1558


Edward only had the chance to be England's king for six years, before a terrible disease killed him in the prime of his life, being barely fifteen years old. Spain did not want to rejoice in the death of a young man, but his demise allowed Mary, daughter of Catherine, to get the throne. Under her rule, England went back to the true and only faith, with the papal authority. But Anne Boleyn still made her life impossible, even much after her decapitation by the orders of her own husband: she did not have enough making her grow up deprived from her father's love, from a mother she never saw again—now her daughter, Elizabeth, wanted to steal what was rightfully hers. Elizabeth, the Protestant, the greedy. No, Mary would not let England get corrupted by her, nor did Spain. And so he blessed the union of Philip with his second cousin. After all, he was free after his first wife had died giving birth to their first son Charles.

It was...a good deal. Philip would make sure that England did not stray from the good path. And with England by his side, France would think twice before attacking him.

It was true that Mary ruled over England with an iron hand. Spain heard about the frequent burning of all Protestants that were found. Upon hearing about a revolution that would make Elizabeth queen, Mary ordered all the implied to be executed and Elizabeth to be imprisoned in London's Tower. Archbishop of Canterbury Thomas Cranmer himself, collaborator of her father's folly, also met the axe. So much blood was spilled trying to protect her rights and England that she was known as 'Bloody Mary'.

"She is just doing England a favor, getting rid of that disease. Elizabeth and her father were not kinder to Catholics." Austria would often comment while talking about the matter.

And Spain guessed he could agree. Although Philip had stated that England was Mary's protégé and not his, he was his lifelong friend and could not help meddling—no matter how much he tried.

He had learned that, in order to obtain a benefit, one had to get their hands dirty and expose themselves to the sharp tongues of others...

But even the fiercer men (and women, in this case), lost their temper at a certain point.

Seeing England becoming a collateral victim of France's and Spain's wars seemed to have affected her character. Perhaps...Maybe she was just born with that latent weakness. At the court, it was also speculated that she was suffering a disease, because the speed at which she was getting older, spiritless and sadder was not normal. Although she had loved Philip way more than he had ever loved her, he eventually felt disgusted by her, and disappointed that she had not been able to give him an heir yet—something now impossible in this state. In spite of everything she had done to prevent it, too sick to keep on reigning, expected to die soon, she had to let her half-sister Elizabeth take care of England, and the first thing she did was hand him the Book of Common Prayer.

"We need England to help us control Holland. If those two join forces, Holland will be the end of us." Austria said to Spain. "We've got one way to get England out of heresy and back to the true faith: Mary Stuart, Queen of Scotland, grand-daughter of Henry VIII's sister. Remember?"

"Everyone knows she is very close to France, and, by God, I am starting to think I'd rather have England under the control of a Protestant than in the hands of an ally of that bastard." Spain replied.

He would see the portraits Queen Elizabeth had with England, how close those two were, all their whispering in private—the obsession she had for him, and asked himself if he was doing right. Probably not. But at that point it was a matter of choosing the least bad option he had.


Spain would remember Philip fondly as long as he lived. He was called the Prudent for a reason. He didn't like parties, and preferred to invest his time designing a bureaucratic system with which he could control all of his possessions better. Really boring, in Spain's opinion. But he was a good man. Oh, he was indeed. He didn't like people to call him 'his Majesty', even though his power had no equal and had so many nations under his control. He never referred to Spain by his name, but always addressed him as Antonio, that little nickname that had survived generations in his family, and expected him not to use any title on him in return. Just Philip, Felipe. As if they were family. Weren't they, after all? Philip was the great-grandchild of a king and a queen who had cared for Spain like a son.

Philip fought by his side in Saint Quentin and what he saw there left a great impression on him. He was so sickened he confessed to him privately that he didn't want to get involved in one more battle in the rest of the years the Lord had in store for him.

