Chapter 8: Slaves

“This is the list of slaves we currently have available. There are only three for now.

The first one was originally an apprentice in blacksmithing. He belonged to the Fon—or Fun-Fen—tribe, something like that. He was captured during the raids of King Kpengla; you know they loved to sell their enemies to the Portuguese. I never understood why. Anyway, we trained him enough to become a proper blacksmith.

The second one is more interesting. His name was something like Kiala. He was captured by the Portuguese during one of their expeditions. He comes from Lunda, present-day Angola. His father was a blacksmith who worked mainly with agricultural tools. The man died during the expedition, so the boy may not have the best impression of us. But clearly, they hate the Portuguese even more, so maybe if you press him carefully, you could redirect that hatred.

And lastly—Ogundele Akinyemi. That one I remember clearly; his name left a mark. The poor bastard was pointed out by fate itself. He’s crippled now, but with two or three assistants he could still be useful.

The slaver smirked. “The mark he left was on my face.” It wasn’t just a memory: in a fit of rage, Ogundele had struck him, and the punishment had been merciless. To make sure he would never try again, they broke his legs. They never healed properly, leaving him twisted, condemned to move only with help.

I’m willing to part with them for 2,000 pesos. What do you think?”

Carlos frowned. “So you want us to pay 2,000 pesos for one cripple, one slave who will probably hate his master, and one apprentice blacksmith? Do you really think we’re idiots?”

“I mean… if you put it that way, it may sound awful. But you know blacksmith slaves are extremely rare,” swallowed the merchant, trying to justify the price.

“I’ll give you 1,000, and that’s me being generous. I’m quite sure no one else would pay so much for them in this situation,” Francisco said after a moment of thought.

“That’s too little, no?” asked the trader nervously.

“Not really,” Francisco replied coldly. “Considering you still have them, there are only two possibilities: either the bishop of Bogotá didn’t want them, or he no longer needed them for the expansion of Monserrate. In either case, if they’re not wanted, your best chance is finding another fool like us willing to pay more—but that could take time. If you’re lucky, one year; if you’re not, maybe three to five. And considering demand is not exactly rising, that’s a risk. If you try to resell them to the Portuguese, they’ll likely pay you less than what you originally spent. At least with 1,000 pesos you can stop your losses and even make a small profit. After all, my father works in the market, and he already told me how much you paid for them.”

Francisco’s concise, serious tone left the room heavy.

The merchant opened his mouth to protest, but before he could, an attendant rushed to his side and whispered something in his ear.

“This… are you sure he said that?” the trader asked, astonishment on his face.

“Yes, sir,” the attendant nodded.

The trader straightened his coat and forced a smile. “Sir, my apologies. My patron has already given the green light for the purchase. Consider the discount a token of goodwill, hoping you’ll do business with us again.”

Carlos and Francisco exchanged a glance, then nodded. “Fine. If we need more specialized slaves, we’ll come to you. But we also need about fifty regular ones.”

“Fifty?” the trader raised his eyebrows. “Because my patron wishes to make friends with you, I’ll ask only 150 pesos per head, plus transportation. At that price, our profit is minimal.”

“Deal,” Francisco said. Then, lowering his voice, he asked, “By the way, do you deal with Lutherans? I mean, people from the Holy Roman Empire, or the English?”

“Not directly,” admitted the merchant. “But I have friends who smuggle with them. If you wish, I could reach out. But you must understand—this line of work isn’t exactly legal. They don’t like meeting new people, especially if they’re connected to the Crown.” The man’s eyes flicked toward Carlos, testing the waters.

Carlos, sensing the tension, changed the subject with practiced ease. “Oh, is that a painting of Baltasar? I’ve always wanted to see one. Not as good as his father, perhaps, but still famous in Bogotá. Young man, could you take me to see it?” he asked the attendant, feigning distraction and leaving Francisco alone with the trader.

Once his father was gone, Francisco leaned closer. “My father is loyal to the Crown. But I am more loyal to my family. The reason he turns a blind eye is because he too is worried about the viceroyalty, and he doesn’t want to implicate us.”

The trader studied him for a moment, then gave a cautious nod. “Fine. I’ll send a letter to see if they’re willing. I can’t promise they’ll come, but perhaps you’ll have a chance to meet them in Bogotá. What do you say?”

“Good. I appreciate it.” Francisco reached into his coat and handed the man five pesos. “For the effort of introducing us.”

“Happy to help, happy to help,” the trader replied, though with the scars on his face his smile looked more like a pirate who had just spotted a damsel. “I’ll send word to your estate once I have an answer.”

Moments later, Carlos returned, and the two closed the deal.

“Those slaves are currently in Bogotá. I’ll send for them to be transported to Antioquia—should take about a month, considering the distance from the capital.” The trader offered a polite bow.

“Fine. You know where our estate is, yes? Send them there once they arrive.”

The payment was made, and Carlos and Francisco stepped out into the sunlight. Carlos lit a cigar, puffing slowly as he looked at his son.

“Well? How was it?” he asked, glancing at the church across the street.

“Ironic,” Francisco said, staring at the façade. “A sacred place standing right in front of a slave house. It feels like a cruel joke.”

“I understand you,” Carlos sighed. “You know I’m a strong believer. But at the same time, I despise the Church with all my heart.”

Francisco turned to him, curious. “Can you tell me why? I’ve always wondered why you keep priests at a distance while being so loyal to Mother. It’s as if you respect God but hate—or fear—the Church.”

Of course, Francisco had always been curious. The question had lingered in his mind for years, but he had never dared to ask. Not because he didn’t want to know, but because he respected his father too much. Still, now that the chance had opened, he could not hold it back.

Carlos fell silent for a moment, his gaze heavy with old memories. Then he exhaled. “This happened while your mother was pregnant with you. I was young—seventeen—and nervous, but also excited. Your grandfather thought it was time for me to prove myself, so he sent me with the Company to the viceroyalties of Peru and La Plata. There had been a rebellion, and as you know, after rebellions there are always spoils.

Of course, scraps went to petty traders, but slaves were the duty of Crown companies—to buy them from soldiers, then bring them either to New Granada or to Cartagena de Indias, where they’d be sold to the Portuguese.

At the time, I had a simple mind, a simple morality: the Crown and the Church were good, the Indians and their shamans were bad. So at first, I felt no problem with the business. I was even a little excited. Foolish me.

When we reached the south, I saw for the first time the horror of war—heads on spikes, bodies everywhere, even pregnant women. I still remember one, lifeless and alone… and I couldn’t stop thinking about your mother, who carried you then. Horror filled me.

And in the middle of that carnage, I found a little girl. Her name was Quilla. She was the reason my fear—and even my hatred—toward the Church was born…”

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