1572

Tupac Amaru, Felipe Tupac Amaru for the Spanish, was left in charge of Inca, and he considered that his nation was too great to be the concubine of Spain. Spain never knew if Inca was convinced by him, if it was her idea all along or if she did it forced, but the facts were the facts: his viceroy informed him that one of the ambassadors he had sent to her to put an end to this situation between them appeared dead by spears.

She hurt his people, took up arms against him, tried to steal the children from him.

He would not allow it. He would not let her return to the jungle. She would not raise those kids like savages.

Inca thought she could hide in the wilderness, but once again the Indians were useful, revealing him the paths he had to take to get her. His men were quick. They caught Tupac Amaru when he was about to escape by river Urubamba.

He had to take the chance to teach the world a lesson.

"Your Greatness, please...Don't do this..." Bishop Agustín de Coruña pleaded him.

But Tupac was responsible for the death of many Spanish and good Indians, and he had proved to be a liability. They had to get rid of him. Bishop de Coruña was allowed to baptized the prisoner—then, he was beheaded in front of a crowd in Cusco, his head exposed for everyone to see.

For Inca to watch before it was her turn.

She was holding Peru in her arms. The child did not know what was going on. She just knew something was wrong with her mother. She had never seen her so frail, so weak. And she had never seen Spain looking at someone like that.

Spain approached, Inca squeezed Peru's little body even more.

"No..." She muttered.

Spain paid no attention to her pleading eyes, to her terrified expression. He grabbed Peru by an arm and pulled with such violence he made the child cry and Inca extended her arms to her desperately.

"N-No! My baby! Please!"

One of Spain's men, obeying a tacit order, took the child away. He carried her in his arms and tried to distract her with the promise of sweets waiting for her in her cabin.

"You are a treacherous snake, like everyone else." Spain grunted.

There was no way she could have been distracted from the screams Inca let out. She turned her head towards her mother and could only see the glimpse of a sword shining in Spain's hand before the soldier forced her to turn her head, muttering sweet words. Then, suddenly, all yelling ceased.

Spain didn't go visit the child after that to ease her worry, explain what had happened to her, why he did what he had to do. He left that in the hands of her viceroy. Martín Enríquez said in a missive that New Spain needed him more than anyone else.

A few days later, he arrived to Veracruz, where New Spain was waiting for him. She was isolated from everyone else, sat on a rock near the beach, curled up against herself. Spain sat by her side and placed a hand on her shoulder. The girl cringed.

"Who did this?"

New Spain didn't show him her face.

"Who did this to you, New Spain?" Spain calmly insisted.

Still no answer. She was terrified, the poor child.

"Was it France?"

It took him a while, but New Spain finally muttered, not changing her posture:

"That man with the ugly eyebrows..."

Spain didn't seem to react to that revelation. He just rubbed the child's back. But deep inside, he was feeling a rage which made his chest burn.

So it seemed life at the court was not good enough for England, he didn't have enough luxuries, apparently. He had to sail the seas and take what was not his, the gold, silver, tobacco, spices, everything those children had produced for the family.

It bothered Spain, of course, but then England started bothering his provinces and...He could tolerate pillage, but he wouldn't let him lay a hand on them.

Romano was practically an adult now. He did not have to wear dresses any longer. And with his manly traits, he started to show a rather evident liking for women. If there was a pretty lady around, Romano was sure to be there to whisper sweet nothings into her ear, in that appealing language of his.

That was how Spain found him. With two girls, one blonde, the other brunette. They looked like courtesans, giggling stupidly at Romano's saucy touch and words. He thought he would have intimacy in that spot of the garden, but Spain knew him well.

Or so he used to think.

"Romano!"

Romano's surprise did not live long and was replaced by a bored sigh.

"What do you want now?" He asked, as insolently as always, as if he was not the servant there.

Spain's response was merely tossing a few papers to him. Something a good maid had found in his room, which Romano recognized immediately without having to read it. Of course he knew what it was, why Spain had that face, and why he lost his. Those pamphlets had been designed by him.

