Chapter 214: The Treasurer

Mr. Rando opened his combination lock—one of the few mechanical products imported from Europe by Lin’gao, with the Foreign Intelligence Bureau and the Political Security Bureau being the main users.

Inside Rando’s combination lock was a codebook written on thin paper and tablets of secret writing ink.

As he began to spread out the paper to write a bland, ordinary business letter, he suddenly remembered something:

“What? A Portuguese ship?”

“Yes, there is one Portuguese ship.”

“Tomorrow, try to find out who the owner is and what cargo it’s carrying.”

Weiss Rando didn’t maintain his flamboyant, playboy persona for long. One day, Sebastián de Andrade, the treasurer, was ordered to inspect the collection of business taxes in the Parián district. When he accepted the suggestion of the Parián district chief, Juan de Aguilar, to visit a tavern to observe the local conditions and discuss the expenditure of the overseas Chinese community’s public funds, he happened to run into His Excellency the Count of Fannanuova coming out of the tavern. He was dressed like a sailor in a clean white Dutch fine linen shirt, with his collar open. The Manila straw hat in his hand was exquisite, but far less ornate and eye-catching than a wide-brimmed hat decorated with bird feathers. Only his breeches were not tied to the hem of his shirt with ribbons and strings in the fashionable European style, but were tightly fastened at his waist with a water buffalo leather belt. The gold belt buckle was carved into a roaring lion. His tall leather boots were polished to a shine, and then there was the ever-present sword with its gem-encrusted hilt and scabbard. This half-baked attire made the treasurer realize that the Count was first and foremost a warrior, secondly a rich warrior, and finally, a fake nobleman.

And a warrior or a soldier, in the eyes of de Andrade—who had studied philosophy and Latin at the University of Complutense, dreaming of becoming a court scholar but was instead dispatched to a remote colony as a supervisor—was synonymous with a drunkard, an idiot, and a bandit. Perhaps the Count was not an idiot, but at this moment, he certainly reeked of alcohol and a bandit-like ferocity. A short, slightly stooped Chinese man followed the Count out of the tavern and disappeared around the corner in a flash. De Andrade paid little attention to him, because the contrast between the Count’s current appearance and his usual well-groomed demeanor was too stark, too eye-catching, and he was now greeting his party.

“Ah, well, it must be God’s arrangement,” Weiss said, waving his straw hat as he approached the group. The Spaniards were being carried in sedan chairs with awnings, borne by Chinese coolies. Two Chinese men led the way in front of the sedan chairs, bowing and scraping respectfully to de Andrade and Aguilar. Weiss recognized them as the Huang Jian and Huang Xiang brothers, both devout Catholic Chinese merchants and also the colonial government-appointed Chinese administrator and secretary of the Parián.

“I have just concluded a business deal with a respectable Chinese gentleman. He has promised to provide my men with three hundred Japanese muskets, and at only half the price of Mr. João de Cross (Note 1). You two esteemed gentlemen, please join me for a drink to celebrate my good fortune.”

The Count’s broad smile made de Andrade rather uncomfortable, as if he were using a smiling mask to conceal some kind of mockery. If the treasurer had known that this grinning expression was Weiss’s imitation of Jimmy Carter, he might have laughed at his efforts; but if he had known that the fake Count had just been meeting with an informant in this very tavern a minute ago, gathering intelligence to plot against the colonial authorities, he would have greatly admired his acting skills.

Although he considered himself a 17th-century James Bond, the former mercenary’s nearly month-long efforts on the intelligence front had only resulted in the recruitment of a few informants willing to provide him with information, including small merchants, sailors, and low-level employees who ran errands for the colonial institutions. These people were of low status, all of them either local Chinese residents or of mixed blood, and could only provide general information of limited value. Nevertheless, Weiss knew very well that if his actions were exposed to the colonial officials, there would be hell to pay. The Count pondered which of his subordinates or agents to assign to meet with the informants, while continuing to smile and observe the situation. The exchanged glances and hesitant expressions of the two Spaniards showed that they were both surprised by his appearance and his invitation.

As expected, the district chief made the excuse that he had to inspect the Parián’s prison. He thanked the Count for his kindness but left with a disgruntled look. The treasurer, on the other hand, sincerely stated that he had to return to the city immediately because Governor Salamanca was still waiting for his report at the official residence.

