Chapter 429: Right on the Mark

Zhu Di stood on the central square of the city, looking at this Mediterranean port city.

The street was a bit wider than Toledo's, but its filth and disorder were about the same.

Garbage and excrement littered the ground everywhere, sticky underfoot.

The air was filled with a rotting stench, as if someone had buried hundreds of pounds of rotten eggs in the city.

A few Longxiang Army soldiers were clearing a pile of trash at a street corner, shoveling it with iron spades onto a cart.

One soldier cursed while shoveling, "Damn, these Aragonese, why do they live like pigs?"

Another soldier replied, "Even pigs are cleaner than them; at least pigs don't defecate in their own nests."

Zhu Di ignored them, his gaze falling on Barcelona's largest cathedral.

It was built of stone, its spire soaring into the clouds; two stone pillars flanked the entrance, each topped with a cross.

"Prince, the city's garrison has been tallied," the Vice General said, walking up from behind, holding a freshly written military report.

"Two thousand one hundred prisoners captured, over four hundred killed, fewer than five hundred fled; twelve ships in the harbor were blown up, the remaining few surrendered, their cargoes wool and olive oil, plus several chests of Gold and Silver."

"The Gold and Silver are taken away; keep the wool and olive oil for future use. The prisoners are sent for a wash, then drafted as auxiliary troops. The cathedral is emptied; the gold and silver vessels are melted into silver ingots, the Bibles and crosses are burned together, and the cathedral is turned into a school."

The Vice General answered with a nod and turned away.

Zhu Di stood on the square, watching the prisoners being marched in.

Aragonese soldiers lined up, heads down and dejected, some crying, some trembling, some muttering something as if praying.

Their clothes were so dirty their colors were indiscernible, hair a mess, faces smeared with grime, and their nail beds packed with black mud.

A few bold ones secretly lifted their heads to look at Zhu Di, fear and curiosity in their eyes.

Zhu Di looked at them, suddenly recalling the Second Prince's words, and said, "These people are still people, they just live too miserably."

He turned and headed toward the palace.

Barcelona's palace sat on a hill in the city center, built of stone and whitewashed outside, appearing smaller than Toledo's palace but more refined.

A few Longxiang Army soldiers stood at the gate; seeing Zhu Di, they quickly saluted.

Zhu Di entered; the palace was not large, and the first room was a great hall, its floor laid with stone slabs, moss growing in the joints.

Several oil paintings hung on the wall, depicting the successive kings of Aragon. At the far end of the hall stood a stone staircase leading to the second floor.

He went up to the second floor and pushed open a door.

Inside was the king's bedroom, a large bed covered with silk bedding, the linens crumpled, clearly the owner had left in a hurry.

Beside the bed stood a dressing table, with several combs and a bronze mirror on it.

The bronze mirror was rusted, no longer reflecting a silhouette.

He opened the wardrobe, where several splendid robes hung—red, blue, purple—trimmed with gold.

Beneath the robes were a few pairs of leather boots, their toes pointed and upturned like a ship's prow.

"These items, if taken back to Great Ming, the material is decent, but the workmanship is too crude," the Vice General said, walking up from behind, picking up a robe to examine it before setting it down.

Zhu Di gave no reply.

He walked to the window, pushed it open, and looked outward.

Outside, Barcelona spread out before his eyes.

Houses clustered densely, packed together like a beehive.

The streets were narrow and winding, with no end in sight.

In the distance lay the sea, their steamships moored on its surface, smokestacks belching black smoke.

This Mediterranean port city, from today onward, had a new master.

Zhu Di stood by the window, silent for a moment, then turned and left the bedroom.

"Prince, what shall be done with the city's civilians?" the Vice General asked from behind.

"Leave the civilians; let those who should farm, farm, and those who should fish, fish. Tell them Great Ming does not oppress the people; as long as they live honestly, no one will touch them."

The Vice General answered with a nod and asked, "And those nobles?"

"Imprison them, waiting for the Second Prince's decree."

Zhu Di descended the stairs and entered the hall.

A few Imperial Troops were moving items—furniture of the Aragon king: beds, cabinets, tables—all solid wood, carved with flowers, looking hefty but crudely made.

"These things, if taken back to Great Ming, no one will want them," a troop muttered softly.

Zhu Di ignored it, walked to the doorway, and watched the scene in the square.

Longxiang Army soldiers were clearing the streets, carts of trash being hauled out of the city.

The prisoners lined up, being marched to a camp north of the city.

A few priests were dragged out of the cathedral, clad in black robes, hunching their necks, heads down, daring not to look at anyone.

"Prince, what will be done with those priests?" the Vice General asked.

"Send them to mine…"

The Vice General nodded, turned, and left.

At dusk, Zhu Di sat in the study of Barcelona's palace, a freshly written military report spread before him.

"Second Prince, Barcelona has been taken; the city had three thousand garrison troops, four hundred killed, two thousand prisoners, fewer than five hundred fled, twelve ships in the harbor were blown up, the remaining few surrendered, their cargo wool and olive oil, plus several chests of Gold and Silver."

