That sa night, Baltasar ca 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 ti, he truly felt how expensive war was—not in theory, but in practice.
Upon seeing his most trusted man enter, he set the docunt aside and looked at him with a faint smile.
"Tell you bring so good news," Pedro said. "Looking at the money the King has given is enough to give a headache. I need sothing 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 docunts 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 sa n His Majesty expelled from New Granada thirty years ago."
Pedro’s expression shifted slightly, but he remained silent.
"So 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 rely trained—properly ard."
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 sothing 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 dellín 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 becos, it will lack experience."
A faint, controlled smile appeared.
"Even if stronger than the stizos 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 ti 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 so envoy of God?" he said with a faint scoff. "He is just a man—with so ability, perhaps—but still a man."
Baltasar did not imdiately agree.
"Maybe, Excellency... but he does seem to possess sothing 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 diterranean."
A brief pause.
"In 1783, he sold every property he owned in ssina—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 rchant 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 rchant, 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 ti 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 seed about to say sothing—but stopped himself.
He took a slow breath, steadying his tone before continuing.
"Then we have the Góz family. This case... is also one of those that appears to be too much like luck."
He adjusted the docunts 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 imdiately.
"Francisco," he said. "The ’miracle boy’ of Hannover, I presu."
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 etings. 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 ti reading French philosophers... and too little ti observing how the world actually functions."
His tone hardened.
"He believes ’talent’ alone is enough to govern—as if ruling a kingdom were the sa 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 so lands and forced to leave with his family."
Pedro sneered faintly.
"That is rather rciful, I must say."
He remained by the window.
"I would have sent assassins to deal with him on the road—and blad 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 beca known that a Viceroy was killing the King’s own n... his end would not be pleasant."
Pedro remained silent for a mont.
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 rely a faction?"
Baltasar took a deeper breath this ti.
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 imdiately.
"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 co 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 inford 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 rely 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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