The seamstress put a needle where the cuffs looked best.
"This looks so much better." Philip said, looking at Spain's reflection in the mirror.
A yellow waistcoat with a floral embroidery, breeches, round necklines, a pleated, matching skirt, decorative buttons everywhere...
"You could use a wig, too."
"What's so wrong about my hair?" Spain asked.
"It would give you a much more sophisticated look."
Spain disagreed.
He saw himself in the mirror again and found himself cleaner, brighter, pompous...French...
"You will get used to this. You have lived surrounded by gloom for so long." Philip assured him, and turned around to leave him in the hands of the seamstress.
But he never got used to Spain.
France was omnipresent in Spain's life, even if he was barely there, since he had so many issues to attend back at home.
Ever since he came along, Philip made many changed, imitating the environment he grew up in and the way his nation did things. He encouraged the creation of a Royal Spanish Academy and a Royal Academy of History, not to forget a Royal Library which would put offer the public the first printing of every book published Spain had the right to receive first; showed Spain a new efficient way of handling bureaucracy. He even ordered to build a royal palace at San Ildefonso, in Segovia, which was reminiscent of Versailles. There was so much to do!
"You have been reigned over by retards..." Philip started to say one day.
"Charles was not retarded." Spain interrupted him, frowning. "He was just as intelligent as you and I."
Philip glared at him for some seconds, and eventually continued as if Spain had said nothing.
"But here I am to make things better. If you want to conserve what you have, you will have to make a few changes. All those leeches you have around you won't keep sucking your blood. We will make them all respect you. No one will say 'obeyed but not fulfilled' anymore. And Spain...Trust France. It is undeniable that it was Austria's fault your old friendship deteriorated. But listen to everything he says, do everything he does and you will be fine."
Although Spain still believed in dialogue, he accepted Philip's guidelines and stripped Catalonia from her ancient privileges as punishment for her support to pretender Charles. He had to show he was the boss there...Philip was right about it...
However, Philip wasn't really a good example of tenacity and good judgement. Because all of those measures were proposed by him, but the ones who had come up with them were his father King Louis, and most particularly his wife, Elisabeth Farnese.
After the death of Philip's first wife due to tuberculosis, Farnese seemed like a good catch. They had lost Romano, but they could still bring him back thanks to the old tool of marriage. Spain had lost all of his European dominions, and it would be useful to count with more friends. But Farnese soon proved that she was not going to be a mere pawn in Philip's board. After all, she had Romano's blood. The day she first came to palace, she apparently had a failed meeting with her husband's counselor, the Princesse des Ursins, and managed to have her arrested. Philip agreed with her on everything and Farnese saw her chance to do things her way. She was magnetic and, in spite of the marks of smallpox on her face, she was very attractive.
Thanks to her, the French customs were less present at the court and the Italian fashion prevailed.
"I still think it's incredible that your king doesn't talk to you in Spanish." Romano commented Spain one day, as they walked around the garden of the Royal Palace.
"He doesn't know a single word in my tongue. Just French." Spain shrugged.
"So...You can talk crap about them in their noses, they're not going to notice."
"Absolutely."
They laughed. Silence followed, in which they both contemplated the statues of the old monarchs in Spain's house—statues that, due to a nightmare the Queen had suffered in which she was crushed by them, were placed there, instead of the cornice they were supposed to be put in. One more whim of hers!
"Romano..." Spain broke that silence, not looking at him, but the statue of hero Pelagius. "I know I should have said that earlier, but..."
"It's being a pretty morning, don't spoil it."
"...I always loved you like you and I had blood ties. And I miss having you around."
"Next time don't be such a prick. But I told you, let's forget the subject. We're going to start arguing and I just want to enjoy this nice sun today."
"So...Can we still be friends?"
"Anything you say. Now shut up."
Spain turned his head towards him and saw a fine smile on his face. That brought a smile on his.
Yes, Farnese did everything she wanted. In a way, she was the Queen and Philip, the consort. And why? Because he was mad, that's why. Spain noticed too late that Philip was not precisely the savior he thought he was.
One night, he irrupted into his room while he was sleeping, fully dressed and awake. "Spain, we've got to talk with the ministers about the tax raise."
Spain turned around, his eyes glued, not very sure of anything, and turned to look at the clock near him. "...Philip, it's three in the morning...!"
"Now!" Philip simply replied, and walked away.
And he slept during the day.
He smelt. Spain saw stains of sweat and food in his suit, and not precisely recent. There was no polite way to tell a person that their hygiene habits were not the best, but he managed to inquire him about when was the last time he had let the servants clean him.
"I don't let them put their hands on me."
