Chapter 220: María Gertrudis Sanz

The next day, Krugger began his preparations.

The plan was neither brilliant nor ornate. It was simple. Brutal. Efficient.

He would strike every church in the eastern territories of Antioquia—reaching as far as Rionegro—the same day. The doors would be forced open, the gold and silver seized, the coffers emptied, the documents confiscated. And alongside the seizure of wealth would come the message: the Church would no longer rule unchallenged in these lands.

But such an operation required coordination. Officers. Men capable not only of violence, but of discipline.

New Granada, however, was a desert of talent.

Krugger had no academies to draw from, no experienced captains hardened in continental wars. He had only the two hundred men who had remained under his command since the beginning—loyal not because they were noble, but because they had survived together. He trained them relentlessly. Not merely to fight, but to move in silence, to obey signals, to strike without hesitation.

By January of 1794, only days after the new year, the operation was ready.

Rumors had already begun to spread.

Several elite families suspected that the Gómez family—now accompanied by their mysterious Prussian “advisers”—were preparing something decisive. Unwilling to be caught unprepared, many withdrew to their estates, reinforcing their guards and gathering loyal retainers. If blood was to be spilled, they intended to survive it.

Strangely, the Church behaved as though nothing were amiss.

Inside the Church of San Nicolás el Magno, the priest’s office felt suffocating. The air was thick with incense that had long since settled into the wood, mixing with the damp scent of old paper and candle wax. Even the light that filtered through the narrow window seemed reluctant to enter.

Between the red-faced parish priest and the silent abbess, the contrast was unsettling.

She was visibly aged, her skin thin and yellowed like parchment left too long in the sun. Yet her eyes were sharp—terrifyingly sharp. They were not the eyes of a humble servant of God. They were the eyes of someone who had managed debts, secrets, and influence for decades.

María Gertrudis Sanz.

She carried not only ecclesiastical authority but the backing of the powerful Sanz family of Santa María—an elite lineage capable of moving political mountains with a whisper.

She spoke calmly.

“Tell me, José Pablo de Villa… how are matters progressing under this Carlos Gómez? I hear he was responsible for the loss of our ally in the west. There are even rumors that he was sent by God—that with a single word, the mountains collapsed upon the fanatics. Some are beginning to question whether those fanatics were ever loyal to God at all. Others suggest that it was the ambition of our own people that provoked divine favor toward the Gómez family.”

José felt sweat gather at the base of his neck.

He could not afford arrogance. Not before her.

“Miss, I can explain,” he began carefully. “We do not know exactly what occurred. Farmers traveling through the Boquerón passage claim they saw Bishop Esteban’s army crushed beneath falling rock. They also claim to have heard thunder before it happened. You know how superstitious the people are.”

He swallowed.

“I have already sent word to the churches. They are to declare that it was the hand of men—not God—that caused the disaster. But it is difficult to control what people believe once they think they have witnessed a miracle.”

He shrugged helplessly.

Gertrudis hummed softly, unconvinced.

José quickly added, remembering something useful.

“However… it seems the Gómez family has acquired new enforcers. Foreigners. Our contacts in Medellín say they are Europeans—perhaps Prussians—but no more than a hundred men. That small show of strength may have inflated their ambitions. It appears they are preparing to strike an elite household… perhaps even a cabildo within their sphere.”

His tone sharpened.

“When that happens, we can shape the narrative. We will portray the attacked family as victims. The Gómez family as greedy opportunists. That will suffocate these absurd superstitions.”

Gertrudis finally smiled.

“A sensible approach,” she said softly. “But you must be cautious. Carlos Gómez and our Church share a troubled history. He does not look kindly upon us. He may act rashly.”

José allowed himself a faint, confident smile.

“If they attack an elite family first, and then dare touch the Church, they will become the public enemy of the entire region. Their control is weaker than they pretend.”

María Gertrudis nodded slowly.

Outwardly, she remained composed. Inwardly, something unsettled her.

Raised within one of the most powerful families in Santa María, she had been trained from childhood to read between gestures, to measure ambition behind courtesy, and to recognize danger before it announced itself. Elite families did not move without purpose. They calculated. They waited. They struck only when advantage was certain.

What she could not yet see—what she failed to imagine—was that the Church itself might be the first objective of Carlos Gómez’s centralization of power.

She assumed he would move against rival houses.

She never believed he would dare move against God’s earthly institution first.

Krugger, meanwhile, rode personally to Rionegro.

If eastern Antioquia had a beating heart, it was there. The merchant families, the landowners, the old cabildo connections—every interest group converged in that city. If he wished to send a message, it had to be delivered in the loudest possible place.

He did not bring an army in parade formation. That would suggest insecurity.

He brought precision.

When he first laid eyes on the Church of San Nicolás el Magno, he smiled.

It was beautiful—whitewashed walls, sturdy bell tower, heavy oak doors carved with patient devotion. Yet the thickness of its stone walls made it resemble less a house of prayer and more a small fortress. The Church had always understood that faith required protection.

They were not planning a massacre.

But if resistance came, Krugger intended to understand every defensive angle beforehand.

He studied the plaza, the adjacent buildings, the escape routes, the elevation of the surrounding rooftops. His eyes never rested. Every window was a potential rifle point. Every alley, an ambush.

Finally, he exhaled.

“Proceed.”

He took four men and walked toward the church doors. The rest of his forces moved silently at his signal, dispersing across rooftops and nearby buildings. Shadows climbed stone walls, boots found steady positions behind chimneys and balconies, rifles angled toward the plaza below.