"Don't worry, Phil. Leave the fighting to me. I can't die. And it is my duty." Spain replied to him. "You could leave all the administration in Austria's hands. He is really good with numbers and planning."

Yes, Philip had a lot of responsibility. Every single night he prayed the Lord to give him strength to bear the heavy burden he had on his shoulders. And to him, too. Austria was softer, more diplomatic, didn't like to get dirty, but he, he had to travel around the world, endure so many hardships, kill so many...His husband often said that he had to stay with him, control everything from the distance, give himself a rest, but Spain just couldn't. God had blessed him with so much, and he couldn't let heresy and traitors take it away from him...

He often visited his little ones in the New Continent to humor them with a bit of attention, brought them presents, played with them for a while—then got the goods they had produced with their little hands, working under a burning sun. Then, he gave those to Philip so he could administrate them.

"I need more money, Spain." Austria would come to tell him.

"I don't have anything else. I gave everything I have to you."

"That is not enough. There are revolts, the Protestants attack again, and we need to pay these soldiers."

"Well...The next cargo from America should come next week…"

But all that money seemed to slip like sand in his hands...

It was kind of funny. The most powerful nation of the world didn't have the money to buy himself a simple pair of shoes.


1561


Spain was not thinking about the city around him, Madrid, to which Philip had moved the capital; that God-forsaken place, only good for rats to drown in rainy days but at least free from Lutherans and merrier in the new Queen's opinion. He was thinking about the little boy he had left in that island Sebastián Elcano had discovered during his travel around the world decades before, which he had baptized with a name that would honor his king: Philippines. He had seen the son of one of the court's composers earlier that day, how gentlemanly he looked, and at that moment he decided he would give the boy a replica of the beautiful white and red garment he was wearing. He hoped that way he would forgive him for leaving him alone in such a far away place, with so many chores. If his little boys and girls in America all had nice clothes to wear on Sundays at mass, why not him?

Once he made that decision, he allowed other thoughts inside of his head.

"Alright, Pedro, what are you hiding from me?"

His assistant seemed to turn white, and it was not an effect of the light in the street, or the dust covering it all after the carriages passed. That confirmed Spain's suspicion.

"There is something Philip hasn't told me and you know it. What is it?"

"Well...Uh..." Pedro babbled.

"Do not fear. I am asking you as a friend."

"Well...our king just wanted to handle the problem on his own—ask Austria, if he needed. You were in America and didn't want to add more trouble to your-"

"Go straight to the point, Pedro, please."

"It's...Holland."

"What's the matter? Is he alright?"

"Yes, yes. Uhm. Well...No. I mean...He's...got silly ideas, like...he didn't like at all that the Duke of Alba had to make him pay taxes to defray the costs of your army in his territory. He claims, ahem, that it is unbelievable you make him sustain a foreign army. And you shouldn't force your believes onto-"

"I am not a foreigner. We are family."

"Sure, sure, that's what he was told! But, eh, you know he never liked our king. He is not like his father. He is far more interested in our land than he ever was and does not even speak Flemish. If his father, God rest his soul, was a foreigner here, he is a foreigner for the nations from abroad."

"Is that all? That is why Holland is so angry? He always had a short temper…" Spain shook his head with a smile.

"No, the problem is Governor Margaret. She...uhm...signed a document demanding the dissolution of the Inquisition in Flanders. Then the Calvinists destroyed some churches. The Duke of Alba arrived when the situation was controlled by the Governor, and was not taken very well. He executed noble men linked to the cause in the name of the King, and made Holland furious."

Pedro avoided looking at him to the eyes.

"He wants to be independent, sir..."

Spain flinched but not because of Pedro's words.

"Hey!"

A boy was running into the opposite direction, and Spain chased him. The little one was very young, seemed to know the streets well, but Spain had the advantage of having fought in many battles for centuries and eternal youth and vigor. He pounced on him and both rolled in the ground, with all the street watching them with great surprise.

"Got you!"

