Chapter 4: Gómez de castro

Having finished his drink, Francisco got up and left the inn. But just as he was going out he saw another boy — a Gómez de Castro — and a priest. Don’t kid yourselves: even if both families share the surname Gómez, they aren’t kin (or maybe their ancestors were — who knows?). Today they represent two different interests. They stand for the Church: hypocrites who pretend to believe in God while exploiting the farmers and defending a corrupt clergy that harms children. And the other believes in the king, another corrupt one, but at least this one doesn’t come with spiritual obligations. Even though his father is a good Catholic, his family has always been at odds with the Church — not only because of the power struggle between king and bishop, but because of something his father saw once while serving the crown. He never said exactly what, but after that he was completely disgusted with the Church; even if he attends Mass every Sunday, whenever a priest tries to speak to him he runs from them like the plague.

“You’re the boy from the family expelled from Bogotá, no?” said the boy with a sneer and arrogance, not looking anywhere else. “The monarchist who worships mortals.”

“Indeed, we are loyal to the king. Why aren’t you?” answered Francisco, his face showing suspicion, like he was sizing up a traitor.

“Of course we are loyal to the king and to God, but we only worship God,” the Gómez de Castro boy — maybe Francisco’s age — replied, sounding a little panicked.

“That’s good. The empire always likes loyal citizens who learn to separate the mortal world from the spiritual. Am I right?” said Francisco, trying to bait the boy with his words. After all, if the boy admitted separation, with the priest behind him he would be confessing to supporting a divide from the Church — making himself an enemy of the clergy. If he said no, he would be openly on the Church’s side, making enemies among monarchists and liberals alike. It must be said: monarchists were not the only ones at odds with the Church; liberals also hated it. After all, it’s thanks to the Church that the Crown keeps much of its authority. The hatred among monarchists, liberals, and the clergy is mostly about power. The liberals wanted to expel the power of both Church and Crown and seize power themselves.

The Gómez de Castro boy opened his mouth to answer, but seeing no safe reply he closed it and looked at his companion, the priest.

“My child, you should not lay traps for the boy. God loves everyone equally and clearly He is different from the king. He owns everything; even the king prays to Him because we are all His children,” said the priest with a pious face.

“Indeed, Your Excellency. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have things to attend to,” said Francisco, leaving. Making an enemy of the Church was not a good idea; friction was fine, but open conflict was dangerous.

Inside the inn, the priest and the Gómez de Castro boy were talking.

“Damn that empire dog. Who does he think he is? Father, forgive me, but it’s maddening. An outsider comes here because he was expelled from the capital and still acts like some kind of noble. He’s just a dog,” said Ezequiel, eldest son of the Gómez de Castro family. Like many devout Catholics, he’d been raised with an extreme political-religious view: they saw king and royalty as parasites of the empire, but they ignored that the Church is no different — hypocritical and dependent on the state to maintain its power.

“My child, do not be upset. This world is of God, and we are only occupying it for Him. If anyone goes against Him, God will punish them. For now we should be calm and wait for our moment,” replied the priest, his voice full of piety.

“Yes, Father,” Ezequiel answered respectfully.

“And how do things go with what I asked you to do?” the priest asked.

“It’s going well. We are strengthening the intellectuals with arms and money, hoping they can rebel at any moment,” said the boy with a serious look. “Father says he has people in their ranks — even one of our own — so we can accomplish our plan.”

“That’s good. With the French Revolution spreading to America, some will be inspired to follow. The important thing is to be ready, and maybe we can achieve what the false prophet in the Vatican never could,” said the priest with a smile, glancing toward Bogotá. “A theocracy — a kingdom of God,” he whispered, imagining the future. Then, returning to the present, he added, “But meanwhile be careful with that Gómez family. Even if they are only merchants, they are merchants of the king. You shouldn’t raise their alarms and ruin our plan. Lay low for now.”

“Yes, Father. We will,” Ezequiel answered, fervent and respectful.

“Also, the rebellions in the Viceroyalty of the Río de la Plata and the Viceroyalty of Peru helped keep the Crown busy. Those pagans helped our cause when we found our country. Remember to convert them into loyal and pious citizens. It’s time for them to leave their false gods behind and be received into God’s open arms,” the priest said, remembering uprisings like Túpac Amaru. He reflected on the brutality after the rebellion — the Spanish suppression that provoked resentment among indigenous peoples.

“That reminds me: my father asked me about those Eastern pagans we found illegally on the ships,” Ezequiel asked the priest.

“The Easterners are hard to change. In their country they believe there is nothing above their emperor and they don’t believe in God. But they are many. If we could teach the Lord’s word in their land, how many more souls would be saved? Tell your father we will send priests to teach them; try not to kill them,” said the priest, fantasizing about that rich, distant Eastern country while drinking his beer. He didn’t notice that an innkeeper had been listening behind the partition.

“This information is important to the liberals. We have infiltrators in the leadership,” the innkeeper thought as he scribbled everything into a letter. He left the inn, but soon realized someone was tailing him through the villa. Acting casual, he drifted toward the main square, where Francisco stood in front of the church, staring at a house. As he passed, the innkeeper deliberately brushed against him, slipping the folded letter into Francisco’s pocket without a word.

“Excuse me,” the innkeeper muttered, almost under his breath, before continuing on. He didn’t stop until he reached a lonely hill outside the village.

“You can come out now,” he said, voice steady, to the shadows behind him.

“It seems you already knew we were coming for you,” said a cloaked man, drawing his sword. Two more stepped out, circling the innkeeper until escape was impossible.

The innkeeper sighed. “Dad always told me: one day I’d end up dead for poking where I shouldn’t.”

“A wise piece of advice you should have followed,” sneered one of the men as he advanced.

“Yeah… sadly, I never liked obeying advice,” the innkeeper replied. In a flash he pulled out two flintlock pistols and fired — both shots finding their marks. Two attackers dropped lifeless. But the third lunged forward, plunging a blade into his stomach.

“Ugh…” blood welled up in his throat. He staggered, spat crimson, then pulled a third pistol with shaking hands. Glaring at his last enemy, he hissed, “See you in hell!” and fired.

The cloaked man collapsed. The innkeeper pulled the sword from his own body, stumbled back, and fell onto the grass. Staring up at the sky, the world spinning, he wondered if it had all been worth it. Then his eyes slowly closed.

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep