[The Cardinal's Winter Campaign]
"How can you place restrictions on the royal treasury! This is an insult to the Crown!"
Count-Duke Olivares wailed, shouting about outrages and betrayals.
However, he was forced to cease his tantrum by the words of Lord Pallavicino, the representative of Genoa and the largest creditor to the Spanish royal family—a man who was shouldering the burden of the 100 million ducat royal debt right alongside them.
"Count-Duke. I didn't want to say this, but aren't you going too far? If you look closely at the accounting books, before distributing profits to us, the state—meaning you, Count-Duke—takes the lion's share of the profits through the Asiento and Millones taxes. It’s already heartbreaking enough to divide the scraps left over after you’ve stripped away all the good parts. We aren't even asking to take your shares; we are merely restricting the use of the company as collateral and for sales. Why make such a fuss?"
"But this is the property of the royal family! Placing restrictions on royal property is a matter of face!"
"And what about this? What kind of 'face' is it to declare that the interest on the bonds will be paid in vellón currency instead of silver?"
"Gah!"
Olivares was spectacularly sunk by the cold, hard logic of the Genoese.
"Olivares. That is enough."
As Felipe, who had been watching Olivares’ struggle, rose to his feet, everyone fell silent before him.
"It is my negligence. Had I governed the country well, such things would not have come to pass."
"Yo... Your Majesty!"
"No! It is the disloyalty of your subjects!"
As the chief minister, the admirals, the marshals, and the bankers all knelt, Felipe’s gaze shifted to me.
And then, everyone’s eyes turned toward me.
"Juan. There is also something I must insist upon. Regardless of any future changes in the company's shares, you must make it clear that 33% of the total equity shall always belong to the royal family."
At those words, I looked at the other major shareholders. We locked eyes, and with a silent nod, we signaled our agreement.
"As you command, Your Majesty. Furthermore, with the full consent of the shareholders present, we shall insert a special authority exclusively for the royal family."
"A special authority?"
At Felipe’s question, I looked at one man and spoke.
"A veto. An 'Absolute Veto,' Your Majesty. Even if I were to pass away and 'someone else' were to take possession of this company—no matter how many shares they acquire—the royal family shall have the right to reject his decisions or policies."
I spoke while looking at one person: Lord Pallavicino. The banker's greed, hidden behind his aged, cunning smile, could not be masked. Meeting my gaze, he bowed his head to the King.
"Genoa exists only to serve the Crown, Your Majesty."
"Good. Then I shall take my leave first. Olivares, consult with everyone and ensure the interests of the Crown are protected."
Once Felipe exited the salon, the real battle began at the shareholders' meeting.
—"Hey! You carriage-driving bastard! Is this betrayal?!"
—"Why you! You bald-headed fool! Who gave you permission to use someone else's farm as collateral!"
Watching the Count-Duke, whose head had turned as red as a boiled octopus, and the Marquis, a street-thug-turned-noble, growl and curse at each other, the other three engaged in a civilized discussion.
"It seems you made quite a profit on logistics in Velasco this time. Why not spend a little more?"
"Can I compare to Enrique? Didn't you dispose of all the Atlantic cargo that had lost its trade routes?"
"The four great houses of Genoa say they will send representatives next year. Haha... In a time when the value of silver drops every day, it is truly a blessing for a banker to see such a solid company emerge on the mainland, not in Asia."
—"Die, you bald-headed freak! Your hair is running away because you're always so greedy!"
—"You damn carriage driver! Do you think your hair won't fall out? You're next!"
Seeing major shareholders grabbing each other by their thinning hair and beards at a shareholders' meeting in the 17th century, I realized that chaotic shareholder brawls are indeed a time-honored tradition.
"Olivares."
Sitting in his office, looking out the window with his back turned, Felipe fixed his gaze on the distant moonlight and spoke.
"Yo... Your Majesty."
"You did well. It is fine. I trust you."
The King spoke with genuine sincerity. The life of a monarch who sponsors artists and plays, takes the women he fancies, roams the night streets of Madrid, and enjoys hunting and horseback riding—all of this is possible only because there is a chief minister who looks after state affairs in his stead.
"Your Majesty! I shall serve you with all my loyalty!"
