The Price of Prosperity
Felipe was a man who kept countless mistresses. Yet, as a devout Catholic, he was perpetually haunted by guilt over his infidelities and felt a deep sense of remorse toward his wife, Isabel. Of course, that never stopped his womanizing. Isabel, for her part, turned a blind eye to her husband’s affairs while never losing her dignity as Queen. Even after losing three daughters in succession, she remained the unshakable mistress of the Habsburg household; she was, in every sense, a woman of the royal blood.
Still, his infidelity left deep scars on Isabel. As the nights she spent alone stretched on, her wounds only deepened.
Felipe had recently heard news of his old friend’s daughter. In his letter, Enrique had not boasted of his daughter’s beauty, but had instead presented the news in a quiet, report-like format—likely an act of consideration for a King who had lost his own children. Reading the letter, Felipe imagined the daughter born to Enrique’s wild mare and Juan. She would grow up to be a healthy, beautiful, and spirited woman.
"Isabel."
"Your Majesty, are you still here?"
The Queen, who had come from France. There was an unmistakable sorrow in Isabel’s voice. Tonight, as on every other night, he would leave her alone to go and rule the nights of Madrid.
"I am going nowhere tonight. In fact, I shall remain by your side for some time to come."
Isabel’s eyes wavered. Felipe lifted her chin, forcing her to meet his gaze directly. In his eyes, a mixture of fanatical religious fervor and burning carnal desire flickered.
"I need a son, Isabel. No, it must be a son."
Isabel was a spirited and charming woman. But under the touch of a King who had conquered countless women, the Queen was rendered as helpless as a fragile butterfly. Seeing the sorrow-filled depths of her eyes glisten with the carnal desire rising from within, the ruler finally began to peel away the armor that encased the Queen’s body, piece by piece.
"Were you expecting this?"
He whispered, stroking her body, which had already transformed like the river of 1626, in anticipation of receiving the King’s seed.
"Always... I have always waited for your touch, Your Majesty."
"A good woman."
That night, Felipe held Isabel in his arms. He did not stop until she collapsed from exhaustion. Even after she fell, his indulgence did not cease. Felipe could not afford to waste his virility on mistresses. He had to impregnate the Queen and secure a son as quickly as possible. Only then could he make the daughter of the 'Key'—who brought the blessings of God—a true woman of the Habsburgs.
Between religious fanaticism and carnal desire, the young couple’s efforts continued daily, and naturally, she became pregnant. Until her pregnancy was confirmed, Felipe poured all his affection solely into her. Only after the confirmation did Felipe return to his carnal indulgences, once again taking the favored actress 'La Calderona,' María Calderón.
Apart from domestic affairs, the War of the Mantuan Succession in northern Italy was unfolding as a disaster for Spain.
The Governor of Milan, Gonzalo de Córdoba, and the Holy Roman Emperor Ferdinand II had concluded their military consultations to invalidate Nevers’ succession and laid siege to the strategic stronghold of Casale Monferrato. Nevers, who had requested aid from France, was desperate, but Cardinal Richelieu, whose forces were tied up in the siege of La Rochelle—the stronghold of the Huguenot resistance—could offer little more than diplomatic protests and financial support.
Spain’s situation was equally dire. Olivares, loath to spend money, established a policy of 'conquer it yourself.' The root cause was his baseless belief that Gonzalo de Córdoba, the adjutant to Spinola—the so-called God of Siege Warfare—would handle it well enough. Eventually, as the siege stalled, Olivares had to summon Spinola.
"No."
"What! Isn't this the glorious battlefield you wanted?"
"I have no money. Pay back my bonds first. If you pay them all, I will go."
"General Spinola!"
"Why! What! Give me my money!"
Watching Spinola transition from a noble commander-in-chief back to a sewer-dwelling clown, Olivares sighed. Even as he felt that people associated with Marquis Juan were treating the Count-Duke—the King's favorite—far too disrespectfully these days, the Count-Duke, rendered infinitely small in the face of money, wept as he counted his thinning hair one by one.
