Chapter 255: A European War in America

That same night, Baltasar came back with the information.

Pedro was at his desk, looking over the supplies the King had granted him. Compared to what had been given to Ezpeleta, they were… noticeably lacking. For the first time, he truly felt how expensive war was—not in theory, but in practice.

Upon seeing his most trusted man enter, he set the document aside and looked at him with a faint smile.

“Tell me you bring some good news,” Pedro said. “Looking at the money the King has given me is enough to give me a headache. I need something better than numbers.”

Baltasar smiled, though there was a trace of bitterness in it.

“Well… I’m afraid they are not exactly good news, sir.”

He stepped closer, placing the documents on the desk.

“The war in New Granada is not simply a rebellion between factions. At least—not entirely.”

He paused briefly before continuing.

“The fanatics are receiving support from the Vatican. Their troops were trained by the Jesuits—those same men His Majesty expelled from New Granada thirty years ago.”

Pedro’s expression shifted slightly, but he remained silent.

“Some of them are veterans,” Baltasar continued. “They fought in Corsica as volunteers. They also took part in the Bavarian War of Succession and in the insurrections against the Josephines.”

He let that settle.

“So this is not your average colonial force. They are, in practice, an army trained under European standards.”

Another pause.

“They are also equipped according to the Vatican’s military standards. Not merely trained—properly armed.”

His tone lowered slightly.

“They are close to elite.”

Pedro leaned back slightly, listening carefully.

“A regular army would not be enough to deal with them,” Baltasar added. “Though… there is something in your favor.”

Pedro’s eyes narrowed slightly.

“The supposed ally—the one they call Bishop Esteban—has had a falling out with the Jesuits.”

He adjusted the papers slightly.

“It seems the leader of their organization died during the attack on Medellín and the fall of Boquerón.”

A brief pause.

“Since then, the bishop has been forming a new order, composed mostly of religious elites—or at least those who remain loyal to him.”

Pedro nodded slowly.

“That is… useful.”

He rested his fingers lightly against the desk.

“If they abandon their veterans and attempt to build a new army, then no matter how disciplined it becomes, it will lack experience.”

A faint, controlled smile appeared.

“Even if stronger than the mestizos or the regular colonial troops… they will still be inferior to our elites.”

He paused, then added:

“We could exploit that division.”

His tone sharpened slightly.

“Target the Jesuits. Target the bishop’s new order. A few well-placed assassinations could provoke conflict between them.”

Baltasar frowned.

“That may not work, sir.”

Pedro looked at him, waiting.

“There are… rumors,” Baltasar said carefully. “Circulating within the Vatican.”

He hesitated slightly.

“They claim this man was chosen by God. That during his time there, he spoke of events before they happened… convincing those around him that he could see the future.”

Pedro let out a short, dismissive breath.

“What? You think he is truly some envoy of God?” he said with a faint scoff. “He is just a man—with some ability, perhaps—but still a man.”

Baltasar did not immediately agree.

“Maybe, Excellency… but he does seem to possess something unusual.”

He leaned slightly forward.

“He was among the first to support the Jesuit army before they even entered Spain, using money gained through what many called ’miracles’ in the Mediterranean.”

A brief pause.

“In 1783, he sold every property he owned in Messina—just three days before the earthquake reduced the city to ruins.”

Pedro’s expression tightened slightly.

“He walked away with chests of gold,” Baltasar continued, “while others were still burying their dead.”

Another pause.

“During the Siege of Gibraltar, he directed merchant ships through routes the British had not yet patrolled—as if he knew the position of their frigates beforehand.”

His voice lowered.

“He is not just a merchant, Pedro.”

Baltasar held his gaze.

“He moves as if the next ten years have already been written in his mind.”

A brief silence followed.

“He invests in wars that have not yet begun… and finds silver veins in the Cantabrian mountains that the King’s own miners abandoned decades ago.”

Pedro frowned again, though this time with more interest than dismissal.

“That does sound… almost miraculous.”

He paused.

“But it could still be luck,” he added. “Or calculation.”

Straightening slightly, he concluded:

“We will test these so-called abilities once we arrive in New Granada.”

A short pause.

“Now… continue.”

Baltasar seemed about to say something—but stopped himself.

