The Diamond Shockwave: Lisbon, September 1664 – January 1665
September 1664: The Court in Awe
The auction was over, but its aftershocks rippled through Lisbon's noble circles like the silent tremors before an earthquake. The city's palaces glowed with candlelight as lords and ladies gathered for endless suppers, masked balls, and whispered salons, each event more elaborate than the last. The air was heavy with perfume and the rustle of silk, but beneath the laughter, tension simmered.
At the Marquis of Alegrete's Salon
A gilded harpsichord played softly in the corner as the cream of the aristocracy exchanged pleasantries.
Countess de Vimioso (with a fan concealing her lips):
"Have you ever seen such a sum? Thirty million cruzados—enough to ransom a kingdom."
Viscount de Santarém (bowing slightly):
"Or to buy one, my lady. The Queen Regent has played her cards well, but there are those who say the king grows impatient."
Countess (with a knowing smile):
"Impatience is a dangerous companion to power."
October 1664: The Queen Regent's Vigilance
Queen Luísa de Gusmão presided over her council with serene authority. Her court was a model of Spanish etiquette—strict, ceremonious, and unyielding. Ministers bowed deeply, never meeting her eyes directly, and every word was weighed as if it might tip the balance of the realm.
Luísa (to her confessor, in the privacy of her oratory):
"The diamonds have bought us time, but not trust. My son is restless. Castelo Melhor whispers to him in corners. I feel the ground shifting beneath my feet."
Her chaplain, Father António, folded his hands.
Father António:
"Majesty, the Lord tests those He loves. Stand firm, and the storm will pass."
November 1664: The Minister's Intrigue
Castelo Melhor, ever the courtier, moved through the palace with measured grace. He paid homage to the queen in public, but in the shadowed corridors, he cultivated allies—subtle gestures, a nod here, a discreet gift there. He hosted private dinners for ambitious nobles, their conversation laced with veiled threats and promises.
At a candlelit supper in Castelo Melhor's apartments:
Castelo Melhor (raising a glass):
"To Portugal's future, and to those bold enough to shape it."
Duke of Cadaval (toasting in return):
"May fortune favor the daring, my lord."
Castelo Melhor (leaning in, voice low):
"The queen is wise, but the king is of age. Would you see Portugal led by a regent forever?"
Cadaval (smiling thinly):
"Portugal must have a king, not a mother."
December 1664: The King's Growing Defiance
King Afonso VI, emboldened by whispers of support, began to assert himself. He demanded more say in council, arrived late to audiences, and dismissed his mother's advisors with barely concealed contempt. Yet, in public, decorum was maintained—every gesture choreographed, every word measured.
Afonso (to Castelo Melhor, after a formal council session):
"She treats me as a child, parading me before the court. I will not be ruled by her any longer."
Castelo Melhor (bowing deeply):
"Majesty, the time is nearly ripe. When you are ready, your loyal servants will be at your side."
January 1665: The Bloodless Coup
The transition was as elegant as it was ruthless. On Twelfth Night, the court gathered for the Feast of the Epiphany. The palace was resplendent, the nobility in their finest, the queen regal in black velvet and pearls.
At midnight, as fireworks burst over the Tagus, Castelo Melhor's men quietly took control of the palace gates. Queen Luísa was summoned to her private apartments.
Luísa (to her lady-in-waiting, as she removed her jewels):
"Tell them I go willingly. Let there be no bloodshed. Portugal's peace is dearer to me than pride."
She was escorted away with dignity, her head held high, as the court watched in stunned silence.
Castelo Melhor (to the assembled council, bowing deeply):
"His Majesty King Afonso VI, by the grace of God and the will of the realm, assumes full and sovereign power this day."
Afonso entered, resplendent in royal blue, his gaze fierce.
Afonso (voice ringing with new authority):
"Let all know that the age of regency is ended. Portugal will rise, and I shall lead her."
______
" Did you hear about the coup "?
" Not only did i heard,but iwaspresent when they did it"
" What the fuck are they doing there ?, we already gained 12millions for our 20 % shares, and they have rarely been that "rich""
" Ha !! No !No ! No ! Joao let me explain !!! "
" go with it "
" They are rich ? But now, they don't have toclonh to each other to survive, a typical work for attitude, when it goes the way they said they wanted, they began complaining about ???? "
" Precisely, I don't understand !!??? "
" They all estimates they deserves more than the others, they call that ambition, it's only greed and stupidness, they should have at least try the pirates's way og life ! "
" ...."
