“You call yourselves politicians?”

Baltasar’s voice cut through the chamber with controlled severity.

“You are nothing but caretakers of a house already on fire. You have allowed Carlos to treat this colony as his own backyard—his influence growing under the protection of the Crown itself. And now,” he paused, letting the weight of his words settle, “now it has turned into open rebellion.”

He looked from one face to another, measuring their silence.

“Tell me—do you still find this situation amusing? Does the Cincinnatus Mandate still sound like a harmless philosophical exercise… now that it stands with a bayonet at your throats?”

His fist came down sharply upon the map, striking the course of the Magdalena River.

“I have no interest in your excuses,” he continued, his tone tightening. “Nor in your so-called ‘local complexities.’ I am interested in results. If you cannot govern your own cousins, your business partners, your neighbors—then you are of no use to the Crown.”

A brief pause followed. His gaze hardened further.

“And in the eyes of the future Viceroy, Pedro Mendinueta y Múzquiz, a useless politician is indistinguishable from a traitor.”

One of the officials, flushed with indignation, stepped forward.

“What do you mean?” he demanded. “That man was assisting us—helping defend against the fanatics—until your so-called Mendinueta decided to interfere in this province. Had it not been for that, Carlos would never have dared betray the Crown.”

Baltasar let out a short, humorless breath.

“Are you serious?” he replied, his voice dropping into something colder. “The man was already a king beneath a king. What were you waiting for? For him to crown himself Emperor of the Americas before you acknowledged the extent of his power?”

He leaned slightly forward.

“Do you truly believe that a man who commands an army—and holds territory as his own—will remain obedient to Spain indefinitely?”

A silence followed.

“Foolish,” Baltasar added, almost under his breath.

He straightened again, though the tension remained in his posture.

“There was a reason power was not meant to fall so easily into local hands,” he continued. “And yet, it seems our own countrymen from the Iberian Peninsula have proven no wiser.”

His expression darkened.

“I sometimes wonder,” he said more quietly, “whether His Majesty would have altered his judgment… had he foreseen such incompetence.”

No one answered.

“And now,” Baltasar went on, his tone sharpening once more, “we lose ground with each passing day. Even in the Río de la Plata, another—an Italian, no less—has begun to call men to arms in open defiance.”

The room fell into a deeper silence.

These men were accustomed to authority without challenge. Their voices had long carried the force of law, their decisions rarely contested beyond polite disagreement. Rebellion, when spoken of, had always belonged to distant provinces or theoretical discussions.

Now it stood before them.

They were unprepared.

The elite families of New Granada had always formed the foundation of their system—wealth exchanged for protection, loyalty reinforced by mutual benefit. To move openly against them had never been desirable.

But the situation had changed.

One family’s betrayal had altered the balance entirely.

And it was becoming clear—to all of them—that the incoming Viceroy would not hesitate to sacrifice even the elites if it meant preserving control. Such measures, in turn, would only drive more families toward the rebels.

A dangerous cycle, already in motion.

The door opened abruptly.

Another of Baltasar’s commanders entered, his pace urgent but restrained enough to maintain decorum.

“Sir,” he said, bowing briefly, “we have a problem. Reports confirm that the traitors are arming themselves and reinforcing the Mompox. Additionally… I have received word that El Banco has fallen—during the assault.”

Baltasar frowned.

For the first time, something close to surprise crossed his expression.

“Wait,” he said, turning fully toward the officer. “Did we not send reinforcements to El Banco after the attack on Mompox?”

The commander hesitated only briefly before answering.

“It seems the reports reached us too late,” he said. “By the time our reinforcements arrived at El Banco, the city had already fallen into Carlos’s hands. During the second assault, it was no longer a town to be reclaimed—it had become the center of supplies for that German army.”

Baltasar closed his eyes for a moment, then struck his own forehead with the palm of his hand—more weary than furious.

“Then we move,” he said at last, his voice low but decisive. “Prepare an army. Even if we cannot retake Mompox, we must at least seize the initiative. The Crown must appear strong, if nothing else.”

He turned back to the table, his finger tracing the river routes almost absently.

“Send enough artillery to level the city if necessary. But preserve the army. I do not yet know how many troops will arrive from Spain, and we cannot rely on the forces of the other provinces.”

