Chapter 221: The Spectators of Power

The abbess knew Krugger’s promises were hollow.

Carlos Gómez had made his intentions increasingly clear. Independence was no longer a distant whisper—it was an approaching certainty. Yet the chaos in New Granada complicated everything. For the moment, the Spanish Empire was unwilling to openly oppose the Gómez family. Not while the so-called fanatics still operated in the region.

Officially, the Gómez family remained nothing more than wealthy provincial elites. The fanatics, however, were rumored to be supported by Rome itself. Though the Vatican publicly denied involvement, whispers persisted—Jesuit-trained troops, weapons traced back to ecclesiastical arsenals, funds moving through discreet channels. Denial meant little when the evidence seemed so visible.

Now María Gertrudis understood.

Carlos had not attacked the Church recklessly. He had chosen his moment carefully. In Madrid, some might even applaud him. Weakening a faction suspected of papal interference would not provoke immediate outrage from the Crown.

She exhaled slowly.

Her eyes moved toward one of the young sacristans—a boy from one of Rionegro’s powerful families. The faintest nod passed between them. The boy slipped quietly through a rear passage.

Krugger noticed.

He said nothing.

In truth, he hoped for exactly this reaction. If Carlos intended to control Rionegro, he could not merely confiscate gold. He had to demonstrate power so overwhelming that resistance would seem foolish.

Seeing the abbess and priest fall silent, Krugger shrugged.

“Continue,” he ordered. “Every document. All debts. Land titles. I want everything.”

The soldiers obeyed without hesitation.

Outside, the sacristan mounted his horse and rode hard across the valley roads. Hooves struck the earth like drumbeats announcing war.

The outskirts of Rionegro stirred.

Families aligned with the Church faction were called to arms—to defend autonomy, property, and influence. Some responded immediately. After all, this was no small administrative adjustment. It was an act of consolidation. Carlos Gómez was no longer content to be a minor warlord in Medellín. He was expanding.

Across the surrounding haciendas, the call spread like contagion.

Servants who had spent their lives tilling fields dropped their tools. Under orders from their masters, they began organizing into improvised militias. Some did it out of genuine devotion to the Church. Others did it because tomorrow’s bread depended on obedience.

Numbers grew quickly.

From estate to estate, mounted landowners emerged, followed by lines of armed retainers.

Among them rode two figures whose names carried weight in Rionegro: Don Ignacio de Castañeda and Don Baltazar Hoyos.

Castañeda turned his horse slightly toward the other man.

“I am surprised to see a man as… pragmatic as you,” he said coldly, “riding in defense of the servants of God.”

Baltazar Hoyos burst into laughter—loud and unrestrained. His heavy stomach shook with the force of it, betraying a life of indulgence.

“I am not here for your Church,” he replied. “I am here because of the Gómez family. Carlos is expanding—land, trade, loyalty. His influence grows every month. Now he reaches into our nest.”

His voice hardened.

“And I will not allow that bastard to touch it. This territory belongs to us. Our fortunes are made here.”

Castañeda frowned.

He had never considered Baltazar a man driven by power politics. The man had a reputation for flattering Bogotá’s great families, currying favor under the umbrella of Spanish authority. From Castañeda’s perspective, Baltazar should have been bowing to Carlos, not challenging him.

After all, Bogotá’s elite—though powerful—commanded limited troops. The Gómez family, in contrast, had recruited broadly. While some of their men were loyal kin, many were commoners—farmers, traders, displaced laborers who saw opportunity under new leadership.

Ignacio’s butler leaned close and whispered discreetly.

“Sir, I heard that Don Baltazar son insulted Gómez’s men when they came to trade cement and alcohol. He demanded additional fees—with cabildo approval.”

Ignacio’s expression darkened.he suddenly understood.

Baltazar Hoyos was not riding to defend the Church. He was riding out of fear.

If Carlos Gómez extended his authority into Rionegro, Baltazar would almost certainly find himself on a blacklist. And from the stories circulating through Bogotá’s elite circles, Carlos was not a man who forgave easily. Petty, some called him. Calculating, others corrected.

Even certain figures within the Church whispered about his personal grudges—about a scandal in Río de la Plata involving a wild young woman and wounded pride. The common people knew nothing of it, of course. But among elites, reputation traveled faster than horses.

And reputation mattered.

“Fine,” Ignacio muttered. “Then we must hurry. Before those men empty the church and leave Rionegro with its spine broken.”

He raised his saber.

“To the city!”

The column surged forward, hooves striking dirt in unison.

Unlike the mounted landowners racing toward confrontation, two far more dangerous men remained seated.

Inside the Cabildo building, on the second floor overlooking the plaza, the real balance of power was being weighed.

The office was austere yet heavy with authority. Tall arched windows framed the square below, thick shutters half-closed to filter the light. The air carried the scent of imported tobacco, beeswax polish, and ink left too long uncapped.

Don Mariano de Alzate sat behind a vast mahogany desk carved with intricate colonial motifs. His powdered wig was perfectly aligned; his velvet frock coat—deep red, almost black in shadow—gave him the appearance not of a warrior, but of a judge at an execution.

Across from him stood Esteban Arango, younger, sharp-eyed, restless.

