The Alchemy of Waste and the Duke of Barcelos

Located a day’s journey from Valladolid, this land—where veteran Tercio soldiers work as farmers or guards—is known to merchants as the "Estate of the Marquis of Meseta, the Fair and Prosperous."

In the Kingdom of Castile, where the currency has collapsed and a standard based on wheat, eggs, and firewood has taken hold, the massive warehouses and open-air storage yards installed in the "Marquisate of Meseta" are, in themselves, a cheat code for printing money.

Merchants from all over, seeking trade, first deposit their physical goods in these warehouses and then search for buyers. As more merchants flock here, a greater variety of goods and more transactions occur.

Furthermore, the estate itself is a producer that endlessly spews out wheat and goods, and a consumer that endlessly devours iron, wood, stone, and spices.

Now, whenever goods are produced, they are first deposited into the Marquis of Meseta’s warehouses, where their values are adjusted or traded through auctions.

There is only one official rule: whether the goods are good or bad, they have an owner, so do not deceive regarding quality. The moment this rule is broken, it becomes impossible to deposit goods in the Fair Marquis’s warehouse, which means being expelled from the only large-scale permanent market in the north-central region of Castile.

A lord with such facilities naturally squeezes out plenty from warehouse usage fees, transaction taxes, and security maintenance costs. However, I did the opposite; I encouraged commerce by charging only the bare minimum for warehouse usage.

Because they have to eat the bread I grew with the money they earned here, drink the wine of Valladolid, and feed their cows and mules the fodder they bought from me.

"It is truly remarkable. I am ashamed that I was the one who opposed your decision to waive the transaction tax."

The estate of the "Company," developing in real-time, is becoming a region where the bizarre commerce of "credit transactions based on physical goods" is possible in a Spain where finance has completely shattered.

"This is what we call economies of scale, a platform business. Watch closely. All the supplies in the region are gathering here. Of course, this is only possible because our own internal production capacity supports it."

There are, of course, places where it is possible to survive on intermediate trade alone due to a good location. But those places are all currently sinking into cold river water as the credit of the Spanish Empire has crumbled.

Ultimately, in a time when credit is ruined, what remains is the person holding the physical goods.

I would love to issue tokens based on physical assets, but since currency issuance is the sole prerogative of the King, I decided to refrain.

Having half-monopolized the farmland and pastures around Valladolid, I decided on a management policy of not squeezing Valladolid dry using that position, but rather providing them with jobs and coexisting.

Letters—no, demands—from Olivares arrive every week, telling me to squeeze Valladolid even harder to pay more taxes, but I consistently replied that it was not yet time to shear the sheep.

First, to give Valladolid the purchasing power to consume my products, I must make them "produce." Then, what should I make them produce to gain that purchasing power?

Seeing the flax and hemp colonies that had naturally formed by the riverside after the flood, I had a good idea.

"I have a question."

I went to a village that used to be a "neighboring village" and grabbed the village chief.

"Oh, Your Excellency the Marquis. Do you have words for this humble servant?"

"There is flax everywhere here, so why don't you weave cloth?"

I asked, curious as to why they weren't weaving cloth despite having flax.

"That is because even if we have flax, we cannot process it."

"Why is that?"

"To extract thread from flax, you have to rot it, beat it, and organize it. While the young men can handle the beating and organizing, we cannot handle the rotting."

Having never seen fiber extraction in my life—let alone flax thread or cloth—I couldn't understand what he meant.

"Why?"

"Because the river water rots, leading to war with the downstream villages."

Why would the water rot from extracting fiber? Since seeing is believing, I decided to see it for myself.

"Can you show me how it's done?"

"It is the Marquis’s command, so of course we must!"

The chief, as if he had caught a good opportunity at my words, gathered all the village youths and began the retting process.

"Retting" is the process of digging a pit next to the river, filling it with river water, and soaking the harvested flax for several days to let it rot thoroughly.

Watching them work, I began to understand why the river water rotted and why villages went to war with each other.

"Wait. Are you just going to dump that as it is?"

I stopped them as they were about to discharge the rotten water filling the pit created during retting directly into the river, and I said,

"Then where are we supposed to dump it, Your Excellency?"

"For now, very slowly. Dump it little by little over four days. I will send someone to the village below to ask for their understanding."

When I sent someone with pork to ask for their understanding, the reply came back: "Oh, it’s fine, Your Excellency."

