The air in the Holy City of Santa Maria was heavy and quiet, smelling of dry dust and spilled beer. In one of the city's few bars, the faint light of an oil lantern cast trembling shadows on the wattle and daub walls. Two men occupied a secluded corner. One of them, Elias, wore a well-tailored coat, now dusty, and gesticulated with his hands as he spoke, his voice a mix of anger and dejection.

  "I can't believe I paid that outrageous fee to join the fleet to Portugal, only for my ship to have to dock before even leaving Brazil, because of a smallpox outbreak!" he exclaimed, his face contorted. "And to top off the disaster, in the short time I had to leave the fleet and return, I was attacked by pirates and had my entire cargo stolen! Lucky they didn't find the money I had hidden in the hold."

  His companion, Francisco, a short, portly man whose belly pressed against the edge of the table, took a slow sip from his ceramic mug. The amber liquid trickled down his sparse beard.

  "That's why I prefer life on dry land, my friend," he said with an unassuming smile. "But, I admit, I'm a little jealous. It must be something else, sailing the high seas, visiting distant ports..."

  "Ha!" Elias let out a bitter laugh, the sound echoing in the quiet corner of the bar. "I wish it were like that. My life is just back and forth: I come to Brazil loaded with brazilwood or sugar; precious metals and magic gems all stay in Portugal. Then, I go back there paying exorbitant fees to sail with the protected fleets, and even then I spend the whole trip terrified of a pirate attack, not to mention the diseases that spread like wildfire on deck. And when I finally reach Lisbon, I'm forced to pay more taxes and sell my goods for next to nothing!"

  Francisco shook his head sympathetically. He raised the mug and another sip of beer, more bitter than sweet, went down his throat.

  "Here on land we don't have the pirates, it's true, but highwaymen are around every corner. However, I agree, disease isn't as big a problem, especially with our Papess's new decrees. But Portugal's taxes... ah, those suffocate us all. If I weren't such a coward, I'd even risk smuggling."

  Elias widened his eyes and leaned forward, lowering his voice to a harsh whisper.

  "Francisco, for God's sake, keep your voice down! You say these things where any official can hear?"

  The portly man just smiled, a cunning glint in his eyes.

  "Relax, Elias. This is the Holy City. They don't give a damn about Portugal's problems. Their power doesn't reach these walls."

  "Even so..." Elias recoiled, looking nervously over his shoulder. "That smuggling life isn't worth it. All my friends who tried it... either were attacked by pirates or betrayed by their own clients. It's a dangerous game."

  Francisco kept smiling, pulling his chair closer, the seat creaking under his weight.

  "That's exactly why I don't get into those waters... unless the client is completely trustworthy. Very completely. For example... the Church."

  Elias's heart seemed to stop for a second. He leaned in even further, the tips of his fingers white on the rough wooden table.

  "Don't tell me you're smuggling for the Church?" he whispered, incredulous. "You know if you sell sugar, brazilwood, or ore, they trace the origin in the blink of an eye! The Church itself signed a treaty prohibiting the trade of those goods in the Holy Cities!"

  Francisco, unhurried, took another deliberate sip of his beer before answering. The remaining liquid sloshed inside the mug.

  "I know all that, my dear. But do you know what is allowed to be traded freely between the Holy Cities? Clothes and fabrics. As for minerals... well, it's permitted to buy them, it's just not very prudent for it to be known that you are reselling, understand?"

  Elias sighed, an expression of disappointment washing over his face.

  "Ah, Francisco, don't get my hopes up like that. You know the profit margin on fabrics is small, unless you have a mountain of clothes to sell. I thought you had a real business to offer me."

  Francisco's smile widened, his round cheeks lifting.

  "Calm down, Elias. Just hear me out. What if the clothes and fabrics were extremely cheap, of good quality, and, most importantly, available in large quantities? I know your ship is empty, anchored in the port at your expense... Besides, at the end of the month, a Church fleet will depart from here for the Holy City of S?o Vicente. Now that is a port! What we call a cathedral here is just a simple street church there."

  Elias was silent for a moment, his fingers tracing circles in the condensation on his own mug. The smell of sour beer filled his nostrils.

  "Tell me more about this business," he finally said, his voice a thread of hope.

  Francisco puffed out his chest, satisfied.

  "You see that person outside, with the simple tunic?" he pointed discreetly through the open window. "And that other one? And the one further ahead? They are all wearing the clothes that I and a few other merchants are selling. They're not made of fine silk or linen, but the quality is good and, I repeat, the price is unbeatable."

  Elias watched the passing figures, noting the uniform simplicity and quality of their garments, before turning his attentive gaze back to his friend.

  "It seems you've already sold a reasonable amount around here. But why do you want me to sell outside?"

  "Let's just say my supplier... can produce much more than we can sell in this region. The Holy City wasn't as affected by the wars, it's true, but people still aren't walking around with full pockets," Francisco explained, raising his hands in a gesture of resignation.

