The Andes Dream-Chapter 254: Pedro Mendinueta y Múzquiz
On the other side of the ocean, in Spain—
The air in Madrid was thin and biting, a sharp contrast to the suffocating heat of the chambers Pedro had just left.
As they crossed the threshold of the Royal Palace, the heavy oak doors groaning shut behind them, Pedro’s pace remained steady—measured, deliberate. It was the stride of a man who had just been entrusted with something far greater than authority.
It was the stride of a man who had been given purpose.
Baltasar de Zúñiga followed precisely two paces behind, his white-gloved hands clasped neatly at his back.
He did not need to look at Pedro’s face to understand the outcome.
The faintest lift at the corner of his master’s mouth—a shadow of a smile—was enough.
For those who knew the history of the name Borja, even that slight expression would have been enough to inspire unease.
They crossed the Plaza de la Armería in silence, the guards standing along its edges like carved figures, unmoving beneath the fading light of evening.
Pedro did not speak.
Not until they reached the iron gates of his residence on the Calle de Bailén.
Once inside, the stillness returned.
Pedro gave his instructions without turning.
"Prepare coffee," he said to the maidservants. "And do not enter again without permission for the next hours."
They bowed and withdrew without question.
Pedro and Baltasar moved through the corridors, their footsteps echoing softly against polished stone, until they reached the office.
The door closed behind them.
Only then did Pedro allow himself to smile.
At first, it was subtle.
Then it grew.
"Finally, Baltasar," he said, his voice carrying a restrained satisfaction. "At last, an opportunity worthy of our name."
He moved toward the desk, resting one hand upon its surface.
"With this mission, I can reshape how the world sees the Borgia. If I succeed... we will not be remembered as relics of the Renaissance, but as the most loyal servants of the Crown."
A faint pause.
"These fanatics have offered us something far too valuable to ignore."
Baltasar inclined his head slightly.
"So His Majesty has granted you authority over New Granada, sir?"
Pedro smiled again, this time more openly.
The coffee arrived, and he took the cup without breaking his composure, raising it calmly before answering.
"Indeed."
He took a slow sip before continuing.
"The King has grown weary of incompetence—of men who have allowed Spain to lose its hold over New Granada."
His tone sharpened slightly.
"And knowing well how our family operates, he has entrusted us with the task."
He lowered the cup, turning it slightly between his fingers.
"This is our chance to prove that we are not the Borgias of old. That we are not driven by excess... but by loyalty."
A brief pause.
"And if we succeed—if we cleanse the stain left by those failures in the Viceroyalty, and deal with this so-called theocracy..."
His gaze fixed onto Baltasar.
"Then the rewards will not be mine alone."
Baltasar remained still.
Listening.
Pedro leaned forward slightly, the porcelain cup resting against the desk, a faint ring of dark liquid marking its place.
"I have the King’s ear," he continued, his voice quieter now, more deliberate. "And with it... we may resolve your family’s troubles with the Austrians."
A subtle shift.
"Perhaps even restore what was taken. Titles... lands... dignity."
Silence settled briefly between them.
Then Pedro’s expression changed.
The warmth faded.
Something colder took its place.
"But for that, Baltasar..."
He straightened, his gaze locking onto him with an intensity that left no room for misunderstanding.
"You must be prepared to do whatever is required."
A pause.
"You know how I act."
His voice did not rise—but it hardened.
"I do not tolerate hesitation. I do not accept sympathy."
Another step closer.
"I require loyalty. And obedience."
The words lingered in the room.
Sharp. Final.
"If you are not prepared for that," Pedro finished calmly, "then say so now."
A faint tilt of the head.
"So I may find someone who is."
Baltasar solemnly made a small reverence and said,
"Sir, just for cleaning the stain my family suffered during the War of Succession, I am willing to do everything you order."
Pedro nodded slightly.
"Good."
He rested one hand over the desk, his fingers tapping lightly against the surface.
"Then I need you to gather all the information we are going to need. From what I understand, it is not only the fanatics causing trouble—the second son of the Duke of Lerma is also active in that place."
