The Seeds of Treachery: Lisbon, june 1668
The flickering candlelight barely illuminated the shadowed room in a discreet Lisbon residence. A plump, unctuous Inquisitor, his eyes glinting with a familiar avarice, weighed a heavy purse in his hand. Across from him, a lean figure, whose fashion subtly betrayed his Dutch origins, watched intently.
"So," the Nederland spy purred, breaking the silence, "do you know what to do?"
The Inquisitor's lips curled into a smirk, his fingers idly tracing the contours of the purse. "Of course. You want the recipe for that 'rubber,' and I, in turn, can gain the wealth of the Marquis. You know it won't be easy," he cautioned, though his tone suggested a challenge he relished.
The spy chuckled, a dry, rasping sound.
"Yeah, I know. A national hero, and his friends too. But what are national heroes if they're not perfect, hmm?" A sly, almost wicked, grin spread across his face.
"Everyone should abide by the rules of the Inquisition," the Inquisitor lectured, his voice suddenly sharp, a flicker of zeal added to his greed.
"You know that all too well in Netherland."
The spy was taken aback for a moment, a flicker of old memories in his eyes.
He quickly recovered, his mask of detached amusement back in place.
"Well, the Marquis separated from his wife and bought a new mansion for him and his children. He said she has to... 'find her own goals.' Or something like that," he recounted, mimicking a hushed, scandalized whisper. "Said one of the devout to the oh-so-pure Catholic I could be."
The Inquisitor's eyes widened, then gleamed with malicious delight.
"Ha! What good information! A good news! Unable to correct a woman! This is treachery to Portugal! To the Papacy! He should decide all and tire himself to death... This is the way of the Lord.
"I hear you're a real believer too..." The dutch sarcastically replied.
"Of course" shrugging dismissively. He gestured to the purse in his hand, before continuing.
"Look at that, and the promise to bring down a national hero who led his team to innovations and wealth to the kingdom! Hey! It's for the Inquisition to decide. They should know their place..."
_________
While some people tried to solve once and for all, all the problems of the world...
A reminscence of the past lingered in the minds of two people while encountring after a long while:
Palace of Ribeira, 1662.
In the cool shadow of a gallery, young Prince Pedro listens to the Marquis of Carrasca, who stands near a window open onto the Tagus.
João, Marquis of Carrasca (in a low, almost conspiratorial voice): "You know, Your Highness, the cruzado... it's not just a coin. It's a symbolic name, forged for the crusade against the Moors, the Reconquista. Your father's cruzado, in my opinion, was also a crusade for Portugal's independence." (He spins a coin between his fingers; the light catches the cross stamped on its reverse.) "But do you know what a cross becomes when you turn it over?" (He pivots the coin; the cross transforms into a sword.) "A sword..." Pedro remains thoughtful before this image. He is only sixteen, but he already understands that symbols carry within them violence, faith, rupture. A cross, a sword, a border between heritage and creation.
June 1668, Ribeira.
The Tagus stretches out, a sheet of liquid silver under the purple palette of twilight. Dom Pedro stands there, his spirit adrift.
The Marquis of Carrasca joins him without ceremony, no superfluous courtesies, like two old friends reuniting after a long time.
In the Regent Prince's hand, a silver Espada, freshly minted from the Casa da Moeda. He makes it dance between his fingers, an ephemeral sparkle catching the last glimmers of the day. The object is merely a pretext, the mirror of a profound thought.
A silence. Two smiles. Like two werewolves plotting a coup.
"They say it's a sword of peace." A shadow of derision crosses his lips. "But that's not true."
João approaches. "No?"
"No. It's not a sword of peace. It's a weapon of defense. And of attack."
Carrasca nods, a glimmer of understanding in his eyes. He murmurs, "Like, sometimes, one must know how to look at the purse."
Pedro looks at him, an enigmatic smile. "It's a tool. A tool that can defend, yes. But also strike. Open. Its gesture is not always to cleave, but to separate. Like separating the past from the present. It's a distinction between carrying a burden one knows nothing about and assuming a useful charge for survival. This coin, it's defense, attack, deterrence."
He raises the coin to his gaze, the silhouette of the metal outlined against the flamboyant horizon.