He snatched the jewels the boy had stolen from him while he was listening to Pedro's explanations.

"Sir!" His assistant approached.

The boy was barefoot and very dirty. He was no older than eight, Spain supposed. So thin, so miserable. He tried to escape like a ferret, using his teeth if necessary.

He would be executed for sure. Very little commoners were allowed to touch or even address the nation unless he did it first. And robbing him would result in a sure execution at the town's square.

But Spain smirked.

"You need a lot of practice, but, still, you made me sweat, kid. You earned that."

Nor Pedro nor the boy could believe what he was saying. It was not until Spain handed the boy his pendant that they saw he was not joking. The boy stared at him for long quite intimidated, but didn't waste the chance, grabbed the jewel and ran off.

"Why did you do that, sir?" Pedro asked Spain as he stood up and shook his stained clothes.

"You can't possibly understand, friend." Was his enigmatic response.


Pedro had so much more to say, but didn't say it. The news about Holland were worrying enough. But Spain eventually found out. It didn't do him any favors, but in the end he learnt about it all.

"Are there any survivors?" He asked Austria, pipe in hand.

Austria, with his arms crossed, shook his head slowly.

"...We really needed that ship..." Spain sighed, expelling the smoke at the surface of the table.

"We think they are the same people who have been stealing the pay for our men in Flanders." Austria said, taking seat in front of him.

"So those sons of bitches want to ruin us, huh? Surely there is someone behind this...The Ottoman, surely. He can't keep his hands to himself, the mangy dog..."

Austria's silence and persistent stare made Spain turn his head to him.

"...You know who did it, right? And you didn't tell me."

Austria prevented his glasses from slipping down his nose.

"You are always here, and there, and the next second you're gone again. It's impossible to talk to you."

"Is it France?" Spain asked. "Tell me, is France doing this?"

"...No, it's not France."

"I hate it when you hide things from me. What is wrong with everybody? Talk! Tell me who is looting my ships!"

"...England is..." Austria finally replied.

Spain turned his eyes to Austria and was silent for long.

"...I wanted to tell you; Philip did not want to give you more to worry about—break your heart, he said. But we've got to face the facts: England has found a profitable business in hiring corsairs to assault our ships."

Spain turned his eyes to the surface of the table and did not say a word.

"She married him. When a human marries their nation, they do it to have full control over them. I knew it was not a good idea to let her take the throne. She sure has filled his head with lies and fantasies, of grand projects..." Austria kept talking. "Although it always seemed to me that England is like everyone else, he can't just have enough in his island. He wants more, of course. And he can't stand seeing everything we have acquired...Perfidious Albion..."

Spain still did not reply. After all, how much he had loved England...Who could he trust?

Did he have a single true friend to help him stop the Ottoman?


1571


Veneciano flinched and whined.

"Ssssh, it's okay. I'm finished."

Italy's stomach was covered with bandages which were already soaked, but it would do. He couldn't complain, though. At least he was not skinned alive and had his skin filled with hay like it happened to his commander Bragadino. The Ottoman's men were monstrous.

"You will feel better in the morning, you will see." Spain told Veneciano, and helped him lie down in bed.

"Grazie, Spagna…" Veneciano muttered.

"He will pay for this, I promise. That is...if you let me and Romano help you."

His bosses saw them like enemies. They had tried to keep Veneciano away from them, filled his head with lies. But who was there when they hurt the one he considered his little brother?

Veneciano probably saw things that way, because he let Spain tend his wounds and give him a brother's affection. Having found a position which didn't hurt, he nodded.

"Thank you…"

A part of Spain wanted to keep him away from danger, but the part that thought Veneciano needed to get stronger and tougher and there was no other way to achieve it than going to war won in the end. So, the following day, when the wounds in Italy's body magically disappeared, he trained the boy personally for the battle to come. He would give him the tools to defend himself. Nobody would hurt him again.

