Internal Affairs (1)
The diplomatic schedule in Rome was finally over. I was reveling in my newfound freedom.
The joint effort between me and the Ragusa Archbishop. France had taken only the island of Ajaccio. They still had no intention of picking a fight with the Ottomans. Count Viori had gone silent on Parma's annexation and Siena the moment all the calculations wrapped up in that brief instant—an unspoken agreement. In reality, those territories were under Spain's sphere of influence, so from our position, we wanted it made explicit. But France had deliberately left that gap to wedge themselves in somehow. All under papal mediation.
Spain's de facto control over Sicily, Sardinia, and Naples—territories they already effectively governed—was recognized. Parma and Siena tacitly fell under Spanish dominion as well. For Spain, it was the greatest diplomatic victory imaginable. They hadn't wrung this much from their long-time rival France since 1335—a truly noteworthy achievement.
In any case, Spain emerged as the clear winner of this diplomatic bout. The delegation's representative, the eight-year-old Duke of Medina Sidonia, had made his name known far and wide despite his tender age. Especially the admiral who advised him, Álvaro de Bazán—his reputation spread like wildfire.
Of course, I'd stepped in, waving letters around to play the decisive role... but that was all theater. As the head of the delegation and proxy for the King of Spain, Admiral Álvaro de Bazán claimed most of the credit. If I were a normal noble, I'd be tearing my hair out in rage... but in my position, where I still needed to tread carefully, it was actually perfect. He'd drawn all the aggro for me. I was even grateful to him.
But perhaps feeling guilty for hogging the glory, he came to see me that evening and expressed his apologies. Sorry for taking the credit for the delegation's success, he said—and promised to help me with anything I needed, body and soul.
Of course, promises in this era could flip faster than a pancake. But coming from Admiral Álvaro de Bazán, who would become the Marquis of Santa Cruz, it was invaluable to me.
Additionally, the Duke of Medina Sidonia visited me that evening. An adorable eight-year-old duke expressing both gratitude and regret. I humbly assured him it was fine, and he promised to help whenever I needed it.
Unlike Admiral Álvaro de Bazán, the Duke of Medina Sidonia was someone I needed to bring into my fold. So I used this precious offer to build our relationship. A personal request: when he returned to Spain, would he visit my County of Malaga? The duke agreed without a second thought.
"Well then..."
Today, my destination was the Ragusa Archbishop's chambers. We had one final agreement to seal, and I also wanted his advice on recruiting talent. To solidify my grip on the County of Malaga, I needed key personnel. Even if Jermi Walli held military command, if our interests didn't align... I wouldn't hesitate to shove him aside.
But the problem was, there was no one to replace him. I had no one under me who could step into the role of chief military officer right now. Giambattista della Porta could handle the technical side... but for this, I needed a specialist.
That's why I absolutely had to meet the Ragusa Archbishop and get recommendations for military officer candidates.
"Hopefully there's someone worthwhile..."
We were in the same boat now, me and the Ragusa Archbishop. He'd recommend several candidates... but I had a specific type in mind. None other than a cannon expert. Not a full military specialist, but at this point, I needed an artisan who could craft them.
The Age of Exploration was about to kick into high gear, and the importance of cannons and gunpowder would only grow. Right now, expensive bronze cannons held the edge. But by the late 16th century, around the Battle of Gravelines, advancements in cannons and powder would shine.
One of those was the cast-iron cannon. Weaker in elasticity than bronze, harder to handle, and above all, prone to exploding. Italy, with its abundance of bell-founders skilled in church bronze, had accumulated wealth through trade, fostering technological accumulation. Bronze cannons were at their peak.
Honestly, I didn't want to deal with risky cast-iron cannons either... but my territory's finances were in England's sorry state. Thinking in modern terms, you'd picture the ever-wealthy empire where the sun never sets. But England's current reality? One of Europe's poorest nations. Bone-deep poor.
So poor they used a crude wooden chair for the throne, unlike other countries' ornate ones. Sure, the Victorian era would change that, but now? England prized thrift. Unable to afford pricey bronze, they turned to cheap cast iron from their own iron mines for cannons. Through early modern processes, they achieved absurd production rates. Despite occasional dud explosions, with no alternatives, England made cast-iron their mainstay.
