Chapter 1207 - Miss Mendoza

Doña Marina de Arellano waited for what felt like an eternity. Her limbs had grown stiff and aching before a young woman finally appeared.

Marina studied the newcomer carefully. Whether to call her a "lady" or a "miss" was difficult to determine. If this truly was a pirate den, she must surely be a woman of low birth—and yet her clothing and bearing suggested noble origins. Perhaps a lady of some standing, or even a noblewoman?

Behind her followed two young Asian women dressed in the pirates' simple cotton garments, belted at the waist. Each wore at her hip a tan, nearly triangular leather pouch—identical to those carried by many of the male pirates.

Marina based her assessment on clothing alone. Miss Mendoza's attire struck her as peculiar, even frivolous in design, yet exquisitely made. The fabric dazzled in a way Marina couldn't identify—neither cotton nor silk. Even the finest Italian, French, or Chinese silks she had seen possessed nothing like this unique texture and luster.

The woman was strikingly beautiful. By any aristocratic standard, such looks were rare: a luxuriant mane of thick, slightly curling brown hair; large almond-colored eyes. Though her dark pupils and faintly olive complexion suggested she was probably a criolla—perhaps in her mid-twenties.

Yet of all the criollos Marina knew—even those of the second and third generation whose bloodlines had not mixed further with indigenous blood since the original mingling—none could compare to the woman before her. She seemed to embody the finest features of both white and yellow races in perfect harmony.

She stood taller than Marina, taller than many men. Her posture was impeccable, her gait light yet dignified. Her entire being radiated health and vitality, every gesture brimming with confidence. The way she carried herself, the angle of her head—all proclaimed silently to the world: I am a person of consequence. Noble blood runs through my veins.

And yet, why was she here? A criolla noblewoman trapped in this pirate lair—Marina couldn't suppress a twinge of pity.

Miss Mendoza had served as translator when the prisoners were first captured and again upon their arrival at Lingao, so Marina was somewhat familiar with her. Her Spanish was fluent—her native tongue—and the Foreign Intelligence Bureau had assigned her a mission: shepherd Marina through purification, accompany her, and extract as much information as possible.

"I don't expect you'll glean much useful intelligence from her," they had told Mendoza. "Just try to determine her background and purpose in traveling to Manila."

"If the information I obtain isn't sufficient," Miss Mendoza had asked nervously, "will you interrogate her?"

"Every prisoner gets interrogated." Li Yan smiled reassuringly.

"What I mean is..." Miss Mendoza hesitated. "Will you... use torture on her?"

"Diana!" Zhou Weisen, who had accompanied her to the Intelligence Bureau, called out with alarm.

"It's fine." Li Yan's smile remained steady. "No, we won't. We don't approve of such primitive methods—there are many ways to make someone talk." He continued: "Of course, the better your work and the more cooperative she proves, the less need there will be for certain interrogation techniques. Rest assured—that's not a euphemism."

And so Mendoza had come here with mixed feelings to "serve the Senate."

The criolla noblewoman made a graceful gesture and spoke in Spanish: "Please come with me."

Marina rose hesitantly. After sitting for so long, she was indeed curious to see what the other woman had in mind.

The Widow Tolosa hastily stood as well, apparently intent on continuing her duties. Miss Mendoza made a polite gesture of refusal: "Please wait here."

"This is my duty," the Widow Tolosa said nervously.

"Here, you would do better to follow our arrangements." Miss Mendoza's linguistics background served her well—her Spanish was elegant and polite, yet carried unmistakable authority. "You are our prisoner."

The Widow Tolosa seemed suddenly jolted awake. She froze mid-step, standing there dumbstruck, watching helplessly as her charge was led away.

Miss Mendoza guided Marina down a corridor lined with doors on both sides. After several turns, she opened one of them. They emerged into a courtyard with walls whitewashed like those of Spain. At its center stood a simple-looking two-story building of red brick, its roof covered with some unknown material—round pipes blanketing the entire surface, gleaming bright as metal yet with a softer luster. Could it be glass?