“Mr. Magistrate,” Esteban asked coolly, “are you truly going to do nothing while the Gómez family begins touching your authority? Or is the Alzate family all bark and no bite?”

The old man’s lip curled faintly.

“Young man,” Mariano replied, his voice slow and contemptuous, “I understand how politics works. At this moment, we fall under the influence of a family that delights in disturbing established order. But my position remains secure.”

He leaned back slightly.

“Carlos Gómez would not dare harm me. And when the Spanish Crown returns with force, I will restore order in Rionegro.”

His gaze sharpened.

“But you, Esteban… your Arango family depends entirely on its monopoly. Once Francisco Gómez consolidates this region, your privileged position will not survive under his administration.”

Esteban chuckled softly.

“That is my uncle’s concern, not mine. And even if we lose monopoly here, the products we distribute—cement, alcohol, tools—can make fortunes in other colonies. Even in Europe.”

He allowed the implication to hang.

“You may not know this, but my uncle Pantaleón and Carlos are… partial partners. The alcohol trade alone has doubled our family’s wealth.”

Mariano’s expression hardened.

“Merchants,” he muttered bitterly. “Hypocritical beasts. They would sell their own blood if profit demanded it.”

He leaned forward.

“Are you telling me that Pantaleón Arango is actively supporting Gómez?”

Esteban’s smile did not fade.

“I am telling you that business rarely concerns itself with ideology.”

Outside the window, distant shouting echoed faintly from the direction of the church.

Esteban shrugged lightly.

“I cannot say whether my uncle fully supports him,” he replied. “That is not my position. My duty is simply to ensure that our family’s assets remain untouched. Still… I am surprised the Hoyos family chose this moment to act. Their reputation as greedy merchants is well known throughout Rionegro.”

Mariano allowed himself a dry chuckle. He lifted his cup of wine and drank slowly, eyes drifting toward the plaza below.

Servants were gathering in uneven clusters, some armed with old muskets, others with farm tools repurposed for war. Opposite them, Krugger’s men remained positioned across rooftops and balconies, silent and disciplined.

Mariano shook his head.

“They chose the wrong enemy.”

He set the cup down carefully.

“When Carlos requested exemption from municipal taxes for his caravans, Baltazar opposed him publicly. Said something along the lines that ’the bumpkins of Medellín have no right to demand tribute’—and worse.”

His expression darkened.

“He insulted one of Carlos’ envoys. Called him a slave. Even after a compromise was reached, the Hoyos household created endless obstacles—fees, inspections, invented delays—to extract money from Gómez caravans.”

He paused.

“Officially, it was the son who behaved so foolishly. But a father cannot allow his son to appear weak. Pride is expensive.”

Esteban laughed softly.

“Expensive indeed.”

He stepped beside Mariano at the window, observing the tactical arrangement below.

“These formations…” Esteban murmured. “They do not look Spanish. Nor New Granadan.”

Mariano’s face tightened slightly.

Dark clouds rolled overhead, heavy and swollen, yet no rain fell. Thunder rumbled sporadically across the valley, distant and hollow.

“It seems,” Mariano said quietly, “that the streets of Rionegro are about to give birth to something… formidable.”

Esteban’s eyes narrowed.

He saw what Mariano did not.

As a merchant, he understood metals. Trade in iron tools had long been profitable. But what he observed below was different.

Those muskets did not gleam with the dull texture of common wrought iron.

They reflected with a sharper tone.

Steel.

He had known that the Gómez family controlled limited steel production—tool edges, reinforced parts, specialized fittings. But equipping an entire detachment with steel-barreled firearms suggested something else entirely.

Capacity.

Scale.

“Those rifles…” Esteban muttered.

Mariano glanced at him.

“They resemble the Italian pieces used by the fanatics. But there are differences in the fittings. Cleaner lines. Lighter frames.”

He swallowed.

“Were they able to replicate them?”

Mariano frowned. His aging eyes could not distinguish the detail Esteban described, but he trusted the younger man’s knowledge of trade.

“If those are indeed replicas,” Mariano said slowly, “then the Gómez family has grown far more dangerous in recent months.”

His fingers tapped the desk once, decisively.

“This information must reach the viceroy. Can your family arrange a courier?”

Esteban hesitated.

He was still staring at the rifles.

As a lover of weapons, he had always desired to own one—but in New Granada, such arms were rare and heavily restricted. He had only heard descriptions from men who had dealt with the fanatics.

Now he was looking at them.

And if they were locally produced…

That meant something far greater than a church raid.

It meant industry.

It meant autonomy.

It meant that Carlos Gómez might no longer depend on foreign supply lines.

And if that was true—if steel could be forged in New Granada, if rifles could be replicated without Italian shipments or Vatican intermediaries—then his power would not merely grow.

It would become terrifying.

Add to that the strange tactics. The disciplined rooftop deployments. The coordinated seizures. None of it resembled the loose militias of the colonies or the rigid doctrine of Spanish officers.

If those methods came from Europe—Prussia, perhaps, or another rising military power—then the conflict in New Granada would not be a provincial rebellion.

Esteban’s lips curved faintly.

“Yes,” he answered absently. “We can send a letter.”

But for the first time, he was not thinking about warning the viceroy. He was thinking about meeting Carlos Gómez.

Because if those rifles were truly made in New Granada—The balance of Power is going to be tilted again

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