Internal Affairs (4): The Chancellor's Deadly Counsel
Malaga County. It had been a long time since I'd last set foot in my own domain, and now I was finally back at Hibralfaro Castle.
Steward Isabel and Chancellor Sancho Núñez were busy assigning quarters to the people I'd brought with me. At my command, the two of them handled the arrangements without complaint. On the other hand, Jermi Walli and the Seville Bishop were nowhere to be seen, not even poking their noses out despite my arrival. They must have known I was here, but word was they'd gone hunting under the pretense of training. As for the Seville Bishop, he was supposedly in fasting prayer... but according to Chancellor Sancho, he was drinking at a tavern near the Motril Temple.
What utterly self-serving vassals. Before I could even figure out how to deal with those two, the sheer wretchedness of my situation—needing to secure my own position first—left me feeling utterly pathetic.
"Fuck..." The Korean curse slipped out of my mouth on its own. If I'd used Castilian or any other language, it wouldn't have carried the same raw punch, that was for sure.
Anyway, the reason I was swearing in my private chambers like this was painfully simple.
"Who would've thought I'd fall for this..."
This game, a mashup of two different titles' mechanics. And because of that, it had one particularly nasty feature—one that players exploited all the time in-game.
Sending a successor or any dangerous rival off as a commander, letting the enemy do the dirty work of killing them. Commonly known as a "successor purge."
And here I was, eyes wide open, getting hit with it by my own brother.
On the surface, he'd pretended to trust me—handing over an earldom and a title. The problem was the title he'd given me: a rubber check. Ceuta hadn't even been conquered yet, but he'd dumped it on me anyway. A title in name only. Better than nothing, sure, but it came with a fatal flaw.
I couldn't back out of my own words now. If I didn't somehow take Ceuta, reprimands were inevitable.
The Battle of Jerba. History recorded it as a total rout for the Catholic League against the Ottomans. The high-ranking commanders got captured and hauled off to Istanbul—er, Constantinople, the current Ottoman capital. They were eventually ransomed and released, but the defeat stripped many of their positions. Even those who kept theirs found Philip II using the loss to clamp down harder on the nobility, which was all too predictable.
And now I'd be dragged into that guaranteed disaster of a battle. Without this title, I might've dodged the blame... but having accepted it, I had no choice but to rack up a conquest of Ceuta to justify myself.
If I survived, I'd earn my brother's recognition and coast safely for a while. But if—just if—I failed to take Ceuta and ended up defeated like the rest...
What came after was anyone's guess—God's alone, probably.
"Hoo... and the biggest issue right now is not having a single soldier who obeys me directly..."
I needed troops under my command to do anything, but all the military authority was in the hands of Military Officer Jermi Walli. No way around it.
Of course, not every soldier followed him blindly. Most were fence-sitters, weighing their options between me and the officer, figuring out which side to back.
I had the legitimacy, he had the real power—so these moderates were playing it safe, avoiding offending either of us. I had to win them over.
"The question is how..."
As long as Jermi Walli was alive, they'd tilt toward him. It wasn't legitimacy that mattered; it was the officer's fist backing it up. In short, eliminate the officer, and the troops would fall wholly into my hands.
As always, securing military command was the key to everything—internal affairs, whatever.
"Hoo..."
But that spawned another problem. No justification to kill him, and doing it with my own hands would only make things worse.
If I offed him without cause, even his small loyalist faction would rise up... and we'd end up with a second Jermi Walli leading them, right back where we started.
"Can't be helped. Time to talk with Chancellor Sancho."
The smartest man in all of Malaga County. Honestly, if he weren't so old, I'd have dragged him along forever.
Even with Jermi the officer and the Seville Bishop turning everything into a shitshow, Sancho had somehow kept the household running. Shame about his age—I'd need a replacement soon.
Stepping out, I glanced at the guards and murmured low.
"The prayer in tongues is over. Guardsman, fetch Chancellor Sancho."
"Yes, my lord Count."
The guardsman hurried off to summon him, replaced by another in his spot. As I turned to head back inside, I caught snippets of the servants' chatter.
