Shōgun

CHAPTER TEN

Their journey from the bay to Osaka was uneventful. Rodrigues’ rutters were explicit and very accurate. During the first night Rodrigues regained consciousness. In the beginning he thought he was dead but the pain soon reminded him differently.

“They’ve set your leg and dressed it,” Blackthorne said. “And your shoulder’s strapped up. It was dislocated. They wouldn’t bleed you, much as I tried to make them.”

“When I get to Osaka the Jesuits can do that.” Rodrigues’ tormented eyes bored into him. “How did I get here, Ingeles? I remember going overboard but nothing else.”

Blackthorne told him.

“So now I owe you a life. God curse you.”

“From the quarterdeck it looked as though we could make the bay. From the bow, your angle of sight would be a few degrees different. The wave was bad luck.”

“That doesn’t worry me, Ingeles. You had the quarterdeck, you had the helm. We both knew it. No, I curse you to hell because I owe you a life now—Madonna, my leg!” Tears welled because of the pain and Blackthorne gave him a mug of grog and watched him during the night, the storm abating. The Japanese doctor came several times and forced Rodrigues to drink hot medicine and put hot towels on his forehead and opened the portholes. And every time the doctor went away Blackthorne closed the portholes, for everyone knew that disease was airborne, that the tighter closed the cabin the safer and more healthy, when a man was as bad as Rodrigues.

At length the doctor shouted at him and posted a samurai on the portholes so they remained open.

At dawn Blackthorne went on deck. Hiro-matsu and Yabu were both there. He bowed like a courtier. “Konnichi wa. Osaka?”

They bowed in return. “Osaka. Hai, Anjin-san,” Hiro-matsu said.

“Hai! Isogi, Hiro-matsu-sama. Captain-san! Weigh anchor!”

“Hai, Anjin-san!”

He smiled involuntarily at Yabu. Yabu smiled back, then limped away and Blackthorne thought, that’s one hell of a man, although he’s a devil and a murderer. Aren’t you a murderer, too? Yes—but not that way, he told himself.

Blackthorne conned the ship to Osaka with ease. The journey took that day and the night and just after dawn the next day they were near the Osaka roads. A Japanese pilot came aboard to take the ship to her wharf so, relieved of his responsibility, he gladly went below to sleep.

Later the captain shook him awake, bowed, and pantomimed that Blackthorne should be ready to go with Hiro-matsu as soon as they docked.

“Wakarimasu ka, Anjin-san?”

“Hai.”

The seaman went away. Blackthorne stretched his back, aching, then saw Rodrigues watching him.

“How do you feel?”

“Good, Ingeles. Considering my leg’s on fire, my head’s bursting, I want to piss, and my tongue tastes like a barrel of pig shit looks.”

Blackthorne gave him the chamber pot, then emptied it out the porthole. He refilled the tankard with grog.

“You make a foul nurse, Ingeles. It’s your black heart.” Rodrigues laughed and it was good to hear him laugh again. His eyes went to the rutter that was open on the desk, and to his sea chest. He saw that it had been unlocked. “Did I give you the key?”

“No. I searched you. I had to have the true rutter. I told you when you woke the first night.”

“That’s fair. I don’t remember, but that’s fair. Listen, Ingeles, ask any Jesuit where Vasco Rodrigues is in Osaka and they’ll guide you to me. Come to see me—then you can make a copy of my rutter, if you wish.”

“Thanks. I’ve already taken one. At least, I copied what I could, and I’ve read the rest very carefully.”

“Thy mother!” Rodrigues said in Spanish.

“And thine.”

Rodrigues turned to Portuguese again. “Speaking Spanish makes me want to retch, even though you can swear better in it than any language. There’s a package in my sea chest. Give it to me, please.”

“The one with the Jesuit seals?”

“Yes.”

He gave it to him. Rodrigues studied it, fingering the unbroken seals, then seemed to change his mind and put the package on the rough blanket under which he lay, leaning his head back again. “Ah, Ingeles, life is so strange.”

“Why?”

“If I live, it is because of God’s grace, helped by a heretic and a Japman. Send the sod-eater below so I can thank him, eh?”

“Now?”

“Later.”

“All right.”

“This fleet of yours, the one you claim’s attacking Manila, the one you told the Father about—what’s the truth, Ingeles?”

“A fleet of our warships’ll wreck your Empire in Asia, won’t it?”

“Is there a fleet?”

“Of course.”

“How many ships were in your fleet?”

“Five. The rest are out to sea, a week or so. I came ahead to probe Japan and got caught in the storm.”

“More lies, Ingeles. But I don’t mind—I’ve told my captors as many. There are no more ships or fleets.”

“Wait and see.”

“I will.” Rodrigues drank heavily.

Blackthorne stretched and went to the porthole, wanting to stop this conversation, and looked out at the shore and the city. “I thought London was the biggest city on earth, but compared to Osaka it’s a small town.”

“They’ve dozens of cities like this one,” Rodrigues said, also glad to stop the cat-and-mouse game that would never bear fruit without the rack. “Miyako, the capital, or Kyoto as it’s sometimes called, is the biggest city in the Empire, more than twice the size of Osaka, so they say. Next comes Yedo, Toranaga’s capital. I’ve never been there, nor any priest or Portuguese—Toranaga keeps his capital locked away—a forbidden city. Still,” Rodrigues added, lying back in his bunk and closing his eyes, his face stretched with pain, “still, that’s no different to everywhere. All Japan’s officially forbidden to us, except the ports of Nagasaki and Hirado. Our priests rightly don’t pay much attention to the orders and go where they please. But we seamen can’t or traders, unless it’s on a special pass from the Regents, or a great daimyo, like Toranaga. Any daimyo can seize one of our ships—like Toranaga’s got yours—outside of Nagasaki or Hirado. That’s their law.”

“Do you want to rest now?”

“No, Ingeles. Talking’s better. Talking helps to take the pain away. Madonna, my head hurts! I can’t think clearly. Let’s talk until you go ashore. Come back and see me—there’s lots I want to ask you. Give me some more grog. Thank you, thank you, Ingeles.”

“Why’re you forbidden to go where you please?”

“What? Oh, here in Japan? It was the Taikō—he started all the trouble. Ever since we first came here in 1542 to begin God’s work and to bring them civilization, we and our priests could move freely, but when the Taikō got all power he started the prohibitions. Many believe . . . could you shift my leg, take the blanket off my foot, it’s burning . . . yes—oh, Madonna, be careful—there, thank you, Ingeles. Yes, where was I? Oh yes . . . many believe the Taikō was Satan’s penis. Ten years ago he issued edicts against the Holy Fathers, Ingeles, and all who wanted to spread the word of God. And he banished everyone, except traders, ten, twelve-odd years ago. It was before I came to these waters—I’ve been here seven years, off and on. The Holy Fathers say it was because of the heathen priests—the Buddhists—the stinking, jealous idol worshipers, these heathens, they turned the Taikō against our Holy Fathers, filled him with lies, when they’d almost converted him. Yes, the Great Murderer himself almost had his soul saved. But he missed his chance for salvation. Yes. Anyway, he ordered all of our priests to leave Japan. . . . Did I tell you this was ten-odd years ago?”

Blackthorne nodded, glad to let him ramble and glad to listen, desperate to learn.

“The Taikō had all the Fathers collected at Nagasaki, ready to ship them out to Macao with written orders never to return on pain of death. Then, as suddenly, he left them all alone and did no more. I told you Japmen are upside-downers. Yes, he left them alone and soon it was as before, except that most of the Fathers stayed in Kyushu where we’re welcome. Did I tell you Japan’s made up of three big islands, Kyushu, Shikoku, and Honshu? And thousands of little ones. There’s another island far to the north—some say it’s the mainland—called Hokkaido, but only hairy natives live there.

“Japan’s an upside-down world, Ingeles. Father Alvito told me it became again as though nothing had ever happened. The Taikō was as friendly as before, though he never converted. He hardly shut down a church and only banished two or three of the Christian daimyos—but that was just to get their lands—and never enforced his Expulsion Edicts. Then, three years ago, he went mad again and martyred twenty-six Fathers. He crucified them at Nagasaki. For no reason. He was a maniac, Ingeles. But after murdering the twenty-six he did nothing more. He died soon after. It was the Hand of God, Ingeles. The curse of God was on him and is on his seed. I’m sure of it.”

“Do you have many converts here?”

But Rodrigues did not seem to hear, lost in his own half-consciousness. “They’re animals, the Japaners. Did I tell you about Father Alvito? He’s the interpreter—Tsukku-san they call him, Mr. Interpreter. He was the Taikō’s interpreter, Ingeles, now he’s the official interpreter for the Council of Regents and he speaks Japanese better’n most Japanese and knows more about them than any man alive. He told me there’s a mound of earth fifty feet high in Miyako—that’s the capital, Ingeles. The Taikō had the noses and ears of all the Koreans killed in the war collected and buried there—Korea’s part of the mainland, west of Kyushu. It’s the truth! By the Blessed Virgin, there was never a killer like him—and they’re all as bad.” Rodrigues’ eyes were closed and his forehead flushed.

“Do you have many converts?” Blackthorne carefully asked again, wanting desperately to know how many enemies were here.

To his shock, Rodrigues said, “Hundreds of thousands, and more every year. Since the Taikō’s death we have more than ever before, and those who were secretly Christian now go to the church openly. Most of the island of Kyushu’s Catholic now. Most of the Kyushu daimyos are converts. Nagasaki’s a Catholic city, Jesuits own it and run it and control all trade. All trade goes through Nagasaki. We have a cathedral, a dozen churches, and dozens more spread through Kyushu, but only a few yet here in the main island, Honshu, and . . .” Pain stopped him again. After a moment he continued, “There are three or four million people in Kyushu alone—they’ll all be Catholic soon. There’s another twenty-odd million Japmen in the islands and soon—”

“That’s not possible!” Blackthorne immediately cursed himself for interrupting the flow of information.

“Why should I lie? There was a census ten years ago. Father Alvito said the Taikō ordered it and he should know, he was there. Why should he lie?” Rodrigues’ eyes were feverish and now his mouth was running away with him. “That’s more than the population of all Portugal, all Spain, all France, the Spanish Netherlands, and England added together and you could almost throw in the whole Holy Roman Empire as well to equal it!”

Lord Jesus, Blackthorne thought, the whole of England hasn’t got more than three million people. And that includes Wales as well.

If there are that many Japanese, how can we deal with them? If there’s twenty million, that’d mean they could easily press an army of more men than we’ve got in our entire population if they wanted. And if they’re all as ferocious as the ones I’ve seen—and why shouldn’t they be—by God’s wounds, they’d be unbeatable. And if they’re already partially Catholic, and if the Jesuits are here in strength, their numbers will increase, and there’s no fanatic like a converted fanatic, so what chance have we and the Dutch got in Asia?

None at all.

“If you think that’s a lot,” Rodrigues was saying, “wait till you go to China. They’re all yellow men there, all with black hair and eyes. Oh, Ingeles, I tell you you’ve so much new to learn. I was in Canton last year, at the silk sales. Canton’s a walled city in south China, on the Pearl River, north of our City of the Name of God at Macao. There’s a million of the heathen dog-eaters within those walls alone. China’s got more people than all the rest of the world put together. Must have. Think of that!” A spasm of pain went through Rodrigues and his good hand held on to his stomach. “Was there any blood seeping out of me? Anywhere?”

“No. I made sure. It’s just your leg and shoulder. You’re not hurt inside, Rodrigues—at least, I don’t think so.”

“How bad is the leg?”

“It was washed by the sea and cleaned by the sea. The break was clean and the skin’s clean, at the moment.”

“Did you pour brandy over it and fire it?”

“No. They wouldn’t let me—they ordered me off. But the doctor seemed to know what he’s doing. Will your own people come aboard quickly?”

“Yes. Soon as we dock. That’s more than likely.”

“Good. You were saying? About China and Canton?”

“I was saying too much, perhaps. Time enough to talk about them.”

Blackthorne watched the Portuguese’s good hand toy with the sealed package and he wondered again what significance it had. “Your leg will be all right. You’ll know within the week.”

“Yes, Ingeles.”

“I don’t think it’ll rot—there’s no pus—you’re thinking clearly so your brain’s all right. You’ll be fine, Rodrigues.”

“I still owe you a life.” A shiver ran through the Portuguese. “When I was drowning, all I could think of was the crabs climbing in through my eyes. I could feel them churning inside me, Ingeles. That’s the third time I’ve been overboard and each time it’s worse.”

“I’ve been sunk at sea four times. Three times by Spaniards.”

The cabin door opened and the captain bowed and beckoned Blackthorne aloft.

“Hai!” Blackthorne got up. “You owe me nothing, Rodrigues,” he said kindly. “You gave me life and succor when I was desperate, and I thank you for that. We’re even.”

“Perhaps, but listen, Ingeles, here’s some truth for you, in part payment: Never forget Japmen’re six-faced and have three hearts. It’s a saying they have, that a man has a false heart in his mouth for all the world to see, another in his breast to show his very special friends and his family, and the real one, the true one, the secret one, which is never known to anyone except himself alone, hidden only God knows where. They’re treacherous beyond belief, vice-ridden beyond redemption.”

“Why does Toranaga want to see me?”

“I don’t know. By the Blessed Virgin! I don’t know. Come back to see me, if you can.”

“Yes. Good luck, Spaniard!”

“Thy sperm! Even so, go with God.”

Blackthorne smiled back, unguarded, and then he was on deck and his mind whirled from the impact of Osaka, its immensity, the teeming anthills of people, and the enormous castle that dominated the city. From within the castle’s vastness came the soaring beauty of the donjon—the central keep—seven or eight stories high, pointed gables with curved roofs at each level, the tiles all gilded and the walls blue.

That’s where Toranaga will be, he thought, an ice barb suddenly in his bowels.

A closed palanquin took him to a large house. There he was bathed and he ate, inevitably, fish soup, raw and steamed fish, a few pickled vegetables, and the hot herbed water. Instead of wheat gruel, this house provided him with a bowl of rice. He had seen rice once in Naples. It was white and wholesome, but to him tasteless. His stomach cried for meat and bread, new-baked crusty bread heavy with butter, and a haunch of beef and pies and chickens and beer and eggs.

The next day a maid came for him. The clothes that Rodrigues had given him were laundered. She watched while he dressed, and helped him into new tabi sock-shoes. Outside was a new pair of thongs. His boots were missing. She shook her head and pointed at the thongs and then at the curtained palanquin. A phalanx of samurai surrounded it. The leader motioned him to hurry up and get in.

They moved off immediately. The curtains were tight closed. After an age, the palanquin stopped.

“You will not be afraid,” he said aloud, and got out.

The gigantic stone gate of the castle was in front of him. It was set into a thirty-foot wall with interlocking battlements, bastions, and outworks. The door was huge and iron plated and open, the forged iron portcullis up. Beyond was a wooden bridge, twenty paces wide and two hundred long, that spanned the moat and ended at an enormous drawbridge, and another gate that was set into the second wall, equally vast.

Hundreds of samurai were everywhere. All wore the same somber gray uniform—belted kimonos, each with five small circular insignias, one on each arm, on each breast, and one in the center of the back. The insignia was blue, seemingly a flower or flowers.

“Anjin-san!”

Hiro-matsu was seated stiffly on an open palanquin carried by four liveried bearers. His kimono was brown and stark, his belt black, the same as the fifty samurai that surrounded him. Their kimonos, too, had five insignias, but these were scarlet, the same that had fluttered at the masthead, Toranaga’s cipher. These samurai carried long gleaming spears with tiny flags at their heads.

Blackthorne bowed without thinking, taken by Hiro-matsu’s majesty. The old man bowed back formally, his long sword loose in his lap, and signed for him to follow.

The officer at the gate came forward. There was a ceremonial reading of the paper that Hiro-matsu offered and many bows and looks toward Blackthorne and then they were passed on to the bridge, an escort of the Grays falling in beside them.

The surface of the deep moat was fifty feet below and stretched about three hundred paces on either side, then followed the walls as they turned north and Blackthorne thought, Lord God, I’d hate to have to try to mount an attack here. The defenders could let the outer-wall garrison perish and burn the bridge, then they’re safe inside. Jesus God, the outer wall must be nearly a mile square and look, it must be twenty, thirty feet thick—the inner one, too. And it’s made out of huge blocks of stone. Each one must be ten feet by ten feet! At least! And cut perfectly and set into place without mortar. They must weigh fifty tons at least. Better than any we could make. Siege guns? Certainly they could batter the outer walls, but the guns defending would give as good as they got. It’d be hard to get them up here, and there’s no higher point from which to lob fireballs into the castle. If the outer wall was taken, the defenders could still blast the attackers off the battlements. But even if siege guns could be mounted there and they were turned on the next wall and battered it, they wouldn’t hurt it. They could damage the far gate, but what would that accomplish? How could the moat be crossed? It’s too vast for the normal methods. The castle must be impregnable—with enough soldiers. How many soldiers are here? How many townspeople would have sanctuary inside?

It makes the Tower of London seem like a pigsty. And the whole of Hampton Court would fit into one corner!

At the next gate there was another ceremonial checking of papers and the road turned left immediately, down a vast avenue lined with heavily fortified houses behind easily defended greater walls and lesser walls, then doubled on itself into a labyrinth of steps and roads. Then there was another gate and more checking, another portcullis and another vast moat and new twistings and turnings until Blackthorne, who was an acute observer with an extraordinary memory and sense of direction, was lost in the deliberate maze. And all the time numberless Grays stared down at them from escarpments and ramparts and battlements and parapets and bastions. And there were more on foot, guarding, marching, training or tending horses in open stables. Soldiers everywhere, by the thousand. All well armed and meticulously clothed.

He cursed himself for not being clever enough to get more out of Rodrigues. Apart from the information about the Taikō and the converts, which was staggering enough, Rodrigues had been as closemouthed as a man should be—as you were, avoiding his questions.

Concentrate. Look for clues. What’s special about this castle? It’s the biggest. No, something’s different. What?

Are the Grays hostile to the Browns? I can’t tell, they’re all so serious.

Blackthorne watched them carefully and focused on details. To the left was a carefully tended, multicolored garden, with little bridges and a tiny stream. The walls were now spaced closer together, the roads narrower. They were nearing the donjon. There were no townspeople inside but hundreds of servants and—There are no cannon! That’s what’s different!

You haven’t seen any cannon. Not one.

Lord God in Heaven, no cannon—therefore no siege guns!

If you had modern weapons and the defenders none, could you blow the walls down, the doors down, rain fireballs on the castle, set it afire and take it?

You couldn’t get across the first moat.

With siege guns you could make it difficult for the defenders but they could hold out forever—if the garrison was determined, if there were enough of them, with enough food, water, and ammunition.

How to cross the moats? By boat? Rafts with towers?

His mind was trying to devise a plan when the palanquin stopped. Hiro-matsu got down. They were in a narrow cul-de-sac. A huge iron-fortified timber gate was let into the twenty-foot wall which melted into the outworks of the fortified strongpoint above, still distant from the donjon, which from here was mostly obscured. Unlike all other gateways this was guarded by Browns, the only ones Blackthorne had seen within the castle. It was clear that they were more than a little pleased to see Hiro-matsu.

The Grays turned and left. Blackthorne noted the hostile looks they had received from the Browns.

So they’re enemies!

The gate swung open and he followed the old man inside. Alone. The other samurai stayed outside.

The inner courtyard was guarded by more Browns and so was the garden beyond. They crossed the garden and entered the fort. Hiro-matsu kicked off his thongs and Blackthorne did likewise.

The corridor inside was richly carpeted with tatamis, the same rush mats, clean and kind to the feet, that were set into the floors of all but the poorest houses. Blackthorne had noticed before that they were all the same size, about six feet by three feet. Come to think of it, he told himself, I’ve never seen any mats shaped or cut to size. And there’s never been an odd-shaped room! Haven’t all the rooms been exactly square or rectangular? Of course! That means that all houses—or rooms—must be constructed to fit an exact number of mats. So they’re all standard! How very odd!

They climbed winding, defendable stairs, and went along additional corridors and more stairs. There were many guards, always Browns. Shafts of sunlight from the wall embrasures cast intricate patterns. Blackthorne could see that now they were high over the three encircling main walls. The city and the harbor were a patterned quilt below.

The corridor turned a sharp corner and ended fifty paces away.

Blackthorne tasted bile in his mouth. Don’t worry, he told himself, you’ve decided what to do. You’re committed.

Massed samurai, their young officer in front of them, protected the last door—each with right hand on the sword hilt, left on the scabbard, motionless and ready, staring toward the two men who approached.

Hiro-matsu was reassured by their readiness. He had personally selected these guards. He hated the castle and thought again how dangerous it had been for Toranaga to put himself into the enemy’s power. Directly he had landed yesterday he had rushed to Toranaga, to tell him what had happened and to find out if anything untoward had occurred in his absence. But all was still quiet though their spies whispered about dangerous enemy buildups to the north and east, and that their main allies, the Regents, Onoshi and Kiyama, the greatest of the Christian daimyos, were going to defect to Ishido. He had changed the guard and the passwords and had again begged Toranaga to leave, to no avail.

Ten paces from the officer he stopped.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Yoshi Naga, officer of the watch, was a mean-tempered, dangerous youth of seventeen. “Good morning, Sire. Welcome back.”

“Thank you. Lord Toranaga’s expecting me.”

“Yes.” Even if Hiro-matsu had not been expected, Naga would still have admitted him. Toda Hiro-matsu was one of only three persons in the world who were to be allowed into Toranaga’s presence by day or by night, without appointment.

“Search the barbarian,” Naga said. He was Toranaga’s fifth son by one of his consorts, and he worshiped his father.

Blackthorne submitted quietly, realizing what they were doing. The two samurai were very expert. Nothing would have escaped them.

Naga motioned to the rest of his men. They moved aside. He opened the thick door himself.

Hiro-matsu entered the immense audience room. Just beyond the doorway he knelt, put his swords on the floor in front of him, placed his hands flat on the floor beside them and bowed his head low, waiting in that abject position.

Naga, ever watchful, indicated to Blackthorne to do the same.

Blackthorne walked in. The room was forty paces square and ten high, the tatami mats the best quality, four fingers thick and impeccable. There were two doors in the far wall. Near the dais, in a niche, was a small earthenware vase with a single spray of cherry blossom and this filled the room with color and fragrance.

Both doors were guarded. Ten paces from the dais, circling it, were twenty more samurai, seated cross-legged and facing outward.

Toranaga sat on a single cushion on the dais. He was repairing a broken wing feather of a hooded falcon as delicately as any ivory carver.

Neither he nor anyone in the room had acknowledged Hiro-matsu or paid any attention to Blackthorne as he walked in and stopped beside the old man. But unlike Hiro-matsu, Blackthorne bowed as Rodrigues had shown him, then, taking a deep breath, he sat cross-legged and stared at Toranaga.

All eyes flashed to Blackthorne.

In the doorway Naga’s hand was on his sword. Hiro-matsu had already grasped his, though his head was still bent.

Blackthorne felt naked but he had committed himself and now he could only wait. Rodrigues had said, “With Japmen you’ve got to act like a king,” and though this wasn’t acting like a king, it was more than enough.

Toranaga looked up slowly.

A bead of sweat started at Blackthorne’s temple as everything Rodrigues had told him about samurai seemed to crystalize in this one man. He felt the sweat trickle down his cheek to his chin. He willed his blue eyes firm and unblinking, his face calm.

Toranaga’s gaze was equally steady.

Blackthorne felt the almost overwhelming power of the man reach out to him. He forced himself to count slowly to six, and then he inclined his head and bowed slightly again and formed a small, calm smile.

Toranaga watched him briefly, his face impassive, then looked down and concentrated on his work again. Tension subsided in the room.

The falcon was a peregrine and she was in her prime. The handler, a gnarled old samurai, knelt in front of Toranaga and held her as though she were spun glass. Toranaga cut the broken quill, dipped the tiny bamboo imping needle into the glue and inserted it into the haft of the feather, then delicately slipped the new cut feather over the other end. He adjusted the angle until it was perfect and bound it with a silken thread. The tiny bells on her feet jingled, and he gentled the fear out of her.

Yoshi Toranaga, Lord of the Kwanto—the Eight Provinces—head of the clan Yoshi, Chief General of the Armies of the East, President of the Council of Regents, was a short man with a big belly and large nose. His eyebrows were thick and dark and his mustache and beard gray-flecked and sparse. Eyes dominated his face. He was fifty-eight and strong for his age. His kimono was simple, an ordinary Brown uniform, his sash belt cotton. But his swords were the best in the world.

“There, my beauty,” he said with a lover’s tenderness. “Now you are whole again.” He caressed the bird with a feather as she sat hooded on the handler’s gauntleted fist. She shivered and preened herself contentedly. “We’ll fly her within the week.”

The handler bowed and left.

Toranaga turned his eyes on the two men at the door. “Welcome, Iron Fist, I’m pleased to see you,” he said. “So this is your famous barbarian?”

“Yes, Lord.” Hiro-matsu came closer, leaving his swords at the doorway as was custom, but Toranaga insisted he bring them with him.

“I would feel uncomfortable if you didn’t have them in your hands,” he said.

Hiro-matsu thanked him. Even so, he sat five paces away. By custom, no one armed could safely come closer to Toranaga. In the front rank of the guards was Usagi, Hiro-matsu’s favorite grandson-in-law, and he nodded to him briefly. The youth bowed deeply, honored and pleased to be noticed. Perhaps I should adopt him formally, Hiro-matsu told himself happily, warmed by the thought of his favorite granddaughter and his first great-grandson that they had presented him with last year.

“How is your back?” Toranaga asked solicitously.

“All right, thank you, Lord. But I must tell you I’m glad to be off that ship and on land again.”

“I hear you’ve a new toy here to idle away the hours with, neh?”

The old man guffawed. “I can only tell you. Lord, the hours weren’t idle. I haven’t been so hard in years.”

Toranaga laughed with him. “Then we should reward her. Your health is important to me. May I send her a token of my thanks?”

“Ah, Toranaga-sama, you’re so kind.” Hiro-matsu became serious. “You could reward all of us, Sire, by leaving this hornet’s nest at once, and going back to your castle at Yedo where your vassals can protect you. Here we’re naked. Any moment Ishido could—”

“I will. As soon as the Council of Regents meeting is concluded.” Toranaga turned and beckoned the lean-faced Portuguese who was sitting patiently in his shadow. “Will you interpret for me now, my friend?”

“Certainly, Sire.” The tonsured priest came forward, with practiced grace kneeled in Japanese style close to the dais, his body as spare as his face, his eyes dark and liquid, an air of serene concentration about him. He wore tabi socks and a flowing kimono that seemed, on him, to belong. A rosary and a carved golden cross hung at his belt. He greeted Hiro-matsu as an equal, then glanced pleasantly at Blackthorne.

“My name is Martin Alvito of the Society of Jesus, Captain-Pilot. Lord Toranaga has asked me to interpret for him.”

“First tell him that we’re enemies and that—”

“All in good time,” Father Alvito interrupted smoothly. Then he added, “We can speak Portuguese, Spanish, or, of course, Latin—whichever you prefer.”

Blackthorne had not seen the priest until the man came forward. The dais had hidden him, and the other samurai. But he had been expecting him, forewarned by Rodrigues, and loathed what he saw: the easy elegance, the aura of strength and natural power of the Jesuits. He had assumed the priest would be much older, considering his influential position and the way Rodrigues had talked about him. But they were practically of an age, he and the Jesuit. Perhaps the priest was a few years older.

“Portuguese,” he said, grimly hoping that this might give him a slight advantage. “You’re Portuguese?”

“I have that privilege.”

“You’re younger than I expected.”

“Senhor Rodrigues is very kind. He gives me more credit than I deserve. He described you perfectly. Also your bravery.”

Blackthorne saw him turn and talk fluently and affably to Toranaga for a while, and this further perturbed him. Hiro-matsu alone, of all the men in the room, listened and watched attentively. The rest stared stonily into space.

“Now, Captain-Pilot, we will begin. You will please listen to everything that Lord Toranaga says, without interruption,” Father Alvito began. “Then you will answer. From now on I will be translating what you say almost simultaneously, so please answer with great care.”

“What’s the point? I don’t trust you!”

Immediately Father Alvito was translating what he had said to Toranaga, who darkened perceptibly.

Be careful, thought Blackthorne, he’s playing you like a fish! Three golden guineas to a chewed farthing he can land you whenever he wants. Whether or not he translates accurately, you’ve got to create the correct impression on Toranaga. This may be the only chance you’ll ever have.

“You can trust me to translate exactly what you say as best I can.” The priest’s voice was gentle, in complete command. “This is the court of Lord Toranaga. I am the official interpreter to the Council of Regents, to General Lord Toranaga and to General Lord Ishido. Lord Toranaga has favored me with his confidence for many years. I suggest you answer truthfully because I can assure you he is a most discerning man. Also I should point out that I am not Father Sebastio, who is, perhaps, overzealous and does not, unfortunately, speak Japanese very well, or, unfortunately, have much experience in Japan. Your sudden presence took away God’s grace from him and, regrettably, he allowed his personal past to overwhelm him—his parents and brothers and sisters were massacred in the most horrible way in the Netherlands by your—by forces of the Prince of Orange. I ask your indulgence for him and your compassion.” He smiled benignly. “The Japanese word for ‘enemy’ is ‘teki.’ You may use it if you wish. If you point at me and use the word, Lord Toranaga will understand clearly what you mean. Yes, I am your enemy, Captain-Pilot John Blackthorne. Completely. But not your assassin. That you will do yourself.”

Blackthorne saw him explain to Toranaga what he had said and heard the word “teki” used several times and he wondered if it truly meant “enemy.” Of course it does, he told himself. This man’s not like the other one.

“Please, for a moment, forget that I exist,” Father Alvito said. “I’m merely an instrument for making your answers known to Lord Toranaga, exactly as I will put his questions to you.” Father Alvito settled himself, turned to Toranaga, bowed politely.

Toranaga spoke curtly. The priest began translating simultaneously, a few words or so later, his voice an uncanny mirror of inflection and inner meaning.

“Why are you an enemy of Tsukku-san, my friend and interpreter, who’s an enemy of no one?” Father Alvito added by way of explanation, “Tsukku-san’s my nickname as Japanese cannot pronounce my name either. They have no ‘l’ or ‘th’ sounds in their language. Tsukku’s a pun on the Japanese word ‘tsuyaku’—to interpret. Please answer the question.”

“We’re enemies because our countries are at war.”

“Oh? What is your country?”

“England.”

“Where’s that?”

“It’s an island kingdom, a thousand miles north of Portugal. Portugal’s part of a peninsula in Europe.”

“How long have you been at war with Portugal?”

“Ever since Portugal became a vassal state of Spain. That was in 1580, twenty years ago. Spain conquered Portugal. We’re really at war with Spain. We’ve been at war with Spain for almost thirty years.”

Blackthorne noticed Toranaga’s surprise and his searching glance at Father Alvito, who stared serenely into the distance.

“You say Portugal’s part of Spain?”

“Yes, Lord Toranaga. A vassal state. Spain conquered Portugal and now they’re in effect the same country with the same king. But the Portuguese are subservient to Spain in most parts of the world and their leaders treated as unimportant in the Spanish Empire.”

There was a long silence. Then Toranaga spoke directly to the Jesuit, who smiled and answered at length.

“What did he say?” Blackthorne asked sharply.

Father Alvito did not answer but translated as before, almost simultaneously, aping his inflection, continuing a virtuoso performance of interpreting.

Toranaga answered Blackthorne directly, his voice flinty and cruel. “What I said is no concern of yours. When I wish you to know something I will tell you.”

“I’m sorry, Lord Toranaga, I did not mean to be rude. May I tell you that we come in peace—”

“You may not tell me anything at the moment. You will hold your tongue until I require an answer. Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

Mistake number one. Watch yourself. You can’t make mistakes, he told himself.

“Why are you at war with Spain? And Portugal?”

“Partially because Spain is bent on conquering the world and we English, and our allies the Netherlands, refuse to be conquered. And partially because of our religions.”

“Ah! A religious war? What is your religion?”

“I’m a Christian. Our Church—”

“The Portuguese and Spanish are Christians! You said your religion was different. What is your religion?”

“It’s Christian. It’s difficult to explain simply and quickly, Lord Toranaga. They’re both—”

“There’s no need to be quick, Mr. Pilot, just accurate. I have plenty of time. I’m very patient. You’re a cultured man—obviously no peasant—so you can be simple or complicated as you wish, just so long as you’re clear. If you stray from the point I will bring you back. You were saying?”

“My religion is Christian. There are two main Christian religions, Protestant and Catholic. Most English are Protestant.”

“You worship the same God, the Madonna and Child?”

“No, Sire. Not the way the Catholics do.” What does he want to know? Blackthorne was asking himself. Is he a Catholic? Should you answer what you think he wants to know, or what you think is the truth? Is he anti-Christian? Didn’t he call the Jesuit “my friend”? Is Toranaga a Catholic sympathizer, or is he going to become a Catholic?

“Do you believe the Jesus is God?”

“I believe in God,” he said carefully.

“Do not evade a direct question! Do you believe the Jesus is God? Yes or no?”

Blackthorne knew that in any Catholic court in the world he would have been damned long since for heresy. And in most, if not all, Protestant courts. Even to hesitate before answering such a question was an admission of doubt. Doubt was heresy. “You can’t answer questions about God with a simple ‘yes’ or ‘no.’ There have to be shades of ‘yes’ or ‘no.’ You don’t know for certain about God until you’re dead. Yes, I believe Jesus was God, but no, I don’t know for certain until I’m dead.”

“Why did you smash the priest’s cross when you first arrived in Japan?”

Blackthorne had not been expecting this question. Does Toranaga know everything that’s happened since I arrived? “I—I wanted to show the daimyo Yabu that the Jesuit, Father Sebastio—the only interpreter there—that he was my enemy, that he wasn’t to be trusted, at least, in my opinion. Because I was sure he wouldn’t necessarily translate accurately, not as Father Alvito is doing now. He accused us of being pirates, for instance. We’re not pirates, we come in peace.”

“Ah yes! Pirates. I’ll come back to piracy in a moment. You say both your sects are Christian, both venerate Jesus the Christ? Isn’t the essence of his teaching ‘to love one another’?”

“Yes.”

“Then how can you be enemies?”

“Their faith—their version of Christianity is a false interpretation of the Scriptures.”

“Ah! At last we’re getting somewhere. So you’re at war through a difference of opinion about what is God or not God?”

“Yes.”

“That’s a very stupid reason to go to war.”

Blackthorne said, “I agree.” He looked at the priest. “I agree with all my heart.”

“How many ships are in your fleet?”

“Five.”

“And you were the senior pilot?”

“Yes.”

“Where are the others?”

“Out to sea,” Blackthorne said carefully, continuing his lie, presuming that Toranaga had been primed to ask certain questions by Alvito. “We were split up in a storm and scattered. Where exactly I don’t know, Sire.”

“Your ships were English?”

“No, Sire. Dutch. From Holland.”

“Why is an Englishman in charge of Dutch ships?”

“That’s not unusual, Sire. We’re allies—Portuguese pilots sometimes lead Spanish ships and fleets. I understand Portuguese pilots con some of your oceangoing ships by law.”

“There are no Dutch pilots?”

“Many, Sire. But for such a long voyage English are more experienced.”

“But why you? Why did they want you to lead their ships?”

“Probably because my mother was Dutch and I speak the language fluently and I’m experienced. I was glad of the opportunity.”

“Why?”

“This was my first opportunity to sail into these waters. No English ships were planning to come so far. This was a chance to circumnavigate.”

“You yourself, Pilot, you joined the fleet because of your religion and to war against your enemies Spain and Portugal?”

“I’m a pilot, Sire, first and foremost. No one English or Dutch has been in these seas before. We’re primarily a trading fleet, though we’ve letters of marque to attack the enemy in the New World. We came to Japan to trade.”

“What are letters of marque?”

“Legal licenses issued by the Crown—or government—giving authority to war on the enemy.”

“Ah, and your enemies are here. Do you plan to war on them here?”

“We did not know what to expect when we got here, Sire. We came here only to trade. Your country’s almost unknown—it’s legend. The Portuguese and Spanish are very closemouthed about this area.”

“Answer the question: Your enemies are here. Do you plan to war on them here?”

“If they war on me. Yes.”

