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 was forced into it, 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 appeared impaled by spears.

She hurt his people, took up arms against him, tried to take the children away 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 to 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 baptize the prisoner before he was beheaded in front of a crowd in Cusco, and 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 tremble in such a way. And she had never seen Spain looking at someone in such a way.

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 towards 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 back in her cabin.

"You've got no one else to blame but yourself. You behaved like a treacherous snake and you are dying like one." 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 look at him, muttering sweet words and insisting on the treats awaiting her. 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 had to do what he did. 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 seemed in shock, the poor child.

"Was it France?"

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

"That man with the ugly eyebrows..."

The reveal didn't seem to have any effect on Spain. He just rubbed the child's back. But deep inside, he was feeling such a rage it made his chest burn.

So it seemed the pleasurable 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 were producing for the family business.

Spain did not like England rubbing him the wrong way, but if he had started bothering his provinces...He could tolerate pillage, but he wouldn't let him lay a hand on them.


Romano was all grown now. All those maid dresses he used to wear did not fit him any longer and they would have looked ridiculous on him now. He had 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 precisely what he was entertained with when 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 gentlemanly smile. He had written most of those himself. The rest were Holland's, translated into Italian and Spanish.

«The tears of the Indians»

«The mirror of the cruel and horrible Spanish tyranny»

«Phillip II, the fanatic king»

Spain glared at Romano. He returned the stare, no less firm and defiant.

"What? Don't you like to hear the truth?"

Spain had come there with the intention of breaking his jaw with a good slapping. He never did.

"...Huh...I figured after all these years you'd know me far better than all those pigs who don't give a damn about anyone but themselves..."

Romano did not reply and kept looking at him with that piercing and proud stare of his until Spain turned around and left; then, he went back to his little doves.


1581


"Well, it seems that Philip is close to help you 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..."

"Not that easy. There is a regent. Apparently António, Prior of Crato, thinks he's Portugal's best influence." 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 rights."

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, with England's support, of course. Portugal was surely forced to obey this impostor 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 except 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 spouses. 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 at his jealousy.

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." Phillip told Spain in his room, both of them sitting by 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...I have been having very little reasons to smile about lately, 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 have an iron hand, 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, Holland 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 target you too, Philip. Do you know how they picture you? As a deformed person, cruel, cold, greedy, superstitious...They use you as some kind of boogeyman."

"And many other things. Yes. I am fully 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 kind of delights me that they are so scared of me that they try to ruin my reputation picturing me as the Antichrist and...what was that? Oh, yes, the Pope's whore."

Philip sighed, leaning back on the armchair.

"You don't need to act like if your old friends' treason didn't affect you the least." The king said. "I know it does hurt. You don't need to be ashamed."

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.

"Well...Yes...It...hurts a little...I didn't change. They did. But, you know what? Let them bark! Sooner or later, truth will prevail. God knows my intentions are pure and 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. Not happy with stealing his ships and attacking his ports, 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, he threatened Christianity itself. Encouraged by his queen, he chased Catholics in his house like they were pest and had them executed as such. He wasn't convinced that all those people were traitors who had conspired against him. Not when the monarch was the head of the church they were supposedly offending. And finally, Queen Elizabeth, after celebrating the death of her own sister and giving her the disgusting nickname of Bloody Mary, ordered to execute Mary Stuart, supposedly for conspiring with Spain, France and other Catholics to steal England from her. With the death of her Catholic majesty, Spain lost his patience.

Elizabeth had turned England into a monster 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. One hundred and fifty four ships. Nineteen thousand men. But England's naval forces should not be underestimated."

"God will provide what we are lacking."

Not that Portugal doubted God's almighty hand and the sanctity of their crusade, but he 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 save 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.

Like the director of an orchestra, he commanded his men and cannonballs flew over their heads before impacting in their ships. England was no cabin boy either. He was in his element, it was obvious, and Spain wasn't sure of what kind of god he prayed to now, but he seemed confident in their help, seeing the way he commanded the ships like this was a chess match. He had always been a good player. It turned out to be quite a balanced fight.