Veneciano had potential. After all, his voice had already cracked and he had become taller and there was no way he could be mistaken for a little girl now (when Austria had to describe the awkward realization to him, Spain couldn't help laughing for ten minutes straight). He even looked older than his older brother Romano—and that was something South Italy didn't forgive him.

But there they were, all of them, each one in charge of a galley. Spain couldn't help committing the sin of Pride. His ships were the best equipped.
Mass was finished. All of them, even those who did not participate in the battle, put themselves in the hands of Our Lady of the Rosary and asked her to help them against the infidels. Spain crossed himself and raised his eyes to the sky. The winds had changed their direction in their favor. That was was a good sign from God himself.

When La Real sent off a canon shot to the Sultan, the battle began.

It was surprising to Spain not having gone completely deaf with so many shots. Even if he lost his hearing completely, he would have been completely satisfied. The Turks didn't start well. Those who approached his ships got so many blasts they sank or were left severely damaged. They just couldn't get closer. All their shots were too high or simply missed. Were they even trying?

The Sultan hit La Real, and Spain and his men jumped on board. There he found his enemy, the Ottoman, dressed for the battle but still wearing shining jewels that mysterious mask covering part of his face.

Spain drew his sword and charged.

"Make peace with your god!"

Around him, Italy were not having a good time. Their admirals were falling under the Egyptians' attack. Both Veneciano and Romano fought with bravery, even having no leaders, but their ships were sinking. Veneciano had to jump into water when cannon shots destroyed the ship he was in. They would have been crushed if it wasn't for their feat inspiring the Christian captives in the Egyptian ships to rebel against them. They got to escape from the galleys and news said Siroco was killed and the sight of his head on a pike made Egypt flee to the coast. Romano was so stubborn he made a lot of decisions his bosses would disapprove and got many men killed, but resulted in victory.

As for Spain, he had to face a great swordsman. The Ottoman cornered him and made several cuts that made him bleed like a pig. But Ali Pasha, his commander, had been shot in the head and then it was cut and displayed for everyone to see the battle was lost for Allah's believers. Turkey started to feel tired, started to see that there was a chance that this could not be won, and Spain got advantage of it. His blade went through his enemy's chest and he pushed him until he nailed him to the nearest wall with it. He was not dead. Unfortunately. But he would be really hurt
for a while. And that was enough for him. The message had been delivered.

But he was left so tired he fell to the deck.

"Sir! Are you alright?"

A bearded soldier helped him stand up with just one hand. The other seemed limp, was filled with blood and did not have a very good look.

"Unng...Thank you...I..." Spain muttered.

"Do not fear, sir. The battle is over. Victory is ours." The soldier assured him.

"Your hand…"

"It's alright, sir, you have it so much worse…"

Spain took deep breath and could finally draw a smile. "What is your name, soldier?"

"Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra, sir."

"Mr. Cervantes, you are a good man. I will make sure you get a recommendation letter. Now go, you should get that hand healed as soon as possible."

Yes. He had nothing to fear. Victory was theirs. He could hear Italy calling him, both of them. While Veneciano was glad he was fine, he could hear Romano yell: "Aw, come on, you're not dead?!". God was good to him, after all, making his sacrifices worth.

Once everything was over, Spain ordered that the beacon of the Ottoman's leading ship was taken and presented to the Virgin at the Monastery of Guadalupe, in Cáceres, as an offering. The Mother of all had been so good to them...

After the battle, celebrations followed. His men drank and ate as much as they could. Spain signed recommendation letters so they could get good posts, for they had shown to be heroes. He sang and danced happily with all those men some people considered brutes and illiterate, but whose hands had defended the faith.

...But he was afraid to be happy, because experience told him that there was always some unpleasant event around the corner. England stealing his ships, France lurking, Italy's doubtful loyalty, Holland and his ambition...

He tried to get rid of those thoughts just for a while and celebrate. He really tried. He wanted to be relieved from the burden, forget about it...just a while...