He paused, thinking aloud now, his tone sharpening with each conclusion.

“Carlos will not remain idle. His next objective will likely be the Captaincy of Venezuela. Those territories will keep their own troops—they have no choice. The fanatics continue to spread toward Quito, and any movement of forces would leave those regions exposed.”

A faint, humorless breath escaped him.

“And in the Río de la Plata, that Italian madman stirs rebellion of his own. Three fronts…” He shook his head slightly. “Three separate forces, rising at once.”

The commander shifted uneasily.

“There may be a fourth, sir,” he added. “Though for now, it does not threaten us directly.”

Baltasar looked up.

“Speak.”

“They call themselves the Covenant of the Sun—or something close to it. Remnants of the Jesuits massacre over the nutabe, it seems. Tired of the persecutions, they have begun to organize independently.” He hesitated again. “Their aims are… more radical. They speak of expelling every European and mestizo from the continent. A return to what they call a ‘pure land,’ as in the time of their ancestors.”

Baltasar exhaled slowly.

“Then prepare for them as well,” he said. “But not yet. Mompox remains the priority.”

His gaze narrowed.

“And the fanatics? What are they doing? Since the last engagement—after they broke our army—they have been silent.”

The commander gave a slight shrug.

“There are reports of internal conflict. The bishop is said to have caused the death of the Jesuit leader. Since then, divisions have grown. There is also mention of a young man from New Granada—elevated by the bishop’s favor—who has become… arrogant.”

He chose his words carefully.

“This has caused tension within their ranks. The Jesuits resent being used as expendable troops while the credit is claimed by those in higher positions. There are even rumors that the bishop has lost his hability to see the future.”

Baltasar’s eyes widened slightly.

That, he had not expected.

He had already spoken with the Viceroy about that faction—both of them sensing something irregular behind the figure of that man, Esteban. Yet to lose his power so abruptly… it suggested instability, perhaps even opportunity.

Without that guiding force, the theocratic lands would be easier to manipulate—or reclaim.

Which left the greater concern to the east.

Carlos.

Baltasar’s expression hardened once more.

He was no ordinary adversary. The Cincinnatus Mandate he had written was not mere rhetoric—it was a calculated instrument, crafted to grant the elites of New Granada exactly what they desired while maintaining the illusion of order. So long as that promise remained credible, the people would follow him.

And that made him dangerous.

“Very well,” Baltasar said at last. “Prepare the artillery. His Excellency the Viceroy will provide the necessary supplies.”

He turned toward the commander fully.

“If you can recover Mompox, do so. If you cannot…” He paused, letting the words settle with deliberate weight. “Destroy everything of value. Supplies, fortifications—leave nothing that can sustain them.”

His voice lowered.

“See that the city becomes a ruin, if it must. You have my authority.”

The commander nodded once, sharply, and withdrew.

Baltasar remained still for a moment longer, then straightened and left the chamber. He had grown weary of reprimanding men who had come to the New World not to govern—but to retire in comfort.

On the other side of New Granada, the mood had taken on a different character.

The Great Hall in Medellín was thick with the scent of fine tobacco—and something less refined beneath it. Sweat, unease, calculation. The patriarchs of the city’s oldest families stood assembled, hats in hand, their posture carefully measured. Each man seemed intent on appearing composed, as though he had not spent the previous months quietly hoping for a Spanish victory.

Carlos observed them without curiosity.

There was no anger in his expression, nor satisfaction—only a certain weariness. The kind earned through long familiarity. He had seen too many bargains struck and abandoned, too many oaths reshaped by circumstance, to expect anything different now.

“Don Carlos,” one of the elder men began, stepping forward with a practiced smile. “A most fortunate day for the province. We have always trusted that your vision for these lands would—”

“Enough.”

Carlos did not raise his voice. He simply interrupted.

The word fell flat, but it carried.

“I have spent ten years moving cargo for the Company,” he said, after a brief pause, “through every swamp, every mountain pass in this colony. I have dealt with merchants, captains, officials—men of every rank and title.”

He shifted his gaze slowly across the room.

“I know precisely what a man’s word is worth… when the wind changes direction.”

Silence followed.

No one moved to speak again.

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep