Chapter 269: The Elites’ Fright
Carlos had not given the matter prolonged deliberation. Instead, he acted at once, summoning the principal elites to discuss the question of independence. Though he did not strictly require their consent, he understood the necessity of reaching some form of agreement before making any formal declaration.
He chose to gather them at his estate, taking the opportunity to return briefly—and to spend some time near Isabella.
In a separate chamber within the large residence, he allowed the invited representatives to assemble and prepare themselves for the discussion to come.
The room filled quickly. Smoke lingered heavily in the air as older men conversed in low tones, pipes and cigars in hand. Servants stood discreetly behind them, attentive yet silent.
Carlos had not neglected precautions. A portion of his forces had been repositioned around the estate, reinforcing the usual guard already present. Among them were several German soldiers—men who, despite the recent setback at Mompox, remained among the most disciplined and capable troops in New Granada.
"Tell me," one of the older men said, exhaling a thin stream of smoke, "what do you suppose this boy Carlos intends? He has never called upon us without cause. When he acts, it is only to secure his industries—and always alone. It is... unusual for him to summon us all."
The speaker, a merchant from Río Negro, had witnessed firsthand the efficiency—and ruthlessness—of Carlos’s army. He understood, perhaps better than most, that Carlos placed little reliance upon the old families.
Another man gave a dismissive shrug. "Who can say? I have suffered no small losses since he claimed those lands for himself. I cannot regard him favorably." He paused, his tone sharpening slightly. "Indeed, I am surprised he extended the invitation at all. Our family has not been discreet in its criticism."
A third voice interjected, more measured. "And yet, he has also provided us with opportunity. That Roman cement of his sells at remarkable prices in Brazil. Even the mainland appears eager to acquire it."
A quiet murmur followed.
The atmosphere within the room settled into a tense mixture of professional interest and lingering resentment. Old grievances had not been forgotten—but neither had profit.
When Carlos entered, accompanied by his butler, the conversations faltered. The air seemed to grow heavier, as though the weight of his recent military and economic actions had preceded him into the room.
The assembled men inclined their heads in greeting—a precise, almost mechanical acknowledgment of rank and custom. Yet their eyes remained sharp, appraising. These were men accustomed to dealing in both wealth and power.
Silence followed.
Carlos allowed his gaze to pass over them, recognizing in their faces the established order of the Viceroyalty—families whose influence stretched across generations, and who regarded his rise not as progress, but as disruption.
He did not wait for them to settle further.
Moving to the head of the mahogany table, he carried himself not with the rigid formality of the Spanish court, but with the controlled ease of a man shaped by the demands of command.
"Gentlemen," he began, his voice calm, yet firm enough to command attention, "I believe introductions are unnecessary. You know me by my family works—some of which have filled your coffers through the trade of Roman cement... and others which have, as some of you might say, redefined your borders."
The old man who had spoken earlier let out a dry, brittle cough.
"Redefined is a polite word, Carlos," he said. "Some of us would call it... seizure. Though I suppose, in the eyes of the Crown, success justifies itself."
Carlos did not so much as flinch.
He leaned forward, placing both hands upon the polished surface of the table, his posture steady.
"I did not summon you here to apologize for land," he replied. "Those territories were stagnant—governed by methods that belong to another century." He paused briefly, his gaze moving from one face to another. "I called you here because the Roman cement you now sell to Brazil at such profit is only the first sign of what is to come."
His tone remained calm, but carried a quiet insistence.
"You are men of the elite because you understand change before it arrives in full. You recognize the shift in the wind before the storm."
He held their gaze without hesitation.
"You resent that I have taken lands you believed yours," he continued, "yet you welcome the profits from the fortifications and routes I have established. You benefit from the weakening of royal monopolies." His expression hardened slightly. "Do not imagine I am unaware that some among you have already begun to involve yourselves in industries that, in the eyes of the Crown, remain under its exclusive control."
A brief silence followed.
"I offer you a choice," Carlos said. "You may remain critics of a world that is passing... or you may become partners in the one that is taking its place."