The Spanish army, expected to fight without funding, saw desertions continue day after day.
"If this continues for long, the Empire will go bankrupt."
Olivares’ eyes turned to the Flanders Army in the Low Countries. The Count-Duke, who had ordered Gonzalo to capture the fortress by August, sent a messenger to Infante Fernando to prepare for the 'worst-case scenario.'
In the 28th year of the great harvest across the Meseta plateau in the northwest, a major problem was brewing, compounded by the abysmal state of the internal roads. Even excluding the landlords who had been crushed by Don Quixote’s charge, the wheat planted by successful landlords and small-scale farmers alone was enough to fill the granaries to bursting. Furthermore, the poorly maintained granaries were in chaos, with walls collapsing under the weight of the bumper crop.
Consequently, the price of wheat plummeted to dirt cheap. The small-scale farmers, facing halved wheat prices, went bankrupt. Naturally, farmers flocked to Marquis Juan’s measures, as he accepted their land and even offered re-employment. Although there were disputes with landlords eyeing the ownership of fragmented plots, the Marquis never stopped the work of creating consolidated farmland and building settlements through appropriate land swaps or additional purchases.
And then, the rat swarms began to thrive. By August, wheat that couldn't fit into warehouses was well-preserved outdoors thanks to the dry weather. The farmers continued to bake bread and boil porridge all day, eating their fill, but swarms of rats the size of a human forearm began to grow, feeding on the grains scattered across the fields.
A rumor—a lie—spread that rats the size of humans were gnawing on the crops in the Meseta plains, much like the absurd rumor that rat-men lived beneath Madrid. The August wheat was rapidly contaminated, and when the rains fell in September, the ears sprouted or rotted.
To maintain even a shred of value, a procession of farmers voluntarily carried their grain to Marquis Juan’s granaries. The Marquis expanded his influence by accepting the wheat not only in his warehouse cities but also in the granaries of each settlement. The 'Node' settlements, where granaries and churches were established, provided a service of circulating wheat certificates in exchange for wheat, and the Marquis’s wheat certificates began to be recognized not only around Valladolid but also in the surrounding major cities.
No matter how bountiful the harvest, it did not solve poverty. The poor of Madrid, who had no land to farm, or farmers who had lost their land and were starving, flocked to the Marquis’s territory in search of work. The Marquis accepted them all, building farms and continuing construction.
So, was the Marquis running a business by digging holes? Not quite. The Marquis demanded 'dynamic labor' from the farmers under him, which was quite unsuited to the pre-modern era.
Marquis Juan’s farming methods required extreme labor. While a typical Castilian household consisted of 4 to 5 people, Marquis Juan forced a 6-person system per household and allocated additional personnel to fill the labor requirements. Even with the use of oxen for plowing and donkeys for farming, it was still a tight squeeze.
The spring orchard cleanup, starting in March, left no room for rest. Though it varied by village, they had to graft delicious branches onto sturdy wild pear trees, plant plum and cherry trees, manage vineyards, and plant the quince that the mistress favored. They repeated the effort of checking if walnut trees had died and replanting them if they had. They effectively couldn't rest until May, tending to the fruit trees.
On top of that, they had to work without rest through the long harvest season, starting with the 'Don Quixote' of late May, followed by barley and fava beans in June, and wheat in early July. Once the drying and transporting of the grain were finished, August was a time to rest a little and participate in the joint weddings. The weekly joint weddings were a feast day everyone looked forward to, as the Marquis encouraged everyone’s marriage and settlement.
Things got busy again starting in September. They prepared the farmland for the autumn rains, harvested autumn fruits, and began post-processing. October was the month of sowing, and farm work continued until November. December through February were the only winter slack seasons; most men spent this time drinking and weaving rush grass into handicrafts, while women focused on spinning wheels to turn the fibers sent by the Marquis’s textile workshop into thread.
