Chapter 275: The Council Takes Command
"The Crown lives from the tobacco of this region," Carlos said, tapping the map before him. "If we annex Bucaramanga without bloodshed, we take the Real Estanco for ourselves."
He paused, letting the implication settle.
"We do not burn the crops—we purchase them. We pay in coin, not in promises from a king three thousand miles away. When word spreads that we pay in silver while the Crown pays in debt, the surrounding parishes will come over to our side... without a single shot fired."
Krugger nodded slowly, his gaze fixed on the terrain. In his mind, the map was already transforming—positions, elevations, lines of fire.
"If they join us willingly," he said, "their men may serve as guías. No one knows the hidden routes toward Maracaibo better than a trader from the Meseta."
His finger moved along the high ground.
"We establish a secondary defense there. If the Spanish attempt to advance from Cúcuta to retake Medellín while we are engaged at the lake, they will find Bucaramanga turned into a wall of iron."
Carlos inclined his head slightly.
"Cúcuta is also among our objectives," he said. "But the situation there is entirely different."
He leaned forward, the candlelight reflecting faintly in his eyes.
"Cúcuta is not a settlement seeking better terms. It is a fortress of loyalists. The ’Port of the Andes.’ Every official, every tax collector, every crate of royal correspondence passes through it—between Bogotá and Caracas."
His finger traced the course of the Zulia River.
"The people of Bucaramanga may wish to free themselves from the Crown. The elites of Cúcuta are the Crown. Their wealth depends upon the Spanish monopoly. They will not be persuaded by promises of independence."
He straightened slightly.
"They will see us only as a threat to their way of life. Diplomacy there would be wasted breath—and worse, it would give them time to call for reinforcements from San Cristóbal."
Krugger gave a low grunt.
"So—no envoys at the border," he said. "Only steel."
"Only steel," Carlos confirmed.
His voice did not rise, but it hardened.
"Cúcuta is the jugular. If we do not take it swiftly—and decisively—we leave the door open for the Captaincy General of Venezuela to strike at our rear."
A brief silence followed.
"We must hit them with such force," Carlos continued, "that the news of their fall reaches Maracaibo before any survivor does. We need the Zulia open. We need their warehouses. And we must silence their guns before they can be turned against the Meseta."
Krugger listened, then nodded once.
"Yes," he said. "Though it will cost us."
Carlos did not deny it.
"The defenses are strong," he admitted. "We will lose men—many of them. Cúcuta will not surrender."
He paused, his expression tightening slightly.
"And when the war ends—if it ends—we will be forced to spend heavily to rebuild what we destroy."
Another silence.
"Still," he added, more quietly, "this may be the moment for the fanatics to act. If they move now, they may draw the attention of the Crown elsewhere—if only for a time."
Krugger let out a short, dry laugh.
"Perhaps," he said. "Though from what we hear, their internal disputes may undo them before the Spanish ever do."
He shook his head faintly.
"I would not rely on them."
Carlos did not answer immediately.
His gaze drifted beyond the table, toward the distant outline of the Boquerón Mountains. For a moment, his expression grew distant—thoughtful, almost uneasy.
Those enemies... the ones who had once nearly destroyed them.
He still did not fully understand how their strength had fractured so suddenly.
Or what would emerge from that fracture.
—
Far to the north, in Santa Fe de Antioquia, another mind wrestled with its own answers.
Bishop Esteban sat alone.
Before him lay an open Bible, its pages worn by constant use. Around it, scattered notes—visions, fragments, interpretations—written in a restless hand.
He read with intensity bordering on desperation.
Again and again, his eyes moved across the same passages, searching—not for comfort, but for meaning.
For cause.
For the moment where everything had begun to unravel.
And for an answer he had not yet found.
"This is impossible."
The words broke from Bishop Esteban with unusual force, his composure slipping for the first time in days.
"The arrival of the Germans should not have altered the balance so drastically. The Viceroy was not meant to intervene so soon. And the Spanish army—" he paused, frowning deeply, "—it had already shown weakness. Why, then, do they now appear strengthened?"
His expression darkened.
"And that man... Giuseppe Lech."
He fell silent.
For a brief moment, the realization returned to him—sharp and unwelcome.
It had been he who brought him into New Granada.
A long breath followed.
"Is my talent failing me?" he murmured. "Should I have waited... until that upstart in France finished his conquest of Spain before making my move?"
His lips tightened.
The world had shifted, subtly at first, then all at once. Even the British—whom he had expected to support the southern movements, as history suggested—had withdrawn their favor. When he had sought their aid, he had received only cold responses.