  "Your supplier can produce that much?" Elias frowned, intrigued. "Did they by any chance discover a gem that can clone clothes? By the way, I heard rumors that in the Captaincy of Gemas Gerais they're using a black gem that aids in mining..."

  Francisco looked at him curiously but shook his head, dismissing the subject.

  "The details of their method, I ignore. And frankly, it doesn't matter. What matters is that I can sell you a huge quantity of clothes and fabrics at a more than fair price."

  Elias felt a chill down his spine, a mixture of excitement and caution. Greed, however, was a louder whisper.

  "You really have contacts everywhere, don't you, my friend?" he said, admiringly. "But how can you guarantee that the Church will turn a blind eye to our scheme?"

  The portly man let out a low, guttural laugh, his belly shaking with each "ha ha ha."

  "That's the easiest part, Elias! Let's just say... I'm close to a very well-placed bigwig within the Church."

  Hearing this, a slow, genuine smile spread across Elias's face.

  "If that's the case... then I consider the deal closed!"

  "Excellent!" Francisco raised his mug. "Ah, and on the return trip, bring lots of iron. I'll buy it all from you."

  "Iron?" Elias arched an eyebrow. "Are you already making that much? I think you're better off than I am, my dear."

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  "And you can be as well off as me, or even better!" Francisco raised his mug even higher. "Let's drink to that!"

  The two raised their wooden cups, the sound of the impact echoing like a sealed agreement.

  "To a future of riches!" they said in unison, their voices blending into the stifling atmosphere of the bar.

  ***

  In the Cathedral, a small office inside the Papess's residence exuded the calming scent of beeswax and old parchment. Paula, seated behind a heavy jacaranda wood desk, reread for the third time the letter sent from the Jabuticaba Quilombo. The rough texture of the paper under her fingers was familiar.

  This time, he went into much more detail about sterilizing materials with alcohol and preventing disease contamination..., she thought, her eyes scanning each line. This information is invaluable, but I wanted that complete book in my hands! I'm willing to pay any price! Especially since, so far, everything he sent has proven true. Mortality at the Holy House of Mercy has dropped drastically with the new practices, and it's only been a month since we implemented them...

  She set the letter down, a twinge of frustration at the back of her neck.

  And, by the agreement, I only get one letter per month... What torture! At least he described the mechanism that allows seeing microscopic beings with the naked eye. Thank God our artisans are the best in the world. When the 'microscope' is ready, I'll draw the microbes I find and send the sketches to the Church headquarters, all in my name, of course. After all, I paid a very high price for this knowledge. If Portugal finds out I'm negotiating with quilombolas...

  Her thoughts were abruptly interrupted by firm knocks on the oak door.

  "Your Holiness?" a cardinal's voice echoed from the corridor. "Francisco, the merchant, delivered a letter addressed to you."

  A new letter from the quilombo? Already?

  Paula's heart leaped. She stood up so fast the chair scraped across the wooden floor. She opened the door and took the parchment from the cardinal's hands with an almost childlike eagerness. But upon unfolding the missive and recognizing Francisco's handwriting, her face fell. Disappointment was a bitter taste in her mouth.

  "Dear, Merciful, Wonderful Holy Papess Paula," it read with a flattery she could almost hear.

  "Recently, I made a deal with a colleague of mine, a ship owner, to sell the clothes produced in the quilombo to other Holy Cities. I would like Your Holiness to approve the sale and, if possible, allow him to accompany the Church fleet, to facilitate the sale of the products."

  Paula's hands tightened around the letter, her knuckles turning white. Fury, hot and sudden, rose to her face.

  How dare he! Use my name and my authority to get advantages for himself and a friend!

  She took a deep breath, forcing herself to continue reading.

  "This same friend will buy iron in other Holy Cities and bring it here. With this, the agreement with the quilombo will be maintained, which means more letters for you, more money in my pocket and my friend's."

  The audacity was so great it bordered on insult.

  "I imagine Your Holiness still has her reservations. Therefore, I give you time to think. Meanwhile, I will find an acquaintance of mine who, perhaps, has other 'divine books' to offer."

  "On the back of this sheet is my colleague's temporary address. When you accept the deal, send a letter to him."

  With a grunt of contained anger, Paula threw the letter onto the desk. The paper slid and stopped on the verge of falling.

  I don't believe it! He's extorting me, using my own desires against me! And the worst part... the worst part is that this deal is advantageous! She sat down again, her body tense. I maintain the flow of knowledge, the quilombo sustains itself, and I can even tax all this commerce. Damn him! I can almost see his smug smile as he wrote these lines. Just thinking about it makes me want to...!

  Holding back her fury with a superhuman effort, she grabbed a quill, dipped it in ink with a brusque gesture, and looked at the address noted on the back of the letter. Her handwriting, normally impeccable, came out firm and restrained as she wrote the reply. Not long after, she called the cardinal and ordered the letter to be delivered.