«King Philip the Second imprisoned his own son, married his fiancee and made sure he never got out alive»

After the papers flew, Spain's hand impacted Romano's face, slapping him with such force it left a very red mark on Italy's face. The girls muttered something to each other and quickly left.

Spain kept glaring at Romano. He returned the stare, no less firm and defiant, even if the pain made some tears escape from his eyes.

1581

"Well, it seems that Philip is closer to achieve your dream, Spain." Austria commented to Spain one morning, while he was being served breakfast.

"How so?" Spain asked, looking distractedly through the window.

"We got news from Alcazarquivir. King Sebastian has died."

Spain turned his eyes to him.

"And he had no heirs." Austria remarked, raising his eyebrows.

"He was Charles' grandson..." Spain muttered, trying to make sense out of all the ancestry of the Habsburgs. A really messy ancestry.

"Philip's nephew, yes."

"So...Philip is now Portugal's king..."

"It's not going so easy. There is a regent. Apparently António, Prior of Crato, thinks he's got rights in here." Austria bit his bread distractedly. "Portugal is fond of him, I have it understood, but let's be practical: António is a natural son of the late Duke. Bastards don't have any right."

Spain nodded.

"It is very convenient that Portugal joins us indeed." Austria commented. "Brazil is a great provider and he's got a really enviable market in Africa and Asia."

He did. But that was not what mattered to Spain. It almost seemed like God had answered his century-long prayers. Portugal and him would be part of the same family. They would finally be together.

He lost no time and wrote a letter to the Pope, asking him for a bull to marry one more nation. He joined a bit of gold to the letter to reinforce his arguments.

He did not take into account Portugal's strange reticence.

Sure it had to be António crowning himself and preparing an army to defend his pretensions. Portugal had to obey his king and participate in that pantomime. It forced Philip to gather an army and invade Lisbon—Spain made sure that Portugal was not harmed in the process.

They won, of course. António escaped, and Portugal was left alone...No, not alone. Now he could be part of Spain's big family.

The papal bull came in no time, and Spain, almost as if it had a very short expiration date, ran to make the proposition to Portugal.

What could he say but yes?

"His Greatness, Império Português."

Portugal walked into the room with Philip by his side, escorting him. Spain couldn't be more satisfied. At last. Portugal was there. From that moment on, they would live together, as they should have always been. They looked so much alike they were often mistaken as brothers. But now they would be husbands. They would be together in the same house.

Austria was also by his side. He did not seem very happy with this decision, even though he had willingly accepted. Spain was so enthusiastic, so pushing, there was no way he could say no. He looked at Portugal with mistrust, reticence.

"Remember that this is a triumvirate." He whispered into Spain's ear.

Spain nodded with a grin.

Portugal reached them and bowed his head slightly towards Austria, then looked at Spain with a fine smile.

"Well...Here we are." He said in low voice, not to disrupt the protocol.

"I dreamed about this moment for so long..." Spain muttered.

He had reasons to be smiling. Portugal and him were now under the same house. The Iberian peninsula under one rule, one big family. A dream come true.

But why wasn't Portugal smiling as much as he thought he would be?

"I thought you would be more cheerful about your marriage with Portugal." He told him in his room, both of them sitting next to the fire. "It was an old dream of yours come true. I pictured you dancing and jumping around."

"I know. And I assure you this was the happiest day in my life...But...lately I have been having very little reasons to smile about, Philip..." Spain said. "Holland, for instance."

Philip sighed, placing his hands on his lap.

"I know it must be difficult for you to fight someone you so appreciate, but..."

"It is something that must be done. If I gave in to his demands, everyone would do what they want, and...and I can't let that happen. You can't let people do what they want when you know it will hurt them in the long term. I am sorry I have to be so tough on him, but the whole world is looking at me and I can't show weakness. Too many people depend on me. I worked hard for this! Parents are tough because they need to make their children obey, to protect them, and keep them safe! If the only way they respect me is to be cruel, then...!"

Spain shook his head and turned towards his king.

"Still, they are over-exaggerating. I know very well what they say about me. I have read those publications about what I have supposedly done, what I am doing. They picture me as some kind of rapacious monster."

