Scipio Awaits
I had been waiting quietly in my office for this reply from Ceuta. I'd already decided to abandon the quartermaster general, but this was the perfect moment to strike while he was drawing all the aggro. By the time my allied forces with Portugal landed in northern Morocco, he'd either have died heroically... or surrendered to the Muslims. Striking then would minimize our losses. That's why I was pacing anxiously, awaiting Portugal's response.
A urgent knock. Knock knock. I gestured to the guard to let them in immediately.
Sancho Núñez, my chancellor, burst through the door. In his hand, I spotted the neatly inscribed parchment.
"You've kept us waiting long enough."
"Not at all, Your Highness. No one knows better than you that Portugal had no choice but to deliberate carefully."
My aunt, Regent Catarina, wasn't ruling alone. She shared power with Cardinal-King Henry, son of Manuel I. With young King Sebastian only three years old, the two of them acted as regents in the king's stead, which made them hesitant to rush into war—especially when some nobles might cry overreach. But this campaign was one of their long-cherished dreams: the conquest of Morocco. It had taken time, but it seemed approval had finally come through.
Sancho Núñez handed me the parchment with due reverence. I unfolded it carefully.
We were waiting for Scipio.
A short sentence. But it carried worlds of meaning. No matter how you parsed it, it was the best possible answer for me. I couldn't help but burst out laughing.
"Hahaha. Looks like my chance has come."
"May I see it?"
"Of course."
I passed him the parchment. Sancho Núñez's face lit up with a broad smile as he shared in my joy.
"To think Portugal would commit so boldly. Congratulations, Your Highness."
"Thank you. It's all thanks to you, Chancellor Sancho Núñez."
An unexpectedly excellent reply—one that even invoked Scipio. That meant they were considering not just alliance, but full political and military partnership.
The Roman general and legendary commander, Publius Cornelius Scipio Africanus the Great. One of the conquerors of Spain—the Iberian Peninsula—he'd been welcomed by the locals, unlike his rival Hannibal. Sure, he had his shadows compared to Hannibal Barca... but even in tactical defeat, he'd won the war. A true soldier.
By invoking him, Portugal signaled approval for partitioning Morocco. The reason was obvious: it echoed Scipio's own campaigns.
Scipio had conquered Spain with benevolence and mercy. He was famous for freeing a beautiful captive woman. Portugal's reference to such a historical figure carried a hidden layer. On the surface, it flattered me as a new Scipio—but considering the sender was my aunt, that didn't fit.
Castilian grammar allowed nuance: "We were waiting" could imply present expectation or hope. Factoring that in... they wanted me to act like Scipio.
In other words, show the generosity or favoritism Scipio had, and like how he'd gained 1,400 cavalry in Iberia, Portugal would back me. If we allied, they'd finally seize Tangier as they'd always craved—and use it as a springboard for expansion. It also hinted they saw me, their new neighbor, as a strategic partner.
In conclusion, they regretted losing Ceuta but were willing to swallow it for a future-bound alliance.
"Looks like we'll need to prepare to move with Portugal."
"Shall we halt the cannon upgrades, then?"
Sancho Núñez's suggestion. I nodded immediately.
Without Portugal, I'd have been forced to burn through expensive bronze cannons to compensate for our arquebus shortage. It pained me to commit my precious five culverins here. The experimental four-wheeled carriages had seemed feasible to a liberal arts guy like me, but to an engineer? Impossible. Mateo Garcia, my chief gunsmith, had protested endlessly. With our weapon deficits, I'd pushed ahead anyway. But now, with Portugal joining, we could scrap that and ramp up production.
"Will you relay the order for me, Chancellor?"
Sancho Núñez smiled warmly at my request and nodded.
"Mateo will finally crack a smile after all this time."
Before me stood the troops assembled for review. The quintessential Spanish soldiers in their morion helmets paraded in formation. Rodelas at their left hips, pikes—long spears called pikes—gripped in their hands. A few arquebusiers brought up the rear.
Malaga County had always fielded a small force. The quartermaster general had taken half, leaving me with about 1,200 men. Half of those were poorly trained conscripts. No choice—we had to fill ranks quickly to march with Portugal.
Beside me stood an elderly duke. João de Lancastre, the first Duke of Aveiro—known as Prime Minister Lancaster—commanded the Portuguese forces in Cardinal-King Henry's stead.
His white hair and beard marked him as a veteran. Fortunately, he spoke fluent Castilian, making conversation easy. Portuguese and Castilian weren't so different back then—their divergence hadn't fully set in. (Telling modern folks that would spell trouble.)
As his junior, a duke, grandson of King John II, I should greet him first.
"It is an honor to meet the Duke of Aveiro, patron of the faith and author of great works in the arts."
"You know me?"
"Of course. I've read your books, Your Grace."
"I see."
The old duke replied flatly. My flattery fell flat, but a faint smile suggested I'd earned some goodwill.
"And you are...?"
"Don Juan de Austria, Your Grace. Modestly, Count of Malaga-Ceuta."
I mentioned Ceuta deliberately—to remind him of our deal. Portugal gets Tangier; I keep Ceuta.
A flicker of displeasure crossed the Duke of Aveiro's face. Understandable—his great-grandfather Alfonso V had conquered it, and his great-great-uncle, Prince Henry the Navigator, had ruled it.
But the pact was set, so he merely looked uncomfortable and fell silent. Off to a bad start as Scipio. Still, war offered chances to shine there, so I held back.
"Shall we address the troops?"
The duke shook his head instead of answering. Respecting his wish, I turned to the men.
Giambattista della Porta would assist in commanding, standing in for the absent quartermaster general. No military experience for either of us, so I'd named him acting quartermaster.
"Embark!"
"Embark!"
Giambattista della Porta echoed my order crisply. The former cryptographer now led troops decently enough.
The soldiers boarded the merchant ships we'd prepared. No galleys in Malaga County, so these were our only option. The Portuguese followed suit, their superior gear and Mediterranean galleys gleaming.
The Duke of Aveiro smirked faintly, no doubt thinking he'd bested us. It stung, but what could I do? Secure my Ceuta first—that was priority.
Once the troops were aboard, I boarded too. True battle awaited, the kind that decides fates. I had to stay sharp.
With the quartermaster general ahead and Barbary pirates swarming, they'd come for us—but Portugal's galleys would deter rash moves. We'd head straight for his landing point, already fortified and easier to assault.
As I climbed aboard, the boarding ramps rose. Tension gnawed at me—this would be my first real fight in this world.
Giambattista della Porta approached. I schooled my face to calm and met his gaze. He was tense too. Pretending otherwise, we discussed strategy.
"You plan to use that as our landing zone, my lord."
"The quartermaster general secured it—safest option."
Giambattista della Porta nodded thoughtfully. The cryptography expert had read his share of tactics books, giving him solid basics.
"Haven't his messengers grown scarce lately?"
"Hm..."
"He begged for reinforcements days ago, but it's quieted."
"You think he's turned traitor?"
"That's my read. Heading there could be risky."
His logic held water. I pondered.
"What do you suggest?"
"My humble opinion: land at Tangier. Safer."
"With the Portuguese?"
"Yes. As the books say, landings cost the most lives."
Hard to argue. With our thin ranks, I couldn't afford heavy losses there.
"Landing together builds their trust and spares our men."
Sound advice. I decided to follow it.