Chapter 200 - Weiss Lando
"Manager Wen knows this person?" Huang Shunlong seemed unsurprised. "She's quite famous around here."
"How could I not." The memory of his capture stirred something dark in Wen Desi—a humiliation that awakened violent urges he would never voice aloud, for such admissions would irreparably damage his image. "She and we have quite a history," he said vaguely, choosing his words with deliberate ambiguity. After all, "history" could mean collaboration just as easily as enmity.
"Hehe, Manager Wen need not hide it. This woman acts alone and is utterly ruthless. I imagine she's had some conflict with your people as well."
Wen Desi's silence was confirmation enough.
Huang Shunlong elaborated freely. All anyone in Macau knew was that Li Siya was of mixed Portuguese and Chinese blood—her actual parentage remained a mystery, as did the whereabouts of her family. She resided in the Portuguese quarter in a sprawling, lavishly appointed house, and though she made her living in a blood-soaked trade, she appeared openly at gatherings of Macau's Portuguese elite. This suggested her lineage was anything but common.
"This woman is extremely dangerous," Huang Shunlong lowered his voice. "She considers Macau her lair, so she exercises some restraint here. But once at sea, she is merciless—and full of cunning schemes. If you've crossed her, you'd best be very careful in your daily affairs."
Wen Desi responded noncommittally, though he extracted a good deal more information in the process. Li Siya's twin-masted clipper was called the Lotus. She wasn't currently in port—likely at sea again. He even learned her address, and briefly entertained the thought of having Bei Wei conduct a special operation. But Huang Shunlong went on to say he wasn't certain whether Li Siya actually lived in that house. Though the man had married a Portuguese wife, she was of low birth and added little to his standing among Macau's Portuguese elite. Her only advantage was that he could now do business with the Portuguese without hindrance. Of the activities of the colony's upper class, he knew very little.
Following Chinese custom, Huang Shunlong invited them to stay for dinner, but Wen Desi had no desire to linger—and Zhang Xin was especially eager to find where they sold the sweet rice wine. After agreeing on the seals and secret marks for future contact, they took their leave.
They made a circuit through the streets and returned to the rendezvous point: the stone cross in the square at the intersection of the main roads. Bai Duoluo had already returned. He wore the peculiar smile characteristic of religious devotees and held a leather-bound Bible in his hands. Wen Desi wondered if the Jesuits had managed to brainwash him in just over an hour. Before he could study him further, Bai Duoluo approached in high spirits.
"Director Wen, I have good news. The local Jesuit Superior would like to meet you."
The words "Society of Jesus" immediately conjured in Wen Desi's mind a sinister figure in black robes, seated in a dark marble chamber. What could the Jesuit Superior possibly want with him? Surely not to proclaim the Gospel of the Lord? Wen Desi reflected that the transmigrators had never formally discussed their policy on religion. He wasn't particularly fond of any of this era's faiths, and ideally they would establish some kind of "Holy Church" with himself as the Archangel—but with so many people making this crossing, that was unlikely to happen. This group of modern people might be mediocre at other things, but they were devastatingly sharp when it came to political maneuvering.
"First, let's find somewhere you can tell me about your meeting with the priest," Wen Desi said.
In a hall of a small but exquisite church at the heart of the Portuguese quarter, the scorching sunlight of South China filtered through lead-latticed windows, casting dappled shadows across the marble floor. A man in clerical robes sat beside a large desk with gilded corners, his head bowed as if in thought. The desk was piled with books and documents, and a finely carved ebony crucifix stood prominently upon it.
Behind him loomed an ornate fireplace. Judging by the patterns and the distinctive veining of the marble, both the stone and the craftsmen who worked it had likely come from distant Italy. Of course, in South China—where temperatures never dropped below twenty degrees Celsius even on the coldest days—the fireplace served a purely decorative purpose: a symbol of authority for the Superior of the Society of Jesus in Macau. This Superior oversaw all Catholic missionary activities in China and East Asia, and his power within the Church was such that he need not defer even to the Bishop of Macau.
This solitary figure was Gerolamo Geranzani, Superior of the Jesuits in Macau.
Geranzani sat alone, his body frail. Many years ago, while on a mission in Patani, he had contracted malaria. Though tobacco treatment had saved his life, the aftereffects still flared up from time to time. Yet within this weakened frame blazed a powerful spiritual fire. Perhaps knowing that his remaining time was short, he felt an ever-growing urgency about missionary work.
"These fools!" he muttered to himself. "Whether they're from the Franciscan or Augustinian orders, they're all fools. They believe faith alone is the bedrock of everything—that martyrdom is glory. Must the debacle of 1596 Japan be repeated here in China?"
