The Andes Dream

The night passed quickly, with Francisco and his grandfather Johann ending up completely drunk. Catalina helped Francisco to their room with careful hands, while one of Johann's soldiers supported the old general back to his quarters.

At six in the morning, a loud knock shook the door.

"Francisco! Wake up! It's early—we're going to train. Be ready. I want you at the hotel entrance in twenty minutes."

Francisco opened his eyes groggily, stunned and confused. Catalina, lying beside him, woke up with the same dazed expression. Francisco sighed helplessly, kissed her forehead, and murmured, "Sleep a bit more. Don't worry, I'll bring you breakfast when I get back."

Catalina only nodded sleepily and drifted back to sleep. Francisco, meanwhile, struggled to stand. He washed his face as best he could and changed clothes. By the time he reached the entrance, he was at least ten minutes late.

Johann's frown was thunderous. "Boy, you sleep more than you should. Clearly, we need to toughen you up. Look at this." He pointed bluntly at Francisco's stomach. "Too much fat. Didn't your father ever train you?"

Johann's loud voice stabbed straight into Francisco's hangover. He winced and asked, "Grandpa… don't you have a hangover? How do you have this much energy after everything we drank yesterday?"

Johann grinned proudly. "I'm used to it. Sometimes you wake up with a hangover and still have to fight Austrians. Those bastards won't wait for you to feel better—they'll shoot the moment they see you. So you either don't drink, or you build a resistance strong enough to ignore the pain. You can guess which one I chose." He laughed heartily. "Come on. The men are already drilling. I convinced them to let you join—and you're already late."

Francisco was stunned. Having a general for a grandfather wasn't always a blessing. Johann didn't waste time; he grabbed him and marched him straight toward the drilling soldiers. The German army—unlike the Spanish one—was brutally strict about discipline. The marching had to be perfect.

Francisco barely had time to react before Johann pushed him into the formation. For the next hour, he experienced the infamous officers' baton—used not to strike hard, but to instill fear and force precision. Every mistake, every misstep, was corrected immediately and loudly.

Despite the pain, part of him couldn't help but admire the discipline… even as another part wanted to collapse where he stood.

Francisco grumbled, "This hurts so much… are you training soldiers or killing them?" he muttered toward his grandfather.

Johann shot him a stern look. "This is necessary. Soldiers must follow orders in war, or their indiscipline can get the rest of their comrades killed. And believe me—you got preferential treatment. When I trained, I remember a soldier who spent two weeks in bed after being knocked out by the instructors and the other recruits."

Francisco frowned. "You know I came here to study, right? Not to become a soldier."

Seeing his undisciplined grandson talking back, Johann's voice dropped into something deep and solemn. "German soldiers aren't like most soldiers in the world. If you don't earn their respect, they won't follow you with their whole heart. And if you don't understand the pain these men endure to reach this level… you might take their lives lightly. I won't allow that."

Francisco fell silent. He understood the logic—though his body screamed for him to reject it. In the end, he sighed and conceded. "Fine. But like I said, I came here to study. I'll join the drills, but my priority is the library."

Johann smiled, unusually gentle. "That's fine. Mornings are for training. After that, your day is yours."

Francisco nodded and limped back toward the carriage. By the time he reached the hotel, he was still hobbling. He dragged himself up to the room. Catalina was already awake, expecting the breakfast he'd promised—but when she saw him limping, her eyes widened in alarm. She rushed to him.

"What happened? Were you assaulted?" Her gaze dropped to the red marks across his arms and legs.

"It was the drills," Francisco muttered. "This was my punishment for not following discipline."

"I need herbs to make something for your pain," Catalina said, heading toward the door. But when she opened it, a stranger stood there—with Johann behind him.

"Ah, kid, I forgot to tell you," Johann said. "This is Ludwig. He's the apothecary of our battalion. He can make something for your pain."

Francisco blinked, surprised. Catalina looked Ludwig up and down. The apothecary, seeing Francisco for the first time, sighed.

"I came this time because your grandfather ordered it. But next time, you come to me yourself. I'm too busy to be babysitting."

Francisco was speechless; he was being scolded without having done anything. Catalina, however, snorted.