"This won't do. I must build at least minimal purification facilities."

Come to think of it, while it might be fine for a small village of 30 households, places that could be called centers were living in clusters of 100 households, so problems with human waste and wastewater were constantly occurring.

First, I expanded the compost yards on a large scale in every village. I extended the compost yards—which had floors paved with slaked lime, shallow stone walls, and straw roofs—long and in parallel, and collected the feces and urine of both livestock and people.

"From now on, the custom of 'Water coming down!' (¡Agua va!) is strictly prohibited for everyone under this Marquis’s jurisdiction. Anyone caught defecating, urinating, or dumping waste in the streets will be fined one chicken."

The custom of "Water coming down!" is a bad habit that started in Madrid, a city without toilets. It was a daily routine for Madrid’s citizens, regardless of gender, age, rich or poor, to dump waste out of their windows. Residents would collect human waste and sewage generated in the house in chamber pots or buckets, and when night fell, they would throw it out the window, shouting those words.

Thus, Madrid was a hotbed of infectious diseases, literally reeking of feces. If the "Lord of Plagues" were to see Madrid, he would clap his hands and do backflips.

Some people complained that it was inconvenient or that the fine was excessive. But once I let the community that reported the offender share the chicken taken from the person caught, they went quiet.

"There is no alchemy better than turning trash into gold."

Since those mountains of feces would eventually be spread on quince and wheat fields to bear fruit, was there any need for alchemy that turns copper into gold?

Anyway, while rebuilding Valladolid, I tore down all the so-called "nuisance facilities" like retting pits, slaughterhouses, tanneries, and dye works, and forcibly concentrated them on empty land.

Based on supreme water rights, I built small weirs on the river to create canals and drew the water needed by the "Industrial District." And by making them dump the used wastewater through a public sewage tank instead of just dumping it, the overall stench and pollution decreased.

Clumped waste was separately piled or dried and burned, and the sewage collected in the tanks was made to pass through artificial wetlands where wetland plants like cattails or reeds grew before heading to the river through drainage ditches. And finally, I planted willow cuttings as densely as possible along the riverside.

I went out with Teresa between the artificial wetlands and the planned willow colony by the river.

"In the end, those who will live will live, and those who will die will die. But still, isn't this not bad?"

I asked Teresa, who was sitting on a side-saddle as I rode a horse past the drainage ditch.

"To me, it looks of little use."

Then Teresa said, looking at the willow colony planted with cuttings that still had a long way to go before becoming trees.

"But isn't it okay because the smell has decreased a bit?"

At my words, she thought for a moment and then looked toward her hometown and said,

"That is true. Thinking about it again, it is acceptable. I would like to send those who made this to my sister-in-law."

"Ah, to the Admiral’s wife?"

"My sister-in-law dislikes dirty things."

"Right. Then let’s send them."

At those words, I called the surveyor who designed this drainage ditch and the village chief who worked on it, and sent them off with a few young men.

They only returned after a full year had passed, and it is said that half of them were hired as the Admiral’s "gardeners."

"That is a sewer, not a garden."

"I couldn't call them sewer managers for the sake of the Admiral’s face, Your Excellency the Marquis."

After the sewers were installed, the large-scale retting pits, eventually built with plaster instead of pits leaking muddy water, continued to operate, establishing themselves like a hub that drew in flax and hemp from all over the northwestern Meseta, beyond Valladolid.

The citizens of Valladolid were directly affected by this large-scale retting site. Men continuously crush the supplied retted flax and hemp, and women pull the fibers long to spin thread.

In the lowlands to the north, they are already using good spinning wheels, but Spain has no such high-tech semiconductor equipment. There are only old-fashioned spinning wheels called drop spindles, or walking wheels, which are "primitive ancient" equipment used since prehistoric times.

However, the walking wheel is something used when spinning thread from wool, so it doesn't suit thin and delicate flax.

In the end, the solution chosen by me and Valladolid was to execute "500x Drop Spindle" by mobilizing tenacious manpower to pull the thread.

But there was an unexpected advantage to that. It meant that "top-class thread," thin and unbroken, called "fine yarn" among flax, must eventually be pulled slowly by a skilled artisan taking their time with a drop spindle.

The identity of those skilled artisans was housewives with 30 years of experience, and they were educating their daughters harshly, converting the infinitely supplied fiber into thread.

