Chapter 288: The Provocation

“Fortunately, he doesn’t have a single ducat in Naples, otherwise we would have a respectable Neapolitan prince here,” the sarcastic young man’s voice was low but just loud enough for those around to hear, causing a burst of laughter.

The secretary pretended not to hear the sneer. He continued to regale a group of ladies who admired his little Latin poems with his Italian adventures, currently recounting his audience with the Pope. Naturally, the Pope, like all the other dignitaries the secretary claimed to have met, was greatly impressed by his “literary talent” and bestowed upon him the honor of kissing his hand, which drew a series of envious sighs from the ladies.

“Respected Baroness,” the Count, who had been silent for a long time, suddenly spoke up. “I see a suit of armor on the wall. May I ask if it is a family heirloom?”

Everyone followed his gaze. On one wall of the living room hung the Baron’s former weapons: a long sword, a short halberd, a scimitar, and various firearms, arranged in a semicircle. In the center, a three-quarter suit of cavalry armor was supported by a wooden frame. It had been meticulously polished, and under the lamplight, it shone with a silver gleam.

“Ah, no. That was custom-made for my late husband in Milan, because he had to wear armor for the ceremony of joining the Order of the Lion. The rest of the time, he would only wear it to banquets.”

“Then I have a special request,” the Count said politely, his face expressionless. “Please bestow that suit of armor upon me.”

Lucrezia nodded in astonishment.

The Count pushed back his chair and stood up unhurriedly, his upper body held straight. A murmur of surprise rippled through the onlookers at the dining table, especially some of the female guests. When they saw the Count draw a strangely shaped pistol with a dark blue-black sheen from under his coat, they all let out a terrified scream.

The deafening gunshot drowned out all other noise. In a very short time, the Count fired four consecutive shots. Finally, with a flick of his wrist, the helmet flew off at the sound of the gun, clattering to the floor.

“If you please,” the gunshot echoed in the living room for a long time. As the white smoke gradually dissipated, Weiss said, “Would anyone be willing to check the hits?”

“Did you hear?” Baroness Ciaro said to the black slave who stood beside her, stunned. “Do as the Count says.”

The black slave quickly returned to the dining table, picked up the helmet, and showed the bullet hole to the Baroness: a .44 caliber bullet had pierced the iron visor and exited from the upper back of the helmet, going straight through. The guests, now recovered from their shock, stretched their necks to see. The black slave then pointed to his own heart, holding up four fingers. “There are four holes there,” he said slowly. Everyone heard him clearly. Some looked at the Count, while others stared at Esteban Sanavria. The man’s drunkenness had subsided, his face was pale, but he still sat bolt upright in his chair.

“I still have one bullet left in my gun,” the Count said, looking at the colony’s top merchant. “A man who entrusts his life to a large piece of iron and a small piece of lead is thoughtful in his considerations, cautious in his words, and decisive in his actions. The exact opposite of a man who makes a living by forging bonds and promissory notes, and by speculation and profiteering.”

Sanavria’s teeth chattered. There was no doubt he had no way out. So he tore off his glove and threw it at the Count’s face, but his strength was misdirected, and the glove flew over the dining table and landed in a soup tureen. The Count, however, was unfazed. He bent down and fished out the sopping glove.

“I accept the challenge,” the Count said. “Even as the insulted party, I allow you to choose the weapon—be it a pistol, a carbine, a dagger, a long sword, a saber, or even a cannon. I will accept without objection. Do you hear me clearly? Anything, even throwing stones, though it is foolish and ridiculous, is nothing to me. I will surely be victorious.”

“Coward, bragging liar,” Sanavria screamed, his expression wild, his eyes blazing, almost having lost his mind. “My grandfather passed down to me a Saracen scimitar. I have used it to cut off the heads of many heathens. Tomorrow, I will use it to cut off your head!”

“Then at eight o’clock tomorrow morning, in the small woods in front of the village of Santa Cruz. By then we will see what kind of stuff flows in each other’s veins,” the Count said, sitting back down in his chair as if nothing had happened. “Madam, may we have the after-dinner drinks now?”

“I have dueled with several noble lords in France…” the secretary suddenly found another topic to enhance his “masculinity,” but an inadvertent glance from the Count made him swallow the rest of his words.