Toranaga shifted irritably. “What you do at sea or in your own countries is your own affair. But here there is one law for all and foreigners are in our land by permission only. Any public mischief or quarrel is dealt with immediately by death. Our laws are clear and will be obeyed. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Sire. But we come in peace. We came here to trade. Could we discuss trade, Sire? I need to careen my ship and make repairs—we can pay for everything. Then there’s the ques—”

“When I wish to discuss trade or anything else I will tell you. Meanwhile please confine yourself to answering the questions. So you joined the expedition to trade, for profit, not because of duty or loyalty? For money?”

“Yes. It’s our custom, Sire. To be paid and to have a share of all plun—of all trade and all enemy goods captured.”

“So you’re a mercenary?”

“I was hired as senior pilot to lead the expedition. Yes.” Blackthorne could feel Toranaga’s hostility but he did not understand why. What did I say that was wrong? Didn’t the priest say I’d assassinate myself?

“It’s a normal custom with us, Toranaga-sama,” he said again.

Toranaga started conversing with Hiro-matsu and they exchanged views in obvious agreement. Blackthorne thought he could see disgust in their faces. Why? Obviously it has something to do with “mercenary,” he thought. What’s wrong with that? Isn’t everyone paid? How else do you make enough money to live on? Even if you’ve inherited land, you still—

“You said earlier you came here to trade peacefully,” Toranaga was saying. “Why then do you carry so many guns and so much powder, muskets and shot?”

“Our Spanish and Portuguese enemies are very powerful and strong, Lord Toranaga. We have to protect ourselves and—”

“You’re saying your arms are merely defensive?”

“No. We use them not only to protect ourselves but to attack our enemies. And we produce them in abundance for trade, the best quality arms in the world. Perhaps we could trade with you in these, or in the other goods we carried.”

“What is a pirate?”

“An outlaw. A man who rapes, kills, or plunders for personal profit.”

“Isn’t that the same as mercenary? Isn’t that what you are? A pirate and the leader of pirates?”

“No. The truth is my ships have letters of marque from the legal rulers of Holland authorizing us to carry the war into all seas and places dominated up to now by our enemies. And to find markets for our goods. To the Spanish—and most Portuguese—yes, we’re pirates, and religious heretics, but I repeat, the truth is we’re not.”

Father Alvito finished translating, then began to talk quietly but firmly, direct to Toranaga.

I wish to God I could talk as directly, Blackthorne thought, cursing. Toranaga glanced at Hiro-matsu and the old man put some questions to the Jesuit, who answered lengthily. Then Toranaga returned to Blackthorne and his voice became even more severe.

“Tsukku-san says that these ‘Dutchlands’—the Netherlands—were vassals of the Spanish king up to a few years ago. Is that true?”

“Yes.”

“Therefore the Netherlands—your allies—are in a state of rebellion against their lawful king?”

“They’re fighting against the Spaniard, yes. But—”

“Isn’t that rebellion? Yes or no?”

“Yes. But there are mitigating circumstances. Serious miti—”

“There are no ‘mitigating circumstances’ when it comes to rebellion against a sovereign lord.”

“Unless you win.”

Toranaga looked intently at him. Then laughed uproariously. He said something to Hiro-matsu through his laughter and Hiro-matsu nodded.

“Yes, Mister Foreigner with the impossible name, yes. You named the one mitigating factor.” Another chuckle, then the humor vanished as suddenly as it had begun. “Will you win?”

“Hai.”

Toranaga spoke again but the priest didn’t translate at once. He was smiling peculiarly, his eyes fixed on Blackthorne. He sighed and said, “You’re very sure?”

“Is that what he said or what you’re saying?”

“Lord Toranaga said that. My—he said that.”

“Yes. Tell him yes, I’m very sure. May I please explain why?”

Father Alvito talked to Toranaga, for much longer than it took to translate that simple question. Are you as calm as you make out? Blackthorne wanted to ask him. What’s the key that’ll unlock you? How do I destroy you?

Toranaga spoke and took a fan out of his sleeve.

Father Alvito began translating again with the same eerie unfriendliness, heavy with irony. “Yes, Pilot, you may tell me why you think you will win this war.”

Blackthorne tried to remain confident, aware that the priest was dominating him. “We presently rule the seas in Europe—most of the seas in Europe,” he said, correcting himself. Don’t get carried away. Tell the truth. Twist it a little, just as the Jesuit’s sure to be doing, but tell the truth. “We English smashed two huge Spanish and Portuguese war armadas—invasions—and they’re unlikely to be able to mount any others. Our small island’s a fortress and we’re safe now. Our navy dominates the sea. Our ships are faster, more modern, and better armed. The Spanish haven’t beaten the Dutch after more than fifty years of terror, Inquisition, and bloodshed. Our allies are safe and strong and something more—they’re bleeding the Spanish Empire to death. We’ll win because we own the seas and because the Spanish king, in his vain arrogance, won’t let an alien people free.”

“You own the seas? Our seas too? The ones around our coasts?”

“No, of course not, Toranaga-sama. I didn’t mean to sound arrogant. I meant, of course, European seas, though—”

“Good, I’m glad that’s clear. You were saying? Though . . . ?”

“Though on all the high seas, we will soon be sweeping the enemy away,” Blackthorne said clearly.

“You said ‘the enemy.’ Perhaps we’re your enemies too? What then? Will you try to sink our ships and lay waste our shores?”

“I cannot conceive of being enemy to you.”

“I can, very easily. What then?”

“If you came against my land I would attack you and try to beat you,” Blackthorne said.

“And if your ruler orders you to attack us here?”

“I would advise against it. Strongly. Our Queen would listen. She’s—”

“You’re ruled by a queen and not a king?”

“Yes, Lord Toranaga. Our Queen is wise. She wouldn’t—couldn’t make such an unwise order.”

“And if she did? Or if your legal ruler did?”

“Then I would commend my soul to God for I would surely die. One way or another.”

“Yes. You would. You and all your legions.” Toranaga paused for a moment. Then: “How long did it take you to come here?”

“Almost two years. Accurately one year, eleven months, and two days. An approximate sea distance of four thousand leagues, each of three miles.”

Father Alvito translated, then added a brief elaboration. Toranaga and Hiro-matsu questioned the priest, and he nodded and replied. Toranaga used his fan thoughtfully.

“I converted the time and distance, Captain-Pilot Blackthorne, into their measures,” the priest said politely.

“Thank you.”

Toranaga spoke directly again. “How did you get here? By what route?”

“By the Pass of Magellan. If I had my maps and rutters I could show you clearly, but they were stolen—they were removed from my ship with my letters of marque and all my papers. If you—”

Blackthorne stopped as Toranaga spoke brusquely with Hiro-matsu, who was equally perturbed.

“You claim all your papers were removed—stolen?”

“Yes.”

“That’s terrible, if true. We abhor theft in Nippon—Japan. The punishment for theft is death. The matter will be investigated instantly. It seems incredible that any Japanese would do such a thing, though there are foul bandits and pirates, here and there.”

“Perhaps they were misplaced,” Blackthorne said. “And put in safekeeping somewhere. But they are valuable, Lord Toranaga. Without my sea charts I would be like a blind man in a maze. Would you like me to explain my route?”

“Yes, but later. First tell me why you came all that distance.”

“We came to trade, peacefully,” Blackthorne repeated, holding on to his impatience. “To trade and go home again. To make you richer and us richer. And to try—”

“You richer and us richer? Which of those is most important?”

“Both partners must profit, of course, and trade must be fair. We’re seeking long-term trade; we’ll offer better terms than you get from the Portuguese and Spanish and give better service. Our merchants—” Blackthorne stopped at the sound of loud voices outside the room. Hiro-matsu and half the guards were instantly at the doorway and the others moved into a tight knot screening the dais. The samurai on the inner doors readied as well.

Toranaga had not moved. He spoke to Father Alvito.

“You are to come over here, Captain Blackthorne, away from the door,” Father Alvito said with carefully contained urgency. “If you value your life, don’t move suddenly or say anything.” He moved slowly to the left inner door and sat down near it.

Blackthorne bowed uneasily to Toranaga, who ignored him, and walked toward the priest cautiously, deeply conscious that from his point of view the interview was a disaster. “What’s going on?” he whispered as he sat.

The nearby guards stiffened menacingly and the priest said something quickly to reassure them. “You’ll be a dead man the next time you speak,” he said to Blackthorne, and thought, the sooner the better. With measured slowness, he took a handkerchief from his sleeve and wiped the sweat off his hands. It had taken all his training and fortitude to remain calm and genial during the heretic’s interview, which had been worse than even he and the Father-Visitor had expected.

“You’ll have to be present?” the Father-Visitor had asked last night.

“Toranaga has asked me specifically.”

“I think it’s very dangerous for you and for all of us. Perhaps you could plead sickness. If you’re there you’ll have to translate what the pirate says—and from what Father Sebastio writes he’s a devil on earth, as cunning as a Jew.”

“It’s much better I should be there, Eminence. At least I’ll be able to intercept Blackthorne’s less obvious lies.”

“Why has he come here? Why now, when everything was becoming perfect again? Do they really have other ships in the Pacific? Is it possible they’ve sent a fleet against Spanish Manila? Not that I care one whit for that pestilential city or any of the Spanish colonies in the Philippines, but an enemy fleet in the Pacific! That would have terrible implications for us here in Asia. And if he could get Toranaga’s ear, or Ishido’s, or any of the more powerful daimyos—well, it would be enormously difficult, to say the least.”

“Blackthorne’s a fact. Fortunately we’re in a position to deal with him.”

“As God is my judge, if I didn’t know better I’d almost believe the Spaniards—or more probably their misguided lackeys, the Franciscans and Benedictines—deliberately guided him here just to plague us.”

“Perhaps they did, Eminence. There’s nothing the monks won’t do to destroy us. But that’s only jealousy because we’re succeeding where they’re failing. Surely God will show them the error of their ways! Perhaps the Englishman will ‘remove’ himself before he does any harm. His rutters prove him to be what he is. A pirate and leader of pirates!”

“Read them to Toranaga, Martin. The parts where he describes the sacking of the defenseless settlements from Africa to Chile, and the lists of plunder and all the killings.”

“Perhaps we should wait, Eminence. We can always produce the rutters. Let’s hope he’ll damn himself without them.”

Father Alvito wiped the palms of his hands again. He could feel Blackthorne’s eyes on him. God have mercy on you, he thought. For what you’ve said today to Toranaga, your life’s not worth a counterfeit mite, and worse, your soul’s beyond redemption. You’re crucified, even without the evidence in your rutters. Should we send them back to Father Sebastio so he can return them to Mura? What would Toranaga do if the papers were never discovered? No, that’d be too dangerous for Mura.

The door at the far end shivered open.

“Lord Ishido wishes to see you, Sire,” Naga announced. “He’s—he’s here in the corridor and he wishes to see you. At once, he says.”

“All of you, go back to your places,” Toranaga said to his men. He was instantly obeyed. But all samurai sat facing the door, Hiro-matsu at their head, swords eased in their scabbards. “Naga-san, tell Lord Ishido he is always welcome. Ask him to come in.”

The tall man strode into the room. Ten of his samurai—Grays—followed, but they remained at the doorway and, at his signal, sat cross-legged.

Toranaga bowed with precise formality and the bow was returned with equal exactitude.

Father Alvito blessed his luck that he was present. The impending clash between the two rival leaders would completely affect the course of the Empire and the future of Mother Church in Japan, so any clue or direct information that might help the Jesuits to decide where to throw their influence would be of immeasurable importance. Ishido was Zen Buddhist and fanatically anti-Christian, Toranaga was Zen Buddhist and openly sympathetic. But most Christian daimyos supported Ishido, fearing—with justification, Father Alvito believed—the ascendence of Toranaga. The Christian daimyos felt that if Toranaga eliminated Ishido’s influence from the Council of Regents, Toranaga would usurp all power for himself. And once he had power, they believed he would implement the Taikō’s Expulsion Edicts and stamp out the True Faith. If, however, Toranaga was eliminated, the succession, a weak succession, would be assured and the Mother Church would prosper.

As the allegiance of the Christian daimyos wavered, so it was with all the other daimyos in the land, and the balance of power between the two leaders fluctuated constantly, so no one knew for certain which side was, in reality, the most powerful. Even he, Father Alvito, the most informed European in the Empire, could not say for certain which side even the Christian daimyos would actually support when the clash became open, or which faction would prevail.

He watched Toranaga walk off the dais, through the encircling safety of his men.

“Welcome, Lord Ishido. Please sit there.” Toranaga gestured at the single cushion on the dais. “I’d like you to be comfortable.”

“Thank you, no, Lord Toranaga.” Ishido Kazunari was lean and swarthy and very tough, a year younger than Toranaga. They were ancient enemies. Eighty thousand samurai in and around Osaka Castle did his bidding, for he was Commander of the Garrison—and therefore Commander of the Heir’s Bodyguard—Chief General of the Armies of the West, Conqueror of Korea, member of the Council of Regents, and formally Inspector General of all the late Taikō’s armies, which were legally all the armies of all daimyos throughout the realm.

“Thank you, no,” he repeated. “I’d be embarrassed to be comfortable while you were not, neh? One day I will take your cushion, but not today.”

A current of anger went through the Browns at Ishido’s implied threat, but Toranaga replied amiably, “You came at a most opportune moment. I was just finishing interviewing the new barbarian. Tsukku-san, please tell him to stand up.”

The priest did as he was bidden. He felt Ishido’s hostility from across the room. Apart from being anti-Christian, Ishido had always been vigorous in his condemnation of all Europeans and wanted the Empire totally closed to them.

Ishido looked at Blackthorne with pronounced distaste. “I heard he was ugly but I didn’t realize how ugly. Rumor has it that he’s a pirate. Is he?”

“Can you doubt it? And he’s also a liar.”

“Then before you crucify him, please let me have him for half a day. The Heir might be amused to see him with his head on first.” Ishido laughed roughly. “Or perhaps he should be taught to dance like a bear, then you could exhibit him throughout the Empire: ‘The Freak from the East.’ ”

Though it was true that Blackthorne had, uniquely, come out of the eastern seas—unlike the Portuguese, who always came from the south and hence were called Southern Barbarians—Ishido was blatantly implying that Toranaga, who dominated the eastern provinces, was the true freak.

But Toranaga merely smiled as though he did not understand. “You’re a man of vast humor, Lord Ishido,” he said. “But I agree the sooner the barbarian’s removed the better. He’s long-winded, arrogant, loud-mouthed, an oddity, yes, but one of little value, and with no manners whatsoever. Naga-san, send some men and put him with the common criminals. Tsukku-san, tell him to follow them.”

“Captain-Pilot, you are to follow those men.”

“Where am I going?”

Father Alvito hesitated. He was glad that he had won, but his opponent was brave and had an immortal soul which could yet be saved. “You are to be detained,” he said.

“For how long?”

“I don’t know, my son. Until Lord Toranaga decides.”

CHAPTER TWELVE

As Toranaga watched the barbarian leave the room, he took his mind regretfully off the startling interview and came to grips with the more immediate problem of Ishido.

Toranaga had decided not to dismiss the priest, knowing it would further infuriate Ishido, even though he was equally certain the continued presence of the priest might be dangerous. The less foreigners know, the better. The less anyone knows the better, he thought. Will Tsukku-san’s influence on the Christian daimyos be for me or against me? Until today I would have trusted him implicitly. But there were some strange moments with the barbarian that I don’t yet understand.

Ishido deliberately did not follow the usual courtesies but came instantly to the point. “Again I must ask, what is your answer to the Council of Regents?”

“Again I repeat: As President of the Council of Regents I do not believe any answer is necessary. I’ve made a few minor family relationships that are unimportant. No answer is required.”

“You betrothe your son, Naga-san, to the daughter of Lord Masamune—marry one of your granddaughters to Lord Zataki’s son and heir—another granddaughter to Lord Kiyama’s son. All the marriages are to feudal lords or their close relations and therefore not minor and absolutely contrary to our Master’s orders.”

“Our late Master, the Taikō, has been dead a year. Unfortunately. Yes. I regret my brother-in-law’s death and would have preferred him alive and still guiding the destiny of the Empire.” Toranaga added pleasantly, turning a knife in a constant wound, “If my brother-in-law were alive there’s no doubt he would approve these family connections. His instructions applied to marriages that threatened the succession of his house. I don’t threaten his house or my nephew Yaemon, the Heir. I’m content as Lord of the Kwanto. I seek no more territory. I’m at peace with my neighbors and wish his peace to continue. By the Lord Buddha, I’ll not be the first to break the peace.”

For six centuries the realm had been seared by constant civil war. Thirty-five years ago, a minor daimyo called Goroda had taken possession of Kyoto, abetted mainly by Toranaga. Over the next two decades this warrior had miraculously subdued half of Japan, made a mountain of skulls and declared himself Dictator—still not yet powerful enough to petition the reigning Emperor to grant him the title Shōgun though he was vaguely descended from a branch of the Fujimotos. Then, sixteen years ago, Goroda was assassinated by one of his generals and his power fell into the hands of his chief vassal and most brilliant general, the peasant Nakamura.

In four short years, General Nakamura, helped by Toranaga, Ishido, and others, obliterated Goroda’s descendants and brought the whole of Japan under his absolute, sole control, the first time in history that one man had subjugated all the realm. In triumph, he went to Kyoto to bow before Go-Nijo, the Son of Heaven. There, because he was born peasant, Nakamura had had to accept the lesser title of Kwampaku, Chief Adviser, which later he renounced in favor of his son, taking for himself the title Taikō. But every daimyo bowed before him, even Toranaga. Incredibly, there had been complete peace for twelve years. Last year the Taikō had died.

“By the Lord Buddha,” Toranaga said again. “I’ll not be the first to break the peace.”

“But you will go to war?”

“A wise man prepares for treachery, neh? There are evil men in every province. Some are in high places. We both know the limitless extent of treachery in the hearts of men.” Toranaga stiffened. “Where the Taikō left a legacy of unity, now we are split into my East and your West. The Council of Regents is divided. The daimyos are at odds. A Council cannot rule a maggot-infested hamlet, let alone an Empire. The sooner the Taikō’s son is of age, the better. The sooner there’s another Kwampaku the better.”

“Or perhaps Shōgun?” Ishido said insinuatingly.

“Kwampaku or Shōgun or Taikō, the power is the same,” Toranaga said. “Of what real value is a title? The power is the only important thing. Goroda never became Shōgun. Nakamura was more than content as Kwampaku and later Taikō. He ruled and that is the important thing. What does it matter that my brother-in-law was once a peasant? What does it matter that my family is ancient? What does it matter that you’re low born? You’re a general, a liege lord, even one of the Council of Regents.”

It matters very much, Ishido thought. You know it. I know it. Every daimyo knows it. Even the Taikō knew it. “Yaemon is seven. In seven years he becomes Kwampaku. Until that time—”

“In eight years, General Ishido. That’s our historic law. When my nephew is fifteen he becomes adult and inherits. Until that time we five Regents rule in his name. That’s what our late Master willed.”

“Yes. And he also ordered that no hostages were to be taken by Regents against one another. Lady Ochiba, the mother of the Heir, is hostage in your castle at Yedo, against your safety here, and that also violates his will. You formally agreed to obey his covenants as did all the Regents. You even signed the document in your own blood.”

Toranaga sighed. “The Lady Ochiba is visiting Yedo where her only sister is in labor. Her sister is married to my son and heir. My son’s place is in Yedo while I am here. What’s more natural than for a sister to visit a sister at such a time? Isn’t she honored? Perhaps I’ll have a first grandson, neh?”

“The mother of the Heir is the most important lady in the Empire. She should not be in—” Ishido was going to say “enemy hands” but he thought better of it—“in an unusual city.” He paused, then added clearly, “The Council would like you to order her home today.”

Toranaga avoided the trap. “I repeat, the Lady Ochiba’s no hostage and therefore is not under my orders and never was.”

“Then let me put it differently. The Council requests her presence in Osaka instantly.”

“Who requests this?”

“I do. Lord Sugiyama. Lord Onoshi and Lord Kiyama. Further, we’re all agreed we wait here until she’s back in Osaka. Here are their signatures.”

Toranaga was livid. Thus far he had manipulated the Council so that voting was always split two to three. He had never been able to win a four-to-one against Ishido, but neither had Ishido against him. Four to one meant isolation and disaster. Why had Onoshi defected? And Kiyama? Both implacable enemies even before they had converted to the foreign religion. And what hold had Ishido now over them?

Ishido knew that he had shattered his enemy. But one move remained to make victory complete. So he implemented the plan that he and Onoshi had agreed upon. “We Regents are all agreed that the time has come to finish with those who are planning to usurp my Master’s power and kill the Heir. Traitors will be condemned. They will be exhibited in the streets as common criminals, with all their generations, and then they will be executed like common criminals, with all their generations. Fujimoto, Takashima, low born, high born—no matter who. Even Minowara!”

A gasp of rage broke from every Toranaga samurai, for such sacrilege against the semi-regal families was unthinkable; then the young samurai, Usagi, Hiro-matsu’s grandson-in-law, was on his feet, flushed with anger. He ripped out his killing sword and leapt at Ishido, the naked blade readied for the two-handed slash.

Ishido was prepared for the death blow and made no move to defend himself. This was what he had planned for, hoped for, and his men had been ordered not to interfere until he was dead. If he, Ishido, were killed here, now, by a Toranaga samurai, the whole Osaka garrison could fall on Toranaga legitimately and slay him, irrespective of the hostage. Then the Lady Ochiba would be eliminated in retaliation by Toranaga’s sons and the remaining Regents would be forced to move jointly against the Yoshi clan, who, now isolated, would be stamped out. Only then would the Heir’s succession be guaranteed and he, Ishido, would have done his duty to the Taikō.

But the blow did not come. At the last moment Usagi came to his senses and tremulously sheathed the sword.

“Your pardon, Lord Toranaga,” he said, kneeling abjectly. “I could not bear the shame of—of having you hear such—such insults. I ask permission—I apologize and—I ask permission to commit seppuku immediately for I cannot live with this shame.”

Though Toranaga had remained still, he had been ready to intercept the blow and he knew Hiro-matsu was ready and that others would have been ready also, and that probably Ishido would only have been wounded. He understood, too, why Ishido had been so insulting and inflammatory. I will repay you with an enormity of interest, Ishido, he promised silently.

Toranaga gave his attention to the kneeling youth. “How dare you imply that anything Lord Ishido said was meant in any way as an insult to me. Of course he would never be so impolite. How dare you listen to conversations that do not concern you. No, you will not be allowed to commit seppuku. That’s an honor. You have no honor and no self-discipline. You will be crucified like a common criminal today. Your swords will be broken and buried in the eta village. Your son will be buried in the eta village. Your head will be put on a spike for all the population to jeer at with a sign on it: ‘This man was born samurai by mistake. His name has ceased to be!’ ”

With a supreme effort Usagi controlled his breathing but the sweat dripped and the shame of it tortured him. He bowed to Toranaga, accepting his fate with outward calm.

Hiro-matsu walked forward and tore both swords from his grandson-in-law’s belt.

“Lord Toranaga,” he said gravely, “with your permission I will personally see that your orders are carried out.”

Toranaga nodded.

The youth bowed a last time then began to get up, but Hiro-matsu pushed him back on the floor. “Samurai walk,” he said. “So do men. But you’re neither. You will crawl to your death.”

Silently Usagi obeyed.

And all in the room were warmed by the strength of the youth’s self-discipline now, and the measure of his courage. He will be reborn samurai, they told themselves contentedly.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

That night Toranaga could not sleep. This was rare for him because normally he could defer the most pressing problem until the next day, knowing that if he was alive the next day he would solve it to the best of his ability. He had long since discovered that peaceful sleep could provide the answer to most puzzles, and if not, what did it really matter? Wasn’t life just a dewdrop within a dewdrop?

But tonight, there were too many perplexing questions to ponder.

What will I do about Ishido?

Why has Onoshi defected to the enemy?

How will I deal with the Council?

Have the Christian priests meddled again?

Where will the next assassination attempt come from?

When should Yabu be dealt with?

And what must I do about the barbarian?

Was he telling the truth?

Curious how the barbarian came out of the eastern seas just at this time. Is that an omen? Is it his karma to be the spark that will light the powder keg?

Karma was an Indian word adopted by Japanese, part of Buddhist philosophy that referred to a person’s fate in this life, his fate immutably fixed because of deeds done in a previous life, good deeds giving a better position in this life’s strata, bad deeds the reverse. Just as the deeds of this life would completely affect the next rebirth. A person was ever being reborn into this world of tears until, after enduring and suffering and learning through many lifetimes, he became perfect at long last, going to nirvana, the Place of Perfect Peace, never having to suffer rebirth again.

Strange that Buddha or some other god or perhaps just karma brought the Anjin-san to Yabu’s fief. Strange that he landed at the exact village where Mura, the secret head of the Izu spy system, had been settled so many years ago under the very nose of the Taikō and Yabu’s pox-diseased father. Strange that Tsukku-san was here in Osaka to interpret and not in Nagasaki where he’d normally be. That also the chief priest of the Christians is here in Osaka, and also the Captain-General of the Portuguese. Strange that the pilot, Rodrigues, was also available to take Hiro-matsu to Anjiro in time to capture the barbarian alive and take possession of the guns. Then there’s Kasigi Omi, son of the man who will give me Yabu’s head if I but crook my little finger.

How beautiful life is and how sad! How fleeting, with no past and no future, only a limitless now.

Toranaga sighed. One thing is certain: the barbarian will never leave. Neither alive nor dead. He is part of the realm forever.

His ears heard almost imperceptible approaching footsteps and his sword was ready. Each night he changed his sleeping room, his guards, and the password haphazardly, against the assassins that were always waiting. The footsteps stopped outside the shoji. Then he heard Hiro-matsu’s voice and the beginning of the password: “ ‘If the Truth is already clear, what is the use of meditation?’ ”

“ ‘And if the Truth is hidden?’ ” Toranaga said.

“ ‘It’s already clear,’ ” Hiro-matsu answered correctly. The quotation was from the ancient Tantric Buddhist teacher, Saraha.

“Come in.”

Only when Toranaga saw that it was, in truth, his counselor, did his sword relax. “Sit down.”

“I heard you weren’t sleeping. I thought you might need something.”

“No. Thank you.” Toranaga observed the deepened lines around the old man’s eyes. “I’m glad you’re here, old friend,” he said.

“You’re sure you’re all right?”

“Oh, yes.”

“Then I’ll leave you. Sorry to disturb you, Lord.”

“No, please, come in, I’m glad you’re here. Sit down.”

The old man sat down beside the door, his back straight. “I’ve doubled the guards.”

“Good.”

After a while Hiro-matsu said, “About that madman, everything was done as you ordered. Everything.”

“Thank, you.”

“His wife—as soon as she heard the sentence, my granddaughter asked my permission to kill herself, to accompany her husband and her son into the Great Void. I refused and ordered her to wait, pending your approval.” Hiro-matsu was bleeding inside. How terrible life is!

“You did correctly.”

“I formally ask permission to end my life. What he did put you in mortal danger, but it was my fault. I should have detected his flaw. I failed you.”

“You may not commit seppuku.”

“Please. I formally ask permission.”

“No. You’re needed alive.”

“I will obey you. But please accept my apologies.”

“Your apologies are accepted.”

After a time, Toranaga said, “What about the barbarian?”

“Many things, Sire. One: If you hadn’t been waiting for the barbarian today you would have been hawking since first light, and Ishido would never have enmeshed you in such a disgusting meeting. You have no choice now but to declare war on him—if you can get out of this castle and back to Yedo.”

“Second?”

“And third and forty-third and a hundred and forty-third? I’m nowhere near as clever as you, Lord Toranaga, but even I could see that everything we’ve been led to believe by the Southern Barbarians is not true.” Hiro-matsu was glad to talk. It helped ease the hurt. “But if there are two Christian religions which hate each other, and if the Portuguese are part of the bigger Spanish nation and if this new barbarian’s country—whatever it was called—wars on both and beats them, and if this same country’s an island nation like ours, and the greatest ‘if’ of all, if he’s telling the truth and if the priest’s saying accurately what the barbarian was saying . . . Well, you can put all these ‘ifs’ together and make sense out of them, and a plan. I can’t, so sorry. I only know what I saw at Anjiro, and aboard the ship. That the Anjin-san is very strong in his head—weak in his body presently, though that would be because of the long voyage—and dominating at sea. I don’t understand anything about him. How could he be all of these things yet allow a man to piss on his back? Why did he save Yabu’s life after what the man did to him, and also the life of his self-admitted enemy, the Portuguese Rodrigu? My head spins from so many questions as though I’m sodden with saké.” Hiro-matsu paused. He was very weary. “But I think we should keep him on land and all like him, if others follow, and kill them all very quickly.”

“What about Yabu?”

“Order him to commit seppuku tonight.”

“Why?”

“He’s got no manners. You foretold what he’d do when I arrived at Anjiro. He was going to steal your property. And he’s a liar. Don’t bother to see him tomorrow as you’ve arranged. Instead, let me take him your order now. You’ll have to kill him sooner or later. Better now when he’s accessible, with none of his own vassals surrounding him. I advise no delay.”

There was a soft knock on the inner door. “Tora-chan?”

Toranaga smiled as he always did at that very special voice, with that special diminutive. “Yes, Kiri-san?”

“I’ve taken the liberty, Lord, of bringing cha for you and your guest. May I please come in?”

“Yes.”

Both men returned her bow. Kiri closed the door and busied herself with the pouring. She was fifty-three and substantial, Matron of Toranaga’s ladies-in-waiting, Kiritsubo-noh-Toshiko, nicknamed Kiri, the oldest of the ladies of his court. Her hair was gray-flecked, her waist thick, but her face sparkled with an eternal joy. “You shouldn’t be awake, no, not at this time of night, Tora-chan! It will be dawn soon and I suppose then you’ll be out in the hills with your hawks, neh? You need sleep!”

“Yes, Kiri-chan!” Toranaga patted her vast rump affectionately.

“Please don’t Kiri-chan me!” Kiri laughed. “I’m an old woman and I need lots of respect. Your other ladies give me enough trouble as it is. Kiritsubo Toshiko-san, if you please, my Lord Yoshi Toranaga-noh-Chikitada!”

“There, you see, Hiro-matsu. After twenty years she still tries to dominate me.”

“So sorry, it’s more than thirty years, Tora-sama,” she said proudly. “And you were as manageable then as you are now!”

When Toranaga was in his twenties he had been a hostage, too, then of the despotic Ikawa Tadazaki, Lord of Suruga and Totomi, father of the present Ikawa Jikkyu, who was Yabu’s enemy. The samurai responsible for Toranaga’s good conduct had just taken Kiritsubo as his second wife. She was seventeen then. Together this samurai and Kiri, his wife, had treated Toranaga honorably, given him wise counsel, and then, when Toranaga had rebelled against Tadazuki and joined Goroda, had followed him with many warriors and had fought bravely at his side. Later, in the fighting for the capital, Kiri’s husband had been killed. Toranaga had asked her if she would become one of his consorts and she had accepted gladly. In those days she was not fat. But she was equally protective and equally wise. That was her nineteenth year, his twenty-fourth, and she had been a focus of his household ever since. Kiri was very shrewd and very capable. For years now, she had run his household and kept it free of trouble.

As free of trouble as any household with women could ever be, Toranaga thought.

“You’re getting fat,” he said, not minding that she was fat.

“Lord Toranaga! In front of Lord Toda! Oh, so sorry, I shall have to commit seppuku—or at least, I’ll have to shave my head and become a nun, and I thought I was so young and slender!” She burst out laughing. “Actually I agree I have a fat rump but what can I do? I just like to eat and that’s Buddha’s problem and my karma, neh?” She offered the cha. “There. Now I’ll be off. Would you like me to send the Lady Sazuko?”

“No, my thoughtful Kiri-san, no, thank you. We’ll talk for a little, then I’ll sleep.”

“Good night, Tora-sama. Sweet dreamlessness.” She bowed to him and to Hiro-matsu and then she was gone.

They sipped their tea appreciatively.

Toranaga said, “I’m always sorry we never had a son, Kiri-san and I. Once she conceived but she miscarried. That was when we were at the battle of Nagakudé.”

“Ah, that one.”

“Yes.”

This was just after the Dictator Goroda had been assassinated when General Nakamura—the Taikō-to-be—was trying to consolidate all power into his own hands. At that time the issue was in doubt, as Toranaga supported one of Goroda’s sons, the legal heir. Nakamura came against Toranaga near the little village of Nagakudé and his force was mauled and routed and he lost that battle. Toranaga retreated cleverly, pursued by a new army, now commanded for Nakamura by Hiro-matsu. But Toranaga avoided the trap and escaped to his home provinces, his whole army intact, ready to battle again. Fifty thousand men died at Nagakudé, very few of them Toranaga’s. In his wisdom, the Taikō-to-be called off the civil war against Toranaga, though he would have won. Nagakudé was the only battle the Taikō had ever lost and Toranaga the only general who had ever beaten him.

“I’m glad we never joined battle, Sire,” Hiro-matsu said.

“Yes.”

“You would have won.”

“No. The Taikō was the greatest general and the wisest, cleverest man that has ever been.”

Hiro-matsu smiled. “Yes. Except you.”

“No. You’re wrong. That’s why I became his vassal.”

“I’m sorry he’s dead.”

“Yes.”

“And Goroda—he was a fine man, neh? So many good men dead.” Hiro-matsu unconsciously turned and twisted the battered scabbard. “You’ll have to move against Ishido. That will force every daimyo to choose sides, once and for all. We’ll win the war eventually. Then you can disband the Council and become Shōgun.”

“I don’t seek that honor,” Toranaga said sharply. “How many times do I have to say it?”

“Your pardon, Sire. I know. But I feel it would be best for Japan.”

“That’s treason.”

“Against whom, Lord? Against the Taikō? He’s dead. Against his last will and testament? That’s a piece of paper. Against the boy Yaemon? Yaemon’s the son of a peasant who usurped the power and heritage of a general whose heirs he stamped out. We were Goroda’s allies, then the Taikō’s vassals. Yes. But they’re both very dead.”

“Would you advise that if you were one of the Regents?”

“No. But then I’m not one of the Regents, and I’m very glad. I’m your vassal only. I chose sides a year ago. I did this freely.”

“Why?” Toranaga had never asked him before.

“Because you’re a man, because you’re Minowara and because you’ll do the wise thing. What you said to Ishido was right: we’re not a people to be ruled by committee. We need a leader. Whom should I have chosen to serve of the five Regents? Lord Onoshi? Yes, he’s a very wise man, and a good general. But he’s Christian and a cripple and his flesh is so rotten with leprosy that he stinks from fifty paces. Lord Sugiyama? He’s the richest daimyo in the land, his family’s as ancient as yours. But he’s a gutless turncoat and we both know him from eternity. Lord Kiyama? Wise, brave, a great general, and an old comrade. But he’s Christian too, and I think we have enough gods of our own in this Land of the Gods not to be so arrogant as to worship only one. Ishido? I’ve detested that treacherous peasant’s offal as long as I’ve known him and the only reason I never killed him was because he was the Taikō’s dog.” His leathery face cracked into a smile. “So you see, Yoshi Toranaga-noh-Minowara, you gave me no choice.”

“And if I go against your advice? If I manipulate the Council of Regents, even Ishido, and put Yaemon into power?”

“Whatever you do is wise. But all the Regents would like you dead. That’s the truth. I advocate immediate war. Immediate. Before they isolate you. Or more probably murder you.”

Toranaga thought about his enemies. They were powerful and abundant.

It would take him all of three weeks to get back to Yedo, traveling the Tokaidō Road, the main trunk road that followed the coast between Yedo and Osaka. To go by ship was more dangerous, and perhaps more time consuming, except by galley which could travel against wind and tide.

Toranaga’s mind ranged again over the plan he had decided upon. He could find no flaw in it.

“I heard secretly yesterday that Ishido’s mother is visiting her grandson in Nagoya,” he said and Hiro-matsu was at once attentive. Nagoya was a huge city-state that was, as yet, not committed to either side. “The lady should be ‘invited’ by the Abbot to visit the Johji Temple. To see the cherry blossoms.”

“Immediately,” Hiro-matsu said. “By carrier pigeon.” The Johji Temple was famous for three things: its avenue of cherry trees, the militancy of its Zen Buddhist monks, and its open, undying fidelity to Toranaga, who had, years ago, paid for the building of the temple and maintained its upkeep ever since. “The blossoms will be past their prime but she will be there tomorrow. I don’t doubt the venerable lady will want to stay a few days, it’s so calming. Her grandson should go too, neh?”

“No—just her. That would make the Abbot’s ‘invitation’ too obvious. Next: send a secret cipher to my son, Sudara: ‘I leave Osaka the moment the Council concludes this session—in four days.’ Send it by runner and confirm it by carrier pigeon tomorrow.”