"My brother inherited a bruised kingdom, bled by a long war. He carried this sword like a cross, the heavy burden of a reign, and then... ah, his conditions were quite particular from the start. But I understood that this cross could be lifted differently. I want it to serve to liberate. Not to eternally defend prison walls. I want to use it to build. To erect a new world."
A silence, filled with reminiscences. Then, a memory surfaces, clear.
"Do you remember, Carrasca? The Palace of Ribeira. 1662. I was sixteen. You told me: 'The cruzado is not just a coin. It's a name of war. A name of crusade. Your father struck it as one unfurls a banner in the wind of battle.'"
João nods, his memories contradicting, but he pays no more attention to it than that.
"And you showed me that coin. You said: 'Do you know what a cross upside down is?' And you turned it over. 'A sword.'"
"I never forgot. That was the day I began to... think about signs. To create is not to prolong the past. It's not just to inherit. To create is to decide. It's to make tremble."
"Most people, Your Highness, don't like to work for others. Even if they don't yet know where they want to go, or what they want to do. It's like a break with their freedom to choose, it wounds them deeply. That's why, with my team, we found another way."
He pauses, his gaze lost in the distance, a mix of discreet pride and pragmatic realism, and memories of the kraken attack.
"We work with. We choose a common goal, and then we do what we can to achieve it, whether it succeeds or not. Of course, I must admit, we've been very lucky so far."
Pedro turns to him, the moonlight reflecting in his eyes, excitement dancing in his gaze.
"So, Carrasca, the world we are going to build..."
A pause full of determination.
"Not one of resignation or submission. And if I live longer than Afonso, I will not take the name Pedro II. I will take the name Simão I."
João shivers; the name evokes legends of magic, but also a name much appreciated by João: "he who has ears"...
'....' a smile, a breath...
Pedro murmurs, with a strange serenity in his voice.
"This kingdom needs a purpose, and this coin... (he closes his hand over the Espada) ...it will be the first blow struck in silence, the breath of a new freedom."
Lisbon, this 12th day of July in the year of grace 1668
To the attention of Dom João de Carrasca, Marquis and Counselor to His Majesty
Most noble lord and esteemed friend,
I received your letter with the greatest interest, and I rejoice to see that the monetary affairs of the kingdom elicit your enlightened attention. As you know, His Serene Highness the Regent Prince Dom Pedro has recently ordered the striking of a new silver coin, which we have named — at his express wish — the Espada, in homage to the restoration of our sovereignty and the armed vigilance that defends it.
Allow me to explain its economic and political reasons, for I know that you share, like me, a certain admiration for the method of Minister Colbert at the court of France, whose principles I observe with attention, while adapting them to the nature and means of our kingdom.
A Coin Without Face Value, But With Real Value
The Espada contains 4.5 grams of fine silver, and its exchange value is fixed by decree at 120 réis, which corresponds, according to our calculations, to the average daily wage of a field worker.
This choice is neither arbitrary nor purely technical. It aims to anchor the currency in the social reality of the kingdom, to make it immediately comprehensible to common people, while strengthening the stability of prices and exchanges.
But — and this is the heart of the reform — no face value is engraved on the coin. It bears only the image of the royal Espada, and the profile of His Majesty João IV. Thus, the value of the currency no longer depends on its appearance, but on the king's decrees.
A Reform to Centralize Without Offending
This mechanism obliges every subject, from merchant to peasant, to refer to royal decrees to know the exact value of the coin.
This results in a direct link between the people and the crown, for it is now the king's criers, and not local lords, who inform and regulate exchanges. The king becomes, in a way, the master of daily weights and measures.
And yet — and this is the subtlety of the system — the nobles are by no means harmed. On the contrary, monetary stability protects their rents, facilitates their transactions, and reduces the frauds that undermine their domains. They see it not as dispossession, but as a relief. Thus, centralization operates without opposition, in the fluidity of a strengthened order.
A Currency for a Modern Monarchy
I believe, like you, that Portugal must not only survive but reform to endure. The Espada is only a tool, but a powerful tool.
It allows the king to regulate internal monetary flows, stimulate popular consumption, and prepare the emergence of a modern State, where administration, taxation, and commerce have a common language to understand each other.