From the unusual design and materials, Marina could immediately tell this building was newly constructed. The sheet-metal pipes jutting skyward still shone with unmarred brightness, not yet weathered by time or elements.

The criolla noblewoman opened the door herself—which surprised Marina greatly, since the two pirate maids standing beside her made no move to open it first. The sight prompted a mixture of pity and contempt for Mendoza.

"Please come in." Mendoza was unaware of Marina's complex feelings—her years of noble education in the convent had taught the aristocratic girl how to conceal her emotions perfectly. Her face remained calm as still water.

"May I ask your name?"

"I am Diana Mendoza."

No "Doña." No "De"—though the Mendoza surname carried considerable weight in the Americas. So she was a commoner. Marina thought this and couldn't help but let a hint of haughtiness show.

Stepping inside, they entered another corridor lined with doors. The floor was laid with fired clay tiles; moisture seemed to seep through the gaps. Brilliant sunlight streamed through glass windows.

Mendoza checked the metal tag on one door, unlocked it with a key, and ushered Marina inside.

Behind the door lay a strange room—very strange indeed. Marina had seen nothing like it in either the New World or Spain. The room was not large, but every surface—walls and floor alike—was covered with a material more crystalline and beautiful than the finest marble. Beautiful patterns and designs adorned it, reminiscent of the Moorish mansions she'd visited with her father in Spain. Yet compared to the Moors' mosaics and colored tiles, this material was even more captivating. Suddenly the realization struck her—porcelain!

The officials and notables of Spain and New Spain always collected Chinese porcelain to flaunt their wealth and refined taste.

Understanding dawned: she was standing in a room lined entirely with porcelain.

At the realization, Marina nearly fainted. Could this truly be some pirate island from the tales of Ali Baba?

"Please bathe here," Miss Mendoza said. "If you need to relieve yourself, the door on the left leads to the... toilet." Mendoza hesitated, not using the polite modern term "washroom."

Bathe? How ridiculous. She was a refined and noble lady who washed her face and hands daily, her feet each night, and changed her undergarments every fortnight—even when shipboard laundry proved inconvenient.

Bathing was a habit only Jews indulged in. And doctors and priests alike had long warned that frequent bathing made one susceptible to the Black Death.

"Please don't trouble yourself," Marina said graciously. "I washed my hands and face every day aboard ship."

Miss Mendoza shook her head with regret. She said nothing. But suddenly the door opened, and four Asian women entered. Each was short but sturdy and powerful, sleeves rolled up, carrying small wicker baskets and wooden buckets.

Marina sensed danger. She stepped back fearfully and said loudly: "Please don't do this!"

"I don't wish to either," Miss Mendoza replied politely.

Marina suddenly realized she had fallen into the hands of Arab slave traders! She had heard stories from people ransomed from North Africa about the harems of Arabs and Turks—how every Islamic grandee's harem supposedly contained great bathhouses where slave girls bathed daily, were perfumed and massaged, awaiting their master's favor...

She screamed and turned to flee. But the door behind her was locked tight—no amount of effort could force it open.

And even if I could open it, she thought desperately, what then? Two more pirate women surely stand guard outside.

She turned to face Mendoza—this Spanish-speaking woman of noble bearing had suddenly become her only hope. She reached out with both hands, pleading:

"For God's sake, save me!"

Mendoza stopped the eager female workers from proceeding with "purification." She took Marina's hands.

"Don't be afraid... we won't harm you. But you must follow my instructions. Otherwise..."

"Yes, yes, yes," Marina said in terror. At the thought of becoming a slave in an infidel harem, she could barely control herself and stammered incoherently: "Please tell your master—I am the daughter of Spanish nobility. My father has ample gold to pay ransom. Please don't sell me to the Arabs... give me time—I'll write a letter to Manila, to New Spain..."

"Please calm yourself," Mendoza said firmly. "You are now the Senate's prisoner. Your fate must be decided by the Senate. Until then, you must obey me completely. Do you understand?"

(End of Chapter)