"Yes. But they're not considered of much value except in siege. The Turks used them when they came against the Knights of St. John in Malta. Rockets are used mostly to cause fire and panic."
"He asks please give him details about this battle."
"It was forty years ago, in the greatest-" Blackthorne stopped, his mind racing. This had been the most vital siege in Europe. Sixty thousand Islamic Turks, the cream of the Ottoman Empire, had come against six hundred Christian knights supported by a few thousand Maltese auxiliaries, at bay in their vast castle complex at St. Elmo on the tiny island of Malta in the Mediterranean. The knights had successfully withstood the six-month siege and, incredibly, had forced the enemy to retreat in shame. This victory had saved the whole Mediterranean seaboard, and thus Christendom, from being ravaged at whim by the infidel hordes.
Blackthorne had suddenly realized that this battle gave him one of the keys to Osaka Castle: how to invest it, how to harry it, how to break through the gates, and how to conquer it.
"You were saying, senhor?"
"It was forty years ago, in the greatest inland sea we have in Europe, Mariko-san. The Mediterranean. It was just a siege, like any siege, not worth talking about," he lied. Such knowledge was priceless, certainly not to be given away lightly and absolutely not now. Mariko had explained many times that Osaka Castle stood inexorably between Toranaga and victory. Blackthorne was certain that the solution to Osaka might well be his passport out of the Empire, with all the riches he would need in this life.
He noticed that Mariko seemed troubled. "Senhora?"
"Nothing, senhor." She began to translate what he had said. But he knew that she knew he was hiding something. The smell of the stew distracted him.
"Fujiko-san!"
"Hai, Anjin-san?"
"Shokuji wa madaka? Kyaku wa . . . sazo kufuku de oro, neh?"
When's dinner? The guests may be hungry.
"Ah, gomen nasai, hi ga kurete kara ni itashimasu."
Blackthorne saw her point at the sun and realized that she had said "after sunset." He nodded and grunted, which passed in Japan for a polite "thank you, I understand."
Mariko turned again to Blackthorne. "My husband would like you to tell him about a battle you've been in."
"They're all in the War Manual, Mariko-san."
"He says he's read it with great interest, but it contains only brief details. Over the next days he wishes to learn everything about all your battles. One now, if it pleases you."
"They're all in the War Manual. Perhaps tomorrow, Mariko-san." He wanted time to examine his blinding new thought about Osaka Castle and that battle, and he was tired of talking, tired of being cross-questioned, but most of all he wanted to eat.
"Please, Anjin-san, would you tell it again, just once, for my husband?"
He heard the careful pleading under her voice so he relented. "Of course. Which do you think he'd like?"
"The one in the Netherlands. Near 'Zeeland'-is that how you pronounce it?"
"Yes," he said.
So he began to tell the story of this battle which was like almost every other battle in which men died, most of the time because of the mistakes and stupidity of the officers in command.
"My husband says it's not so here, Anjin-san. Here the commanding officers have to be very good or they die very quickly."
"Of course, my criticisms applied to European leaders only."
"Buntaro-sama says he will tell you about our wars and our leaders, particularly the Lord Taiko, over the days. A fair exchange for your information," she said noncommittally.
"Domo." Blackthorne bowed slightly, feeling Buntaro's eyes grind into him.
What do you really want from me, you son of a bitch?
Dinner was a disaster. For everyone.
Even before they had left the garden to go to the veranda to eat, the day had become ill-omened.
"Excuse me, Anjin-san, but what's that?" Mariko pointed. "Over there. My husband asks, what's that?"
"Where? Oh, there! That's a pheasant," Blackthorne said. "Lord Toranaga sent it to me, along with a hare. We're having that for dinner, English-style-at least I am, though there'd be enough for everyone."
"Thank you, but . . . we, my husband and I, we don't eat meat. But why is the pheasant hanging there? In this heat, shouldn't it be put away and prepared?"
"That's the way you prepare pheasant. You hang it to mature the meat."
"What? Just like that? Excuse me, Anjin-san," she said, flustered, "so sorry. But it'll go rotten quickly. It still has its feathers and it's not been . . . cleaned."
"Pheasant meat's dry, Mariko-san, so you hang it for a few days, perhaps a couple of weeks, depending on the weather. Then you pluck it, clean it, and cook it."
"You - you leave it in the air? To rot? Just like-"
"Nan ja?" Buntaro asked impatiently.
She spoke to him apologetically and he sucked in his breath, then got up and peered at it and prodded it. A few flies buzzed, then settled back again. Hesitantly Fujiko spoke to Buntaro and he flushed.
"Your consort said you ordered that no one was to touch it but you?" Mariko asked.
"Yes. Don't you hang game here? Not everyone's Buddhist."
"No, Anjin-san. I don't think so."
"Some people believe you should hang a pheasant by the tail feathers until it drops off, but that's an old wives' tale," Blackthorne said. "By the neck's the right way, then the juices stay where they belong. Some people let it hang until it drops off the neck but personally, I don't like meat that gamy. We used to-" He stopped for she had gone a slight shade of green.
"Nan desu ka, Mariko-san?" Fujiko asked quickly.
Mariko explained. They all laughed nervously and Mariko got up, weakly patting the sheen off her forehead. "I'm sorry, Anjin-san, would you excuse me a moment...."
Your food's just as strange, he wanted to say. What about yesterday, the raw squid-white, slimy, almost tasteless chewy meat with nothing but soya sauce to wash it down? Or the chopped octopus tentacles, again raw, with cold rice and seaweed? How about fresh jellyfish with yellow-brown, souped tofu-fermented bean curds-that looked like a bowl of dog puke? Oh yes, served beautifully in a fragile, attractive bowl, but still looking like puke! Yes, by God, enough to make any man sick!
Eventually they went to the veranda room and, after the usual interminable bowings and small talk and cha and sake, the food began to arrive. Small trays of clear fish soup and rice and raw fish, as always. And then his stew.
He lifted the lid of the pot. The steam rose and golden globules of fat danced on the shimmering surface. The rich, mouth-watering gravysoup was heavy with meat juices and tender chunks of flesh. Proudly he offered it but they all shook their heads and begged him to eat.
"Domo," he said.