At the same time, I took over the Valladolid weaver’s guild, which had been collapsing after losing all its equipment and facilities after the flood. Since the weavers of Toledo and Segovia had also perished in the same way, I provided them with equipment bought cheaply from there to convert the thread into cloth.

Hearing the ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠rumors, even the unemployed from Toledo and Segovia applied to join the "Company," and Valladolid was transforming into one massive textile industrial cluster.

As a result, the "Company" monopolized the profits from raw flax to making cloth, continuously amplifying the added value.

La Matanza is not a festival with a specific date, but a traditional slaughtering event in Spain during the winter.

The timing varies by region, but it starts from All Saints' Day on November 1st or St. Martin's Day on November 11th, when the weather gets cold enough, and continues until February when the cold subsides.

If it were a small village, they would slaughter all the pigs in November and be done with it, but this year, the "Company’s" La Matanza will continue until February.

"Your Excellency the Marquis. They say the buildings you requested have all been built."

"Let’s go check."

Facilities were built to salt and dry large quantities of slaughtered meat, and there, high-end sausages like Lomo Embuchado made from pork loin, and Jamón, are aged.

If I wait just one year, these two meats, which the great nobles flocking to Madrid are crazy about, will suck up the gold coins of the great nobles and create profit.

Olivares decided to take all the Pancetta and "black" Chorizo, which had already finished pre-contracts from the production planning stage, as military supplies.

"There is even black Chorizo."

I tasted the produced military Chorizo by splitting it in half and threw half to the accountant.

Seeing me eat the Chorizo, he took a small bite of the Chorizo in his hand and said,

"Certainly. ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠The royal palace uses red Chorizo."

I have never eaten Chorizo while working at the royal palace. What I said was 21st-century Chorizo, but since the meaning got across anyway, I said to him,

"Leonel. How did the pepper contract go?"

Since pepper is a spice with excellent preservative properties, you have to sprinkle it generously if you don't want the meat to spoil.

Trying to do a large-scale meat processing business, the consumption was enormous along with salt. And because it is traditionally considered the "share of the Portuguese nobles," the price range was high.

Olivares tried to sell salt at a high price even to me, who makes Pancetta for military supplies.

They say a debtor crushed by debt sees everything in the world as money, but isn't that too much?

Only after I had a row, saying, "If you're going to do that, buy it with cash instead of royal bonds!", was I able to receive salt at a low price and operate the facility.

"The Duke of Barcelos, the eldest son of the Duke of Braganza, has responded to this transaction."

The Duchy of Braganza is a massive family that exerts influence over half of the Kingdom of Portugal. The successor, the Duke of Barcelos, was a great noble with the reputation of being an "artistic musician."

Even setting aside the subtle distance between the Kingdom of Castile and the Kingdom of Portugal, he is a great noble to the extent that even that Admiral Enrique must lower his arrogance.

A noble who rose to success from being a commoner. A country bumpkin of a lower rank who is directly involved in farming and commerce. A fool expelled from high society. I am completely different from me, who receives such evaluations.

"Good! The price?"

"It is very cheap. But a condition was attached."

"Huh?"

"They say he is coming in person."

"Who?"

"The Duke of Barcelos."

"Where?"

"Here. The headquarters of the Royal Agricultural Development Company."

"Why?"

At my question, Leonel shrugged his shoulders.

"I cannot know either, but..."

I thought about the schedule for December, when the pepper would arrive.

"Did you inform the Duke? The fact that I have to go to Madrid in December?"

"I knew that, so I notified them in advance at the working level. The pepper will arrive in December, and the Duke says he will come in January."

Since I had been completely avoiding exchange requests from other nobles after getting sick of it when I went to high society last time, my stomach started to ache at the thought that I had to meet a great noble.

"Leonel. My stomach is already aching just thinking about it; is there no way not to meet him?"

"If you want to get pepper at this price, it would be better to have your stomach ache once."

"What is there to see here that he would come in the middle of winter!"

When I barked, Leonel said,

"Well... there is a lot to see, but..."

"Huh?"

"Nothing. Perhaps it is because they are concluding such a large-scale regular pepper transaction, so that is the case."

Chief Accountant Leonel, watching him, thought that perhaps the Duke's purpose was the Marquis himself.

'Duke of Braganza. The news to be delivered to my uncle has increased.'

Leonel hurriedly sent a messenger to ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠Madrid.