Chapter 40: The Truth About the Bloodline Policies

Francisco, Antonio, and Isabella went down together to meet Catalina.

“Here—this is Catalina, my partner and future wife.”

Until now, Francisco had always hesitated to call her that. But after his talk with Ignacio and Ricaurte, something had shifted. Roman cement alone was going to spark a bloodline debate that could end the very policies he once feared. What others thought no longer mattered. By next year, when everyone was scrambling for workers, they would probably envy him—and follow his lead.

Antonio and Isabella were caught off guard. They hadn’t expected such a bold confession.

Envy flashed across Isabella’s face. She, too, dreamed of a man unafraid to present her as his future wife. But the suitors her father introduced were only interested in her as a mistress—at best, a secret wife.

Antonio, however, still tied to the aristocracy, knew exactly how high society treated men who behaved like Francisco. Instead of disdain, he felt admiration. “You’re brave. I didn’t expect you to say it out loud.”

Francisco, slightly embarrassed, replied, “Not really. After hearing Ricaurte’s speculation, I realized it doesn’t matter anymore. I’m leaving for Germany in six months. By the time I return, the conflict will already be decided. If bloodline policies survive, fine. If not, they’ll be finished anyway. My old fear was that coming back with a degree from a Protestant university and a mestiza wife would destroy my family’s reputation. But now…” He let the words trail off, though his meaning was clear: he believed the policies would be gone.

Antonio frowned. “It’s not that simple. Even if Ricaurte and Ignacio are right, most merchants won’t have the money to buy Roman cement. While your family builds factories and hires labor, the rest won’t care as much. They’re anxious because your industries dominate theirs. Until Quito and the Captaincy of Venezuela have their own factories, the bloodline policies will remain.”

“That may be true,” Francisco answered confidently, “but I doubt my father will need more than six years to build factories across the viceroyalty.”

Antonio smiled faintly. “I hope so—for your sake.”

Francisco studied him curiously. “By the way, are you sure you’re not interested in the army?”

“I’m sure,” Antonio said firmly. “I live comfortably. Why would I risk my life fighting indigenous rebels far from home? Besides, as a liberal, I oppose killing them.”

Francisco couldn’t help but wonder what would one day push this idealistic young man into uniform.

The two men continued talking, while Isabella and Catalina fell into their own conversation. After a while, they exchanged farewells, and Francisco returned home.

At the house, Carlos summoned him into his office.

“I hear people say you walked with Catalina in the market—like a couple. Is that true?” His voice was tight with anger.

“It’s true, Father,” Francisco replied.

Carlos sighed, torn between frustration and affection. “I understand you love her. I’ve already accepted her as my daughter-in-law. But you must know—the elite of New Granada don’t accept such things. They’re mocking you. I nearly challenged one man to a duel after hearing his insults.”

Francisco nodded. “I understand, Father. But I don’t think it’s such a big problem.” He then repeated the speculations he had heard from Antonio and Ignacio.

Carlos listened, his expression hardening. “I see. But you must also understand this: the bloodline policies aren’t just prejudice. For Spain, they are a tool of control. They won’t disappear so easily.”

Francisco was startled. “What do you mean?”

Carlos leaned back, recalling old wounds. “When I was exiled by the viceroy, one of his inner circle told me the truth. He said they all knew how harmful the policies were, but they couldn’t act against them.”

“Why?” Francisco demanded.

Carlos’s voice dropped. “Control. The policies were never truly about discriminating against mestizos or indigenous people. They were about dividing the elite. If marrying outside the Spanish bloodline stripped you of status, wealth, and power, then the elite would cling desperately to Spain. It kept society split—Spaniards above, everyone else below. United rebellion was impossible.” He paused, eyes shadowed. “It worked for a long time. Only with the American independence movements and the French Revolution did some pure-blood Spaniards begin questioning the system. Add the crown’s absurd taxes and monopolies, and suddenly Spanish elites themselves started resenting Madrid.”

Francisco absorbed the words. So that was the plan: not Spaniards against mestizos, but Spaniards against Spaniards—greed feeding division, until even elites found common cause with those they once despised.

“So you see,” Carlos said grimly, “they won’t allow bloodline policies to vanish. Whoever devised them was brilliant—and ruthless. If not for their descendants’ greed, liberal thinking here might never have taken root.”

Francisco asked carefully, “Then what will the viceroyalty do to calm the crisis?”

Carlos considered. “Worst case? They could ban Roman cement. But I doubt it. We aren’t the only family with shares in the factory. You chose your partners well. More likely, they’ll try to limit supply and then adjust the policies so Spaniards can hire more labor without losing privileges. But marriage laws? Those won’t disappear.”

“Well,” Francisco said lightly, “luckily I only presented Catalina as my future wife to Antonio Nariño and Isabella.”

Carlos stiffened. “Who?”

“Two friends from the Café de la Unión.”

Carlos shook his head, muttering, “Let’s hope they keep silent.” Then, more firmly: “Focus on your demonstration. I’ll begin looking for partners in Quito and Venezuela to expand factories.”

“You already have contacts there?” Francisco asked curiously.

“Friends I made during my travels,” Carlos said. “Meanwhile, you should finish your affairs in Bogotá. We’ll return by November, so you can depart for Hanover with ease. Let’s hope people forget about Catalina by then.”

Francisco hesitated, then added seriously, “Father, I also want us to gain political influence in Antioquía—ideally for you to become governor.”

Carlos’s eyes narrowed. “Why? Are you planning rebellion?”

“No,” Francisco said quickly. “I want Antioquía as our power base. We’ll attract immigrants, train soldiers. If Spain—or the liberals—ever move against us, they’ll think twice.”

Carlos rubbed his chin. “I’ll consider it. I dislike politics.”

“If Antioquía develops well, you might even earn a noble title,” Francisco tempted.

Carlos gave him a skeptical look. If he didn’t know his son, he’d think Francisco was preparing to declare independence and crown himself king of some ’Franciscoland.’ The thought made him chuckle.

“Go prepare your presentation,” he ordered. “I’ll think about it.”

Francisco left, and Carlos remained alone in his office.

“Governor of Antioquía,” he muttered. “Would he become the king of New Granada?” He shook his head. “What does it matter? I already promised to help him.” His eyes drifted to the portrait of his late wife. “Am I doing the right thing? If only you were here to guide me, like when we were young.” His voice broke softly.

nger and continue his work

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