After the party, the Gómez family were officially part of Antioquía's high society. Some families were merely surprised; others tried to cozy up to Carlos for his connections. For most, life went on unchanged.
Except in Francisco's warehouse.
1791 February
Two months later, a lost recipe returned to life. The material that had given ancient Rome the power to raise great structures had been reborn.
"Finally," Francisco mumbled, eyes bloodshot as he stared at the bricks. They were fully bonded and had dried far faster than ordinary lime mortar.
"The Vitruvius proportions were off," he said to himself. "Useful, but not perfect. With this new ratio and process we can make it cheaper and faster than the original. Even if someone reads Vitruvius, their Roman cement will be slower and weaker than ours. And Catalina secured the pozzolana resources in Popayán—at least in the Andean region we have a kind of monopoly."
He collapsed onto a mattress and slept for twelve hours. Hunger woke him. In the kitchen he found Catalina waiting.
"You slept twelve hours? I was worried," she said, seeing his exhausted face. "The blacksmiths said you just needed the rest. Please, take care of yourself."
"I can't explain how I feel when I'm working," Francisco admitted, a little guilty. "I get obsessed. Discovery feels like making something from nothing—like changing the world. I can barely sleep until I know it works."
Catalina pouted but softened. "So… what now?"
"We did it," he said, serious. "I've tuned Vitruvius into a better Roman cement. But I need special sand—river sand of a kind found only in some Medellín rivers. We'll need to buy the rights to use it."
"If we want to monopolize the industry, Popayán might be enough," Francisco said. "Maybe we could acquire other volcanic areas later, but it probably won't change much. me and the blacksmiths spent all this time perfecting a more complex recipe so that even if someone gets the Vitruvius book, they won't make cement as good as ours."
"A whole new formula?" Catalina's voice mixed disbelief with excitement.
Francisco walked her through the process. "Burn marble in a kiln, let it cool for seven to fourteen days, then take the pozzolana and sift it through esparto mats. Grind it in a mill until it's a fine powder, store it in sacks. Wash the sand to remove silt, then dry it. Mix the lime and pozzolana, add the sand and water, and blend. Ogundele helped design a mule-driven mixing machine for the heavy work. But yes—this needs a new factory."
"I knew it. More money," Catalina rolled her eyes. "Your father isn't made of gold, you know."
"I know," Francisco shrugged. "But the Lozano and Álvarez families want to invest. We can have them fund the factory."
"Really?" Catalina brightened. "I'll send someone with a letter, but I hear they're in Bogotá. It might take a month or so for the money to come."
Francisco's face hardened. "Now I have to speak with the workers. The lime in the foundations should be dry, but I may have to make them tear it out and start again."
Catalina feigned faintness. "I'll leave the workers to you. I'm fragile."
"If you're fragile, then I'm a baby," Francisco said, rolling his eyes. "Fine. I'll take some cement and show them why."
At the construction site, he found hope and complication. The workers were finishing houses; the forge was halfway done. At least those two wouldn't need rebuilding. But when Francisco saw the factory foundation, his stomach tightened.
The master builder greeted him buoyantly. "We're on the last touches of the houses and halfway through the forge. We finished the foundation—if we keep this pace, we'll be done two months ahead of schedule!"
Francisco's voice was steady but urgent. "Master, we need to rebuild the foundation."
The builder's face went as hard as stone. "Do you know how much time we spent on this?" he thundered. His men fell silent and closed ranks behind him, anger in their eyes. "You owe me a good explanation. I put other projects on hold for this."
"Wait—don't stop work. Just look." Francisco signaled the servants; they brought forward samples of the new cement.
The master builder inspected the block, puzzled. "What is this?"
"A new material," Francisco said. "It took three weeks to cure even while we poured water on it every day."
The builder scoffed. "Is that true?"
"See for yourself." Francisco handed over a lump of the paste—beige-gray, oddly uniform. The builder poked it, then frowned.
"You're telling me that this can be used to build and it dries faster than lime?" he asked, skeptical.
"That's right. I think we should replace the foundation with it," Francisco said, firm.
"How can I trust you, boy?" the builder snapped. "You come here and tell me to tear out our work and build again with some invention. You expect us to obey?"
Francisco offered terms. "We need a factory for this material anyway. Let's bet: if the material performs, you agree to replace the foundation using it, at no extra charge. If it fails, we go on with the current plan and I'll pay double for the new building."
The master builder considered it hard. Then he smiled with the sort of greedy hope only builders understand. "If it's true, I'll even finance the second building myself—just sell me the first batch. If your stuff works, my job becomes a hundred times faster."
"Do we have a deal?" Francisco extended his hand.
"We have a deal," the master builder replied, shaking it.
"Alright then. Boys—let's lay a new foundation!" The men set to work, tension easing a notch.
Francisco breathed out, relieved. At least it didn't end in a brawl. But his relief was short. He looked back toward the estate, thinking about the liberal problem still on their doorstep—and about the guests they needed to handle next.