Chapter 158: Weiss Rand

“Manager Wen knows this person?” Huang Shunlong seemed unsurprised. “She is quite a famous figure here.”

“How could I not know her?” Wen Desi thought of the humiliation of being captured back then and wanted to do something to her, but revealing this thought would greatly damage his image. “This woman and we have quite a connection,” he said vaguely.

To say they had a connection could mean they had cooperated, or that they were enemies. It was a neutral expression.

“Hehe, Manager Wen need not hide it. This woman is independent and ruthless in her actions. I imagine you have some grievances with her.”

Wen Desi remained silent, which was taken as a tacit admission.

Huang Shunlong said that it was only known here that Li Siya was of mixed Portuguese and Chinese descent. No one knew who her parents were or where they were. But she lived in the Portuguese residential area of Macau, in a spacious and luxurious house. Although she was in the bloody business of a blade licker, she could appear openly at the gatherings of the local Portuguese leaders, which clearly indicated that her parents were of high birth.

“This woman is extremely difficult to deal with,” Huang Shunlong lowered his voice. “She considers Macau her lair and acts with some restraint here. But once she goes to sea, she is extremely ruthless. And she is very cunning. If you have a grudge with her, you must be extra careful in your daily affairs.”

Wen Desi responded vaguely and learned a lot of specific information about Li Siya: her two-masted fast sailing ship was named Lotus. It was not in port recently, probably out at sea again. He even found out her address. Wen Desi once had the idea of sending Bei Wei on a special operation, but Huang Shunlong then said he wasn’t sure if Li Siya actually lived in that house. Although Huang Shunlong had a Portuguese wife, her birth was not high, and it didn’t add much to his connections with the Portuguese upper class. The only advantage was that he could do business with the Portuguese without any barriers. He knew very little about the activities of the local Portuguese upper class.

Following Chinese custom, Huang Shunlong wanted to keep them for a meal, but Wen Desi had no intention of staying. Zhang Xin was even more anxious to find a place to sell his rhubarb liqueur. After agreeing on the future contact seals and secret signs, they took their leave.

After leaving, they walked around and returned to the meeting point, the cross in the square of the main street. They found that Bai Duolu had already returned. He had the characteristic smile of a religious believer and was holding a leather-bound Bible. Could he have been brainwashed by the Jesuits in just over an hour? Wen Desi thought, sizing him up. Just then, Bai Duolu came up to him cheerfully.

“Wen Zong, I have good news.”

“The head of the local Jesuit order wants to see you.”

The name “Jesuit” immediately conjured up an image in Wen Desi’s mind of a sinister figure in black robes, sitting in a dark marble room. Why does the head of the Jesuit order want to see me? To preach the gospel of the Lord to me? Wen Desi thought that the transmigrators’ religious policy had never been discussed. To be honest, he didn’t like any of the religions of this era. It would be best to create some kind of “holy religion” and make himself the archangel. But there were too many people in this transmigration, so that was probably not possible. This group of modern people were mediocre in other skills, but they were all experts in the art of political struggle.

“First find a place and tell me about your meeting with the priest,” Wen Desi said.

In the hall of a small but exquisite church in the Portuguese community in the city center, the scorching sun of southern China shone through the small panes of glass set in lead strips, casting shadowy patterns on the marble floor. A man in a monk’s robe sat beside a large desk, his head bowed as if in thought. The four corners of the desk were gilded, and it was piled high with books and documents. A finely crafted ebony crucifix was conspicuously placed on it.

Behind him was an exquisitely carved large fireplace. Judging by the decorations and the unique patterns of the marble, the stone and the craftsmen might have come from distant Italy. Of course, in southern China, where the temperature rarely drops below 20 degrees Celsius even on the coldest days, this thing was purely decorative, a symbol of the power of the head of the Jesuit mission in Macau. This mission head controlled all Catholic missionary affairs in China and East Asia, and his position in the church was such that he did not even need to obey the authority of the Bishop of Macau.

This solitary figure was Jerônimo Rodrigues, the head of the Jesuit mission in Macau.

At this moment, Rodrigues was alone. His body was weak—many years ago, he had contracted malaria while proselytizing in Pattani. Although he had survived after being treated with tobacco, the after-effects still flared up from time to time. But a powerful spiritual fire burned within this frail body. Perhaps knowing that his life was short, he felt an even greater urgency for his missionary work.

“These fools!” he muttered to himself. “Whether it’s the Franciscans or the Augustinians, they are all a bunch of fools. They think faith is the bedrock of everything, that martyrdom is glorious. Does the farce of 1596 in Japan have to be replayed in China?”

