The ship docked with the discretion of a merchant, but Dom Mateus Orsini disembarked with the eyes of an empire appraiser. The first thing that struck him was the noise—a constant chorus of voices, creaking wheels, neighing animals, and the metallic clang of tools. The dock seethed like a human anthill. Ships arrived and departed at frighteningly short intervals. Carts formed a line that disappeared from view towards the interior, loaded with bales, barrels, and strange pieces covered with tarps.

  So the steel production really worked... he thought, his fingers drumming on the head of his cane. This Popess is truly incredible. Now I can discover all her secrets.

  A thin smile touched his lips as he watched two dockworkers carrying a wooden crate that groaned under the weight of something metallic inside. The smell of the port—salted fish, brackish water, and the sweet scent of sugarcane—mixed with a new odor: metal and rubber.

  The official entourage—him and his two secretaries, men with serious faces and impeccably black clothes—was received by a sister in a simple habit. The fabric, however, had a uniform and sturdy texture, unlike common rough cloth.

  "Peace be with you, Dom Orsini," she said with a precise nod of her head. "I am Sister Luzia. Her Holiness was aware of your arrival. If you follow me, I will take you to the Cathedral complex to rest."

  As they ascended the sidewalk of uneven stones—clean, he noted, without the usual garbage of port cities—Orsini kept pace beside her.

  "I thank you for the hospitality, Sister Luzia. After leaving my things, I intend to see a bit of the city. The weariness of the journey fades better with a walk and a local meal."

  The woman gave him a quick look, a spark of curiosity passing through her brown eyes before fading.

  "As you wish, Your Excellency. The doors of the complex will be open." An almost imperceptible pause. "The city is... safe, even for foreigners. But avoid the docks after nightfall."

  He nodded, already knowing his request was unusual. One only knows a pope by the city they govern and the voices that echo within it, he thought, observing the comings and goings of the people.

  Besides Orsini and his assistants, twelve "additional monks" had disembarked—Henrique's lookouts. Men with downcast eyes and hands calloused in a suspicious way for copyists. They followed Sister Luzia with bovine obedience, clearly exhausted. Mateus let them go without a second glance. They were disposable tools. He sought the real currency: unfiltered information.

  Without haste, Orsini plunged into the streets of Santa Maria. The city breathed a different rhythm. The air, though hot and humid, did not carry the nauseating stench of open sewers he knew from Lisbon or even Nova Lusitania. Instead, there was a smell of damp earth, fresh bread, and, from time to time, a hot, metallic trace coming from some hidden workshop.

  The people here... he observed, walking slowly. They seem lively. Full of life. It was true. He did not see the exhausted, resigned faces of colonial cities. Here, men and women—black, mixed-race, white—walked with a visible purpose. The clothes caught his attention: well-cut cotton dresses and shirts, dyed in vivid colors—earth-red, indigo-blue, ochre-yellow—that gleamed under the strong sun. No rags.

  He saw a cart pass, driven not by a man, but by a young woman, her hair tied in a red scarf, her hands firm on the reins. Another followed, then another.

  This is... unusual, he murmured to himself. Female cart drivers? Traveling alone? The memory of the last letters read in Alba came to mind: reports of roads in the Brazilian Northeast taken over by bandits and runaway quilombolas since the expulsion of the Dutch. If the roads around here are so dangerous, how do these women travel safely?

  His curiosity guided him to a wide square, branded by a burned wooden sign as "Square of Fair Trades." The hubbub was intense, full of voices bargaining, laughter, and the jingle of coins.

  He stopped before a stall where a robust vendor, sweating in the heat, proclaimed his product with a thunderous voice.

  "The pot that cooks beans in a third of the time!" he bellowed, banging a wooden spoon on a shiny example. "It doesn't spill, doesn't stick, and makes the creamiest tutu in the Northeast, thanks to the Republic! And I'll teach you how to use it, sir! No risk of blowing up the kitchen!"

  Republic. The word echoed in the air like silent thunder. It wasn't a conspiratorial whisper, but a natural statement, as common as "bakery."

  A chill ran down Orsini's spine. What republic? I am in the Portuguese colony of Brazil, not in Venice.

  He approached, his tone courteous but firm.

  "Good afternoon, my good man. Forgive my ignorance, I am newly arrived. What republic is this that makes such ingenious pots?"

  The vendor looked him up and down, his eyes narrowing upon noticing the fine cassock and the imported leather shoes. The strangeness gave way to a gleam of opportunity.

  "Oh, you haven't heard the news? Ganga-Zala, the king of the Quilombo da Jabuticaba, accepted a deal with the Crown and left. Now the one in charge there is Carlos. He declared himself 'President of the Republic of Brazil.'" The man made a vague gesture with his hand. "What that means, only God knows. But what matters is that they're the ones making these steel wonders! Look at that shine!"