"That is just propaganda from England and France. They are jealous, scared of your power. That is why they recur to nasty rumors." The king replied.

"It wouldn't be so bad if they didn't affect you, Philip. Do you know how they picture you? As a deformed person, cruel, cold, greedy...They use you as some kind of boogeyman."

"And many other things. Yes. I am aware of that. I have read it too. That is the price to pay, Antonio, for the power I hold in my hands."

"Yes. It is fine for me. It delights me that they are so scared of me that they try to ruin my reputation picturing me as the Devil."

Philip sighed, leaning back on the armchair.

"Still, it is such a heavy burden I am sorry you have to put up with...You are a delightful man. Those who know you can't possibly hate you."

Spain gazed at him with a little frown, seeing the slight sorrow in his voice. He dragged the armchair to be closer to him and place a hand on the arm of his chair.

"God will give me strength. You should be worried about yourself. You are the most powerful man who ever lived, Philip. That must be tough for a mortal."

"Sometimes not even God's help seems enough..."

"...Now that Portugal is in our side, Philip..."

Philip turned his eyes to him and drew a smile.

"Yes?"

"It is time we talk about England and that greedy whore that once was your sister-in-law."

At first, it was a matter of defending what was his. Then, religion became a factor. England was impious. He was helping Holland against him, giving him the means to continue that war. He spread with him and France those nasty rumors about him and his king. Then, his queen Elizabeth, who celebrated the death of her own sister, ordered to execute Mary Stuart. With the death of her Catholic majesty, Spain lost his patience.

England had become a threat to his family and pocket and had to be stopped.

1588

Spain descended from the carriage looking as if he hadn't slept in the whole night. Portugal greeted him with a kiss on the cheeks and a smile.

"Did you have a good trip?"

Spain did not respond to that. His eyes turned to the fleet which awaited in the port.

"Look at this. This is the power of God."

Portugal's smile vanished and his face immediately mimicked Spain's seriousness.

"One hundred and fifty four ships. Nineteen thousand men. But England's naval forces should not be underestimated."

"We have something he doesn't have."

Portugal supposed the he was talking about God's favor. That was the only thing he talked about all day long. He was told by Holy Roman Empire that there was a time when Spain was a very happy man, who joked around, had lots of fun and even angered his husband Austria by escaping from palace once in a while to mingle with the peasants. But that seemed to be over after the conquest of America. Something happened there. Maybe it was the great number of acquisitions he got. The more powerful he became, the more bitter he turned. He wasn't even that nice to both Italies anymore. But Spain didn't care that Romano didn't want to be around him anymore and his criticism to him kept going, even more bitter. He only cared about God. He guessed their king Philip had much to do with that, being so devotee (in the end, all nations ended up getting traits from their rulers). All that 'defender of the true faith' matter.

Portugal had a bad feeling about this—everyone, including Austria, thought he was crazy, but Spain only had one thing in mind and he was the boss. The Great and Most Fortunate Army, the Armada, followed his orders and sailed to invade England.

But Portugal was soon proved right. Things did not start well.

The ships could not depart due to Admiral Álvaro de Bazán's hesitance. Portugal was convinced that the marquess, just like him, was not very confident about the resources they had. During this time, England took action faster than them and caused an important destruction in Cádiz. Angry, Spain declared he was glad de Bazán was dismissed and he almost said he was happy to that he died soon after that, the 9th of February in Lisbon. His successor, Medina Sidonia, did give the orders to sail to England. By that time, an epidemic outbreak had done severe damage to their men.

"We will be fine."

After days of journey, they reached La Coruña, but a storm forced them to delay plans. It would not be the first time the fleet had to stop because of the bad weather. And Portugal would see Spain stand on the deck, under the rain, looking at the dark sky like defying the elements.

All these delays made the provisions become scarce. With barely any food left, their men suffered illnesses. Would any of them survive to face the English? Portugal lost count of how many they had to throw off board.

Spain didn't lose hope. He gave his share to his men...as if he could sustain himself on prayer alone.

When the moment came, however, he seemed to get strength out of nowhere. Maybe from hate, when he saw in the distance the ship England traveled in along with Sir Francis Drake.

