Time passed. Francisco settled into a new rhythm: up at six to work with his father until breakfast at eight, then helping Grandma María about the estate, studying German with Catalina, and reading whatever books the house held. Most were literature—the common fare in the Virreinato—but they sharpened his mind and kept him company.
At the end of the month, the slaves they had bought finally arrived. That morning, Francisco rose, joined his father, and drank his coffee as he always did.
"Do you already know where you'll have the slaves work?" Carlos asked, curious. He had noticed no workshop, no forge; he thought his son might have forgotten plans.
"They'll stay with the others for now," Francisco answered. "I'll ask for their opinion before we build the forge. I don't know how to build one properly; if I tried now it might be useless once the blacksmiths arrive. Better to leave professional matters to professional people."
Carlos let the phrase sit a moment, raising an eyebrow. "Leave professional matters to professional people… who said that?"
Francisco shrugged, awkward. "I don't know. Maybe I read it in a book."
Carlos nodded and changed the subject. "So—do you really want to make alcohol? I got the crown's permission. Your grandfather helped, but in exchange he expects the right to sell it in Europe."
"In Spain, perhaps," Francisco said slowly. "But does he have contacts beyond that?"
"He is a noble," Carlos said. "Among nobles there are always channels—France, England, parts of the Empire. Not everywhere, but enough." He watched his son. "For now it's the safest path. When you go to Hanover you may find other contacts. Until then, we play what cards we have."
Francisco felt the weight of it. Depending on his grandfather was risky—family interests rarely matched—but without European buyers there was little alternative. "He will not be pleased if I cut him out later," he admitted.
"Perhaps," Carlos said. "But nobles care for two things: face and profit. If you make him money, he will tolerate much." He added with a harder voice, "And don't count on your invention being a miracle. Many have tried to change distillation. If it were that easy, fortunes would already have been made."
Francisco only smiled faintly and hid the truth he kept with Catalina: the blueprints in his hands were not entirely his own.
"Finish your work," Carlos said finally. "The traders should be here soon. Remember your duties; your plans do not excuse shirking them."
"Yes, father."
A servant arrived then. "Señores, the traders have arrived with the slaves you purchased."
Once inside the house, Francisco walked among the newcomers: fifty-three in all—fifty without particular skill and three who were blacksmiths. He measured shoulders and faces, imagining who might adapt, who might break.
"Do they know Spanish, or will we have to teach them?" he asked the lead trader, already planning.
"They know only the basics," the man replied. "The three blacksmiths speak enough for work—they were destined for Monserrate." Teaching a whole language was rarely worth the trouble; a few commands and gestures were easier.
Francisco crouched and looked at the blacksmiths. "What are your names?"
One made a small, defiant sound. The trader, annoyed, lashed him across the back.
Through clenched teeth, the first answered, "I'm Makayla Kiala, from the Luanda region."
"So you are the one who lost your father to the Portuguese," Francisco murmured, then turned to the second.
"Ogundele Akinyemi Ogun," the man replied, steady. "Ogun—of the iron god, Yoruba. I am not a pushover. Try to break me and you will see why our god is also the god of war." His defiance made the trader bristle.
When the trader raised the whip again, Ogundele seized the lash, yanked it, and sent the man stumbling face-first to the floor. The other traders reached for their swords with murderous intent.
"Stop." Francisco stepped forward, irritated. "Must I remind you I already paid for these slaves? Unless you have another blacksmith hidden, you better stop trying to kill him."
The leader raised a hand; his men obeyed. He looked at Francisco with the wary mix of irritation and respect that business breeds.
The youngest of the three—sold by his own countrymen—spoke more politely. "I'm Kokou Ahozon, from Fon in Dahomey. I make spears and knives."
"Good." Francisco sent a servant to the blacksmiths' temporary quarters while others inspected the rest of the group.
"Young master, they're strong. There's no problem," a servant reported.
"Good," Francisco began, but a whisper from behind changed his color. He stared at the delegation leader, searching the man's face for guilt. The leader kept his composure.
"Did something happen, Mr. Gómez?" the man asked.
"Yes." Francisco's voice tightened. "Two of your men were caught by my servants trying to reconnoiter the estate."
The leader's face fell; the traders shifted and muttered. Someone explained in whispers how Marcos and Rodrigo had told Alejandro they were going to relieve themselves—and never returned. Alejandro had forgotten to mention what happened with Ogundele.
"You fucking bastards—are you trying to ruin our business and get us killed?" the leader snarled at his subordinates, then smoothed his mask for Francisco. "Mr. Gómez, my apologies. You may do as you wish with those men, but may I at least see them? I want to know what happened."
"I don't care if you take them," Francisco said after a measured pause, "but I want to know why they were inside my estate. If someone is using knowledge of our security to plan an attack, I need to know who and why. I'll hand them over and say nothing—but I expect your help in finding the source."
It was strategy: keep the traders as uneasy allies. Return the spies and the trade house would owe the Gómez family a favor; the guilty family would find itself in a tight spot if identified. If, by mischance, the traders themselves had ordered the reconnaissance, Francisco would have a problem—but such a thing was dangerous for them too; the slave trade was entwined with crown interests.
"Thank you, young master," the leader said. "I'll send the information tomorrow. Manuel and Alejandro will come with me." He and his men marched to the back, where two traders were being lashed by Francisco's servants.
"Tell us who sent you," one of the servants ordered as the whip opened a fresh wound along a cheek.
"We work for the crown," the trader gasped, trying dignity.
"Shut up," Carlos snapped. "Our family also works for the crown. Confess now, before your backer has to answer for your stupidity." His voice brooked no argument.
"Father, I brought their leader and offered them to him in exchange for information," Francisco said, seeking approval.
Carlos considered, then nodded. "Fine. Keep your word."
The delegation leader took the stick, and in a sudden fury beat the captured men, screaming curses about the slave trade. Francisco watched, uneasy. "If you keep going you'll kill them," he muttered.
"Relax, boy," the leader said without remorse. "We know where it hurts without leaving internal wounds. That's how we deal with those who cross us." He paused, face darkening at the memory of Ogundele. "Except Ogundele—didn't flinch once." When he was done, he ordered the wounded men loaded into a carriage and rode off toward Medellín.
Carlos looked at his son. "That is how the trade runs. You must be ruthless if you play that game. Not only with slaves—with people you rely on. The Crown replaces the weak."
Francisco watched the carriage disappear and felt sourness in his chest. He turned away and murmured, "What a cruel world this is."