Chapter 183: The Fanatics Attack

The sale of tools brought a modest improvement to the Gómez family’s reputation, but it was far from decisive—at least in the beginning. The reality was simple and unforgiving: steel was scarce. Even at four tools a day, the production barely made a dent in the needs of the region. Hundreds of laborers worked the fields, mines, and workshops across the valley, their hands blistered and aching, their livelihoods dependent on worn iron implements passed down through families or rented at crushing rates from the caciques.

Four tools a day was nothing.

Yet scarcity did not mean irrelevance.

The very existence of Gómez-made tools—stronger, cheaper, and tied to credit instead of submission—introduced something far more dangerous than abundance: expectation. People began to calculate. To wait. To hesitate before paying tribute. And that hesitation alone was enough to disrupt the old order.

The caciques understood this instinctively. Their control over the population did not rest on affection or loyalty, but on access—access to land, to tools, to protection, and to the fragile stability the Spanish Crown had promised generations earlier. Now, with Gómez steel appearing in the plazas of Medellín, even in laughably small quantities, that monopoly cracked.

Worse still for them, time was not on their side.

They had hoarded iron tools aggressively, emptying markets in Medellín and neighboring towns in an attempt to strangle the Gómez initiative in its cradle. But iron rusted. Wood warped. And rumors spread faster than metal could be resold. If the caciques waited too long, if Gómez production increased even slightly over the next few months, their stockpiles would become worthless relics—tools no one would buy when a better alternative existed, especially one tied to dignity rather than dependency.

For now, this mutual threat created a tense, uneasy peace in the rear. Attacks slowed. Ambushes ceased. The roads grew quieter, though no less watchful.

But while Antioquia held its breath, Santa Fe burned.

There, the situation deteriorated rapidly.

Unlike Carlos Gómez, who had deliberately positioned himself on the fence—publicly loyal, privately autonomous—the fanatics of Santa Fe had crossed a line that could never be uncrossed. They had declared independence openly, wrapped in scripture and absolutism, and in doing so had transformed themselves from dissidents into outright enemies of the Crown.

That distinction mattered.

Indigenous groups around Santa Fe, particularly those near Sopetrán and San Jerónimo, reacted very differently than their counterparts near Medellín. These tribes had lived under the shadow of Spanish authority for generations, but the theocratic regime now forming in Santa Fe offered them nothing but uncertainty and violence. Where Carlos spoke of credit and labor, the fanatics spoke of purity, obedience, and divine mandate.

Blood followed quickly.

The indigenous groups near Santa Fe did not hesitate to attack fanatic patrols, supply wagons, or isolated detachments. Unlike the measured harassment seen near Medellín, these assaults were brutal and final. Soldiers were killed without mercy. Camps were burned. Priests disappeared along jungle paths, their vestments later found floating in rivers swollen by rain.

The fanatics responded with equal ferocity—and far less restraint.

Though they technically controlled the region, their grip was fragile. Every reprisal created more enemies. Every execution fed resentment. And nowhere was this more apparent than in Buriticá, where gold veins threaded through the hills like exposed arteries.

The new theocratic government attempted to bring the mines under direct Church control, citing divine stewardship and the moral corruption of private wealth. The response was explosive—literally and figuratively. Indigenous miners sabotaged shafts, collapsed tunnels, and fought back with stolen powder and crude weapons.

Many died.

Those who survived fled into the hills, carrying with them not just hatred, but experience. They regrouped in makeshift camps, forming bands of insurgents hardened by loss and betrayal. Their loyalty was to no crown, no bishop, no king—only vengeance.

The fanatics now found themselves trapped.

Internally, they faced rebellion from indigenous groups who despised their rule. Externally, the Spanish Crown loomed, patient and calculating. And between these two threats stood Carlos Gómez—a man who had not declared independence, who still traded quietly through Cádiz, who spoke the language of reform instead of revolt.

If the fanatics failed to deal with the Gómez family, they would soon find themselves alone against the world.

That realization gnawed at their leadership.

The order came down on a humid afternoon, thick with the smell of incense and wet stone.

“Captain,” said one of the Jesuit soldiers, bowing slightly as he entered the command room, “the Bishop has given orders. We are to attack Medellín again. He believes the cavalry we possess will be sufficient this time.”

The captain looked up sharply, the scar along his jaw tightening as his teeth clenched.

“Again?” he asked. “Why is the Bishop pressing this now? Did that dog Ezequiel whisper something into his ear?”

The soldier hesitated, glancing toward the door before stepping closer and lowering his voice.