"Why?"
"The clothes might be poisoned."
And so he didn't let anyone wash him or changed his clothes, ever.
He had two obsessions, sex and death, and they resulted to be a very dangerous combination. He was a man who succumbed to his lowest instincts, like all kings Spain had ever had, and, even though he only had coitus with his wife (resulting in seven children), the guilt was so unbearable he was confessing his sins day and night. Because he was sure that he was going to die any day soon and he had to meet the Lord clean. Spain tried to convince him that having sex with his own wife as much as he liked was not a sin, and Philip looked at him like he was crazy.
"You should go to penance as well..." Philip muttered. "One day, when you less expect it, you will die too..."
The day he found him hopping around, claiming to be frog, Spain wrote a letter to France asking him if he behaved this way back at home. France's response seemed more amused than worried.
«He was not supposed to reign, being a second son, so I guess this has overwhelmed him. It runs in the family: his mother also suffered a deep depression and used to lock herself in her room for weeks. Don't worry about him.»
Spain learned not to. It became quite funny to see the king trying to mount a horse from a tapestry. The Queen took care of his issues, passing them as the King's idea, and that was enough. He did not have to deal alone with that.
1724
Philip was sure that it was a good moment to think about his imminent death and make arrangements to achieve salvation, and so he abdicated in favor of his son Louis.
Louis had not had much luck with his consort, either. Between his father and his wife, Spain had tons of anecdotes to tell for centuries.
Louise Élisabeth was the fourth daughter of Philippe II, Duke of Orléans, great-niece of France's king. For reasons unknown to Spain, the Dukes didn't pay much attention to their daughter apparently, and she grew up completely undisciplined and surrounded by the excesses of the French court. She did not even have a name, perhaps because they didn't think she would survive her first year or didn't care, until the day she was engaged to Louis. They had tried to put her into a convent but her inappropriate behavior made her unfit for the monastic life.
What a behavior! Spain once encountered her naked in the middle of the living room. She turned her head to him, nodded at him to say hello and just continued her path like this was the most natural thing in the world. The poor thing was just feeling it was time to get those dirty clothes off. She stormed the pantry to eat like a pig, and it was almost a relief that she ate in there, because she didn't hesitate to burp in public. She also drank more than many farmers and sailors Spain had met.
The peak came when one day Spain knocked at her door.
"My Queen?" Since she didn't reply, he took the liberty of coming in anyway. "The Queen Mother wants me to bring-OH, WOW!"
He ran out of the room like he had seen the Devil in there.
"Stay, Your Greatness! Join the fun!" Louise called him from inside.
She was...she was...naked...with her...maids...doing...
Spain had to tell his confessor that the image wouldn't leave his brain and brought him many impure thoughts.
In spite of this, she made the life at the court funnier. They even drank wine together often. She would have been a queen he would have gotten along with if it wasn't for Louis' reign being the shortest in Spain's history. Although they moved to San Ildefonso for him to have a healthier air and avoid the infection, Louis was infected with smallpox and died the same year he was crowned, being only seventeen. Louise Élisabeth was sent back to France and Spain never saw her again.
Philip was crowned king again and it didn't do him any favors.
He avoided Spain, even though his destiny was in his hands. He could spend weeks without talking to him or anybody. A servant once caught him beating his wife up.
"I sometimes think he would have been happier if he had stayed with France." Spain commented to one of his closest friends.
Since not even castrati Farinelli was able to lift his mood, Spain was not going to try, and avoided him as much as Philip did. He had enough things to worry about himself.
1741
Colombia ran towards Spain, panting.
"Brother! England is here! He's coming!"
Spain already knew that. He could smell his stench from miles. He comforted Colombia in his arms. (He had grown so tall! He was now just as tall as he was now, his little boy!).
"It's alright." Spain told him. "I won't let him lay a hand on you. Admiral!"
Clonk, clonk! did the wooden leg against the floor boards.
Admiral Blas de Lezo hated England as much as Spain did. His left leg had to be amputated due to a cannon-shot during the Battle of Vélez-Málaga. His left eye was lost defending the naval base of Toulon. He couldn't use his right arm since the Siege of Barcelona. People called him 'the Half Man'. But, even being half of himself, he was still alive and willing to fight. Someone with so much endurance, courage and experience against England had to be by Spain's side.
"England's approaching. I suggest we give him a warm welcome." Spain told him with a side smile.
Lezo nodded. "I agree, Your Greatness."
"It's not going to be easy but we have fought in harder bull rings..." Spain muttered.
