Ceuta (3): The Cardinal's Swift Justice
Thanks to Santiago Cardinal, the issue was resolved with surprising ease. I could immediately remove that thorn in my side, the Seville Bishop. It had gone so smoothly that I couldn't help feeling a bit stunned.
The Vatican had moved quickly. It seemed they planned to tidy up internal matters here before dispatching the Catholic allied forces.
"Father places great expectations on this reclamation of Gerba Island," murmured Santiago Cardinal softly.
And rightly so—this was the aging Pope's last chance to seize the initiative. The Pope's authority had been steadily waning since the Crusades. With most Western European nations, save Germany, marching toward centralization, the Pope could no longer wield the influence he once had. Some bishops had even been co-opted by kings. And now, these heretics calling themselves Protestants were running rampant, shaking the foundations of Catholicism.
The way to reverse this? Pope Paul IV appeared intent on reasserting Catholic might and crushing the heretics underfoot. It was the polar opposite of the approach taken by Pius IV, who would succeed him. Indeed, after this Pope's downfall, Pius IV reconvened the Council of Trent for precisely these reasons.
I knew the history. To me, the current Pope's maneuvers looked like nothing more than desperate thrashing. But it worked in my favor...
The Ragusa Archbishop, a friend to me, was slated for appointment as the new bishop of the Motril diocese. For now, with no one left in Malaga County to challenge my authority, I made no effort to hide my gratitude for the Pope's aid.
"I believe Father will surely achieve what he desires," I replied.
Santiago Cardinal made the sign of the cross in lieu of further words. He showed no sign of resentment over losing Vatican influence in the Motril temple; he would stay here today.
Motril diocese lay within my domain but outside my jurisdiction. Thus, I had no choice but to leave that tempting land alone.
"Jermi Walli is in danger. He requires immediate reinforcements."
The messenger had returned. I nodded at him.
"With Vatican personnel currently in the domain, I cannot move rashly. I'll send separate troops, so tell him not to worry."
"My lord Count, this is truly urgent."
The soldier wailed, screaming for reinforcements. I regarded him calmly.
"I will send them without fail, so ease your mind."
"If you do not act now, my lord Count, I will take my own life here!"
The shrieking messenger. I stared at him impassively. He faltered, his sword-bearing hand trembling.
"Didn't you say you'd commit seppuku?"
"I... that is..."
Faced with actual death, the messenger quailed. I approached him slowly. He backed away hesitantly. I extended my hand and gripped his sword hand firmly.
"Returning to aid your military officer at once would be far more beneficial."
He nodded silently at my words, sheathed his blade cautiously, and knelt.
"I have been rude to you, my lord Count."
"I understand your feelings well. But surely you know I cannot head to the battlefield while a noble guest from the Vatican is here?"
In truth, I could go if I wished. But I mentioned it for a simple reason: leadership of the allied forces remained undecided.
The Vatican wanted control. Genoa, with their naval experience, coveted it. Spain, having contributed the most funds, claimed it as their right. Venice and Malta took passive stances. Venice hoped to avoid antagonizing the Ottoman Empire, a key trading partner despite their enmity. The Knights of Malta, with scant influence due to their weakness, simply wanted swift departure to reclaim their lost territory on Gerba Island.
These conflicting national interests had stalled the fleet. A familiar tale—even the upcoming Battle of Lepanto would see similar delays. Genoa, Venice, the Papal States, and the Knights would gather again then, but Spain, footing the largest bill, would take command. The same would likely happen for this Gerba campaign.
For my position, dragging out time was key. Thus, I offered such excuses while sending minimal aid.
Let Jermi Walli and his men spark a rebellion upon landing, or surrender to the Islamic heathens—it mattered not, so long as he was removed. But I couldn't show my face, so I feigned sorrow.
"I know well the suffering of Jermi Walli and his men. Tell them to hold just a little longer; the Cardinal will soon return to the Vatican."
