After entering through the door, Miss Sofia Lozano sat elegantly, sipping tea—a beverage that seemed to come from the eastern lands. Among European nobility and wealthy families, tea was a mark of luxury. Beside her, her husband observed Carlos and Francisco with a curious glint in his eyes.
"So you are Francisco," Mauricio asked. "I've heard some things about you. Quite an interesting young man."
"Me, my lord? Didn't you come to speak with my father?" Francisco replied, puzzled. Until recently, he had only been a boy following his father's instructions. He couldn't recall having done anything worth such attention.
"You underestimate your actions—or perhaps you underestimate the intelligence of Antioquía's factions," Mauricio chuckled.
A cold sweat trickled down Francisco's back. If Mauricio was right, did that mean those factions already knew about Óscar, the innkeeper? And if so, why hadn't anyone from the Gómez de Castro family been warned?
"Alright, stop teasing the boy," Sofia chuckled, cutting Mauricio short. "We know about your actions because you've hardly been discreet—opening an alcohol factory, building a warehouse where you and the blacksmiths spend the day reading books. Even that little incident with the Restrepo boy… people say you nearly dueled him, and now he doesn't dare show his face. They whisper he was a coward who forced his family to pay dearly to save his life."
Francisco flushed with embarrassment. It seemed everything he had done was already known to the great families. Yet he also sighed in relief—at least Óscar's information wasn't public. Not yet.
"May I ask you something?" Sofia tilted her head, curious. "Why go into the alcohol business? I know it can make money, but it would take years just to recover your investment—much less turn a profit."
"I understand what you mean. That's exactly what I'm trying to fix—shortening the time needed to recover expenses and reach profit." Francisco thought for a moment, then decided honesty was best. If he could win the backing of these two families, his future—and his family's—would be far more secure.
"Have you heard the term natural philosophers?" he asked.
Sofia frowned, but Mauricio's eyes lit up. "If I'm not mistaken, it comes from Greece—people who sought rational explanations for the workings of nature."
"That's right. Today, few give them the importance they deserve—except in a handful of superpowers. But their potential is immense, though most can't see it." Francisco's tone grew serious.
"Why do I get the feeling you have seen it?" Sofia asked, intrigued.
"Because, in a way, I have. Let me start simple. Do you know what takes the longest in construction?" Francisco asked.
"Honestly, I wouldn't know. I usually leave such matters to my servants," Sofia admitted, embarrassed.
They both turned to Mauricio. He only shrugged. "I don't know either. Let me call a servant."
"The thing that takes the most time in building is the drying of lime, masters," the servant explained. "It can take weeks, even months, and nothing else can proceed until it does."
"That's correct," Francisco said. "But did you know that in ancient Rome and Greece there was a material that not only made constructions stronger but also dried faster?"
"I know of it," Sofia replied. "I went to Greece with my father as a child. They told us that material was lost."
"That's not entirely true," Francisco answered. "Just yesterday my… assistant gave me a Latin book called Vitrius. In it were the instructions to recreate that very material. If I succeed, my factory could be built in months instead of years, allowing me to recover costs and make profit much faster."
"If what you say is true, then entire industries and towns could be raised in no time," Mauricio mused, his eyes already calculating the political benefits. "That would mean more profit for the states—and for the viceroyalty."
"Cough, cough… Did you forget?" Sofia interrupted with a sly smile. "Most of those taxes go straight to Spain. We'd be lucky to see even a fraction for New Granada's development."
Mauricio froze, as though someone had dumped a bucket of cold water over him.
"But wait," he said, rallying. "This would be a new industry. At least at first, before it shows profit, there wouldn't be any taxes. That means plenty of money in the beginning." His eyes returned to Francisco. "Let us invest. You keep 51%, and we'll split the other 49% between Sofia and my family. In exchange, we'll pressure the viceroy not to tax this new material."
Francisco thought for a moment, then nodded. "I'll support making you partners in the Roman cement industry, but I want 10% of the shares reserved for the workers. So: I'll hold 47%, you two divide 43%, and the remaining 10% will go to the workers as bonuses."
"You want to give shares to the workers?" Mauricio raised an eyebrow. In 1790, most people thought workers should simply obey if they were paid.
"That's right," Francisco said firmly. "I don't just want to make my family rich. I want my workers to prosper too. If they earn more, they'll spend more here in Villa Medellín. That draws traders, that builds markets, that creates demand for new homes. Which, in turn, creates more demand for cement—and more profit for me." His eyes gleamed with cunning. "Of course, it also means my father may gain a seat in government—as mayor of Medellín."
"I didn't expect your family to seek office," Sofia remarked, surprised.
"We don't, but here, an official position is like being an emperor—especially in Antioquía, far from the capital," Francisco replied.
"Your ambition is impressive," Mauricio admitted, meeting Francisco's gaze. "Aren't you afraid I'll tell the viceroy, so he forces you to surrender the recipe and strips this industry from you?"
"There are two reasons why I doubt that," Francisco said, smiling faintly. "First, if he takes it, you won't benefit—the viceroy will. The profits will go to him, strengthening Spanish soldiers. Second, my grandfather is a duke. Even if we don't share interests, he would rather I sell the material to him for Spain than see the viceroy hoard it. Unless the viceroy shares profits with him, my grandfather would cause trouble in Spain until the formula spread across Europe. That would flood the market, making cement cheap and ruining profits. Also, if you betray me, I'll simply look for other families to collaborate with."
Mauricio chuckled. "You're shrewd. I see now why you're Carlos's son. But why did you say stronger Spanish soldiers would affect me?"
"Because the viceroy doesn't trust his bureaucrats," Francisco explained. "Your power is already suppressed. Stronger soldiers would only press harder—forcing you to pay more taxes, crushing dissent." His cunning smile returned. "So in the end, it's you and the great families who'd suffer most."
Mauricio sighed. "You're right. We've tried to cut his budget by starving the soldiers, but the man is headstrong—he'd rather underpay administrators than risk weakening the army. After all, he's a soldier at heart."
Throughout, Carlos sat quietly beside his son—completely ignored. At first, he had thought the Lozanos wished to meet him, but it became clear he was merely chaperoning Francisco.
Sofia, amused, drifted into lighter conversation with Carlos, mocking the viceroy and laughing about how refreshing it was to finally hear someone speak truths to his face.
The hours passed quickly. By 11 p.m., servants arrived to announce the party's end. Their discussion was forced to close, though before leaving, Mauricio assured Francisco he would send someone soon to sign the contract.
And with that, the night came to an end.