  Dom Orsini had a hundred questions boiling in his mind—about legitimacy, heresy, politics—but his eyes were captured by the object. He took the pot the man handed him. The weight was substantial but well-distributed. The inner surface was smooth as a mirror, reflecting the sunlight and his own face, distorted.

  Steel, he thought, stunned. A material so expensive, so difficult to work, coveted by goldsmiths and magical weapon makers... being used for a pot. Paula's letter spoke of producing steel, but this pot, according to the vendor, came from the quilombo.

  "It's... impressive," he admitted, running his thumb over the perfectly smooth rim. "How much does it cost?"

  The vendor's smile widened, revealing a missing tooth.

  "For you, a friend's price: thirty thousand réis! A piece that lasts decades, huh? You'll pass it on to your grandchildren!"

  "Thirty thousand réis?" Orsini's financial mind calculated quickly. For a piece of quality steel, it was an insultingly low price. In Europe, it would cost five times as much, easily.

  "Done," he said, taking the leather purse attached to his belt. A sample to study, he justified to himself, ignoring the fact he had never cooked in his life.

  As he counted the coins, a movement in the background caught his attention. A different carriage was passing through the square. It didn't have the typical heavy, cracked wooden wheels of the colonies. In their place were wheels of a black, flexible material that rolled almost silently over the stones. The carriage, pulled by two vigorous horses, disappeared down a side street before he could see more.

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  His curiosity, now fully awakened, led him to follow in that direction. The street opened into a noisy construction site. Men were digging the soil, others were dumping wheelbarrows full of gravel and sand. But what really intrigued him was what came next: large blocks of a smooth, grayish stone were being laid over the foundation, forming a flat, regular surface.

  A stone road? But what kind of stone is this? He approached, observing the workers. The smell was of sweat, damp earth, and a gray, acrid dust that made his nose itch—lime, he recognized.

  It was then that a different aroma invaded his nostrils: hot grease, fresh bread, spices, and something both sour and sweet at the same time. A guttural growl came from his stomach, reminding him he had only eaten dry biscuits on the ship.

  Turning, he saw the establishment from which the smell came. A sign painted in bright colors announced: Restaurante do Preto: Taste Authentic Quilombola Cuisine!

  "What in the world..." he murmured, incredulous. "Quilombola food? Served in a restaurant? Who, in their right mind...?" His hand touched the steel pot he still carried. The object was cold and solid, a testament to the technical skill of those "barbarians." Well, he thought, skeptical but hungry, if they are capable of this, perhaps the food isn't poison.

  Hunger spoke louder. He pushed the wooden door, which tinkled a small bell.

  Inside, the atmosphere was simple but clean. Rustic wooden tables, long benches. The smell was even more intense and tempting. A young woman with fine features and hair tied in an impeccable bun—she had an air of fallen nobility—approached with a professional smile.

  "Good afternoon, sir! Welcome to our opening! Here we serve the most modern delicacies of the Republic. It's simple: take a plate, serve yourself at the counter, and then we bring it to weigh. The price is by weight."

  First, he approached a table and placed his new pot on it, then proceeded to the food counter and stopped, surprised. Before him stretched a row of ceramic platters with foods he had never seen. Pasta of various shapes—long strands, bows, shells—covered with sauces of different colors. A bright, thick red one caught his attention.

  Pasta? I thought wheat was extremely expensive here... His gastronomic curiosity overcame prudence. He filled his plate with the red pasta—"Spaghetti Bolognese," the label said—and took it to the weighing counter.

  The attendant, a girl with a freckled face and lively eyes, took the plate.

  "Good choice, sir. That's the chef's favorite."

  "This food... is it really from the quilombo?" he asked, unable to contain himself.

  The girl smiled, seeming excited to have an interested customer.

  "It is, sir! The Preto, our owner, lived there for a while and brought the recipes. But the story is good, want to hear it?" As the flow of customers had diminished, she leaned on the counter, ready to chat.

  Orsini, still suspicious but captivated by the aroma of his plate, nodded.

  "Well then," she began, lowering her voice in a conspiratorial tone. "The Preto was a slave of a rich merchant from here. A certain Seu Almeida. Even though Saint Paula doesn't like it, having slaves still isn't a crime in the Holy City, you know how it is... Anyway, this Seu Almeida found out about the wealth in trading with the quilombo and went there, taking the Preto along. But when the quilombolas saw a slave owner, things got ugly. They arrested Almeida and said that whoever buys from them cannot have slaves."

  She made a dramatic pause, her eyes shining.

  "Not only did they arrest him, but they forced Almeida to free the Preto on the spot! And they even made him pay compensation for all the years of work! The merchant came back here purple with rage, went straight to ask the Popess to convince the governor to attack the quilombo."

