Chapter 205: Giuseppe’s Silent Plan

The bishop spoke suddenly.

“We have men hiding inside the city. Could we use them to strike from the rear? Break the boulders and open the way. I am tired of waiting outside these walls, and the city itself is exhausted by the Spanish army. This is the perfect moment to take it.”

Giuseppe’s eyes trembled for an instant, though his voice remained calm.

“But, sir… attacking a cornered rabbit is more dangerous than waiting for it to die from blood loss.”

The bishop shook his head.

“We want to control a city, not inherit a ghost town. How many souls have been lost since the Spanish army arrived? And you expect me to ignore them—to allow more lives to be lost while we wait? Make a plan. A real one. I want to sleep inside the city tonight.”

Giuseppe’s jaw tightened.Perhaps being clever with the bishop had not been wise. Now he needed a better answer.

“Very well, sir,” he said. “I will make sure the city is taken today. Allow me to prepare… a different plan.”

The bishop nodded, satisfied, believing he had finally subdued the idealistic general. He left the cuartel content, surrounded by officers loyal to his faction—men who understood ceremony better than war. As a religious figure, he knew little of battle, and with those officers beside him, he could leave the matter easily in their hands.

Giuseppe stepped outside soon after, ignoring the officers. They ignored him as well. Though they held rank, the soldiers seemed far more willing to follow Giuseppe, which was why the officers never had a good relationship with him.

Once outside, he quickly took a sheet of paper and began writing a letter. When he finished, he wrapped the parchment in oilcloth and lashed it to a narrow bolt.

The morning sun was a pale, watery disc struggling to pierce the thick mist rising from the Cauca River. Giuseppe stood at the edge of the ridge, his silhouette blurred by fog. His head still throbbed faintly from the bishop’s “blessing,” but his eyes were sharp, scanning the Spanish barricades for any sign of movement.

He approached one of the archers, a young man blowing on his cold fingers to keep them limber.

“How far can you send a shaft in this soup?” Giuseppe asked quietly.

The soldier jumped slightly, then straightened.

“The mist is heavy, General, but I can hit the center of that lead carriage by the gate. Easily.”

“Is that so?” Giuseppe stepped closer, a faint skeptical smile on his face. “In this damp air, the string loses its snap and the wood grows heavy. Let me test it. I need to know if I can rely on your aim when the fog lifts.”

The soldier handed him the longbow with a respectful nod.

As Giuseppe reached for an arrow from the man’s quiver, his fingers moved with the speed of a street thief. In a single blurred motion, he drew the hidden message-arrow from the lining of his jacket and slipped the soldier’s arrow into his sleeve. To the young archer, it looked like an ordinary draw.

Giuseppe notched the arrow.

He did not look like a man praying.He looked like a predator.

He aimed high, accounting for the weight of the morning air.

“Watch the roof of the carriage,” Giuseppe whispered.

He drew the string back until it pressed tight against his cheek.He waited for a gust of wind to open a small window in the mist—

then twang.

The bowstring sang.The arrow vanished into the white haze, a dark streak of treason.

A second later, a faint, solid thud echoed from the Spanish lines.The shaft had buried itself deep in the wooden blockade, striking the roof of a carriage and startling the nearby soldiers, who turned quietly toward it. A strip of parchment was tied beneath the fletching, hidden from the prying eyes of the bishop’s fanatics.

“A bit low,” Giuseppe remarked as he handed the bow back, casually slipping the soldier’s original arrow into the quiver. “The moisture is slowing your flight. Keep your feathers dry, or you’ll be shooting toothpicks by noon.”

He turned and disappeared into the fog, leaving the young archer wondering why the general cared so much about a wooden wheel at seven in the morning.

The soldier quickly retrieved the arrow and ducked behind the carriage again.One of his companions frowned.

“Another arrow? Why do you always insist on collecting them? We’re in the middle of a siege. You know how risky that is.”

The soldier sighed.”Didn’t you hear? Our archers are running low. The officers ordered us to gather every arrow and supply we can find. One more arrow means one more chance to kill an enemy.”