" More simply : they are rich: and they don't have goals, they do not have anyone they really trust at the moment, and so : they are like a privateer or pirate crews, like waving a hot sea near its prey, they don'tknow who to chose as their captain for those kind of moment, and so .. they do that .... we call that " work for" " replied Joao, dejectedly by what has happened
" And so ? What do we do ?"
" We don"t have enoughlehityimacy to do anyrhing in this scenario,we are still "newcomers" for most of themm"
" Even a marquis ? "
" Even a marquis, my 5 year old simao already have more influence than me in this kind of affairs right now ..."
" Do you have a plan? "
" Ha stop acting like a work for .." said Luis " we can only rely on Dom Pedro for now, and concentrate on reopening the way to macao...."
_______
The Power Behind the Throne
Lisbon, January 1665
The dawn after the coup broke cold and clear over the Tagus. Within the gilded halls of Ribeira Palace, the very air seemed changed—charged with the weight of new authority.
The courtiers, ever attuned to shifts in power, arrived for the morning council in their most formal attire: black velvet, silver lace, and the faintest hint of apprehension in their eyes.
The great doors opened with ceremonial gravity. Castelo Melhor entered, flanked by liveried guards and bearing the royal seal, his every movement measured and deliberate. He paused, allowing the assembled nobles to rise and bow deeply, as protocol demanded.
Castelo Melhor (addressing the council, his voice calm but commanding):
"Gentlemen, Portugal stands unmatched. Our enemies will think twice; our allies will come begging. But we must act swiftly. England, France, Spain—all will seek to bind us. We must choose our friends with care."
A hush fell. Fans fluttered, signet rings tapped nervously on the polished table. The old guard exchanged wary glances with the ambitious young bloods, each calculating their next move.
In the shadows, whispers threaded through the chamber:
"Vassalization to England?"
"A French alliance, perhaps?"
"Marriage—always marriage."
_________
Lisbon Harbor, March 1665
The Departure of the Eastern Fleet
Dawn broke over the Tagus in a blaze of flashes, the river's surface shimmering like the treasure it had so often carried home.
Lisbon's harbor, usually a place of measured bustle, now throbbed with a feverish energy.
The dawn mist curled over the private docks of Lisbon, veiling the proud ensign of Horizon Brazil—a company whose wealth and reach rivaled the monarchs of Europe. Along the bustling quays, the company's armada of twenty-five ships—ten East Indiamen, ten war merchant frigates, and five boarding frigates—stood ready for the long voyage to Macau.
No royal banners flew here. Instead, the docks thrummed with the disciplined energy of private enterprise.
The company's sigil—a rising sun over a stylized Brazilwood tree—fluttered from every mast.
Overseers in tailored coats, their ledgers chained to their belts, barked orders to teams of laborers and sailors. Security was tight; only those with a stamped pass from the board could approach the ships.
At the core of the operation stood the four men whose fortunes were most entwined with the fleet's success.
" Admiral" João, the fleet's supreme commander of the fleet, strode the quay with a steady gaze, his presence radiating both authority and expectation.
Luis, Diogo, and Rui—each a shareholder and captain of a fleet gtoup-oversaw their own clusters of ships, their voices sharp with both pride and anxiety.
"Luis, your group's rubber cargo is double-sealed and stowed amidships." João called, his tone has nbecome morecommanding since the advance of melhor at court, like an enragedn,mastered by years of sailings through seas, oceans and court's debates.
Luis,nodded. "Every crate checked twice. The East won't know what hit them."
Diogo, famed for his daring, inspected the armaments.
Cannon stamped with the company's mark were rolled aboard, powder barrels sealed with pitch and red wax. "If pirates come, they'll find we're not the Crown's easy prey," he said, winking at a nervous young gunner.
Rui, meticulous and reserved, stood by as his crew loaded barrels of lemon and orange syrup—preserved in rubber-lined casks, a Horizon Brazil innovation.
The company's apothecaries had discovered that these casks kept the citrus potent, and the men's gums pink and healthy.
Scurvy, that ancient terror of the sea, had been banished from their ships for three voyages running.
"The surgeons swear by it," Rui murmured to João as they watched the loading. "But the flux—dysentery—still finds its way aboard, no matter how many barrels we clean."
João's face darkened. "We'll take on fresh water at every port. But you know as well as I—some enemies are harder to fight than VOC's fleets !."