The tension in the room did not disappear—but it shifted. The men exchanged glances, measuring one another as much as they measured him. Their resentment remained, but it now contended with something colder, more persuasive: opportunity.
"And the Crown?" another man asked, leaning slightly forward into the light. "The Viceroy—and Spain itself—will not look kindly upon a... young man holding more practical power than its own administration." His voice tightened. "If we support you, we risk being named traitors. You, as the grandson of a duke, may yet survive such a charge. But we..." He hesitated. "We lack ancestors powerful enough to shield us. Should you fail, it is our heads—and our fortunes—that will be lost."
Carlos allowed himself a faint, humorless chuckle.
"You believe my blood protects me?" he said. "Perhaps it spares me a swift execution. But do not mistake that for safety. My own brother has little affection for my existence. If I were to return to Spain, I would live a life scarcely preferable to death."
He straightened slightly.
"So believe me when I say—I have committed all that I am to this course."
The older men exchanged looks, some weary, others doubtful. One of them sighed before speaking again.
"Leaving that aside," he said, "do you not think the Crown will soon act against you? My informants report that the new Viceroy has been instructed to strip you of your power."
Carlos smiled faintly.
"I am aware," he replied. "That is precisely why I have chosen this moment to declare independence. The mask between myself and the Crown can no longer be maintained." He paused, then added, "My father-in-law—General Kruger—has made it clear. The next step is no longer negotiation. It is separation."
The effect was immediate.
The atmosphere within the room shifted—no longer merely tense, but suffocating. By invoking both Kruger’s name and the word independence, Carlos had extinguished any illusion of compromise. There was no middle ground left—only victory, or ruin.
The merchant from Río Negro raised a hand to his forehead, wiping away a bead of sweat. His fingers trembled slightly as he adjusted his spectacles.
The room felt smaller now. The air, thinner.
"Señor Carlos..." the merchant began, his voice faltering before he steadied it. "You must understand—we came here expecting to discuss tariffs, land disputes... perhaps some careful maneuvering against the new Viceroy’s. But this..." He hesitated, drawing a breath. "This is a leap into the abyss."
Another elder, a representative of the powerful northern landowners, inclined his head slowly. His face had lost much of its color.
"You speak of a ’real war’ as though it were a natural transition," he said. "For you, perhaps it is. But for us... it is the dismantling of three centuries of order."
He paused, his gaze moving across the table, meeting the same unease reflected in the others.
"If we stand with you—and the first shot fails—our names will vanish. Our sons will be executed. Our daughters..." He did not finish the thought, but the implication lingered heavily. "...reduced to begging in the streets of Seville."
Silence pressed upon the room.
"We are men of influence," the elder continued, his voice lowering. "But we are not soldiers. We are not prepared for the scent of powder in our own gardens."
He folded his hands slowly.
"You ask us to decide the fate of our lineages in the span of an afternoon. We require time. We must consult our families—the heads of our houses. This is not a contract for cement..." He exhaled quietly. "It is a pact of blood."
Carlos remained still, his figure outlined by the flickering candlelight behind him. His shadow stretched long across the wall.
He did not appear angered.
If anything, he seemed like a man who had long since accepted the cost of his path.
After a moment, he sighed.
"You will have a few days," he said at last. "No more."
His tone hardened, becoming precise.
"My grandfather is already engaged at Mompox, and the Viceroy prepares to move. He is not a man who hesitates—and I will not grant him the advantage of time."
His gaze swept across the room once more.
"I require your answer within three days. Those who do not return will be considered opposed to this cause."
A faint pause followed—just long enough for the weight of his words to settle.
"I advise you, in that case, to withdraw from the lands under my control. Otherwise..." He did not raise his voice, yet it carried clearly. "I will take measures personally."
He straightened slightly.
"The nation we intend to found has no place for those who stand between loyalty and hesitation."
Another brief silence.
"You are dismissed."
The words had scarcely left his mouth when Carlos turned and departed, his expression marked by a restrained impatience.
Behind him, the room remained still—its occupants left to reckon with a choice that would determine not only their future, but the fate of everything they had inherited.