I thank you for your trust and your curiosity. Your captaincy project, which I follow with interest, will undoubtedly benefit from this new monetary stability.
If you need them, I can send you the texts of the indexation decrees, as well as the conversion tables currently in use at the Casa da Moeda.
Receive, Dom João, the expression of my high consideration and sincere friendship.
Dom Luís de Meneses Count of Ericeira Superintendent of Finance and Commerce of the Kingdom
"Ha ! A promising future for our captaincy in brazil is in the making !!! Hahaaha ! Laughed Joao
________
August1669.
João and Luís set off for France with their five sons—not to found a school or lead a regiment, but for a season of privileged discovery and exchange.
For the children, it's as close as possible to modern holidays: travels through landscapes, city visits, new languages and impressions, the sort of encounters and marvels that—back home—would take a lifetime to collect. It's not about achievement, but exposure: the world as a living atlas.
For the group of fifty engineers and architects who join them—received by recommendation from the court, from allied families, and some hand-picked by João and Luís—it's a journey of fascination.
The engineers will visit the immense chantier of the Canal du Midi, walking, talking, and observing as peers among Europe's best builders.
There's no training: just the chance to witness, discuss, and carry home stories of what's new and possible.
João, ever the keen observer, has lately discovered the French king's new comic playwright, Molière—and is delighted by "Les précieuses ridicules" and he plan to commissioned a representation : " le medecin imaginaire", which could maybe interest molière.
In the meantime, he prepares his own gift to the French court: an extravagant royal cape, assembled from vulcanized rubber inlaid with silver and diamonds—a curious and luxurious folly, designed as much for comfort as for admiration.
What João looks forward to most, however, is meeting Monsieur Colbert—the great minister whose hard work for commerce and navigation so closely echoes his own.
Obviously, his help would be needed to find descartes followers to try to recruit them for the lycée of the consortium "Horizon Brazil ".
They departed for france in that early august 1668, after theylearn about theend of ther devolution war and the hegemonic achieverents of the fench armies during the war.
______
From Nantes to Paris: A Portuguese Expedition in 1668
The crisp morning air of mid-August 1668 in Nantes hummed with a unique blend of anticipation and the bustle of departure. Dom João and Dom Luís stood amidst their impressive retinue. For the fathers, this journey to France was a meticulously planned strategic venture; for their five sons—João's two and Luís's three, ranging from spirited boys to curious adolescents—it was the grandest adventure of their young lives. This was no mere diplomatic mission, but a private initiative, born from their consortium's vast interests in colonial ventures, commerce, and burgeoning industries, driven by a shared conviction that it would benefit both Portugal and France.
The travel party was a sight to behold. At its heart were the two noble families, their carriages laden with personal effects and diplomatic gifts. Following them came the fifty hand-picked engineers and architects, their minds buzzing with the promise of new knowledge.
A substantial contingent of guards, seasoned and vigilant, rode alongside, their presence a reassuring sight on the often-unpredictable roads of 17th-century France. While not yet the coompletly paved "royal roads" that would define later eras, the main roads connecting Nantes to Paris were well-trodden, if at times dusty or rutted, winding through a landscape vastly different from their homeland.
As the convoy set forth, the children's eyes widened. Their world, consisting majorly on study games and visit of lisbon and the hot algarve, was unfurling before them like a living atlas. Each turn of the wheel brought new sights, sounds, and smells.
The green, rolling hills of the Loire Valley, dotted with distant châteaux that seemed to float above the morning mist, were a stark contrast to the sun-baked landscapes of Portugal.
They passed through quaint villages where the rhythm of life was dictated by the seasons and the church bells. Farmers toiled in fields, their simple cottages clustered together, while artisans plied their trades in open workshops, their hammers ringing against metal or wood. The children absorbed it all: the unfamiliar cadence of French spoken by the locals, the vibrant colours of market stalls, the aroma of baking bread mingling with the scent of damp earth.
These were the lives of common people, raw and immediate, a world away from the refined courts they knew.
In the small towns where they paused for the night, Angers, Blois, later Orléans, the differences became even more pronounced. The architecture, the local dialects, the very mannerisms of the French people, offered a rich tapestry of new impressions.