He paused briefly, then continued with more precision.
"I want everything. The situation of every relevant person in that colony. The factions—those loyal to Spain and those against it. The indigenous groups—those who may work for us out of loyalty, and those who act only for their own interests."
His eyes narrowed slightly.
"Everything."
Another pause.
"I also need names of men to take with me. Only those who are trustworthy... and willing to do whatever it takes to accomplish their mission."
His tone hardened just a little.
"I do not want idiots blinded by honor."
Baltasar nodded.
"Yes, sir."
He hesitated for a moment before asking:
"When are you prepared to depart?"
Pedro remained silent for a few seconds, his fingers now drumming a slow, almost funeral rhythm against the mahogany desk.
Then he looked up.
"Based on Machiavelli," Pedro began, his voice lowering into a colder, sharper tone, "a prince must be both a fox—to recognize traps—and a lion—to frighten the wolves."
He held Baltasar’s gaze.
"We shall not be the wolves, Baltasar. We shall be the hunters."
He straightened and began pacing the room slowly, with a controlled, almost predatory elegance. The candlelight stretched his shadow across the walls, giving him the appearance of one of those Renaissance portraits—still, composed, but unsettling.
"So first," he continued, "bring me the information before we even set foot outside this room."
His voice grew more deliberate.
"I want to know the situation of every person in that colony. The factions—pro-Spain and anti-Spain. The indigenous groups—who may be loyal, and who act only for interest."
A slight pause.
"Everything."
He stopped briefly, then added:
"We must also prepare our own supplies—and take veteran soldiers from the Peninsula. I do not trust the idiots in New Granada who allowed a small merchant and a delusional bishop to create so much chaos."
A faint, almost cynical expression crossed his face.
"There is something Voltaire said... ’May God deliver me from my friends; I can handle my enemies myself.’"
Baltasar hesitated.
"But sir... you would need a considerable number of troops if you intend to replace the forces of the Viceroy. We are speaking of thousands—perhaps more."
Pedro replied without hesitation.
"We do not need to replace the foot soldiers. Only the officers."
He turned slightly, his tone firm.
"I understand perfectly how impossible it would be to replace the entire army. I am not an idiot."
Baltasar exhaled quietly, a small sign of relief.
"Yes, sir. I will handle it."
He paused briefly before continuing.
"For tonight, the information will be ready. However... it is already March. By the time we are prepared, it will be April."
A slight hesitation followed.
"We may need to wait until next year to depart for the New Continent."
Pedro narrowed his eyes slightly.
"Is there no other way?" he asked.
A short pause.
"No possibility of leaving in October?"
Baltasar gave a small shrug.
"It is the hurricane season," he said. "If we attempt to depart at that time, we may lose to nature before we even set foot in those lands."
Pedro frowned.
"That is... inconvenient."
He remained silent for a brief moment, his gaze lowering slightly as the implications settled in.
"By now, the news of my appointment as Viceroy must have already reached New Granada," he continued. "That alone will force that man—Carlos—and that fanatic to act more aggressively."
His tone grew colder.
"It seems we will be facing a far more difficult war than I initially anticipated."
He turned slightly, his mind already moving ahead.
"I need you to send Colonel Juan de Alarcón," he said firmly. "He is to reinforce the defenses until we arrive."
A short pause.
"If he departs immediately, he may still reach the colony before the hurricane season begins."
Pedro’s expression sharpened.
"And make it clear to him—if he performs well enough, I will grant him command over the army once we establish control in New Granada."
Baltasar nodded without hesitation.
"Yes, sir."
Without further words, he turned and left the room to carry out the order.
Pedro remained alone.
For a moment, the silence of the office settled heavily around him.
Then his gaze shifted toward the map of New Granada, laid carefully across the desk—an item gifted to him by a member of the court as he departed from His Majesty’s chambers.
He stepped closer.
Slowly, his fingers traced the lines of rivers and mountains, lingering over the vast, untamed spaces that separated one name from another.
