Chapter 252: The Decendant Of The Borgia

Ogundele walked quickly toward the mansion where Carlos was working. He passed through the courtyard without slowing, ignoring the curious glances of those who already recognized him, and entered directly into Carlos’s office.

Inside, Carlos was seated behind his desk, surrounded by documents. His attention was fixed on the logistics of the coming campaign in Mompox—lists, routes, costs. He was attempting to find a way to reduce the expense of transporting supplies to the camp Krugger had chosen, though the terrain made every solution inefficient.

When he noticed Ogundele, he looked up with mild surprise.

“What brings you here, Ogundele? Were you not working at the steel mill?” he asked.

Ogundele nodded.

“I was. But it seems I require the steam machines Francisco sent.”

He paused briefly.

“I assume… he did send some?”

Carlos frowned at the mention.

He had reviewed the letter, but not with much attention to technical detail. Raising a hand, he reached for the document among the pile and unfolded it.

“Let me see.”

He scanned the page more carefully this time—and indeed, there they were.

“Yes… there are machines listed here,” he said slowly. “But…”

His expression tightened.

“They are far too large. According to this, they had to be transported by a West Indiaman to San Andrés.”

He looked up.

“And we have no practical way of bringing them inland. Not yet. You may have to wait until we secure Maracaibo.”

Ogundele frowned.

“They are truly that large?”

Carlos nodded, a trace of frustration in his voice.

“As large as a room. Some houses might even be smaller.”

He shook his head slightly.

“This is not something we can smuggle through the interior. Though…” He paused, thinking. “If we take Barranquilla, we may be able to use the Bocas de Ceniza to bring them in properly.”

Ogundele exhaled slowly, his gaze drifting for a moment as he imagined the empty space where such a machine should stand.

“So, I must wait,” he said quietly.

He turned slightly, already thinking ahead.

“Very well. I will devise an alternative while you concern yourself with Barranquilla. Send for me if my assistance is required.”

As he moved toward the door, his fingers brushed lightly against the edge of a parchment.

“Perhaps I can bridge the gap using the theorems that boy sent from Göttingen…” he murmured to himself.

“Wait.”

Carlos stood and placed a hand on his shoulder, stopping him.

“I have a question.”

His tone shifted—more serious now.

“Without the British engine… how much steel can you actually produce?”

He stepped back slightly, crossing his arms.

“Francisco has provided enough supplies to sustain the army for the moment. But once we strike Mompox—or even attempt it—the Spanish will react. Their blockade will tighten.”

A brief pause.

“Our current reserves will not last a month under those conditions.”

Ogundele stopped, his mind already turning.

He began calculating instinctively—the force of water against the wheel, the resistance of the ore, the limitations of timber and iron.

“With the current system…” he said slowly, “a water-driven hybrid—combining the Göttingen principles with what we can construct locally…”

He narrowed his eyes slightly.

“We can produce between one hundred fifty and three hundred kilograms of refined steel per week.”

He shook his head faintly.

“I cannot be more precise. It depends on the river’s flow… and the endurance of the structure itself.”

He turned back toward Carlos, his expression hardening.

“But if that steam machine is what Francisco claims—if it delivers the constant, relentless motion he described…”

His voice lowered slightly, with a trace of intensity.

“Then we are no longer speaking of sacks of steel.”

A brief pause.

“We are speaking of more than a thousand kilograms per week.”

Carlos remained silent, listening.

“And because it depends only on coal,” Ogundele continued, “it could operate without interruption—day and night.”

He raised a hand slightly.

“Of course, steel is not the same as weapons. Even with our current system, the armory can produce perhaps seven or eight fusils per week.”

His tone became more precise.

“With steam power… that number could rise to thirty, perhaps more.”

He paused.

“But those are estimates—based on Francisco’s descriptions alone. Until I see the machine, I cannot give you certainty.”

The room fell quiet for a moment.

Between them stood not just a logistical problem—

But the difference between limitation…

Hearing this, Carlos frowned deeply.

Even with the promise of the steam engine, the numbers still felt small—too small for what he was trying to achieve.

