The Trickster of the Meseta
The days when the Tercio brothers spent their time watching me like hawks are over; now, a new spring has arrived where we trust each other and enjoy the good life. I led two plump, castrated steers to the large livestock market in Valladolid. Valladolid may be a city in decline, having lost its former vitality, but this place—the used car dealership of the era—still hummed with life.
Castrating cattle or horses in this age is no simple task. Well, anyone can *attempt* it, but 10 to 30 percent of large animals usually die in the process. That is why, unlike the wild, uncontrollable bulls, steers that have lost their "jewels" and become docile are generally traded at 1.5 to 2 times the price. If it’s not a bull with a promising pedigree for the bullring, a well-trained steer can fetch triple the price of a regular bull.
"Alright! Two steers! These are the very beasts that plowed through every inch of the Nueva fields last year!"
"Nueva’s cattle? You don't mean... those legendary oxen?"
A livestock merchant with a bloated physique approached me.
"That’s right. If you’re well-informed, you’ve surely heard the rumors of the pair that wore the yoke on their shoulders instead of their horns, actually plowing a full yuguada!"
A yuguada refers to the area a pair of oxen can plow in a single farming season—roughly 30 hectares.
"Hmm... so that tall tale was actually true!?"
It’s called a yuguada, but since they follow a three-field system, the actual area is a third of that. In reality, 10 hectares is the limit for a pair of oxen to sweat through in a season.
However, thanks to the light Roman-style wooden plow that reduced the burden on their shoulder yokes, they managed to plow nearly 1.5 times the land. Add a dash of 17th-century "creative marketing," and the rumor spread throughout the region that these were master-class oxen that had plowed triple the land.
I had sweated bullets refusing the villagers who kept coveting these oxen, but thanks to that, the word-of-mouth advertising was worth it.
Of course, the villagers had no intention of paying for them; they just wanted me to marry a village girl and settle down.
"Fine! Will you take payment in vellón coins? I’ll give you a fair rate."
"Sir, who trades livestock for cheap vellón?"
Spain in this period was being pulverized by deepening warfare and inflation. We were monopolizing the gold and silver of the New World, but it barely stayed in Spain before being sucked out to foreign lands. The disappearance of silver coins and the flood of cheap copper vellón caused hyperinflation, doubling the price of bread every year. Even a cartload of copper coins was worth less than a single silver coin. The market had collapsed; grain prices fluctuated dozens of times a year, and no one wanted to trade. Those who held silver hid it away and used only the trash copper coins, worsening the situation.
If I accepted payment in that worthless currency, I’d be at a loss even if I received a houseful of coins. That is why the market of this era had regressed from the Middle Ages or the Roman era into a primitive age of barter.
"Four healthy bulls, two to three years old. And throw in a pig, and we have a deal."
"Even if they work well, asking for four bulls and a pig for two steers is highway robbery!"
"Take it or leave it. I can always find someone else."
As I grabbed the reins as if I had no regrets, the merchant blocked my path.
"Don't be like that. Let's settle for four bulls. How about it?"
I smirked inwardly. *You... you’re still interested, aren't you?*
"Look at this build. How well do you think I fed them to get them this plump? You won't find steers this good even if you search the ends of the earth."
As I patted the thick back of Buddy-Joe Mark I, greed flickered in the merchant's eyes.
"Indeed! I can see how much you’ve cherished these animals."
"I don't want to sell them either. I need more cattle, and I have to find bulls, castrate them, and train them to make it in time for the autumn sowing. And who knows? Some might die during castration. Honestly, I’d like to ask for five bulls."
"Hmm... I understand your heart, but... four bulls and a pig is still..."
"My boys are so docile that even with the yoke on their shoulders instead of their horns, they work silently without a single lash of the whip. They’re good kids who are happy just to work hard and receive a slice of turnip."
-Moooo~
As I scratched their backs, the oxen let out a pleasant sound—the very picture of harmless, happy steers.