He took a slow breath, steadying his tone before continuing.

“Then we have the Gómez family. This case… is also one of those that appears to be too much like luck.”

He adjusted the documents slightly.

“The father worked for the Cádiz Company in New Granada. He held a relatively high position, with enough wealth to live comfortably. He even brought his wife to Spain so that their son could be born here.”

Pedro’s expression changed immediately.

“Francisco,” he said. “The ’miracle boy’ of Hannover, I presume.”

Baltasar nodded.

“It seems his reputation has already reached you, sir.”

He paused briefly.

“However, things did not end well. He had a dispute with Ezpeleta during one of the court meetings. His proposal was… radical.”

A slight hesitation.

“He wanted to eliminate the bloodline policies—and restructure the system so that any capable individual could hold positions under the Viceroy.”

Pedro let out a short, dry laugh—completely devoid of warmth.

He placed his coffee cup down on the mahogany table with enough force to leave a faint ring on the polished surface. Then he stood and walked toward the tall window overlooking the gardens of Madrid, turning his back to Baltasar.

“Eliminate the bloodline policies?” he repeated slowly. “Allow commoners to sit at the Viceroy’s table?”

He shook his head.

“Carlos is a fool,” he said, his voice now carrying a refined, cutting venom. “A man who has spent too much time reading French philosophers… and too little time observing how the world actually functions.”

His tone hardened.

“He believes ’talent’ alone is enough to govern—as if ruling a kingdom were the same as managing a modest estate.”

A brief pause.

“In the end, he is nothing more than a bastard of the Lerma household… not a man of true blood.”

Baltasar hesitated slightly, but continued.

“Perhaps. In any case, the Viceroy expelled him from Bogotá. He was granted some lands and forced to leave with his family.”

Pedro sneered faintly.

“That is rather merciful, I must say.”

He remained by the window.

“I would have sent assassins to deal with him on the road—and blamed it on bandits.”

Baltasar rolled his eyes, though subtly.

“He was still a servant of the Crown. A Viceroy would not lightly risk such a decision.”

He paused.

“If it became known that a Viceroy was killing the King’s own men… his end would not be pleasant.”

Pedro remained silent for a moment.

Then he exhaled faintly.

“Yes… perhaps.”

He turned slightly.

“Forget it. Continue.”

A short pause.

“What makes this group so… unusual, that you hesitate to call it merely a faction?”

Baltasar took a deeper breath this time.

When he spoke again, his expression had shifted—more serious, more cautious.

“It seems his father—the Duke of Lerma—feared that he might one day threaten the position of his elder son, now the current Duke.”

He glanced briefly at Pedro.

“So he arranged for him to marry outside of Spain.”

A pause.

“During the famine.”

Pedro’s eyes narrowed slightly.

“And?”

Baltasar continued.

“The unusual part… is the identity of the woman.”

Another brief pause.

“She was the daughter of General Johann Friederick Krugger—one of the most respected officers under Frederick the Great. A man who fought beside him for most of his life.”

Pedro’s expression sharpened immediately.

“Do you think this was a plan of the Duke of Lerma?”

Baltasar hesitated.

“At least from the current Duke—no,” he said carefully. “As for the previous one… it is still doubtful whether it was deliberate, or simply… coincidence.”

Pedro frowned slightly, his gaze hardening.

“I do not believe in luck.”

A brief silence followed.

The kind that did not come from uncertainty—but from calculation.

Baltasar went on:

“It also appears that this connection allowed the smuggling of German troops into the region. Several Spanish patrol vessels in the area were destroyed.”

He added, more carefully:

“The British informed the Crown of this… but His Majesty dismissed it, believing it to be a distraction from their own actions in Toulon.”

Silence followed.

Then Pedro spoke.

Slowly.

“I see.”

He turned fully now, his eyes no longer amused.

“Now I understand.”

His gaze fixed onto Baltasar, sharp and calculating.

“This is not a simple rebellion. Nor merely a conflict between factions.”

A short pause.

“This is a war.”

His voice lowered.

“A war between European powers—Prussian influence, Vatican forces… and the Spanish Crown.”

Another pause.

“In essence…”

A faint, cold smile appeared.

“This is no different from the wars we fight in Europe.”

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