The boys, initially shy, soon found themselves exchanging curious glances with local children, bridging the language barrier with gestures and shared laughter. They saw noble carriages, perhaps even caught a glimpse of a lord or lady, reminding them of the stratified society, yet their own journey, with its mix of classes and purposes, felt uniquely new to them.
For the fathers, the journey was a prelude to their grand designs.
Dom Luís, decided to establish a lycée in Portugal, spent evenings in inns poring over maps and notes, his mind already in Paris, anticipating the intellectual sparring with the Cartesian school.
He spoke to his sons of the power of reason, of Descartes' bet, and his through that explianed them the methodical doubt, explaining how such thinking could transform their homeland.
He imagined the school he would establish, a beacon of breath for thoughts.
Dom João, engaged in animated discussions with his engineers and architects. They observed the French infrastructure, comparing bridge designs, assessing the efficiency of local mills, and discussing the challenges and triumphs of such large-scale undertakings.
João reinforced his belief that "people learn better in real conditions," pointing out practical solutions and engineering marvels they encountered. The anticipation ofthemparticipating to the Canal du Midi building, that colossal endeavour, grew with each passing league, whiich maylead to the practical application of the very principles Luís sought to import, an a "begining of a "portuguese school of engineers and architecture" different fro many other standardized applicaiotns thatcannotbe used inportugal while really producitveelswhere,portugal needs his own technology.
As early September arrived, the landscape gradually transformed. The countryside gave way to more frequent settlements, the roads grew busier, and the distant murmur of a great city began to replace the quiet hum of rural life. Finally, the spires and rooftops of Paris emerged from the horizon, a magnificent sprawl of stone and ambition. The children gasped, their journey culminating in a city that promised even more wonders.
For João and Luís, Paris represented the next crucial step in their ambitious, privately funded venture—a blend of intellectual pursuit, practical training, and strategic investment, all undertaken with the conviction that it's the best way for Portugal to foster a new era of collaboration with France.
________
João, finds, almost accidentally, amid the dazzling theatre world of Paris.
Having secured introductions through diplomatic channels, he arranges not just to attend a performance of Molière's troupe, but to meet the playwright personnaly.
He arrives with a lavish gift: a gift of 50,000 livres tournois—not as a commission, but as a gesture of admiration.
João says, via his interpreter: "I do not ask for a play, only that you might think of us one evening—of a captain who pirated, makinfgreta fortunes,later privateered by royal license, made great fortunes, a man who is almost imaginary, a total honest trader, who become a noble ... The rest is yours.
Every story you wish to spin, carry it, stitch it, parody it at your pleasure. From one craftsman, in his way, to another."
Molière is charmed—money is money, and the odd figure of this Portuguese captain, with his sly smile and tales of the Indies, is the sort of eccentric he finds irresistible.
Later, as João shares wine backstage with the troupe, he is introduced to a fashionable physician, a great advocate of bloodletting.
The doctor lectures, gesturing gravely:
"The balance of the humors, monsieur, governs all health. Bleeding is often the necessary art. Else how will be expelled the bad vapors, hot or cold?"
João, grinning, leans on his cane and replies (again, half in French, half via interpreter):
"Sir, I have sailed to the edge of the world and back. I've never seen a sailor become healthier after netting bled like a wine barrel! As for hot vapors, give 'em salt herring and rum and watch them sweat it out. Bleeding? On my ships, you'd be run out for harming my expedition,my crew andmy fleet.
And that's what is called medicine—then perhaps I am an imaginary doctor whostill it's better not to bleed the sailors!"
He winks at Molière, who is by now scribbling notes—already imagining the comic possibilities:
An imaginary doctor, a pirate captain, and a Parisian audience...
And so, without commissioning a line, João seeds a new idea—a collision of farce, science, and colonial adventure—straight into the mind of France's greatest tragi-comedist.
_______
Upon their arrival in Paris, Luís began to seek out the disciples of the Cartesian movement.
He attended salons, engaged in fervent debates, and sought private audiences with prominent thinkers.
With elegant persuasion, he presented his vision for a new lycée in Lisbon, painting a vivid picture of a hub of learning where Cartesian principles would flourish, offering a unique opportunity for these French scholars to shape the minds of Portugal's future elite.