On his desk lay a letter from the Jesuits in Manila regarding whether Chinese ancestor worship constituted idolatry—a question that had ignited considerable debate within the Church and now showed signs of spreading to the highest levels of the Curia. Ah well, he thought. Though the Society of Jesus wielded great influence at the Papal Court, power and enemies were always proportional. And then there were the kings and nobles who all sought to use the Jesuits as their own instruments rather than God's.
Let them debate, Geranzani decided. Best if this matter is never resolved. He knew very clearly that unless the Church adopted the position already advocated by the Jesuits in Beijing—that Chinese ancestor veneration was merely commemorative—the already sluggish missionary work in China would become even more difficult. He had been in Macau for years and understood exactly what ancestor worship meant to the Chinese.
Of the missionaries he had sent out, apart from Matteo Ricci who had achieved some success, eight or nine out of ten had been expelled by China's local officials. Others had simply vanished without a trace—Geranzani knew that most of them had likely found their way to martyrdom. Missionary work in China was far less successful than it had been in Japan. Though Ricci's efforts had won over a number of Chinese officials and intellectuals to the faith, and the Jesuits had successfully entered China's capital to participate in the court's astronomical calendar revision and weapons manufacturing, the number of converts remained stubbornly stagnant. China's common people, officials, and intellectuals alike maintained a deep wariness of these foreigners with their strange appearances and customs.
He sighed, hearing footsteps outside the door.
"What is it?"
A door hidden behind a curtain opened quietly. A man dressed in black entered with soft steps: "Your Eminence, Lord Lando has arrived."
"Mm. Show him in."
Before long, an officer walked through the door.
The man appeared to be between thirty-five and forty years of age—tall and solidly built, with keen, alert eyes and a short black beard. He was dressed in the fashionable Spanish style: a fitted vest with snowy lace ruffles at his throat and wrists. A heavy sword hung from the broad belt slung across his chest, occasionally clanking against his boots as he moved. This attire, combined with his cold gray eyes, marked him unmistakably as a professional soldier who lived by the blade.
He removed his hat and bowed to the Superior in the French manner, then stood respectfully, his bearing dignified—every inch a man of status.
The Superior studied the figure before him. His gaze was deep and inscrutable, revealing nothing of his thoughts. This dangerous fellow, Geranzani mused. Can I really entrust this task to him?
The adventurer, who had appeared from God knows where, called himself Weiss Lando. Though he claimed to be a scion of a noble family from the Parma region of Italy, his Italian was dreadfully poor—so poor that Geranzani, as a fellow countryman, found it embarrassing. People had noticed that he occasionally slipped into English. Were it not for his appearance and his steadfast faith, the Superior would have genuinely suspected him of being a heretical Englishman.
Such adventurers were everywhere in the Far Eastern waters at this time—men with backgrounds and histories both real and fabricated, all hoping to claim their share of the spoils from this age of great navigation. Well, so be it, the Superior thought. A man like this has no roots. Should anything go wrong, I won't need to explain myself to anyone.
He studied the officer carefully for a moment, then spoke: "You are Weiss Lando?"
"I am, Your Eminence," Lando replied.
"It has been over three months since you arrived in Macau aboard Father Komage's ship. Are you finding life here agreeable?"
"Entirely agreeable," Lando answered candidly. "Save that my purse is rather flat..."
The Superior smiled. "No one ever feels their purse is fat enough." He picked up a rolled document. "You participated in Aragonés's operation—"
"Yes, Your Eminence."
"The report you wrote for Father Komage was quite detailed. Evidently Aragonés's enemies defeated him without any need for your intervention."
"Yes, Your Eminence. Those Chinese had very heavy firepower. And a strong will to resist."
"Australians, I believe? They call themselves Australians."
Lando shrugged. "They are unmistakably Chinese, though not of the Ming Dynasty."
"Is Aragonés's ship still under repair?"
"He spends every day in the taverns recruiting sailors. I imagine he'll have difficulty finding enough men—even if he's willing to recruit Chinese sailors."
"They'll send him men from Manila," the Superior said quietly. Though Portugal and Spain were currently under the same crown, relations between them could hardly be called cordial. Macau had yet to raise the royal standard, and the Governor in Manila and the nobles there were constantly scheming to bring the colony under their rule. As an Italian, Geranzani felt an instinctive distaste for the Spanish.
"You are a brave man," the Superior said. "Your loyalty to the Church is plain for all to see—" A thought occurred to him. "I hear you've fought the infidels in Montenegro?"
"Yes, as a volunteer," Lando answered proudly. "I could have stayed home and lived in peace, but I went to that mountainous place instead."
"Very good," Geranzani continued. "The time has come for you to demonstrate your talents and distinguish yourself!"
The cunning Italian immediately assumed an expression of devoted service: "Yours to command!"
"Not mine—the Church's."
(End of Chapter)