"Hahaha "
The ships' holds filled quickly:
Armaments: Rows of cannon, bayonnet's muskets, pistols, and crates of shot. Trade goods: Bales of fine wool, linen, Venetian glass, and, most precious of all, crates of vulcanized rubber—boots, cloaks, and sheets, each marked with the company's seal. Silver and gold: Locked away in iron-bound chests, guarded by Swiss mercenaries on the company's payroll. Provisions: Salted cod, dried meats, beans, rice, wine, vinegar, and barrels of water—each marked with the Horizon Brazil crest. Livestock clucked and bleated in their pens, tended by orphan boys hired for the voyage. Spare parts: Timber, tar, sailcloth, rope, and nails, overseen by a Scottish shipwright with a legendary temper.
As the sun rose, the four commanders gathered in Admiral João's cabin for a final council.
The air was thick with tobacco smoke and the scent of coffee.
"The only I have,arriving around mallaca do we strikethe dutch ?" João began, his voice low. "Each of you commands your own group as per agreed. If we succeed, and we will, we return richer than mere millionaires. Which is a need since we bacame nobles "
Diogo grinned, Luis nodded, and Rui simply closed his ledger with a snap.
On deck, the crews got ready. Signal flags were distributed, and the company's code was reviewed—no ship would sail alone, and any separation meant a rendezvous at Luanda or Mozambique.
As the anchors groaned and the sails unfurled, Lisbon's merchants and commoners crowded the docks, watching with a mix of envy and awe.
The Horizon Brazil fleet slipped into the Tagus, banners snapping in the wind, holds brimming with wealth and innovation, and the hopes of the four shareholder-commanders riding with every wave to open the trade of rubber in cathay, via Macao.
For weeks, word had spread through the city: the largest Portuguese fleet in a generation was preparing to sail for the distant riches of Macau.
Along the quays, ten towering East Indiamen stood at anchor, their hulls freshly tarred and painted, their masts bristling with new canvas.
Alongside the 10 eastindiamen " generously donated", ten special war merchant frigates—sleek, fast, bristling with cannon—were being loaded with barrels of gunpowder, crates of muskets, and bales of sailcloth.
Five more frigates, smaller but deadly, bore the scars of previous battles; these were the boarding ships, their decks reinforced for close combat, their crews handpicked for courage and cunning.
The harbor air was thick with the scent of salt, pitch, and exotic spices. Dockworkers shouted orders in a dozen different langages.
Horses clattered across the cobblestones, hauling wagons laden with provisions: salted cod, hardtack, barrels of wine, dried fruit, and casks of fresh water.
Sailors—some grizzled veterans, others boys barely out of childhood—hurried up gangplanks, their sea-chests slung over their shoulders, faces set with anticipation and fear.
On the dock, the quartermaster, resplendent in blue velvet and gold braid, checked manifests with relentless precision.
Nearby, Jesuit priests in black robes moved among the crews, offering blessings and hearing hurried confessions, their voices barely audible above the din.
Joao (addressing the assembled captains):
"Gentlemen, we carry not only the wealth of this company, but also the future of portugal and brazil ! Macau awaits, and with it, the interests of the world. We will return with our holds full and our banners unbroken."
A cheer rose from the sailors, echoing across the water.
Church bells rang from the Sé Cathedral, mingling with the cries of gulls and the rhythmic chant of dockworkers heaving lines.
As the sun climbed higher, the last crates were stowed, the last farewells exchanged.
One by one, the ships unfurled their sails—white, gold, and crimson—catching the wind from the Atlantic.
Cannons fired in salute, the thunder rolling up the hills of Lisbon.
Slowly, majestically, the fleet slipped down the river, past the great fortress of Belém, its towers gleaming in the morning light.
On the quays, crowds watched in silence, hats in hand, as the ships dwindled to specks on the horizon—bound for the far side of the world, and for the glory of Portugal.
_________
The Marriage Rush
Lisbon's streets were swept and hung with banners as Maria Francisca of Savoy's carriage rolled through the city gates. The French guards in their blue-and-silver livery drew curious crowds, and the scent of orange blossom—imported for the occasion—perfumed the air.
At the palace, etiquette was observed with punctilious care. The queen-to-be was received by the Duchess of Caminha, who curtsied so low her diamond necklace grazed the marble floor. Maria Francisca's own bearing was regal, her eyes coolly appraising.
Later, in the privacy of her chapel, she confided in her confessor, her voice barely above a whisper:
Maria Francisca:
"This is the king? He is but a shadow. My ambitions will wither here."
Her confessor, trained in the art of discretion, offered only a silent nod.
The Disillusionment and the Alliance
Within weeks, the court's elaborate façade could no longer conceal the queen's disappointment. Gossip, as ever, spread faster than wildfire. At masked balls and formal suppers, the nobility watched Maria Francisca with a mixture of sympathy and calculation.
In the palace library—a sanctuary of hushed voices and the scent of old leather—she found herself drawn to Infante Pedro. Their meetings, always chaperoned by decorum, grew in urgency.