He extended heartfelt invitations, hoping to entice them with the prospect of fertile intellectual ground and the patronage of his powerful consortium.
_______
Paris, September 1669.
Few pedestrians moved along the wide gravel path of the Place des Victoires at dusk, when João, Marquis de ..., stepped from his carriage before the Hôtel de Chevry. The façade, newly renovated in Louis XIV's taste, caught a slant of evening sun—columns bright as bone, windows shaded in thickly woven silk.
An usher—neither fawning nor hurried—guided the Portuguese suite through echoing halls scented faintly of lavender, their boots muffled on the painted tiles. The marquis knew the drill: no delays, no wandering glances, no unnecessary chatter. Powerful men in Paris preferred brevity and precise arrivals.
Up the stairs, then across a quiet antechamber lined with ledgers: the world of finance and administration here lived, not in mirrors and marble like Versailles, but in the crisp rustle of paper, the soft jangle of locked chests. This was Colbert's nerve center, and the gravity hung in the air.
At last, a vestibule: two secretaries, one in black, the other scribbling in scarlet ink. The doors opened, and there, behind a desk littered with correspondence from Amsterdam, Cadiz, and Lyon, sat Jean-Baptiste Colbert. He rose—not all the way, but enough to acknowledge both rank and experience.
"Marquis," Colbert intoned with a measured nod. "You honor us—and perhaps, you tempt us."
João, practiced in the etiquette of great courts, offered a crisp bow, presenting not just his papers of introduction but a long, lacquered case—inside, the gifted cape: silver filigree worked in discreet patterns, the blue and white of the Bourbon armoiries, and a lining of subtly treated caoutchouc, smooth to the hand.
"For His Majesty," João said. "A novelty, and a token of respect from a house not unfamiliar with salt-water and storm."
The formalities were brief. The business was clear:
The marquis would deposit 1.5 million livres tournois—transferred via Messieurs Bochart et Frères, Paris bankers of unimpeachable reputation—earmarked for the Canal du Midi project. In return, his Portuguese engineers and architects, already recommended by court and crown, would gain access to the construction sites, to observe and, discreetly, to participate.
Colbert's questions were quick, technical, never unnecessarily warm. Was the money allocated in silver, or a mix with gold? Did the marquis prefer a notary recommended by the city or by the crown? Would the king like the cape delivered at Saint-Germain-en-Laye, or kept in Paris until his return?
None of these details troubled João. He replied with steady assurance. The money had already been put aside in Lisbon; within a week, the Paris bankers would confirm receipt. As for the cape, he deferred to Colbert's advice—"the language of gifts being best spoken by those who know them the best."
Within the hour, the formalities concluded. Colbert stood, crossed the floor, and fixed the marquis with a rare smile.
"France," he said softly, "finds itself in interesting company, these days."
Within the hour, the formalities concluded. Colbert stood, crossed the floor, and fixed the marquis with a rare smile.
"France," he said softly, "finds itself in interesting company, these days."
Marquis João bowed a final time. But as he straightened, he let the moment linger, a diplomat's instinct leading him not toward the door, but toward a final, quiet calculus.
"If I may, Monsieur Colbert, a question—one of perspective, not protocol," João said, tone even. The clerks stilled, sensing the shift from ceremonial to consequential.
He continued, voice measured:
"Had the fleet of Batavia—the VOC's India squadron—not been shattered before Ceylon, if their Indiamen still ruled those waters, would the Compagnie des Indes have risked so bold an entry? Ten of your war-frigates, and twenty great merchantmen, sent to make France's name in the Indian Seas? Or would calculation have counseled patience?"
Colbert's eyes sharpened, the faint warmth receding behind the financier's lucidity.
"France acts where opportunity allows and rivals slumber. The Compagnie does not invent tides; it waits for them to shift."
A flicker of acknowledgement passed between architect and minister—veterans of empires that measured power not just in gold, but in the vanishing of enemies.
João inclined his head, almost in salute.
"To know who clears the way is another kind of power," he murmured.
And then, as the doors closed behind him, the breath of real business again stirred the smoky, ledgered air.
Mid october, It was already time to go back to Portugal.