"...Y-yes, understood."
The messenger departed with another empty promise of aid. I doubted I'd see him again.
As he left, a familiar figure approached naturally. Knowing who it was, I waved off my guards and gestured for entry. In strode Sancho Núñez, who bowed and approached.
"How fares it, Chancellor Sancho?"
"Malaga County has regained peace after so long."
"It ended too easily—I'm even frightened."
"Precisely because it was so effortless, we must heighten our vigilance."
Wise Sancho Núñez. I heeded his words.
"How goes the arsenal's production rate?"
"Early defect rates were high, but they've improved greatly."
The initial high failure rate was inevitable; the wrought iron from my brother was poor quality. Over-quench it for strength, and it snapped; under-quench, and it bent too easily. Our artisans, led by Mateo Garcia and his forty subordinates, had worked tirelessly to adapt. Thanks to them, defects had plummeted. The early rejects? Shipped as "aid" to those landing near Bensu coast.
"With internal issues settled, only external ones remain..."
The Catholic allies showed no sign of progress. I raised it to seek Chancellor Sancho's wisdom.
"You needn't wait on the outside world."
"What do you mean?"
"Bring in Portugal."
"Ah...!"
Since João III's death, child king Sebastian—the Awaited One—ruled Portugal. His regent, Catalina, was my kin. Having come young as queen and lived long as such, she understood Portugal's long-cherished goals better than most.
Unlike original history, Portugal hadn't secured footholds in Ceuta or Tangier. They'd warred with Moroccans for ages, coveting these lands. I'd claim Ceuta, but Tangier could be bargaining fodder.
A joint assault: I take Ceuta, Portugal gets Tangier. They'd likely accept.
"Thank you, Chancellor Sancho."
"Not at all—it's my honor to assist."
Ever humble, Chancellor Sancho. I gazed at him, then drafted a letter for Portugal.
A woman gazed at her adorable grandson Sebastian, cradled in the nursemaid's arms. The elderly lady smiled warmly at him.
"Your Highness is so robust."
"Indeed."
The nursemaid bowed low. She regarded Portugal's true power, Catalina the Regent.
Wife of the late João III and regent for young King Sebastian, all matters great and small passed through her. With the king now three, it was unavoidable.
"Catalina the Regent."
Enjoying rare quiet time with her grandson, Catalina was interrupted by her chamberlain.
"What is it?"
"A matter of import..."
He glanced around warily. Quick-witted Catalina knew she must attend.
Leaving her grandson behind, she returned to the palace. At Ribeira Palace, she headed straight for her office. There waited Cardinal Henry, great-grandfather to King Sebastian and son of the Fortunate King Manuel I.
"Welcome, Cardinal."
"I hear it's urgent."
"Yes..."
Catalina paused, scanning the room. Servants took the hint, leaving only minimal guards.
"Don Juan de Austria, Count of Malaga, has sent a letter."
"Don Juan... son of Carlos I, and..."
"My nephew's son as well."
Son of Charles V, Don Juan writing to her was unexpected, initially disconcerting. But reading the parchment, Catalina saw it concerned Morocco's conquest—one of Portugal's enduring quests.
Portugal had long eyed Ceuta, lost since Prince Henry the Navigator. Yet Don Juan coveted it too—and he'd been appointed Count of Malaga-Ceuta by her nephew, Philip II.
"We cannot ignore this slight."
"But..."
Portugal, dwarfed by superpower Spain, could scarce voice grievances.
"What exactly does the Malaga Count propose?"
"He offers apologies first, then alliance."
"Hmm..."
Cardinal Henry pondered. As cardinal, he rued such dilemmas, but necessity prevailed.
"Not a joint attack to split Ceuta, surely..."
"A joint assault on Morocco: Ceuta to Count Don Juan, Tangier to Portugal."
A provocative offer from her nephew. But for Catalina, it wasn't bad at all.