After the banquet ended, the rain had stopped. The guests dispersed, naturally discussing the day’s “extra entertainment.” Needless to say, this matter would spread throughout Manila’s high society by tomorrow. Sanavria left, dejected. The Count kissed the hostess and the mayor’s wife, who had been wiping her tears since she saw he was going to duel, before leaving, but he did not take the armor that had served as his target. The hostess returned to her room upstairs. The candles were extinguished one by one, and the once brilliantly lit grand drawing room gradually dimmed.

After all the guests had left, a figure emerged from the dark corridor and entered the living room. A coarse black robe with a hood enveloped him, so that even with a candlestick in his hand, it was difficult for others to see his face. The servants busy cleaning the living room all went around him, as if he were a walking ghost.

The man in black walked to the armor that had been shot, brought the candlelight close to examine it carefully, and then searched the floor for a moment, but he did not find the scattered bullet heads as he had hoped. Perhaps they had been swept away by the servants. He took out a silver peso from his robe, about 38 millimeters in diameter, and placed it on the left breastplate. The silver coin completely covered the four bullet holes. The man in black stared at Weiss Lando’s shooting results. “Too accurate,” he muttered to himself. “Either that guy’s marksmanship is too good, or he has some good stuff on him.”

In the brightly lit grand drawing room, Lucrezia Ciaro had played the role of a dignified and generous noble lady very successfully. Once back in her bedroom, she fell into that gloomy and sensual state, and the largest room on the second floor was filled with a similar atmosphere. A chandelier half-lit the entire bedroom and the large bed with pink gauze curtains—the finest Chinese gauze, like “a cloud of smoke.” The bed was covered with a sheet made of fine Indian cotton, dense and soft. The armchairs in the room were all covered with velvet embroidered cushions, as soft as the bed. Incense was burning in a delicate little Japanese censer, neither the light Japanese incense nor the sandalwood favored by the Chinese, but the kind sold only in the markets of Constantinople, the most stimulating and aphrodisiacal incense used in the harems of the Turks.

Lucrezia lay in the large bathtub at one end of the room, her eyes closed as if asleep. Two mixed-blood maids carefully added hot water to the tinned red copper bathtub, sprinkling dried Gmelina and jasmine petals into the water.

Someone entered. Although the girl’s steps were light, her movement in pushing the door was more hurried than usual. The Baroness immediately noticed. “Flora?” she called softly, still with her eyes closed.

“Madam,” Flora said. “The Count has sent you this.”

The Baroness opened her eyes and saw Flora holding a carved lacquer wooden box. The patterned lacquer surface glowed with a dark red light in the dim candlelight. She was in no hurry to open the box. “Did the Count give it to you himself? Where is he now?”

“No, it was brought by one of his attendants,” Flora hesitated for a moment before finding a word to describe the person.

“He has attendants?” The Baroness seemed interested. “So he’s a real nobleman?”

“Madam, I don’t know how to describe that man. I couldn’t tell if he was Chinese or East Indian, but the Count must have promoted him from a butcher or a bandit. He’s used to killing, and the way he stares at people is like a knife poking at me. But he did come in the Count’s carriage, and he left in the Count’s carriage. You won’t find a second carriage like that here.”

Lucrezia gave a noncommittal smile, but as soon as the box was opened, she gasped. Inside was a small pistol, its exquisitely carved body gleaming with a soft silver light, its handle inlaid with sparkling mother-of-pearl. She had never seen a derringer before, and this four-barreled pistol was so delicate and exquisite, it was almost like a toy.

“This is not the weapon that made holes in your husband’s armor,” a gloomy male voice said in Portuguese.

With the voice, a secret door inlaid in the wall behind the tapestry silently opened.

“Come in, Paul,” Lucrezia called out languidly. Flora placed the gun case on a low table by the bathtub, led the other two maids out of the bedroom, and closed the door.

Even if Weiss were sitting opposite Hale at this moment, he would not have recognized the man who had once been on the same ship with him. The desperate survival on the Dongsha Atoll, the辗转 (zhǎnzhuǎn - tossing and turning, but here implying a difficult journey) from Malacca to Zhongzuosuo and then to Manila, the arduous march to conquer Baguio, the endless battles, and the heavy work of establishing an arsenal had caused him to lose at least 20 pounds. The fumes from the strong acid had blackened his teeth, and the acid had left burn scars on his hands. His face had become thin, dark, and chapped. But a closer look would reveal a fervent passion burning in his eyes like a flame, perfectly fitting the image of the fanatic that Paul Gosan had created for himself.