"You're just bullying him. It's not like he wanted to get hurt. How is helping him 'babysitting'? If you want someone to scold, scold the old man behind you for letting others hit him."

Ludwig snorted. "Believe me, I've tried, but this stubborn old dog always ignores me. So I go for the next best thing—scold the patients so they don't end up hurt. If you can convince him, I'll gladly stop," he shrugged.

Catalina was speechless. She couldn't exactly scold the grandfather of her husband. Without Carlos here, Johann was the closest thing to a family patriarch. She merely pouted and crossed her arms. Johann awkwardly scratched his back, trying—and failing—to look innocent.

Then Ludwig brought out a strange ointment and began applying it to Francisco. Catalina leaned in, sniffed it, and frowned. "What is this? I've never seen these herbs in my life."

Ludwig looked mildly surprised. "This is Chamomile. It's good for relaxing the muscles."

Catalina blinked. "We don't have these kinds of herbs in New Granada."

Ludwig narrowed his eyes. "So you know about herbs?"

Catalina nodded, but when she glanced at Johann she hesitated, clearly unsure if saying too much might affect the old man's opinion of her.

Francisco saw her hesitation and chuckled. "I told you, Germans don't care about that." Then he looked at Ludwig and Johann. "Her grandmother's father was a Pijao. You might not know that tribe, but they were warriors—one of the last to fall under the Spanish. Her grandmother learned all their medicine and passed that knowledge down. She's basically the equivalent of Ludwig back home in the Gómez estate. She treats everything. Catalina hasn't practiced as much, but she already knows quite a lot."

Johann nodded, a little surprised—and even excited—at the idea that his grandson's wife had warrior ancestry. He couldn't help but ask, "Do you remember anything about them? Or did your grandmother tell you anything about their training methods?"

Ludwig looked at him, speechless. "Are you seriously asking a young girl about warrior training methods? Even if she knew—"

Before he could finish, Catalina quietly said, "I actually know some of it. My grandmother knows far more, of course."

Ludwig, startled, asked, "Did you say your grandmother's father was a shaman? What exactly is that?"

Catalina answered, "They're a kind of religious doctor… something like a priest, I guess."

"if they are like priest Why would they know about the training of the tribe ?" he asked.

Catalina answered softly, "My grandmother said it was important for them to know how their warriors trained and everything related to war. The shaman wasn't just a doctor—he was also the spiritual representative of the tribe."

Ludwig nodded in understanding. "That's interesting. I didn't see it that way."

Johann leaned forward slightly. "Then… can you tell me something about it? If I can find something useful for my soldiers, I'd be grateful."

Seeing the excitement in Johann's face, Catalina felt relieved—this was the first time she had seen such an expression from an European when she mentioned her heritage. So she said, "What I know is that they usually trained their resistance. Most of the land there is selvas and mountains. They needed stamina to endure long and difficult marches."

Johann blinked with a puzzled look. "What is a selva? I've never heard that word."

Catalina was speechless—she never expected "selva" to not exist as a concept in Germany.

Francisco was also a little surprised, so he stepped in. "It's like a dense forest—well… not exactly. It's hard to explain. Let's say it's a place very difficult to walk through. Big trees, a lot of vegetation everywhere."

Johann nodded, half understanding. "So it's a very hard place to march through." He frowned. "Then we might be doing the wrong kind of training, considering what you're saying."

Francisco frowned as well, seeing the same problem. Then he looked at Catalina and asked, "How was their training exactly? Maybe we can make something similar for the German soldiers before they go to New Granada."

Catalina replied, "Well… my grandmother said they had to walk incredibly long distances while carrying supplies, through mountains and forests, without stopping. And sometimes they trained without eating anything in the morning."

Francisco nodded. "That's right. I remember when we were around fourteen, my father trained me like that. I ended up drenched in sweat, but it was good training."

Johann rubbed his chin. "Long walks with weight… that's possible. Even if we don't have this 'selva,' we still have forests. It might be possible to make them march through those. I will prepare a new training method with my aide. Just wait."

Ludwig felt a chill down his spine. "Try not to make it too hard. I don't want to deal with too many wounded."

Johann shut the door loudly—whether he didn't hear Ludwig or pretended not to was unclear. Seeing this, Ludwig frowned, already imagining the future pain (and workload) this new idea was going to bring.