From the ground, it looked like a simple visit.

From above, it was a net tightening.

The atmosphere in Rionegro thickened as if the air itself sensed disruption. The scent of impending rain lingered, metallic and sharp. People paused mid-conversation. Market murmurs faded. Curiosity spread faster than fear.

Krugger did not wear excessive insignia. No flamboyant display of authority. Just calm, controlled confidence.

He knocked.

Not politely. Not violently.

Firmly enough that the echo rolled across the plaza.

Several townspeople drifted closer.

After a moment, the door opened slightly. A young sacristan peered out, his fingers still dusted with candle ash.

“Can I help you, sir?” he asked carefully.

Krugger smiled.

It was not a comforting smile. It was sharp. Deliberate.

The young man felt his stomach tighten.

“We come under the authority of the Gómez family,” Krugger said clearly, his voice carrying beyond the doorway. “This territory now falls under a new administrative decree. To prevent the chaos that befell Santa Fe, we are assuming control over Church assets—gold, debts, lands. Effective immediately.”

The murmuring outside grew louder.

“The Church,” Krugger continued, “shall return to what it was meant to be—a spiritual institution. Not a financial empire.”

Then he pushed the sacristan aside and stepped inside.

“Begin.”

His men moved with mechanical discipline.

They did not vandalize. They catalogued. They opened chests, secured ledgers, removed gold chalices and candlesticks with controlled efficiency. It looked less like looting and more like confiscation under military order.

Outside, reactions fractured.

Some cheered quietly—those who remembered unpaid loans and heavy tithes.

Others fell silent, crossing themselves.

A few watched with thin smiles, calculating what this meant for the balance of power.

Inside the priest’s office, the rising noise reached José Pablo and Abbess María Sanz.

They exchanged a look—brief, sharp.

José did not wait.

He stormed out into the nave, his face flushed redder than ever. The sight that greeted him froze him for half a heartbeat: soldiers calmly removing sacred objects as if they were tax collectors in uniform.

“You bandits!” he shouted. “How dare you desecrate the house of God!”

José staggered to his feet after the blow, blood running from the corner of his lip.

Krugger laughed loudly—in German.

“Wer ist dieser kleine Mann? Ein Bischof?”(Who is this little man? A bishop?)

The translator froze for a moment, then leaned closer and whispered, “He is the priest in charge of this church, Herr Krugger.”

Krugger raised an eyebrow slowly.

“This weak creature is in charge?” he muttered. “Then perhaps there is indeed a reason the Church rots from within.”

He gestured sharply. One of his men lifted José upright by the collar. Krugger ordered the translator to repeat the decree once more.

As the words were spoken again—confiscation of assets, restructuring of authority, subordination to civil administration—José’s eyes widened in disbelief.

“Is the Gómez family mad?” he shouted. “Does Carlos Gómez not fear God? Does he not wish to enter Heaven?”

Krugger’s lips curved into a cold sneer.

“Do you truly believe,” he said slowly, “that you are the voice of God on this earth? Carlos understands better than anyone how dirty men like you—who speak of faith while counting coins—have become.”

His gaze hardened.

“If God exists, perhaps He will be grateful. We are merely preventing you from harming the people further.”

The translator hesitated before repeating the words. Even if the Church had lost moral prestige, New Granada was Catholic to its bones. Religion was not only belief—it was culture, identity, rhythm of life. Speaking such words aloud to a priest felt dangerous, almost sacrilegious.

José trembled—not with fury alone, but with fear.

“You are not from New Granada,” he spat instinctively. “That language… you are Europeans. Russians? Germans? It does not matter. What are savages like you doing in the New World?”

The insult was forced. Defensive.

He had heard whispers from Rome—about the German states, about rulers who limited clerical power, about monarchs who treated bishops as servants of the Crown. Arguing about Heaven with such men was like throwing an egg at stone.

Krugger did not react to the insult.

He simply stared at him.

From the doorway of the inner office, María Gertrudis Sanz stepped forward.

She had remained silent until now, observing. Calculating.

But the moment had shifted.

She moved into the nave with deliberate calm, her aged face composed, her eyes sharp as ever.

“If I am not mistaken,” she said clearly, her voice echoing through the church, “Carlos Gómez holds no official authority in this territory. Under what mandate does he dare carry out such actions?”

Her tone was not hysterical.

It was political.

Krugger turned toward her.

The presence of a nun here unsettled him more than the priest’s shouting. He studied her attire, the quality of the fabric, the posture that betrayed breeding rather than mere devotion.

He leaned toward the translator.

“Did Carlos not say there was no convent in Rionegro? Why is there a nun here?”

The translator shook his head slightly. He had not expected this either.

Clearing his throat, he addressed her politely.

“Excuse me, miss. May we know who you are—and why you are present here?”

She did not hesitate.

“I am Abbess María Gertrudis Sanz of Santa María,” she replied. “I came to discuss the possibility of establishing a convent in Rionegro. Now, sir, I repeat my question.”

Krugger stiffened slightly at the title.

An abbess. Not a simple nun. And a Sanz.

That changed the calculation.

He straightened, adjusting his posture into something resembling formality.

“Sister,” he began, with measured solemnity, “recent events in New Granada have revealed the existence of traitors operating under religious cover. The Gómez family, loyal to His Majesty the King, has chosen to prevent further destabilization.”

His lip twitched faintly—barely disguising mockery.

“These measures are temporary. Once the traitors are dealt with, perhaps—under proper royal oversight—the Church may resume his activities.”

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