Turbaco was where Cartagena's elite went to breathe. A quiet refuge of green hills and slow wind, far from the suffocating heat of the port. The air there smelled faintly of wet earth and mango trees, and at dusk the sound of crickets replaced the noise of the city. The estates were large and elegant — painted walls, wide verandas, shaded gardens — the kind that showed wealth without needing to say a word. But sooner or later, everyone had to return to the city and face the duties of their life — including a dinner with the viceroy.
Francisco hesitated. "Are you sure you don't want to come?"
Catalina smiled as she folded one of his shirts, the faint scent of soap lingering in the air. "It's better if I don't. Considering my status as a mestiza, it could cause more trouble than anything else. Add to that the viceroy's obsession with the caste system — going there would only humiliate me. At least here I can enjoy a quiet evening, practice my German, and eat something decent while lying in bed."
Francisco sighed, watching her for a moment. "Now I don't want to go either. Those gatherings are a pain — proud men talking about how to govern the world while eating food that probably costs more than my factory earns in a week."
Catalina chuckled softly, adjusting the collar of his jacket. "Still, considering your intentions, having contact with those merchants could be useful. If you ever push for independence, only those who support the Crown now will be able to keep trade alive afterward. With how fast you're opening new industries — and the ones you plan for the future — it would be wise to keep some of them close, at least on the surface."
Francisco raised his hands in defeat. "I surrender. Why is politics so complicated? Why can't people just make deals like normal men?"
Catalina smiled faintly. "At least for the next six years, that'll be your father's headache."
Francisco's eyes lit up. "That's true… though who knows? We might have to do the same in Europe. We'll need support, after all. Without it, our chances of independence are about the same as the natives'."
Catalina rested her head on his chest, feeling his heartbeat under the linen shirt. "That's right. But there, I might be able to accompany you."
Francisco held her close, his voice playful. "Of course. I'm not letting you stay here doing nothing while I work hard."
They laughed quietly, their moment interrupted when Carlos opened the door. "Alright, you two — time to go. We must arrive on time. Being late gives the family a bad image."
Catalina lifted her head and sighed. "Fine. Go and make me proud."
Francisco grinned. "Can you call me husband? It'll give me strength."
Catalina blushed but, seeing the anticipation in his eyes, whispered, "Husband."
Francisco pressed a hand to his heart dramatically. "You killed me."
Carlos groaned, grabbing Francisco by the collar. "Alright, Catalina, we'll be back late — don't wait up."
Catalina nodded with a smile. "Don't worry, Father-in-law. Go enjoy the party."
Dragged like a misbehaving child, Francisco climbed into the carriage beside his father. The wheels began to roll, the horses' hooves echoing on the cobbled street. "Seems a lot of people are coming tonight," he said, leaning to look out the window.
Carlos nodded. "Most of those attending have close ties with the Crown. Some I know, some I don't, but they're far above my level — I'm only a royal merchant. Many are direct sponsors of the royal family itself."
Francisco frowned. "People can sponsor the royal family without being devoured by those greedy—"
Carlos smacked the back of his head. "Enough. You're about to enter a hall full of people who either support the Crown or pretend to. If they hear you, we'll lose our heads before noon tomorrow."
Francisco rubbed his neck. "Sorry. It's just—they feed too much, and my tongue slips."
Carlos gave him a hard look. "Ever since you started spending time with those Álvarez and Lozano kids, you've grown too bold in your resentment toward the royal family. That's dangerous."
Francisco chuckled softly. "They're upset too, so we usually talk freely among ourselves."
Carlos shook his head. "For someone who promised to be cautious, you're being reckless."
Francisco shrugged lightly. "Of course, I only say that when I'm with you. I wouldn't dare say it in public — I actually like having my head attached to my shoulders."
Carlos nodded, half amused, half serious. "Good. Tonight, you'll need to show a bit more idealism. Those foxes prefer wide-eyed dreamers to sharp-minded intellectuals."
Francisco sighed. "I understand… but what worries me is the liquor."
Carlos gave a tired smile. "I'll try to keep an eye on you, but pace yourself. If you start talking nonsense after a few cups, we might both end up in the picota by morning."
He paused, then added with a knowing tone, "Drink a glass of water after every round — and visit the latrine often. Keeps your head clear."
Francisco nodded, half-grinning. "Understood, Father. I'll try to stay idealistic, not idiotic." bot chuckled
As they neared the palace, Francisco saw the glow of oil lamps reflected on polished carriages lined up ahead. The smell of horses mixed with perfume and roasted meat drifting from the kitchens. Guards moved with stiff precision, inspecting each carriage, their armor glinting under the torches.
When their turn came, the guards searched the vehicle and nodded them through. A butler, dressed in spotless white and gold, guided them through the courtyard's marble arches and up the wide stairs. The murmur of conversation and the soft notes of a harpsichord filled the air.
At the great salon's entrance, the butler raised his voice:
"We welcome Francisco and Carlos Gómez, members of the Duke of Lerma's household."
Father and son exchanged a quick look — slightly amused, slightly uneasy. At a royal gathering like this, it was wise to emphasize any tie to nobility, real or distant.
Francisco inhaled deeply and stepped forward. The hall opened before him — vast, radiant, and lined with golden light. Crystal chandeliers shimmered above long tables dressed in white. The scent of wax, wine, and expensive perfumes hung thick in the air. Everywhere he looked, gold caught the firelight: frames, mirrors, buttons, and jewelry — it was, quite literally, a palace made of gold.