Inside the viceroy's office, the air was thick with the scent of ink and old parchment. Viceroy Ezpeleta sat behind his desk, several secretaries moving briskly around him as he signed and sealed documents. Carlos, though a loyal royalist, lacked the influence to interrupt such work, so he waited quietly near the door.
Ezpeleta frowned at a report, his voice rising in frustration."Damn it, delays upon delays! I've given them all the support they asked for, and yet they keep inventing excuses. If they weren't the consuls of Cartagena, I'd have asked for their heads." He glanced toward a nearby officer. "If this were the army, I'd have court-martialed them for failing an order."
He sighed, rubbed his temples, then finally looked up—and spotted Carlos.
"Carlos! When did you arrive? Why didn't you say something?"
Their relationship had always been complicated. Once, in Bogotá's royal court, Carlos had openly criticized the caste system of New Granada. Enraged, Ezpeleta had expelled him from both the court and the city. Yet, deep down, the viceroy had agreed with him. trough Opposing the system that kept Spain's control over the colonies was political suicide, and while Ezpeleta privately shared many of Carlos's concerns, he could never express them openly.
Carlos bowed slightly. "Your Excellency, I didn't wish to interrupt your work."
Ezpeleta's stern face softened. "Nonsense. You should have spoken up. Sit down. I heard you had something important to discuss."He turned to a secretary. "Alejandro, bring us two cups of chocolate."
A moment later, they sat on a velvet sofa reserved for private audiences. The faint aroma of hot chocolate mingled with the smell of parchment. Ezpeleta took a sip and sighed in delight.
"Ah, I never tire of this drink. Though I've heard coffee is becoming popular in some parts of the colony."
Carlos smiled. "That's true, sir. Coffee is quite fashionable—though not yet for ceremonies. Personally, I can't start a morning without it. It keeps me sharp."
Ezpeleta chuckled softly. "Perhaps I should try it. I've been sleeping little these days. Ever since I began pushing for the restoration of the Cartagena Dike, I've been drowning in complaints and excuses—too much sediment, not enough funds, too much risk…" He shook his head in frustration. "The corruption in this land is astounding."
Carlos leaned forward. "With all respect, Your Excellency, I can't do much about corruption—I'm just a merchant. But perhaps the Roman cement my son rediscovered could be of use. It's perfect for construction of that sort."
Ezpeleta's interest sharpened. "Yes, I've heard about that. I even mentioned it to the Crown. But tell me honestly—can it really be as strong as they say? Stronger than lime?"
Carlos smiled faintly. "Indeed it is. My son has built four-story structures in mere months. It's sturdier and lasts longer than lime. The only downside is its color—it's rather gray and dull—but its usefulness outweighs any aesthetic flaw."
The viceroy rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "If it's so valuable, perhaps you could donate some to the Crown," he teased, a hint of amusement in his eyes.
Carlos felt a chill. "With all due respect, sir, my son rediscovered it through great effort. He did it to support our family. As a merchant, I can't simply hand it over for free."
Ezpeleta studied him for a long moment, then chuckled. "I was only teasing. The Crown hasn't ordered me to seize the formula—yet. But I will demand priority and a reduced price. In exchange, I'll place a large order for public works."
Carlos nodded eagerly. "Of course, Your Excellency. If you give the order, I'll delay other deliveries and send the shipment down the Magdalena River from Medellín to Cartagena."
Ezpeleta smiled, satisfied. "Good. If this material works as well as you claim, I might use it for other projects I have in mind."
Carlos bowed his head. "You can count on me, sir."
The conversation drifted to old memories of Bogotá and the past scandal. Ezpeleta even admitted, with regret, that he'd been pressured by the Cabildo to exile the Gómez family. Before Carlos left, the viceroy invited him to dine with his family another day.
When Carlos was gone, Ezpeleta returned to his office with the same officer who had stood beside him earlier.
"What do you think of him?" Ezpeleta asked quietly.
The officer shrugged. "Like any merchant, he's protective of his secrets. I didn't see any sign of disloyalty or resentment toward the Crown. Those rumors about him being arrogant or bitter don't seem true—he just wants to make money."
Ezpeleta nodded slowly. "That's my impression as well. But something else worries me."
"The Crown?" guessed the officer.
"Exactly," Ezpeleta muttered, rubbing his forehead. "They're becoming greedy. They're pressing me to raise taxes again."
The officer frowned. "But the lower castes are already on the brink of starvation. There's nothing left to take."
"They don't mean the lower castes," Ezpeleta said bitterly. "They mean the criollos and the Spaniards."
The officer's eyes widened. "Are they mad? Those are the people who keep the colonies loyal! If they start taxing the high classes, they'll push them toward the liberals. Once the rich and poor share the same burden, the whole caste system will crumble."
Ezpeleta sighed heavily. "The empire is desperate. After supporting those ungrateful North Americans who never repaid us, Spain's treasury is bleeding dry. And now, with that new republic in France rising on our borders and holding our king's cousin hostage, the Crown grows paranoid. I fear Madrid is preparing for another war."
The officer could only shake his head in disbelief.
Ezpeleta leaned back in his chair, eyes narrowing in thought. "That's what worries me—the possibility of the Gómez family joining the liberals. I've heard from my soldiers about the strength of this new material. In the hands of the Empire, it could fortify our defenses and make our walls unbreakable. But if the liberals were to gain access to it… the damage would be catastrophic. I cannot imagine Spain winning a war so far from home if they have structures capable of withstanding our cannons."
The officer's voice turned cold. "Should we deal with the family, then?"
Ezpeleta remained silent for a moment, then slowly shook his head. "No. That would be impossible. They're still considered a branch of the Duke's household, and killing them without cause would only alarm the rest of the elite. It would drive them even faster into the arms of the liberals." He paused, his tone darkening. "Besides, I've heard the boy plans to travel to Hanover to study. If the Germans take him under their wing, we might end up facing something far worse—a united Germany. And that's something no European power is ready to see."
The officer exhaled heavily and said nothing more, the weight of Ezpeleta's words settling like dust in the lamplight of the office.
Ezpeleta turned back to his desk, murmuring to himself as he dipped his quill into the inkwell. "I don't know how long we can hold this colony together. I only pray nothing terrible happens—at least not while I'm still in office."
The scratch of quills and the faint scent of drying ink filled the office once more as the viceroy returned to his endless papers.