Unlike the life of a typical farm household that rested when it was time to rest and played when it was time to play, this busy life, packed to the brim for the entire year, was unbearable for a lazy vagrant.
A pícaro from Madrid. To the vagrants, this 'dynamic labor' was a cruel reality and a filter that was hard to endure.
"Damn! Fuck! I can't do this!"
Juan, a vagrant who had come up from Madrid, threw down his sickle during the hard labor that lasted from March to July.
"Are you guys crazy? Even if you give us bread and sausage! You do this crazy labor all year round?"
He shouted at the farmers who worked all day, chanting, "Almighty God, please promise us a bountiful harvest this year as well."
"You crazy bastards, can't we work while taking a break?"
There were no farmers who agreed with his cry. Among the farmers, who looked at him as if he were a madman—no, as if he were a non-human existence, something worse than a pagan apostate—three men with terrifying expressions appeared.
"Village head. Is this the guy?"
"Oh, Sheriff. I’m sorry for the trouble while you’re busy."
The Sheriff, who appeared with two security guards, was a man who knew war, having lived as a mercenary for over 10 years. The two guards under him were also elites from the Flanders Army. As such terrifying men appeared, boasting well-fed, sturdy arms, the man who had been causing a ruckus fell silent.
"No. Following the Marquis’s solemn command, the hard work of you farmers praying to God for a bountiful harvest is truly great."
"W-what is this!"
"I will ask. Do you renounce the holy 'right to labor' and agree to a voluntary resignation?"
The man called the Sheriff spoke to the troublemaker with hollow eyes. It was an emotionless, numb tone, but it contained unmistakable contempt.
"Fuck! Let's just take a break!"
Juan, a vagrant and a pícaro who had been through all sorts of trials, shouted with venomous eyes. He was tense, thinking of pulling out a hidden knife if trouble arose, but the Sheriff looked behind him and spoke.
"Secretary. Does this answer constitute a resignation request?"
"Yes, Sheriff. It is recognized as a resignation request due to dissatisfaction with the employment contract with the Royal Castilian Trade and Food Company."
Nodding, the Sheriff spoke to the vagrant Juan with eyes that looked at an inanimate object.
"I will ask again. Do you wish to terminate your employment contract with the company and return as a free man?"
"I said let's take a break!?"
The Sheriff couldn't hide his contempt and said one word.
"Lazy. Secretary. His intention?"
"He strongly demanded resignation, and the resignation procedure is recognized accordingly."
"Security guards. Drag him out. What wheat is owed to him?"
"As he is a trainee, there is no special wheat for him to take. The value of the bread and meat he has eaten abundantly so far exceeds his wages."
Feeling threatened by the two who ignored him and continued their conversation, the vagrant Juan pulled out a folding knife, a navaja.
"What are you guys! You want to die!? I have a knife!"
The two security guards, who looked at him waving the hidden blade as if he were a mere child, pulled out their clubs. The two, who easily knocked the knife away and subdued him by thrusting a club into his stomach, looked at the vagrant and said.
"You little shit. When you pull a knife, we usually pull one too, but consider yourself lucky."
"That’s right, kid. The Marquis gave us guidelines to strongly preemptively suppress armed personnel, but we let you off because your life is pathetic."
Watching the vagrant, who had been subdued, gagged, and had his hands tied behind his back, the Sheriff said.
"Village head. Diego Rodrigo, Sheriff of Settlement 7, Farm 10. I will proceed with the forced resignation procedure with the notary’s certification."
"Confirmed."
"Oh, please take good care of him, sir."
"Drag him out."
"Ugh! Ugh ugh ugh ugh!"
He was dragged out just like that. Dragged away while gagged, he had to return to a life as a beggar in Madrid, following the procession heading to the city.
"Take me... take me back to paradise!"
The vagrant Juan cried out while begging on the streets of Madrid.