“It seems he did,” he said quietly. “He accused us of showing weakness. Of sparing civilians. Of refusing to unleash our full strength and complete the reconquest.”

The captain snorted, pacing across the room, boots scraping against the stone floor.

“That bastard,” he muttered. “If we wanted power, we already had it. We control the army. Does that murderer truly believe we need theatrics to rule?”

The soldier swallowed.

“He went further, sir,” he continued. “He suggested—very carefully—that you were prolonging the conflict deliberately. That you hoped to gain influence in the new nation by appearing indispensable. He did not say it outright, but the implication was clear.”

The captain stopped pacing.

“And the Bishop?”

“He said nothing,” the soldier replied. “But shortly afterward, the order was given.”

Silence fell between them, heavy and suffocating.

The captain exhaled slowly, rubbing his temples. Outside, the muffled sounds of the city drifted through the narrow window: distant church bells, the rumble of carts over stone, the low murmur of people who sensed something was wrong even if they could not name it.

By dawn, the soldiers assembled outside Santa Fe. The captain stood before them, his posture straight, his expression solemn and devout. Even though doubt gnawed at him from within, he knew hesitation would spread like rot if he allowed it to show. To lead was to believe—or at least to appear as if one did.

“Sons of the Faith!” he called out, his voice carrying across the ranks. “Listen well, for the road to the Valley of Aburrá is not measured in leagues, but in sacrifice.”

The men straightened instinctively.

“Our mission is holy. We march to purge a nest of usury and impious science—seeds planted in our mountains by the foreigner Carlos, and by his wretched son, who fled to the pagans to learn forbidden knowledge.”

Murmurs of approval rippled through the formation.

“First, we cross the Cauca River at the capital’s ferry. Once we reach the far bank, the true penance begins. We will climb the Central Cordillera, pressing through the heat of the canyon toward San Jerónimo. We do not rest until we reach the clouds.”

Sweat already formed on brows at the thought alone.

“The key is the Boquerón Pass—the only gate. We will march through that narrow throat of stone and pierce the mountain’s heart. From its heights, we shall look down upon the sinners of Medellín.”

He raised his hand sharply.

“Then we descend through San Cristóbal like a storm. We seize the bridge. We occupy the plaza. And before dusk, we reclaim the valley for God.”

“Forward!” he roared.

The soldiers nodded solemnly, many crossing themselves. Ordinarily, such a sermon would have been delivered by the Bishop himself. But since the last defeat, the Bishop had withdrawn from the Jesuits entirely—an unmistakable sign of suspicion, perhaps even betrayal. The captain had no choice but to assume the role himself.

As the formation began to break, one soldier hesitated, then spoke.

“Sir,” he asked carefully, “last time the royal dogs of San Jerónimo caused us considerable trouble. What are our orders if it happens again?”

The question fell like a stone.

Silence spread through the ranks.

The captain’s jaw tightened. He hesitated, his thoughts racing. He knew San Jerónimo well—its narrow streets, its adobe homes, its people. Many were civilians. Indigenous families. Farmers. Laborers.

To destroy the town outright would stain his conscience beyond redemption.

Yet he could feel the Bishop’s gaze upon him even now, imagined but no less suffocating. He knew that mercy would be interpreted as weakness. Worse—Ezequiel would seize upon it, accusing him of sparing heretics, of betraying the Faith.

If he refused, he would not survive the aftermath.

Sweat trickled down his spine.

For the first time in his life, the captain made a choice that would forever define him.

“Destroy them,” he said at last, his voice cold and unwavering. “All of them. Leave no one alive.”

Silence fell upon the ranks the moment the captain spoke. Killing civilians was not only a personal burden for him—it weighed just as heavily on the soldiers. They had chosen this life, the sword and the march, but there were lines even warriors feared to cross. Hearing those words, many felt a cold dread settle in their chests, afraid that whatever awaited them at the end of this war would not be forgiveness, but damnation.

The captain took a long, trembling breath.

“We are the Bishop’s army,” he said at last. “We obey his orders to the very end. If this is a sin, then I alone will bear it. May God forgive me.”

He collapsed into a chair, his strength finally abandoning him.

There was nothing left to say. The men nodded in silence and prepared themselves. This time, they prayed not for victory, but that the indigenous would not provoke them—that their captain would not be forced to carry the unbearable weight of their collective sins.

The army departed swiftly.

Perhaps even the captain himself did not yet understand that what he stood to lose in this war was not merely his life, nor the lives of his men—but their souls.

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