After talking with Sofía and Mauricio, Francisco learned of a potential new client. It seemed the viceroy, José Manuel de Ezpeleta, was deeply interested in public infrastructure. He ordered Domingo Esquiaqui to prepare upgrades for the Bogotá aqueduct. Until then, improvements had been minor, but Francisco's partners knew about Roman cement. They spoke with Domingo, trying to convince him to test this new material.
For Francisco, this was excellent news: if the aqueduct used his cement, nearly all of New Granada would hear about it. After all, towns and cities often came to Bogotá to consult with the viceroy. If they saw firsthand how much stronger and more durable cement was compared to other materials, they might begin sending people to Antioquía to purchase it for their own projects. It also gave the liberal elites a useful excuse—they could justify paying less to the viceroy by claiming, "We're modernizing our cities; we had extra expenses." For Francisco, it felt like killing several birds with one stone.
Excited, he went to the estate and began preparing for another trip to Bogotá. His father, Carlos, seemed equally motivated by the cement's potential profits—so much so that he was preparing to retire. Of course, he wouldn't truly step away from the Cádiz company, at least not officially. He intended to keep his position but without responsibilities or authority—a way to maintain the crown's protection without the burden of management. Carlos could afford this only because of his father, the Duke, and his own faction's influence in Cádiz. A regular employee could never enjoy such privileges.
"Father, I want to take Catalina with me, even if just as an assistant," Francisco said while packing. "I want my associates to get used to her presence. In the future, I plan to leave those messy affairs to her."
Carlos scowled, half angry, half amused. "How did I raise such an unambitious son? At your age, I was already managing my father's business in Madrid. Sometimes I even traveled to Burgos to handle the ducal estate. And you want to dump everything on your wife? What a shame."
"I'm not unambitious," Francisco pouted. "My ambitions are different. I want to create things—not waste my life dealing with greedy men who fight for every last peso."
"So you'll just leave it all to your wife?" Carlos pressed, his gaze sharp.
Francisco blushed but replied firmly, "She's good at managing money—and she enjoys it. Otherwise, I'd have hired someone long ago."
"You're shameless," Carlos sighed. "Fine. Take grandmother María as well. Next year you two leave for Europe, and who knows when you'll return. Better to let them spend more time together."
Though frustrated by his son's habit of delegating responsibilities, Carlos was no conservative who believed women should stay locked away as trophies.After all he wanted Isabella to live freely, not trapped in such a life. Otherwise, Francisco might already have been beaten into submission.
Francisco invited Catalina and grandmother María. When Isabella heard that everyone was going, she cried and begged with puppy eyes until they agreed to take her as well. What began as a business trip quickly turned into a family journey.
They boarded a carriage to the Magdalena River, where most of the travel would take place. From there, they would continue until they reached Honda and from there up the steep road to Bogotá. It was a grueling climb, but Antioquía was largely isolated at the time. Fortunately, the family's high social status allowed them certain luxuries. They didn't travel in a simple canoe; instead, they had a large Champan a big boat with cabins, space for servants, and everything the family could use. Also in Honda, they could also rent strong mules for the mountain road.
During the river journey, Isabella clung tightly to Francisco. She already knew he would leave for Europe the following year and stay away for years. Though sad and reluctant, she found comfort in being close to her brother. Francisco spent as much time as possible with her.
One afternoon, while he was watching the river, shouts rang out: "A caiman! A caiman!" Francisco rushed to the side of the boat. It was the first time he had ever seen one. He couldn't make out its entire body, but it was massive. He swore that if the boat and the beast faced each other head-on, the boat might sink.
The servants threw spears to drive it away, but their aim was so poor that one nearly struck a fellow servant. Frustrated, Francisco seized a spear himself and hurled it, striking the caiman on the head. Enraged, the beast charged the boat as if determined to drag it under. Startled, Francisco snatched up his musket, fired, and wounded it in the neck—but the caiman only grew more furious. Seeing the danger, the servants abandoned their spears and switched to muskets, yet most of their bullets barely harmed the animal.
Seeing the danger, Carlos calmly raised his musket, took aim, and fired. His shot went straight through the caiman's eye, killing it instantly.
The servants cheered, then rushed to haul the creature aboard. Its hide would be a luxury for the rich—proof of skill and bravery. In Santa Fe, it would be an impressive trophy, along with the skull and teeth.
Isabella, though frightened, peered curiously at the beast. It was enormous, at least four or five meters long. Its teeth, each nearly eight centimeters, looked strong enough to pierce wood. Its massive head was almost bigger than Isabella herself. Fascinated, she crept forward and began punching it playfully as the servants dismembered it. That night, they planned to roast caiman meat.
"You've got good aim," Francisco told his father, impressed. Hitting the eye of such a beast with one shot was no easy task. His own bullet had only wounded the neck.
Carlos shrugged, though his excitement was obvious. "It was nothing. Remember, your grandfather trained me." In truth, it was probably ninety-nine percent luck.
"Want to taste caiman meat?" he asked.
"Of course. I've never even seen one before, much less eaten it."
Carlos laughed. "It tastes like fish or chicken—just a bit greasy. I tried it before, back when we came to Antioquía. You were in a long faint, and some doctors suggested caiman fat or even bile might help. We hunted one, though it was smaller—maybe two meters. Your sister thought it was huge. After seeing this one, she'll think the last was just a baby."
Francisco chuckled as Carlos watched Isabella circling the carcass. "She's a brave one," he said. "She must have inherited that from your mother, Anna."
"Was Mother brave?" Francisco asked, puzzled. His memories of her only went back to when he was ten, the year Isabella was born. He remembered her as kind but strict, someone who read them stories and asked him to protect his little sister. After her death, Francisco had cried for days, even dragging his mattress to Isabella's room to sleep beside her, as if guarding her from the world.
"You can't escape famine on the other side of the world and survive without bravery," Carlos said, voice heavy with memory. "She told me stories of her escape. She was just a child in a place where famine drove people to eat anything—even people. The things she saw… she had to be brave, if only to survive."
"I don't know if I could've done the same," Francisco admitted quietly.
"Neither do I," Carlos said with a sigh. "I often wondered: could I, as a child, have traveled hundreds of kilometers through famine and survived? Probably not. That's one of the reasons I admired her so much. If only she hadn't died… things might have been different."
Francisco lowered his head, silent.