Chapter Text
Amsterdam, 1558
The service doors of the banquet hall swing open discreetly to make room for yet another liveried valet holding aloft a silver tray as ornate with trimmings as it is with oysters arranged in neat little pyramids of indigestion. The ensuing draft swivels around the silver candle holders, casting a faint aroma of melted wax over the finest aged Jerez shipped in contraband caskets through enemy waters long before the gathering’s guest of honor had ever set foot in his most reluctant realm.
He sniffs at his cup, seemingly inhaling a wisp of home. He has elegant arched eyebrows spread over light, intelligent eyes that fit the pallor of his face and sparse facial hair that barely reaches his still youthful, round cheeks.
“If I were so inclined, I’d place a wager on the English being far too concerned with losing Dunkirk to be expected to hold any ambitions regarding these shores,” a reedy voice stirs somewhere to his right.
“No better arbiter than His Majesty,” says another, striking from his left flank.
Felipe II ignores the prolonged silence stretching over his wine sip and beyond, past the limit of courteous behavior for anyone lower than a Count in the line of succession. Having had the privilege to look down on Counts since birth, he continues to contemplate the way the Jerez sloshes around the silver cup, absorbed in silence, much to the increasing discomfort of the not-even-Dukes around him.
“Even if you had but one florin to your name to wager, Affetato, a long line of creditors would be waging bloody battle for it before you ever had the chance to send it on yet another fool’s errand,” the tall, mustachioed host cuts through the stillness like a lash.
The predictable howls of laughter rippling through the little coterie formed around his guest allow the Duke of Parma the perfect opportunity to usher Felipe through a throng of guests into the secluded retreat of his study.
“With your Majesty’s permission,” says the Duke, “it is perhaps time to dispose of the polite fiction of your visit to your most humble servant.”
His voice is clear and steady, respectful but uncowering in the presence of royalty, worthy of the only real Duke in the room, Felipe thinks. He motions his guards to keep a healthy distance while he follows his host further into the venerable library. Ten minutes later, the King of Spain, Naples and Sicily is still glued to the spot where he’d paused upon approaching the Duke’s mahogany desk, half stooped and gazing transfixed at a humble wooden box.
“I’m afraid it is not for sale, Your Majesty. My wife dreams of converting it into a family heirloom passed onto our daughter, a most proud dowry…”
“Perhaps her dreams would be sweeter as mistress of her own island in the West Indies, rich in spices and slaves?”
The Duke pauses in mid-breath.
“Our daughter is to be married before next Whitsunday, Sire,” he says, conviction nowhere to be found in his voice.
“On the other hand, a Duchess can dream as a hostess of colonial palaces just as well as she can dream as a guest of the Holy Office of the Inquisition.”
Felipe blinks only once, as if loath to close his eyes even for the briefest of moments. He continues to peer through the cold, waxy light falling on the open box nestled on the Duke’s desk.
“If I were you, I’d name a good price for a Duchess’ dreams, Farnese.”
~
Álvaro takes a deep breath and starts to count back from sixty. This is if not the biggest day of his career, then certainly one of the most high-stakes, nerve-wracking ones. As counterintuitive as it may seem for an advertising exec, Álvaro hates volatility and since the less travelled path is usually paved with utter twats for clients, he prefers to keep it as predictable as possible. The last place he would have expected to find himself in this most crucial of Tuesdays when he boarded Mourinho’s Madrid-bound jet too early in the morning was a quiet, obscure wing of the Museo del Prado, watching paint dry off the distinctive lips of dead Habsburgs staring back at him from poorly lit portraits.
…thirty-seven, thirty-six…
Come to think of it, he’s known Xabi long enough to expect it just a little bit.
“I can hear you trying to come up with a way to interrupt,” Xabi says, his profile rivaling in stillness and beardedness any royal portrait hanging on the beige walls.
“No, I get it. You’re gathering your thoughts… getting in the zone… that’s cool.” Álvaro joins his boss on the polished bench in the middle of the exhibit room. “If staring at underage chicks is what it takes, at least it’s chicks wearing eight layers of clothes, so it’s marginally less creepy.”
“Isabel de Valois was thirteen when she married the King of Spain through a proxy groom; el Duque de Alba stood in for His Majesty,” Xabi starts, never breaking eye contact with the cracked porcelain texture of the portrait’s skin.