Hiro-matsu’s disapproval was apparent. “Then can I order up ten thousand men at once? To Osaka?”

“No. The men here are sufficient. Thank you, old friend. I think I’ll sleep now.”

Hiro-matsu got up and stretched his shoulders. Then at the doorway, “I may give Fujiko, my granddaughter, permission to kill herself?”

“No.”

“But Fujiko’s samurai, Lord, and you know how mothers are about their sons. The child was her first.”

“Fujiko can have many children. How old is she? Eighteen—barely nineteen? I will find her another husband.”

Hiro-matsu shook his head. “She will not accept one. I know her too well. It’s her innermost wish to end her life. Please?”

“Tell your granddaughter I do not approve of useless death. Permission is refused.”

At length Hiro-matsu bowed, and began to leave.

“How long would the barbarian live in that prison?” Toranaga asked.

Hiro-matsu did not turn back. “It depends how cruel a fighter he is.”

“Thank you. Good night, Hiro-matsu.” When he was sure that he was alone, he said quietly, “Kiri-san?”

The inner door opened, she entered and knelt.

“Send an immediate message to Sudara: ‘All is well.’ Send it by racing pigeons. Release three of them at the same time at dawn. At noon do the same again.”

“Yes, Lord.” She went away.

One will get through, he thought. At least four will fall to arrows, spies, or hawks. But unless Ishido’s broken our code, the message will still mean nothing to him.

The code was very private. Four people knew it. His eldest son, Noboru; his second son and heir, Sudara; Kiri; and himself. The message deciphered meant: “Disregard all other messages. Activate Plan Five.” By prearrangement, Plan Five contained orders to gather all Yoshi clan leaders and their most trusted inner counselors immediately at his capital, Yedo, and to mobilize for war. The code word that signaled war was “Crimson Sky.” His own assassination, or capture, made Crimson Sky inexorable and launched the war—an immediate fanatic assault upon Kyoto led by Sudara, his heir, with all the legions, to gain possession of that city and the puppet Emperor. This would be coupled with secret, meticulously planned insurrections in fifty provinces which had been prepared over the years against such eventuality. All targets, passes, cities, castles, bridges, had long since been selected. There were enough arms and men and resolve to carry it through.

It’s a good plan, Toranaga thought. But it will fail if I don’t lead it. Sudara will fail. Not through want of trying or courage or intelligence, or because of treachery. Merely because Sudara hasn’t yet enough knowledge or experience and cannot carry enough of the uncommitted daimyos with him. And also because Osaka Castle and the heir, Yaemon, stand inviolate in the path, the rallying point for all the enmity and jealousy that I’ve earned in fifty-two years of war.

Toranaga’s war had begun when he was six and had been ordered as hostage into the enemy camp, then reprieved, then captured by other enemies and pawned again, to be repawned until he was twelve. At twelve, he had led his first patrol and won his first battle.

So many battles. None lost. But so many enemies. And now they’re gathering together.

Sudara will fail. You’re the only one who could win with Crimson Sky, perhaps. The Taikō could do it, absolutely. But it would be better not to have to implement Crimson Sky.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

For Blackthorne it was a hellish dawn. He was locked in a death battle with a fellow convict. The prize was a cup of gruel. Both men were naked. Whenever a convict was put into this vast, single-storied, wooden cell-block, his clothes were taken away. A clothed man occupied more space and clothes could hide weapons.

The murky and suffocating room was fifty paces long and ten wide and packed with naked, sweating Japanese. Scarcely any light filtered through the boards and beams that made up the walls and low ceiling.

Blackthorne could barely stand erect. His skin was blotched and scratched from the man’s broken nails and the wood burns from the walls. Finally, he butted his head into the man’s face, grabbed his throat and hammered the man’s head against the beams until he was senseless. Then he threw the body aside and charged through the sweating mass to the place he had claimed in the corner, and he readied himself for another attack.

At dawn it had been feeding time and the guards began passing the cups of gruel and water through the small opening. This was the first food and water that had been given them since he was put inside at dusk the previous day. The lining up for food and water had been unusually calm. Without discipline no one would eat. Then this apelike man—unshaven, filthy, lice-ridden—had chopped him over the kidneys and taken his ration while the others waited to see what would happen. But Blackthorne had been in too many seafaring brawls to be beaten with one treacherous blow, so he feigned helplessness, then kicked out viciously and the fight had been joined. Now, in the corner, Blackthorne saw to his amazement that one of the men was offering the cup of gruel and the water that he had presumed lost. He took it and thanked the man.

The corners were the choicest areas. A beam ran lengthwise, along the earthern floor, partitioning the room into two sections. In each section were three rows of men, two rows facing each other, their backs to the wall or beam, the other row between them. Only the weak and the sick took the center row. When the stronger men in the outer rows wanted to stretch their legs they had to do so over those in the middle.

Blackthorne saw two corpses, swollen and flyblown, in one of the middle rows. But the feeble and dying men nearby seemed to ignore them.

He could not see far in the heating gloom. Sun was baking the wood already. There were latrine buckets but the stench was terrible because the sick had befouled themselves and the places in which they hunched.

From time to time guards opened the iron door and names were called out. The men bowed to their comrades and left, but others were soon brought in and the space occupied again. All the prisoners seemed to have accepted their lot and tried, as best they could, to live unselfishly in peace with their immediate neighbors.

One man against the wall began to vomit. He was quickly shoved into the middle row and collapsed, half suffocated, under the weight of legs.

Blackthorne had to close his eyes and fight to control his terror and claustrophobia. Bastard Toranaga! I pray I get the opportunity of putting you inside here one day.

Bastard guards! Last night when they had ordered him to strip he had fought them with a bitter hopelessness, knowing he was beaten, fighting only because he refused to surrender passively. And then he had been forced through the door.

There were four such cell blocks. They were on the edge of the city, in a paved compound within high stone walls. Outside the walls was a roped-off area of beaten earth beside the river. Five crosses were erected there. Naked men and one woman had been bound straddled to the crosspieces by their wrists and ankles, and while Blackthorne had walked on the perimeter following his samurai guards, he saw executioners with long lances thrust the lances crisscross into the victims’ chests while the crowd jeered. Then the five were cut down and five more put up and samurai came forward and hacked the corpses into pieces with their long swords, laughing all the while.

Bloody-gutter-festering-bastards!

Unnoticed, the man Blackthorne had fought was coming to his senses. He lay in the middle row. Blood had congealed on one side of his face and his nose was smashed. Suddenly he leapt at Blackthorne, oblivious of the men in his way.

Blackthorne saw him coming at the last moment, frantically parried the onslaught and knocked him in a heap. The prisoners that the man fell on cursed him and one of them, heavyset and built like a bulldog, chopped him viciously on the neck with the side of his hand. There was a dry snap and the man’s head sagged.

The bulldog man lifted the half-shaven head by its scraggy, lice-infected top-knot and let it fall. He looked up at Blackthorne, said something gutturally, smiled with bare, toothless gums, and shrugged.

“Thanks,” Blackthorne said, struggling for breath, thankful that his assailant had not had Mura’s skill at unarmed combat. “My namu Anjin-san,” he said, pointing at himself. “You?”

“Ah, so desu! Anjin-san!” Bulldog pointed at himself and sucked in his breath. “Minikui.”

“Minikui-san?”

“Hai,” and he added a spate of Japanese.

Blackthorne shrugged tiredly. “Wakarimasen.” I don’t understand.

“Ah, so desu!” Bulldog chattered briefly with his neighbors. Then he shrugged again and Blackthorne shrugged and together they lifted the dead man and put him with the other corpses. When they came back to the corner no one had taken their places.

Most of the inmates were asleep or fitfully trying to sleep.

Blackthorne felt filthy and horrible and near death. Don’t worry, he told himself, you’ve a long way to go before you die. . . . No, I can’t live long in this hell hole. There’re too many men. Oh, God, let me out! Why is the room swimming up and down, and is that Rodrigues floating up from the depths with moving pincers for eyes? I can’t breathe, I can’t breathe. I’ve got to get out of here, please, please, don’t put more wood in the fire and what are you doing here, Croocq lad, I thought they let you go. I thought you were back in the village but now we’re here in the village and how did I get here—it’s so cool and there’s that girl, so pretty, down by the docks but why are they dragging her away to the shore, the naked samurai, Omi there laughing? Why down across the sand, blood marks in the sand, all naked, me naked, hags and villagers and children, and there’s the cauldron and we’re in the cauldron and no, no more wood no more wood, I’m drowning in liquid filth. Oh God Oh God oh God I’m dying dying dying. “In nomine Patris et Filii et Spiritus Sancti.” That’s the Last Sacrament and you’re Catholic we’re all Catholic and you’ll burn or drown in piss and burn with fire the fire the fire. . . .

He dragged himself out of the nightmare, his ears exploding with the peaceful, earth-shattering finality of the Last Sacrament. For a moment he did not know if he was awake or asleep because his disbelieving ears heard the Latin benediction again and his incredulous eyes were seeing a wrinkled old scarecrow of a European stooped over the middle row, fifteen paces away. The toothless old man had long filthy hair and a matted beard and broken nails and wore a foul, threadbare smock. He raised a hand like a vulture’s claw and held up the wooden cross over the half-hidden body. A shaft of sun caught it momentarily. Then he closed the dead man’s eyes, and mumbled a prayer and glanced up. He saw Blackthome staring at him.

“Mother of God, art thou real?” the man croaked in coarse, peasant Spanish, crossing himself.

“Yes,” Blackthorne said in Spanish. “Who are you?”

The old man groped his way over, mumbling to himself. The other inmates let him pass or step on them or over them without saying a word. He stared down at Blackthome through rheumy eyes, his face warted. “Oh, Blessed Virgin, the señor is real. Who art thou? I’m . . . I’m Friar . . . Friar Domingo . . . Domingo . . . Domingo of the Sacred . . . the Sacred Order of St. Francis . . . the Order . . .” and then for a while his words became a jumble of Japanese and Latin and Spanish. His head twitched and he wiped away the ever present spittle that dribbled to his chin. “The señor is real?”

“Yes, I’m real.” Blackthorne eased himself up.

The priest muttered another Hail Mary, the tears coursing his cheeks. He kissed the cross repeatedly and would have got down on his knees if there had been space. Bulldog shook his neighbor awake. Both squatted and made just enough room for the priest to sit.

“By the Blessed St. Francis, my prayers have been answered. Thou, thou, thou, I thought that I was seeing another apparition, señor, a ghost. Yes, an evil spirit. I’ve seen so many—so many—how long is the señor here? It’s hard for a body to see in the gloom and my eyes, they’re not good. . . . How long?”

“Yesterday. And you?”

“I don’t know, señor. A long time. I’m put here in September—it was in the year of our Lord fifteen hundred ninety-eight.”

“It’s May now. Sixteen hundred.”

“Sixteen hundred?”

A moaning cry distracted the monk. He got up and picked his way over the bodies like a spider, encouraging a man here, touching another there, his Japanese fluent. He could not find the dying man so he droned the last rites to that part of the cell and blessed everyone and no one minded.

“Come with me, my son.”

Without waiting, the monk hobbled down the cage, through the mass of men, into the gloom. Blackthorne hesitated, not wanting to leave his place. Then he got up and followed. After ten paces he looked back. His place had vanished. It seemed impossible that he had ever been there at all.

He continued down the length of the hut. In the far corner was, incredibly, an open space. Just enough room for a small man to lie down in. It contained a few pots and bowls and an ancient straw mat.

Father Domingo stepped through the men into the space and beckoned him. The surrounding Japanese watched silently, letting Blackthorne pass.

“They are my flock, señor. They are all my sons in the Blessed Lord Jesus. I’ve converted so many here—this one’s John, and here’s Mark and Methuselah. . . .” The priest stopped for breath. “I’m so tired. Tired. I . . . must, I must . . .” His words trailed off and he slept.

At dusk more food arrived. When Blackthorne began to get up, one of the nearby Japanese motioned him to stay and brought him a well-filled bowl. Another man gently patted the priest awake, offering the food.

“Iyé,” the old man said, shaking his head, a smile on his face, and pushed the bowl back into the man’s hands.

“Iyé Farddah-sama.”

The priest allowed himself to be persuaded and ate a little, then got up, his joints creaking, and handed his bowl to one of those in the middle row. This man touched the priest’s hand to his forehead and he was blessed.

“I’m so pleased to see another of my own kind,” the priest said, sitting beside Blackthorne again, his peasant voice thick and sibilant. He pointed weakly to the other end of the cell block. “One of my flock said the señor used the word ‘pilot,’ ‘anjin’? The señor is a pilot?”

“Yes.”

“There are others of the señor’s crew here?”

“No, I’m alone. Why are you here?”

“If the señor is alone—the señor came from Manila?”

“No. I’ve never been to Asia before,” Blackthorne said carefully, his Spanish excellent. “This was my first voyage as pilot. I was . . . I was outward bound. Why are you here?”

“Jesuits put me here, my son. Jesuits and their filthy lies. The señor was outward bound? Thou art not Spanish, no—nor Portuguese . . .” The monk peered at him suspiciously and Blackthorne was surrounded by his reeking breath. “Was the ship Portuguese? Tell the truth, before God!”

“No, Father. It was not Portuguese. Before God!”

“Oh, Blessed Virgin, thank you! Please forgive me, señor. I was afraid—I’m old and stupid and diseased. Thy ship was Spanish out of where? I’m so glad—where is the señor from originally? Spanish Flanders? Or the Duchy of Brandenburg perhaps? Some part of our dominions in Germania? Oh, it’s so good to talk my blessed mother tongue again! Was the señor shipwrecked like us? Then foully thrown into this jail, falsely accused by those devil Jesuits? May God curse them and show them the error of their treachery!” His eyes glittered fiercely. “The señor said he has never been to Asia before?”

“No.”

“If the señor has never been to Asia before, then he will be like a child in the wilderness. Yes, there’s so much to tell! Does the señor know that Jesuits are merely traders, gun runners, and usurers? That they control all the silk trade here, all trade with China? That the annual Black Ship is worth a million in gold? That they’ve forced His Holiness, the Pope, to grant them total power over Asia—them and their dogs, the Portuguese? That all other religions are forbidden here? That Jesuits deal in gold, buying and selling for profit—for themselves and the heathen—against the direct orders of His Holiness, Pope Clement, of King Philip, and against the laws of this land? That they secretly smuggled guns into Japan for Christian kings here, inciting them to rebellion? That they meddle in politics and pimp for the kings, lie and cheat and bear false witness against us! That their Father Superior himself sent a secret message to our Spanish Viceroy in Luzon asking him for conquistadores to conquer the land—they begged for a Spanish invasion to cover more Portuguese mistakes. All our troubles can be put at their threshold, señor. It’s the Jesuits who have lied and cheated and spread poison against Spain and our beloved King Philip! Their lies put me here and caused twenty-six Holy Fathers to be martyred! They think that just because I was a peasant once, I don’t understand . . . but I can read and write, señor, I can read and write! I was one of his Excellency’s secretaries, the Viceroy. They think we Franciscans don’t understand . . .” At this point he broke into another ranting jumble of Spanish and Latin.

Blackthorne’s spirit had been revived, his curiosity agog with what the priest had said. What guns? What gold? What trade? What Black Ship? A million? What invasion? What Christian kings?

Aren’t you cheating the poor sick man? he asked himself. He thinks you’re friend, not enemy.

I haven’t lied to him.

But haven’t you implied you’re friend?

I answered him directly.

But you volunteered nothing?

No.

Is that fair?

That’s the first rule of survival in enemy waters: volunteer nothing.

The monk’s tantrum grew apace. The nearby Japanese shifted uneasily. One of them got up and shook the priest gently and spoke to him. Father Domingo gradually came out of his fit, his eyes cleared. He looked at Blackthorne with recognition, replied to the Japanese, and calmed the rest.

“So sorry, señor,” he said breathlessly. “They—they thought I was angry against—against the señor. God forgive my foolish rage! It was just—que va, Jesuits come from hell, along with heretics and heathens. I can tell you much about them.” The monk wiped the spittle off his chin and tried to calm himself. He pressed his chest to ease the pain there. “The señor was saying? Thy ship, it was cast ashore?”

“Yes. In a way. We came aground,” Blackthorne replied. He eased his legs carefully. The men who were watching and listening gave him more room. One got up and motioned him to stretch out. “Thanks,” he said at once. “Oh, how do you say ‘thank you,’ Father?”

“ ‘Domo.’ Sometimes you say ‘arigato.’ A woman has to be very polite, señor. She says ‘arigato gozaimashita.’ ”

“Thank you. What’s his name?” Blackthorne indicated the man who had got up.

“That’s Gonzalez.”

“But what’s his Japanese name?”

“Ah yes! He’s Akabo. But that just means ‘porter,’ señor. They don’t have names. Only samurai have names.”

“What?”

“Only samurai have names, first names and surnames. It’s their law, señor. Everyone else has to make do with what they are—porter, fisherman, cook, executioner, farmer, and so on. Sons and daughters are mostly just First Daughter, Second Daughter, First Son, and so on. Sometimes they’d call a man ‘fisherman who lives near the elm tree’ or ‘fisherman with bad eyes.’ ” The monk shrugged and stifled a yawn. “Ordinary Japanese aren’t allowed names. Whores give themselves names like Carp or Moon or Petal or Eel or Star. It’s strange, señor, but it’s their law. We give them Christian names, real names, when we baptize them, bringing them salvation and the word of God . . .” His words trailed off and he slept.

“Domo, Akabo-san,” Blackthorne said to the porter.

The man smiled shyly and bowed and sucked in his breath.

Later the monk awakened and said a brief prayer and scratched. “Only yesterday, the señor said? He came here only yesterday? What occurred with the señor?”

“When we landed there was a Jesuit there,” Blackthorne said. “But you, Father. You were saying they accused you? What happened to you and your ship?”

“Our ship? Did the señor ask about our ship? Was the señor coming from Manila like us? Or—oh, how foolish of me! I remember now, the señor was outward bound from home and never in Asia before. By the Blessed Body of Christ, it’s so good to talk to a civilized man again, in my blessed mother’s tongue! Que va, it’s been so long. My head aches, aches, señor. Our ship? We were going home at long last. Home from Manila to Acapulco, in the land of Cortes, in Mexico, thence overland to Vera Cruz. And thence another ship and across the Atlantic, and at long, long last, to home. My village is outside Madrid, señor, in the mountains. It is called Santa Veronica. Forty years I’ve been away, señor. In the New World, in Mexico and in the Philippines. Always with our glorious conquistadores, may the Virgin watch over them! I was in Luzon when we destroyed the heathen native king, Lumalon, and conquered Luzon, and so brought the word of God to the Philippines. Many of our Japan converts fought with us even then, señor. Such fighters! That was in 1575. Mother Church is well planted there, my son, and never a filthy Jesuit or Portuguese to be seen. I came to the Japans for almost two years, then had to leave for Manila again when the Jesuits betrayed us.”

The monk stopped and closed his eyes, drifting off. Later he came back again, and, as old people will sometimes do, he continued as though he had never slept. “My ship was the great galleon San Felipe. We carried a cargo of spices, gold and silver, and specie to the value of a million and a half silver pesos. One of the great storms took us and cast us onto the shores of Shikoku. Our ship broke her back on the sand bar—on the third day—by that time we had landed our bullion and most of our cargo. Then word came that everything was confiscated, confiscated by the Taikō himself, that we were pirates and . . .” He stopped at the sudden silence.

The iron door of the cell cage had swung open.

Guards began to call names from the list. Bulldog, the man who had befriended Blackthorne, was one of those called. He walked out and did not look back. One of the men in the circle also was chosen. Akabo. Akabo knelt to the monk, who blessed him and made the sign of the cross over him and quickly gave him the Last Sacrament. The man kissed the cross and walked away.

The door closed again.

“They’re going to execute him?” Blackthorne asked.

“Yes, his Calvary is outside the door. May the Holy Madonna take his soul swiftly and give him his everlasting reward.”

“What did that man do?”

“He broke the law—their law, señor. The Japanese are a simple people. And very severe. They truly have only one punishment—death. By the cross, by strangulation, or by decapitation. For the crime of arson, it is death by burning. They have almost no other punishment—banishment sometimes, cutting the hair from women sometimes. But”—the old man sighed—“but most always it is death.”

“You forgot imprisonment.”

The monk’s nails picked absently at the scabs on his arm. “It’s not one of their punishments, my son. To them, prison is just a temporary place to keep the man until they decide his sentence. Only the guilty come here. For just a little while.”

“That’s nonsense. What about you? You’ve been here a year, almost two years.”

“One day they will come for me, like all the others. This is but a resting place between the hell of earth and the glory of Everlasting Life.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“Have no fear, my son. It is the will of God. I am here and can hear the señor’s confession and give him absolution and make him perfect—the glory of Everlasting Life is barely a hundred steps and moments away from that door. Would the señor like me to hear his confession now?”

“No—no, thank you. Not now.” Blackthorne looked at the iron door. “Has anyone ever tried to break out of here?”

“Why should they do that? There is nowhere to run—nowhere to hide. The authorities are very strict. Anyone helping an escaped convict or even a man who commits a crime—” He pointed vaguely at the door of the hut. “Gonzalez—Akabo—the man who has—has left us. He’s a kaga-man. He told me—”

“What’s a kaga-man?”

“Oh, those are the porters, señor, the men that carry the palanquins, or the smaller two-man kaga that’s like a hammock swung on a pole. He told us his partner stole a silken scarf from a customer, poor fellow, and because he himself did not report the theft, his life is forfeit also. The señor may believe me, to try to escape or even to help someone to escape, the man would lose his life and all his family. They are very severe, señor.”

“So everyone goes to execution like sheep then?”

“There is no other choice. It is the will of God.”

Don’t get angry, or panic, Blackthorne warned himself. Be patient. You can think of a way. Not everything the priest says is true. He’s deranged. Who wouldn’t be after so much time?

“These prisons are new to them, señor,” the monk was saying. “The Taikō instituted prisons here a few years ago, so they say. Before him there were none. In previous days when a man was caught, he confessed his crime and he was executed.”

“And if he didn’t confess?”

“Everyone confesses—sooner is better, señor. It is the same in our world, if you are caught.”

The monk slept a little, scratching in his sleep and muttering. When he woke up, Blackthorne said, “Please tell me, Father, how the cursed Jesuits put a man of God in this pest hole.”

“There is not much to tell, and everything. After the Taikō’s men came and took all our bullion and goods, our Captain-General insisted on going to the capital to protest. There was no cause for the confiscation. Were we not servants of His Most Imperial Catholic Majesty, King Philip of Spain, ruler of the greatest and richest empire in the world? The most powerful monarch in the world? Were we not friends? Was not the Taikō asking Spanish Manila to trade direct with Japan, to break the filthy monopoly of the Portuguese? It was all a mistake, the confiscation. It had to be.

“I went with our Captain-General because I could speak a little Japanese—not much in those days. Señor, the San Felipe had floundered and come ashore in October of 1597. The Jesuits—one was of the name Father Martin Alvito—they dared to offer to mediate for us, there in Kyoto, the capital. The impertinence! Our Franciscan Father Superior, Friar Braganza, he was in the capital, and he was an ambassador—a real ambassador from Spain to the court of the Taikō! The Blessed Friar Braganza, he had been there in the capital, in Kyoto, for five years, señor. The Taikō himself, personally, had asked our Viceroy in Manila to send Franciscan monks and an ambassador to Japan. So the Blessed Friar Braganza had come. And we, señor, we of the San Felipe, we knew that he was to be trusted, not like the Jesuits.

“After many, many days of waiting, we had one interview with the Taikō—he was a tiny, ugly little man, señor—and we asked for our goods back and another ship, or passage on another ship, which our Captain-General offered to pay for handsomely. The interview went well, we thought, and the Taikō dismissed us. We went to our monastery in Kyoto and waited and then, over the next months while we waited for his decision, we continued to bring the word of God to the heathen. We held our services openly, not like thieves in the night as the Jesuits do.” Friar Domingo’s voice was edged with contempt. “We wore our habits and vestments—we didn’t go disguised, like native priests, as they do. We brought the Word to the people, the halt and sick and poor, not like the Jesuits, who consort with princes only. Our congregations increased. We had a hospital for lepers, our own church, and our flock prospered, señor. Greatly. We were about to convert many of their kings and then one day we were betrayed.

“One day in January, we Franciscans, we were all brought before the magistrate and accused under the Taikō’s personal seal, señor, accused as violators of their law, as disturbers of their peace, and sentenced to death by crucifixion. There were forty-three of us. Our churches throughout the land were to be destroyed, all our congregations to be torn apart—Franciscan—not Jesuit, señor. Just us, señor. We had been falsely accused. The Jesuits had poured poison in the Taikō’s ear that we were conquistadores, that we wanted to invade these shores, when it was Jesuits who begged his Excellency, our Viceroy, to send an army from Manila. I saw the letter myself! From their Father Superior! They’re devils who pretend to serve the Church and Christ, but they serve only themselves. They lust for power, power at any cost. They hide behind a net of poverty and piousness, but underneath, they feed like kings and amass fortunes. Que va, señor, the truth is that they were jealous of our congregations, jealous of our church, jealous of our truth and way of life. The daimyo of Hizen, Dom Francisco—his Japanese name is Harima Tadao but he has been baptized Dom Francisco—he interceded for us. He is just like a king, all daimyos are like kings, and he’s a Franciscan and he interceded for us, but to no avail.

“In the end, twenty-six were martyred. Six Spaniards, seventeen of our Japanese neophytes, and three others. The Blessed Braganza was one, and there were three boys among the neophytes. Oh, señor, the faithful were there in their thousands that day. Fifty, a hundred thousand people watched the Blessed Martyrdom at Nagasaki, so I was told. It was a bitter cold February day and a bitter year. That was the year of the earthquakes and typhoons and flood and storm and fire, when the Hand of God lay heavy on the Great Murderer and even smashed down his great castle, Fushimi, when He shuddered the earth. It was terrifying but marvelous to behold, the Finger of God, punishing the heathen and the sinners.

“So they were martyred, señor, six good Spaniards. Our flock and our church were laid waste and the hospital closed up.” The old man’s face drained. “I—I was one of those chosen for martyrdom, but—but it was not to be my honor. They set us marching from Kyoto and when we came to Osaka they put some of us in one of our missions here and the rest—the rest had one of their ears cut off, then they were paraded like common criminals in the streets. Then the Blessed Brethren were set walking westward. For a month. Their blessed journey ended at the hill called Nishizaki, overlooking the great harbor of Nagasaki. I begged the samurai to let me go with them but, señor, he ordered me back to the mission here in Osaka. For no reason. And then, months later, we were put in this cell. There were three of us—I think it was three, but I was the only Spaniard. The others were neophytes, our lay brothers, Japaners. A few days later the guards called out their names. But they never called out mine. Perhaps it is the will of God, señor, or perhaps those filthy Jesuits leave me alive just to torture me—they who took away my chance at martyrdom among my own. It’s hard, señor, to be patient. So very hard . . .”

The old monk closed his eyes, prayed, and cried himself to sleep.

Much as he wished it, Blackthorne could not sleep though night had come. His flesh crawled from the lice bites. His head swarmed with terror.

He knew, with terrible clarity, there was no way to break out. He was overwhelmed with futility and sensed he was on the brink of death. In the darkest part of the night terror swamped him, and, for the first time in his life, he gave up and wept.

“Yes, my son?” the monk murmured. “What is it?”

“Nothing, nothing,” Blackthorne said, his heart thundering. “Go back to sleep.”

“There’s no need to fear. We are all in God’s hands,” the monk said and slept again.

The great terror left Blackthorne. In its place was a terror that could be lived with. I’ll get out of here somehow, he told himself, trying to believe the lie.

At dawn came food and water. Blackthorne was stronger now. Stupid to let go like that, he cautioned himself. Stupid and weak and dangerous. Don’t do that again or you’ll break and go mad and surely die. They’ll put you in the third row and you’ll die. Be careful and be patient and guard yourself.

“How are you today, señor?”

“Fine, thank you, Father. And you?”

“Quite well, thank you.”

“How do I say that in Japanese?”

“Domo, genki desu.”

“Domo, genki desu. You were saying yesterday, Father, about the Portuguese Black Ships—what are they like? Have you seen one?”

“Oh, yes, señor. They’re the greatest ships in the world, almost two thousand tons. As many as two hundred men and boys are necessary to sail one, señor, and with crew and passengers her complement would be almost a thousand souls. I’m told these carracks sail well before the wind but lumber when the wind’s abeam.”

“How many guns do they carry?”

“Sometimes twenty or thirty on three decks.”

Father Domingo was glad to answer questions and talk and teach, and Blackthorne was equally glad to listen and learn. The monk’s rambling knowledge was priceless and far reaching.

“No, señor,” he was saying now. “Domo is thank you and dozo is please. Water is mizu. Always remember that Japaners put a great price on manners and courtesy. Once when I was in Nagasaki—Oh, if I only had ink and a quill and paper! Ah, I know—here, trace the words in the dirt, that will help you to remember them . . .”

“Domo,” Blackthorne said. Then, after memorizing a few more words, he asked, “How long’ve Portuguese been here?”

“Oh, the land was discovered in 1542, señor, the year I was born. There were three men, da Mota, Peixoto, and I can’t remember the other name. They were all Portuguese traders, trading the China coasts in a China junk from a port in Siam. Has the señor been to Siam?”

“No.”

“Ah, there is much to see in Asia. These three men were trading but they were caught in a great storm, a typhoon, and blown off their course to land safely at Tanegashima at Kyushu. That was the first time a European set foot on Japan’s soil, and at once trade began. A few years later, Francis Xavier, one of the founding members of the Jesuits, arrived here. That was in 1549 . . . a bad year for Japan, señor. One of our Brethren should have been first, then we would have inherited this realm, not the Portuguese. Francis Xavier died three years later in China, alone and forsaken. . . . Did I tell the señor there’s a Jesuit already at the court of the Emperor of China, in a place called Peking? . . . Oh, you should see Manila, señor, and the Philippines! We have four cathedrals and almost three thousand conquistadores and nearly six thousand Japaner soldiers spread through the islands and three hundred Brethren. . . .”

Blackthorne’s mind filled with facts and Japanese words and phrases. He asked about life in Japan and daimyos and samurai and trade and Nagasaki and war and peace and Jesuits and Franciscans and Portuguese in Asia and about Spanish Manila, and always more about the Black Ship that plied annually from Macao. For three days and three nights Blackthorne sat with Father Domingo and questioned and listened and learned and slept in nightmare, to awaken and ask more questions and gain more knowledge.

Then, on the fourth day, they called out his name.

“Anjin-san!”

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

In the utter silence, Blackthorne got to his feet.

“Thy confession, my son, say it quickly.”

“I—I don’t think—I—” Blackthorne realized through his dulled mind that he was speaking English, so he pressed his lips together and began to walk away. The monk scrambled up, presuming his words to be Dutch or German, and grabbed his wrist and hobbled with him.

“Quickly, señor. I will give the absolution. Be quick, for thine immortal soul. Say it quickly, just that the señor confesses before God all things past and present—”

They were nearing the iron gate now, the monk holding on to Blackthorne with surprising strength.

“Say it now! The Blessed Virgin will watch over you!”

Blackthorne tore his arm away, and said hoarsely in Spanish, “Go with God, Father.”

The door slammed behind him.

The day was incredibly cool and sweet, the clouds meandering before a fine southeasterly wind.

He inhaled deep draughts of the clean, glorious air and blood surged through his veins. The joy of life possessed him.

Several naked prisoners were in the courtyard along with an official, jailers with spears, eta, and a group of samurai. The official was dressed in a somber kimono and an overmantle with starched, winglike shoulders and he wore a small dark hat. This man stood in front of the first prisoner and read from a delicate scroll and, as he finished, each man began to plod after his party of jailers toward the great doors of the courtyard. Blackthorne was last. Unlike the others he was given a loincloth, cotton kimono, and thonged clogs for his feet. And his guards were samurai.

He had decided to run for it the moment he had passed the gate, but as he approached the threshold, the samurai surrounded him more closely and locked him in. They reached the gateway together. A large crowd looked on, clean and spruce, with crimson and yellow and golden sunshades. One man was already roped to his cross and the cross was lifted into the sky. And beside each cross two eta waited, their long lances sparkling in the sun.

Blackthorne’s pace slowed. The samurai jostled closer, hurrying him. He thought numbly that it would be the better to die now, quickly, so he steadied his hand to lunge for the nearest sword. But he never took the opportunity because the samurai turned away from the arena and walked toward the perimeter, heading for the streets that led to the city and toward the castle.

Blackthorne waited, scarcely breathing, wanting to be sure. They walked through the crowd, who backed away and bowed, and then they were in a street and now there was no mistake.

Blackthorne felt reborn.

When he could speak, he said, “Where are we going?” not caring that the words would not be understood or that they were in English. Blackthorne was quite light-headed. His step hardly touched the ground, the thongs of his clogs were not uncomfortable, the untoward touch of the kimono was not unpleasing. Actually, it feels quite good, he thought. A little draughty perhaps, but on a fine day like this—just the sort of thing to wear on the quarterdeck!

“By God, it’s wonderful to speak English again,” he said to the samurai. “Christ Jesus, I thought I was a dead man. That’s my eighth life gone. Do you know that, old friends? Now I’ve only one to go. Well, never mind! Pilots have ten lives, at least, that’s what Alban Caradoc used to say.” The samurai seemed to be growing irritated by his incomprehensible talk.

Get hold of yourself, he told himself. Don’t make them touchier than they are.

He noticed now that the samurai were all Grays. Ishido’s men. He had asked Father Alvito the name of the man who opposed Toranaga. Alvito had said “Ishido.” That was just before he had been ordered to stand up and had been taken away. Are all Grays Ishido’s men? As all Browns are Toranaga’s?

“Where are we going? There?” He pointed at the castle which brooded above the town. “There, hai?”

“Hai.” The leader nodded a cannonball head, his beard grizzled.

What does Ishido want with me? Blackthorne asked himself.

The leader turned into another street, always going away from the harbor. Then he saw her—a small Portuguese brig, her blue and white flag waving in the breeze. Ten cannon on the main deck, with bow and stern twenty-pounders. Erasmus could take her easily, Blackthorne told himself. What about my crew? What are they doing back there at the village? By the Blood of Christ, I’d like to see them. I was so glad to leave them that day and go back to my own house where Onna—Haku—was, the house of . . . what was his name? Ah yes, Mura-san. And what about that girl, the one in my floor-bed, and the other one, the angel beauty who talked that day to Omi-san? The one in the dream who was in the cauldron too.

But why remember that nonsense? It weakens the mind. “You’ve got to be very strong in the head to live with the sea,” Alban Caradoc had said. Poor Alban.

Alban Caradoc had always appeared so huge and godlike, all seeing, all knowing, for so many years. But he had died in terror. It had been on the seventh day of the Armada. Blackthorne was commanding a hundred-ton gaff-rigged ketch out of Portsmouth, running arms and powder and shot and food to Drake’s war galleons off Dover as they harried and tore into the enemy fleet which was beating up the Channel toward Dunkirk where the Spanish legions lay, waiting to transship to conquer England.

The great Spanish fleet had been ripped by storms and by the more vicious, more sleek, more maneuverable warships that Drake and Howard had built.

Blackthorne had been in a swirling attack near Admiral Howard’s flagship Renown when the wind had changed, freshened to gale force, the squalls monstrous, and he had had to decide whether to try to beat to windward to escape the broadside that would burst from the great galleon Santa Cruz just ahead, or to run before the wind alone, through the enemy squadron, the rest of Howard’s ships having already turned about, hacking more northerly.

“Go north to windward!” Alban Caradoc had shouted. He had shipped as second in command. Blackthorne was Captain-Pilot and responsible, and this his first command. Alban Caradoc had insisted on coming to the fight, even though he had no right to be aboard except that he was an Englishman and all Englishmen had the right to be aboard in this darkest time in history.

“Belay there!” Blackthorne had ordered and had swung the tiller southward, heading into the maw of the enemy fleet, knowing the other way would leave them doomed by the guns of the galleon that now towered above them.

So they had gone southerly, racing before the wind, through the galleons. The three-deck cannonade of the Santa Cruz passed safely overhead and he got off two broadsides into her, flea bites to so huge a vessel, and then they were scudding through the center of the enemy. The galleons on either side did not wish to fire at this lone ship, for their broadsides might have damaged each other, so the guns stayed silent. Then his ship was through and escaping when a three-deck cannonade from the Madre de Dios straddled them. Both their masts careened away like arrows, men enmeshed in the rigging. Half the starboard main deck had vanished, the dead and the dying everywhere.