“It is still not enough, Ogundele,” he said, his voice carrying a restrained frustration. “Against the full might of the Spanish Crown, that quantity is too low to sustain a constant war. We would not lose in a single battle—we would be crushed slowly, by sheer attrition.”

Ogundele noticed the doubt in Carlos’s eyes and stepped closer, lowering his voice, steady and firm, as if trying to anchor him.

“Then we make the armory bigger.”

He didn’t rush his words.

“We hire more men. We expand the workshops. We already have the iron—these mountains are full of it. The only thing we truly lack is the ’breath’… the force required to move the hammers continuously.”

He gestured slightly, as if seeing the entire system in motion.

“If we cannot wait for the British machines, then we must attempt to replicate what we already understand. It will not be perfect—but it may be enough.”

He paused briefly, then added:

“I heard that boy—Francisco—made a name for himself in Göttingen. Not just as a student, but as someone who helped the House of Hanover solve a problem they had struggled with for years. If his knowledge of steam mechanics is truly as advanced as it seems, then perhaps we do not need a ’perfect’ engine…”

His eyes sharpened.

“…only one strong enough to keep the forge alive.”

Carlos nodded, though the gesture felt almost absent-minded.

His thoughts were already far away—no longer in the forge, but somewhere along the coast, where decisions were no longer his to delay.

“You are right,” he said quietly. “But I am worried that we may be forced to strike before the foundation of the factory is even dry.”

He hesitated for a moment, then continued:

“I have received word… Spain is recalling Ezpeleta.”

A brief silence followed.

“His replacement is already on a ship. Pedro Mendinueta y Múzquiz.”

Ogundele frowned slightly, not immediately recognizing the weight behind the name.

“Mendinueta?” he asked. “Is he someone important? Another nobleman in silk, another peacock sent to manage accounts and pretend control?”

Carlos shook his head slowly.

For a brief moment, it felt as if the heat of the forge had shifted—like a cold current passing through the room.

“He comes from a lineage with a reputation,” Carlos said, his voice tightening slightly. “The Borgia.”

He paused, letting the name settle.

“I do not know the man personally… but the name alone is enough to unsettle me.”

Ogundele raised an eyebrow, clearly surprised.

He had known Carlos long enough to understand one thing clearly—Carlos did not fear people. Not kings, not nobles, not armies.

Even when facing defeat, Carlos would shrug and say something like ’then i will go back to spain and become a prisoner in the castle of lerma.’

But now… something had changed.

Carlos noticed the look.

“The Borgias are not remembered for simple brutality,” he continued, his voice lowering slightly. “They are remembered for something worse.”

He began pacing slowly across the floor, the damp heat clinging to him.

“They are not just killers, Ogundele… they are masters of what cannot be seen.”

A brief pause.

“Poison. Assassination. Manipulation. The slow decay of trust.”

He stopped for a moment, then continued:

“Men like Ezpeleta care about rules—about law, about appearances, about the balance between noble houses. Even if I were to lose my life, there are limits they would not cross.”

He looked toward Ogundele.

“They would hesitate before touching those around me. They would fear the reaction of other families, the consequences of breaking that balance.”

He resumed walking.

“But a Borgia…”

A longer pause.

“…does not recognize such limits.”

Carlos stopped again, this time looking directly into Ogundele’s eyes.

“If he cannot kill me in the light, he will send men into the dark.”

His voice dropped further.

“He will go after Isabella. After Grandma Maria…”

A brief pause.

“…even you.”

The words lingered.

“Ezpeleta hesitated,” Carlos continued, more slowly now. “Because he understood something basic—if too many people die, this land becomes useless. It cannot recover. There is no profit in ashes.”

His expression hardened.

“But the Borgias—at least the ones in the history books—would not care. They would burn an entire city if it meant securing their objective.”

He exhaled quietly.

“And from what I hear… this man is eager to please the King of Spain.”

The room fell into silence.

“Once he arrives,” Carlos said finally, his voice steady but cold, “this war changes.”

He shook his head slightly.

“It will no longer be about open battles or negotiations.”

A final pause.

“For a Borgia… there is no such thing as a fair game.”

His gaze did not move.

“Only fire… poisoned steel… and the complete erasure of their enemies those people dont have a concept of honor or humanity.”

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