England had brought one hundred and ninety six ships approximately, almost thirty thousand men. Spain had three thousand and some fortresses protecting Cartagena de Indias. It didn't seem like much, but Spain was going to do his best with it. He was not going to let England get his hands on this port, so crucial to his economy. He was not going to lose his brother Colombia.
England was accompanied by Admiral Vernon. While Vernon bombed Cartagena's fortresses day and night, England advanced with his men. For days, the offense eroded the defenses and the Hispanics had to retreat, allowing England into the bay. They were so sure of their victory that Vernon sent a letter back to the kingdom to announce the imminent conquest. While Vernon kept attacking the fortress with cannons, England and his men found a way in through the jungle.
That was his first mistake. The jungle was infested with mosquitoes which transmitted them malaria. He reached the gates short on hundreds of soldiers. And Spain was waiting for them.
"¡Hola, Inglaterra!" Spain greeted his old friend with three hundred men armed with bladed weapons that managed to push the invaders away.
That served to show England and Vernon that victory was not going to be that easy. They changed their plan. They tried to climb the fortress to surprise them at night. But Lezo, foreseeing this, ordered to build a moat around it and shoot from the trenches.
"They are drawing back! Hoorraaaay!" Colombia celebrated.
Spain walked out, armed, to kick England out.
"How do I have to tell you, England, my old friend, that you are not welcome here?"
"One day this will be mine...One day you will fall, and I am going to watch with a glass of gin in my hand!" England flashed his teeth.
Spain only had to threaten him with his bayonet to make him run away. But he was sure he wouldn't accept defeat so easily. And he didn't. Back to his ships, he kept bombing the fortress until hunger and disease decimated his numbers and it was time to go back to his island and lick his wounds.
"He will be back." Lezo muttered, watching as the English ships disappeared in the horizon.
"I am sure of it." Spain nodded, his arm around Colombia.
As long as there was greed in this world...
1726
Philip talked so often about his death being imminent that one day it had to become true. One day, a stroke finally sent him to be judged by his Maker for the 'sins' he had committed. He had to be mummified because, having not changed his clothes in years, the skin itself came out when they tried to peel them off. And they thought Joanna was the crazy one!
Spain hoped that Ferdinand, the sixth he had, was more balanced than his father.
It seemed he was. He was well aware of what was going on, the intrigues around him...He didn't forget that his stepmother, Farnese, had kept him away from his father and favored her own children, and so ordered to kept her captive at the palace of Aranjuez. When she protested, asking him if she had done something bad and how to make up for it, he replied that he didn't need to give anyone explanations to do what he wanted. Spain liked that. It was about time to have someone determined!
"You need a better navy. Nowadays, it is all decided at sea." He told Spain. "And you should remain neutral about that war concerning Austria."
"I've got a face to save..." Spain said.
"Yes, but you are getting nothing from it. Nothing except wasting your money and health. You'd do better doing something with Portugal, who is using Brazil to give England..."
"Someone else do it. I don't even want to see him!"
"Very well. Then how about we make a new deal with Vatican. I know my father said he was the enemy for siding with the archduke, but you need his favor."
"That sounds much better. Vatican is a good friend and a powerful ally. Yes, I will do that."
"And get rid of the gypsies. Put them all to work. At the factories, the shipyards, the galleys."
"Uh...Okay?"
"Believe me, they are nothing but trouble. Thieves! Murderers! This way, they will be of some use."
About Portugal, Ferdinand did not manage to convince Spain to deal with Portugal in a non violent way, but his wife, Barbara, Portuguese, the most cultivated woman Spain had ever met (and obese too), managed to.
"He has always considered you family too, and it hurts him that things have to be this way..." She told him.
She was just like her mother-in-law. Spain couldn't say no to her suggestion of meeting Portugal.
It was fairly tense, that encounter. Both of them still had the scars of the wars they had been involved in against each other.
"...I will sign the treaty. I mean, if you promise not to wipe your ass with our promises this time..." Spain said, his arms crossed, not looking at him.
"I promise I won't touch your colonies...if you don't touch mine." Portugal said.
"They are not colonies. They are my provinces. My siblings."
"Sure, sure. Come on, stop pouting. I'll pay you a drink."
"Drink on your own." Spain shook his head.
Portugal sighed.
"Listen, I left because I felt...I felt suffocated. You were always imposing what you thought was right to others. I couldn't make my own decisions."
"So not wanting you to make a fatal mistake is suffocating you?" Spain frowned.
"You've got to let people make their own mistakes."
"...Alright, I accept that drink. But you are paying."
Yes, Barbara was a remarkable woman. Ferdinand was so in love with her, and Spain wasn't surprised about it.