“Then please do me the honor of using my carriage. As for the sedan chair, it is a product of the millennia of stagnant life of the Eastern peoples. They like this cradle-like mode of transport, which is why they do not value heroes. Their able-bodied men are as timid and childish as infants, destined to be conquered. As you know, Caesar won the whole of Rome on wheels, while Atahualpa lost his empire in a sedan chair.” After this strange pronouncement, the Count turned his head and whistled. Two pairs of black horses with white patches on their foreheads, pulling a four-wheeled carriage, came trotting up and stopped in front of them. De Andrade was so astonished that he forgot the words of refusal he had intended to say. His feet seemed nailed to the ground, his eyes darting back and forth over the gold-trimmed red flag carriage, then greedily at the four sleek and elegant horses and their silver-shining harnesses. He was still in a daze when the Count signaled for Schlick to help him onto the velvet-covered footboard.

The slam of the carriage door brought the treasurer back to his senses. The Count’s black slave jumped onto the back of the carriage and stood in his place.

The coachman pulled the reins, and the carriage began to move slowly. De Andrade reached out to touch the shiny satin surface of the sofa seat—the best Nanjing satin! Then he gazed at the cloisonné-decorated interior panels and the gauze curtains, and like a curious child, he imitated the Count, turning the handle to roll the glass window up and down.

“Your Excellency, people only know you as a man who has become rich by luck,” de Andrade sighed, continuing, “but now I must change my opinion. If one is merely rich, no matter how much money one has, it is not enough to live like a Neapolitan prince in this forsaken corner of the earth. Perhaps it requires some kind of magic or power to do so.”

“Be careful, Mr. Treasurer. You are about to describe me as a sorcerer. I hope the Inquisition has not yet been established in Manila, otherwise I would be greatly wronged.”

“Please forgive me, Your Excellency the Count. I do not consider myself ignorant. Such fine horses were mentioned in the chronicles of Alexander’s expedition. The princes of India would trade gems and gold for them as their mounts. Don Esteban de Sanabria wanted to buy a pair of such famous horses to match his carriage and offered up to a thousand pistoles, but no one was willing to sell them to him. As for estimating the value of such a carriage—”

“Hold on, Your Excellency,” Weiss interrupted de Andrade, opening a hidden compartment in the panel and taking out a small, exquisite silver box lined with velvet, containing four carved, stemmed glass goblets and a wine bottle. “No matter how much I paid for my carriage and horses, please tell me, has that money diminished their beauty in any way?”

“No, it has not. I just wanted to point out—” de Andrade coughed after taking a sip of rum. “Heavens, this rum is strong.”

“Don Esteban de Sanabria. The name you mentioned tells me he must be a true nobleman. I imagine this gentleman is among the first rank of Manila’s gentry.”

“Your Excellency, your question will receive a Pyrrhonian (Note 2) answer: yes and no. Mr. Sanabria is a first-rate tycoon. Without that prerequisite, he would not be a gentleman, let alone a true nobleman.”

“Please elaborate.”

“You must have heard,” de Andrade said, the stiff atmosphere of politeness and caution gone after a few glasses of rum. He leaned his head back comfortably against the sofa, his interest in conversation growing. “The Philippines is praised as a pearl bestowed by God upon our monarch, but all that its light attracts are poor people with nothing but dreams of getting rich, people so destitute they cannot even find a place in New Spain. Mr. Sanabria was one such person in his youth, but he quickly made money in Manila. It’s said he won a large sum from a rich Chinese man by throwing dice, but it’s more likely he robbed him. He was a ‘volunteer’ during the Chinese uprising thirty years ago.” The treasurer’s face broke into a smile.

Rando understood the meaning of his smile. The so-called volunteers at that time were a band of thugs who received no military pay. All their expenses and supplies came from looting.

After that, Mr. Sanabria made several successful speculations. In particular, he married a rich widow who soon “died of illness,” and his wealth finally accumulated to the point where he could buy a “Don” to put before his name to prove his noble lineage. Soon he began to frequent the homes of Manila’s dignitaries, and his wealth grew.

Weiss continued to fill the treasurer’s glass. It proved to be true that whether it was a Chinese, a Japanese, or a Spaniard, if you could get a bottle of wine into them, things became much easier.

“I guess this gentleman you speak of didn’t spend much on that ‘Don,’ at most no more than the small sum he offered for the horses he fancied. You know, the dignitaries of the East despise us brutes who wield swords and guns. Their most prized possessions are fine horses and beautiful women, and the cost of filling their stables is much higher than filling their harems. For Mr. Sanabria to be willing to pay a mere thousand pistoles for two of the best Marwari horses is rather unbecoming of a first-rate tycoon.”

Note 1: One of the founders of the Macau cannon foundry.

Note 2: An ancient Greek skeptical philosopher.