He had seen Alban Caradoc lying against a shattered gun carriage, so incredibly tiny without legs. He cradled the old seaman whose eyes were almost starting out of his head, his screams hideous. “Oh Christ I don’t want to die don’t want to die, help help me, help me help me, oh Jesus Christ it’s the pain, helllp!” Blackthorne knew there was only one thing he could do for Alban Caradoc. He picked up a belaying pin and smashed down with all his force.

Then, weeks later, he had to tell Felicity that her father was dead. He told her no more than that Alban Caradoc had been killed instantly. He did not tell her he had blood on his hands that would never come off. . . .

Blackthorne and the samurai were walking through a wide winding street now. There were no shops, only houses side by side, each within its own land and high fences, the houses and fences and the road itself all staggeringly clean.

This cleanliness was incredible to Blackthorne because in London and the cities and towns of England—and Europe—offal and night soil and urine were cast into the streets, to be scavenged or allowed to pile up until pedestrians and carts and horses could not pass. Only then would most townships perhaps cleanse themselves. The scavengers of London were great herds of swine that were driven through the main thoroughfares nightly. Mostly the rats and the packs of wild dogs and cats and fires did the cleansing of London. And the flies.

But Osaka was so different. How do they do it? he asked himself. No pot holes, no piles of horse dung, no wheel ruts, no filth or refuse of any sort. Just hard-packed earth, swept and clean. Walls of wood and houses of wood, sparkling and neat. And where are the packs of beggars and cripples that fester every township in Christendom? And the gangs of footpads and wild youths that would inevitably be skulking in the shadows?

The people they passed bowed politely, some knelt. Kaga-men hurried along with palanquins or the one-passenger kagas. Parties of samurai—Grays, never Browns—walked the streets carelessly.

They were walking a shop-lined street when his legs gave out. He toppled heavily and landed on his hands and knees.

The samurai helped him up but, for the moment, his strength had gone and he could walk no further.

“Gomen nasai, dozo ga matsu”—I’m sorry, please wait—he said, his legs cramped. He rubbed his knotted calf muscles and blessed Friar Domingo for the priceless things that the man had taught him.

The samurai leader looked down at him and spoke at length.

“Gomen nasai, nihon go ga hanase-masen”—I’m sorry, I don’t speak Japanese, Blackthorne replied, slowly but clearly, “Dozo, ga matsu.”

“Ah! So desu, Anjin-san. Wakarimasu,” the man said, understanding him. He gave a short sharp command and one of the samurai hurried away. After a while Blackthorne got up, tried to hobble along, but the leader of the samurai said “Iyé” and motioned him to wait.

Soon the samurai came back with four semi-naked kaga-men and their kaga. Samurai showed Blackthorne how to recline in it and to hold on to the strap that hung from the central pole.

The party set off again. Soon Blackthorne recovered his strength and preferred walking again, but he knew he was still weak. I’ve got to get some rest, he thought. I’ve no reserve. I must get a bath and some food. Real food.

Now they were climbing wide steps that joined one street to another and entered a new residential section that skirted a substantial wood with tall trees and paths through it. Blackthorne found it vastly enjoyable to be out of the streets, the well-tended sward soft underfoot, the track wandering through the trees.

When they were deep in the wood, another party of thirty-odd Grays approached from around a curve ahead. As they came alongside, they stopped, and after the usual ceremonial of their captains greeting each other, all their eyes turned on Blackthorne. There was a volley of questions and answers and then, as these men began to reassemble to leave, their leader calmly pulled out his sword and impaled the leader of Blackthorne’s samurai. Simultaneously the new group fell on the rest of Blackthorne’s samurai. The ambush was so sudden and so well planned that all ten Grays were dead almost at the same instant. Not one had even had time to draw his sword.

The kaga-men were on their knees, horrified, their foreheads pressed into the grass. Blackthorne stood beside them. The captain-samurai, a heavyset man with a large paunch, sent sentries to either end of the track. Others were collecting the swords of the dead men. During all of this, the men paid Blackthorne no attention at all, until he began to back away. Immediately there was a hissing command from the captain which clearly meant to stay where he was.

At another command all these new Grays stripped off their uniform kimonos. Underneath they wore a motley collection of rags and ancient kimonos. All pulled on masks that were already tied around their necks. One man collected the gray uniforms and vanished with them into the woods.

They must be bandits, Blackthorne thought. Why else the masks? What do they want with me?

The bandits chattered quietly among themselves, watching him as they cleaned their swords on the clothes of the dead samurai.

“Anjin-san? Hai?” The captain’s eyes above the cloth mask were round and jet and piercing.

“Hai,” Blackthorne replied, his skin crawling.

The man pointed at the ground, clearly telling him not to move. “Wakarimasu ka?”

“Hai.”

They looked him up and down. Then one of their outpost sentries—no longer gray-uniformed but masked, like all of them—came out of the bushes for an instant, a hundred paces away. He waved and vanished again.

Immediately the men surrounded Blackthorne, preparing to leave. The bandit captain put his eyes on the kaga-men, who shivered like dogs of a cruel master and put their heads deeper into the grass.

Then the bandit leader barked an order. The four slowly raised their heads with disbelief. Again the same command and they bowed and groveled and backed away; then as one, they took to their heels and vanished into the undergrowth.

The bandit smiled contemptuously and motioned Blackthorne to begin walking back toward the city.

He went with them, helplessly. There was no running away.

They were almost to the edge of the wood when they stopped. There were noises ahead and another party of thirty samurai rounded the bend. Browns and Grays, the Browns the vanguard, their leader in a palanquin, a few pack horses following. They stopped immediately. Both groups moved into skirmish positions, eyeing each other hostilely, seventy paces between them. The bandit leader walked into the space between, his movements jerky, and shouted angrily at the other samurai, pointing at Blackthorne and then farther back to where the ambush had taken place. He tore out his sword, held it threateningly on high, obviously telling the other party to get out of the way.

All the swords of his men sang out of their scabbards. At his order one of the bandits stationed himself behind Blackthorne, his sword raised and readied, and again the leader harangued the opposition.

Nothing happened for a moment, then Blackthorne saw the man in the palanquin get down and he instantly recognized him. It was Kasigi Yabu. Yabu shouted back at the bandit leader but this man shook his sword furiously, ordering them out of the way. His tirade stopped with finality. Then Yabu gave a curt order, and charged with a screaming battle cry, limping slightly, sword high, his men rushing with him, Grays not far behind.

Blackthorne dropped to escape the sword blow that would have cut him in half, but the blow was ill-timed and the bandit leader turned and fled into the undergrowth, his men following.

The Browns and the Grays were quickly alongside Blackthorne, who scrambled to his feet. Some of the samurai charged after the bandits into the bushes, others ran up the track, and the rest scattered protectively. Yabu stopped at the edge of the brush, shouted orders imperiously, then came back slowly, his limp more pronounced.

“So desu, Anjin-san,” he said, panting from his exertion.

“So desu, Kasigi Yabu-san,” Blackthorne replied, using the same phrase which meant something like “well” or “oh really” or “is that the truth.” He pointed in the direction that the bandits had run away. “Domo.” He bowed politely, equal to equal, and said another blessing for Friar Domingo. “Gomen nasai, nihon go ga hanase-masen”—I’m sorry, I can’t speak Japanese.

“Hai,” Yabu said, not a little impressed, and added something that Blackthorne did not understand.

“Tsuyaku ga imasu ka?” Blackthorne asked. Do you have an interpreter?

“Iyé, Anjin-san. Gomen nasai.”

Blackthorne felt a little easier. Now he could communicate directly. His vocabulary was sparse, but it was a beginning.

Eeeee, I wish I did have an interpreter, Yabu was thinking fervently. By the Lord Buddha!

I’d like to know what happened when you met Toranaga, Anjin-san, what questions he asked and what you answered, what you told him about the village and guns and cargo and ship and galley and about Rodrigu. I’d like to know everything that was said, and how it was said, and where you’ve been and why you’re here. Then I’d have an idea of what was in Toranaga’s mind, the way he’s thinking. Then I could plan what I’m going to tell him today. As it is now, I’m helpless.

Why did Toranaga see you immediately when we arrived, and not me? Why no word or orders from him since we docked until today, other than the obligatory, polite greeting and “I look forward with pleasure to seeing you shortly”? Why has he sent for me today? Why has our meeting been postponed twice? Was it because of something you said? Or Hiro-matsu? Or is it just a normal delay caused by all his other worries?

Oh, yes, Toranaga, you’ve got almost insurmountable problems. Ishido’s influence is spreading like fire. And do you know about Lord Onoshi’s treachery yet? Do you know that Ishido has offered me Ikawa Jikkyu’s head and province if I secretly join him now?

Why did you pick today to send for me? Which good kami put me here to save the Anjin-san’s life, only to taunt me because I can’t talk directly to him, or even through someone else, to find the key to your secret lock? Why did you put him into prison for execution? Why did Ishido want him out of prison? Why did the bandits try to capture him for ransom? Ransom from whom? And why is the Anjin-san still alive? That bandit should have easily cut him in half.

Yabu noticed the deeply etched lines that had not been in Blackthorne’s face the first time he had seen him. He looks starved, thought Yabu. He’s like a wild dog. But not one of the pack, the leader of the pack, neh?

Oh yes, Pilot, I’d give a thousand koku for a trustworthy interpreter right now.

I’m going to be your master. You’re going to build my ships and train my men. I have to manipulate Toranaga somehow. If I can’t, it doesn’t matter. In my next life I’ll be better prepared.

“Good dog!” Yabu said aloud to Blackthorne and smiled slightly. “All you need is a firm hand, a few bones, and a few whippings. First I’ll deliver you to Lord Toranaga—after you’ve been bathed. You stink, Lord Pilot!”

Blackthorne did not understand the words, but he sensed friendliness in them and saw Yabu’s smile. He smiled back. “Wakarimasen”—I don’t understand.

“Hai, Anjin-san.”

The daimyo turned away and glanced after the bandits. He cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted. Instantly all the Browns returned to him. The chief samurai of the Grays was standing in the center of the track and he too called off the chase. None of the bandits were brought back.

When this captain of the Grays came up to Yabu there was much argument and pointing to the city and to the castle, and obvious disagreement between them.

At length Yabu overrode him, his hand on his sword, and motioned Blackthorne to get into the palanquin.

“Iyé,” the captain said.

The two men were beginning to square up to one another and the Grays and the Browns shifted nervously.

“Anjin-san desu shūjin Toranaga-sama . . .”

Blackthorne caught a word here, another there. Watakushi meant “I,” hitachi added meant “we,” shūjin meant “prisoner.” And then he remembered what Rodrigues had said, so he shook his head and interrupted sharply. “Shūjin, iyé! Watakushi wa Anjin-san!”

Both men stared at him.

Blackthorne broke the silence and added in halting Japanese, knowing the words to be ungrammatical and childishly spoken, but hoping they would be understood, “I friend. Not prisoner. Understand please. Friend. So sorry, friend want bath. Bath, understand? Tired. Hungry. Bath.” He pointed to the castle donjon. “Go there! Now, please. Lord Toranaga one, Lord Ishido two. Go now.”

And with added imperiousness on the last “ima” he got awkwardly into the palanquin and lay down on the cushions, his feet sticking far out.

Then Yabu laughed, and everyone joined in.

“Ah so, Anjin-sama!” Yabu said with a mocking bow.

“Iyé, Yabu-sama. Anjin-san,” Blackthorne corrected him contentedly. Yes, you bastard. I know a thing or two now. But I haven’t forgotten about you. And soon I’ll be walking on your grave.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

“Perhaps it would have been better to consult me before removing my prisoner from my jurisdiction, Lord Ishido,” Toranaga was saying.

“The barbarian was in the common prison with common people. Naturally I presumed you’d no further interest in him, otherwise I wouldn’t have had him taken out of there. Of course, I never meant to interfere with your private affairs.” Ishido was outwardly calm and deferential but inside he was seething. He knew that he had been trapped into an indiscretion. It was true that he should have asked Toranaga first. Ordinary politeness demanded it. Even that would not have mattered at all if he still had the barbarian in his power, in his quarters; he would simply have handed over the foreigner at his leisure, if and when Toranaga had asked for him. But for some of his men to have been intercepted and ignominiously killed, and then for the daimyo Yabu and some of Toranaga’s men to have taken physical possession of the barbarian from more of his men changed the position completely. He had lost face, whereas his whole strategy for Toranaga’s public destruction was to put Toranaga into precisely that position. “Again I apologize.”

Toranaga glanced at Hiro-matsu, the apology music to their ears. Both men knew how much inner bleeding it had cost Ishido. They were in the great audience room. By prior agreement, the two antagonists had only five guards present, men of guaranteed reliability. The rest were waiting outside.

Yabu was also waiting outside. And the barbarian was being cleaned. Good, Toranaga thought, feeling very pleased with himself. He put his mind on Yabu briefly and decided not to see him today after all, but to continue to play him like a fish. So he asked Hiro-matsu to send him away and turned again to Ishido. “Of course your apology is accepted. Fortunately no harm was done.”

“Then I may take the barbarian to the Heir—as soon as he’s presentable?”

“I’ll send him as soon as I’ve finished with him.”

“May I ask when that will be? The Heir was expecting him this morning.”

“We shouldn’t be too concerned about that, you and I, neh? Yaemon’s only seven. I’m sure a seven-year-old boy can possess himself with patience. Neh? Patience is a form of discipline and requires practice. Doesn’t it? I’ll explain the misunderstanding myself. I’m giving him another swimming lesson this morning.”

“Oh?”

“Yes. You should learn to swim too, Lord Ishido. It’s excellent exercise and could come in very useful during war. All my samurai can swim. I insist that all learn that art.”

“Mine spend their time practicing archery, swordsmanship, riding, and shooting.”

“Mine add poetry, penmanship, flower arranging, the cha-no-yu ceremony. Samurai should be well versed in the arts of peace to be strong for the arts of war.”

“Most of my men are already more than proficient in those arts,” Ishido said, conscious that his own writing was poor and his learning limited. “Samurai are birthed for war. I understand war very well. That is enough at the moment. That and obedience to our Master’s will.”

“Yaemon’s swimming lesson is at the Hour of the Horse.” The day and the night were each split into six equal parts. The day began with the Hour of the Hare, from 5 A.M. to 7 A.M., then the Dragon, from 7 A.M. to 9 A.M. The hours of the Snake, Horse, Goat, Monkey, Cock, Dog, Boar, Rat and Ox followed, and the cycle ended with the Hour of the Tiger between 3 A.M. and 5 A.M. “Would you like to join the lesson?”

“Thank you, no. I’m too old to change my ways,” Ishido said thinly.

“I hear the captain of your men was ordered to commit seppuku.”

“Naturally. The bandits should have been caught. At least one of them should have been caught. Then we would have found the others.”

“I’m astounded that such carrion could operate so close to the castle.”

“I agree. Perhaps the barbarian could describe them.”

“What would a barbarian know?” Toranaga laughed. “As to the bandits, they were ronin, weren’t they? Ronin are plentiful among your men. Inquiries there might prove fruitful. Neh?”

“Inquiries are being pressed. In many directions.” Ishido passed over the veiled sneer about ronin, the masterless, almost outcast mercenary samurai who had, in their thousands, flocked to the Heir’s banner when Ishido had whispered it abroad that he, on behalf of the Heir and the mother of the Heir, would accept their fidelity, would—incredibly—forgive and forget their indiscretions or past, and would, in the course of time, repay their loyalty with a Taikō’s lavishness. Ishido knew that it had been a brilliant move. It gave him an enormous pool of trained samurai to draw upon; it guaranteed loyalty, for ronin knew they would never get another such chance; it brought into his camp all the angry ones, many of whom had been made ronin by Toranaga’s conquests and those of his allies. And lastly, it removed a danger to the realm—an increase in the bandit population—for almost the only supportable way of life open to a samurai unlucky enough to become ronin was to become a monk or bandit.

“There are many things I don’t understand about this ambush,” Ishido said, his voice tinged with venom. “Yes. Why, for instance, should bandits try to capture this barbarian for ransom? There are plenty of others in the city, vastly more important. Isn’t that what the bandit said? It was ransom he wanted. Ransom from whom? What’s the barbarian’s value? None. And how did they know where he would be? It was only yesterday that I gave the order to bring him to the Heir, thinking it would amuse the boy. Very curious.”

“Very,” Toranaga said.

“Then there’s the coincidence of Lord Yabu being in the vicinity with some of your men and some of mine at that exact time. Very curious.”

“Very. Of course he was there because I had sent for him, and your men were there because we agreed—at your suggestion—that it was good policy and a way to begin to heal the breach between us, that your men accompany mine wherever they go while I’m on this official visit.”

“It is also strange that the bandits who were sufficiently brave and well organized to slay the first ten without a fight acted like Koreans when our men arrived. The two sides were equally matched. Why didn’t the bandits fight, or take the barbarian into the hills immediately, and not stupidly stay on a main path to the castle? Very curious.”

“Very. I’ll certainly be taking double guards with me tomorrow when I go hawking. Just in case. It’s disconcerting to know bandits are so close to the castle. Yes. Perhaps you’d like to hunt, too? Fly one of your hawks against mine? I’ll be hunting the hills to the north.”

“Thank you, no. I’ll be busy tomorrow. Perhaps the day after? I’ve ordered twenty thousand men to sweep all the forests, woods, and glades around Osaka. There won’t be a bandit within twenty ri in ten days. That I can promise you.”

Toranaga knew that Ishido was using the bandits as an excuse to increase the number of his troops in the vicinity. If he says twenty, he means fifty. The neck of the trap is closing, he told himself. Why so soon? What new treachery has happened? Why is Ishido so confident? “Good. Then the day after tomorrow, Lord Ishido. You’ll keep your men away from my hunting area? I wouldn’t want my game disturbed,” he added thinly.

“Of course. And the barbarian?”

“He is and always was my property. And his ship. But you can have him when I’ve finished with him. And afterwards you can send him to the execution ground if you wish.”

“Thank you. Yes, I’ll do that.” Ishido closed his fan and slipped it into his sleeve. “He’s unimportant. What is important and the reason for my coming to see you is that—oh, by the way, I heard that the lady, my mother, is visiting the Johji monastery.”

“Oh? I would have thought the season’s a little late for looking at cherry blossoms. Surely they’d be well past their prime now?”

“I agree. But then if she wishes to see them, why not? You can never tell with the elderly, they have minds of their own and see things differently, neh? But her health isn’t good. I worry about her. She has to be very careful—she takes a chill very easily.”

“It’s the same with my mother. You have to watch the health of the old.” Toranaga made a mental note to send an immediate message to remind the abbot to watch over the old woman’s health very carefully. If she were to die in the monastery the repercussions would be terrible. He would be shamed before the Empire. All daimyos would realize that in the chess game for power he had used a helpless old woman, the mother of his enemy, as a pawn, and failed in his responsibility to her. Taking a hostage was, in truth, a dangerous ploy.

Ishido had become almost blind with rage when he had heard that his revered mother was in the Toranaga stronghold at Nagoya. Heads had fallen. He had immediately brought forward plans for Toranaga’s destruction, and had taken a solemn resolve to invest Nagoya and obliterate the daimyo, Kazamaki—in whose charge she had ostensibly been—the moment hostilities began. Last, a private message had been sent to the abbot through intermediaries, that unless she was brought safely out of the monastery within twenty-four hours, Naga, the only son of Toranaga within reach and any of his women that could be caught, would, unhappily, wake up in the leper village, having been fed by them, watered by them, and serviced by one of their whores. Ishido knew that while his mother was in Toranaga’s power he had to tread lightly. But he had made it clear that if she was not let go, he would set the Empire to the torch. “How is the lady, your mother, Lord Toranaga?” he asked politely.

“She’s very well, thank you.” Toranaga allowed his happiness to show, both at the thought of his mother and at the knowledge of Ishido’s impotent fury. “She’s remarkably fit for seventy-four. I only hope I’m as strong as she is when I’m her age.”

You’re fifty-eight, Toranaga, but you’ll never reach fifty-nine, Ishido promised himself. “Please give her my best wishes for a continued happy life. Thank you again and I’m sorry that you were inconvenienced.” He bowed with great politeness, and then, holding in his soaring pleasure with difficulty, he added, “Oh, yes, the important matter I wanted to see you about was that the last formal meeting of the Regents has been postponed. We do not meet tonight at sunset.”

Toranaga kept the smile on his face but inside he was rocked. “Oh? Why?”

“Lord Kiyama’s sick. Lord Sugiyama and Lord Onoshi have agreed to the delay. So did I. A few days are unimportant, aren’t they, on such important matters?”

“We can have the meeting without Lord Kiyama.”

“We have agreed that we should not.” Ishido’s eyes were taunting.

“Formally?”

“Here are our four seals.”

Toranaga was seething. Any delay jeopardized him immeasurably. Could he barter Ishido’s mother for an immediate meeting? No, because it would take too much time for the orders to go back and forth and he would have conceded a very great advantage for nothing. “When will the meeting be?”

“I understand Lord Kiyama should be well tomorrow, or perhaps the next day.”

“Good. I’ll send my personal physician to see him.”

“I’m sure he’d appreciate that. But his own has forbidden any visitors. The disease might be contagious, neh?”

“What disease?”

“I don’t know, my Lord. That’s what I was told.”

“Is the doctor a barbarian?”

“Yes. I understand the chief doctor of the Christians. A Christian doctor-priest for a Christian daimyo. Ours are not good enough for so—so important a daimyo,” Ishido said with a sneer.

Toranaga’s concern increased. If the doctor were Japanese, there were many things he could do. But with a Christian doctor—inevitably a Jesuit priest—well, to go against one of them, or even to interfere with one of them, might alienate all Christian daimyos, which he could not afford to risk. He knew his friendship with Tsukku-san would not help him against the Christian daimyos Onoshi or Kiyama. It was in Christian interests to present a united front. Soon he would have to approach them, the barbarian priests, to make an arrangement, to find out the price of their cooperation. If Ishido truly has Onoshi and Kiyama with him—and all the Christian daimyos would follow these two if they acted jointly—then I’m isolated, he thought. Then my only way left is Crimson Sky.

“I’ll visit Lord Kiyama the day after tomorrow,” he said, naming a deadline.

“But the contagion? I’d never forgive myself if anything happened to you while you’re here in Osaka, my Lord. You are our guest, in my care. I must insist you do not.”

“You may rest comfortably, my Lord Ishido, the contagion that will topple me has not yet been born, neh? You forget the soothsayer’s prediction.” When the Chinese embassy had come to the Taikō six years ago to try to settle the Japanese-Korean-Chinese war, a famous astrologer had been among them. This Chinese had forecast many things that had since come true. At one of the Taikō’s incredibly lavish ceremonial dinners, the Taikō had asked the soothsayer to predict the deaths of certain of his counselors. The astrologer had said that Toranaga would die by the sword when he was middle-aged. Ishido, the famous conqueror of Korea—or Chosen as Chinese called that land—would die undiseased, an old man, his feet firm in the earth, the most famous man of his day. But the Taikō himself would die in his bed, respected, revered, of old age, leaving a healthy son to follow him. This had so pleased the Taikō, who was still childless, that he had decided to let the embassy return to China and not kill them as he had planned for their previous insolences. Instead of negotiating for peace as he had expected, the Chinese Emperor, through this embassy, had merely offered to “invest him as King of the Country of Wa,” as the Chinese called Japan. So he had sent them home alive and not in the very small boxes that had already been prepared for them, and renewed the war against Korea and China.

“No, Lord Toranaga, I haven’t forgotten,” Ishido said, remembering very well. “But contagion can be uncomfortable. Why be uncomfortable? You could catch the pox like your son Noboru, so sorry—or become a leper like Lord Onoshi. He’s still young, but he suffers. Oh, yes, he suffers.”

Momentarily Toranaga was thrown off balance. He knew the ravages of both diseases too well. Noboru, his eldest living son, had caught the Chinese pox when he was seventeen—ten years ago—and all the cures of the doctors, Japanese, Chinese, Korean, and Christian, had not managed to allay the disease which had already defaced him but would not kill him. If I become all powerful, Toranaga promised himself, perhaps I can stamp out that disease. Does it really come from women? How do women get it? How can it be cured? Poor Noboru, Toranaga thought. Except for the pox you’d be my heir, because you’re a brilliant soldier, a better administrator than Sudara, and very cunning. You must have done many bad things in a previous life to have had to carry so many burdens in this one.

“By the Lord Buddha, I’d not wish either of those on anyone,” he said.

“I agree,” Ishido said, believing Toranaga would wish them both on him if he could. He bowed again and left.

Toranaga broke the silence. “Well?”

Hiro-matsu said, “If you stay or leave now, it’s the same—disaster, because now you’ve been betrayed and you are isolated, Sire. If you stay for the meeting—you won’t get a meeting for a week—Ishido will have mobilized his legions around Osaka and you’ll never escape, whatever happens to the Lady Ochiba in Yedo, and clearly Ishido’s decided to risk her to get you. It’s obvious you’re betrayed and the four Regents will make a decision against you. A four against one vote in Council impeaches you. If you leave, they’ll still issue whatever orders Ishido wishes. You’re bound to uphold a four-to-one decision. You swore to do it. You cannot go against your solemn word as a Regent.”

“I agree.”

The silence held.

Hiro-matsu waited, with growing anxiety. “What are you going to do?”

“First I’m going to have my swim,” Toranaga said with surprising joviality. “Then I’ll see the barbarian.”

The woman walked quietly through Toranaga’s private garden in the castle toward the little thatched hut that was set so prettily in a glade of maples. Her silk kimono and obi were the most simple yet the most elegant that the most famous craftsmen in China could make. She wore her hair in the latest Kyoto fashion, piled high and held in place with long silver pins. A colorful sunshade protected her very fair skin. She was tiny, just five feet, but perfectly proportioned. Around her neck was a thin golden chain, and hanging from it, a small golden crucifix.

Kiri was waiting on the veranda of the hut. She sat heavily in the shade, her buttocks overflowing her cushion, and she watched the woman approach along the steppingstones which had been set so carefully into the moss that they seemed to have grown there.

“You’re more beautiful than ever, younger than ever, Toda Mariko-san,” Kiri said without jealousy, returning her bow.

“I wish that were true, Kiritsubo-san,” Mariko replied, smiling. She knelt on a cushion, unconsciously arranging her skirts into a delicate pattern.

“It’s true. When did we last meet? Two—three years ago? You haven’t changed a hair’s breadth in twenty years. It must be almost twenty years since we first met. Do you remember? It was at a feast Lord Goroda gave. You were fourteen, just married and rare.”

“And frightened.”

“No, not you. Not frightened.”

“It was sixteen years ago, Kiritsubo-san, not twenty. Yes, I remember it very well.” Too well, she thought, heartsick. That was the day my brother whispered that he believed our revered father was going to be revenged on his liege Lord, the Dictator Goroda, that he was going to assassinate him. His liege Lord!

Oh, yes, Kiri-san, I remember that day and that year and that hour. It was the beginning of all the horror. I’ve never admitted to anyone that I knew what was going to happen before it happened. I never warned my husband, or Hiro-matsu, his father—both faithful vassals of the Dictator—that treachery was planned by one of his greatest generals. Worse, I never warned Goroda my liege Lord. So I failed in my duty to my liege Lord, to my husband, to his family, which because of my marriage is my only family. Oh, Madonna, forgive me my sin, help me to cleanse myself. I kept silent to protect my beloved father, who desecrated the honor of a thousand years. O my God, O Lord Jesus of Nazareth, save this sinner from eternal damnation. . . .

“It was sixteen years ago,” Mariko said serenely.

“I was carrying Lord Toranaga’s child that year,” Kiri said, and she thought, if Lord Goroda had not been foully betrayed and murdered by your father, my Lord Toranaga would never have had to fight the battle of Nagakudé, I would never have caught a chill there and my child would never have miscarried. Perhaps, she told herself. And perhaps not. It was just karma, my karma, whatever happened, neh? “Ah, Mariko-san,” she said, no malice in her, “that’s so long ago, it almost seems like another lifetime. But you’re ageless. Why can’t I have your figure and beautiful hair, and walk so daintily?” Kiri laughed. “The answer’s simple: Because I eat too much!”

“What does it matter? You bask in Lord Toranaga’s favor, neh? So you’re fulfilled. You’re wise and warm and whole and happy in yourself.”

“I’d rather be thin and still able to eat and be in favor,” Kiri said. “But you? You’re not happy in yourself?”

“I’m only an instrument for my Lord Buntaro to play upon. If the Lord, my husband, is happy, then of course I’m happy. His pleasure’s my pleasure. It’s the same with you,” Mariko said.

“Yes. But not the same.” Kiri moved her fan, the golden silk catching the afternoon sun. I’m so glad I’m not you, Mariko, with all your beauty and brilliance and courage and learning. No! I couldn’t bear being married to that hateful, ugly, arrogant, violent man for a day, let alone seventeen years. He’s so opposite to his father, Lord Hiro-matsu. Now, there’s a wonderful man. But Buntaro? How do fathers have such terrible sons? I wish I had a son, oh, how I wish! But you, Mariko, how have you borne such ill treatment all these years? How have you endured your tragedies? It seems impossible that there’s no shadow of them on your face or in your soul. “You’re an amazing woman, Toda Buntaro Mariko-san.”

“Thank you, Kiritsubo Toshiko-san. Oh Kiri-san, it’s so good to see you.”

“And you. How is your son?”

“Beautiful—beautiful—beautiful. Saruji’s fifteen now, can you imagine it? Tall and strong and just like his father, and Lord Hiro-matsu has given Saruji his own fief and he’s—did you know that he’s going to be married?”

“No, to whom?”

“She’s a granddaughter of Lord Kiyama’s. Lord Toranaga’s arranged it so well. A very fine match for our family. I only wish the girl herself was—was more attentive to my son, more worthy. Do you know she . . .” Mariko laughed, a little shyly. “There, I sound like every mother-in-law that’s ever been. But I think you’d agree, she isn’t really trained yet.”

“You’ll have time to do that.”

“Oh, I hope so. Yes. I’m lucky I don’t have a mother-in-law. I don’t know what I’d do.”

“You’d enchant her and train her as you train all your household, neh?”

“Eeeee, I wish that was also true.” Mariko’s hands were motionless in her lap. She watched a dragonfly settle, then dart away. “My husband ordered me here. Lord Toranaga wishes to see me?”

“Yes. He wants you to interpret for him.”

Mariko was startled. “With whom?”

“The new barbarian.”

“Oh! But what about Father Tsukku-san? Is he sick?”

“No.” Kiri played with her fan. “I suppose it’s left to us to wonder why Lord Toranaga wants you here and not the priest, as in the first interview. Why is it, Mariko-san, that we have to guard all the monies, pay all the bills, train all the servants, buy all the food and household goods—even most times the clothes of our Lords—but they don’t really tell us anything, do they?”

“Perhaps that’s what our intuition’s for.”

“Probably.” Kiri’s gaze was level and friendly. “But I’d imagine that this would all be a very private matter. So you would swear by your Christian God not to divulge anything about this meeting. To anyone.”

The day seemed to lose its warmth.

“Of course,” Mariko said uneasily. She understood very clearly that Kiri meant she was to say nothing to her husband or to his father or to her confessor. As her husband had ordered her here, obviously at Lord Toranaga’s request, her duty to her liege Lord Toranaga overcame her duty to her husband, so she could withhold information freely from him. But to her confessor? Could she say nothing to him? And why was she the interpreter and not Father Tsukku-san? She knew that once more, against her will, she was involved in the kind of political intrigue that had bedeviled her life, and wished again that her family was not ancient and Fujimoto, that she had never been born with the gift of tongues that had allowed her to learn the almost incomprehensible Portuguese and Latin languages, and that she had never been born at all. But then, she thought, I would never have seen my son, nor learned about the Christ Child or His Truth, or about the Life Everlasting.

It is your karma, Mariko, she told herself sadly, just karma. “Very well, Kiri-san.” Then she added with foreboding, “I swear by the Lord my God, that I will not divulge anything said here today, or at any time I am interpreting for my liege Lord.”

“I would also imagine that you might have to exclude part of your own feelings to translate exactly what is said. This new barbarian is strange and says peculiar things. I’m sure my Lord picked you above all possibilities for special reasons.”

“I am Lord Toranaga’s to do with as he wishes. He need never have any fear for my loyalty.”

“That was never in question, Lady. I meant no harm.”

A spring rain came and speckled the petals and the mosses and the leaves, and disappeared leaving ever more beauty in its wake.

“I would ask a favor, Mariko-san. Would you please put your crucifix under your kimono?”

Mariko’s fingers darted for it defensively. “Why? Lord Toranaga has never objected to my conversion, nor has Lord Hiro-matsu, the head of my clan! My husband has—my husband allows me to keep it and wear it.”

“Yes. But crucifixes send this barbarian mad and my Lord Toranaga doesn’t want him mad, he wants him soothed.”

Blackthorne had never seen anyone so petite. “Konnichi wa,” he said. “Konnichi, Toranaga-sama.” He bowed as a courtier, nodded to the boy who knelt, wide-eyed, beside Toranaga, and to the fat woman who was behind him. They were all on the veranda that encircled the small hut. The hut contained a single small room with rustic screens and hewn beams and thatched roof, and a kitchen area behind. It was set on pilings of wood and raised a foot or so above a carpet of pure white sand. This was a ceremonial Tea House for the cha-no-yu ceremony and built at vast expense with rare materials for that purpose alone, though sometimes, because these houses were isolated, in glades, they were used for trysts and private conversations.

Blackthorne gathered his kimono around him and sat on the cushion that had been placed on the sand below and in front of them. “Gomen nasai, Toranaga-sama, nihon go ga hanase-masen. Tsuyaku go imasu ka?”

“I am your interpreter, senhor,” Mariko said at once, in almost flawless Portuguese. “But you speak Japanese?”

“No, senhorita, just a few words or phrases,” Blackthorne replied, taken aback. He had been expecting Father Alvito to be the interpreter, and Toranaga to be accompanied by samurai and perhaps the daimyo Yabu. But no samurai were near, though many ringed the garden.

“My Lord Toranaga asks where—First, perhaps I should ask if you prefer to speak Latin?”

“Whichever you wish, senhorita.” Like any educated man, Blackthorne could read, write, and speak Latin, because Latin was the only language of learning throughout the civilized world.

Who is this woman? Where did she learn such perfect Portuguese? And Latin? Where else but from the Jesuits, he thought. In one of their schools. Oh, they’re so clever! The first thing they do is build a school.

It was only seventy years ago that Ignatius Loyola had formed the Society of Jesus and now their schools, the finest in Christendom, were spread across the world and their influence bolstered or destroyed kings. They had the ear of the Pope. They had halted the tide of the Reformation and were now winning back huge territories for their Church.

“We will speak Portuguese then,” she was saying. “My Master wishes to know where you learned your ‘few words and phrases’?”

“There was a monk in the prison, senhorita, a Franciscan monk, and he taught me. Things like, ‘food, friend, bath, go, come, true, false, here, there, I, you, please, thank you, want, don’t want, prisoner, yes, no,’ and so on. It’s only a beginning, unfortunately. Would you please tell Lord Toranaga that I’m better prepared now to answer his questions, to help, and more than a little pleased to be out of prison. For which I thank him.”

Blackthorne watched as she turned and spoke to Toranaga. He knew that he would have to speak simply, preferably in short sentences, and be careful because, unlike the priest who interpreted simultaneously, this woman waited till he had finished, then gave a synopsis, or a version of what was said—the usual problem of all except the finest interpreters, though even they, as with the Jesuit, allowed their own personalities to influence what was said, voluntarily or involuntarily. The bath and massage and food and two hours of sleep had immeasurably refreshed him. The bath attendants, all women of girth and strength, had pummeled him and shampooed his hair, braiding it in a neat queue, and the barber had trimmed his beard. He had been given a clean loincloth and kimono and sash, and tabi and thongs for his feet. The futons on which he had slept had been so clean, like the room. It had all seemed dreamlike and, waking from dreamlessness, he had wondered momentarily which was the dream, this or the prison.

He had waited impatiently, hoping that he would be guided again to Toranaga, planning what to say and what to reveal, how to outwit Father Alvito and how to gain ascendance over him. And over Toranaga. For he knew, beyond all doubt, because of what Friar Domingo had told him about the Portuguese, and Japanese politics and trade, that he could now help Toranaga, who, in return, could easily give him the riches he desired.

And now, with no priest to fight, he felt even more confident. I need just a little luck and patience.

Toranaga was listening intently to the doll-like interpreter.