Maria Francisca (voice trembling with frustration, her gloved hands clenched):
"Portugal is rich, but its king is poor in spirit. This cannot stand."
Pedro, ever the embodiment of princely restraint, inclined his head.
Pedro (measured, resolute):
"Then let us change it. For the kingdom. For its future."
The Secret Meeting
The Palace Library, Midnight
The palace was a slumbering labyrinth of marble and shadow. Only the faintest glow of lanterns marked the corridors, and the guards' footsteps were muffled by thick carpets. In the heart of this silence, the library's great oak doors opened just enough to admit a slim, veiled figure—Maria Francisca of Savoy. Her cloak, lined with sable, whispered against the ancient floor.
She paused, listening. The only sound was the ticking of a distant clock and the soft flutter of pages. At the far end of the room, beneath a towering window, Infante
Pedro waited, his silhouette outlined by moonlight. He rose as she approached, bowing with the formality demanded by both etiquette and secrecy.
Pedro (quietly, offering his hand):
"Your Majesty, forgive the hour. The walls have ears by day."
Maria Francisca accepted his hand, her grip cool and decisive.
Maria Francisca:
"It is the only hour left to us, Senhor. If we are discovered—"
Pedro's eyes were steady, his voice low and urgent.
Pedro:
"We will not be. My men are loyal, and your maid has been paid handsomely for her silence. Still, we must be brief."
She glanced around, her gaze lingering on the rows of leather-bound volumes—histories of kingdoms risen and fallen, the silent witnesses to their conspiracy.
Maria Francisca (voice trembling with frustration):
"I cannot endure it, Pedro. The king is… lost to himself. The court knows, the city whispers. My marriage is a farce. Portugal deserves better."
Pedro nodded, his expression grave.
Pedro:
"You are not alone in your disappointment. The nobles grow restless. Castelo Melhor's grip tightens, but his vision is narrow—he spends, but does not build. The treasury swells, yet the kingdom's soul withers."
She stepped closer, her voice dropping to a whisper.
Maria Francisca:
"You have friends—more than you know. If you act, they will follow. But you must act soon. The French envoy has already sent word: Paris will support a change, if it comes with stability."
Pedro's jaw tightened; the weight of destiny pressed upon him.
Pedro:
"I will not let Portugal be squandered. But I cannot do this alone. Will you stand with me, Maria Francisca?"
She met his gaze, her eyes fierce despite the candlelight.
Maria Francisca:
"I will. For Portugal—and for my own future."
A moment of silence passed between them, thick with the gravity of their pact. Then, with a final, formal bow, Pedro withdrew into the shadows.
Maria Francisca lingered for a heartbeat, her hand resting on a volume of Tacitus—a silent invocation to history's lessons—before slipping away into the night.
Outside, the bells of the Sé Cathedral tolled the hour. Within the palace, the future of a nation had begun to turn on whispered words and midnight vows.
Their alliance was sealed not with a touch, but with a shared look—one that spoke of mutual purpose and the unspoken rules of dynastic ambition.
The Reverse Coup
September 1665 arrived with a suffocating stillness. The palace, usually alive with music and laughter, was subdued. Guards loyal to Pedro moved with silent precision, their boots muffled by thick carpets.
Afonso was taken quietly, his protests echoing through corridors hung with ancestral portraits. The courtiers, summoned to the throne room, entered in strict order of precedence, each bowing deeply before the empty dais.
Pedro, now clad in the deep blue of state, addressed the assembly with a composure born of both breeding and necessity.
Pedro (to the assembled nobles, his tone grave yet inspiring):
"Portugal's destiny will not be squandered. I will serve as Regent, and guide this nation to greatness."
Heads bowed in assent, the old etiquette masking the relief—and the hope—rippling through the room.
The New Order
The annulment of Maria Francisca's marriage to Afonso was expedited with all the solemnity the Church could muster. French envoys, now openly supportive, attended the ceremonies in full diplomatic regalia.
Pedro and Maria Francisca, their marriage a masterpiece of political choreography, began to receive ambassadors in the Hall of Mirrors. Each audience was a dance of protocol: bows, curtsies, the measured exchange of gifts and compliments.
Pedro (in council, his words ringing with confidence):
"Our coffers are full, our debts are none. Let us build a Portugal worthy of its fortune."
Outside, Lisbon stirred. Bells rang from the Sé, and the river sparkled in the autumn sun.
The city's merchants, artisans, and poets sensed the beginning of a new era of ambition, courage, and the discipline of those who understood that power required both velvet gloves and an unyielding will.