Chapter 257: A Matter of Civilization

“The problem was never autonomy,” Carlos said at last, his voice measured, though firm. “In general, the indigenous are a good people—at least, the greater part of them. Granting them some degree of control over their lands is no great difficulty. The Spanish themselves have long allowed it.”

He paused briefly, as if weighing the thought before continuing.

“The true problem is annexation. They do not wish to become part of other nations. For that reason, they strive to avoid dependence on us—whether for resources or even for food. They may accept, in name, to fall under a government’s authority, but they resist becoming one with it.”

Amelia inclined her head slightly. “I understand. Many among them have taught us valuable knowledge. Even my father learned much of New Granada from them.” Her expression softened, touched by memory. “Some of the gold mines in Antioquia were discovered through their guidance.”

Carlos nodded, though his gaze remained distant.

“The greater difficulty, however, lies in their limited need for money. Under ordinary circumstances, this would not trouble us. Yet if they retain autonomy over lands rich in resources, it becomes a matter of consequence.”

He leaned back slightly, his tone turning more deliberate.

“With other peoples, granting territory and a measure of self-governance presents little issue. Should they discover gold or silver, they will exploit it—to enrich themselves, to develop their lands, to build, to hire teachers, physicians… to progress.”

A faint tightening crossed his expression.

“But the indigenous follow a different way of life. They do not value money in the same manner. Even if they possess the richest of mines, they will extract only what is necessary—for salt, for ironwork, perhaps for medicinal needs. The remainder lies untouched.” He exhaled quietly. “For a nation in need of development, such abundance left idle… is difficult to accept.”

For a moment, silence settled between them.

“And there is another matter,” Carlos added more quietly. “Perhaps the greatest of all. If we refuse to take those resources, and tomorrow a more ruthless power arrives—one willing to exterminate them entirely—then we will have preserved those riches only for the hands of those who would destroy both them… and us.”

Amelia’s gaze lowered for an instant before she nodded.

“I have heard troubling reports from the west,” she said. “The fanatics there show little mercy toward the indigenous tribes. Though,” she added with care, “the tribes themselves are not without blame. Many lives have been lost on both sides. It has become… a slaughter.”

She lifted her eyes again, steady now.

“And yet, it is precisely for that reason that you must seek an agreement with them. While the fanatics drive them to desperation, the Spanish—who maintain somewhat better relations—may secure their full support in time.”

She leaned forward slightly.

“But you,” she continued, “are not the Spanish. You represent a new regime. If you offer them better terms—fairer ones—they may be persuaded to abandon the Spanish and support you instead. After all… the Spanish still carry a debt of blood with them.”

Carlos fell into thought.

Amelia, seated beside him, poured a cup of coffee and placed it gently in his hand before returning to her seat. She watched him in silence, studying the serious expression she had come to admire.

After a slow sip, he spoke again.

“Let us wait for Francisco’s reply,” he said. “As for the Chimila, we may accept their proposal. But ensure that any agreement they reach with the Bari is put into writing as well.”

His tone sharpened slightly.

“That way, should the Chimila attempt to dominate the Bari, we will have cause to intervene. The power that comes with control of salt is too great to ignore.” He set the cup down with quiet care. “Another empire, like that of the Inca, would prove… troublesome to defend against.”

Two months later, the letter reached Göttingen. After reading it, Francisco found himself compelled to seek counsel with his mentor, Christian Gottlob Heyne.

As he entered the library of Göttingen, he could never quite suppress his sense of wonder. It was a place where one might willingly lose oneself in knowledge. Students moved in and out in a steady rhythm, absorbed in their books, their murmurs low and constant.

Perhaps because of the chaos of the previous year, the university had taken precautions. With fresh funds at its disposal, Göttingen had hired additional guards and made entry more systematic, fearing that some fanatic might attempt to set the library aflame under the guise of protest. Francisco, accustomed to such measures, presented his credentials without complaint. Once admitted, he was guided toward Christian’s office.

The heavy oak doors creaked open.