His friend chuckled bitterly.”Those bastards clearly don’t plan to attack. They’re waiting for us to starve—or to start killing each other. They don’t care whether this city falls or not.”

The soldier only shook his head. He said nothing.

Then he noticed the oilcloth wrapped around the shaft.

His friend leaned closer.”What’s that?”

The soldier unfolded the letter, and his eyes widened as he read.”Cover me,” he said quickly. “I need to get this to the commander—or the general. This is important.”

“Wait—what does it say?” the other soldier asked.

But the first was already running.

In the Plaza of Santa Fe stood a large command tent belonging to the general. Entering the palace during the war was too dangerous—the distance was too great, the structure too exposed. If attacked, the outer blocks would fall quickly, and escape would be nearly impossible.

During the last four months, General Anastacio had grown gaunt and hollow-eyed. Dark circles marked his sleepless nights, and his uniform was stained from constant wear. Food was scarce; he had been forced to eat the same meager rations as the soldiers.

He knew he had made a grave mistake.

He had underestimated both the opposing general and the band of fanatics.New Granada was no longer a land of scattered rebels—it was becoming a place shaped by European tactics and strategy.

The Gómez family had used the mountains to halt the fanatics.The fanatics had used the river to destroy his army.

He had continued to see his enemies as little more than indigenous insurgents, and the academy had never prepared him for this kind of war.

Now the dragoons were gone.Half his troops were dead.All his supplies were lost.

He knew that when he returned, his military career would be finished.

Still, he had to find a way out for his men—if not for himself, then for the Empire.If they lost everyone here, who would remain to defend Cartagena… or Bogotá?The Gómez family watched with hungry eyes, and the fanatics were no different.

Then suddenly, a soldier shouted from outside. “General, I have important information. I need to see you.”

The soldiers outside tried to stop him, unwilling to disturb the general without permission.At last, slightly frustrated, the general stepped out and roared:

“What the hell is happening? Don’t you know I’m dealing with something that could cost us our lives? I need peace!”

The guards seized the soldier, preparing to drag him away—until the general noticed what he held and raised a hand.

“Speak, soldier. What are you doing here?”

Seeing the general intervene, the soldier sighed in relief.

“Sir, while I was patrolling the barricade, this arrow carrying a letter struck one of the carriages. After retrieving it and reading it, I knew I had to bring it to you personally.”

The general frowned, curiosity replacing irritation. He gestured for the man to enter.

“I hope you are not lying. We are in the middle of a war. If this information is worthless, you will spend the rest of your days in the dungeon.”

The soldier nodded quickly and handed him the letter.

As General Anastasio read, his expression shifted—growing more animated with every line.The message explained that General Giuseppe would attack from the south with the help of sympathizers inside the city. During the assault, he would commit the bulk of his army there, allowing Anastasio to withdraw most of his remaining forces from the north and escape toward Cáceres by river. The letter also advised building canoes throughout the day, ready to launch once the attack began.

When he finished reading, Anastasio felt tension leave his body for the first time in months.He called for his officers, then turned back to the soldier.

“From now on, you will remain with me until we escape. If I reach Spain, I will recommend you for promotion. What is your name, soldier?”

The man straightened, barely containing his excitement.

“Juan de la Cruz, sir. I have served the army since I came of age.”

The general smiled faintly as he studied the young mestizo. Though mestizos endured harsher lives in the colonies, many remained fiercely loyal to the Crown. The thought gave him a measure of comfort. Spain, perhaps, still had a chance to recover what was slipping away—even after his failure.

Yet when he thought of Spain itself, across the ocean, sadness returned.He wondered how long it would take to repair the damage already done.

That night, General Anastasio prepared every healthy soldier at the North Gate.

He moved with the silence of a tomb, leaving the sick, the weak, and a handful of spectacularly useless officers at the South Gate to maintain the illusion of desperate resistance. He even ordered pouches of gunpowder buried in the mud—not to kill, but to create thunder without slaughter.

The siege of Santa Fe had ceased to be a war.It had become a choreographed performance.

As the first bells of midnight tolled,the play began.

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