"Ugh... fine! I'll bring the bulls and the pig, so let's settle the accounts!"
The merchant led me to the barn where his livestock were kept. I picked out the four youngest bulls with the best frames, and instead of the expensive pig, I took three cheap nanny goats.
"If you need more livestock, look for me! Just ask for 'Bartolomé of Segovia' around here, and you'll find me easily!"
"Of course. May you prosper!"
After processing the testicles of the unruly new bulls with Buddy-Joe and crafting new yokes, I was enduring the harsh summer of the Meseta plateau when an uninvited high-ranking guest appeared.
"You wretches! How dare you plant wolf beans on the path of the Mesta’s sheep!"
Wearing a long black toga and a medal engraved with the royal crest, the Entregador held summary judgment power over anything that blocked the paths of the Mesta. He didn't come alone; he appeared like a conqueror, leading a young man who looked like a clerk, the shepherds I’d seen before, and armed guards.
"Unauthorized occupation of the Cañada (migration route): 300 reales! Obstruction of sheep passage: 200 reales! I shall execute this immediately! Soldiers! Seize all those oxen, goats, and donkeys!"
The two steers alone were worth 500 reales, but that was up to the candy seller—no, the Entregador. If the Entregador said it was 500 reales, it was 500 reales. The soldiers triumphantly stormed into the barn to drag the cattle away.
-THWACK!
"How dare you commit such violence by invading the King's farm!"
I swung my club and smashed it right into the head of the soldier trying to drag the ox away. I stared straight at the shocked faces of the Entregador and the clerk, who clearly never imagined a mere peasant would resist so boldly, and pointed my club at them. Behind me, the two Tercio brothers drew their side-swords, growling like Guan Yu and Zhang Fei, while the clerk shook a document stamped with the royal seal in protest.
"This is a military facility under the jurisdiction of the Fuero Militar (military privilege)! Get out at once!"
"No, that’s not it. You have laid hands on the King’s oxen and donkeys, which is an act of grave treason! Is that not so!?"
The clerk didn't seem to want to escalate things, but he was too soft. In this romantic era, if your opponent shows a weakness, isn't it 'common sense' to suck them dry to the bone? I shouted at the Tercio brothers, who were already growling and seizing the initiative. Perhaps because we’d been acting like brothers, they responded perfectly, displaying the demeanor of stern, elite soldiers—they were truly warriors capable of facing ten thousand, heroes who could hold back an army.
"That’s right, that’s right."
"Indeed. They dared to lay hands on the King’s assets; this cannot be overlooked!"
-Smirk
Seeing the brothers’ stellar performance as our eyes met, I commanded them with the smile of a victor.
"I have no choice but to process you immediately under military law and report this formally to the Council of Castile! If you act like this on royal farmland, what kind of atrocities have you been committing on other farms? Not only are you imposing a fine of 500 reales for a non-existent crime, but you are trying to seize 'Royal' oxen worth over two thousand reales at market price for a mere 500! This is not a situation that can be dismissed as a small mistake or error!!!"
The Mesta gang, who had appeared so triumphantly, were always people who bullied peasants weaker than themselves. But faced with the audacity of royal-affiliated personnel acting like thugs, they could only mumble and blame each other.
"Th... this, sir. It seems there was a slight misunderstanding. Let's just call it even and..."
The Mesta circuit judge tried to back out as he saw the situation turning against him, but the 16-year veteran royal servant’s Stand, [The Real-Madorido], had no intention of forgiving them.
"If you do not offer a proper apology and compensation immediately! I might stay my hand, but the warriors of the King, whose honor has been insulted, will not!"
"That is correct! How dare those shepherd curs invade the camp we protect!"
"Right, right! This is a matter of 'honor'!"
As I raised the tension by invoking honor—the most important virtue and value in Spain—the circuit judge’s face turned deathly pale.
