After all these things, Francisco spoke with the blacksmiths about the new material he was trying to create, hoping to convince them to work with him. Catalina followed as well, though she spent most of her time counting assets and purchasing the supplies Francisco needed.
Two months later, just two days before his father's gathering, Catalina found Francisco asleep in the warehouse, while the two blacksmiths busied themselves with new combinations.
The blacksmiths noticed her but ignored her completely; after all, she held the purse. Crossing the person who pays for aguardiente and books is never wise. She walked over to Francisco and gave him a gentle push to wake him. He opened his eyes, dragged Catalina down beside him, and hugged her while pretending to fall back asleep.
"Ahh!" Catalina squealed, caught off guard in Francisco's arms. She scolded him gently: "You need to sleep in a bed. You'll make yourself sick lying on the floor."
Still with his eyes closed, Francisco muttered, "I know, but I need to find this material. I'd rather sleep here so that if I—or the blacksmiths—have a new idea, we can test it immediately without walking all the way back." His frustrated expression betrayed his doubts. "I don't even know if I'm doing it right. I just mix materials, but nothing works."
"Maybe you're starting in the wrong place," Catalina replied. "Instead of looking at the resources of Antioquia, you should look at those of Greece or Rome."
"What do you mean?" Francisco suddenly opened his eyes.
"I read in some books that the Greeks and Romans had materials stronger and faster-setting than lime. It even described the ingredients, but I didn't give it much importance—because if those materials really worked, we would all be using Roman cement instead of lime," Catalina explained. "Let me fetch the book. Also, I'll have the servants bring three mattresses, so you and the blacksmiths can rest properly when you're tired."
Francisco and Catalina got up, and she ran back to the estate. He wanted to follow, but exhaustion weighed him down. After five minutes, a servant returned with the book and the mattresses. Francisco took the book eagerly—its title was Vitruvius on Architecture. Translated into Latin, it was the first time Francisco felt genuinely grateful for having been forced to study that language.
He began to read, absorbing construction techniques and architectural wisdom. One passage described cement made from lime, volcanic ash (pozzolana), and sand. Upon seeing the recipe, Francisco's heart raced—if this was true, he might rediscover a material once used in Rome. Yet he frowned in confusion: if the ingredients were already known, why had no country reproduced it?
When the blacksmiths noticed his troubled look, they asked what was wrong. After Francisco explained, their eyes lit up—then quickly darkened with doubt. Kokou finally spoke:
"Maybe it's because of the materials. Lime and sand are easy to find, but this pozzolana…"
"Volcanic ash," Francisco interrupted.
"Yes, volcanic ash—it can only be found near volcanoes. Even in Europe, that's rare. Only Spain, Portugal, Naples, and the Ottoman Empire have some, and those kingdoms never cared much about such investigations."
Francisco nodded slowly. "That may be true. Still, there are no volcanoes in Antioquia, but there are in the Andes. If we find someone in Popayán, they could send us samples."
So Francisco went to look for Catalina. When he explained his plan, she agreed. "That's a good idea. But if this is your intention, we should open a branch there and buy land near the volcanoes. If the material proves valuable, controlling the supply will protect us from local interference. I'll talk to Mr. Carlos about it."
"Don't you think that's a little fast?" Francisco asked, puzzled. The material wasn't even ready, yet she was already thinking of founding an industry in Popayán.
"Not really. These things take time. By the time you and the blacksmiths succeed, we'll still be negotiating with the authorities in Popayán," Catalina chuckled.
"Fine. I also need more sand," Francisco admitted.
"That's fine," Catalina answered, then reminded him firmly: "But remember, in two days is your father's party. You must leave this warehouse and prepare yourself. It will be his way of presenting you to the elites of Antioquia—you need to make a strong impression, even before the families that dislike your father."
"No problem. By the way, do you know how the master builder is doing with the construction?" Francisco asked.
"Your building or my building?" Catalina mumbled. "The foundations will take two or three more months, so perhaps it'll be finished next year."
Francisco returned to the warehouse to continue his talks with the blacksmiths. Meanwhile, the party organized by Mr. Carlos was causing far more noise than expected. They had rented the grandest estate of a wealthy merchant in Santa Fe, and word spread not only in Villa Medellín but also in the capital.
The poor looked on with envy at the decorations; the rich were eager to meet the newcomers from Bogotá. Though Francisco already knew a few local families, they were nothing compared to the grandees of Antioquia.
In the streets, gossip spread quickly:
"Did you hear about that new family from the capital?" a mestizo asked his friend. "They say the party will even allow us common folk to get some food and drink outside the mansion."
"I heard," his friend replied. "But it doesn't seem like they're very powerful. Don't they live in that little villa in Medellín?"
"That's not true," an old man interrupted. "I heard the viceroy exiled him from Bogotá. That's why they gave him land so far away. They say it was because he spoke too freely—about abolishing the bloodline policies and freeing all the slaves in New Granada. At least, that's what the newspaper claimed."
"Really? Leaving aside the slaves, it's incredible that someone dares to oppose the bloodline system," said another mestizo.
"Pff, you fools," an arrogant young scion scoffed as he passed. "Those policies benefit our families. To compare us with people of low birth like you is an insult."
The commoners fell silent—not out of fear, but because they knew answering back could bring them trouble.
"Let's go. These cowards aren't worth it," the young noble spat, walking away with his companions. His anger only grew. "That Carlos is too arrogant—calling us idiots, saying that if our families let us compete fairly with mestizos, we'd lose. It's a great insult. If you ask me, the viceroy should have killed his family outright."
One companion quickly covered his mouth. "Shh! Do you want us all killed?"
"What are you afraid of? He's just a bastard," the first scion sneered.
"You don't understand. The House of Gómez de Sandoval is a ducal family of Spain. Pedro Téllez-Girón, the current head, is still very active in court—and he is Carlos's brother," whispered the second.
The first scion went pale. "Shh! Is Carlos's background that high? Then why does he bear the surname Gómez?"
"It seems Gómez de Sandoval was the original family name. Nowadays, the House of Osuna holds the title, but out of respect for his ancestors—and to distance himself from the Osuna branch—Pedro Zoilo allowed Carlos to carry only Gómez de Sandoval. But here in New Granada, Carlos prefers to go simply by Gómez."
"What a troublesome connection…" the first muttered.
"That's right. And it's said Carlos named his son Francisco after the founder of the ducal house—Francisco Gómez de Sandoval y Rojas. Perhaps he hopes his son will achieve what his ancestor once did."
"Didn't his brother object?" asked another.
"There was some tension, yes. But since Carlos and Francisco lived here in New Granada, the matter was mostly ignored in Spain."
The scions shrugged, adjusting their coats. "Well then, we'd better prepare ourselves for the party."