  "And she?" asked Orsini, genuinely intrigued.

  "She?" The girl laughed, a light sound. "She didn't even receive him! Sent word that commercial problems are resolved in the market. Almeida got so furious that he stopped all donations to the Church, took what he could and fled to White Sand. But his wife and daughter stayed." She leaned in closer. "And the Preto, now with money, went to live in the quilombo for a while, working in the kitchens. But what he really liked was here. He says it's for love of the Popess, but we know it's because of the girl, Almeida's daughter. As soon as he set foot in the city again, he opened this restaurant. He's saving money to convince the girl's mother to let him marry her."

  At first, Orsini was interested, but the hunger and the aroma of the plate before him spoke louder. When the girl finally finished, he paid quickly and sat at the nearest table.

  The first forkful was a revelation. The pasta was al dente, perfect. The sauce—that rich, red mixture—exploded on his palate with a rich, slightly acidic, meaty, and herbal flavor. It was deeply satisfying. A feeling of comfort he hadn't experienced since his childhood in Naples.

  This... is divine, he murmured to himself, closing his eyes for a moment. This sauce. Stealing this recipe would be worth a fortune in Italy. The idea, though absurd, brought a genuine smile to his face.

  As he ate, he began to filter the conversations around him. At the next table, two men with an artisan appearance talked between sips of dark beer.

  "...and my cousin, who is a cart driver, swore he saw it with his own eyes," whispered the thinner one, with an air of importance. "In the quilombo, there are machines as big as houses that release steam and scream like demons! They move carts full of stone without any horse!"

  "Bah, fisherman's tale!" replied the other, more skeptical, biting a piece of bread. "I heard something better. Weapons that launch iron balls the size of a head and split trees in half! But it's all lies, of course. There's no shortage of fear of black folks."

  "Shhh!" the first one looked around, nervous. "Speak softly, you fool! Don't you know the Popess is a friend of these... entrepreneurs?"

  Orsini wiped his mouth with the cloth napkin, his mind working rapidly. Steam machines. Advanced siege weapons. All coming from a quilombo that declared itself a republic.

  Most interesting, he thought, his eyes lost in the depths of his empty plate, where only a thread of red sauce stained the white earthenware. The hubbub of the restaurant, the smells of food, everything seemed to fade as his mind focused on what he had heard. Machines that released steam. Weapons that split trees. A quilombo that called itself a republic.

  He let the spoon fall onto the plate with a soft clink.

  Henrique would choke on the political heresy, he reflected, a sour smile touching his lips. Calling a bunch of runaway slaves the 'Republic of Brazil'... is an insult to the Portuguese Crown, to the Holy Church, to the very natural order of things.

  He lifted the glass of water, observing the light refract in the clean glass. His expression became calculating, his eyes narrowing.

  But to me... he whispered to himself, the sound almost muffled by the ambient noise, ...what interests me is practical power. What those machines can do. What those weapons can destroy. What that steel can build.

  A plan began to take shape in his mind, not as a flash, but like an equation being solved with a jeweler's patience. Piece by piece. Cold. Calculating. Lucrative.

  He leaned back in the wooden chair, which creaked slightly under his weight. The sudden noise brought him back to the present. He looked around. No one paid him any attention. He was just another foreigner eating.

  Perhaps I don't need threats, he considered, his fingers drumming on the table. Threats are for small minds, like Henrique's. I offer... business.

  Now, the line of reasoning flowed clearly:

  Paula is in a delicate position now. Once this 'republic' was announced, she won't be able to openly maintain the alliance and trade with these quilombolas. Not without seeming a traitor to the Church and the Crown. She will need an influential ally... an intermediary.

  His eyes shone with a cold light.

  And if I... offered myself to be that intermediary?

  The idea gained body, tempting. He imagined himself writing to the Pope, not with denunciations, but with a proposal.

  I can convince Alba to turn a blind eye—or better yet, to open them to profit—if this so-called republic agrees to sell the Church the methods for making the steel, and not just the finished pots. The secrets. The machine designs. And, of course... he made a mental pause, his heart beating a little faster with ambition, ...some prototypes of those weapons and steam contraptions. Of course, if they are as good as the rumors say.

  A final thought, practical and cynical, completed the reasoning:

  And if they aren't? Well, then the Church will have lost only a little time. But if they are... then the future will be in the hands of the church, and perhaps I will be the next Supreme Pontiff.

  His reasoning was interrupted by a new sign, hung near the counter: Exclusive Desserts: Caramelized Coconut Pudding & Creamy Cocada.

  A final, softer growl came from his stomach. A smile appeared on his lips.

  Well, he thought, getting up and taking his plate again. The investigation must be complete. And who knows... I might discover another useful secret between one spoonful of sweets and another.