The weather was so bad it almost seemed like both parties would end up sinking. There were times when they were so close they could insult each other from their respective ships ('bastardos cabrones' one side said, 'sons of bitches', replied the others). 'FIRE!', Spain roared like a beast, and his voice was followed by the explosion of the cannons.

But their ships were not as well-equipped as England's and his crew were a bunch of inexperienced men, some of them boys. England was in his element. Like the director of an orchestra, he commanded his men and cannonballs flew over their heads before impacting in their ships.

"Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners..." A sailor, barely seventeen by his looks, whimpered by Spain's side, grabbing a rosary around his neck, closing his eyes firmly, his body trembling.

"Don't give them the satisfaction to see you afraid, sailor!" Spain screamed at him. "Look at those motherfuckers to the eyes and show them you are not a coward!"

The mast of the ship Portugal traveled in was broken and almost fell over him. The nation looked around, trying to see the ship his husband Spain was in, but he couldn't see, he wasn't sure, with so many ships so close to each other.

It was then when the magazine of his ship hit by England's fire and exploded.

Spain could not find him. As much as he wrecked his lungs calling Portugal, he couldn't find him floating in the water, among the corpses and the wood.

"Sir! The wind is pushing us away from the coast! We won't get the regiment!" A general told him.

Spain needed to take a moment to reply.

"A-Alright...Let's go back home...Let's...make a detour around the island and...let's go home...Please, don't stop looking for him..."

They tried to. The fleet had dispersed. Every ship had to fend for itself. The number of dead sailors increased, their wounds being beyond help, getting infected, lacking food and water. The wind did not help taking them home. It was like it kept pushing them into enemy territory. Spain kept hearing the men mutter that, if they got out alive, they would never fight England and his men ever again.

If they were lucky to reach Scotland...Scotland would help them go back home. He was against England too...

But Spain's ship could not resist the storms and succumbed in the Irish coast. The last thing Spain remembered hearing before falling over the gunwale was the screams of the injured men trapped in the hold, unable to escape from the water rising.

When he opened his eyes, he was not among Christian men. He found himself on his knees, in the sand, in front of a man who was calmly standing there, dressed with his elegant attire, like he was just taking a ride in his domains. It was funny, after having so much of England, that Spain didn't recognize him immediately; surely due to the contusions. How long since they fought at sea? Spain could not guess...England removed a glove to touch his face filled with sand and sea salt, to force him to raise his head to look at him. He almost looked like he was having a picnic in a prairie in springtime and he had found a curious insect.

"How I hate it when people leave garbage on the beach! It ruins a perfectly beautiful landscape."

Sir Francis Drake chuckled by his side. Spain wasn't too aware of what has happening yet, but he had this unpleasant feeling inside of his chest.

England sighed pompously. "Dispose of him and the others."

They got rid of the survivors first. They needed no Catholics in Great Britain, and less at Ireland's house. So every Spanish they found breathing and moving, they stabbed him or cut their neck. They had to return Spain because, despite everything, they were English gentlemen.

Austria approached the group positioned by the closed door of the chapel.

"What is going on?" He asked.

"He hasn't come out of there in days..." Luxembourg said to him in a sotto voice.

"I heard him say..." Holy Roman Empire doubted before finishing the sentence. '...he lost because God saw he went to battle with impure heart...', He finally muttered.

Austria frowned and knocked at the door.

"Spain?"

No answer from the inside. Spain's lips were too busy muttering, his hands on Reccared's crucifix and the rest of his body trembling.

Austria judged he would have to make decisions with Portugal, without counting on him.

He was looking for him precisely because he wanted to tell him their king, Philip, had suffered this defeat like a severe blow ("I pray God he takes me so I can see no more of this bad luck and misfortune", were his exact words) and had thought he could cheer him up.

Hearing the news that England had built an Armada of his own, which he planned to use the ships in repair and conquer Portugal, and it all ended as embarrassingly as its Spanish counterpart maybe helped the monarch.

For some years, he seemed to be in an acceptably good mood, and it was him the one who seemed to cheer Spain up.