Blackthorne thought, I could pick her up with one hand and if I put both hands around her waist, my fingers would touch. How old would she be? Perfect! Married? No wedding ring. Ah, that’s interesting. She’s wearing no jewelry of any kind. Except the silver pins in her hair. Neither is the other woman, the fat one.

He searched his memory. The other two women in the village had worn no jewelry either, and he had not seen any on any of Mura’s household. Why?

And who’s the fat woman? Toranaga’s wife? Or the boy’s nursemaid? Would the lad be Toranaga’s son? Or grandson, perhaps? Friar Domingo had said that Japanese had only one wife at one time but as many consorts—legal mistresses—as they wished.

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 truth about everything, what is fact and what would be your opinion.”

“I’d be glad to tell him. It might take a little time.”

“My Master has the time, he says.”

Blackthorne looked at Toranaga. “Wakarimasu.”

“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, north to south, laid flat and stretched a bit at the top and bottom. A Dutchman called Mercator invented the way to do this accurately twenty years ago. It’s the first accurate world map. We can even navigate with it—or his globes.” He had sketched the continents boldly. “This is north and this south, east and west. Japan is here, my country’s on the other side of the world—there. This is all unknown and unexplored . . .” His hand eliminated everything in North America north of a line from Mexico to Newfoundland, everything in South America apart from Peru and a narrow strip of coast land around that continent, then everything north and east of Norway, everything east of Muscovy, all Asia, all inland Africa, everything south of Java and the tip of South America. “We know the coastlines, but little else. The interiors of Africa, the Americas, and Asia are almost entirely mysteries.” He stopped to let her catch up.

She was translating more easily now and he felt their interest growing. The boy stirred and moved a little closer.

“The Heir wishes to know where we are on the map.”

“Here. This is Cathay, China, I think. I don’t know how far we are off the coast. It took me two years to sail from here to here.” Toranaga and the fat woman craned to see better.

“The Heir says but why are we so small on your map?”

“It’s just a scale, senhora. On this continent, from Newfoundland here, to Mexico here, is almost a thousand leagues, each of three miles. From here to Yedo is about a hundred leagues.”

There was a silence, then they talked amongst themselves.

“Lord Toranaga wishes you to show him on the map how you came to Japan.”

“This way. This is Magellan’s Pass—or Strait—here, at the tip of South America. It’s called that after the Portuguese navigator who discovered it, eighty years ago. Since then the Portuguese and Spanish have kept the way secret, for their exclusive use. We were the first outsiders through the Pass. I had one of their secret rutters, a type of map, but even so, I still had to wait six months to get through because the winds were against us.”

She translated what he had said. Toranaga looked up, disbelieving.

“My Master says you are mistaken. All bar—all Portuguese come from the south. That is their route, the only route.”

“Yes. It’s true the Portuguese favor that way—the Cape of Good Hope, we call it—because they have dozens of forts all along these coasts—Africa and India and the Spice Islands—to provision in and winter in. And their galleon-warships patrol and monopolize the sea lanes. However, the Spanish use Magellan’s Pass to get to their Pacific American colonies, and to the Philippines, or they cross here, at the narrow isthmus of Panama, going overland to avoid months of travel. For us it was safer to sail via Magellan’s Strait, otherwise we’d have had to run the gauntlet of all those enemy Portuguese forts. Please tell Lord Toranaga I know the position of many of them now. Most employ Japanese troops, by the way,” he added with emphasis. “The friar who gave me the information in the prison was Spanish and hostile to the Portuguese and hostile to all Jesuits.”

Blackthorne saw an immediate reaction on her face, and when she translated, on Toranaga’s face. Give her time, and keep it simple, he warned himself.

“Japanese troops? You mean samurai?”

“Ronin would describe them, I imagine.”

“You said a ‘secret’ map? My Lord wishes to know how you obtained it.”

“A man named Pieter Suyderhof, from Holland, was the private secretary to the Primate of Goa—that’s the title of the chief Catholic priest and Goa’s the capital of Portuguese India. You know, of course, that the Portuguese are trying to take over that continent by force. As private secretary to this archbishop, who was also the Portuguese Viceroy at the time, all sorts of documents passed through his hands. After many years he obtained some of their rutters—maps—and copied them. These gave the secrets of the way through Magellan’s Pass and also how to get around the Cape of Good Hope, and the shoals and reefs from Goa to Japan via Macao. My rutter was the Magellan one. It was with my papers that I lost from my ship. They are vital to me, and could be of immense value to Lord Toranaga.”

“My Master says that he has sent orders to seek them. Continue please.”

“When Suyderhof returned to Holland, he sold them to the Company of East India Merchants, which was given the monopoly for Far Eastern exploration.”

She was looking at him coldly. “This man was a paid spy?”

“He was paid for his maps, yes. That’s their custom, that’s how they reward a man. Not with a title or land, only money. Holland’s a republic. Of course, senhora, my country and our allies, Holland, are at war with Spain and Portugal and have been for years. You’ll understand, senhora, in war it’s vital to find out your enemies’ secrets.”

Mariko turned and spoke at length.

“My Lord says, why would this archbishop employ an enemy?”

“The story Pieter Suyderhof told was that this archbishop, who was a Jesuit, was interested only in trade. Suyderhof doubled their revenue, so he was ‘cherished.’ He was an extremely clever merchant—Hollanders are usually superior to Portuguese in this—so his credentials weren’t checked very closely. Also many men with blue eyes and fair hair, Germans and other Europeans, are Catholic.” Blackthorne waited till that was translated, then added carefully, “He was chief spy for Holland in Asia, a soldier of the country, and he put some of his people on Portuguese ships. Please tell Lord Toranaga that without Japan’s trade, Portuguese India cannot live for long.”

Toranaga kept his eyes on the map while Mariko talked. There was no reaction to what she had said. Blackthorne wondered if she had translated everything.

Then: “My Master would like a detailed world map, on paper, as soon as possible, with all the Portuguese bases marked, and the numbers of ronin at each. He says please continue.”

Blackthorne knew he had made a giant step forward. But the boy yawned so he decided to change course, still heading for the same harbor. “Our world is not always as it seems. For instance, south of this line, we call it the Equator, the seasons are reversed. When we have summer, they have winter; when we have summer, they’re freezing.”

“Why is that?”

“I don’t know, but it’s true. Now, the way to Japan is through either of these two southern straits. We English, we’re trying to find a northern route, either northeast over the Siberias, or northwest over the Americas. I’ve been as far north as this. The whole land’s perpetual ice and snow here and it’s so cold most of the year that if you don’t wear fur mittens, your fingers’ll freeze in moments. The people who live there are called Laplanders. Their clothes are made out of fur pelts. The men hunt and the women do all the work. Part of the women’s work is to make all the clothes. To do this, most times they have to chew the pelts to soften them before they can stitch them.”

Mariko laughed out loud.

Blackthorne smiled with her, feeling more confident now. “It’s true, senhora. It’s honto.”

“Sorewa honto desu ka?” Toranaga asked impatiently. What’s true?

Through more laughter, she told him what had been said. They also began to laugh.

“I lived among them for almost a year. We were trapped in the ice and had to wait for the thaw. Their food is fish, seals, occasionally polar bears, and whales, which they eat raw. Their greatest delicacy is to eat raw whale blubber.”

“Oh, come now, Anjin-san!”

“It’s true. And they live in small round houses made entirely out of snow and they never bathe.”

“What, never?” she burst out.

He shook his head, and decided not to tell her baths were rare in England, rarer even than in Portugal and Spain, which were warm countries.

She translated this. Toranaga shook his head in disbelief.

“My Master says this is too much of an exaggeration. No one could live without baths. Even uncivilized people.”

“That’s the truth—honto,” he said calmly and raised his hand. “I swear by Jesus of Nazareth and by my soul, I swear it is the truth.”

She watched him in silence. “Everything?”

“Yes. Lord Toranaga wanted the truth. Why should I lie? My life is in his hands. It is easy to prove the truth—no, to be honest, it would be very hard to prove what I’ve said—you’d have to go there and see for yourself. Certainly the Portuguese and Spanish, who are my enemies, won’t support me. But Lord Toranaga asked for the truth. He can trust me to tell it to him.”

Mariko thought a moment. Then she scrupulously translated what he had said. At length:

“Lord Toranaga says, it is unbelievable that any human could live without bathing.”

“Yes. But those are the cold lands. Their habits are different from yours, and mine. For instance, in my country, everyone believes baths are dangerous for your health. My grandmother, Granny Jacoba, used to say, ‘A bath when you’re birthed and another when laid out’ll see thee through the Pearly Gates.’ ”

“That’s very hard to believe.”

“Some of your customs are very hard to believe. But it is true that I’ve had more baths in the short time I’ve been in your country than in as many years before. I admit freely I feel better for them.” He grinned. “I no longer believe baths are dangerous. So I’ve gained by coming here, no?”

After a pause Mariko said, “Yes,” and translated.

Kiri said, “He’s astonishing—astonishing, neh?”

“What’s your judgment of him, Mariko-san?” Toranaga asked.

“I’m convinced he’s telling the truth, or believes he’s telling it. Clearly it would seem that he could, perhaps, have a great value to you, my Lord. We have such a tiny knowledge of the outside world. Is that valuable to you? I don’t know. But it’s almost as though he’s come down from the stars, or up from under the sea. If he’s enemy to the Portuguese and the Spanish, then his information, if it can be trusted, could perhaps be vital to your interests, neh?”

“I agree,” Kiri said.

“What do you think, Yaemon-sama?”

“Me, Uncle? Oh, I think he’s ugly and I don’t like his golden hair and cat’s eyes and he doesn’t look human at all,” the boy said breathlessly. “I’m glad I wasn’t born barbarian like him but samurai like my father, can we go for another swim, please?”

“Tomorrow, Yaemon,” Toranaga said, vexed at not being able to talk directly to the pilot.

While they talked among themselves Blackthorne decided that the time had come. Then Mariko turned to him again.

“My Master asks why were you in the north?”

“I was pilot of a ship. We were trying to find a northeast passage, senhora. Many things I can tell you will sound laughable, I know,” he began. “For instance, seventy years ago the kings of Spain and Portugal signed a solemn treaty that split ownership of the New World, the undiscovered world, between them. As your country falls in the Portuguese half, officially your country belongs to Portugal—Lord Toranaga, you, everyone, this castle and everything in it were given to Portugal.”

“Oh, please, Anjin-san. Pardon me, that’s nonsense!”

“I agree their arrogance is unbelievable. But it’s true.” Immediately she began to translate and Toranaga laughed derisively.

“Lord Toranaga says he could equally well split the heavens between himself and the Emperor of China, neh?”

“Please tell Lord Toranaga, I’m sorry, but that’s not the same,” Blackthorne said, aware that he was on dangerous ground. “This is written into legal documents which give each king the right to claim any non-Catholic land discovered by their subjects and to stamp out the existing government and replace it with Catholic rule.” On the map, his finger traced a line north to south that bisected Brazil. “Everything east of this line is Portugal’s, everything west is Spain’s. Pedro Cabral discovered Brazil in 1500, so now Portugal owns Brazil, has stamped out the native culture and legal rulers, and has become rich from the gold and silver taken out of mines and plundered from native temples. All the rest of the Americas so far discovered is Spanish-owned now—Mexico, Peru, almost this whole south continent. They’ve wiped out the Inca nations, obliterated their culture, and enslaved hundreds of thousands of them. The conquistadores have modern guns—the natives none. With the conquistadores come the priests. Soon a few princes are converted, and enmities used. Then prince is turned against prince and realm swallowed up piecemeal. Now Spain is the richest nation in our world from the Inca and Mexican gold and silver they’ve plundered and sent back to Spain.”

Mariko was solemn now. She had quickly grasped the significance of Blackthorne’s lesson. And so had Toranaga.

“My Master says this is a worthless conversation. How could they give themselves such rights?”

“They didn’t,” Blackthorne said gravely. “The Pope gave them the rights, the Vicar of Christ on earth himself. In return for spreading the word of God.”

“I don’t believe it,” she exclaimed.

“Please translate what I said, senhora. It is honto.”

She obeyed and spoke at length, obviously unsettled. Then:

“My Master—my Master says you are—you are just trying to poison him against your enemies. What is the truth? On your own life, senhor.”

“Pope Alexander VI set the first line of demarcation in 1493,” Blackthorne commenced, blessing Alban Caradoc who had hammered so many facts into him when he was young, and Father Domingo for informing him about Japanese pride and giving him clues to Japanese minds. “In 1506 Pope Julius II sanctioned changes to the Treaty of Tordesillas, signed by Spain and Portugal in 1494, which altered the line a little. Pope Clement VII sanctioned the Treaty of Saragossa in 1529, barely seventy years ago, which drew a second line here”—his finger traced a line of longitude in the sand which cut through the tip of southern Japan. “This gives Portugal the exclusive right to your country, all these countries—from Japan, China to Africa—in the way I have said. To exploit exclusively—by any means—in return for spreading Catholicism.” Again he waited and the woman hesitated, in turmoil, and he could feel Toranaga’s growing irritation at having to wait for her to translate.

Mariko forced her lips to speak and repeated what he had said. Then she listened to Blackthorne again, detesting what she heard. Is this really possible? she asked herself. How could His Holiness say such things? Give our country to the Portuguese? It must be a lie. But the pilot swore by the Lord Jesus.

“The pilot says, Lord,” she began, “in—in the days that these decisions were made by His Holiness the Pope, all their world, even the Anjin-san’s country was Catholic Christian. The schism had not—not yet occurred. So, so these—these papal decisions would, of course, be binding on—on all nations. Even so, he adds that though the Portuguese have exclusivity to exploit Japan, Spain and Portugal are quarreling incessantly about the ownership because of the richness of our trade with China.”

“What’s your opinion, Kiri-san?” Toranaga said, as shocked as the others. Only the boy toyed with his fan uninterestedly.

“He believes he’s telling the truth,” Kiri said. “Yes, I think that. But how to prove it—or part of it?”

“How would you prove it, Mariko-san?” Toranaga asked, most perturbed by Mariko’s reaction to what had been said, but very glad that he had agreed to use her as interpreter.

“I would ask Father Tsukku-san,” she said. “Then, too, I would send someone—a trusted vassal—out into the world to see. Perhaps with the Anjin-san.”

Kiri said, “If the priest does not support these statements, it may not necessarily mean this Anjin-san is lying, neh?” Kiri was pleased that she had suggested using Mariko as an interpreter when Toranaga was seeking an alternative to Tsukku-san. She knew Mariko was to be trusted and that, once Mariko had sworn by her alien God, she would ever be silent under rigorous questioning by any Christian priest. The less those devils know, the better, Kiri thought. And what a treasue of knowledge this barbarian has!

Kiri saw the boy yawn again and was glad of it. The less the child understands the better, she told herself. Then she said, “Why not send for the leader of the Christian priests and ask about these facts? See what he says. Their faces are open, mostly, and they have almost no subtlety.”

Toranaga nodded, his eyes on Mariko. “From what you know about the Southern Barbarians, Mariko-san, would you say that a Pope’s orders would be obeyed?”

“Without doubt.”

“His orders would be considered as though the voice of the Christian God was speaking?”

“Yes.”

“Would all Catholic Christians obey his orders?”

“Yes.”

“Even our Christians here?”

“I would think, yes.”

“Even you?”

“Yes, Sire. If it was a direct order from His Holiness to me personally. Yes, for my soul’s salvation.” Her gaze was firm. “But until that time I will obey no man but my liege lord, the head of my family, or my husband. I am Japanese, a Christian yes, but first I am samurai.”

“I think it would be good then, that this Holiness stays away from our shores.” Toranaga thought for a moment. Then he decided what to do with the barbarian, Anjin-san. “Tell him . . .” He stopped. All their eyes went to the path and to the elderly woman who approached. She wore the cowled habit of a Buddhist nun. Four Grays were with her. The Grays stopped and she came on alone.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

They all bowed low. Toranaga noticed that the barbarian copied him and did not get up or stare, which all barbarians except Tsukku-san would have done, according to their own custom. The pilot learns quickly, he thought, his mind still blazing from what he had heard. Ten thousand questions were crowding him, but, according to his discipline, he channeled them away temporarily to concentrate on the present danger.

Kiri had scurried to give the old woman her cushion and helped her to sit, then knelt behind her, in motionless attendance.

“Thank you, Kiritsubo-san,” the woman said, returning their bow. Her name was Yodoko. She was the widow of the Taikō and now, since his death, a Buddhist nun. “I’m sorry to come uninvited and to interrupt you, Lord Toranaga.”

“You’re never unwelcome or uninvited, Yodoko-sama.”

“Thank you, yes, thank you.” She glanced at Blackthorne and squinted to try to see better. “But I think I did interrupt. I can’t see who—Is he a barbarian? My eyes are getting worse and worse. It’s not Tsukku-san, is it?”

“No, he’s the new barbarian,” Toranaga said.

“Oh, him!” Yodoko peered closer. “Please tell him I can’t see very well, hence my impoliteness.”

Mariko did as she was told. “He says many people in his country are shortsighted, Yodoko-sama, but they wear spectacles. He asked if we have them. I told him yes, some of us—from the Southern Barbarians. That you used to wear them but don’t anymore.”

“Yes. I prefer the mist that surrounds me. Yes, I don’t like a lot of what I see nowadays.” Yodoko turned back and looked at the boy, pretending to have just seen him. “Oh! My son! So there you are. I was looking for you. How good it is to see the Kwampaku!” She bowed deferentially.

“Thank you, First Mother,” Yaemon beamed and bowed back. “Oh, you should have heard the barbarian. He’s been drawing us a map of the world and telling us funny things about people who don’t bathe at all! Never in their whole lives and they live in snow houses and wear skins like evil kami.”

The old lady snorted. “The less they come here the better, I think, my son. I could never understand them and they always smell so horrible. I could never understand how the Lord Taikō, your father, could tolerate them. But then he was a man and you’re a man, and you’ve more patience than a lowly woman. You’ve a good teacher, Yaemon-sama.” Her old eyes flicked back to Toranaga. “Lord Toranaga’s got more patience than anyone in the Empire.”

“Patience is important for a man, vital for a leader,” Toranaga said. “And a thirst for knowledge is a good quality too, eh, Yaemon-sama? And knowledge comes from strange places.”

“Yes, Uncle. Oh yes,” Yaemon said. “He’s right, isn’t he, First Mother?”

“Yes, yes. I agree. But I’m glad I’m a woman and don’t have to worry about these things, neh?” Yodoko hugged the boy, who had come to sit beside her. “So, my son. Why am I here? To fetch the Kwampaku. Why? Because the Kwampaku is late for his food and late for his writing lessons.”

“I hate writing lessons and I’m going swimming!”

Toranaga said with mock gravity, “When I was your age I used to hate writing too. But then, when I was twenty, I had to stop fighting battles and go back to school. I hated that worse.”

“Go back to school, Uncle? After leaving it forever? Oh, how terrible!”

“A leader has to write well, Yaemon-sama. Not only clearly but beautifully, and the Kwampaku better than anyone else. How else can he write to His Imperial Highness or to the great daimyos? A leader has to be better than his vassals in everything, in every way. A leader has to do many things that are difficult.”

“Yes, Uncle. It’s very difficult to be Kwampaku.” Yaemon frowned importantly. “I think I’ll do my lessons now and not when I’m twenty because then I’ll have important matters of state.”

They were all very proud of him. “You’re very wise, my son,” said Yodoko.

“Yes, First Mother. I’m wise like my father, as my mother says. When’s Mother coming home?”

Yodoko peered up at Toranaga. “Soon.”

“I hope very soon,” Toranaga said. He knew Yodoko had been sent to fetch the boy by Ishido. Toranaga had brought the boy and the guards directly to the garden to further irritate his enemy. Also to show the boy the strange pilot and so deprive Ishido of the pleasure of providing that experience for him.

“It’s very wearisome being responsible for my son,” Yodoko was saying. “It would be very good to have the Lady Ochiba here in Osaka, home again, then I can get back to the temple, neh? How is she, and how is the Lady Genjiko?”

“They’re both in excellent health,” Toranaga told her, chortling to himself. Nine years ago, in an unusual show of friendship, the Taikō had privately invited him to marry Lady Genjiko, the younger sister of Lady Ochiba, his favorite consort. “Then our houses will be joined together forever, neh?” the Taikō had said.

“Yes, Sire. I will obey though I do not deserve the honor,” Toranaga had replied deferentially, desiring the link with the Taikō. But he knew that though Yodoko, the Taikō’s wife, might approve, his consort Ochiba hated him and would use her great influence over the Taikō to prevent the marriage. And, too, it was wiser to avoid having Ochiba’s sister as his wife, for that would give her enormous powers over him, not the least of which was the keys to his treasury. But, if she were to marry his son, Sudara, then Toranaga as supreme head of the family would have complete domination. It had taken all his skill to maneuver the marriage between Sudara and Genjiko but it had happened and now Genjiko was priceless to him as a defense against Ochiba, because Ochiba adored her sister.

“My daughter-in-law isn’t in labor yet—it was expected to begin yesterday—but I would imagine the Lady Ochiba will leave immediately there’s no danger.”

“After three girls, it’s time Genjiko gave you a grandson, neh? I will say prayers for his birth.”

“Thank you,” Toranaga said, liking her as always, knowing that she meant it, even though he represented nothing but danger to her house.

“I hear your Lady Sazuko’s with child?”

“Yes. I’m very fortunate.” Toranaga basked in the thought of his newest consort, the youth of her, the strength of her, and the warmth. I hope we have a son, he told himself. Yes, that would be very good. Seventeen’s a good age to have a first child, if you’ve perfect health as she has. “Yes, I’m very fortunate.”

“Buddha has blessed you.” Yodoko felt a twinge of envy. It seemed so unfair that Toranaga had five sons living and four daughters and five granddaughters already, and, with this child of Sazuko’s soon to arrive, and still many strong years left in him and many consorts in his house, he could sire many more sons. But all her hopes were centered on this one seven-year-old child, her child as much as Ochiba’s. Yes, he’s as much my son, she thought. How I hated Ochiba in the beginning. . . .

She saw them all staring at her and she was startled. “Yes?”

Yaemon frowned. “I said, can we go and have my lessons, First Mother? I said it two times.”

“I’m sorry, my son, I was drifting away. That’s what happens when you get old. Yes, come along then.” Kiri helped her up. Yaemon ran off ahead. The Grays were already on their feet and one of them caught him and affectionately swung him onto his shoulders. The four samurai who had escorted her waited separately.

“Walk with me a little, Lord Toranaga, would you please? I need a strong arm to lean on.”

Toranaga was on his feet with surprising agility. She took his arm but did not use his strength. “Yes. I need a strong arm. Yaemon does. And so does the realm.”

“I’m always ready to serve you,” Toranaga said.

When they were away from the others, she said quietly, “Become sole Regent. Take the power and rule yourself. Until Yaemon becomes of age.”

“The Taikō’s testament forbids this—even if I wished it, which I don’t. The curbs he made preclude one Regent’s taking power. I don’t seek sole power. I never have.”

“Tora-chan,” she said, using the nickname the Taikō had given him so long ago, “we have few secrets, you and I. You could do it, if you wished. I will answer for the Lady Ochiba. Take the power for your own lifetime. Become Shōgun and make—”

“Lady, what you say is treason. I-do-not-seek-to-be-Shōgun.”

“Of course, but please listen to me a last time. Become Shōgun, make Yaemon your sole heir—your sole heir. He could be Shōgun, after you. Isn’t his bloodline Fujimoto—through Lady Ochiba back to her grandfather Goroda and through him back to antiquity? Fujimoto!”

Toranaga stared at her. “You think the daimyos would agree to such a claim, or that His Highness, the Son of Heaven, could approve the appointment?”

“No. Not for Yaemon by himself. But if you were Shōgun first, and you adopted him, you could persuade them, all of them. We will support you, the Lady Ochiba and I.”

“She has agreed to this?” asked Toranaga, astounded.

“No. We’ve never discussed it. It’s my idea. But she will agree. I will answer for her. In advance.”

“This is an impossible conversation, Lady.”

“You can manage Ishido, and all of them. You always have. I’m afraid of what I hear, Tora-chan, rumors of war, the taking of sides, and the Dark Centuries beginning again. When war begins it will go on forever and eat Yaemon up.”

“Yes. I believe that, too. Yes, if it begins it will last forever.”

“Then take the power! Do what you wish, to whomever you wish, however you wish. Yaemon’s a worthy boy. I know you like him. He has his father’s mind and with your guidance, we would all benefit. He should have his heritage.”

“I’m not opposing him, or his succession. How many times need I say it?”

“The Heir will be destroyed unless you actively support him.”

“I do support him!” Toranaga said. “In every way. That’s what I agreed with the Taikō, your late husband.”

Yodoko sighed and pulled her habit closer. “These old bones are chilled. So many secrets and battles, treacheries and deaths and victories, Tora-chan. I’m only a woman, and very much alone. I’m glad that I’m dedicated to Buddha now, and that most of my thoughts are toward Buddha and my next life. But in this one I have to protect my son and to say these things to you. I hope you will forgive my impertinence.”

“I always seek and enjoy your counsel.”

“Thank you.” Her back straightened a little. “Listen, while I’m alive neither the Heir nor the Lady Ochiba will ever go against you.”

“Yes.”

“Will you consider what I proposed?”

“My late Master’s will forbids it. I cannot go against the will or my sacred promise as a Regent.”

They walked in silence. Then Yodoko sighed. “Why not take her to wife?”

Toranaga stopped in his tracks. “Ochiba?”

“Why not? She’s totally worthy as a political choice. A perfect choice for you. She’s beautiful, young, strong, her bloodline’s the best, part Fujimoto, part Minowara, the sun dances in her, and she has an immense joy of life. You’ve no official wife now—so why not? This would solve the problem of the succession and stop the realm from being torn apart. You would have other sons by her surely. Yaemon would succeed you, then his sons or her other sons. You could become Shōgun. You would have the power of the realm and the power of a father so you could train Yaemon to your way. You would adopt him formally and he would be as much your son as any you have. Why not marry Lady Ochiba?”

Because she’s a wildcat, a treacherous tigress with the face and body of a goddess, who thinks she’s an empress and acts like one, Toranaga told himself. You could never trust her in your bed. She’d be just as likely to thread a needle through your eyes when you’re asleep as she’d be to caress you. Oh no, not her! Even if I married her in name only—which she’d never agree to—oh no! It’s impossible! For all sorts of reasons, not the least of which is that she’s hated me and plotted my downfall, and that of my house, ever since she whelped for the first time, eleven years ago.

Even then, even at seventeen, she had committed herself to my destruction. Ah, so soft outwardly, like the first ripe peach of summer, and as fragrant. But inwardly sword steel with a mind to match, weaving her spells, soon making the Taikō mad over her to the exclusion of all others. Yes, she had the Taikō cowed since she was fifteen when he first took her formally. Yes, and don’t forget, truly, she pillowed him, even then, not he her, however much he believed it. Yes, even at fifteen, Ochiba knew what she sought and the way to obtain it. Then the miracle happening, giving the Taikō a son at long last, she alone of all the women he had in his life. How many pillow ladies? A hundred at least, him a stoat who sprayed more Joyful Juice into more Heavenly Chambers than ten ordinary men! Yes. And these women of all ages and all castes, casual or consort, from a Fujimoto princess to Fourth Class courtesans. But none ever even became pregnant, though later, many of those that the Taikō dismissed or divorced or married off had children by other men. None, except the Lady Ochiba.

But she gave him his first son at fifty-three, poor little thing, sickly and dying so soon, the Taikō rending his clothes, almost crazy with grief, blaming himself and not her. Then, four years later, miraculously she whelped again, miraculously another son, miraculously healthy this time, she twenty-one now. Ochiba the Peerless, the Taikō had called her.

Did the Taikō father Yaemon or not? Eeeee, I’d give a lot to know the truth. Will we ever know the truth? Probably not, but what would I not give for proof, one way or another.

Strange that the Taikō, so clever about everything else, was not clever about Ochiba, doting on her and Yaemon to insanity. Strange that of all the women she should have been the mother of his heir, she whose father and stepfather and mother were dead because of the Taikō.

Would she have the cleverness to pillow with another man, to take his seed, then obliterate this same man to safeguard herself? Not once but twice?

Could she be so treacherous? Oh, yes.

Marry Ochiba? Never.

“I’m honored that you would make such a suggestion,” Toranaga said.

“You’re a man, Tora-chan. You could handle such a woman easily. You’re the only man in the Empire who could, neh? She would make a marvelous match for you. Look how she fights to protect her son’s interests now, and she’s only a defenseless woman. She’d be a worthy wife for you.”

“I don’t think she would ever consider it.”

“And if she did?”

“I would like to know. Privately. Yes, that would be an inestimable honor.”

“Many people believe that only you stand between Yaemon and the succession.”

“Many people are fools.”

“Yes. But you’re not, Toranaga-sama. Neither is the Lady Ochiba.”

Nor are you, my Lady, he thought.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

In the darkest part of the night the assassin came over the wall into the garden. He was almost invisible. He wore close-fitting black clothes and his tabi were black, and a black cowl and mask covered his head. He was a small man and he ran noiselessly for the front of the stone inner fortress and stopped just short of the soaring walls. Fifty yards away two Browns guarded the main door. Deftly he threw a cloth-covered hook with a very thin silk rope attached to it. The hook caught on the stone ledge of the embrasure. He shinned up the rope, squeezed through the slit, and disappeared inside.

The corridor was quiet and candle-lit. He hurried down it silently, opened an outside door, and went out onto the battlements. Another deft throw and a short climb and he was into the corridor above. The sentries that were on the corners of the battlements did not hear him though they were alert.

He pressed into an alcove of stone as other Browns walked by quietly, on patrol. When they had passed, he slipped along the length of this passageway. At the corner he stopped. Silently he peered around it. A samurai was guarding the far door. Candles danced in the quiet. The guard was sitting cross-legged and he yawned and leaned back against the wall and stretched. His eyes closed momentarily. Instantly, the assassin darted forward. Soundlessly. He formed a noose with the silk rope in his hands, dropped it over the guard’s neck and jerked tight. The guard’s fingers tried to claw the garrote away but he was already dying. A short stab with the knife between the vertebrae as deft as a surgeon’s and the guard was motionless.

The man eased the door open. The audience room was empty, the inner doors unguarded. He pulled the corpse inside and closed the door again. Unhesitatingly he crossed the space and chose the inner left door. It was wood and heavily reinforced. The curved knife slid into his right hand. He knocked softly.

“ ‘In the days of the Emperor Shirakawa . . .’ ” he said, giving the first part of the password.

From the other side of the door there was a sibilance of steel leaving a scabbard and the reply, “ ‘. . .  there lived a wise man called Enraku-ji . . .’ ”

“ ‘. . . who wrote the thirty-first sutra.’ I have urgent dispatches for Lord Toranaga.”

The door swung open and the assassin lunged forward. The knife went upward into the first samurai’s throat just below the chin and came out as fast and buried itself identically into the second of the guards. A slight twist and out again. Both men were dead on their feet. He caught one and let him slump gently; the other fell, but noiselessly. Blood ran out of them onto the floor and their bodies twitched in the throes of death.

The man hurried down this inner corridor. It was poorly lit. Then a shoji opened. He froze, slowly looked around.

Kiri was gaping at him, ten paces away. A tray was in her hands.

He saw that the two cups on the tray were unused, the food untouched. A thread of steam came from the teapot. Beside it, a candle spluttered. Then the tray was falling and her hands went into her obi and emerged with a dagger, her mouth worked but made no sound, and he was already racing for the corner. At the far end a door opened and a startled, sleep-drenched samurai peered out.

The assassin rushed toward him and tore open a shoji on his right that he sought. Kiri was screaming and the alarm had sounded, and he ran, sure-footed in the darkness, across this anteroom, over the waking women and their maids, into the innermost corridor at the far side.

Here it was pitch dark but he groped along unerringly to find the right door in the gathering furor. He slid the door open and jumped for the figure that lay on the futon. But his knife arm was caught by a viselike grip and now he was thrashing in combat on the floor. He fought with cunning, broke free, and slashed again but missed, entangled with the quilt. He hurled it off and threw himself at the figure, knife poised for the death thrust. But the man twisted with unexpected agility and a hardened foot dug into his groin. Pain exploded in him as his victim darted for safety.

Then samurai were crowding the doorway, some with lanterns, and Naga, wearing only a loincloth, his hair tousled, leapt between him and Blackthorne, sword on high.

“Surrender!”

The assassin feinted once, shouted, “Namu Amida Butsu—” In the Name of the Buddha Amida—turned the knife on himself and with both hands thrust it up under the base of his chin. Blood spurted and he slumped to his knees. Naga slashed once, his sword a whirling arc, and the head rolled free.

In the silence Naga picked the head up and ripped off the mask. The face was ordinary, the eyes still fluttering. He held the head, hair dressed like a samurai, by its topknot.

“Does anyone know him?”

No one answered. Naga spat in the face, threw the head angrily to one of his men, tore open the black clothes and lifted the man’s right arm, and found what he was looking for. The small tattoo—the Chinese character for Amida, the special Buddha—was etched in the armpit.

“Who is officer of the watch?”

“I am, Lord.” The man was white with shock.

Naga leaped at him and the others scattered. The officer made no attempt to avoid the ferocious sword blow which took off his head and part of his shoulder and one arm.

“Hayabusa-san, order all samurai from this watch into the courtyard,” Naga said to an officer. “Double guards for the new watch. Get the body out of here. The rest of you are—” He stopped as Kiri came to the doorway, the dagger still in her hand. She looked at the corpse, then at Blackthorne.

“The Anjin-san’s not hurt?” she asked.

Naga glanced at the man who towered over him, breathing with difficulty. He could see no wounds or blood. Just a sleep-tousled man who had almost been killed. White-faced but no outward fear. “Are you hurt, Pilot?”

“I don’t understand.”

Naga went over and pulled the sleeping kimono away to see if the pilot had been wounded.

“Ah, understand now. No. No hurt,” he heard the giant say and he saw him shake his head.

“Good,” he said. “He seems unhurt, Kiritsubo-san.”

He saw the Anjin-san point at the body and say something. “I don’t understand you,” Naga replied. “Anjin-san, you stay here,” and to one of the men he said, “Bring him some food and drink if he wants it.”

“The assassin, he was Amida-tattooed, neh?” Kiri asked.

“Yes, Lady Kiritsubo.”

“Devils—devils.”

“Yes.”

Naga bowed to her then looked at one of the appalled samurai. “You follow me. Bring the head!” He strode off, wondering how he was going to tell his father. Oh, Buddha, thank you for guarding my father.

“He was a ronin,” Toranaga said curtly. “You’ll never trace him, Hiro-matsu-san.”

“Yes. But Ishido’s responsible. He had no honor to do this, neh? None. To use these dung-offal assassins. Please, I beg you, let me call up our legions now. I’ll stop this once and for all time.”

“No.” Toranaga looked back at Naga. “You’re sure the Anjin-san’s not hurt?”

“No, Sire.”

“Hiro-matsu-san. You will demote all guards of this watch for failing in their duty. They are forbidden to commit seppuku. They’re ordered to live with their shame in front of all my men as soldiers of the lowest class. Have the dead guards dragged by their feet through the castle and city to the execution ground. The dogs can feed off them.”

Now he looked at his son, Naga. Earlier that evening, urgent word had arrived from Johji Monastery in Nagoya about Ishido’s threat against Naga. Toranaga had at once ordered his son confined to close quarters and surrounded by guards, and the other members of the family in Osaka—Kiri and the Lady Sazuko—equally guarded. The message from the abbot had added that he had considered it wise to release Ishido’s mother at once and send her back to the city with her maids. “I dare not risk the life of one of your illustrious sons foolishly. Worse, her health is not good. She has a chill. It’s best she should die in her own house and not here.”

“Naga-san, you are equally responsible the assassin got in,” Toranaga said, his voice cold and bitter. “Every samurai is responsible, whether on watch or off watch, asleep or awake. You are fined half your yearly revenue.”

“Yes, Lord,” the youth said, surprised that he was allowed to keep anything, including his head. “Please demote me also,” he said. “I cannot live with the shame. I deserve nothing but contempt for my own failure, Lord.”

“If I wanted to demote you I would have done so. You are ordered to Yedo at once. You will leave with twenty men tonight and report to your brother. You will get there in record time! Go!” Naga bowed and went away, white-faced. To Hiro-matsu he said equally roughly, “Quadruple my guards. Cancel my hunting today, and tomorrow. The day after the meeting of Regents I leave Osaka. You’ll make all the preparations, and until that time, I will stay here. I will see no one uninvited. No one.”