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...If we're lucky to reach Scotland...Scotland will help us go back home. He's a pious man and hates England with passion...And Ireland...Yes, Ireland could help too...Please, don't stop looking for Portugal..."

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 prayed hard and when he saw the Cantabrian ports after weeks of voyage, he got on his knees and sighed in relief, promising a lot of offerings to every Virgin Mary advocacy he knew. He was also glad to find he had not lost as many ships as he feared, seeing what he had seen: only thirty. Portugal, Romano and him reunited safely.

Phillip did not wish to talk about this. "In what God does, there is no reputation to gain or lose, but one can only be silent about it". But Romano wasn't silent. He did not miss this chance to laugh at Spain's epic fail. Spain himself couldn't help sharing the opinion the writers, people at the bars, even the Church shared: a lot of things had not been done properly, and he had a lot of adjustments to make. Phillip had as much responsibility in this failure as him and he could use some humility.

But not all of Spain's fleet could resist the storms, and succumbed in the Irish coast. The castaways did not end up among friends. Instead, they found themselves 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. England. They had seen his portraits and some begged for mercy; heretic or not, he was still a Christian. As a response, England removed a glove to touch their faces filled with sand and sea salt, to force them to raise their head to look at him. He almost looked like he was having a nice stroll by the sea and had found that some inconsiderate person had filled it with garbage.

Still, he was an English gentleman and a Christian indeed. After ordering to stab and slit the throat of everyone who still breathed, he gave them all a proper burial.

He wasted no time and planned the counter-attack. Spain was surely back at home licking his wounds and feeling sorry for himself. It was his chance. God had favored him in the defense of his home and there was no reason for him not to expect his help getting rid of the Antichrist.

He gathered as many ships as he could get and the help of Drake and Norris. The plan was simple: destroying all ships surviving their encounter, disembarking in Lisbon and convincing Portugal to abandon Spain and side with him, get the Azores...Darn, he was so sure his plan was perfect that he started to plan an attack to Seville, the heart of Spain's intercontinental trading!

He didn't count on many things. Drake was an excellent pirate and yes, he had looted Cádiz with barely any resistance once, but had made a fatal assumption when he didn't get enough supplies. He said they would get some when they reached Spain's house. But Spain rejected them in every port they tried to disembark in. Instead of joining him, Portugal sided with Spain in the defense of Lisbon. Spain sent him back to his island with a kick on the arse.

It would not be the end. Just the beginning.

He knew Spain was in bankrupt again, and started a war of attrition.

Phillip became very tense. England had become their main problem.

Apart from stealing their resources, he was making them spend a lot of money fighting him. Inside of their own house, traitors started sprouting. His own secretary, Antonio Pérez, was discovered to have been involved in a plot against him, to crown his bastard brother John, and, after he escaped from jail, he found refuge in England, where he revealed secrets of state which helped him plan new successful invasions and spread more lies about monstrous Spain and Philip the ogre, because England, France and Holland loved that material and paid it well. 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. He just followed England around like a lap dog in hopes that he would reward him greatly for his services. But he didn't get all he aspired to, because he never once considered that England despised traitors who sold themselves to the best bidder. His bard Shakespeare helped build his infamous legacy portraying him as an unpleasant snake in his work Love's Labour's Lost.

England harassing. Holland rebelling against a man so cruel and impious it was not treason but common sense to disobey. France plotting his way to get access to the reaches from America and perhaps one child or two. Romano and Veneciano not believing everything said about Spain but believing enough. Portugal's doubtful loyalty.

It was enough to make anyone mad.

Spain said to himself: patience, patience...He turned to prayer often. But Phillip...Humans were fragile...One little blow and they crumbled...

And the last blow came.

He had never minded much about his reputation or the lost chances. He knew Spain could defend himself. It was his daughter Catherine Michelle not surviving a complicated childbirth.

After this, the man in whose domains the sun never set lost his happiness and quickly 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 cheerful...And 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 haven't had much time lately..."

"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...

Never had the time to just enjoy each other's company.

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.
What was all of this for? What was all the pain and sacrifices worth? 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?