“Uhuh.”
“The Iron Duke? Conqueror of Portugal, butcher of the Spanish Netherlands, military genius, genocidal maniac…?” Álvaro plays it cool to the point where mild outrage at his lack of interest isn’t even fun anymore, so Xabi continues his quasi monologue. “The portrait was commissioned by Felipe II…,” his voice takes a hesitant turn that awakens an innate strain of petulance in Álvaro.
“Guy with all the sunken boats sent to fuck up England – La Invencible Armada. I bet that was awkward the day after…” Xabi raises an eyebrow at him before turning his attention back to the young princess. “What?... You’re not the only one who reads books.”
“In the 1550s, Felipe bought a unique blue diamond for his future bride. It wasn’t the largest stone or the most expensive, but it was supposedly so clear and its blue hues were so… pure, it’s thought to be one of the first internally flawless diamonds ever discovered. And they don’t get discovered very often, not to that degree of purity. The jeweler who cut it describes the way it trapped light in its depths and reflected it back into the most perfect shade of blue like some sort of religious experience...”
“But we’re staring at a blurry, shitty picture of it instead of the real thing because…?”
It’s not that Álvaro’s suddenly interested, no. It’s just that the goddamn beige light of the museum offends him on a deeper, professional level. If Mourinho ever let them do pro bono, which he never would, Álvaro would love nothing more than to give the old, dusty place a makeover, complete with floodlights and a half decent souvenir shop for a change. He’s happy to let Xabi blabber away while he’s mentally working on his grand corporate citizenship project that never was.
“It was worn by both Kings and Queens for centuries, the most recognizable symbol of the Spanish Crown, until Napoleon’s brother pawned it off to finance his retreat on his way out. According to some sources, it was recut into a smaller, worthless gem mounted on a sword and then inevitably lost forever as the Empire crumbled to dust. But there are other, more… interesting theories about what happened to it.”
“Maybe the old Queen kept it hidden all along then threw it into the ocean at the end,” Álvaro suggests, noticing for the first time the rapt look in Xabi’s eyes.
It makes him feel weirdly uncomfortable. They’ve worked together almost seven years and, binge alcoholism aside (which doesn’t count since it’s a required skill in their profession), he’s never seen Xabi lose composure in front of anything or anybody. Álvaro’s mouth hangs half open ready to parry a comeback that never comes. Xabi blank stares at him for a few seconds and he figures that statistically speaking, he would have that one friend who’d react like this. Of course it would be Xabi.
“I’m guessing there’s some profound life lesson here about managing the client’s expectations and the ephemeral nature of all shiny, expensive things we’re trying to sell. Thing is though, we have about an hour and a half until we have to stand in front of the board of Adidas Europe and pitch them a campaign that’s had more midwives than Isabella here has underskirts and it’s kinda looking to be dead on arrival. So if you don’t mind, boss, I’d need a little less history of bling and more of an insight into what you thought of the Adidas campaign.”
“It’s awful.”
“Well… that’s a start.”
“The whole thing is so visually and emotionally hollow, there’s no way to cover up the fact that it was created by coked up, yuppie ad execs who’d never soil their Ferragamos in the stands of a football stadium. If they ever do bother to show up in the complimentary VIP boxes at Stamford Bridge, it’s to sip expensive champagne and gossip about their dream tech start-ups rather than watch the game.”
You can stop now, Álvaro wants to say, but he has this sinking feeling that Xabi’s just warming up and the fact that he’s finally looking away from the portrait and springing to his feet seems to confirm it.
“The whole Your heart is beating on the pitch like that of our brave warriors, Michael Bay vomit-cam quick shot-aesthetic is so vapid, it would be insulting to pretend otherwise. It just screams: ‘We’re rich and we’re loving it.’” Xabi shoves his hands in his perfectly tailored pockets and turns to look at the melancholic princess one last time. “And the message is absolutely pitch perfect for the product. People don’t support Real Madrid because they love hanging onto the edge of their seat to see the scrappy underdog battle a whole division of of other broke, inferior teams in half empty stadiums where they can barely afford to keep the lights on. They’re in it to win shit. People come into the Bernabéu like the Romans went into the Colosseum – nobody was there for the Christians. The Christians were boring. They’re there to cheer for the lions. The ad tells them: We spend ridiculous amounts of money on bringing you the best players in the world and win. Why apologize for it? You’re loving it!”
