The Price of Survival in the Mud
Before Spain became a unified kingdom, Valladolid—once the capital of the Kingdom of Castile—was a city built at the confluence of two rivers: the Pisuerga and the Esgueva. The lowlands near these rivers were the equivalent of a prime district, like Gangnam, where the mansions of the nobility lined the banks, prized for their easy access to water, scenic views, and proximity to the royal palace.
Though it had lost its status as the capital to Madrid, it remained a dazzling street of grand villas, home to both the hidalgos—lesser nobles guarding their ancestral estates—and the high-ranking grandes.
Naturally, those magnificent stone mansions were protected by three-meter-high embankments. But they were helpless against a deluge that saw water levels rise more than six meters above the norm. This great flood, which completely submerged the first floors of houses and left only the roofs of two-story buildings visible, did not spare the churches either.
At the prestigious San Benito Monastery, monks had to cling to the roof of the church, clutching ancient documents and holy relics, begging for divine mercy. The Valladolid Cathedral, which had been undergoing expansion, stood half-collapsed. Unlike the massive stone churches, the smaller ones built from the mud bricks common in Valladolid were literally melting away in the floodwaters.
The same fate befell the ordinary houses made of those same mud bricks. The dissolved bricks turned the floodwaters into a thick, viscous sludge, and the damage was so severe that traces of it would remain on the city hall building even into the 21st century. The cream-like texture of the city's muddy water paralyzed the drainage systems. The corpses of people and livestock, tangled in the mud, were forming new layers of sediment.
It took a full week after the flood for the waters to finally recede. When the citizens who had evacuated to higher ground returned to the city, they were met with the sight of slaughtered livestock and food warehouses rotted by the filth.
In short, Valladolid, a city with a storied history in Spain, had become a living hell.
In the Valladolid region, droughts and floods had alternated for five years straight, each year pushing grain prices to new, record-breaking highs.
Officially, grain trading in Spain was only permitted through authorized markets, but that was merely policy; the reality was different. The nobles of Valladolid hoarded grain in their mansions, much like people in the 21st century stockpiled Bitcoin.
As those hidalgos abandoned their pride to personally clean out their cellars, desperate to dig up food buried in the muck, a second disaster was approaching.
People of that era were well aware that rotting corpses and organic matter were the source of disease. Even if they believed the direct cause was the "miasma" or smell, they knew it was dangerous.
By the end of February, diarrhea and rashes began to spread, followed by a mysterious plague similar to malaria. Fear gripped the city that the "Black Death"—a name so terrifying that people were afraid to even utter it—was returning, and the nobles began to flee the city in droves.
However, the stone bridges destroyed by the flood and the swollen rivers blocked the way to the other side, and the detour was too long to manage without sufficient food.
Thus, they did not hesitate to sell their land and mansions for a single sack of wheat. The ruined estates and farmlands seemed beyond salvation anyway, and escaping this plague-ridden city was the only priority.
They wandered about, clutching their valuables, looking for someone to buy their land and homes, but in the midst of this catastrophe, few had managed to protect their grain stores.
It was not difficult for rumors to circulate about the "Royal Farm," which had suspiciously distributed grain to the poor during every famine in recent years.
"Come here!"
At the servant's shout, I looked toward the edge of the village. A noble had appeared, doused in heavy perfume to mask the stench of rot and wet clothes. Hoping against hope that this one wasn't a grande, I stepped forward to handle the situation.
"What is the matter?"
"You insolent cur! How dare a commoner show such lack of etiquette! Do not forget that you stand before the valiant Don Gallardo!"
Damn these people. At first, when they heard I was a manager of the Royal Farm, they treated me with formality, thinking I was a noble. But ever since the fact that I was a commoner spread, they’ve been nothing but arrogant from the start.
"Ah, yes. And why are you here?"
As I maintained an attitude of "so what?", the Tercios, hearing the commotion, gathered around with grim expressions. As I sent them back to their restoration work, the noble, having dismissed his servant, stepped forward himself.
"Ahem. I heard that you are looking for land to expand the Royal Farm. I have some fine farmland by the Pisuerga river, though it is not large..."
I cut him off mid-sentence.
"Whether it's farmland or a mansion, the rate is one fanega of wheat per ten fanegas of land. If you have all the documents, let's start drafting the contract."
Ten fanegas is roughly the size of nine soccer fields. My offer to trade that for a single sack of wheat was, in short, a way of saying I didn't want to trade.
"What kind of outrage is this! You expect me to hand over ten fanegas of riverside farmland for a mere one fanega of wheat!?"
"Haa... I see. Then I wish you prosperity. I shall take my leave."
As I rose to leave, he abandoned all noble pretense and grabbed my hand.
"No, don't do that! If you offer two—make it two fanegas—I will hand over the land. It’s prime riverside soil! You couldn't find land like this anywhere, not even for gold!"
"Impossible. If I take that, the restoration costs will be higher than the value. Looking at that mudflat, it’s clearly unfit for farming for at least three years, isn't it?"
I pointed toward the riverbank, which had turned into a vast mud plain.
"D...damn it! Then how about this? It's grazing land on the Paramo plateau that suffered no flood damage. It's at least 100 fanegas..."
"For land above the plateau, the rate is one fanega of wheat per 100 fanegas of land."
Trying to pawn off that worthless plateau land on me? Not a chance! I know for a fact that the Mesta (the sheep-owners' guild) owns all the grazing rights up there, so I couldn't even plant a single tree.
