The gravest of Emperor Agustín I's blunders was, without question, the dissolution of the Congress. That reckless act had not arisen in a vacuum: it followed upon his arrest of opposition deputies, which in turn provoked yet fiercer resistance among those who remained.
The crown prince—into whose body another soul had been cast—judged the matter coldly.
If Father has already taken the step of imprisoning his opponents, then the situation is many times worse. Reconciliation with Congress will be all but impossible. It may be wiser to prepare at once for civil war.
Yet though halting his father's folly was the highest priority, he did not run to confront him immediately. He was, after all, but fifteen years of age in this borrowed body. To burst in unprepared and oppose the emperor's intentions would have been sheer madness.
First, the lay of the land must be grasped.
He drew a deep breath outside the chamber door, then knocked softly.
Knock, knock.
"Mother, it is Jerónimo," he called.
"Come in, my son," came the gentle reply.
At least her voice is warm, he thought with relief. With no memories of the true Jerónimo de Iturbide, he knew next to nothing of family relations. A mother's love was common, yet not universal; he could not take her goodwill for granted.
He grumbled inwardly. If that mysterious old man was going to fling me back into the past, could he not have bestowed the host's memories as well? Other gods in stories at least grant their vessels some knowledge…
The door opened upon a chamber richly adorned, and within sat a poised lady—Ana María, his mother. To English ears her name might be Anna, but he knew he must accustom himself to Spanish. She looked no older than a modern woman of thirty-six, not a breathtaking beauty perhaps, but every inch the well-bred daughter of wealth. Through her dowry Agustín Iturbide had become a great landowner; her family must once have been fabulously rich.
"My son, what brings you here? You so rarely come to see your mother these days," she said, a note of surprise in her voice.
Lacking context, he answered lightly, "Why, simply because I missed you, Mother."
She arched a brow, smiling. "Are you truly my son? You hardly sound like him."
A chill ran down his spine for an instant, until her smile made clear she was jesting.
"Of course I am your son. Who else could I be?"
"Lately you have scarcely spoken to me. Perhaps you are finally growing up."
Ah. So the boy was giving his parents the trouble of adolescence, he realized.
He shifted the subject at once. "Father must be very busy these days?"
Her sigh answered before her words did. "Your father spends every day in quarrels with the deputies. Emperor though he is, he finds he cannot do as he pleases."
The young intruder into Jerónimo's body drew a breath of relief. So the worst has not yet come. If he is still only clashing with the deputies, then the arrests have not yet taken place.
The timing was merciful. History recorded that the arrests would occur on August 26, 1822, and the dissolution of Congress in October. That meant the present day lay in July or early August. Jerónimo was therefore fifteen, just the age for sullen rebellion.
He pressed further. "How fares the state of the realm, Mother?"
She looked at him with new eyes. "So you did not come merely to see me. Has my son grown curious about affairs of state?"
"Yes. I am crown prince now—I must take interest."
Her laughter was fond, though tinged with surprise. "It feels strange to see you suddenly so serious. Still, you are right. What would you know?"
"What has become of the peninsulares?" he asked.
"The Spaniards of the peninsula? Most of them returned home during the war of independence."
The peninsulares—those Iberian nobles dispatched to rule the colonies, the highest caste in New Spain. Almost all had opposed independence, and now they were gone.
"And those who remain?"
"Few indeed, and they are being expelled in due course."
So the expulsion has already begun, he thought grimly. Without those men, the empire's administrative network would falter. They had monopolized the highest offices and brought with them Europe's newest sciences, the fruits of the Industrial Revolution. Criollos and others were well educated, but the freshest knowledge still lay in peninsular hands.
"Then taxes must not be collected properly," he murmured.
"The treasury is strained, yes—but your father will manage. Don't worry about yourself." She stroked his hair with maternal pride.
But he could not share her ease. He knew all too well that post-independence Mexico was in ruin: its finances shattered, its debts mountainous, its bureaucracy broken, provinces rejecting central command. Both emperor and deputies lacked political experience, bickering endlessly while the state itself crumbled beneath them. Only naïve optimism—"we are independent, therefore things must improve"—kept collapse at bay.
"And the officials, the soldiers—are they paid?" he asked.
She hesitated. "Such details I do not know. But… perhaps not."
So that is why Father lost the army, he thought.
Agustín I's power rested on three pillars: the support of the masses, the loyalty of the army, and the backing of conservatives—the Church and the great landowners. Most critical of all was the army. Without pay, soldiers' loyalty would dissolve.
In truth, the solution was money. Gold lay waiting in California, untapped—twenty years before the great rush. But to march there now, across vast wilderness without railways, would consume half a year each way. Time was a luxury they did not have.
His mind turned elsewhere. "Mother, what of the peninsulares' property?"
"They took their jewels, no doubt. But the lands and estates remain, many purchased through agents."
"And Spain herself—can she project military power here?"
She frowned. "I have heard of unrest there."
Just as I thought. Spain, still reeling from Napoleon's wars and civil strife, lacked the strength to reconquer. Not until 1829 would they attempt it. Until then, Mexico was safe.
"Then if we were to confiscate the wealth of the Spanish Crown and the peninsulares, they could not retaliate immediately, could they?"
She faltered. "That would be too radical, my son. Such an act would surely bring vengeance one day."
Vengeance will come regardless, he thought. But if we collapse now, there will be nothing left to avenge.
Aloud he said, "You know the peril we face. Father's power lies in the army. Without pay, the army will abandon him—and us. What then becomes of our family?"
Her lips pressed tight. "And what would you have me do?"
"Father grows weary of his battles with the deputies. He contemplates desperate measures. Help me dissuade him. If you, too, speak, he may yet listen."
He knew his father's heart: Agustín was devoted to his wife. Together they had borne ten children, an extraordinary number even in those times. If she lent her weight to Jerónimo's words, the emperor could not easily dismiss them.
Mother and son set out for the Palacio Nacional, residence of the imperial family and seat of Mexico's government.
Logic is one thing, thought the prince within, but what matters more is how Father regards me. If he sees me as nothing but a sulky boy, he will never heed me.
His height was impressive for fifteen—nearly one hundred seventy-five centimeters—but that alone would not command respect. If only there were time to earn his father's trust in the army! But the empire's ruin loomed within months; there was no time.
Unease gnawed at him. He asked his mother, "Will Father truly listen to me?"
"I cannot promise. But if I speak with you, he will not dismiss you entirely."
At last they stood before the emperor's study, guarded by soldiers. Jerónimo announced, "I have words for His Majesty."
The guard saluted, entered, and soon returned.
"His Majesty bids you enter."
So it was that the crown prince, reborn in another soul, prepared to meet Emperor Agustín I—the man whose choices would determine the fate of Mexico.