The cathedral has been emptied, the gold and silver vessels are being melted, the Bibles and crosses burned together, and the cathedral converted into a school.

The city's civilians are still honest, causing no trouble. A few nobles have been imprisoned, awaiting your decree.

Next, I plan to push west from Barcelona, straight to Zaragoza.

The Aragonese main force on the western front is watching the Third Prince; the eastern line is empty, perfect for catching them off guard.

The Fourth Prince is in Porto, the Third Prince on the Castile eastern front, you, Second Prince, are in Toledo, and I am in Barcelona.

Four directions, encircled from all sides.

Aragon won't hold out for long.

Brother Di bows.

After finishing, he folds the military report, stuffs it into an envelope, and hands it to the Imperial Troops.

"Send a swift horse back to Toledo, deliver it to Prince Wu."

"Yes..."

After the Imperial Troops withdraw, Zhu Di stands up and walks to the window.

Barcelona's night is quieter than its day.

In the distance, the steamboat lights on the sea flash intermittently, like stars.

He stands for a while, then turns and walks back to the desk and sits down.

On the table lies a map of Aragon, found today in the palace study.

It is drawn more finely than the maps of Portugal and Castile, marking each city's location and garrison status.

Zaragoza is three hundred li west of Barcelona, the capital of Aragon and its largest city.

The city has a garrison; the exact number is unclear, but it certainly isn't small.

Zhu Di draws a line on the map from Barcelona to Zaragoza, three hundred li, passing through the small towns of Lleida and Tarragona.

These small towns have few troops and cannot stop the Longxiang Army.

The real hard battle is at Zaragoza.

He leans against the chair back, eyes closed.

King Alfonso V of Aragon should by now already know that Barcelona has fallen.

He must either withdraw troops to reinforce, or gamble everything and fight a battle on the western front against Third Brother.

A withdrawal to reinforce hits the mark.

Third Brother pursues from behind while he blocks from the front; a pincer attack leaves the Aragonese no escape.

A gamble also works.

Third Brother has ten thousand men; the Aragonese cannot swallow them whole, not that easy.

When the Aragonese engage Third Brother, I will strike from the east, again a pincer.

Whichever way we fight, it will be victory.

He opens his eyes, picks up the brush, and begins to write a letter to Zhu Shuang.

"Third Brother, Barcelona has fallen, the Aragonese eastern front is empty; I am pushing westward straight to Zaragoza. If you cannot hold, retreat, don't force a fight."

"When the Aragonese catch up, I will strike them from behind; if you can hold, delay them on the western front, and when I come from the east, we will pincer them."

After finishing, he seals the letter and hands it to another Imperial Troop.

"Send it to Cuenca, deliver it to Prince Qin."

"Yes."

After the Imperial Troops withdraw, Zhu Di stands up and leaves the study.

Barcelona's night is deep; the moon is hidden by clouds, with only a faint glow on the distant sea.

He stands at the palace gate, looking at the newly conquered city.

In the distance, a church spire flickers in the night, like a finger pointing to the sky.

That finger will soon be cut off.

Toledo City.

Zhu Yong stands on the palace tower, clutching the military report Zhu Di sent from Barcelona.

Barcelona fell faster than he expected.

That kid Zhu Di never makes war a worry.

"Prince, what does Prince Yan say?" Wang Gui comes up from the stairwell.

Zhu Yong hands the report to him.

Wang Gui takes it, scans it quickly, and with a smile says, "Barcelona has fallen; now the Aragonese are panicking."

"Whether they panic is their business; how we fight is ours." Zhu Yong turns, descending the tower.

Wang Gui follows and asks again, "Prince, when do we set out?"

"No hurry; wait until Fifth Brother reaches Zaragoza before deciding."

Zhu Yong walks back to the palace and sits in the study.

On the table lies a map of the Iberian Peninsula, marking Portugal, Castile, Aragon, and Granada.

Portugal has already fallen, Castile too, Aragon is still fighting, and Granada lies at the peninsula's southern tip, a small state, not urgent.

When Aragon falls, the entire Iberian Peninsula will be in Great Ming's hands.

"Prince, if we take Aragon, where do we strike next?" Wang Gui asks from beside him.

Zhu Yong moves his finger north on the map, crossing the Pyrenees, and points to France.

"France."

Wang Gui glances at the map and says nothing.

Zhu Yong leans against the chair back, eyes closed.

France, one of the largest nations on the European continent, populous and militarily strong, not as easy to fight as Portugal or Castile.

But however hard it is, we must fight; if we don't, in a few decades they will be at Great Ming's doorstep.

Toledo's night is very quiet.

In the distance, mountains loom faintly in the night, like a sleeping giant beast.

The Great Ming banner on the city wall flutters in the night wind.

They stood for a while, turned, walked back to the table, and sat down.

Zhu Di was in Barcelona, Zhu Shuang was on the Castile East Line, and Zhu Gang was in Porto.

The four brothers were split across four places, each fighting their own battle.

But their goal was the same.

To conquer Europe and plant Great Ming's banner in every city.