My County of Malaga was the same. A storm of blood would sweep through when I returned, and afterward, to angle for growth, I needed a cannon expert.
I shook off the stray thoughts. Time to meet the Ragusa Archbishop. I took a deep breath and turned to the Swiss Guard.
"Inform the Ragusa Archbishop that I've come to visit."
"Understood."
The Swiss Guard notified him immediately. I'd given advance notice, so things moved fast.
"He says you may enter."
With that, I stepped into the chambers of Giovanni Angelo de' Medici, Archbishop of Ragusa and cardinal.
A faint peppermint scent wafted through the air. Portuguese merchants had already spread Chinese tea culture across Europe. For European nobles, enjoying tea was basic etiquette.
"Please, come in."
"Thank you for receiving me."
"Not at all. When it's none other than Count Don Juan, it's only right to welcome you."
The Ragusa Archbishop's face was slightly shadowed. I already knew, but pretended ignorance and asked.
"Is something the matter?"
"I've fallen out of favor with my father over this. Thanks to you, I'm about to be chased out of Rome."
The Ragusa Archbishop had shone in the recent Spain-France peace treaty. To Spain, he was a stellar performer, but to the pope, he'd committed lèse-majesté. Hence, he had to leave Rome. Exactly a year from now, he'd gain support from today's foes, the Carafa family, and be elected pope—Pius IV. But in 1558, by the original history, he was set to depart Rome as expected.
"That's regrettable... Have you decided where you'll go?"
His eyes flickered with thought. We'd agreed to ride the same ship, but compared to his ambitions, all I offered was my title as son of Charles V. Honestly, his aid to Spain this time stemmed from faith in the current superpower, not me.
So Malaga couldn't be his destination.
"I suppose I'll return to my diocese, soothe my mind and body, and confess my sins to God in penance."
He chose to retreat to his own lands. I desperately needed his talents, but he was beyond my grasp. Moreover, as the future Pius IV, sheltering him was near impossible.
"May God's blessing guide your path, Archbishop."
"Thank you for saying so."
Our noble conversation flowed. As a cardinal—equivalent to a secular duke—he quickly grasped what I wanted.
"You're looking for someone."
"Yes. If you know anyone from the Venetian arsenal or a cannon expert, I'd greatly appreciate an introduction."
"Regrettably, no cannon experts among Bologna University alumni..."
Bologna, humanity's first university, focused on humanities: theology, law, philosophy. The Ragusa Archbishop, a graduate, had no such contacts to plug into my needs.
He sipped his peppermint tea in silence for a moment, pondered, then spoke softly.
"An Englishman—would that be acceptable?"
Englishmen in this era: from the eyes of wealthy Italians, citizens of a poor nation looked down upon. Stingy, haggling misers, selfish—that was the image. So he hesitated to recommend one.
But for me, it was perfect. Any cannon expert would do; nationality didn't matter as long as they were Catholic. Protestants would go straight to the Inquisition... but anyone he recommended had to be a Catholic Englishman at minimum.
"Recommended by none other than yourself, Archbishop—I assume he's a bold character. His nationality is but a trifling flaw."
The archbishop looked pleased. He wrote something in Latin and handed it to me.
[Latin script for introduction]
— Giovanni Angelo de' Medici, Archbishop of Ragusa
In this era, to meet someone, you needed an introduction letter like this. Italy valued connections; introductions came with escorts or such notes.
"His name is William Grace. A cannon expert with experience at the Venetian arsenal."
The Venetian arsenal, featured even in the mysteries of my favorite games. That industrial complex could unload and outfit a galley per day with insane efficiency. Modern tourists see a city of canals, but Venice now was Italy's pinnacle of technology—an industrial hub.
An Englishman who'd worked there. Venice, paranoid about tech leaks, hiring a foreigner as apprentice? Odd... but I'd have to meet him to know. Likely faced discrimination due to nationality in the early modern era. Probably buckled under Venetian artisans' cold shoulders and came to Rome job-hunting.
Pure speculation on my part... but a golden opportunity regardless. Overjoyed, I grasped the Ragusa Archbishop's hand.
"I want to meet him right away."