"Any man of Castile would say the same! I would not spare my life to defend my honor! As the manager of the King’s farmland, if I cannot wash away the dishonor you have caused, I shall not live to see tomorrow’s sun!"
I pressed them even harder, raising the stakes.
"Clerk! According to military law, what is the verdict for those who attempt to steal royal property!"
"No, let's just end this nicely..."
The clerk lowered his voice, perhaps not wanting to escalate things, but that was a truly soft-headed thought. He was a bookworm who didn't know the golden rule of this world: if you show weakness, you get counter-attacked. I pressed the clerk.
"Clerk!"
"The penalty for Desacato (contempt of authority) and Tentativa de Robo (attempted robbery) is stripping of office and expulsion. And the perpetrators are sentenced to flogging and a fine ten times the value of the goods."
As even the clerk spoke in a solemn tone, the circuit judge and the shepherds were ashen-faced, looking like they were about to die. *These guys really have no intuition.* I had clearly opened a window for negotiation by saying "if there is no apology and compensation," but since they spent every day beating up peasants weaker than themselves, their "commoner sensor" must have been broken.
A circuit judge is nothing more than a hidalgo, a low-ranking noble. And those are just hidalgos without money or connections who studied at university to make a living. They are absolutely not true nobles—Grandes. If peasants are commoners, then they are just slightly better-off commoners. Even if you beat them to death, they cannot stand against the authority of the royal family and the military.
"Ahem. My throat is parched."
I gave them another hint. The leader of the shepherds finally caught on and whispered something to the circuit judge, whose expression changed from a rabbit before a wolf to a hamster that had just found a glimmer of hope for survival.
"Oh, the summer weather in this neighborhood is indeed quite hot. Inspector, we have some fine wine; why don't you have a glass?"
"I am fine, but if there is good wine, the King’s warriors might have a slight need for it."
As I spoke casually toward the Guan Yu-Zhang Fei-like Tercio brothers, the brothers, who had been raising the tension, stood solemnly with softened expressions.
"What are you waiting for? Go quickly and bring the best wine!"
I spent a cozy time alone with the circuit judge while watching the Tercio brothers roast the lamb slaughtered on the spot and drink the wine and sheep’s milk cheese we had seized.
"Sir, I have no particular intention of reporting this formally and blowing it out of proportion."
I said it as if it were a passing remark. But the circuit judge looked at me as if I had just thrown him a lifeline.
"If I had known this was important royal land, I would have prevented those uneducated shepherd curs from bothering you from the start. I am truly sorry."
We negotiated like professionals. Instead of escalating the matter and treating it as if nothing had happened, I received a share of the pigs and goats he had extorted from other villages, plus a mare.
And the poor people I had sent over in the meantime received shares of cheese and grain, enriching the village's meager storehouse.
"Come again!"
I waved goodbye to the circuit judge and the shepherds as they left the village before the evening set in, after finishing a banquet where they’d eaten three sheep for lunch.
"Contact the association immediately! Tell them there are lunatics in this region, so stay away at all costs!"
Only after they were far from the village did the circuit judge shiver and shout to his soldiers. Then he yelled at the shepherd who had brought him here.
"And you! If those lunatics were royal personnel, you should have avoided them! Why did you have to get me stepped in this mess? You idiots!"
The judge then summoned the Mayordomo, the field manager of the shepherds, and squeezed out about twice the money he had spent to smooth over the incident.
The Mayordomo called in the Rabadán (field team leader), stripped him of his assets, and seized the shepherds' wages.
The Rabadán, stripped of his assets, conspired with the shepherds to sell off a portion of the flock and became a bandolero (bandit).
And so, it was another clear, 17th-century summer day.
Author's Note:
It is historically accurate that shepherds or team leaders who lost their livelihoods would sell off sheep and evolve into bandits. If royal ranches (especially for warhorses) and the Mesta clashed, the shepherds were reportedly squeezed even harder than they had squeezed the peasants. It is an era where the weak cannot survive.