On his desk lay a letter from the Jesuits in Manila. The question of whether Chinese ancestor worship was idolatry had caused a great debate within the church, and this debate was threatening to spread to the higher echelons of the Curia. Sigh, sigh. Although the Jesuits had great power in the Curia, power and enemies were always proportional. Not to mention the kings and nobles who all sought to use the Jesuit order as their own tool, not God’s.

“Debate, debate, it’s best if this matter is never resolved.” Rodrigues knew very well that unless they followed the proposal of the Jesuit missionaries already in Beijing—who argued that Chinese ancestor worship was just a commemorative activity—the already slow progress of missionary work in China would become even more difficult. He had been in Macau for many years and knew what ancestor worship meant to the Chinese.

Of the missionaries sent out, besides Matteo Ricci who had achieved some success, nine out of ten had been expelled by the local Chinese officials. Some had simply disappeared. Rodrigues knew that most of them had probably gone down the path of martyrdom.

Missionary work in China was far from as smooth as in Japan. Although through Ricci’s efforts, they had won over a number of Chinese officials and intellectuals as believers, and had successfully entered the capital of China to participate in the court’s astronomical revision and ordnance manufacturing affairs, the number of converts had always been stagnant. He knew very well that the common people, officials, and intellectuals of China were always wary of these foreigners with their different appearances and customs.

He sighed, and as if hearing footsteps outside the door, he asked, “What is it?”

A door hidden behind a curtain opened quietly. A man in black clothes walked in lightly.

“Your Excellency, Lord Rand has arrived.”

“Yes, show him in.”

A moment later, an officer walked in.

This man was between thirty-five and forty years old, tall and sturdy, with alert, intelligent eyes and a short black beard. He was dressed in the fashionable Spanish style, with a tight-fitting waistcoat and a white lace ruff. The heavy sword on the broad leather belt across his chest occasionally tapped against his leather boots. This attire and his cold, gray eyes all indicated that he was a professional soldier who had licked blood from the blade.

He took off his hat and bowed to the mission head in the French style. Then he stood respectfully, but with a dignified demeanor, as a person of status should.

The mission head looked at the man before him. His gaze was deep, and it was impossible to tell what he was thinking.

This dangerous fellow, the mission head thought, can I really entrust this task to him? This adventurer, who had appeared out of nowhere, called himself Weiss Rand. Although he claimed to be from a noble family in the Parma region of Italy, his Italian was very poor, so much so that Rodrigues, as his compatriot, felt ashamed. People had noticed that he would occasionally slip into English. If it weren’t for his appearance and his firm faith, the mission head would have suspected him of being a heretical Englishman.

Such adventurers were everywhere on the seas of the Far East at that time. They had true or false origins and backgrounds, all seeking to get their share of the prosperity of the Age of Discovery. Well, the mission head thought, at least this kind of person has no roots. If anything happens, I won’t have to explain it to anyone. He looked at the officer carefully for a moment, then said after a brief silence:

“Are you Mr. Weiss Rand?”

“I am, Your Excellency,” Rand said.

“It has been more than three months since you arrived in Macau with Father Comenge’s ship. Are you accustomed to life in Macau?”

“Very much so,” Rand said frankly. “It’s just that my purse is very empty…”

The mission head smiled. “No one feels their purse is full.” He picked up a roll of documents.

“You participated in Aragones’s expedition—”

“Yes, Your Excellency.”

“Your report to Father Comenge was very detailed. It seems that Aragones’s enemies defeated him without you even needing to lift a finger.”

“Yes, Your Excellency. The firepower of those Chinese was very fierce, and their will to resist was also very strong.”

“They are Australians, aren’t they? They call themselves Australians.”

Rand shrugged. “They are Chinese, through and through, though not subjects of the Ming dynasty.”

“Is Aragones’s ship still being repaired?”

“He’s recruiting sailors in the taverns every day. I think he’ll have a hard time finding enough men, even if he’s willing to hire Chinese sailors.”

“They will send him men from Manila,” the mission head said in a low voice. Although Portugal and Spain were currently under the rule of one king, their relationship could not be described as harmonious. Macau had not yet raised the royal flag. The Governor of Manila and the nobles there were always plotting to bring Macau under their rule.

As an Italian, Rodrigues felt an instinctive dislike for the Spanish.

“You are a brave man,” the mission head said. “And your loyalty to the Church is for all to see—” He remembered something. “I hear you fought against the infidels in Montenegro?”

“Yes, as a volunteer,” Rand replied proudly. “I could have lived a peaceful life at home, but I still went to that mountainous place.”

“Very good,” Rodrigues continued. “The time has come for you to show your courage and skill!”

This cunning Italian immediately put on a look of “loyal service.” “I am at your service!”

“Not for me, but for our Church.”