At once, Francisco was struck by the mingled scent of old parchment, formaldehyde, and expensive tobacco. The office itself resembled a battlefield of knowledge. On one side, Heyne’s desk lay buried beneath Etruscan pottery fragments and scattered Greek manuscripts; on the other, Johann Friedrich Blumenbach’s shelves displayed a silent, ivory-white array of human skulls.

“It is a matter of continuity, Johann!” Heyne’s voice thundered, his finger striking a charcoal sketch of an Etruscan burial urn. He did not even glance at Francisco upon his entrance. “The Etruscans were not a biological anomaly—they were a cultural bridge! Their political sophistication—their lucumonies—formed a template for the very soul of the West. To study them without their poetry is to perform an autopsy upon a ghost!”

Blumenbach, standing near the window with a pair of brass calipers in hand, gave a dry, measured chuckle.

“And to study them without their bones, Christian, is to compose a fable. I possess three crania from the tombs at Tarquinia, and they tell a story your verses cannot. Their cranial angles—the very structure of their jaws—suggest a people shaped by the climate of the Italian peninsula, a physical Bildungstrieb that predates your so-called ’Grecian spirit.’”

“Spirit is the driver, not the passenger!” Heyne retorted, finally noticing Francisco. He gestured toward a stool without pausing his argument. “Francisco, listen to this man. He would reduce the glory of the Tuscan kings to the measurement of a forehead. He forgets that a civilization is an act of will, not merely a skeletal arrangement.”

“And you forget,” Blumenbach replied, turning his sharp gaze toward Francisco, “that a will cannot act without a proper vessel. These Etruscans you admire were engineers because their bodies and minds were suited to the challenges of their terrain. The environment shaped the biology, and the biology shaped the state.”

Heyne turned fully now, his eyes alight with intensity.

“Tell him, Francisco. You have read the accounts from the New World. When you consider the tribes of the South, do you see merely a ’variety of man’ to be measured like a specimen… or do you see a suppressed empire awaiting its own Roman moment?”

Francisco hesitated.

Between these two men—one devoted to the structure of society, the other to the nature of the body—there seemed no possible reconciliation. Each spoke with conviction, yet neither yielded.

He gathered his thoughts, if only briefly.

“To be honest,” he said at last, carefully, “the indigenous peoples do possess both the capacity and the drive to form their own states… yet it is their social structure that presents the greatest obstacle.”

Both men exchanged a glance, their brows drawing together.

“What do you mean?” they asked almost in unison.

Francisco exhaled quietly, as if gathering the weight of his thoughts.

“That is precisely why I came,” he replied. “You must have heard the news from New Granada. My father has already begun his expansion and now stands close to founding a nation of his own. The difficulty, however, lies in how we are to deal with the indigenous.”

He paused briefly before continuing, more steadily now. He spoke of limited autonomy, of their indifference toward money, of resources left idle despite their abundance. He explained the tension it created—between development and respect, between necessity and restraint.

Both men listened with growing interest, their earlier dispute momentarily forgotten.

“This presents a remarkable opportunity,” Blumenbach said, unable to conceal his excitement. “We might use your father’s lands as a ground for experimentation—observe how a new system may function in practice.”

But before the thought could settle, Heyne raised a hand, his expression sharpening.

“Wait,” he said firmly. “We cannot make such a decision for Francisco—or for his father. We may instruct him, yes, offer him what knowledge we possess… but the choice itself must remain his.”

His tone softened slightly, though it retained its weight.

“That land is his home.”

Blumenbach fell silent. After a moment, he inclined his head in agreement. To decide such a matter was to alter the lives of thousands—perhaps more. Distance did not lessen its consequence.

The room grew quieter.

At last, both men nodded, and the discussion resumed, now with greater care.

Heyne reached for a heavy leather-bound folio and drew it toward the center of the desk. Within it lay sketches of the Roman Republic and the Greek city-states, their forms preserved in ink and study.

He looked at Francisco with an intensity that spoke not of argument, but of instruction.

“These,” he said, resting his hand upon the pages, “are not merely histories… but possibilities.”

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