"There is only one thing for which I am disappointed in you."
Gulp.
At the King's words, the Count-Duke could only swallow hard, unable to let go of his tension.
"Why did you not form a spiritual bond with the daughter of the 'Key'? Did you not say so clearly? That since it would be a burden for everyone if I were to become the child's godfather myself, you would step forward to be the godfather?"
Olivares could say nothing and merely bowed his head.
"Your ability, your diligence, your loyalty—all satisfy me. Therefore, I shall grant you a second chance. Prepare from now on so that I may become the godfather of the second child Juan will bear."
It was not a request. It was a declaration and an order.
"You may go."
Having left the King's office, Olivares sighed as he looked toward the room where Marquis Juan was staying.
"Save me, you carriage-driving bastard..."
The highest power in the Empire, the chief minister Gaspar de Guzmán. But in the end, the hair of Count-Duke Olivares, a middle manager, had no chance to grow back, squeezed from below and pressured from above.
While finishing the December settlements and preparing to head down to Valladolid, I met Lope, who had been left behind in Reinosa with a cold, and heard various stories from him. Lope, who had been hearing news of our Tercio comrades, shared the information with me.
"Is that true? The Flanders Army is moving?"
"They say all the comrades who were on 'long-term leave' and staying on the mainland have been recalled. They say a great battle is about to break out."
This romantic era is the age of mercenaries. Regular armies are, in fact, closer to regular mercenary units. Therefore, it would be accurate to view the Flanders Army as the largest and strongest mercenary group in Europe.
The ruined Spanish state kept elite soldiers—too valuable to discharge—tied to the army by giving them long-term unpaid leave instead of money. They lived their lives by taking on private contracts or working for other mercenary groups while still carrying the title of the Flanders Army.
If they were from mainland Spain, I actively recruited them into the 'Company' after their discharge. Of course, I accepted veterans from Germany or France if they wished, but I made sure that at least 'Catholic-Spanish' was a common language for everyone.
Because each one of them possessed the valor of a warrior and the pride of a champion, they had a 'self-esteem' that made them refuse to work as mere farmers. Whether they were hidalgos or not, that was the same.
'Protecting the forest is protecting the military supplies to make guns and spears! Managing the fish farm is managing military provisions! Guarding the warehouse is the essence of a soldier! You are not mere farmers, but brave warriors!'
I remember vividly how I had to coax and soothe the guys who initially said, "I will never work even if I die," to get them to work. Now, the culture has settled well, with seniors leading the juniors, so at least everyone steps up to help with the harvest during the harvest season. Even if their manners are a bit rough and their pride is strong, they are fundamentally diligent men.
"Huu... They are going all the way from the Low Countries down to Italy?"
I imagined the movement of the army, drawing a map in my head. Crossing the Alps? In the middle of winter?
"Yes. Some are already in Italy waiting, the cannons have departed by ship, and the cavalry and infantry have begun their march."
"Ha. Count-Duke~~~~ Please! I told you not to go to war for at least three more years!"
Right. The Count-Duke knows our plans and growth rate, so he wouldn't have done it because he wanted to. In this empire full of honorable war-maniacs, he was indeed a civilized intellectual.
"Who is the commander? Who was next after Commander Spinola?"
"They say it is the Commander-in-Chief, Infante Cardinal Fernando."
"Oh?"
I let out an exclamation at the unexpected name of someone I knew.
"Do you know him?"
"Well... we know each other, in a way?"
Damn, what kind of nonsense did I spout back then? It was so long ago I can't remember. He was a prince who loved the military, so I told him this and that...
"They say Hannibal and Napoleon also led their armies across those mountains in the dead of winter?"
There stood a blond young man, dressed not in a cardinal's red robes, but in the cuirass and armor of a cuirassier. Mounted on his horse, looking at the snow-covered mountain path, he was enthusiastic and dignified.
"Commander-in-Chief, Your Excellency. I don't know about Hannibal, but there is no general named Napoleon in military history."
The Tercio colonel serving him said urgently, but he didn't care and spoke.
"Well, foreign names can change as they are passed down orally. Isn't Alexander the Great called 'Iskandar' in the East, and 'Yi Seon-dal' even further away? We move!"