The topic? Me.
"As expected of Count Don Juan—such deep faith. He starts praying the moment he returns..."
"Sounds like speaking in tongues... and that serious tone means he's got a lot on his mind."
Just like that, their voices faded. Using Korean for my mutterings ensured perfect secrecy like this. It had worked even in Vienna. Full-on devout Christian cosplay, no less.
I was musing about turning it into a cipher with Giambattista when a knock came at the door. Faster than expected—Chancellor Sancho Núñez had arrived.
"My lord Count, Chancellor Sancho has arrived."
"Let him in."
Sancho entered, beaming a smile as he bowed.
"Sancho Núñez stands before Count Don Juan."
"Sorry to summon you so late. I wanted to check on the task I gave you."
"Quarters have been assigned for all your companions. Steward Isabel and the guards are seeing to it now."
"Thank you."
I dipped my head in gratitude, but he bowed even lower. This man made me certain he could be mine.
"That aside..."
I paused, and he picked up on it, giving a reassuring look.
"The guards are moderates, so speak freely."
"Good."
"The officer's men are out hunting, and the bishop's lot are boozing near the Motril Temple... in a way, it's fortunate."
His smile was bittersweet. I met Chancellor Sancho's eyes and opened cautiously.
"Sancho, can I trust you?"
"Of course, my lord. My days are numbered, but my life is ever yours."
"Thank you for saying so, Señor Sancho."
I stepped forward and clasped his hand; gratitude lit his face. With Isabel and Sancho on my side, I was lucky indeed.
"What troubles your heart, my lord?"
Straight to the point, as expected. I didn't say it outright—instead, I circled.
"I seek to eliminate El Cid's great foe."
"Ah..."
This invoked the legend of El Cid—El Cheed in ancient Castilian—from 11th-century Castile. Now revered as a Catholic hero, but historians saw him more as a mercenary captain shuttling between Iberian Catholic and Muslim forces.
A heroic figure who betrayed Alfonso VI for Motamid, then flipped back to the Catholics, even trying to set up his own independent power. His swashbuckling life inspired The Song of El Cid.
And among El Cid's enemies in the tale: Jermi Walli. Jermi was a common North African Moorish name, really. By referencing this ancient Castilian epic, I subtly signaled my intent to remove our Jermi Walli.
Sancho, born and raised here, knew the famous tale inside out and grasped my meaning at once.
"He has many followers."
"It's still necessary."
Sancho nodded gravely at my resolve. As Malaga County's chancellor, alongside Steward Isabel overseeing all matters great and small, he knew the officer's abuses better than anyone.
"If you act directly, my lord, it will cause issues."
"Yes, I know. Militarily, of course... but religiously too."
The two pillars of society then: customary law and Catholic canon law. Murder was unforgivable, and canon law piled on aggravated penalties.
I might escape severe punishment as royalty... but my brother Philip II wouldn't miss the opening.
"That's why I need your wisdom, Chancellor Sancho."
"I see..."
He pondered, then met my gaze.
"What if we borrow Motamid's hand?"
"Ah...! Brilliant..."
Just as my brother was "toughening me up" by throwing me to the wolves, I could do the same to Jermi Walli, per Sancho.
Send him as conquistador—conqueror—to seize Ceuta, along with his loyalists. Perfect chance to purge his faction in battle.
And if he improbably survived? I'd still have Ceuta, so no loss.
"Would he go?"
The sharp-eyed officer would feign illness or dodge combat to survive, no doubt.
"Is this not the stern command of our great Philip II? As the county's military officer, he must obey."
Refuse, and he'd have to surrender command. I'd take it, sidelining him completely. For him, weeping into bitter compliance was the only path to Ceuta.
Betray to survive? Brand him a traitor.
Half-ass the fight? Pin treason on him and execute via military law.
Malaga's true mastermind, Chancellor Sancho. He'd devised a multi-layered murder plot I hadn't considered.
"A wise count like you must already know you'll need bait to lure him out."
"Exactly. We need good bait to hook him."
The map from map-obsessed Philip II. I eyed Ceuta on it.