enough. Sniffing for Luxembourg as envoy excuse? Brother's ropera through my throat.
This delegation was calculated: gain for me, signal to him—"zero interest in Luxembourg." Self-praise-worthy scheming to survive.
"Truly the Count Don Juan."
French count praising me. I glared inwardly: planning my murder? They mistook it for lingering grudge from their speech—stayed quiet. Good.
Late night. French gone, brother and I alone again. Awkwardly, I trailed him back to his chambers.
Stern-faced till then—even after their protocol breach, he groveled apologies but stayed furious-looking.
Office: guards, me, Philip. Then... he softened. Burst into roaring laughter.
"Puhahaha!"
"..."
Sudden acceleration. No clue which beat to follow.
"Hahaha! Ahaha... ha..."
Slapping my shoulder, howling. Guards baffled—first time seeing this. I froze; couldn't move with him pounding away.
About five minutes later, Philip calmed. Jaw quivering from his protruding Habsburg maw, tears streaming.
Looked at me, nearly laughed again but coughed it out.
"Heroin! You made my day. Hahaha!"
Childhood name—Heroin, pre-Vienna Don Juan.
"Glad to bring Your Highness joy."
"Ha! You should've seen those arrogant French faces when you cursed them. Puhaha!"
Latin filibuster to belittle Castilian-only Philip. Catholic guardian couldn't rage—admit no Latin? World broadcast.
Latin: church tongue, still used. Thank God I spoke it.
Shoulder slap. His eyes—boyhood gaze, first meeting.
"I trust you fully now, little brother."
"...Thank you, Your Highness."
First trust from Elizabeth's betrothal letter. Saving face before French today? Old bond restored, as he said.