He waved his hand in angry dismissal. “All of you can go. Hiro-matsu, you stay.”

The room emptied. Hiro-matsu was glad that his humiliation was to be private, for, of all of them, as Commander of the Bodyguard, he was the most responsible. “I have no excuse, Lord. None.”

Toranaga was lost in thought. No anger was visible now. “If you wanted to hire the services of the secret Amida Tong, how would you find them? How would you approach them?”

“I don’t know, Lord.”

“Who would know?”

“Kasigi Yabu.”

Toranaga looked out of the embrasure. Threads of dawn were mixed with the eastern dark. “Bring him here at dawn.”

“You think he’s responsible?”

Toranaga did not answer, but returned to his musings.

At length the old soldier could not bear the silence. “Please Lord, let me get out of your sight. I’m so ashamed with our failure—”

“It’s almost impossible to prevent such an attempt,” Toranaga said.

“Yes. But we should have caught him outside, nowhere near you.”

“I agree. But I don’t hold you responsible.”

“I hold myself responsible. There’s something I must say, Lord, for I am responsible for your safety until you’re back in Yedo. There will be more attempts on you, and all our spies report increased troop movement. Ishido is mobilizing.”

“Yes,” Toranaga said casually. “After Yabu, I want to see Tsukku-san, then Mariko-san. Double the guards on the Anjin-san.”

“Despatches came tonight that Lord Onoshi has a hundred thousand men improving his fortifications in Kyushu,” Hiro-matsu said, beset by his anxiety for Toranaga’s safety.

“I will ask him about it, when we meet.”

Hiro-matsu’s temper broke. “I don’t understand you at all. I must tell you that you risk everything stupidly. Yes, stupidly. I don’t care if you take my head for telling you, but it’s the truth. If Kiyama and Onoshi vote with Ishido you will be impeached! You’re a dead man—you’ve risked everything by coming here and you’ve lost! Escape while you can. At least you’ll have your head on your shoulders!”

“I’m in no danger yet.”

“Doesn’t this attack tonight mean anything to you? If you hadn’t changed your room again you’d be dead now.”

“Yes, I might, but probably not,” Toranaga said. “There were multiple guards outside my doors tonight and also last night. And you were on guard tonight as well. No assassin could get near me. Even this one who was so well prepared. He knew the way, even the password, neh? Kiri-san said she heard him use it. So I think he knew which room I was in. I wasn’t his prey. It was the Anjin-san.”

“The barbarian?”

“Yes.”

Toranaga had anticipated that there would be further danger to the barbarian after the extraordinary revelations of this morning. Clearly the Anjin-san was too dangerous to some to leave alive. But Toranaga had never presumed that an attack would be mounted within his private quarters or so fast. Who’s betraying me? He discounted a leakage of information from Kiri, or Mariko. But castles and gardens always have secret places to eavesdrop, he thought. I’m in the center of the enemy stronghold, and where I have one spy, Ishido—and others—will have twenty. Perhaps it was just a spy.

“Double the guards on the Anjin-san. He’s worth ten thousand men to me.”

After Lady Yodoko had left this morning, he had returned to the garden Tea House and had noticed at once the Anjin-san’s inner frailty, the over-bright eyes and grinding fatigue. So he had controlled his own excitement and almost overpowering need to probe deeper, and had dismissed him, saying that they would continue tomorrow. The Anjin-san had been given into Kiri’s care with instructions to get him a doctor, to harbor his strength, to give him barbarian food if he wished it, and even to let him have the sleeping room that Toranaga himself used most nights. “Give him anything you feel necessary, Kiri-san,” he had told her privately. “I need him very fit, very quickly, in mind and body.”

Then the Anjin-san had asked that he release the monk from prison today, for the man was old and sick. He had replied that he would consider it and sent the barbarian away with thanks, not telling him that he had already ordered samurai to go to the prison at once and fetch this monk, who was perhaps equally valuable, both to him and to Ishido.

Toranaga had known about this priest for a long time, that he was Spanish and hostile to the Portuguese. But the man had been ordered there by the Taikō so he was the Taikō’s prisoner, and he, Toranaga, had no jurisdiction over anyone in Osaka. He had sent the Anjin-san deliberately into that prison not only to pretend to Ishido that the stranger was worthless, but also in the hope that the impressive pilot would be able to draw out the monk’s knowledge.

The first clumsy attempt on the Anjin-san’s life in the cell had been foiled, and at once a protective screen had been put around him. Toranaga had rewarded his vassal spy, Minikui, a kaga-man, by extracting him safely and giving him four kagas of his own and the hereditary right to use the stretch of the Tokaidō Road—the great trunk road that joined Yedo and Osaka—between the Second and Third Stages, which were in his domains near Yedo, and had sent him secretly out of Osaka the first day. During the following days his other spies had sent reports that the two men were friends now, the monk talking and the Anjin-san asking questions and listening. The fact that Ishido probably had spies in the cell too did not bother him. The Anjin-san was protected and safe. Then Ishido had unexpectedly tried to spirit him out, into alien influence.

Toranaga remembered the amusement he and Hiro-matsu had had in planning the immediate “ambush”—the “ronin bandits” being one of the small, isolated groups of his own elite samurai who were secreted in and around Osaka—and in arranging the delicate timing of Yabu who, unsuspecting, had effected the “rescue.” They had chuckled together, knowing that once more they had used Yabu as a puppet to rub Ishido’s nose in his own dung.

Everything had succeeded beautifully. Until today.

Today the samurai he had sent to fetch the monk had returned empty-handed. “The priest is dead,” the man had reported. “When his name was called, he didn’t come out, Lord Toranaga. I went in to fetch him, but he was dead. The criminals around him said when the jailers called his name, he just collapsed. He was dead when I turned him over. Please excuse me, you sent me for him and I’ve failed to do what you ordered. I didn’t know if you wanted his head, or his head on his body seeing he was a barbarian, so I brought the body with the head still on. Some of the criminals around him said they were his converts. They wanted to keep the corpse and they tried to keep it so I killed a few and brought the corpse. It’s stinking and verminous but it’s in the courtyard, Sire.”

Why did the monk die? Toranaga asked himself again. Then he saw Hiro-matsu looking at him questioningly. “Yes?”

“I just asked who would want the pilot dead?”

“Christians.”

Kasigi Yabu followed Hiro-matsu along the corridor, feeling grand in the dawn. There was a nice salt tang to the breeze, and it reminded him of Mishima, his home city. He was glad that at long last he was to see Toranaga and the waiting was over. He had bathed and dressed with care. Last letters had been written to his wife and to his mother and his final will sealed in case the interview went against him. Today he was wearing the Murasama blade within its battle-honored scabbard.

They turned another corner, then unexpectedly Hiro-matsu opened an ironbound reinforced door and led the way up the stone steps into the inner central keep of this part of the fortifications. There were many guards on duty and Yabu sensed danger.

The stairs curled upward and ended at an easily defendable redoubt. Guards opened the iron door. He went out onto the battlements. Has Hiro-matsu been told to throw me off, or will I be ordered to jump? he asked himself, unafraid.

To his surprise Toranaga was there and, incredibly, Toranaga got up to greet him with a jovial deference he had no right to expect. After all, Toranaga was Lord of the Eight Provinces, whereas he was only Lord of Izu. Cushions had been placed carefully. A teapot was cradled in a sheath of silk. A richly dressed, square-faced girl of little beauty was bowing low. Her name was Sazuko and she was the seventh of Toranaga’s official consorts, the youngest, and very pregnant.

“How nice to see you, Kasigi Yabu-san. I’m so sorry to have kept you waiting.”

Now Yabu was certain that Toranaga had decided to remove his head, one way or another, for, by universal custom, your enemy is never more polite than when he is planning or has planned your destruction. He took out both his swords and placed them carefully on the stone flags, allowed himself to be led away from them and seated in the place of honor.

“I thought it would be interesting to watch the dawning, Yabu-san. I think the view here is exquisite—even better than from the Heir’s donjon. Neh?”

“Yes, it is beautiful,” Yabu said without reservation, never having been so high in the castle before, sure now that Toranaga’s remark about “the Heir” implied that his secret negotiations with Ishido were known. “I’m honored to be allowed to share it with you.”

Below them were the sleeping city and harbor and islands, Awaji to the west, the coastline falling off to the east, the growing light in the eastern sky slashing the clouds with flecks of crimson.

“This is my Lady Sazuko. Sazuko, this is my ally, the famous Lord Kasigi Yabu of Izu, the daimyo who brought us the barbarian and the treasure ship!” She bowed and complimented him and he bowed and she returned his bow again. She offered Yabu the first cup of tea but he politely declined the honor, beginning the ritual, and asked her to give it to Toranaga, who refused, and pressed him to accept it. Eventually, continuing the ritual, as the honored guest he allowed himself to be persuaded. Hiro-matsu accepted the second cup, his gnarled fingers holding the porcelain with difficulty, the other hand wrapped around the haft of his sword, loose in his lap. Toranaga accepted a third cup and sipped his cha, then together they gave themselves to nature and watched the sunrise. In the silence of the sky.

Gulls mewed. The city sounds began. The day was born.

Lady Sazuko sighed, her eyes wet with tears. “It makes me feel like a goddess being so high, watching so much beauty, neh? It’s so sad that it’s gone forever, Sire. So very sad, neh?”

“Yes,” Toranaga said.

When the sun was halfway above the horizon, she bowed and left. To Yabu’s surprise, the guards left also. Now they were alone. The three of them.

“I was pleased to receive your gift, Yabu-san. It was most generous, the whole ship and everything in it,” Toranaga said.

“Whatever I have is yours,” Yabu said, still deeply affected by the dawning. I wish I had more time, he thought. How elegant of Toranaga to do this! To give me a lastness of such immensity. “Thank you for this dawn.”

“Yes,” Toranaga said. “It was mine to give. I’m pleased that you enjoyed my gift, as I enjoyed yours.”

There was a silence.

“Yabu-san. What do you know about the Amida Tong?”

“Only what most people know: that it’s a secret society of ten—units of ten—a leader and never more than nine acolytes in any one area, women and men. They are sworn by the most sacred and secret oaths of the Lord Buddha Amida, the Dispenser of Eternal Love, to obedience, chastity, and death; to spend their lives training to become a perfect weapon for one kill; to kill only at the order of the leader, and if they fail to kill the person chosen, be it a man, woman, or child, to take their own life at once. They’re religious fanatics who are certain they’ll go directly from this life to Buddha-hood. Not one of them has ever been caught alive.” Yabu knew about the attempt on Toranaga’s life. All Osaka knew by now and knew also that the Lord of the Kwanto, the Eight Provinces, had locked himself safely inside hoops of steel. “They kill rarely, their secrecy is complete. There’s no chance of revenge on them because no one knows who they are, where they live, or where they train.”

“If you wanted to employ them, how would you go about it?”

“I would whisper it in three places—in the Heinan Monastery, at the gates of the Amida shrine, and in the Johji Monastery. Within ten days, if you are considered an acceptable employer, you will be approached through intermediaries. It is all so secret and devious that, even if you wished to betray them or catch them, it would never be possible. On the tenth day they ask for a sum of money, in silver, the amount depending on the person to be assassinated. There is no bargaining, you pay what they ask beforehand. They guarantee only that one of their members will attempt the kill within ten days. Legend has it that if the kill is successful, the assassin goes back to their temple and then, with great ceremony, commits ritual suicide.”

“Then you think we could never find out who paid for the attack today?”

“No.”

“Do you think there will be another?”

“Perhaps. Perhaps not. They contract for one attempt at one time, neh? But you’d be wise to improve your security—among your samurai, and also among your women. The Amida women are trained in poison, as well as knife and garrote, so they say.”

“Have you ever employed them?”

“No.”

“But your father did?”

“I don’t know, not for certain. I was told that the Taikō asked him to contact them once.”

“Was the attack successful?”

“Anything the Taikō did was successful. One way or another.”

Yabu felt someone behind him and presumed it to be the guards coming back secretly. He was measuring the distance to his swords. Do I try to kill Toranaga? he asked himself again. I had decided to and now I don’t know. I’ve changed. Why?

“What would you have to pay them for my head?” Toranaga asked him.

“There is not enough silver in all Asia to tempt me to employ them to do this.”

“What would another have to pay?”

“Twenty thousand koku—fifty thousand—a hundred—perhaps more, I don’t know.”

“Would you pay a hundred thousand koku to become Shōgun? Your bloodline goes back to the Takashimas, neh?”

Yabu said proudly, “I would pay nothing. Money’s filth—a toy for women to play with or for dung-filled merchants. But if that were possible, which it isn’t, I would give my life and the life of my wife and mother and all my kin except my one son, and all my samurai in Izu and all their women and children to be Shōgun one day.”

“And what would you give for the Eight Provinces?”

“Everything as before, except the life of my wife and mother and son.”

“And for Suruga Province?”

“Nothing,” Yabu said with contempt. “Ikawa Jikkyu’s worth nothing. If I don’t take his head and all his generation in this life I’ll do it in another. I piss on him and his seed for ten thousand lifetimes.”

“And if I were to give him to you? And all Suruga—and perhaps the next province, Totomi, as well?”

Yabu suddenly tired of the cat-and-mouse game and the talk about the Amida. “You’ve decided to take my head, Lord Toranaga—very well. I’m ready. I thank you for the dawn. But I’ve no wish to spoil such elegance with further talk, so let’s be done.”

“But I haven’t decided to take your head, Yabu-san,” Toranaga said. “Whatever gave you the thought? Has an enemy poured poison in your ears? Ishido perhaps? Aren’t you my favored ally? Do you think that I’d entertain you here, without guards, if I thought you hostile?”

Yabu turned slowly. He had expected to find samurai behind him, swords poised. There was no one there. He looked back at Toranaga. “I don’t understand.”

“I brought you here so we could talk privately. And to see the dawn. Would you like to rule the provinces of Izu, Suruga, and Totomi—if I do not lose this war?”

“Yes. Very much,” Yabu said, his hopes soaring.

“You would become my vassal? Accept me as your liege lord?”

Yabu did not hesitate. “Never,” he said. “As ally, yes. As my leader, yes. Lesser than you always, yes. My life and all I possess thrown onto your side, yes. But Izu is mine. I am daimyo of Izu and I will never give power over Izu to anyone. I swore that oath to my father, and the Taikō who reaffirmed our hereditary fief, first to my father and then to me. The Taikō confirmed Izu to me and my successors forever. He was our liege lord and I swore never to have another until his heir became of age.”

Hiro-matsu twisted his sword slightly in his hand. Why doesn’t Toranaga let me get it over with once and for all? It’s been agreed. Why all the wearing talk? I ache and I want to piss and I need to lie down.

Toranaga scratched his groin. “What did Ishido offer you?”

“Jikkyu’s head—the moment that yours is off. And his province.”

“In return for what?”

“Support when war begins. To attack your southern flank.”

“Did you accept?”

“You know me better than that.”

Toranaga’s spies in Ishido’s household had whispered that the bargain had been struck, and that it included responsibility for the assassination of his three sons, Noboru, Sudara, and Naga. “Nothing more? Just support?”

“By every means at my disposal,” Yabu said delicately.

“Including assassination?”

“I intend to wage the war, when it begins, with all my force. For my ally. In any way I can to guarantee his success. We need a sole Regent in Yaemon’s minority. War between you and Ishido is inevitable. It’s the only way.”

Yabu was trying to read Toranaga’s mind. He was scornful of Toranaga’s indecision, knowing that he himself was the better man, that Toranaga needed his support, that at length he would vanquish him. But meanwhile what to do? he asked himself and wished Yuriko, his wife, were here to guide him. She would know the wisest course. “I can be very valuable to you. I can help you become sole Regent,” he said, deciding to gamble.

“Why should I wish to be sole Regent?”

“When Ishido attacks I can help you to conquer him. When he breaks the peace,” Yabu said.

“How?”

He told them his plan with the guns.

“A regiment of five hundred gun-samurai?” Hiro-matsu erupted.

“Yes. Think of the fire power. All elite men, trained to act as one man. The twenty cannon equally together.”

“It’s a bad plan. Disgusting,” Hiro-matsu said. “You could never keep it secret. If we start, the enemy would start also. There would never be an end to such horror. There’s no honor in it and no future.”

“Isn’t this coming war the only one we’re concerned with, Lord Hiro-matsu?” Yabu replied. “Aren’t we concerned only with Lord Toranaga’s safety? Isn’t that the duty of his allies and vassals?”

“Yes.”

“All Lord Toranaga has to do is win the one great battle. That will give him the heads of all his enemies—and power. I say this strategy will give him victory.”

“I say it won’t. It’s a disgusting plan with no honor.”

Yabu turned to Toranaga. “A new era requires clear thinking about the meaning of honor.”

A sea gull soared overhead mewing.

“What did Ishido say to your plan?” Toranaga asked.

“I did not discuss it with him.”

“Why? If you think your plan’s valuable to me, it would be equally valuable to him. Perhaps more so.”

“You gave me a dawn. You’re not a peasant like Ishido. You’re the wisest, most experienced leader in the Empire.”

What’s the real reason? Toranaga was asking himself. Or have you told Ishido too? “If this plan were to be followed, the men would be half yours and half mine?”

“Agreed. I would command them.”

“My appointee would be second-in-command?”

“Agreed. I would need the Anjin-san to train my men as gunners, cannoneers.”

“But he would be my property permanently, you would cherish him as you do the Heir? You’d be totally responsible for him and do with him precisely as I say?”

“Agreed.”

Toranaga watched the crimson clouds for a moment. This planning is all nonsense, he thought. I will have to declare Crimson Sky myself and lunge for Kyoto at the head of all my legions. One hundred thousand against ten times that number. “Who will be interpreter? I can’t detach Toda Mariko-san forever.”

“For a few weeks, Sire? I will see that the barbarian learns our language.”

“That’d take years. The only barbarians who’ve ever mastered it are Christian priests, neh? They spend years. Tsukku-san’s been here almost thirty years, neh? He won’t learn fast enough, any more than we can learn their foul languages.”

“Yes. But I promise you, this Anjin-san’ll learn very quickly.” Yabu told them the plan Omi had suggested to him as if it were his own idea.

“That might be too dangerous.”

“It would make him learn quickly, neh? And then he’s tamed.”

After a pause, Toranaga said, “How would you maintain secrecy during the training?”

“Izu is a peninsula, security is excellent there. I’ll base near Anjiro, well south and away from Mishima and the border for more safety.”

“Good. We’ll set up carrier pigeon links from Anjiro to Osaka and Yedo at once.”

“Excellent. I need only five or six months and—”

“We’ll be lucky to have six days!” Hiro-matsu snorted. “Are you saying that your famous espionage net has been swept away, Yabu-san? Surely you’ve been getting reports? Isn’t Ishido mobilizing? Isn’t Onoshi mobilizing? Aren’t we locked in here?”

Yabu did not answer.

“Well?” Toranaga said.

Yabu said, “Reports indicate all that is happening and more. If it’s six days then it’s six days and that’s karma. But I believe you’re much too clever to be trapped here. Or provoked into an early war.”

“If I agreed to your plan, you would accept me as your leader?”

“Yes. And when you win, I would be honored to accept Suruga and Totomi as part of my fief forever.”

“Totomi would depend on the success of your plan.”

“Agreed.”

“You will obey me? With all your honor?”

“Yes. By bushido, by the Lord Buddha, by the life of my mother, my wife, and my future posterity.”

“Good,” Toranaga said. “Let’s piss on the bargain.”

He went to the edge of the battlements. He stepped up on the ledge of the embrasure, then onto the parapet itself. Seventy feet below was the inner garden. Hiro-matsu held his breath, aghast at his master’s bravado. He saw him turn and beckon Yabu to stand beside him. Yabu obeyed. The slightest touch could have sent them tumbling to their deaths.

Toranaga eased his kimono and loincloth aside, as did Yabu. Together they urinated and mixed their urine and watched it dew the garden below.

“The last bargain I sealed this way was with the Taikō himself,” Toranaga said, greatly relieved at being able to empty his bladder. “That was when he decided to give me the Kwanto, the Eight Provinces, as my fief. Of course, at that time the enemy Hojo still owned them, so first I had to conquer them. They were our last remaining opposition. Of course, too, I had to give up my hereditary fiefs of Imagawa, Owari, and Ise at once for the honor. Even so, I agreed and we pissed on the bargain.” He straddled the parapet easily, settling his loincloth comfortably as though he stood in the garden itself, not perched like an eagle so far above. “It was a good bargain for both of us. We conquered the Hojo and took over five thousand heads within the year. Stamped him out and all his tribe. Perhaps you’re right, Kasigi Yabu-san. Perhaps you can help me as I helped the Taikō. Without me, the Taikō would never have become Taikō.”

“I can help to make you sole Regent, Toranaga-sama. But not Shōgun.”

“Of course. That’s the one honor I don’t seek, as much as my enemies say I do.” Toranaga jumped down to the safety of the stone flags. He looked back at Yabu who still stood on the narrow parapet adjusting his sash. He was sorely tempted to give him a quick shove for his insolence. Instead he sat down and broke wind loudly. “That’s better. How’s your bladder, Iron Fist?”

“Tired, Lord, very tired.” The old man went to the side and emptied himself thankfully over the battlements too, but he did not stand where Toranaga and Yabu had stood. He was very glad that he did not also have to seal the bargain with Yabu. That’s one bargain I will never honor. Never.

“Yabu-san. This must all be kept secret. I think you should leave within the next two or three days,” Toranaga said.

“Yes. With the guns and the barbarian, Toranaga-sama?”

“Yes. You will go by ship.” Toranaga looked at Hiro-matsu. “Prepare the galley.”

“The ship is ready. The guns and powder are still in the holds,” Hiro-matsu replied, his face mirroring his disapproval.

“Good.”

You’ve done it, Yabu wanted to shout. You’ve got the guns, the Anjin-san, everything. You’ve got your six months. Toranaga’ll never go to war quickly. Even if Ishido assassinates him in the next few days, you’ve still got everything. Oh, Buddha, protect Toranaga until I’m at sea! “Thank you,” he said, his sincerity openly vast. “You’ll never have a more faithful ally.”

When Yabu was gone, Hiro-matsu wheeled on Toranaga. “That was a bad thing to do. I’m ashamed of that bargain. I’m ashamed that my advice counts for so little. I’ve obviously outlived my usefulness to you and I’m very tired. That little snot-dung daimyo knows he’s manipulated you like a puppet. Why, he even had the effrontery to wear his Murasama sword in your presence.”

“I noticed,” Toranaga said.

“I think the gods have bewitched you, Lord. You openly dismiss such an insult and allow him to gloat in front of you. You openly allow Ishido to shame you in front of all of us. You prevent me and all of us from protecting you. You refuse my granddaughter, a samurai lady, the honor and peace of death. You’ve lost control of the Council, your enemy has outmaneuvered you, and now you piss on a solemn bargain that is as disgusting a plan as I’ve ever heard, and you do this with a man who deals in filth, poison, and treachery like his father before him.” He was shaking with rage. Toranaga did not answer, just stared calmly at him as though he had said nothing.

“By all kami, living and dead, you are bewitched.” Hiro-matsu burst out, “I question you—and shout and insult you and you only stare at me! You’ve gone mad or I have. I ask permission to commit seppuku or if you won’t allow me that peace I’ll shave my head and become a monk—anything, anything, but let me be gone.”

“You will do neither. But you will send for the barbarian priest, Tsukku-san.”

And then Toranaga laughed.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Father Alvito rode down the hill from the castle at the head of his usual company of Jesuit outriders. All were dressed as Buddhist priests except for the rosary and crucifix they wore at their waists. There were forty outriders, Japanese, all well-born sons of Christian samurai, students from the seminary at Nagasaki who had accompanied him to Osaka. All were well mounted and caparisoned and as disciplined as the entourage of any daimyo.

He hurried along in a brisk trot, oblivious of the warm sunshine, through the woods and the city streets toward the Jesuit Mission, a large stone European-style house that stood near the wharves and soared from its clustered outbuildings, treasure rooms, and warehouses, where all of Osaka’s silks were bartered and paid for.

The cortege clattered through the tall iron gates set in the high stone walls and into the paved central courtyard and stopped near the main door. Servants were already waiting to help Father Alvito dismount. He slid out of the saddle and threw them the reins. His spurs jingled on the stone as he strode up the cloistered walk of the main building, turned the corner, passed the small chapel, and went through some arches into the innermost courtyard, which contained a fountain and a peaceful garden. The antechamber door was open. He threw off his anxiety, composed himself, and walked in.

“Is he alone?” he asked.

“No, no, he isn’t, Martin,” Father Soldi said. He was a small, benign, pockmarked man from Naples who had been the Father-Visitor’s secretary for almost thirty years, twenty-five of them in Asia. “Captain-General Ferriera’s with his Eminence. Yes, the peacock’s with him. But his Eminence said you were to go in at once. What’s gone wrong, Martin?”

“Nothing.”

Soldi grunted and went back to sharpening his quill. “ ‘Nothing,’ the wise Father said. Well, I’ll know soon enough.”

“Yes,” Alvito said, liking the older man. He walked for the far door. A wood fire was burning in a grate, illuminating the fine heavy furniture, dark with age and rich with polish and care. A small Tintoretto of a Madonna and Child that the Father-Visitor had brought with him from Rome, which always pleased Alvito, hung over the fireplace.

“You saw the Ingeles again?” Father Soldi called after him.

Alvito did not answer. He knocked at the door.

“Come in.”

Carlo dell’Aqua, Father-Visitor of Asia, personal representative of the General of the Jesuits, the most senior Jesuit and thus the most powerful man in Asia, was also the tallest. He stood six feet three inches, with a physique to match. His robe was orange, his cross exquisite. He was tonsured, white-haired, sixty-one years old, and by birth a Neapolitan.

“Ah, Martin, come in, come in. Some wine?” he said, speaking Portuguese with a marvelous Italian liquidity. “You saw the Ingeles?”

“No, your Eminence. Just Toranaga.”

“Bad?”

“Yes.”

“Some wine?”

“Thank you.”

“How bad?” Ferriera asked. The soldier sat beside the fire in the high-backed leather chair as proudly as a falcon and as colorful—the fidaglio, the Captain-General of the Nao del Trato, this year’s Black Ship. He was in his middle thirties, lean, slight, and formidable.

“I think very bad, Captain-General. For instance, Toranaga said the matter of this year’s trade could wait.”

“Obviously trade can’t wait, nor can I,” Ferriera said. “I’m sailing on the tide.”

“You don’t have your port clearances. I’m afraid you’ll have to wait.”

“I thought everything was arranged months ago.” Again Ferriera cursed the Japanese regulations that required all shipping, even their own, to have incoming and outgoing licenses. “We shouldn’t be bound by stupid native regulations. You said this meeting was just a formality—to collect the documents.”

“It should have been, but I was wrong. Perhaps I’d better explain—”

“I must return to Macao immediately to prepare the Black Ship. We’ve already purchased a million ducats’ worth of the best silks at February’s Canton Fair and we’ll be carrying at least a hundred thousand ounces of Chinese gold. I thought I’d made it clear that every penny of cash in Macao, Malacca, and Goa, and every penny the Macao traders and city fathers can borrow is invested in this year’s venture. And every penny of yours.”

“We’re just as aware as you are of its importance,” dell’Aqua said pointedly.

“I’m sorry, Captain-General, but Toranaga’s President of the Regents and it’s the custom to go to him,” Alvito said. “He wouldn’t discuss this year’s trade or your clearances. He said, initially, he did not approve of assassination.”

“Who does, Father?” Ferriera said.

“What’s Toranaga talking about, Martin?” dell’Aqua asked. “Is this some sort of ruse? Assassination? What has that to do with us?”

“He said: ‘Why would you Christians want to assassinate my prisoner, the pilot?’ ”

“What?”

“Toranaga believes the attempt last night was on the Ingeles, not him. Also he says there was another attempt in prison.” Alvito kept his eyes fixed on the soldier.

“What do you accuse me of, Father?” Ferriera said. “An assassination attempt? Me? In Osaka Castle? This is the first time I’ve ever been in Japan!”

“You deny any knowledge of it?”

“I do not deny that the sooner the heretic’s dead the better,” Ferriera said coldly. “If the Dutch and English start spreading their filth in Asia we’re in for trouble. All of us.”

“We’re already in trouble,” Alvito said. “Toranaga began by saying that he understands from the Ingeles that incredible profits are being made from the Portuguese monopoly of the China trade, that the Portuguese are extravagantly overpricing the silks that only the Portuguese can buy in China, paying for them with the sole commodity the Chinese will accept in exchange, Japanese silver—which again the Portuguese are equally ludicrously underpricing. Toranaga said: ‘Because hostility exists between China and Japan and all direct trade between us is forbidden and the Portuguese alone have their permission to carry the trade, the pilot’s charge of “usury” should be formally replied to—in writing—by the Portuguese.’ He ‘invites’ you, Eminence, to provide the Regents with a report on rates of exchange—silver to silk, silk to silver, gold to silver. He added that he does not, of course, object to our making a large profit, providing it comes from the Chinese.”

“You will, of course, refuse such an arrogant request,” Ferriera said.

“That is very difficult.”

“Then provide a false report.”

“That would endanger our whole position, which is based on trust,” dell’Aqua said.

“Can you trust a Jappo? Of course not. Our profits must remain secret. That God-cursed heretic!”

“I’m sorry to tell you Blackthorne seems to be particularly well informed.” Alvito looked involuntarily at dell’Aqua, his guard dropping momentarily.

The Father-Visitor said nothing.

“What else did the Jappo say?” Ferriera asked, pretending that he had not seen the look between them, wishing he knew the full extent of their knowledge.

“Toranaga asks me to provide him, by tomorrow noon, with a map of the world showing the lines of demarcation between Portugal and Spain, the names of the Popes who approved the treaties, and their dates. Within three days he ‘requests’ a written explanation of our ‘conquests’ in the New World, and ‘purely for my own interest’ were his exact words, the amount of gold and silver taken back—he actually used Blackthorne’s word ‘plundered’—taken back to Spain and Portugal from the New World. And he also requests another map showing the extent of the Empires of Spain and Portugal a hundred years ago, fifty years ago, and today, together with exact positions of our bases from Malacca to Goa—he named them all accurately by the way; they were written on a piece of paper—and also the numbers of Japanese mercenaries employed by us at each of our bases.”

Dell’Aqua and Ferriera were appalled. “This must absolutely be refused,” the soldier boomed.

“You can’t refuse Toranaga,” dell’Aqua said.

“I think, your Eminence, you put too much reliance on his importance,” Ferriera said. “It seems to me that this Toranaga’s just another despot king among many, just another murdering heathen, certainly not to be feared. Refuse him. Without our Black Ship their whole economy collapses. They’re begging for our Chinese silks. Without silks there’d be no kimonos. They must have our trade. I say the pox on Toranaga. We can trade with the Christian kings—what were their names? Onoshi and Kiyama—and the other Christian kings of Kyushu. After all, Nagasaki’s there, we’re there in strength, all trade’s done there.”

“We can’t, Captain,” dell’Aqua said. “This is your first visit to Japan so you’ve no idea of our problems here. Yes, they need us, but we need them more. Without Toranaga’s favor—and Ishido’s—we’ll lose influence over the Christian kings. We’ll lose Nagasaki and everything we’ve built over fifty years. Did you precipitate the attempt on this heretic pilot?”

“I said openly to Rodrigues, and to anyone else who would listen from the very first, that the Ingeles was a dangerous pirate who would infect anyone he came into contact with, and who therefore should be removed in any way possible. You said the same in different words, your Eminence. So did you, Father Alvito. Didn’t the matter come up at our conference with Onoshi and Kiyama two days ago? Didn’t you say this pirate was dangerous?”

“Yes. But—”

“Father, you will forgive me, but sometimes it is necessary for soldiers to do God’s work in the best way they can. I must tell you I was furious with Rodrigues for not creating an ‘accident’ during the storm. He, of all people, should have known better! By the Body of Christ, look what that devil Ingeles has already done to Rodrigues himself. The poor fool’s grateful to him for saving his life when it’s the most obvious trick in the world to gain his confidence. Wasn’t Rodrigues fooled into allowing the heretic pilot to usurp his own quarterdeck, certainly almost causing his death? As to the castle attempt, who knows what happened? That has to have been ordered by a native, that’s a Jappo trick. I’m not sad they tried, only disgusted that they failed. When I arrange for his removal, you may rest assured he will be removed.”

Alvito sipped his wine. “Toranaga said that he was sending Blackthorne to Izu.”

“The peninsula to the east?” Ferriera asked.

“Yes.”

“By land or by ship?”

“By ship.”

“Good. Then I regret to tell you that all hands may be lost at sea in a regrettable storm.”

Alvito said coldly, “And I regret to tell you, Captain-General, that Toranaga said—I’ll give you his exact words: ‘I am putting a personal guard around the pilot, Tsukku-san, and if any accident befalls him it will be investigated to the limit of my power and the power of the Regents, and if, by chance, a Christian is responsible, or anyone remotely associated with Christians, it’s quite possible the Expulsion Edicts would be reexamined and very possible that all Christian churches, schools, places of rest, will be immediately closed.’ ”

Dell’Aqua said, “God forbid that should happen.”

“Bluff,” Ferriera sneered.

“No, you’re wrong, Captain-General. Toranaga’s as clever as a Machiavelli and as ruthless as Attila the Hun.” Alvito looked back at dell’Aqua. “It would be easy to blame us if anything happened to the Ingeles.”

“Yes.”

“Perhaps you should go to the source of your problem,” Ferriera said bluntly. “Remove Toranaga.”

“This is no time for jokes,” the Father-Visitor said.

“What has worked brilliantly in India and Malaya, Brazil, Peru, Mexico, Africa, the Main and elsewhere will work here. I’ve done it myself in Malacca and Goa a dozen times with the help of Jappo mercenaries, and I’ve nowhere near your influence and knowledge. We use the Christian kings. We’ll help one of them to remove Toranaga if he’s the problem. A few hundred conquistadores would be enough. Divide and rule. I’ll approach Kiyama. Father Alvito, if you’ll interpret—”

“You cannot equate Japanese with Indians or with illiterate savages like the Incas. You cannot divide and rule here. Japan is not like any other nation. Not at all,” dell’Aqua said wearily. “I must ask you formally, Captain-General, not to interfere in the internal politics of this country.”

“I agree. Please forget what I said. It was indelicate and naïve to be so open. Fortunately storms are normal at this time of the year.”

“If a storm occurs, that is in the Hand of God. But you will not attack the pilot.”

“Oh?”

“No. Nor will you order anyone to do it.”

“I am bound by my king to destroy the enemies of my king. The Ingeles is an enemy national. A parasite, a pirate, a heretic. If I choose to eliminate him, that is my affair. I am Captain-General of the Black Ship this year, therefore Governor of Macao this year, with viceregal powers over these waters this year, and if I want to eliminate him, or Toranaga or whomever, I will.”

“Then you do so over my direct orders to the contrary and thereby risk immediate excommunication.”

“This is beyond your jurisdiction. It is a temporal matter, not a spiritual one.”

“The position of the Church here is, regrettably, so intermixed with politics and with the silk trade, that everything touches the safety of the Church. And while I live, by my hope of salvation, no one will jeopardize the future of the Mother Church here!”

“Thank you for being so explicit, your Eminence. I will make it my business to become more knowledgeable about Jappo affairs.”

“I suggest you do, for all our sakes. Christianity is tolerated here only because all daimyos believe absolutely that if they expel us and stamp out the Faith, the Black Ships will never come back. We Jesuits are sought after and have some measure of influence only because we alone can speak Japanese and Portuguese and can interpret and intercede for them on matters of trade. Unfortunately for the Faith, what they believe is not true. I’m certain trade would continue, irrespective of our position and the position of the Church, because Portuguese traders are more concerned with their own selfish interests than with the service of our Lord.”

“Perhaps the selfish interests of the clerics who wish to force us—even to the extent of asking His Holiness for the legal powers—to force us to sail into whatever port they decide and trade with whatever daimyo they prefer, irrespective of the hazards, is equally evident!”

“You forget yourself, Captain-General!”

“I do not forget that the Black Ship of last year was lost between here and Malacca with all hands, with over two hundred tons of gold aboard and five hundred thousand crusados worth of silver bullion, after being delayed unnecessarily into the bad weather season because of your personal requests. Or that this catastrophe almost ruined everyone from here to Goa.”

“It was necessary because of the Taikō’s death and the internal politics of the succession.”

“I do not forget you asked the Viceroy of Goa to cancel the Black Ship three years ago, to send it only when you said, to which port you decided, or that he overruled this as an arrogant interference.”