"You! How dare a commoner speak to a noble like that!!!"
Unable to contain his rage, he jumped up, looking as if he were about to draw his sword.
"Hey!"
Hearing the shout, one of the Tercios stopped draining the drainage ditch and stood beside me, glaring at the noble with a terrifying face. The noble stopped his outburst and begged me.
"The land on the plateau is 80 fanegas... the farmland is about 28... Can't you... just... give me a better price?"
If I pushed any harder, those guys would surely go and ruin the restoration work, so I decided to give in a little.
"You are a noble who is loyal to His Majesty the King, are you not?"
"Of course! Absolutely!"
A quick-witted man, I see.
Watching a noble with enough intelligence to be a WWE wrestler for once, I opened my mouth.
"I'll round it up to 30 for 100. Four fanegas of wheat. And I'll throw in some pork sausages, so take them with you."
As I bowed my head, appearing to concede, he grabbed my hands with both of his, seemingly forgetting his anger.
"Hmm! Thank you!"
"Then I shall bring the notary."
Spain, hard as it is to believe, is a country governed by law. Naturally, important transactions like real estate deals require a notary and the relevant documentation.
Furthermore, most of the assets of the Spanish upper class were tied up in a trust system called Mayorazgo. This system was established by law to prevent family estates from being split up; it could only be inherited by the eldest son and could not be sold or mortgaged at will.
Therefore, even if Don Gallardo wanted to sell the land, he had to prepare documents proving that the land was free property, not tied to a Mayorazgo. Otherwise, he had to write a signed statement declaring it an unavoidable measure for the family's survival.
On top of that, there was a system called Restantia. Because nobles frequently extorted farmland from commoners, there was a right to retroactively cancel transactions made at less than half the actual value. To prevent him from abusing this to take the wheat now and shouting "Caaaanceled!" later, I demanded an additional handwritten statement from Don Gallardo.
This land has been completely lost due to the great flood of 1626 and is nothing more than a 'mud swamp,' not farmland. This transaction is concluded in recognition of the special value of wheat during a famine.
Once all the documents were ready, the Escribano—the notary I had brought to the farm after promising to distribute a bowl of wheat porridge to him and his family daily—reviewed the details and asked:
"Don Gallardo, do you swear before God, with a clear mind, that you agree to transfer 28 fanegas of your family's estate and 80 fanegas of grazing land? And do you acknowledge that the consideration for this is four fanegas of wheat at a special price?"
The friendly atmosphere I had cultivated by handing him water mixed with vinegar—a lifesaver in this catastrophe—turned cold at the notary's words. Don Gallardo’s hands trembled, but he finally answered.
"I... do."
"The roads to the east and west are mud pits, making it difficult for horses to pass, so you must head north through the plateau. You will need to find a crossing point in the upper reaches of the Pisuerga. I hear that Palencia and Leon have also suffered severe flood damage, making it dangerous for people of your stature. I am told the Enrique family is exerting their authority to stabilize Medina de Rioseco, so you should head that way."
I gave him an extra fanega of wheat and a leather pouch containing some grape vinegar. I also shared what I knew about the surrounding area.
"Thank you..."
He looked at the wheat and vinegar I had provided, then bowed his head to me. Behind him, I could see an elderly man and some daughters, presumably his family. Perhaps he, too, was selling off the glory inherited from his ancestors out of a sense of responsibility as the head of the household.
Dealing with another noble today had drained me completely. I entered the best house in the ruined village and sat down on a creaky chair.
As I sat in the sunlight, reviewing the documents the notary had prepared, warm, white skin wrapped around my head from behind.
"You work too hard, Juan. I am sorry I cannot be of more help."
She was a woman wearing a deshabillé—a loose, comfortable indoor garment—over a camisa de noche, a high-quality linen nightgown.
Wearing the undergarments of a high noble and the outer clothes of a commoner, she covered the eyes of the man reading the documents from behind his chair.
"No, Teresa. You are more than enough help."
Spanish nobles considered a flat, slender figure the standard of beauty. In that sense, her waist was slim, but her figure was a bit distant from the typical Spanish aesthetic. As her undeniable richness enveloped my head, I honestly couldn't think of anything at all.
"Hehe. And I haven't received today's 'payment' yet."
Her dark brown hair, catching the sunlight, created mysterious shadows. Her deep, dark green eyes were a noble trait proving the "purity of blood" (Limpieza de sangre). On her ears, which matched her "lavender-tinted white cheeks," hung emerald earrings, the symbol of her family.
"Won't you regret this?"
I stared blankly at her lips, holding onto the last shred of my reason.
"Haha! I'm getting tired of hearing that every day, Juan. Or perhaps... have you already grown tired of my lips?"
She said this, acting out a theatrical, exaggerated sadness.
"Not at all. It's just that I..."
"That hesitant look doesn't suit you, Juan. Call my name."
At those words, I called her name, the one she wanted to hear.
"Teresa. Teresa Maria."
"Yes, I am simply Teresa Maria. And I am your woman."
She kissed me fiercely. An awkward but passionate kiss, performed with her warm lips.
—Pah.
As the long kiss ended, she looked down at me with the face of a noble, dark she-wolf.
"And you are mine alone. I will not share you with anyone. Forever."
Author's Note: I spent an hour trying to get Gemini to draw this, but it kept giving me Illidan from World of Warcraft, so I gave up. lol