  When the door closed, she let out a deep sigh, the sound echoing in the solitude of the office.

  With this, I will be fulfilling my part of the agreement with those quilombolas. Now, let them fulfill theirs. Time is running out... Soon, the attack will happen. And I, unfortunately, will only be able to heal one side. If they suffer severe casualties, they will be on their own. May God help them.

  ***

  In the Jabuticaba Quilombo, a warm breeze carried the scent of the forest. Carlos was sitting at the table in his newly built brick house, listening to Aqua's report. The evening light streamed through the window, illuminating the papers scattered between them.

  "Adding up the total value of all the fabrics sold," said Aqua, her index finger running down a column of numbers, "it came to one hundred and fifty thousand réis! The quilombo has never seen so much money, and all of it in a single month!"

  Carlos couldn't contain a satisfied smile. The sweat and hard work were paying off.

  "And that's with just one 'cotton gin', six looms, six 'jennys' and a sewing machine," he commented, the enthusiasm evident in his voice. "Imagine when we fill the factory with machines and workers! And with more sewing machines, we can make finished clothes and sell them for a much higher price!"

  "Yes, that's true," Aqua nodded, but her face remained serious. "But don't get too excited. Out of this one hundred and fifty thousand, half—seventy-five thousand—stays in the quilombo's coffers. Twenty-five thousand were used to buy iron and other necessities for the mocambo. That left fifty thousand réis."

  Hearing the final number, Carlos's smile faded and he sighed heavily, the sound laden with worry.

  "I just hope Ganga uses the quilombo's share to buy iron for the other mocambos..." he murmured, looking at the lengthening shadows on the packed earth floor. "But even if all the money were ours, it would still be too little. Now I understand, Aqua. I understand why, in my past, they made women and children work fourteen hours a day, every day, for almost nothing..."

  Aqua stared at him, her gentle expression suddenly marked by shock and compassion.

  "But that... that's horrible, Carlos. I always thought your world was completely different from ours."

  "It's different now," he corrected, his voice grave. "But in the past, it was very similar. And just because it's different doesn't mean it's perfect, or that all places have the same wealth. But don't worry, I didn't come here to repeat the mistakes of history. That's why I give time off on weekends and make everyone work only eight hours a day... We just need to manage to pay a decent wage."

  Aqua looked down at the papers, her delicate fingers smoothing a crumpled edge.

  "According to your plan, we won't pay those who live solely from agriculture, at least for now. Adding the artisans and workers in the new 'industries', we have a total of four hundred and seventy-nine people to remunerate."

  Carlos watched her, grateful once again for her skill.

  It's a good thing Aqua can read and write because of her past. She handles these new numbers and terms with an ease that saves me hours of work.

  "We can start by paying one hundred réis for each worker, per month," he proposed.

  "One hundred réis?" Aqua frowned, concerned. "Carlos, outside of here, that's nothing. You can't live on so little."

  "I know," he admitted. "But here, no one pays rent. And I'm the one who controls the prices of food and other necessities in our little market. We can keep the cost of living low, for now. It's a start."

  Aqua sighed, clearly not convinced.

  "I understand your good intentions, believe me. But I think we should be cautious. Using all this money to pay salaries now won't give us an immediate return. We need to reinvest."

  "And that's exactly what we're going to do!" Carlos explained, becoming animated again. "The money will motivate people to work harder and will stimulate our own economy. Think: the restaurant could start charging for lunch. Of course, it would be a low price, but enough to make some profit. This would also prevent people from other mocambos, who don't work for us, from coming just for the free lunch."

  He gestured enthusiastically, his ideas flowing.

  "We could also open small shops. One selling ice cream, for example. We're in the middle of summer, it would sell like water! And we could charge a bit more. Also, we have a textile factory, but today no one here has money to buy new clothes. Malaika told me many women are interested in buying clothes for themselves. If they have a salary, even a small one, they could buy."

  Carlos picked up the sheet with the gross profit numbers.

  "We made one hundred and fifty thousand réis selling basically raw fabric. Now, with the sewing machine, we'll sell finished clothes, which have much more value. Add to that the fact that the workers will be more motivated with a salary in their pockets. We'll have more profit, and with more profit, we can give higher salaries to the most productive, creating a virtuous cycle."

  Aqua was silent, staring at Carlos. Her eyes seemed to analyze every word, every possibility. She opened her mouth to argue, but no argument came. The logic, although strange and new, made a certain sense.

  "As you wish, chief," she finally said, a cautious surrender in her voice.

  As Aqua began to put away the papers, organizing them carefully, the tranquility of the evening was abruptly shattered. The door of the brick house opened violently and a guard, his face marked by urgency and his chest heaving, burst into the room.

  "We're under attack!" he shouted, his voice echoing like an alarm bell in the quiet heart of the quilombo.