“That was to curb the Taikō, to bring him an economic crisis in the midst of his stupid war on Korea and China, because of the Nagasaki martyrdoms he had ordered, because of his insane attack on the Church and the Expulsion Edicts he had just published expelling us all from Japan. If you cooperate with us, follow our advice, all Japan would be Christian in a single generation! What is more important—trade or the salvation of souls?”

“My answer is souls. But since you’ve enlightened me on Jappo affairs let me put Jappo affairs in their correct perspective. Jappo silver alone unlocks Chinese silks and Chinese gold. The immense profits we make and export to Malacca and Goa and thence to Lisbon support our whole Asian Empire, all forts, all missions, all expeditions, all missionaries, all discoveries, and pays for most, if not all, of our European commitments, prevents the heretics from overrunning us and keeps them out of Asia, which would provide them with all the wealth they need to destroy us and the Faith at home. What’s more important, Father—Spanish, Portuguese, and Italian Christendom, or Jappo Christendom?”

Dell’Aqua glared down at the soldier. “Once and for all, you-will-not-involve-yourself-with-the-internal-politics-here!”

A coal fell from the fire and spluttered on the rug. Ferriera, the nearest, kicked it to safety. “And if I’m to be—to be curbed, what do you propose to do about the heretic? Or Toranaga?”

Dell’Aqua sat down, believing that he had won. “I don’t know, at the moment. But even to think of removing Toranaga is ludicrous. He’s very sympathetic to us, and very sympathetic to increasing trade”—his voice became more withering—“and therefore to increasing your profits.”

“And your profits,” Ferriera said, taking the bit again.

“Our profits are committed to the work of Our Lord. As you well know.” Dell’Aqua tiredly poured some wine, offered it, placating him. “Come now, Ferriera, let’s not quarrel in this fashion. This business of the heretic—terrible, yes. But quarreling avails nothing. We need your counsel and your brains and your strength. You can believe me, Toranaga is vital to us. Without him to restrain the other Regents, this whole country will go back to anarchy again.”

“Yes; it’s true, Captain-General,” Alvito said. “But I don’t understand why he’s still in the castle and has agreed to a delay in the meeting. It’s incredible that he seems to have been outmaneuvered. He must surely know that Osaka’s locked tighter than a jealous crusader’s chastity belt. He should have left days ago.”

Ferriera said, “If he’s vital, why support Onoshi and Kiyama? Haven’t those two sided with Ishido against him? Why don’t you advise them against it? It was discussed only two days ago.”

“They told us of their decision, Captain. We did not discuss it.”

“Then perhaps you should have, Eminence. If it’s so important, why not order them against it? With a threat of excommunication.”

Dell’Aqua sighed. “I wish it were so simple. You don’t do things like that in Japan. They abhor outside interference in their internal affairs. Even a suggestion on our part has to be offered with extreme delicacy.”

Ferriera drained his silver goblet and poured some more wine and calmed himself, knowing that he needed the Jesuits on his side, that without them as interpreters he was helpless. You’ve got to make this voyage successful, he told himself. You’ve soldiered and sweated eleven years in the service of the King to earn, rightfully—twenty times over—the richest prize in his power to give, the Captain-Generalship of the annual Black Ship for one year and the tenth part that goes with the honor, a tenth of all silk, of all gold, of all silver, and of all profit from each transaction. You’re rich for life now, for thirty lifetimes if you had them, all from this one single voyage. If you accomplish it.

Ferriera’s hand went to the haft of his rapier, to the silver cross that formed part of the silver filigree. “By the Blood of Christ, my Black Ship will sail on time from Macao to Nagasaki and then, the richest treasure ship in history, she’ll head south with the monsoon in November for Goa and thence home! As Christ is my judge, that’s what’s going to happen.” And he added silently, if I have to burn all Japan and all Macao and all China to do it, by the Madonna!

“Our prayers are with you, of course they are,” dell’Aqua replied, meaning it. “We know the importance of your voyage.”

“Then what do you suggest? Without port clearances and safe conducts to trade, I’m hamstrung. Can’t we avoid the Regents? Perhaps there’s another way?”

Dell’Aqua shook his head. “Martin? You’re our trade expert.”

“I’m sorry, but it’s not possible,” Alvito said. He had listened to the heated exchange with simmering indignation. Foul-mannered, arrogant, motherless cretin, he had thought, then immediately, oh, God, give me patience, for without this man and others like him, the Church dies here. “I’m sure within a day or two, Captain-General, everything will be sealed. A week at the most. Toranaga has very special problems at the moment. It will be all right, I’m sure.”

“I’ll wait a week. No more.” The undercurrent of menace in Ferriera’s tone was frightening. “I’d like to get my hands on that heretic. I’d rack the truth out of him. Did Toranaga say anything about the supposed fleet? An enemy fleet?”

“No.”

“I’d like to know that truth, because inbound, my ship will be wallowing like a fat pig, her holds bulging with more silks than have ever been sent at one time. We’re one of the biggest ships in the world but I’ve no escort, so if a single enemy frigate were to catch us at sea—or that Dutch whore, the Erasmus—we’d be at her mercy. She’d make me haul down the Imperial flag of Portugal with no trouble at all. The Ingeles had better not get his ship to sea, with gunners and cannon and shot aboard.”

“E vero, è solamente vero,” dell’Aqua muttered.

Ferriera finished his wine. “When’s Blackthorne being sent to Izu?”

“Toranaga didn’t say,” Alvito replied. “I got the impression it would be soon.”

“Today?”

“I don’t know. Now the Regents meet in four days. I would imagine it would be after that.”

Dell’Aqua said heavily, “Blackthorne must not be interfered with. Neither he nor Toranaga.”

Ferriera stood up. “I’ll be getting back to my ship. You’ll dine with us? Both of you? At dusk? There’s a fine capon, a joint of beef and Madeira wine, even some new bread.”

“Thank you, you’re very kind.” Dell’Aqua brightened slightly. “Yes, some good food again would be wonderful. You’re very kind.”

“You’ll be informed the instant I have word from Toranaga, Captain-General,” Alvito said.

“Thank you.”

When Ferriera had gone and the Visitor was sure that he and Alvito could not be overheard, he said anxiously, “Martin, what else did Toranaga say?”

“He wants an explanation, in writing, of the gun-running incident, and the request for conquistadores.”

“Mamma mia . . .”

“Toranaga was friendly, even gentle, but—well, I’ve never seen him like this before.”

“What exactly did he say?”

“ ‘I understand, Tsukku-san, that the previous head of your order of Christians, Father da Cunha, wrote to the governors of Macao, Goa, and the Spanish Viceroy in Manila, Don Sisco y Vivera, in July of 1588 of your counting, asking for an invasion of hundreds of Spanish soldiers with guns to support some Christian daimyos in a rebellion which the chief Christian priest was trying to incite against their lawful liege lord, my late master, the Taikō. What were the names of these daimyos? Is it true that no soldiers were sent but vast numbers of guns were smuggled into Nagasaki under your Christian seal from Macao? Is it true that the Father-Giant secretly seized these guns when he returned to Japan for the second time, as Ambassador from Goa, in March or April 1590, by your counting, and secretly smuggled them out of Nagasaki on the Portuguese ship, the Santa Cruz, back to Macao?’ ” Alvito wiped the sweat off his hands.

“Did he say anything more?”

“Not of importance, Eminence. I had no chance to explain—he dismissed me at once. The dismissal was polite but it was still a dismissal.”

“Where is that cursed Englishman getting his information from?”

“I wish I knew.”

“Those dates and names. You’re not mistaken? He said them exactly like that?”

“No, Eminence. The names were written on a piece of paper. He showed it to me.”

“Blackthorne’s writing?”

“No. The names were written phonetically in Japanese, in hiragana.”

“We’ve got to find out who’s interpreting for Toranaga. He must be astonishingly good. Surely not one of ours? It can’t be Brother Manuel, can it?” he asked bitterly, using Masamanu Jiro’s baptismal name. Jiro was the son of a Christian samurai who had been educated by the Jesuits since childhood and, being intelligent and devout, had been selected to enter the seminary to be trained to be a full priest of the four vows, of which there were none from the Japanese yet. Jiro had been with the Society for twenty years, then, incredibly, he left before being ordained and he was now a violent antagonist of the Church.

“No. Manuel’s still in Kyushu, may he burn in hell forever. He’s still a violent enemy of Toranaga’s, he’d never help him. Fortunately, he was never party to any political secrets. The interpreter was the Lady Maria,” Alvito said, using Toda Mariko’s baptismal name.

“Toranaga told you that?”

“No, your Eminence. But I happen to know that she’s been visiting the castle, and she was seen with the Ingeles.”

“You’re sure?”

“Our information is completely accurate.”

“Good,” dell’Aqua said. “Perhaps God is helping us in His inscrutable fashion. Send for her at once.”

“I’ve already seen her. I made it my business to meet her by chance. She was delightful as always, deferential, pious as always, but she said pointedly before I had an opportunity to question her, ‘Of course, the Empire is a very private land, Father, and some things, by custom, have to stay very private. Is it the same in Portugal, and within the Society of Jesus?’ ”

“You’re her confessor.”

“Yes. But she won’t say anything.”

“Why?”

“Clearly she’s been forewarned and forbidden to discuss what happened and what was said. I know them too well. In this, Toranaga’s influence would be greater than ours.”

“Is her faith so small? Has our training of her been so inept? Surely not. She’s as devout and as good a Christian as any woman I’ve ever met. One day she’ll become a nun—perhaps even the first Japanese abbess.”

“Yes. But she will say nothing now.”

“The Church is in jeopardy. This is important, perhaps too important,” dell’Aqua said. “She would understand that. She’s far too intelligent not to realize it.”

“I beg you, do not put her faith to the test in this. We must lose. She warned me. That’s what she was saying as clearly as if it were written down.”

“Perhaps it would be good to put her to the test. For her own salvation.”

“That’s up to you to order or not to order. But I’m afraid that she must obey Toranaga, Eminence, and not us.”

“I will think about Maria. Yes,” dell’Aqua said. He let his eyes drift to the fire, the weight of his office crushing him. Poor Maria. That cursed heretic! How do we avoid the trap? How do we conceal the truth about the guns? How could a Father Superior and Vice-Provincial like da Cunha, who was so well trained, so experienced, with seven years’ practical knowledge in Macao and Japan—how could he make such a hideous mistake?

“How?” he asked the flames.

I can answer, he told himself. It’s too easy. You panic or you forget the glory of God or become pride-filled or arrogant or petrified. Who wouldn’t have, perhaps, under the same circumstances? To be received by the Taikō at sunset with favor, a triumphal meeting with pomp and ceremony—almost like an act of contrition by the Taikō, who was seemingly on the point of converting. And then to be awakened in the middle of the same night with the Taikō’s Expulsion Edicts decreeing that all religious orders were to be out of Japan within twenty days on pain of death, never to return, and worse, that all Japanese converts throughout the land were ordered to recant at once or they would immediately be exiled or put to death.

Driven to despair, the Superior had wildly advised the Kyushu Christian daimyos—Onoshi, Misaki, Kiyama and Harima of Nagasaki among them—to rebel to save the Church and had written frantically for conquistadores to stiffen the revolt.

The fire spluttered and danced in the iron grate. Yes, all true, dell’Aqua thought. If only I’d known, if only da Cunha had consulted me first. But how could he? It takes six months to send a letter to Goa and perhaps another six months for one to return and da Cunha did write immediately but he was the Superior and on his own and had to cope at once with the disaster.

Though dell’Aqua had sailed immediately on receiving the letter, with hastily arranged credentials as Ambassador from the Viceroy of Goa, it had taken months to arrive at Macao, only to learn that da Cunha was dead, and that he and all Fathers were forbidden to enter Japan on pain of death.

But the guns had already gone.

Then, after ten weeks, came the news that the Church was not obliterated in Japan, that the Taikō was not enforcing his new laws. Only half a hundred churches had been burned. Only Takayama had been smashed. And word seeped back that though the Edicts would remain officially in force, the Taikō was now prepared to allow things to be as they were, provided that the Fathers were much more discreet in their conversions, their converts more discreet and well behaved, and that there were no more blatant public worship or demonstrations and no burning of Buddhist churches by zealots.

Then, when the ordeal seemed at an end, dell’Aqua had remembered that the guns had gone weeks before, under Father Superior da Cunha’s seal, that they still lay in the Jesuit Nagasaki warehouses.

More weeks of agony ensued until the guns were secretly smuggled back to Macao—yes, under my seal this time, dell’Aqua reminded himself, hopefully the secret buried forever. But those secrets never leave you in peace, however much you wish or pray.

How much does the heretic know?

For more than an hour his Eminence sat motionless in his high-backed leather chair, staring sightlessly at the fire. Alvito waited patiently near the bookcase, his hands in his lap. Shafted sunlight danced off the silver crucifix on the wall behind the Father-Visitor. On one side wall was a small oil by the Venetian painter Titian that dell’Aqua had bought in his youth in Padua, where he had been sent by his father to study law. The other wall was lined with his Bibles and his books, in Latin, Portuguese, Italian, and Spanish. And, from the Society’s own movable-type press at Nagasaki that he had ordered and brought at so much cost from Goa ten years ago, two shelves of Japanese books and pamphlets: devotional books and catechisms of all sorts, translated with painstaking labor into Japanese by Jesuits; works adapted from Japanese into Latin to try to help Japanese acolytes learn that language; and last, two small books that were beyond price, the first Portuguese-Japanese grammar, Father Sancho Alvarez’s life’s work, printed six years ago, and its companion, the incredible Portuguese-Latin-Japanese dictionary printed last year in Roman letters as well as hiragana script. It had been begun at his order twenty years ago, the first dictionary of Japanese words ever compiled.

Father Alvito picked up the book and caressed it lovingly. He knew that it was a unique work of art. For eighteen years he himself had been compiling such a work and it was still nowhere near finished. But his was to be a dictionary with explanatory supplements and far more detailed—almost an introduction to Japan and the Japanese, and he knew without vanity that if he managed to finish it, it would be a masterpiece compared to Father Alvarez’s work, that if his name was ever to be remembered, it would be because of his book and the Father-Visitor, who was the only father he had ever known.

“You want to leave Portugal, my son, and join the service of God?” the giant Jesuit had said the first day he had met him.

“Oh, yes, please, Father,” he had replied, craning up at him with desperate longing.

“How old are you, my son?”

“I don’t know, Father, perhaps ten, perhaps eleven, but I can read and write, the priest taught me, and I’m alone, I’ve no one of my own, I belong to no one. . . .”

Dell’Aqua had taken him to Goa and thence to Nagasaki, where he had joined the seminary of the Society of Jesus, the youngest European in Asia, at long last belonging. Then came the miracle of the gift of tongues and the positions of trust as interpreter and trade adviser, first to Harima Tadao, daimyo of the fief of Hizen in Kyushu where Nagasaki lay, and then in time to the Taikō himself. He was ordained, and later even attained the privilege of the fourth vow. This was the special vow over and above the normal vows of poverty, chastity, and obedience, given only to the elite of Jesuits, the vow of obedience to the Pope personally—to be his personal tool for the work of God, to go where the Pope personally ordered and do what he personally wanted; to become, as the founder of the Society, the Basque soldier Loyola, designed, one of the Regimini Militantis Ecclesiae, one of the professed, the special private soldiers of God for His elected general on earth, the Vicar of Christ.

I’ve been so very lucky, Alvito thought. Oh, God, help me to help.

At last dell’Aqua got up and stretched and went to the window. Sun sparkled off the gilded tiles of the soaring central castle donjon, the sheer elegance of the structure belying its massive strength. Tower of evil, he thought. How long will it stand there to remind each one of us? Is it only fifteen—no, it was seventeen years ago that the Taikō put four hundred thousand men to building and excavating, and bled the country to pay for this, his monument, and then, in two short years, Osaka Castle was finished. Incredible man! Incredible people! Yes. And there it stands, indestructible. Except to the Finger of God. He can humble it in an instant, if He wishes. Oh, God, help me to do Thy will.

“Well, Martin, it seems we have work to do.” Dell’Aqua began to walk up and down, his voice now as firm as his step. “About the English pilot: If we don’t protect him he’ll be killed and we risk Toranaga’s disfavor. If we manage to protect him he’ll soon hang himself. But dare we wait? His presence is a threat to us and there is no telling how much further damage he can do before that happy date. Or we can help Toranaga to remove him. Or, last, we can convert him.”

Alvito blinked. “What?”

“He’s intelligent, very knowledgeable about Catholicism. Aren’t most Englishmen really Catholic at heart? The answer is yes if their king or queen is Catholic, and no if he or she is Protestant. The English are careless about religion. They’re fanatic against us at the moment, but isn’t that because of the Armada? Perhaps Blackthorne can be converted. That would be the perfect solution—to the Glory of God, and save his heretic soul from a damnation he’s certainly going to.

“Next, Toranaga: We’ll give him the maps he wants. Explain about ‘spheres of influence.’ Isn’t that really what the lines of demarcation were for, to separate the influence of the Portuguese and our Spanish friends? Sì, è vero! Tell him that on the other important matters I will personally be honored to prepare them for him and will give them to him as soon as possible. Because I’ll have to check the facts in Macao, could he please grant a reasonable delay? And in the same breath say that you are delighted to inform him that the Black Ship will sail three weeks early, with the biggest cargo of silks and gold ever, that all our assignments of goods and our portion of the cargo and . . .” he thought a moment—“and at least thirty percent of the whole cargo will be sold through Toranaga’s personally appointed broker.”

“Eminence, the Captain-General won’t like sailing early and won’t like—”

“It will be your responsibility to get Toranaga’s immediate sailing clearance for Ferriera. Go and see him at once with my reply. Let him be impressed with our efficiency, isn’t that one of the things he admires? With immediate clearances, Ferriera will concede the minor point of arriving early in the season, and as to the broker, what’s the difference to the Captain-General between one native or another? He will still get his percentage.”

“But Lords Onoshi and Kiyama and Harima usually split the brokerage of the cargo between them. I don’t know if they’d agree.”

“Then solve the problem. Toranaga will agree to the delay for a concession. The only concessions he needs are power, influence, and money. What can we give him? We cannot deliver the Christian daimyos to him. We—”

“Yet,” Alvito said.

“Even if we could, I don’t know yet if we should or if we will. Onoshi and Kiyama are bitter enemies, but they’ve joined against Toranaga because they’re sure he’d obliterate the Church—and them—if he ever got control of the Council.”

“Toranaga will support the Church. Ishido’s our real enemy.”

“I don’t share your confidence, Martin. We mustn’t forget that because Onoshi and Kiyama are Christians, all their followers are Christians in their tens of thousands. We cannot offend them. The only concession we can give to Toranaga is something to do with trade. He’s fanatic about trade but has never managed to participate personally. So the concession I suggest might tempt him to grant a delay which perhaps we can extend into a permanent one. You know how the Japanese like this form of solution—the big stick poised, which both sides pretend does not exist, eh?”

“In my opinion it’s politically unwise for Lord Onoshi and Lord Kiyama to turn against Toranaga at this time. They should follow the old proverb about keeping a line of retreat open, no? I could suggest to them that an offer to Toranaga of twenty-five percent—so each has an equal share, Onoshi, Kiyama, Harima, and Toranaga—would be a small consideration to soften the impact of their ‘temporary’ siding with Ishido against him.”

“Then Ishido will distrust them and hate us even more when he finds out.”

“Ishido hates us immeasurably now. Ishido doesn’t trust them any more than they trust him and we don’t know yet why they’ve taken his side. With Onoshi and Kiyama’s agreement, we would formally put the proposal as though it was merely our idea to maintain impartiality between Ishido and Toranaga. Privately we can inform Toranaga of their generosity.”

Dell’Aqua considered the virtues and defects of the plan. “Excellent,” he said at length. “Put it into effect. Now, about the heretic. Give his rutters to Toranaga today. Go back to Toranaga at once. Tell him that the rutters were sent to us secretly.”

“How do I explain the delay in giving them to him?”

“You don’t. Just tell the truth: they were brought by Rodrigues but that neither of us realized the sealed package contained the missing rutters. Indeed, we did not open them for two days. They were in truth forgotten in the excitement about the heretic. The rutters prove Blackthorne to be pirate, thief, and traitor. His own words will dispose of him once and for all, which is surely divine justice. Tell Toranaga the truth—that Mura gave them to Father Sebastio, as indeed happened, who sent them to us knowing we would know what to do with them. That clears Mura, Father Sebastio, everyone. We should tell Mura by carrier pigeon what has been done. I’m sure Toranaga will realize that we have had his interests at heart over Yabu’s. Does he know that Yabu’s made an arrangement with Ishido?”

“I would say certainly, Eminence. But rumor has it that Toranaga and Yabu are friends now.”

“I wouldn’t trust that Satan’s whelp.”

“I’m sure Toranaga doesn’t. Any more than Yabu has really made any commitment to him.”

Suddenly they were distracted by an altercation outside. The door opened and a cowled monk came barefooted into the room, shaking off Father Soldi. “The blessings of Jesus Christ upon you,” he said, his voice rasping with hostility. “May He forgive you your sins.”

“Friar Perez—what are you doing here?” dell’Aqua burst out.

“I’ve come back to this cesspit of a land to proclaim the word of God to the heathen again.”

“But you’re under Edict never to return on pain of immediate death for inciting to riot. You escaped the Nagasaki martyrdom by a miracle and you were ordered—”

“That was God’s will, and a filthy heathen Edict of a dead maniac has nothing to do with me,” the monk said. He was a short, lean Spaniard with a long unkempt beard. “I’m here to continue God’s work.” He glanced at Father Alvito. “How’s trade, Father?”

“Fortunately for Spain, very good,” Alvito replied icily.

“I don’t spend time in the counting house, Father. I spend it with my flock.”

“That’s commendable,” dell’Aqua said sharply. “But spend it where the Pope ordered—outside of Japan. This is our exclusive province. And it’s also Portuguese territory, not Spanish. Do I have to remind you that three Popes have ordered all denominations out of Japan except us? King Philip also ordered the same.”

“Save your breath, Eminence. The work of God surpasses earthly orders. I’m back and I’ll throw open the doors of the churches and beseech the multitudes to rise up against the ungodly.”

“How many times must you be warned? You can’t treat Japan like an Inca protectorate peopled with jungle savages who have neither history nor culture. I forbid you to preach and insist you obey Holy orders.”

“We will convert the heathen. Listen, Eminence, there’s another hundred of my brothers in Manila waiting for ships here, good Spaniards all, and lots of our glorious conquistadores to protect us if need be. We’ll preach openly and we’ll wear our robes openly, not skulk about in idolatrous silken shirts like Jesuits!”

“You must not agitate the authorities or you’ll reduce Mother Church to ashes!”

“I tell you to your face we’re coming back to Japan and we’ll stay in Japan. We’ll preach the Word in spite of you—in spite of any prelate, bishop, king, or even any pope, for the glory of God!” The monk slammed the door behind him.

Flushed with rage, dell’Aqua poured a glass of Madeira. A little of the wine slopped onto the polished surface of his desk. “Those Spaniards will destroy us all.” Dell’Aqua drank slowly, trying to calm himself. At length he said, “Martin, send some of our people to watch him. And you’d better warn Kiyama and Onoshi at once. There’s no telling what’ll happen if that fool flaunts himself in public.”

“Yes, Eminence.” At the door Alvito hesitated. “First Blackthorne and now Perez. It’s almost too much of a coincidence. Perhaps the Spaniards in Manila knew about Blackthorne and let him come here just to bedevil us.”

“Perhaps, but probably not.” Dell’Aqua finished his glass and set it down carefully. “In any event, with the help of God and due diligence, neither of them will be permitted to harm the Holy Mother Church—whatever the cost.”

CHAPTER TWENTY

“I’ll be a God-cursed Spaniard if this isn’t the life!”

Blackthorne lay seraphically on his stomach on thick futons, wrapped partially in a cotton kimono, his head propped on his arms. The girl was running her hands over his back, probing his muscles occasionally, soothing his skin and his spirit, making him almost want to purr with pleasure. Another girl was pouring saké into a tiny porcelain cup. A third waited in reserve, holding a lacquer tray with a heaping bamboo basket of deep-fried fish in Portuguese style, another flask of saké, and some chopsticks.

“Nan desu ka, Anjin-san?” What is it, Honorable Pilot—what did you say?

“I can’t say that in Nihon-go, Rako-san.” He smiled at the girl who offered the saké. Instead he pointed at the cup. “What’s this called? Namae ka?”

“Sabazuki.” She said it three times and he repeated it and then the other girl, Asa, offered the fish and he shook his head. “Iyé, domo.” He did not know how to say “I’m full now” so he tried instead “not hungry now.”

“Ah! Ima hara hette wa oranu,” Asa explained, correcting him. He said the phrase several times and they all laughed at his pronunciation, but eventually he made it sound right.

I’ll never learn this language, he thought. There’s nothing to relate the sounds to in English, or even Latin or Portuguese.

“Anjin-san?” Asa offered the tray again.

He shook his head and put his hand on his stomach gravely. But he accepted the saké and drank it down. Sono, the girl who was massaging his back, had stopped, so he took her hand and put it on his neck and pretended to groan with pleasure. She understood at once and continued to massage him.

Each time he finished the little cup it was immediately refilled. Better go easy, he thought, this is the third flask and I can feel the warmth into my toes.

The three girls, Asa, Sono, and Rako, had arrived with the dawn, bringing cha, which Friar Domingo had told him the Chinese sometimes called t’ee, and which was the national drink of China and Japan. His sleep had been fitful after the encounter with the assassin but the hot piquant drink had begun to restore him. They had brought small rolled hot towels, slightly scented. When he did not know what they were used for, Rako, the chief of the girls, showed him how to use them on his face and hands.

Then they had escorted him with his four samurai guards to the steaming baths at the far side of this section of the castle and handed him over to the bath attendants. The four guards sweated stoically while he was bathed, his beard trimmed, his hair shampooed and massaged.

Afterwards, he felt miraculously renewed. They gave him another fresh, knee-length cotton kimono and more fresh tabi and the girls were waiting for him again. They led him to another room where Kiri and Mariko were. Mariko said that Lord Toranaga had decided to send the Anjin-san to one of his provinces in the next few days to recuperate and that Lord Toranaga was very pleased with him and there was no need for him to worry about anything for he was in Lord Toranaga’s personal care now. Would Anjin-san please also begin to prepare the maps with material that she would provide. There would be other meetings with the Master soon, and the Master had promised that she would be made available soon to answer any questions the Anjin-san might have. Lord Toranaga was very anxious that Blackthorne should learn about the Japanese as he himself was anxious to learn about the outside world, and about navigation and ways of the sea. Then Blackthorne had been led to the doctor. Unlike samurai, doctors wore their hair close-cropped without a queue.

Blackthorne hated doctors and feared them. But this doctor was different. This doctor was gentle and unbelievably clean. European doctors were barbers mostly and uncouth, and as louse-ridden and filthy as everyone else. This doctor touched carefully and peered politely and held Blackthorne’s wrist to feel his pulse, looked into his eyes and mouth and ears, and softly tapped his back and his knees and the soles of his feet, his touch and manner soothing. All a European doctor wanted was to look at your tongue and say “Where is the pain?” and bleed you to release the foulnesses from your blood and give you a violent emetic to clean away the foulnesses from your entrails.

Blackthorne hated being bled and purged and every time was worse than before. But this doctor had no scalpels or bleeding bowl nor the foul chemic smell that normally surrounded them, so his heart had begun to slow and he relaxed a little.

The doctor’s fingers touched the scars on his thigh interrogatively. Blackthorne made the sound of a gun because a musket ball had passed through his flesh there many years ago. The doctor said “Ah so desu” and nodded. More probes, deep but not painful, over his loins and stomach. At length, the doctor spoke to Rako, and she nodded and bowed and thanked him.

“Ichi ban?” Blackthorne had asked, wanting to know if he was all right.

“Hai, Anjin-san.”

“Honto ka?”

“Honto.”

What a useful word, honto—‘Is it the truth?’ ‘Yes, the truth,’ Blackthorne thought. “Domo, Doctor-san.”

“Do itashimashité,” the doctor said, bowing. You’re welcome—think nothing of it.

Blackthorne bowed back. The girls had led him away and it was not until he was lying on the futons, his cotton kimono loosed, the girl Sono gentling his back, that he remembered he had been naked at the doctor’s, in front of the girls and the samurai, and that he had not noticed or felt shame.

“Nan desu ka, Anjin-san?” Rako asked. What is it, Honorable Pilot? Why do you laugh? Her white teeth sparkled and her eyebrows were plucked and painted in a crescent. She wore her dark hair piled high and a pink flowered kimono with a gray-green obi.

“Because I’m happy, Rako-san. But how to tell you? How do I tell you I laughed because I’m happy and the weight’s off my head for the first time since I left home. Because my back feels marvelous—all of me feels marvelous. Because I’ve Toranaga-sama’s ear and I’ve put three fat broadsides into the God-cursed Jesuits and another six into the poxy Portuguese!” Then he jumped up, tied his kimono tight, and began dancing a careless hornpipe, singing a sea shanty to keep time.

Rako and the others were agog. The shoji had slid open instantly and now the samurai guards were equally popeyed. Blackthorne danced and sang mightily until he could contain himself no longer, then he burst out laughing and collapsed. The girls clapped and Rako tried to imitate him, failing miserably, her trailing kimono inhibiting her. The others got up and persuaded him to show them how to do it, and he tried, the three girls standing in a line watching his feet, holding up their kimonos. But they could not, and soon they were all chattering and giggling and fanning themselves.

Abruptly the guards were solemn and bowing low. Toranaga stood in the doorway flanked by Mariko and Kiri and his ever present samurai guards. The girls all knelt, put their hands flat on the floor and bowed, but the laughter did not leave their faces, nor was there any fear in them. Blackthorne bowed politely also, not as low as the women.

“Konnichi wa, Toranaga-sama,” Blackthorne said.

“Konnichi wa, Anjin-san,” Toranaga replied. Then he asked a question.

“My Master says, what were you doing, senhor?” Mariko said.

“It was just a dance, Mariko-san,” Blackthorne said, feeling foolish. “It’s called a hornpipe. It’s a sailors’ dance and we sing shanties—songs—at the same time. I was just happy—perhaps it was the saké. I’m sorry, I hope I didn’t disturb Toranaga-sama.”

She translated.

“My Master says he would like to see the dance and hear the song.”

“Now?”

“Of course now.”

At once Toranaga sat cross-legged and his small court spread themselves around the room and they looked at Blackthorne expectantly.

There, you fool, Blackthorne told himself. That’s what comes of letting your guard down. Now you’ve got to perform and you know your voice is off and your dancing clumsy.

Even so, he tied his kimono tight and launched himself with gusto, pivoting, kicking, twirling, bouncing, his voice roaring lustily.

More silence.

“My Master says that he’s never seen anything like that in his whole life.”

“Arigato gozaimashita!” Blackthorne said, sweating partially from his effort and partially from his embarrassment. Then Toranaga put his swords aside, tucked his kimono high into his belt, and stood beside him. “Lord Toranaga will dance your dance,” Mariko said.

“Eh?”

“Please teach him, he says.”

So Blackthorne began. He demonstrated the basic step, then repeated it again and again. Toranaga mastered it quickly. Blackthorne was not a little impressed with the agility of the large-bellied, amply buttocked older man.

Then Blackthorne began to sing and to dance and Toranaga joined in, tentatively at first, to the cheers of the onlookers. Then Toranaga threw off his kimono and folded his arms and began to dance with equal verve alongside Blackthorne, who threw off his kimono and sang louder and picked up the tempo, almost overcome by the grotesqueness of what they were doing, but swept along now by the humor of it. Finally Blackthorne did a sort of hop, skip, and jump and stopped. He clapped and bowed to Toranaga and they all clapped for their master, who was very happy.

Toranaga sat down in the center of the room, breathing easily. Immediately Rako sped forward to fan him and the others ran for his kimono. But Toranaga pushed his own kimono toward Blackthorne and took the simple kimono instead.

Mariko said, “My Master says that he would be pleased for you to accept this as a gift.” She added, “Here it would be considered a great honor to be given even a very old kimono by one’s liege lord.”

“Arigato gozaimashita, Toranaga-sama.” Blackthorne bowed low, then said to Mariko, “Yes, I understand the honor he does to me, Mariko-san. Please thank Lord Toranaga with the correct formal words that I unfortunately do not yet know, and tell him I will treasure it and, even more, the honor that he did me in dancing my dance with me.”

Toranaga was even more pleased.

With reverence, Kiri and the servant girls helped Blackthorne into their master’s kimono and showed Blackthorne how to tie the sash. The kimono was brown silk with the five scarlet crests, the sash white silk.

“Lord Toranaga says he enjoyed the dance. One day he will perhaps show you some of ours. He would like you to learn to speak Japanese as quickly as possible.”

“I’d like that too.” But even more, Blackthorne thought, I’d like to be in my own clothes, eating my own food in my own cabin in my own ship with my cannon primed, pistols in my belt, and the quarterdeck tilted under a press of sails. “Would you ask Lord Toranaga when I can have my ship back?”

“Senhor?”

“My ship, senhora. Please ask him when I can get my ship back. My crew, too. All her cargo’s been removed—there were twenty thousand pieces of eight in the strongbox. I’m sure he’ll understand that we’re merchants, and though we appreciate his hospitality, we’d like to trade—with the goods we brought with us—and move on homeward. It’ll take us almost eighteen months to get home.”

“My Master says you have no need to be concerned. Everything will be done as soon as possible. You must first become strong and healthy. You’re leaving at dusk.”

“Senhora?”

“Lord Toranaga said you were to leave at dusk, senhor. Did I say it wrongly?”

“No, no, not at all, Mariko-san. But an hour or so ago you told me I’d be leaving in a few days.”

“Yes, but now he says you will leave tonight.” She translated all this to Toranaga, who replied again.

“My Master says it’s better and more convenient for you to go tonight. There is no need to worry, Anjin-san, you are in his personal care. He is sending the Lady Kiritsubo to Yedo to prepare for his return. You will go with her.”

“Please thank him for me. Is it possible—may I ask if it would be possible to release Friar Domingo? The man has a great deal of knowledge.”

She translated this.

“My Master says, so sorry, the man is dead. He sent for him immediately you asked yesterday but he was already dead.”

Blackthorne was dismayed. “How did he die?”

“My Master says he died when his name was called out.”

“Oh! Poor man.”

“My Master says, death and life are the same thing. The priest’s soul will wait until the fortieth day and then it will be reborn again. Why be sad? This is the immutable law of nature.” She began to say something but changed her mind, adding only, “Buddhists believe that we have many births or rebirths, Anjin-san. Until at length we become perfect and reach nirvana—heaven.”

Blackthorne put off his sadness for the moment and concentrated on Toranaga and the present. “May I please ask him if my crew—” He stopped as Toranaga glanced away. A young samurai came hurriedly into the room, bowed to Toranaga, and waited.

Toranaga said, “Nan ja?”

Blackthorne understood none of what was said except he thought he caught Father Alvito’s nickname “Tsukku.” He saw Toranaga’s eyes flick across to him and noted the glimmer of a smile, and he wondered if Toranaga had sent for the priest because of what he had told him. I hope so, he thought, and I hope Alvito’s in the muck up to his nostrils. Is he or isn’t he? Blackthorne decided not to ask Toranaga though he was tempted greatly.

“Kare ni matsu yoni,” Toranaga said curtly.

“Gyoi.” The samurai bowed and hurried away. Toranaga turned back to Blackthorne. “Nan ja, Anjin-san?”

“You were saying, Captain?” Mariko said. “About your crew?”

“Yes. Can Toranaga-sama take them under his protection too? See that they’re well cared for? Will they be sent to Yedo too?”

She asked him. Toranaga stuck his swords in the belt of the short kimono. “My Master says of course their arrangements have already been made. You need have no concern over them. Or over your ship.”

“My ship is all right? She’s taken care of?”

“Yes. He says the ship is already at Yedo.”

Toranaga got up. Everyone began to bow but Blackthorne broke in unexpectedly. “One last thing—” He stopped and cursed himself, realizing that he was being discourteous. Toranaga had clearly terminated the interview and they had all begun to bow but had been stopped by Blackthorne’s words and now they were all nonplussed, not knowing whether to complete their bows or to wait, or to start again.

“Nan ja, Anjin-san?” Toranaga’s voice was brittle and unfriendly, for he too had been momentarily thrown off balance.

“Gomen nasai, I’m sorry, Toranaga-sama. I didn’t wish to be impolite. I just wanted to ask if the Lady Mariko would be allowed to talk with me for a few moments before I go? It would help me.”

She asked him.

