The Trickster’s Infrastructure

Leaving behind his bizarre encounter with the hidalgo, Juan continued his journey with Ribeiro toward the Marquis’s "Warehouse City."

Traveling under a false ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠identity, Juan felt a secret sense of liberation, surrounded by landscapes he had never seen before.

The second village was structured much like the first. No, it was identical. One could understand having the same number of warehouses, but even the number of residential houses was exactly the same.

"Ribeiro. That man is a more terrifying figure than we anticipated."

"Indeed. That is how it appears to me as well."

Ribeiro deeply revised his assessment of the man in his mind. He was not merely a farmer-turned-marquis who had started as a coachman; he was a cruel and cold-blooded manager who forced vagrants into labor. He must be a terrifying tyrant who whipped people until they died and hung their corpses as warnings, colluding with the Church to force submission. He was likely a sadistic controller who found ecstasy in manipulating every single person and ruling with an iron fist.

The Marquis’s settlements, which they began encountering southwest of Valladolid, were perfectly spaced for a day’s travel, starting each morning and arriving by sunset.

At the third settlement, Juan noticed a strange regularity and was struck with admiration once more.

"This Marquis is truly a madman!"

A legua (about 5km) is the distance a person walks in an hour. Since four leguas was the distance heavy cargo or a Tercio regiment would move in a day, he had built a resting place at exactly that interval. Only then did Juan realize why those small villages possessed massive churches, squares, and granaries that didn't match their size.

"C-crazy... isn't this openly preparing for...?"

Ribeiro couldn't bring himself to say the word, but Juan understood the implication. The Portuguese were increasingly vocal about their dissatisfaction with Spain’s harsh rule, shouting, "Is it time for a rebellion?" Though the Braganza family—the elite of the elite who would suffer the most if a rebellion broke out—was doing everything in their power to avoid it.

The Castilians did not pave roads. Even if hundreds of cows and horses died in muddy paths every year, they wouldn't even restore the ancient Roman roads. There was a truth learned over decades: if roads were paved and traffic became faster, the state would only plunder more taxes, faster. In a land where Castilians would voluntarily dismantle state-built roads, Juan saw a strange road the likes of which he had never seen before.

Starting from the third village, the road was different from the usual dirt paths. In the center of the dirt road passing through the fields, there was a convex stone path wide enough for three carriages to pass simultaneously. Unlike Roman roads, this one was made by slightly digging into the local clay layer and filling it with crushed stone. It was a crude effort, but it offered a convenience that stood in stark contrast to the snow-covered plains.

Entering a tavern in the third village, Juan sipped the fresh wine he had ordered and asked the owner why there were no buildings right next to the road.

"Ah, that’s the Cañada Real. It’s a royal livestock route. It has to be kept clear by law."

The Cañada Real was a massive nomadic path for sheep, 90 varas—about 75 meters—wide. And the reality for Spanish farmers was that the land for hundreds of meters along that road had to be sacrificed to the sheep.

"But if you built a stone road right in the middle of a path meant for sheep to graze, what are they supposed to do?"

As Juan, who held shares in the Mesta, said this, the men drinking nearby turned their eyes toward him with a flash of hostility.

"Hey. Who are you? Are you one of those Mesta-loving bastards?"

"What! Mesta!?"

"Who dared to utter the word Mesta?"

The men, who appeared to be idlers during the winter farming off-season, pointed fingers and raised their voices in agitation.

"Where do you get off! A Mesta shepherd bastard who would break our limbs on the Marquis’s land! How dare you hold your head high and guzzle wine? Hey, lower your eyes."

"Do you think this is still a place where you can trample, shit, and wander around as you please? Think carefully."

The men, who had been drinking with clubs strapped to their waists, stood up as if ready to brawl and approached Juan.

Juan’s family guards drew their swords, but the men, pulling out iron-rimmed clubs, didn't show a hint of backing down even before the flashing blades, spitting curses instead.

"Village folk! Look! These Mesta bastards drew swords here!"

As one of the farmers shouted loud enough to shake the village, people poured out, ready to beat them to a pulp.

-Get lost!

-Thwack!

A red clay bowl already flew and shattered at Juan’s feet.

"My Lord! You must flee."

Barely escaping the village on the verge of a riot, Juan had to enter a church to request protection for the night. Watching the priest struggle to calm the young men outside who were demanding the "damned bastards" be handed over, Juan was gripped by terror.

"The people here do not fear the Mesta! This is Spain, but it is not Spain!"

The Roman-era bridge, originally called the Puente de Cabezón de Pisuerga, had been damaged in the flood of 1626. The Marquis Juan had extensively restored it and built a series of massive warehouses to the east of the bridge, so people called it the "Bridge of the Marquis" (Puente del Marqués).

At the entrance to the bridge stood a stone watchtower, and men who appeared to be soldiers were idly watching the flowing river.

Merchants moving ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠slowly to wait their turn to cross the bridge passed through without any inspection, carefree and relaxed.

"No, was it really true that they don't collect tolls in such a prime location!?"

It was a strategic point where they could easily earn tens of thousands of reales just by collecting one silver coin per cart. They weren't neglecting it—they had built watchtowers and stationed armed troops—and yet they didn't collect money?

To Juan’s mutterings, an old merchant leading a donkey replied.

"Of course! Our Marquis does not obsess over such petty change. Is this your first time here?"

"It is."

"Hahaha, did you bring anything worth money? If not, you’ll have a hard time once you cross."

"Hmm. I think I’ll be fine."

Juan thought of the pepper loaded on the twelve donkeys following him. He also had silver coins in cash; no matter how much the price crashed, pepper was still pepper.

"Good. If you have money, go to the 'Wolf and Spice' inn. That’s the best one."

"Inns are all the same, what makes it so good? Does it have hot springs or something?"

At Juan’s words, the old merchant’s eyes widened.

"Oh! It’s not a hot spring, but it’s the inn that has the right to be supplied with hot water first."

"Hmm..."

"And you must try the village specialty, 'Ash-less Bread'."

The old merchant continued to talk about the ash-less bread for a long time. As a noble of high standing, Juan was not someone who ate bread with ash stuck to the crust. However, the old man’s praise for the brown bread crust, free of ash, was incredibly intriguing to Juan, a gourmet.

"Wait, you’re a merchant! Why are you talking as if you come here to play every time?"

"Kwahahaha. Many merchants come here and make money, but few leave with it. Anyway, remember what I said."

Crossing the bridge, the road split in two. One side was a well-decorated village painted with white lime, and the other was a place where desolate, magnificent warehouses lined up like a fortress.

Trees were neatly planted along the road paved with crushed stone. They were ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠still saplings that barely reached the bridge, but once they grew, it would look like a noble’s garden, not a residential area.

Juan vowed to get an introduction to the Marquis’s architect who had designed this city.

On the front gate of the village they arrived at following the road, a wooden board with the village name hung prominently.

'Aquabella'

"Beautiful water, huh..."

"I heard they rebuilt a village that was destroyed by a great flood. They say the Marquis gave it a new name, too."

"Interesting. It’s a very paradoxical name for a village destroyed by water."

"Why don't you go to a house and rest from the journey? You had a great deal of discomfort yesterday, didn't you?"

"Haa. Though I came in disguise, to think I would suffer such humiliation in a residential area..."

"This matter must be firmly addressed with the Marquis. I will demand that the entire village be strictly punished with collective responsibility."

"Let’s rest for now. Did you say the 'Wolf and Spice' inn?"

As they opened the door to the inn and entered, ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠a rich, savory aroma hit Juan’s nose.

-Grrr...

At the scent that stimulated a primal hunger, Juan said.

"Ah. This scent is the fragrance of Don Quixote."

If there was one thing Juan enjoyed on this journey, it was that Don Quixote—which had made him feel a sense of deprivation in Portugal, telling him he "must save"—was commonly available here. However, Don Quixote’s most powerful "lance-charging" only occurred when bread was baked using purely, finely milled Don Quixote flour.

As soon as Ribeiro unpacked, he went down to order bread for the Duke. Behind the owner, who was wiping plates, were breads of various types, free of soot or ash.

"What, why is the bread so expensive! What do you mean 4 reales for a loaf of 1 libra wheat bread!"

Ribeiro felt the wicked will of man at the fact that wheat bread, which could be bought for a 1 real silver coin outside, was priced at 4 reales.

"If it’s expensive, eat something else. The bread here mixed half-and-half with wheat and barley is 1 real."

"What do you mean charging 1 real for bread that only farmers eat!"

"Hmm. Do you have no money? Then this bread with three parts barley and one part wheat is three for 1 real. Similar to outside, right?"

"What do you mean bread that only serfs would eat! Kuaaaah!"

Ribeiro felt an unstoppable impulse to "normalize" everything immediately.

"If you want to go around shouting that you’re a noble or whatever, look at that over there."

There was a man being dragged away by soldiers.

"That man said he was an hidalgo, too. That doesn't work here, so if you really want to show off your status, at least bring a Grande title."

Ribeiro barely suppressed the impulse to shout, "My master is a Grande!" and said.

"Then what is the most delicious..."

"Kwahahaha, alright. Then start by tasting the 'Pan Don Quixote', the candial of candials, white as snow and dense inside. This is the basic, the royal road. And if your energy is lacking from the long journey, this dessert with lard and anise, 'Torta de Sancho', is also excellent!"

"Are you saying 20 reales for one piece makes sense!? Just give it to me..."

"Ah, we don't have Sancho right now. If you order it, the bakery will bake it and send it right here."

"What, you don't have any baked?"

"Why would I bake such expensive things only for them to go unsold? Take the Don Quixote now, and the Sancho will be delivered while it’s piping hot, so don't worry."

"If my master is not satisfied, I will not forgive you on my honor."

"Don't worry. Any elder who says they’ve tasted bread will shed tears of joy."

The owner’s boast was accurate.

"Hmm! Excellent!"

His master, Juan, was biting into the bread, shedding tears of joy and clapping repeatedly.

Conquered by the charge of Don Quixote, Juan had forgotten all the purposes of his journey and had become a mere tourist. He called the owner to praise him and asked him to recommend other breads. However, what the owner recommended was not bread, but a haircut for dignity and "hot water therapy" to relieve the fatigue of the journey.

Juan, smiling and eager to experience everything, paid a gold escudo and entered with a joyful heart.

"Kuh-uh-uh."

The large bathtub, big enough for two or three people, was a very clean and sophisticated tub with thick-coated walls finished with white tiles. Compared to the general people of this era who didn't bathe, or used wooden barrels even if they did, this was truly noble dignity.

Wearing a long bathing robe that reached his thighs, made of white linen, Juan lay in the tub, a smile naturally forming at the comfort that melted away all the fatigue of the journey.

"How is the water temperature, my Lord?"

Hair groomed with oil. A clean linen shirt and black trousers. The man around thirty, who introduced himself as the head barber, was meticulously trimming Juan’s beard and stray hairs. Since a beard represented personality and dignity for a Spanish man, Juan forgot about the cost of this "special service," thinking of it as an investment for his upcoming meeting with the Marquis.

"It seems the warmth has faded a little."

-Cling-

When he pulled the string, a bell rang outside. Hearing it, young boys around ten years old went down and came back up carrying buckets filled with hot stones. Passing through the door strictly guarded by Juan’s confidant Ribeiro, the boys placed the hot stones in the corner of the bathtub, away from the noble’s body, to raise the water temperature.

"He might be a good man."

Having finished the delicious bread and excellent hot water therapy, Juan went to bed with a happy heart.