The Great Alchemist’s Livestock
Bartolomé de Segovia. Despite his name, he was a native cattle merchant from Valladolid. One could assume his ancestors had migrated from Segovia, but he was a local through and through.
Ever since he became the head cattle manager for the Marquis Juan, he had earned the nickname "The Cattle Baron of Valladolid" among the locals.
"Listen up, Diego! This is the secret art our family has received from His Excellency the Marquis."
He was applying the breeding and livestock management techniques of 21st-century Korean cattle farms—taught to him by the Marquis—to the cattle and horses of the 17th century. Every animal was branded, and its parentage recorded with numbers and symbols. He tracked their growth, reproduction, and even the moment of their death with obsessive persistence.
He focused on the females first. When a male reached three years of age and showed promise, he kept only the single best specimen and castrated the rest to prevent the dilution of the bloodline. To avoid the deformities that arise from excessive inbreeding, he kept meticulous genealogical records. Any animal with a defect or one that failed to meet the standard was ruthlessly culled.
Through this cycle of rigorous record-keeping and strict "culling," he was fixing the desired traits into his cattle and horses.
Originally, the black cattle of the Valladolid region were scrawny, skeletal creatures with skin stretched tight over bone. A cow weighing barely 300kg was considered the pride of the village. As a respected merchant, Bartolomé had always felt a burning frustration whenever the cattle merchants from the northern region of Cantabria boasted of their large, sturdy brown cattle.
That was why, even before he entered the service of the Marquis, he had been crossbreeding the robust Cantabrian brown bulls with the local black cows. Thanks to that, his cattle had already earned a reputation in the region for being sturdy and hardworking.
The best part about being under the Marquis's command was the barley stored in the granaries, which he mixed into the straw to feed the cattle. The cows grew into magnificent specimens, no longer the emaciated creatures of the past, and the calves grew so rapidly that they were now the equals of the northern stock.
"Hmm! Your cattle look quite sickly. Are you not feeding them properly?"
He took great delight in showing off the heavy, sleek "local brown cattle" in front of the Cantabrian merchants who came down regularly to sell their stock.
They would argue that those were black cattle, and that the brown ones weren't "their" kind, but what did that matter? If they were born on this land, they were local cattle. Wasn't that right?
"Tch, you're just fattening them up by stuffing them with barley. Everyone knows the real working cattle are the ones from Cantabria!"
"Hahaha! You call those 'working' cattle? They're so ill-tempered that even after castration, they can't even bear a yoke on their shoulders!"
"The ill-tempered ones are your black cows! The only reason yours have become docile is because they carry the blood of our stock!"
The shoulder yoke, introduced by the Marquis five years prior, fit the "docile" brown cattle of Valladolid perfectly and was spreading to surrounding areas. Of course, there were still some "black" ones with rough temperaments, but they became tame once castrated and fitted with the nose rings typically used for bullfighting cattle.
"Our Cantabrian cattle work better with the traditional horn yoke!"
"Then go ahead and struggle all day with your horn yokes. Our Valladolid cattle work in pairs, shoulder to shoulder, pulling massive carts!"
With the adoption of the shoulder yoke, pairing two oxen to pull large carts had become the standard in the Valladolid region. To support the massive logistics efficiency that put donkeys to shame, the muddy roads were being leveled and paved with crushed stone to create raised, solid thoroughfares. The Marquis maintained this road network, and in exchange for the traffic fees, he held a monopoly on selling water and hay for the horses and oxen.
There was a "no travel at night to prevent road damage" policy, and relay stations were built at every day's travel distance. With stables, hay warehouses, and lodging facilities far larger than the size of the resident village population, it was a system that practically forced passing merchants to open their wallets voluntarily.
Considering the road usage was free, the Marquis kept the prices of hay and water at a reasonable level. Merchants continued their trade using the standardized carts sold by the Marquis or by utilizing his transport system.
The Marquis was also deeply committed to connecting his own logistics, with the Carreteros—professional cart drivers who specialized in transporting goods with two oxen—at the core. While the existing cart guilds were notorious for endless extra fees and cargo theft, the Marquis's logistics business, though expensive, delivered goods cleanly and without a single complaint.
If there was a new threat that emerged as commerce flourished after the roads were properly paved, it was the raids by bandits and vagrants. To prevent this, the Marquis planned "scheduled logistics movements" led by Hidalgos on horseback.
Traditionally, it was considered dishonorable for an Hidalgo to engage in such work. However, at a meeting of the Valladolid Council and the Noble Association, the Marquis argued vehemently. He insisted that this was not mere commerce, but "protecting" assets, "patrolling" traffic routes, and "maintaining public order." Swayed by his logic, the poor Hidalgos who had been starving due to a lack of employment agreed.
In the end, it was explicitly declared that working in the "logistics industry" in the Valladolid region was not a breach of an Hidalgo's honor, but a noble task performed from the saddle. To protect their honor, they became even more meticulous about not touching the goods, focusing solely on departing and arriving on time according to the plan.
"Hey! If it weren't for our brown cattle bloodline, you Valladolid black cows wouldn't even dare to stand up to ours!"
"Want to have a bullfight? Oh, what a shame. His Excellency the Marquis has banned bullfighting, hasn't he?"
"Using the master's name to hide behind, you cowardly Bartolomé!"
"Kuhuhuhuhu."
The Marquis had strictly banned bullfighting, which was a pity for Bartolomé. However, having no intention of going against the Marquis's will, he turned the crisis into an opportunity. He strove to fix the traits of his cattle to be large but docile and kind, rather than the fierce, wild beasts raised for the arena.
Five years, ten years later. And after Bartolomé passed, he taught his son Diego fiercely so that he could inherit the position of managing the Marquis's livestock.