When she fell sick and died, Ferdinand stopped eating and speaking. He became uninterested in Spain's matters. He heard servants said he sometimes bit people. Just like his father, he claimed to be dead, a ghost. He didn't sleep in a bed, but on two chairs. Spain and the guards had to stop quite a few suicide attempts. Soon, he reunited with his beloved wife in the afterlife.
"Oh, please, God, let me have a sane king..." Spain prayed.
God was good and sent him Charles the Third, Ferdinand's half-brother, since the couple had died without heirs.
1759
Charles actually had experience. He had been Romano's king and Romano could certify to him that he knew what he was doing. Even though his mother, Farnese, though she could get out of Aranjuez now that her dream had come true and her son was now king of Spain, Charles, sensing that she was going to meddle in his decisions, kept her there until she died. Charles had his head full of ideas, and a project.
"Illustration! That's the name that is echoing all around Europe. Illustration! Moving forward! Ideas! Science! Industry! This is the century of light!"
And light came into Madrid. Literally. He made changes so that Madrid wasn't so insecure, and also fixed some problems with the sewing system. He did so much good to the city that he was known as the best mayor it had ever had. He was the patron of so many investigation projects and institutions, encouraged Spain to read papers that started to spread in the streets, about Sciences and Humanities, and impulsed the education of Spain's people.
"And we have to do something about the Inquisition. People who torture and kill intellectuals are not the example you need..."
But Spain saw how the Holy Office was still watching, making sure that no one published something forbidden, sending heretics to whatever hell they believed in. He just made sure that the Inquisition didn't forget that it was working for the crown—for Spain's benefit, of course.
He also considered that they had to do something about America. Since the creoles had been taking all the posts, he made sure that those jobs went to Spaniards from the peninsula. That way he made sure that there wouldn't be corruption. Spain rose the taxes and kept the monopoly of tobacco, powder and grain alcohol, which his siblings produced notably. They were not happy about it, but Spain hoped that the troops he sent to defend them from the pirates would help them see that the money was being well spent. Peru was particularly unhappy with this, but Spain managed to calm her down—he was firm, severe, but he thought he did a good job.
Of course, Charles was not perfect and Spain also had his disagreements with him. Like that time when he wanted to change the way he dressed.
"Shorter cloak...three cornered hat...Charles! I am not dressing like this!"
"Why not?"
"It is Italian!"
"Perhaps it looks Italian, but this way no one will be able to hide weapons or be unidentified! Crime will decrease! Consider it this way."
"Look, as much as I love Romano, I don't want to be a carbon copy of him. I have my own style."
Charles dismissed Spain's reticence but when his people started to revolt—this measure being the last straw; their patience had grown thin with the spread of hunger—, he decided to listen to him. He dismissed his minister Esquilache, who had passed that law, and blamed the Jesuits about the revolt, expelling them.
"You've got more important things to think about than clothes." Charles said to Spain. "Like, what are you going to do about France and England? You've got to pick a side."
Spain sighed. "I guess I have no choice but to help France out, do I?"
Charles shook his head.
That ring around his finger was a contract he couldn't break.
1763
It was not his war. It was not even his war, Spain wept.
He hated Charles, because he was the one who convinced him that France was part of the family now and he had to go fight by his side in his latest quarrel against England for the control of the trade of slaves and commerce in the Antilles. France would have been there in his place, it was the fair thing to do, he said to him. By helping him, he would get even for what England did in Gibraltar and Honduras, he said.
He hated France, who would never be part of his family, and dragged him into that fight.
But, mostly, he hated England, because he had stolen his boy Cuba.
Charles, generals, all kinds of people knocked at his door demanding him to go back to the battlefield, and Spain sent them all to hell. He felt a hole in his chest. Such a terrible emptiness and fear. His Cuba was at those moments at the mercy of that heathen. Who knew what he would do to him. What ideas he would get into his head. He might make him reject Catholicism, change his customs until Spain wouldn't recognize him anymore...Spain was so anxious all he did was smoke and pray for Cuba to be alright. That name was on his mind all the time. Cuba, Cuba, Cuba, Cuba...
At the eighth day of his self-confinement, when Spain thought he had made it very clear that he didn't want to see anyone, someone knocked at the door again.
"Espagne. It's me. May I come in, please?"
Out of all people...
"Please, I want to talk to you. It is important." France said.
"Go away, France. I don't wish to see you right now."
"I know. But I promise you this is important—else, I wouldn't have disturbed you. Come on. It is good news. I swear."
As if his word was worth much...The door finally opened, and the first thing France noticed was that Spain hadn't eaten, slept or shaved in days. The other thing was that his green eyes glared at them like a beast's.