But they had to declare bankrupt once again.

But his secretary, Antonio Pérez, was discovered to have been involved in a plot against him, to crown his bastard brother John, and, escaping from jail, he found refuge in England, where he revealed secrets of state and spread more lies about monstrous Spain and Philip the ogre. That scoundrel was not even moved when his wife and children were jailed and lost all of their possessions. He never moved a finger to save them from mendicancy.

But England used that information to attack Cádiz. After taking Spain by surprise, England destroyed, looted and abducted as much as he pleased.

And nine years after the disaster of the Armada, Philip II received what was possibly the biggest blow of his whole life. He didn't lose a big territory, or a decisive battle. No foreign nation attacked Spain. His daughter Catherine Michelle did not survive a complicated childbirth.

After this, the man in whose domains the sun never set started dying.

1598

Spain wouldn't let go of his hand.

He knew Austria, Portugal, Belgium and the others didn't want to be there. Philip, who had always been so clean to the point it was almost pathological, was unable to move due to the ulcers he had, and so helping him evacuate in a way that didn't hurt him was very difficult and he was left covered in his own filth. Spain was sure he had seen maggots in the ulcers. Such a disgusting sight was not pleasant at all, but he wouldn't move from his side. He wouldn't leave him. Not then.

Philip's children were also with him, bringing him his relics so he could pray to them and kiss them, also helped him with his administrative work. Even in such moments he still wanted to read and sign papers...

They fulfilled his wish to die in El Escorial, in a peaceful palace, surrounded by the remains of all of those saints, in the company of the people closest to him. When he gave instructions about the composition of his coffin, what he wanted to wear, they obeyed too.

"Ay, Antonio... I should not complain...But this is torment...Still...what torments me...is that from now on my son Philip will have to take charge of you and the empire...God, who has given me so many kingdoms, has not given me a son fit to govern them...It is you who will have to take care of him..."

Spain was going to say something, but instead he let out a strange noise.

"Are you crying, Antonio?"

"Sniff..."

"I don't think I have ever seen you cry...You were always so imposing to me...I...I just wanted to make you proud...Make you bigger, stronger...magnificent...I..."

"Don't say that, Phil. It's the fever talking. You must rest. Close your eyes."

"If I close my eyes now, I am sure I will open them again...And I want to look at you for the last time..." Philip panted a bit. "D-Do you know what I feel when you touch me, Antonio, my dear fatherland? I feel...I feel warmth...Like the sun in summertime...I think of the warm breeze through the olive trees...I think of music...Miss Belgium told me once you used to play guitar, and you were good...Why don't you do it anymore?"

"I...didn't think it was appropriate...I didn't want to upset you..."

"I also...I also feel...laughter, dancing...It was always a pleasure to see you dance...The sea too...Even being so far away from the coast, you remind me of it...You really are a gift from the Creator...He did a good job with you..."

Spain used his free hand to wipe the tears off his face.

"Maybe He will allow us to meet again...Now I am going to meet Him...I will join the kings and queens of the past...I will tell them how brave you are...I will tell them...I..."

He fainted and didn't come back. The doctors said he had to rest, but Spain refused to let go of him.

Philip awoke hours later and he was still by his side, with his head on the pillow, not having rested or eaten in days. He raised his head when he saw Philip moving. The lights of dawn filled the room with an orange color. The king turned his head to his nation and exclaimed:

"It is time!"

His body suffered an spasm, then his hand went limp. His eyes were still on him but they were not looking at him anymore.

The servants, after a moment of respectful silence, walked out of the room to wake up everyone and tell them the news. Alone, Spain started sobbing.

A monster had died for the world, but they didn't know. They would never know...Philip did not deserve to die like a monster. If they knew him the way he did...

'You were always so imposing to me...'

He had a fit which made him remove all of his jewelry, the rings and necklaces made with Indian gold, the collar and shirt too. He grabbed is own head, pulled his hair.

His heart was impure. His heart was still impure. What was he doing? He thought he was going mad...Philip...Oh, God...Was this the price to pay? Becoming a monster, die like one in the eyes of everyone one loved?