At his command, the army moved forward, and the colonel was horrified and tried to stop him.
"Your Excellency! Crossing the Alps in midwinter is suicide!"
"They say Hannibal crossed with elephants, and a man named Napoleon crossed with countless cannons. I, Infante Cardinal Fernando, am crossing with only infantry and cavalry; if I cannot even accomplish this, how can I make a name for myself as a soldier!"
At his words, the colonel said with a look that suggested he really wanted to cry.
"Your Excellency! There really is no general named Napoleon!"
"It doesn't matter! I will trample the enemy like Xiang Yu of the East! I will accept their surrender with the generosity of Saladin!"
"Your Excellency! I don't know about Saladin, but there is no general named Xiang Yu!"
"It's just that you don't know him; he is clearly a famous general of the East. He is truly like the Lionheart of the East, who broke into a force of 500,000 enemies with only 30,000 cavalry and trampled them all!"
"Your Excellency!"
"Now! Let's move! I will stand at your vanguard! Warriors of the Flanders Army! Follow me!"
—"Waaaaah!!!!!"
"Your Excellency!"
As the colonel, looking like he was about to weep, grabbed the prince's reins, the prince on the horse spoke solemnly.
"Colonel. I have made my decision, and the soldiers' morale is high."
"How will you capture a fortress without cannons!"
At the colonel's near-begging words, the prince shouted in front of the marching legion.
"Cannons? Aren't they right here? Look! Is this 'heavy cannon' enough to take a fortress!"
As the Cardinal-Prince pointed to his crotch, the soldiers pulling the sleds cheered and delighted.
—"That's right! It's a big, beautiful cannon that can take any woman in one go!"
"Men! If a man named Napoleon crossed with cannons, I will cross this mountain relying only on you and this 'cannon'! Will you join me!"
—"Waaaaaaah!"
Leading the bravely advancing soldiers, Fernando said to the colonel.
"Colonel. Now is not the time to rely on cannons to take a fortress. It must be a lightning maneuver that the opponent does not expect! We must take the fortress through maneuver!"
In Chambéry, a strategic point for crossing the Alps, supplies, food, and sleds that the prince had gathered with his own money were already prepared. The Tercio soldiers were pushing and pulling the sleds, entering the snowy mountains.
"Didn't you hear? According to the intelligence provided by the Low Countrymen, the Duchy of Savoy has decided to join hands with France."
The Low Countries were currently in the midst of extreme political infighting. The battle between the faction that argued for ending the truce and resuming the war and the faction that argued for continuing the truce was fierce, and the pro-truce faction had secretly passed this intelligence to the prince in Walloon territory.
"That is uncertain. How could they dare to commit such a reckless act in front of the Empire?"
The colonel spoke negatively, but to the prince, that didn't matter at all. He was a young man who pursued honor and glory, a soldier with a heart full of boiling blood.
"Since we've been stuck at the Fort of Quissale unable to do anything, they must think the Imperial Army is a pushover. And that's not the important thing. Ultimately, Savoy is a strategic point that the Empire must directly govern to block France's ambitions. We must take this opportunity to occupy it so that my brother can govern the country more easily."
The prince, who had much sharper and more balanced features than his brother—a hallmark of the Habsburgs—with dazzling blond hair and lively eyes, looked even more magnificent on horseback.
If one were to pick the man most suited to the term 'Idol of the Battlefield,' wouldn't it be this man in this era?
A man who looked better in the cuirass of a cuirassier than in the red robes of a cardinal. A man who truly looked good in a 'military uniform,' the prince was a superstar who drove both fans and haters crazy, with the ascetic feel of the 'Cardinal' title coexisting with the rough charm of a soldier.
The last great commander of the Spanish Empire, who would appear at the Battle of Nördlingen in 1634, had entered the bullpen against the backdrop of the snowy mountains in January 1629.
Author's Note
Thank you to SilverWalker, MungSilDuri, DokGeuk, SimaRin, and Direx for your support!
Thanks to your encouragement, I feel a heavy sense of responsibility! Today, too, I will go beyond the Red Comet and reach the level of the 'God'!
Actually, it is said that this prince was quite a pious prince. However, it is clear that he was an idol of the battlefield and a superstar.