Something had changed.
Something fundamental.
"There is a divergence," he said quietly.
His gaze drifted to the map of Antioquia. Slowly, his hand moved across it—until it stopped.
At the territories held by Carlos.
Esteban’s finger pressed against the parchment.
"This..." he said, almost to himself, "this is the point of change."
He tapped the marked lands once more.
"If not for him... this region would already be mine."
—
The heavy doors of the church opened abruptly.
Ezequiel entered, accompanied by several nobles clad in finely crafted armor—polished steel that gleamed under the candlelight.
"Your Grace," Ezequiel said, bowing only slightly, "the Jesuit rebellion has been contained. Some of their leaders escaped toward the Boquerón Mountains."
He paused, then added with a trace of satisfaction:
"They appear to be heading toward Carlos’s territory. We allowed them to pass. The hope was... that they might trouble his position."
Esteban’s gaze lifted slowly.
His expression sharpened at once.
For a moment, he said nothing.
Ezequiel, as ever, remained at ease—almost indifferent.
Then the Bishop’s hand struck the table, the map crumpling beneath his palm.
"You fool," Esteban said, his voice low, strained not with fear, but with the weight of failing certainty. "You allowed them to flee toward Carlos?"
His eyes burned with a cold intensity.
"You believe you are settling a petty grievance," he continued, "but in truth you have delivered to that merchant the one thing he lacked—legitimacy."
Ezequiel adjusted the polished gorget at his throat, his composure untouched. A faint, mocking smile followed.
"Your Grace," he replied, "the Jesuits are broken. Let them go. Let them consume his provisions and weaken his treasury. By the time they reach the mountains, they will be reduced to beggars."
Esteban exhaled slowly.
His expression was no longer anger—it was fatigue, edged with frustration.
"Beggars?" he repeated.
His voice lowered, steady now, yet carrying more weight than before.
"You forget that those same Jesuits held the line while you counted revenues from your estates. You chose a moment of revenge over the stability of the entire western front."
He stepped closer.
"Do you truly believe Carlos—a man who has overturned every expectation I have made in recent months—will be harmed by them?"
A brief pause.
"He will absorb them," Esteban said. "He will take their discipline, their knowledge... and their faith. And he will turn all of it against us."
Ezequiel did not retreat.
Instead, he stepped forward, closing the distance. The faint scent of oil and polished metal followed him.
"Your ’wisdom’ has become a prison, Esteban," he said, his tone calm, but edged. "You have spent months studying maps—speaking of Germans and Italians—while the world moves beyond your reach."
His eyes hardened slightly.
"We followed you because you promised victories. Swift ones. Certain ones."
A faint pause.
"Now, you offer only warnings... and shadows."
"I give you the truth!" Esteban replied at once, his voice rising—not in panic, but in a strained, almost desperate clarity. "The future is breaking. If we do not consolidate—if we do not halt this internal decay—then chaos will consume us all."
He took a step forward, his gaze fixed on Ezequiel.
"The British have turned their backs because they perceive the weakness you have created."
Ezequiel laughed—short, sharp, and without restraint.
He turned to the assembled nobles, spreading one hand slightly as if presenting a spectacle.
"Do you hear him?" he said. "The great seer speaks of fear. He trembles before a merchant... and a handful of fleeing priests."
A few among the nobles shifted, though none spoke.
Ezequiel turned back to Esteban, the amusement fading from his expression.
"The time for visions has passed," he continued. "Wisdom has not secured Urabá. Wisdom has not stopped Carlos."
His voice hardened.
"And for this ’wisdom,’ I sacrificed my own family—those closest to me. All of it, for a promise."
A brief silence followed.
"Now," he said, more quietly, "it is time for the nobility to assume command of this situation."
"Ezequiel, do not—" Esteban began, his voice lower now, as he noticed the subtle shift among the guards stationed along the walls.
They had moved.
Not openly—but enough.
Ezequiel inclined his head slightly, the gesture carrying none of its usual respect.
"Your Grace," he said, and the title had become something sharp, almost cutting, "you are fatigued. The weight of these... visions has taken its toll."
He stepped aside, as though already making room for a new order.
"For the stability of the Theocracy, the Council of Nobles will assume direct command of the military."
A pause.
"You will, of course, remain our spiritual guide."
His eyes did not leave Esteban’s.
"From the upper tower—where you may devote yourself to prayer... and to visions that, one hopes, will prove more reliable."
The words settled over the chamber with a quiet finality.
Esteban did not move.
For the first time in many years, the future he had always claimed to see... stood before him as something uncertain.
And beyond his control.