"Master Bartolomé. Are you inside?"
"Oh! Sir Gonzalo! What brings you here?"
Bartolomé was checking the temperament and physique of a three-year-old ox with his son when a man in a fine hat approached.
Gonzalo Jiménez de Arévalo. Though he was a common, impoverished Hidalgo in Valladolid, during the time of calamity, his exceptional horsemanship, patience in difficult situations, and honorable character were recognized, making him the man in charge of training and management for the "Castian Project."
He was one of the final executors of the Marquis's grand plan: to create a breed that combined the strengths of the small but hardy mountain horses of the northwestern Meseta—known for their tough hooves and ability to eat even the worst grass—with the large, magnificent, but delicate-hooved and picky-eating Andalusians of the south.
"The foals born between the Aventador and the mountain horses have excellent traits. But why must you castrate all the males?"
Gonzalo asked, filled with regret as he looked at the colts destined for castration upon reaching their third year. Why must these magnificent creatures be deprived of the chance to leave descendants?
"Hmm. That is a vision I, Bartolomé, received from His Excellency the Marquis. I cannot disclose the details, but he says that breeding those colts together carries a higher probability of producing inferior horses rather than superior ones."
If it was the Marquis's vision, there was nothing to be done. Gonzalo swallowed his disappointment and said,
"It is truly a pity. Is there really no other way?"
"On the contrary, it is for the best. The colts with those fine traits will be sold off and turned into silver coins, and the mares will be impregnated again by new Andalusians. From these second-generation foals, we will select those that possess the intelligence of the Andalusian and the hooves of the mountain horse, and finally, by mixing in the Andalusian once more, we plan to use the superior offspring as the progenitors of the 'Castian' breed. You are well aware of this, are you not, Sir Gonzalo?"
"It is just... to think that such fine colts cannot leave descendants... as a horse trainer, it is simply too heartbreaking."
"I understand your heart well. But this is the only way for the horses of us Castilians to become a hardy breed for true soldiers, one that will not be overshadowed by those merely flashy southern horses. Please, trust us."
At Bartolomé's words, Gonzalo clasped his hands and said,
"How could I ever doubt His Excellency the Marquis and Master Bartolomé?"
Under Gonzalo's witness, all the first-generation colts would be rendered unable to leave descendants when the year they turned three arrived.
-Moo~
Two oxen, wearing yokes padded with thick leather, walked along the crushed-stone road.
Having followed their master for years, the oxen followed his commands with a simple "Moo" even without the tug of a nose ring.
The 12-year-old ox named "Blackie," who had started walking from the granary of Settlement No. 8—the furthest settlement from the warehouse city—mooed to "Brownie," who had started working beside him recently.
'You are truly large. You are but a child.'
'Yes, uncle. Hehe.'
Repeating the cycle of walking and resting for four days, Blackie arrived at the large land he visited often. He was happy to be in this land where massive stone walls, countless people, and cattle gathered. Meeting familiar oxen here and exchanging moos was a small joy for an old ox.
"Blackie, you've worked hard all this time. Thanks to you, I've been able to survive until today."
Normally, he would have returned home or rested here before following his master on a long journey, but his master said this while shedding tears. The master left Blackie behind, taking Brownie and another ox that looked similar to Brownie.
-Moo~
Why wasn't he taking him? Blackie was anxious and let out a loud moo toward his master.
"Oh, he must know his master is leaving. You're a good boy. A good boy."
A man with thick forearms patted his back and told Blackie he was a good boy. Blackie waited for his master while eating the barley straw and beans given to him by the man with the thick forearms.
A day passed, then two. It was the first time he hadn't walked while traveling the road with his master, even though it wasn't raining or snowing. The stable was comfortable, the straw was soft, and the feed—a mix of barley and bean husks—was delicious. But Blackie missed his master.
-Moo~!
He saw his master in the distance. Blackie let out a loud moo toward his master, signaling that he was here.
He made eye contact with his master. But his master looked at Blackie once, then turned his head and walked down the road as if he hadn't seen him.
-Moo! Moo! MOOOO!!!!!
Blackie kept crying. Master! It's me, Blackie! Don't leave me behind!
-Moo!
"Oh, so that's why such a good boy was crying so much. Your old master was there, wasn't he? Yes, yes, you're a good boy, aren't you?"
The man with the thick forearms stroked Blackie's head and gave him fresh feed filled with barley and beans.
Blackie ate the delicious beans and waited for his master to return. But his master did not come.
One day. Two days. A week. Two weeks. A month. Two months. Several months passed, and the cold winter arrived.
"Now. You've fattened up very well."
As the man with the thick forearms approached Blackie with a joyful face, Blackie trembled with an indescribable fear.
During the months he spent without working, Blackie's body had become plump and round, a far cry from his scrawny appearance of the past.
"Oh! Yes, this is it! This is beef!"
I exclaimed, chewing on thinly sliced beef that had been lightly seared over an open flame.
"Haha, are you that pleased, Your Excellency?"
Gonzalo, who was attending the banquet, spoke on behalf of the vassals.
"This is beef. I told you, it's only after the fattening period that you get truly delicious beef. The rich flavor of a long-raised ox, with fat marbled throughout. It's excellent. The juices are so succulent."
As the son of a 21st-century Korean cattle farmer, I felt great, having succeeded in something I had always wanted to do.
"Indeed! It is truly delicious! Juan. At this level, it will be highly prized even in Madrid."
"Eat plenty, Teresa! Since it's sliced thin, it's not tough even if you just sear it lightly, right?"
I said, enjoying the aged flavor of the fattened beef.
"¡Santas Pascuas! to everyone!"
On Christmas Day in December, I held a grand banquet where all my vassals and the local power brokers gathered to celebrate the end of the year.