"What good news? Did you get to win your fight?" He asked, spitefully.
"Unfortunately, no." It seemed evident. France was covered in bandages, including an eye patch. He looked disastrous, to be fair. "These are good news for you, only you. I have been corresponding with England."
"How sweet. Tell your pen pal I hope he chockes on that pastry he has while drinking tea at five." Spain was about to close the door when France blocked it with his foot and turned his head to some point behind him.
"Hermano..."
Spain froze. From behind France, a figure appeared. A teenager. But not any teenager. It was Cuba. His Cuba was there.
Spain muttered his name, then ran to hug him.
"C-Cuba! Am I dreaming?! Are you really here?! Oh, thank God, you...Let me see you! You're not hurt, are you?"
"I'm alright, brother." Cuba smiled when Spain's cuddling and kissing allowed him to. And he looked good indeed, because he had no scars in his body and they had washed and given him the best clothes they found, too.
Spain didn't notice France looking away with the most uncomfortable feeling in his throat. His whole world was Cuba at that moment. He didn't look at him until a long while later, and when he did his scowl turned into a smile.
"F-France! What did you…?"
"It wasn't me. It was your king. He made a deal with England. Florida in exchange for Cuba."
"Let him have it! Goodness, those were really good news, I..."
"And that's not all...I have been talking to mine and I have convinced him that since I dragged you into this, I should compensate you for the trouble. Louisiana is all yours now."
"France...Thank you, but...but…"
"Why? Well...We are family now…"
Without giving Spain the chance to say anything, he walked away. He did notice something in the way he walked, but at that moment he really couldn't care about France, because Cuba was back to him, and he didn't want to let him go.
A ship took him back to his island soon, too soon for Spain's taste, but he guessed he had to return home. He had duties to fulfill.
"What if England comes back?" Cuba asked him, trembling a bit at the sole memory of that man.
"Don't worry. He won't bother you ever again." Was Spain's promise.
Only after his little one was back to America did Spain think of France. He asked his king about the course of that war in his absence. It was then when Spain found out why he did what he did.
"I didn't know you lost your little brother Canada…"
France was at the balcony. There they could have a peaceful talk, both of them. Spain approached and leaned on the balustrade.
France didn't look at him.
"...It was the price to pay…" He muttered.
"...I'm sorry it was so high…"
"...He is more than a little brother to me, you know? He is...my pride. He got his gorgeous hair from me. He's so frail, so innocent, so beautiful...All I do I ask myself if England will make him his slave, make him pay for everything I have done to him…Poison him with that horrible food of his...He...He doesn't even know any English, all the time, every single day I ask myself…"
His voice cracked and he avoided looking at Spain. His hair made it impossible to see his face, but Spain kept gazing at him with pity. He turned his head to Spain some time after, swallowing hard and making an effort to draw a smile. His eyes were so wet.
"Sorry…"
"Don't be. Now I find what you did for me even more wonderful." Spain replied.
"I know you love Cuba with burning passion, and I wanted you to see...well...We used to be good friends long time ago. We abused that trust. But…"
"...Yeah...Those were good times...Back when we were just provinces, not...big boys, like Rome used to say…I kind of...miss old Rome..."
"Yes, me too…How he took pleasure in seeing us fight."
"But he stopped us when we hurt each other."
"It was all a game to him. A light version of the gladiators he enjoyed so much, surely."
"It was fun."
"It was really fun…"
"...I'm sorry I haven't trusted you, France. You are not that bad."
"And I am sorry about...some of the things that I did."
It was like going back to the old times, when they were under Rome's control. When they considered each other friends. Brothers.
"We will make England wish he wasn't born." Spain said to France.
A fine smile grew on France's face.
"Yes. I would love that."
And America, little America, gave them the perfect chance with his dreams of independence.
1783
England tried to get up but he couldn't. He was so hurt, defeated—defeated by his own colony. By the child he had nurtured and raised. It was pathetic.
And Spain enjoyed watching it so, so much.
"Surrender now, England. You're through." America said, firm, strong, in contrast to England. He was so tall. Even though he was many centuries younger than him, he was as tall, or even more.
England raised his eyes but not to America, but the ones behind him. France. Holland. Spain.
"...Curse you…" He grunted with hoarse voice.
That made Spain's day, and week, and month.
Revenge was so, so sweet.
Oh, revolution seemed such a lovely word back then. It took over America's body like a fever, and hurt England like no weapon ever could. Spain didn't know at the time that the flu was not a benign illness, until, six years later, something happened to France, something horrible, atrocious, monstrous, that would turn against him. Against all of Europe. Like a plague.