Rome: Gambits at the Treaty Table
The Spain-France peace treaty under papal mediation was set to begin today—the very moment Milan, Savoy, and Genoa would be freed from French colonial shackles.
France had no intention of surrendering the lands they'd seized with such difficulty. Naturally, they'd come to this table aiming to extract maximum gain from the accord. Our side was no different. After the grueling war against France, we too had to claw back our losses with every ounce of effort.
Before taking our seats, the participants mingled in small talk. I approached Admiral Álvaro de Bazán first.
"Don't forget what Your Highness instructed."
"Understood."
We'd already coordinated with the Spanish delegation beforehand. Our goal: secure the allegiance of Spanish-friendly states in northern Italy.
One key target for our delegation was the Duchy of Parma. Nestled adjacent to Milan, it was a vital chokepoint any invader into Italy had to pass. Currently under Spanish influence, but Parma's duke, Alessandro Farnese, had a sister married into Milanese nobility. That gave France leverage to push for merging Parma into the Duchy of Milan.
It might look like a union of houses on paper, but the world wasn't so naive. Enter the last surviving Visconti—the would-be ruler of Milan. Hardly a true Visconti survivor, more like a Sforza descendant claiming the mantle, but France backed her pretensions anyway. A pro-French noble was poised to take Milan's throne.
In original history, Spain would hold sway, but this twisted timeline had Milan falling to the French camp. Genoa faced the same fate. With France's delegation led by former French admiral Andrea Doria, what more was there to say?
In this mess, we had to defend the northern stronghold of Parma at all costs. Spain aimed to solidify control over it, plus Siena, Naples, Sicily, and Sardinia.
France would suffer losses; we'd reap gains. In true history, their defeat forced a compliant treaty, but this unbeaten France wouldn't meekly concede Spanish dominion. As the Archbishop of Ragusa had suggested yesterday, we planned to drop a bombshell on the negotiation table.
The Spanish delegation was fully briefed up to that point. Admiral Álvaro de Bazán nodded, grasping my intent.
"Still, it's surreal to lay eyes on the legendary Andrea Doria himself."
The living legend of the seas, a contemporary of Redbeard Hayreddin. No wonder fellow naval man Admiral Álvaro gazed at him with awe.
"Speaking of which..."
Old and frail with age. A young man attended him at his side—uncannily resembling Andrea Doria. Long eyes, composed lips, rounded brows, short-cropped hair. A sturdy nineteen-year-old. I knew him instantly: Giovanni Andrea Doria, hero-to-be of Lepanto.
"He'll be Genoa's next power behind the throne."
"I think so too."
Giovanni had lost his father at six, raised under his great-granduncle's wing. Joining the French mission like this screamed self-promotion.
"Admiral Álvaro."
"Yes, Count Don Juan?"
"Could you prepare the Duke of Medina Sidonia for the talks? I'll chat with them briefly."
"Of course."
The admiral knew the value of intelligence-gathering. He handled delegation prep in my stead.
As half-brother to Philip II and son of Charles V, I was nobility's nobility—free to approach regardless of nationality.
As I neared the French delegation, eyes turned my way. I scanned the room with a smile, spotting Count Viori from Toledo. I approached him.
He recognized me and greeted with proper courtesy.
"A pleasure to meet in Rome, Count Don Juan."
"Likewise. The road from France to Italy must have been treacherous, yet you arrive on time—fortuitous indeed."
A pointed remark. Knowing full well France was vomiting up northern Italy due to endless revolts, I scratched at his nerves deliberately.
Veteran diplomat that he was, Count Viori offered an awkward smile and sidestepped.
"The Alps are ever perilous."
We stared silently. I itched to prod again, but Giovanni Andrea Doria approached.
"Greetings. It's an honor to meet the esteemed Count Don Juan. I am Giovanni of the Doria house."
He bowed with decorum. I paused my sparring with Viori and focused on him.
"Delighted. A living legend of the navy, heir to the Doria legacy—what fortune."
The Doria renown was widespread; such praise hit just right.
We traded pleasantries. Giovanni eyed me cautiously before revealing his approach.
"My house, a key northern Italian hub, wishes to bridge peace between France and Spain."
"Noble intent. Nations following God's will sorely need houses like Doria."
A warm exchange, but motives diverged. Genoa, trade nexus extraordinaire. My pious brother Philip II had expelled Iberia's Jews, leaving Spain with no real merchants—types like Samuel reduced to usury.
The Dorias knew this and eyed relay trade profits shuttling between Spain and France. Pro-French yet cozying up to Spain—me specifically, judging by the heir's overture. Credible enough.
Not a bad deal for me. I'd planned to fill Genoa's role myself, but spilled milk. Couldn't oust them now, especially running Malaga County at the Atlantic-Mediterranean crossroads. Their aid was vital.
In this era, house or self trumped nation. Thus, French-backed Dorias dipped toes into Spain—my waters early.
Money-making would wait. I just hoped my Low Countries war-profiteer Jews raked in fortunes.
"Father is entering."
Servants' announcement. In strode Archbishop of Ragusa Medici—future cardinal—and Carafa Cardinal, papal kin. Trailing: Paul IV.
At 82, elected late as popes often were, Paul IV needed aides to move.
"Father."
"We greet Father."
Father to all Catholics, rank irrelevant. All knelt, addressing him as such.
I halted talk with Giovanni Andrea Doria and paid homage.
The pope, fisherman's ring agleam, murmured. A cleric boomed:
"Father bids all to rise."
We stood. I nodded farewell to Giovanni and returned to the Spanish side.
Now, the real diplomatic war began. Under papal mediation, the Spain-France peace treaty talks ignited.
"This demand is excessive."
Count Viori spoke for figurehead Andrea Doria. Admiral Álvaro shook his head firmly.
"These are territories our forces occupy."
"Aren't we yielding too? Spain must reciprocate."
Viori whined like a petulant child. Understandable, but ugly to watch. Packaging their revolt-forced spits as concessions, demanding we match—nasty business.
"France seems unfamiliar with the concept of compromise."
Admiral Álvaro's barbed quip. Viori didn't flinch.
"Who lacks compromise? Spain."
No-quarter diplomacy. France's three demands: Merge Parma into Milan Duchy. Free Siena. Cede Ajaccio Island atop Sardinia to France.
Genoese ousted to Ajaccio by France. With Genoa revived, the island should revert naturally—but some Doria deal had them claiming it boldly.
Normally, Genoa and France would negotiate separately post-revival. But France raised it here because the situation was abnormal.
Ajaccio's overlord: Siena Duchy. Less Genoa's isle, more shared with Siena. Direct French-Genoa talks wouldn't fully secure it.
Hence, demand Siena's liberation alongside handing Ajaccio to France—an absurd ploy.
"Siena is unequivocally Spanish soil."
"Yet originally a republic. They have the right to elect their leader."
Viori's nonsense logic. Admiral Álvaro countered fiercely. Amid their deadlock, Giovanni Andrea Doria and I exchanged glances.
The Archbishop of Ragusa caught it. Cardinal Medici cleared his throat, drawing eyes.
"Pardon the interruption."
The pope startled at the cardinal's move. Carafa Cardinal beside him mirrored the expression.