After the strange encounter in the church, the group was finally ready to travel to Cartagena — the so-called Key to the Indies, or the Jewel of the Caribbean.Half fortress, half commercial port, it was one of the strongest and most vital cities in the New World. Compared to it, Bogotá was little more than a provincial town, which was precisely why the Viceroy preferred to spend his time here rather than in the official capital.
After days of travel, they finally reached the historic port — a bustling gateway reserved for travelers and goods coming from the interior of the viceroyalty. The air smelled of salt and spice, mixed with the sour tang of tar from the ships. Dockworkers shouted orders, gulls cried overhead, and the group had no choice but to wait patiently as lines of passengers and crates poured off the boats.
Francisco stared at the towering walls, his eyes wide. They looked like something straight out of an old European chronicle — massive stone ramparts that gleamed under the harsh sun. Most cities in New Granada had no such defenses; after all, even if one managed to seize the inland territories, without Cartagena the viceroyalty would collapse. And if Cartagena fell, the rest would follow soon after. The city was the heart and shield of the realm.
Carlos approached with two steaming mugs of coffee and handed one to his son. "Impressive, isn't it? I was just like you the first time I saw it."
Francisco nodded, taking a sip. "It makes you wonder — why, even as the military and commercial center of New Granada, it never became the capital."
Carlos chuckled softly. "There are plenty of reasons. The biggest one? Cartagena is constantly besieged by the French and British navies. If it were the capital, the government would be forced to stop functioning every time those fleets showed up."
Francisco hummed thoughtfully. "Do you think they'll attack while we're here? Honestly, after everything that's happened on this trip — a witch, a ghost nun — I'd almost prefer a siege. At least the ones attacking would be human."
Carlos laughed. "Don't worry. Since 1743, neither the British nor the French have dared to attack again — at least, not on land. These fortifications made Cartagena one of the most secure cities in the world. On the sea, however…" He shrugged. "Corsairs, pirates, privateers — they still roam. But with Europe tangled in the birth of the French Republic, they've got bigger problems than raiding us. Still, keep an eye open. Corsairs don't care much about politics."
Once inside the city, Francisco was struck by the chaos and color of the streets. Merchants shouted in Spanish, Portuguese, and English, offering everything from spices and tobacco to silk and rum. The sun glared against whitewashed walls, and the smell of roasted coffee beans mixed with that of the sea. Among the crowd were people of all colors and origins — Portuguese, English, perhaps even a few Germans or Dutch. Some of them even resembled him faintly.
Carlos wiped his brow. "I'll be selling some cement here in Cartagena, maybe find an agent for it. But I'll likely need to speak with the Viceroy first."
Francisco nodded. "Do you want me to come along?"
Carlos shook his head firmly. "Better not. After what you told me, it's best you stay far from the political center. If anyone recognizes your German ancestry, they might grow suspicious — especially if you plan to bring German soldiers later."
Francisco understood. If he ever decided to rise against the Crown, his heritage and foreign troops could easily make Spain accuse Prussia or the Holy Roman Empire of meddling. That, ironically, could gain him support from Britain or the Germans themselves.
Finding an inn proved impossible; the city was too crowded. In the end, they rented a small seaside estate — expensive, but comfortable. From the balcony, the ocean glittered gold under the sunset, waves rocking the ships gently at anchor. Francisco finally understood why so many men had once dreamed of becoming pirates; the sea had a strange, dangerous beauty.
Later, he and Catalina walked hand in hand through the lively streets. Francisco was searching for emerald jewelry, as he had promised her. Eventually, they found a merchant's stall — not surprising, given how many foreigners traded here.
"Do you have rings or necklaces for the lady?" Francisco asked politely.
The seller smiled at his fine clothes but hesitated when he saw Catalina. His tone turned doubtful. "Do you really have money for these accessories?"
Francisco's expression hardened. "Of course I do." He opened a small pouch and let the silver coins glint in the sun.
The merchant's smile returned instantly. "Of course, señor. The best pieces in Cartagena!"
Francisco sighed but began to browse the display. One ring caught his eye — gold, with a deep green gem at its heart. "I'll take this one. Is it real gold?"
The seller hesitated. "Ah… no, señor. If you want real gold, you'll need to go to the shops on Calle del Comercio. They also sell the best emeralds. Though…" His eyes darted to Catalina. "They might not let her in."
Francisco frowned. "Do you know any place that doesn't discriminate?"
The man shook his head. "It's difficult. Most shops have signs saying No Mestizos Allowed. It's better if you go alone and buy something for her."
Francisco nodded grimly. The same signs hung across many doors — a bitter reminder of the caste system. Mompox had been less cruel in that regard, perhaps because it lay deeper within New Granada. Still, discrimination burned the same everywhere.
"Thank you," Francisco said, handing the man a few pesos for his honesty.
In the end, he bought some modest jewelry from street vendors instead. It might not have been pure gold, but at least Catalina could walk beside him freely. Together they returned to the estate as the evening wind carried the scent of salt and roasted maize through the streets. That night, they dined quietly, the sound of waves echoing softly against the walls.