Was the interpreter Toranaga’s consort?
What would it be like to have such a woman in bed? I’d be afraid of crushing her. No, she wouldn’t break. There are women in England almost as small. But not like her.
The boy was small and straight and round-eyed, his full black hair tied into a short queue, his pate unshaven. His curiosity seemed enormous.
Without thinking, Blackthorne winked. The boy jumped, then laughed and interrupted Mariko and pointed and spoke out, and they listened indulgently and no one hushed him. When he had finished, Toranaga spoke briefly to Blackthorne.
“Lord Toranaga asks why did you do that, senhor?”
“Oh, just to amuse the lad. He’s a child like any, and children in my country would usually laugh if you did that. My son must be about his age now. My son’s seven.”
“The Heir is seven,” Mariko said after a pause, then translated what he had said.
“Heir? Does that mean the boy’s Lord Toranaga’s only son?” Blackthorne asked.
“Lord Toranaga has instructed me to say that you will please confine yourself to answering questions only, for the moment.” Then she added, “I’m sure, if you are patient, Pilot-Captain B’ackthon, that you’ll be given an opportunity to ask anything you wish later.”
“Very well.”
“As your name is very hard to say, senhor, for we do not have the sounds to pronounce it—may I, for Lord Toranaga, use your Japanese name, Anjin-san?”
“Of course.” Blackthorne was going to ask hers but he remembered what she had said and reminded himself to be patient.
“Thank you. My Lord asks, do you have any other children?”
“A daughter. She was born just before I left my home in England. So she’s about two now.”
“You have one wife or many?”
“One. That’s our custom. Like the Portuguese and Spanish. We don’t have consorts—formal consorts.”
“Is this your first wife, senhor?”
“Yes.”
“Please, how old are you?”
“Thirty-six.”
“Where in England do you live?”
“On the outskirts of Chatham. That’s a small port near London.”
“London is your chief city?”
“Yes.”
“He asks, what languages do you speak?”
“English, Portuguese, Spanish, Dutch, and of course, Latin.”
“What is ‘Dutch’?”
“It’s a language spoken in Europe, in the Netherlands. It’s very similar to German.”
She frowned. “Dutch is a heathen language? German too?”
“Both are non-Catholic countries,” he said carefully.
“Excuse me, isn’t that the same as heathen?”
“No, senhorita. Christianity is split in two distinct and very separate religions. Catholicism and Protestantism. There are two versions of Christianity. The sect in Japan is Catholic. At the moment both sects are very hostile to each other.” He marked her astonishment and felt Toranaga’s growing impatience at being left out of the conversation. Be careful, he cautioned himself. She’s certainly Catholic. Lead up to things. And be simple. “Perhaps Lord Toranaga doesn’t wish to discuss religion, senhorita, as it was partially covered in our first meeting.”
“You are a Protestant Christian?”
“Yes.”
“And Catholic Christians are your enemies?”
“Most would consider me heretic and their enemy, yes.”
She hesitated, turned to Toranaga and spoke at length.
There were many guards around the perimeter of the garden. All well away, all Browns. Then Blackthorne noticed ten Grays sitting in a neat group in the shade, all eyes on the boy. What significance has that? he wondered.
Toranaga was cross-questioning Mariko, then spoke directly at Blackthorne.
“My Lord wishes to know about you and your family,” Mariko began. “About your country, its queen and previous rulers, habits, customs, and history. Similarly about all other countries, particularly Portugal and Spain. All about the world you live in. About your ships, weapons, foods, trade. About your wars and battles and how to navigate a ship, how you guided your ship and what happened on the voyage. He wants to understand—Excuse me, why do you laugh?”
“Only because, senhorita, that seems to be just about everything I know.”
“That is precisely what my Master wishes. ‘Precisely’ is the correct word?”
“Yes, senhorita. May I compliment you on your Portuguese, which is flawless.”
Her fan fluttered a little. “Thank you, senhor. Yes, my Master wants to learn the
“I’d be glad to tell him. It might take a little time.”
“My Master has the time, he says.”
Blackthorne looked at Toranaga. “
“If you will excuse me, senhor, my Master orders me to say your accent is a little wrong.” Mariko showed him how to say it and he repeated it and thanked her. “I am Senhora Mariko Buntaro, not senhorita.”
“Yes, senhora.” Blackthorne glanced at Toranaga. “Where would he like me to begin?”
She asked him. A fleeting smile sped across Toranaga’s strong face. “He says, at the beginning.”
Blackthorne knew that this was another trial. What, out of all the limitless possibilities, should he start with? Whom should he talk to? To Toranaga, the boy, or the woman? Obviously, if only men had been present, to Toranaga. But now? Why were the women and the boy present? That must have significance.
He decided to concentrate on the boy and the women. “In ancient times my country was ruled by a great king who had a magic sword called Excalibur and his queen was the most beautiful woman in the land. His chief counselor was a wizard, Merlin, and the king’s name was Arthur,” he began confidently, telling the legend that his father used to tell so well in the mists of his youth. “King Arthur’s capital was called Camelot and it was a happy time of no wars and good harvests and?.?.?.” Suddenly he realized the enormity of his mistake. The kernel of the story was about Guinevere and Lancelot, an adulterous queen and a faithless vassal, about Mordred, Arthur’s illegitimate son, who treacherously goes to war against his father, and about a father who kills this son in battle, only to be mortally wounded by him. Oh, Jesus God, how could I be so stupid? Isn’t Toranaga like a great king? Aren’t these his ladies? Isn’t that his son?
“Are you sick, senhor?”
“No—no, I’m sorry—it was just?.?.?.”
“You were saying, senhor, about this king and the good harvest?”
“Yes. It .?.?. like most countries, our past is clouded with myths and legends, most of which are unimportant,” he said lamely, trying to gain time.
She stared at him perplexed. Toranaga’s eyes became more piercing and the boy yawned.
“You were saying, senhor?”
“I—well—” Then he had a flash of inspiration. “Perhaps the best thing I could do is draw a map of the world, senhora, as we know it,” he said in a rush. “Would you like me to do that?”
She translated this and he saw a glimmer of interest from Toranaga, nothing from the boy or the women. How to involve them?
“My Master says yes. I will send for paper—”
“Thank you. But this will do for the moment. Later, if you’ll give me some writing materials I can draw an accurate one.”
Blackthorne got off his cushion and knelt. With his finger he began to draw a crude map in the sand, upside down so that they could see better. “The earth’s round, like an orange, but this map is like its skin, cut off in ovals,