“So we’re going with Greed Is Good? That’s a little 1987…”
“No, you’re going with WINNING Is Good. You’re leading the pitch.”
“Um… no, I’m not.” Álvaro sounds terribly unconvinced though because Xabi’s already on his way out of the exhibit room.
“Time to spread your wings, Alvarito. You know more about the campaign and Adidas than I do, they already like you and I wouldn’t trust anybody else with the job. If you want to go in the opposite direction, the client will follow you anyway,” he says, stopping in the doorway for a moment.
And yes, Álvaro’s seen straight men in board rooms get uncomfortable boners and feel the need to throw piles of money at Xabier Alonso for the privilege of buying whatever he was selling following performances not unlike what he’s just witnessed, but there’s rare, genuine human warmth in it this time so he smiles back.
“Go lions!”
He sighs and looks up at the portrait in earnest before rushing to follow Xabi out. The light still bothers him.
“Did you just hitch a private jet ride to come to a museum and get paid for the day?” Álvaro asks, equally scared and excited at the sight of the separate taxis waiting around the corner from El Prado.
“I’ll see you in London,” Xabi says, patting him cheerfully on the back before telling his driver to head straight to the airport.
Xabi lands on the Côte d'Azur under a brilliant spring sun and chides himself for not packing any boating shoes.
He’s driven to the marina by a very bald, very surly man and escorted into the blinding white cavern of luxury parked among lesser yachts by an equally reserved gentleman whose Glock 17 rests purposefully on his hip. It's concealed under his utilitarian gun-for-hire expensive suit jacket, but still visible if you know where to look, and Xabi most certainly does.
~
Steven arches his back against the tense graphite of his six iron and glares at the expanse of green separating him from his target. The gray April sky hangs so low over London, it seems intent on swallowing the city, and even if it stopped raining hours ago, humidity still clings to the afternoon air. He loves playing after a good rain - drives may not run as far, but the green's like a dartboard and he can ram home putts that he wouldn't dream of being aggressive with on a hard green. Also, it tends to be quieter, especially right before rush hour on the out-of-the-way suburban golf course where Steven comes to escape (he's not sure exactly from what or where) and wear mismatched argyle sweaters and socks.
He used to play with the one friend from college who still speaks to him, a stocky lad who'd taught Steven how to golf by kicking beer cans to release frustrations inherent to being a "probie" constable stuck with some of the most shit tasks in the force. The birth of baby no. 3 put their golf afternoons on indeterminate hold in the way that their divergent career paths never could, so Steven golfs alone. He still drives out here far from his new office because he can, what with all the time he discovered he now has on his hands, and because Steven's rich now. Not just comfortably well off, not successful professional wealthy, but fucking loaded and probably not having to bother with showing up at Gerrard Investigations except to sign papers for the rest of his life. And the car's nice (nicer), and his mum loves her new house with a big garden, but otherwise he still refuses to throw away his old, battered running shoes and nothing much's changed in Steven's life over the last couple of years. But that bit about being a name on a wall in a well oiled machine that runs just fine without him nags at him like a pebble stuck in his boot.
The hosel is released from his fingers with a snap and Steven prepares to tee up for the fourth hole when the tip of a gleaming stingray golf shoe distracts him.
"Glen...," he says, smiling despite himself at how much the bald, brawny man swathed in tasteful cashmere who's walking towards him still looks like a refugee from an Armani catalog.
"Mr. Gerrard, you're a hard man to find at this hour," says Glen Johnson, the grip on Steven's hand every bit as forceful as three years ago when they'd last met.
"I guess it's too much to hope you're here for an afternoon putt?"
"I'm more of a ping-pong man myself. Afraid it's strictly business again. If you're interested," Glen adds with a quirk of his lips.
"Did the old man lose something again?"
"Not yet. But he thinks someone might want to make sure that he does and there's nobody he trusts with these kind of... operations better than you. He'd like to debrief you right now, if you're available."
Steven leans against the club and stares into the distance where he can barely make out the glass spires of the City through the fog.
"I think I can make some room in my planner," he smiles wryly. "Want me to follow you in my car or..."
"No need," Glen nods towards the small beech coppice lining the golf course. "The helicopter's waiting for us right there."
TBC