Toranaga merely grunted an imperious affirmative and walked out, followed by Kiri and his personal guards.

Touchy bastards, all of you, Blackthorne said to himself. Jesus God, you’ve got to be so careful here. He wiped his forehead with his sleeve, and saw the immediate distress on Mariko’s face. Rako hurriedly proffered a small kerchief that they always seemed to have ready from a seemingly inexhaustible supply, tucked secretly somewhere into the back of their obis. Then he realized that he was wearing “the Master’s” kimono and that you don’t, obviously, wipe your sweaty forehead with “the Master’s” sleeve, by God, so you’ve committed another blasphemy! I’ll never learn, never—Jesus God in Heaven—never!

“Anjin-san?” Rako was offering some saké.

He thanked her and drank it down. Immediately she refilled it. He noticed a sheen of perspiration on all their foreheads.

“Gomen nasai,” he said to all of them, apologizing, and he took the cup and offered it to Mariko with good humor. “I don’t know if it’s a polite custom or not, but would you like some saké? Is that allowed? Or do I have to bang my head on the floor?”

She laughed. “Oh yes, it is quite polite and no, please don’t hurt your head. There’s no need to apologize to me, Captain. Men don’t apologize to ladies. Whatever they do is correct. At least, that is what we ladies believe.” She explained what she had said to the girls and they nodded as gravely but their eyes were dancing. “You had no way of knowing, Anjin-san,” Mariko continued, then took a tiny sip of the saké and gave him back the cup. “Thank you, but no, I won’t have any more saké, thank you. Saké goes straight to my head and to my knees. But you learn quickly—it must be very hard for you. Don’t worry, Anjin-san, Lord Toranaga told me that he found your aptitude exceptional. He would never have given you his kimono if he wasn’t most pleased.”

“Did he send for Tsukku-san?”

“Father Alvito?”

“Yes.”

“You should have asked him, Captain. He did not tell me. In that he would be quite wise, for women don’t have wisdom or knowledge in political things.”

“Ah, so desu ka? I wish all our women were equally—wise.”

Mariko fanned herself, kneeling comfortably, her legs curled under her. “Your dance was very excellent, Anjin-san. Do your ladies dance the same way?”

“No. Just the men. That was a man’s dance, a sailor’s dance.”

“Since you wish to ask me questions, may I ask you some first?”

“Certainly.”

“What is the lady, your wife, like?”

“She’s twenty-nine. Tall compared with you. By our measurements, I’m six feet two inches, she’s about five feet eight inches, you’re about five feet, so she’d be a head taller than you and equally bigger—equally proportioned. Her hair’s the color of . . .” He pointed at the unstained polished cedar beams and all their eyes went there, then came back to him again. “About that color. Fair with a touch of red. Her eyes are blue, much bluer than mine, blue-green. She wears her hair long and flowing most of the time.”

Mariko interpreted this for the others and they all sucked in their breaths, looked at the cedar beams, back to him once more, the samurai guards also listening intently. A question from Rako.

“Rako-san asks if she is the same as us in her body?”

“Yes. But her hips would be larger and more curved, her waist more pronounced and—well, generally our women are more rounded and have much heavier breasts.”

“Are all your women—and men—so much taller than us?”

“Generally yes. But some of our people are as small as you. I think your smallness delightful. Very pleasing.”

Asa asked something and all their interests quickened.

“Asa asks, in matters of the pillow, how would you compare your women with ours?”

“Sorry, I don’t understand.”

“Oh, please excuse me. The pillow—in intimate matters. Pillowing’s our way of referring to the physical joining of man and woman. It’s more polite than fornication, neh?”

Blackthorne squelched his embarrassment and said, “I’ve, er, I’ve only had one, er, pillow experience here—that was, er, in the village—and I don’t remember it too clearly because, er, I was so exhausted by our voyage that I was half dreaming and half awake. But it, er, seemed to me to be very satisfactory.”

Mariko frowned. “You’ve pillowed only once since you arrived?”

“Yes.”

“You must be feeling very constricted, neh? One of these ladies would be delighted to pillow with you, Anjin-san. Or all of them, if you wish.”

“Eh?”

“Certainly. If you don’t want one of them, there’s no need to worry, they’d certainly not be offended. Just tell me the sort of lady you’d like and we’ll make all the arrangements.”

“Thank you,” Blackthorne said. “But not now.”

“Are you sure? Please excuse me, but Kiritsubo-san has given specific instructions that your health is to be protected and improved. How can you be healthy without pillowing? It’s very important for a man, neh? Oh, very yes.”

“Thank you, but I’m—perhaps later.”

“You’d have plenty of time. I would be glad to come back later. There will be plenty of time to talk, if you wish. You’d have at least four sticks of time,” she said helpfully. “You don’t have to leave until sunset.”

“Thanks. But not now,” Blackthorne said, flattened by the bluntness and lack of delicacy of the suggestion.

“They’d really like to accommodate you, Anjin-san. Oh! Perhaps—perhaps you would prefer a boy?”

“Eh?”

“A boy. It’s just as simple if that’s what you wish.” Her smile was guileless, her voice matter-of-fact.

“Eh?”

“What’s the matter?”

“Are you seriously offering me a boy?”

“Why, yes, Anjin-san. What’s the matter? I only said we’d send a boy here if you wished it.”

“I don’t wish it!” Blackthorne felt the blood in his face. “Do I look like a God-cursed sodomite?”

His words slashed around the room. They all stared at him transfixed. Mariko bowed abjectly, kept her head to the floor. “Please forgive me, I’ve made a terrible error. Oh, I’ve offended where I was only trying to please. I’ve never talked to a—to a foreigner other than one of the Holy Fathers before, so I’ve no way of knowing your—your intimate customs. I was never taught about them, Anjin-san—the Fathers did not discuss them. Here some men want boys sometimes—priests have boys from time to time, ours and some of yours—I foolishly presumed that your customs were the same as ours.”

“I’m not a priest and it’s not our general custom.”

The samurai leader, Kazu Oan, was watching angrily. He was charged with the barbarian’s safety and with the barbarian’s health and he had seen, with his own eyes, the incredible favor that Lord Toranaga had shown to the Anjin-san, and now the Anjin-san was furious. “What’s the matter with him?” he asked challengingly, for obviously the stupid woman had said something to offend his very important prisoner.

Mariko explained what had been said and what the Anjin-san had replied. “I really don’t understand what he’s irritated about, Oan-san,” she told him.

Oan scratched his head in disbelief. “He’s like a mad ox just because you offered him a boy?”

“Yes.”

“So sorry, but were you polite? Did you use a wrong word, perhaps?”

“Oh, no, Oan-san, I’m quite sure. I feel terrible. I’m obviously responsible.”

“It must be something else. What?”

“No, Oan-san. It was just that.”

“I’ll never understand these barbarians,” Oan said exasperatedly. “For all our sakes, please calm him down, Mariko-san. It must be because he hasn’t pillowed for such a long time. You,” he ordered Sono, “you get more saké, hot saké, and hot towels! You, Rako, rub the devil’s neck.” The maids fled to obey. A sudden thought: “I wonder if it’s because he’s impotent. His story about pillowing in the village was vague enough, neh? Perhaps the poor fellow’s enraged because he can’t pillow at all and you brought the subject up?”

“So sorry, I don’t think so. The doctor said he’s very well endowed.”

“If he was impotent—that would explain it, neh? It’d be enough to make me shout too. Yes! Ask him.”

Mariko immediately did as she was ordered, and Oan was horrified as the blood rushed into the barbarian’s face again and a spate of foul-sounding barbarian filled the room.

“He—he said ‘no.’ ” Mariko’s voice was barely a whisper.

“All that just meant ‘no’?”

“They—they use many descriptive curse words when they get excited.”

Oan was beginning to sweat with anxiety for he was responsible. “Calm him down!”

One of the other samurai, an older soldier, said helpfully, “Oan-san, perhaps he’s one of those that likes dogs, neh? We heard some strange stories in Korea about the Garlic Eaters. Yes, they like dogs and . . . I remember now, yes, dogs and ducks. Perhaps these golden heads are like the Garlic Eaters, they stink like them, hey? Maybe he wants a duck.”

Oan said, “Mariko-san, ask him! No, perhaps you’d better not. Just calm—” He stopped short. Hiro-matsu was approaching from the far corner. “Salute,” he said crisply, trying to keep his voice from quaking because old Iron Fist, in the best of circumstances a disciplinarian, had been like a tiger with boils on his arse for the last week and today he had been even worse. Ten men had been demoted for untidiness, the entire night watch paraded in ignominy throughout the castle, two samurai ordered to commit seppuku because they were late for their watch, and four night-soil collectors thrown off the battlements for spilling part of a container in the castle garden.

“Is he behaving himself, Mariko-san?” Oan heard Iron Fist ask irritably. He was certain the stupid woman who had caused all this trouble was going to blurt out the truth, which would have surely lifted their heads, rightfully, off their shoulders.

To his relief he heard her say, “Yes, Lord. Everything is fine, thank you.”

“You’re ordered to leave with Kiritsubo-san.”

“Yes, Lord.” As Hiro-matsu continued with his patrol, Mariko brooded over why she was being sent away. Was it merely to interpret for Kiri with the barbarian on the voyage? Surely that’s not so important? Were Toranaga’s other ladies going? The Lady Sazuko? Isn’t it dangerous for Sazuko to go by sea now? Am I to go alone with Kiri, or is my husband going also? If he stays—and it would be his duty to stay with his lord—who will look after his house? Why do we have to go by ship? Surely the Tokaidō Road is still safe? Surely Ishido won’t harm us? Yes, he would—think of our value as hostages, the Lady Sazuko, Kiritsubo, and the others. Is that why we’re to be sent by sea?

Mariko had always hated the sea. Even the sight of it almost made her sick. But if I am to go, I am to go, and there’s the end of it. Karma. She turned her mind off the inevitable to the immediate problem of the baffling foreign barbarian who was causing her nothing but grief.

When Iron Fist had vanished around the corner, Oan raised his head and all of them sighed. Asa came scurrying down the corridor with the saké, Sono close behind with the hot towels.

They watched while the barbarian was ministered to. They saw the taut mask of his face, and the way he accepted the saké without pleasure and the hot towels with cold thanks.

“Oan-san, why not let one of the women send for the duck?” the old samurai whispered agreeably. “We just put it down. If he wants it everything’s fine, if not he’ll pretend he hasn’t seen it.”

Mariko shook her head. “Perhaps we shouldn’t take this risk. It seems, Oan-san, his type of barbarian has some aversion to talking about pillowing, neh? He is the first of his kind to come here, so we’ll have to feel our way.”

“I agree,” Oan said. “He was quite gentle until that was mentioned.” He glowered at Asa.

“I’m sorry, Oan-san. You’re quite right, it was entirely my fault,” Asa said at once, bowing, her head almost to the floor.

“Yes. I shall report the matter to Kiritsubo-san.”

“Oh!”

“I really think the Mistress should also be told to take care about discussing pillowing with this man,” Mariko said diplomatically. “You’re very wise, Oan-san. Yes. But perhaps in a way Asa was a fortunate instrument to save the Lady Kiritsubo and even Lord Toranaga from an awful embarrassment! Just think what would have happened if Kiritsubo-san herself had asked that question in front of Lord Toranaga yesterday! If the barbarian had acted like that in front of him . . .”

Oan winced. “Blood would have flowed! You’re quite right, Mariko-san, Asa should be thanked. I will explain to Kiritsubo-san that she was fortunate.”

Mariko offered Blackthorne more saké.

“No, thank you.”

“Again I apologize for my stupidity. You wanted to ask me some questions?”

Blackthorne had watched them talking among themselves, annoyed at not being able to understand, furious that he couldn’t curse them roundly for their insults or bang the guards’ heads together. “Yes. You said that sodomy is normal here?”

“Oh, forgive me, may we please discuss other things?”

“Certainly, senhora. But first, so I can understand you, let’s finish this subject. Sodomy’s normal here, you said?”

“Everything to do with pillowing is normal,” she said defiantly, prodded by his lack of manners and obvious imbecility, remembering that Toranaga had told her to be informative about nonpolitical things but to recount to him later all questions asked. Also, she was not to take any nonsense from him, for the Anjin was still a barbarian, a probable pirate, and under a formal death sentence which was presently held in abeyance at Toranaga’s pleasure. “Pillowing is quite normal. And as to a man going with another man or boy, what has this got to do with anyone but them? What harm does it do them, or others—or me or you? None!” What am I, she thought, an illiterate outcast without brains? A stupid tradesman to be intimidated by a mere barbarian? No. I’m samurai! Yes, you are, Mariko, but you’re also very foolish! You’re a woman and you must treat him like any man if he is to be controlled: Flatter him and agree with him and honey him. You forget your weapons. Why does he make you act like a twelve-year-old child?

Deliberately she softened her tone. “But if you think—”

“Sodomy’s a foul sin, an evil, God-cursed abomination, and those bastards who practice it are the dregs of the world!” Blackthorne overrode her, still smarting under the insult that she had believed he could be one of those. Christ’s blood, how could she? Get hold of yourself, he told himself. You’re sounding like a pox-ridden fanatic puritan or a Calvinist! And why are you so fanatic against them? Isn’t it because they’re ever present at sea, that most sailors have tried it that way, for how else can they stay sane with so many months at sea? Isn’t it because you’ve been tempted and you’ve hated yourself for being tempted? Isn’t it because when you were young you had to fight to protect yourself and once you were held down and almost raped, but you broke away and killed one of the bastards, the knife snapped in his throat, you twelve, and this the first death on your long list of deaths? “It’s a God-cursed sin—and absolutely against the laws of God and man!”

“Surely those are Christian words which apply to other things?” she retorted acidly, in spite of herself, nettled by his complete uncouthness. “Sin? Where is the sin in that?”

“You should know. You’re Catholic, aren’t you? You were brought up by Jesuits, weren’t you?”

“A Holy Father educated me to speak Latin and Portuguese and to write Latin and Portuguese. I don’t understand the meaning you attach to Catholic but I am a Christian, and have been a Christian for almost ten years now, and no, they did not talk to us about pillowing. I’ve never read your pillow books—only religious books. Pillowing a sin? How could it be? How can anything that gives a human pleasure be sinful?”

“Ask Father Alvito!”

I wish I could, she thought in turmoil. But I am ordered not to discuss anything that is said with anyone but Kiri and my Lord Toranaga. I’ve asked God and the Madonna to help me but they haven’t spoken to me. I only know that ever since you came here, there has been nothing but trouble. I’ve had nothing but trouble. . . . “If it’s a sin as you say, why is it so many of our priests do it and always have? Some Buddhist sects even recommend it as a form of worship. Isn’t the moment of the Clouds and the Rain as near to heaven as mortals can get? Priests are not evil men, not all of them. And some of the Holy Fathers have been known to enjoy pillowing this way also. Are they evil? Of course not! Why should they be deprived of an ordinary pleasure if they’re forbidden women? It’s nonsense to say that anything to do with pillowing is a sin and God-cursed!”

“Sodomy’s an abomination, against all law! Ask your confessor!”

You’re the one who’s the abomination—you, Captain-Pilot, Mariko wanted to shout. How dare you be so rude and how can you be so moronic! Against God, you said? What absurdity! Against your evil god, perhaps. You claim to be a Christian but you’re obviously not, you’re obviously a liar and a cheat. Perhaps you do know extraordinary things and have been to strange places, but you’re no Christian and you blaspheme. Are you sent by Satan? Sin? How grotesque!

You rant over normal things and act like a madman. You upset the Holy Fathers, upset Lord Toranaga, cause strife between us, unsettle our beliefs, and torment us with insinuations about what is true and what isn’t—knowing that we can’t prove the truth immediately.

I want to tell you that I despise you and all barbarians. Yes, barbarians have beset me all my life. Didn’t they hate my father because he distrusted them and openly begged the Dictator Goroda to throw them all out of our land? Didn’t barbarians pour poison into the Dictator’s mind so he began to hate my father, his most loyal general, the man who had helped him even more than General Nakamura or Lord Toranaga? Didn’t barbarians cause the Dictator to insult my father, sending my poor father insane, forcing him to do the unthinkable and thus cause all my agonies?

Yes, they did all that and more. But also they brought the peerless Word of God, and in the dark hours of my need when I was brought back from hideous exile to even more hideous life, the Father-Visitor showed me the Path, opened my eyes and my soul and baptized me. And the Path gave me strength to endure, filled my heart with limitless peace, released me from perpetual torment, and blessed me with the promise of Eternal Salvation.

Whatever happens I am in the Hand of God. Oh, Madonna, give me thy peace and help this poor sinner to overcome thine enemy.

“I apologize for my rudeness,” she said. “You’re right to be angry. I’m just a foolish woman. Please be patient and forgive my stupidity, Anjin-san.”

At once Blackthorne’s anger began to fade. How can any man be angry for long with a woman if she openly admits she was wrong and he right? “I apologize too, Mariko-san,” he said, a little mollified, “but with us, to suggest a man is a bugger, a sodomite, is the worst kind of insult.”

Then you’re all childish and foolish as well as vile, uncouth, and without manners, but what can one expect from a barbarian, she told herself, and said, outwardly penitent, “Of course you’re right. I meant no harm, Anjin-sama, please accept my apologies. Oh yes,” she sighed, her voice so delicately honeyed that even her husband in one of his most foul moods would have been soothed, “oh yes, it was my fault entirely. So sorry.”

The sun had touched the horizon and still Father Alvito waited in the audience room, the rutters heavy in his hands.

God damn Blackthorne, he thought.

This was the first time that Toranaga had ever kept him waiting, the first time in years that he had waited for any daimyo, even the Taikō. During the last eight years of the Taikō’s rule, he had been given the incredible privilege of immediate access, just as with Toranaga. But with the Taikō the privilege had been earned because of his fluency in Japanese and because of his business acumen. His knowledge of the inner workings of international trade had actively helped to increase the Taikō’s incredible fortune. Though the Taikō was almost illiterate, his grasp of language was vast and his political knowledge immense. So Alvito had happily sat at the foot of the Despot to teach and to learn, and, if it was the will of God, to convert. This was the specific job he had been meticulously trained for by dell’Aqua, who had provided the best practical teachers among all the Jesuits and among the Portuguese traders in Asia. Alvito had become the Taikō’s confidant, one of the four persons—and the only foreigner—ever to see all the Taikō’s personal treasure rooms.

Within a few hundred paces was the castle donjon, the keep. It towered seven stories, protected by a further multiplicity of walls and doors and fortifications. On the fourth story were seven rooms with iron doors. Each was crammed with gold bullion and chests of golden coins. In the story above were the rooms of silver, bursting with ingots and chests of coins. And in the one above that were the rare silks and potteries and swords and armor—the treasure of the Empire.

At our present reckoning, Alvito thought, the value must be at least fifty million ducats, more than one year’s worth of revenue from the entire Spanish Empire, the Portuguese Empire, and Europe together. The greatest personal fortune of cash on earth.

Isn’t this the great prize? he reasoned. Doesn’t whoever controls Osaka Castle control this unbelievable wealth? And doesn’t this wealth therefore give him power over the land? Wasn’t Osaka made impregnable just to protect the wealth? Wasn’t the land bled to build Osaka Castle, to make it inviolate to protect the gold, to hold it in trust against the coming of age of Yaemon?

With a hundredth part we could build a cathedral in every city, a church in every town, a mission in every village throughout the land. If only we could get it, to use it for the glory of God!

The Taikō had loved power. And he had loved gold for the power it gave over men. The treasure was the gleaning of sixteen years of undisputed power, from the immense, obligatory gifts that all daimyos, by custom, were expected to offer yearly, and from his own fiefs. By right of conquest, the Taikō personally owned one fourth of all the land. His personal annual income was in excess of five million koku. And because he was Lord of all Japan with the Emperor’s mandate, in theory he owned all revenue of all fiefs. He taxed no one. But all daimyos, all samurai, all peasants, all artisans, all merchants, all robbers, all outcasts, all barbarians, even eta, contributed voluntarily, in great measure. For their own safety.

So long as the fortune is intact and Osaka is intact and Yaemon the de facto custodian, Alvito told himself, Yaemon will rule when he is of age in spite of Toranaga, Ishido, or anyone.

A pity the Taikō’s dead. With all his faults, we knew the devil we had to deal with. Pity, in fact, that Goroda was murdered, for he was a real friend to us. But he’s dead, and so is the Taikō, and now we have new pagans to bend—Toranaga and Ishido.

Alvito remembered the night that the Taikō had died. He had been invited by the Taikō to keep vigil—he, together with Yodoko-sama, the Taikō’s wife, and the Lady Ochiba, his consort and mother of the Heir. They had watched and waited long in the balm of that endless summer’s night.

Then the dying began, and came to pass.

“His spirit’s gone. He’s in the hands of God now,” he had said gently when he was sure. He had made the sign of the cross and blessed the body.

“May Buddha take my Lord into his keeping and rebirth him quickly so that he will take back the Empire into his hands once more,” Yodoko had said in silent tears. She was a nice woman, a patrician samurai who had been a faithful wife and counselor for forty-four of her fifty-nine years of life. She had closed the eyes and made the corpse dignified, which was her privilege. Sadly she had made an obeisance three times and then she had left him and the Lady Ochiba.

The dying had been easy. For months the Taikō had been sick and tonight the end was expected. A few hours ago he had opened his eyes and smiled at Ochiba and at Yodoko, and had whispered, his voice like a thread: “Listen, this is my death poem:

A last smile, so tender, from the Despot to them and to him. “Guard my son, all of you.” And then the eyes had opaqued forever.

Father Alvito remembered how moved he had been by the last poem, so typical of the Taikō. He had hoped because he had been invited that, on the threshold, the Lord of Japan would have relented and would have accepted the Faith and the Sacrament that he had toyed with so many times. But it was not to be. “You’ve lost the Kingdom of God forever, poor man,” he had muttered sadly, for he had admired the Taikō as a military and political genius.

“What if your Kingdom of God’s up a barbarian’s back passage?” Lady Ochiba had said.

“What?” He was not certain he had heard correctly, revolted by her unexpected hissing malevolence. He had known Lady Ochiba for almost twelve years, since she was fifteen, when the Taikō had first taken her to consort, and she had ever been docile and subservient, hardly saying a word, always smiling sweetly and happy. But now . . .

“I said, ‘What if your God’s kingdom’s in a barbarian’s back passage?’ ”

“May God forgive you! Your Master’s dead only a few moments—”

“The Lord my Master’s dead, so your influence over him is dead. Neh? He wanted you here, very good, that was his right. But now he’s in the Great Void and commands no more. Now I command. Priest, you stink, you always have, and your foulness pollutes the air. Now get out of my castle and leave us to our grief!”

The stark candlelight had flickered across her face. She was one of the most beautiful women in the land. Involuntarily he had made the sign of the cross against her evil.

Her laugh was chilling. “Go away, priest, and never come back. Your days are numbered!”

“No more than yours. I am in the hands of God, Lady. Better you take heed of Him, Eternal Salvation can be yours if you believe.”

“Eh? You’re in the hands of God? The Christian God, neh? Perhaps you are. Perhaps not. What will you do, priest, if when you’re dead you discover there is no God, that there’s no hell and your Eternal Salvation just a dream within a dream?”

“I believe! I believe in God and in the Resurrection and in the Holy Ghost!” he said aloud. “The Christian promises are true. They’re true, they’re true—I believe!”

“Nan ja, Tsukku-san?”

For a moment he only heard the Japanese and it had no meaning for him.

Toranaga was standing in the doorway surrounded by his guards.

Father Alvito bowed, collecting himself, sweat on his back and face. “I am sorry to have come uninvited. I—I was just daydreaming. I was remembering that I’ve had the good fortune to witness so many things here in Japan. My whole life seems to have been here and nowhere else.”

“That’s been our gain, Tsukku-san.”

Toranaga walked tiredly to the dais and sat on the simple cushion. Silently the guards arranged themselves in a protective screen.

“You arrived here in the third year of Tenshō, didn’t you?”

“No, Sire, it was the fourth. The Year of the Rat,” he replied, using their counting, which had taken him months to understand. All the years were measured from a particular year that was chosen by the ruling Emperor. A catastrophe or a godsend might end an era or begin one, at his whim. Scholars were ordered to select a name of particularly good omen from the ancient books of China for the new era which might last a year or fifty years. Tenshō meant “Heaven Righteousness.” The previous year had been the time of the great tidal wave when two hundred thousand had died. And each year was given a number as well as a name—one of the same succession as the hours of the day: Hare, Dragon, Snake, Horse, Goat, Monkey, Cock, Dog, Boar, Rat, Ox and Tiger. The first year of Tenshō had fallen in the Year of the Cock, so it followed that 1576 was the Year of the Rat in the Fourth Year of Tenshō.

“Much has happened in those twenty-four years, neh, old friend?”

“Yes, Sire.”

“Yes. The rise of Goroda and his death. The rise of the Taikō and his death. And now?” The words ricocheted off the walls.

“That is in the hands of the Infinite.” Alvito used a word that could mean God, and also could mean Buddha.

“Neither the Lord Goroda nor the Lord Taikō believed in any gods, or any Infinite.”

“Didn’t the Lord Buddha say there are many paths to nirvana, Sire?”

“Ah, Tsukku-san, you’re a wise man. How is someone so young so wise?”

“I wish sincerely I was, Sire. Then I could be of more help.”

“You wanted to see me?”

“Yes. I thought it important enough to come uninvited.”

Alvito took out Blackthorne’s rutters and placed them on the floor in front of him, giving the explanations dell’Aqua had suggested. He saw Toranaga’s face harden and he was glad of it.

“Proof of his piracy?”

“Yes, Sire. The rutters even contain the exact words of their orders, which include: ‘if necessary to land in force and claim any territory reached or discovered.’ If you wish I can make an exact translation of all the pertinent passages.”

“Make a translation of everything. Quickly,” Toranaga said.

“There’s something else the Father-Visitor thought you should know.” Alvito told Toranaga everything about the maps and reports and the Black Ship as had been arranged, and he was delighted to see the pleased reaction.

“Excellent,” Toranaga said. “Are you sure the Black Ship will be early? Absolutely sure?”

“Yes,” Alvito answered firmly. Oh, God, let it happen as we hope!

“Good. Tell your liege lord that I look forward to reading his reports. Yes. I imagine it will take some months for him to obtain the correct facts?”

“He said he would prepare the reports as soon as possible. We will be sending you the maps as you wanted. Would it be possible for the Captain-General to have his clearances soon? That would help enormously if the Black Ship is to come early, Lord Toranaga.”

“You guarantee the ship will arrive early?”

“No man can guarantee the wind and storm and sea. But the ship will leave Macao early.”

“You will have them before sunset. Is there anything else? I won’t be available for three days, until after the conclusion of the meeting of the Regents.”

“No, Sire. Thank you. I pray that the Infinite will keep you safe, as always.” Alvito bowed and waited for his dismissal, but instead, Toranaga dismissed his guards.

This was the first time Alvito had ever seen a daimyo unattended.

“Come and sit here, Tsukku-san.” Toranaga pointed beside him, on the dais.

Alvito had never been invited onto the dais before. Is this a vote of confidence—or a sentence?

“War is coming,” Toranaga said.

“Yes,” he replied, and he thought, this war will never end.

“The Christian Lords Onoshi and Kiyama are strangely opposed to my wishes.”

“I cannot answer for any daimyo, Sire.”

“There are bad rumors, neh? About them, and about the other Christian daimyos.”

“Wise men will always have the interests of the Empire at heart.”

“Yes. But in the meantime, against my will, the Empire is being split into two camps. Mine and Ishido’s. So all interests in the Empire lie on one side or another. There is no middle course. Where do the interests of the Christians lie?”

“On the side of peace. Christianity is a religion, Sire, not a political ideology.”

“Your Father-Giant is head of your Church here. I hear you speak—you can speak in this Pope’s name.”

“We are forbidden to involve ourselves in your politics, Sire.”

“You think Ishido will favor you?” Toranaga’s voice hardened. “He’s totally opposed to your religion. I’ve always shown you favor. Ishido wants to implement the Taikō’s Expulsion Edicts at once and close the land totally to all barbarians. I want an expanding trade.”

“We do not control any of the Christian daimyos.”

“How do I influence them, then?”

“I don’t know enough to attempt to counsel you.”

“You know enough, old friend, to understand that if Kiyama and Onoshi stand against me alongside Ishido and the rest of his rabble, all other Christian daimyos will soon follow them—then twenty men stand against me for every one of mine.”

“If war comes, I will pray you win.”

“I’ll need more than prayers if twenty men oppose one of mine.”

“Is there no way to avoid war? It will never end once it starts.”

“I believe that too. Then everyone loses—we and the barbarian and the Christian Church. But if all Christian daimyos sided with me now—openly—there would be no war. Ishido’s ambitions would be permanently curbed. Even if he raised his standard and revolted, the Regents could stamp him out like a rice maggot.”

Alvito felt the noose tightening around his throat. “We are here only to spread the Word of God. Not to interfere in your politics, Sire.”

“Your previous leader offered the services of the Christian daimyos of Kyushu to the Taikō before we had subdued that part of the Empire.”

“He was mistaken to do so. He had no authority from the Church or from the daimyos themselves.”

“He offered to give the Taikō ships, Portuguese ships, to transport our troops to Kyushu, offered Portuguese soldiers with guns to help us. Even against Korea and against China.”

“Again, Sire, he did it mistakenly, without authority from anyone.”

“Soon everyone will have to choose sides, Tsukku-san. Yes. Very soon.”

Alvito felt the threat physically. “I am always ready to serve you.”

“If I lose, will you die with me? Will you commit jenshi—will you follow me, or come with me into death, like a loyal retainer?”

“My life is in the hands of God. So is my death.”

“Ah, yes. Your Christian God!” Toranaga moved his swords slightly. Then he leaned forward. “Onoshi and Kiyama committed to me, within forty days, and the Council of Regents will repeal the Taikō’s Edicts.”

How far dare I go? Alvito asked himself helplessly. How far? “We cannot influence them as you believe.”

“Perhaps your leader should order them. Order them! Ishido will betray you and them. I know him for what he is. So will the Lady Ochiba. Isn’t she already influencing the Heir against you?”

Yes, Alvito wanted to shout. But Onoshi and Kiyama have secretly obtained Ishido’s sworn commitment in writing to let them appoint all of the Heir’s tutors, one of whom will be a Christian. And Onoshi and Kiyama have sworn a Holy Oath that they’re convinced you will betray the Church, once you have eliminated Ishido. “The Father-Visitor cannot order them, Lord. It would be an unforgivable interference with your politics.”

“Onoshi and Kiyama in forty days, the Taikō’s Edicts repealed—and no more of the foul priests. The Regents will forbid them to come to Japan.”

“What?”

“You and your priests only. None of the others—the stenching, begging Black Clothes—the barefoot hairies! The ones who shout stupid threats and create nothing but open trouble. Them. You can have all their heads if you want them—the ones who are here.”

Alvito’s whole being cried caution. Never had Toranaga been so open. One slip now and you’ll offend him and make him the Church’s enemy forever.

Think what Toranaga’s offering! Exclusivity throughout the Empire! The one thing that would guarantee the purity of the Church and her safety while she is growing strong. The one thing beyond price. The one thing no one can provide—not even the Pope! No one—except Toranaga. With Kiyama and Onoshi supporting him openly, Toranaga could smash Ishido and dominate the Council.

Father Alvito would never have believed that Toranaga would be so blunt. Or offer so much. Could Onoshi and Kiyama be made to reverse themselves? Those two hate each other. For reasons only they know they have joined to oppose Toranaga. Why? What would make them betray Ishido?

“I’m not qualified to answer you, Sire, or to speak on such a matter, neh? I only tell you our purpose is to save souls,” he said.

“I hear my son Naga’s interested in your Christian Faith.”

Is Toranaga threatening or is he offering? Alvito asked himself. Is he offering to allow Naga to accept the Faith—what a gigantic coup that would be—or is he saying, “Unless you cooperate I will order him to cease”? “The Lord, your son, is one of many nobles who have open minds about religion, Sire.”

Alvito suddenly realized the enormity of the dilemma that Toranaga faced. He’s trapped—he has to make an arrangement with us, he thought exultantly. He has to try! Whatever we want, he has to give us—if we want to make an arrangement with him. At long last he openly admits the Christian daimyos hold the balance of power! Whatever we want! What else could we have? Nothing at all. Except . . .

Deliberately he dropped his eyes to the rutters that he had laid before Toranaga. He watched his hand reach out and put the rutters safely in the sleeve of his kimono.

“Ah, yes, Tsukku-san,” Toranaga said, his voice eerie and exhausted. “Then there’s the new barbarian—the pirate. The enemy of your country. They will be coming here soon, in numbers, won’t they? They can be discouraged—or encouraged. Like this one pirate. Neh?”

Father Alvito knew that now they had everything. Should I ask for Blackthorne’s head on a silver platter like the head of St. John the Baptist to seal this bargain? Should I ask for permission to build a cathedral at Yedo, or one within the walls of Osaka Castle? For the first time in his life he felt himself floundering, rudderless in the reach for power.

We want no more than is offered! I wish I could settle the bargain now! If it were up to me alone, I would gamble. I know Toranaga and I would gamble on him. I would agree to try and I’d swear a Holy Oath. Yes, I would excommunicate Onoshi or Kiyama if they would not agree, to gain those concessions for Mother Church. Two souls for tens of thousands, for hundreds of thousands, for millions. That’s fair! I would say, Yes, yes, yes, for the Glory of God. But I can settle nothing, as you well know. I’m only a messenger, and part of my message . . .

“I need help, Tsukku-san. I need it now.”

“All that I can do, I will do, Toranaga-sama. You have my promise.”

Then Toranaga said with finality, “I will wait forty days. Yes. Forty days.”

Alvito bowed. He noticed that Toranaga returned the bow lower and more formally than he had ever done before, almost as though he were bowing to the Taikō himself. The priest got up shakily. Then he was outside the room, walking up the corridor. His step quickened. He began to hurry.

Toranaga watched the Jesuit from the embrasure as he crossed the garden, far below. The shoji edged open again but he cursed his guards away and ordered them, on pain of death, to leave him alone. His eyes followed Alvito intently, through the fortified gate, out into the forecourt, until the priest was lost in the maze of innerworks.

And then, in the lonely silence, Toranaga began to smile. And he tucked up his kimono and began to dance. It was a hornpipe.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Just after dusk Kiri waddled nervously down the steps, two maids in attendance. She headed for her curtained litter that stood beside the garden hut. A voluminous cloak covered her traveling kimono and made her appear even more bulky, and a vast, wide-brimmed hat was tied under her jowls.

The Lady Sazuko was waiting patiently for her on the veranda, heavily pregnant, Mariko nearby. Blackthorne was leaning against the wall near the fortified gate. He wore a belted kimono of the Browns and tabi socks and military thongs. In the forecourt, outside the gate, the escort of sixty heavily armed samurai was drawn up in neat lines, every third man carrying a flare. At the head of these soldiers Yabu talked with Buntaro—Mariko’s husband—a short, thickset, almost neckless man. Both were attired in chain mail with bows and quivers over their shoulders, and Buntaro wore a horned steel war helmet. Porters and kaga-men squatted patiently in well-disciplined silence near the multitudinous baggage.

The promise of summer floated on the slight breeze, but no one noticed it except Blackthorne, and even he was conscious of the tension that surrounded them all. And too, he was intensely aware that he alone was unarmed.

Kiri plodded over to the veranda. “You shouldn’t be waiting in the cold, Sazuko-san. You’ll catch a chill! You must remember the child now. These spring nights are still filled with damp.”

“I’m not cold, Kiri-san. It’s a lovely night and it’s my pleasure.”

“Is everything all right?”

“Oh, yes. Everything’s perfect.”

“I wish I weren’t going. Yes. I hate going.”

“There’s no need to worry,” Mariko said reassuringly, joining them. She wore a similar wide-brimmed hat, but hers was bright where Kiri’s was somber. “You’ll enjoy getting back to Yedo. Our Master will be following in a few days.”

“Who knows what tomorrow will bring, Mariko-san?”

“Tomorrow is in the hands of God.”

“Tomorrow will be a lovely day, and if it isn’t, it isn’t!” Sazuko said. “Who cares about tomorrow? Now is good. You’re beautiful and we’ll all miss you, Kiri-san, and you, Mariko-san!” She glanced at the gateway, distracted, as Buntaro shouted angrily at one of the samurai, who had dropped a flare.

Yabu, senior to Buntaro, was nominally in charge of the party. He had seen Kiri arrive and strutted back through the gate. Buntaro followed.

“Oh, