Seeing the situation worsen, Francisco realized things were getting more complicated with each passing day. He wanted to use the chaos as a chance to gain more autonomy for New Granada, but until he could travel to Germany and hire soldiers, that dream was impossible. His family held plenty of wealth but not enough strength to defend it. For the first time, Francisco didn't know what to do. Fortunately, time was still on his side.
Catalina noticed the way he frowned every so often."What's troubling you?" she asked.
He told her everything, his worries spilling out like steam from a kettle.
"Don't you think you're worrying a bit too much?" Catalina said with a gentle smile. "Even if the Crown wanted to attack our industry, it would take months. They're more concerned about France than about us — just a little colony in the middle of nowhere, at least from their perspective."
"I know," Francisco admitted, rubbing his temple. "But in my visions, I saw the death of Louis XVI. In the books I read, that event was the spark that revived republican ideals. The problem is, I don't know when exactly it happened, or what followed in the rest of Europe. My fear is that King Carlos IV will ignore France altogether and send more troops here — to seize our money, our family, everything."
Catalina frowned. "But don't you remember when independence is supposed to happen? Am I mistaken?"
Francisco sighed. "You're not wrong. But that timeline assumed I didn't exist — or that I didn't have the knowledge I do now."
"Are you sure?" she asked, uncertainty in her tone.
"Of course," he said, nodding firmly. "The creation of the Roman cement factory itself is a historical anomaly. You know how important this material is for the economy. That's why I was obsessed with making it. The moment I succeeded, I realized history had already changed — it wasn't linear anymore. In those old books, there was nothing about Roman cement returning. Now that it exists again, it's clear I've altered the timeline. From now on, those histories are just references — not certainties."
Catalina understood. From the moment Francisco created something capable of changing the world, the rest of history became uncertain. Perhaps his actions hadn't yet shaken the world, but they would change details — subtle, maybe, but real.
Francisco sighed again, watching the orange light of the fireplace flicker across the walls. "This factory can generate enormous wealth and help the economy grow. If King Carlos IV learns about it, he might forget about France and focus on controlling the colonies. That would make independence impossible — at least for now."
Catalina's expression softened. She knew he was right, but there was little they could do. "Then stop worrying about if it will happen," she said. "Start thinking about how you'll stop it."
Francisco thought for a long moment. "Maybe you're right. Worst case, we take what money we can, gather the servants willing to follow us, and hide in the mountains."
Catalina chuckled, a playful spark in her eyes. "You? In the mountains? You almost fainted just walking to Bogotá. I doubt you'd survive a week out there."
Francisco was speechless. He hadn't expected his backpack misadventure to give him a reputation for weakness. "I'm strong, look!" He flexed his arms — or at least tried to — but there wasn't much muscle to show.
Catalina smirked. "Oh, so strong," she teased, dripping with sarcasm.
Embarrassed, Francisco vowed to start carrying heavier loads from now on. "I'll show you how strong I am!" he said, suddenly tickling her.
She squealed and laughed, trying to fight him off. Their laughter filled the room, mingling with the crackling of the fire. Eventually, they both drifted asleep on the sofa, the soft warmth of the flames lulling them into a peaceful nap.
By nightfall, a servant gently woke them for dinner. The scent of roasted meat and herbs filled the air. Carlos sat at the table, visibly tense. He understood the danger of forming a private army — he didn't want to betray the Crown, but with taxes rising so sharply, it almost felt like the Crown wanted to provoke rebellion.
Francisco ate quietly, lost in thought. He didn't know what course to take. The meal passed in uneasy silence.
The next morning, Francisco visited the slave traders across from the church. It was his third visit. The attendant was new again — they seemed to change staff constantly.
"Good day, sir. Who would you like to see?" the young man asked respectfully.
"I'm looking for Antonio," Francisco said. "Francisco Gómez, of the Gómez family."
The attendant raised his eyebrows slightly but nodded. "Understood, sir. Please wait here while I ask if he's available." He turned to another servant. "Bring coffee for the gentleman." Then he disappeared up the stairs.
Francisco accepted the coffee — strong and bitter, with a faint aroma of roasted sugar — and noticed an unfamiliar newspaper on the table. Its title caught his eye: Periodical Paper of the City of Santa Fe de Bogotá. There were several volumes, neatly stacked. Curious, he picked one up.
The front page featured a story about his Roman cement and how Domingo Esquiaqui had struck a deal with the Bogotá factory — to exchange cement for the construction of a modern European-style underground system. According to the article, once completed, Santa Fe would enjoy "first-world services."
Francisco smiled. "Good publicity. This might bring in new clients." But his smile faded when he noticed another article — written by the Castro de Gómez family — arguing that his family's profits were too great and that they should donate half to the Church "so that God's light may reach farther."
"Those bastards," he muttered. "They must think I'm a weakling."
As he cursed under his breath, the attendant returned. "Sir, the master will see you now."
Francisco nodded, but before standing, he asked, "When was this newspaper published?"
The attendant glanced at it. "Around August, sir. It's quite a good paper — they publish weekly."
"Interesting," Francisco mused. "I don't remember seeing it during my stay in Bogotá."
The man smiled. "It's mostly distributed among the capital's elite. Not everyone can get their hands on it. I heard these copies were brought specially by some of the higher-ups in Bogotá."
"I see," Francisco said thoughtfully. "A weekly newspaper from the capital... this could be useful."
He set the cup down, adjusted his coat, and climbed the stairs to where Antonio was waiting.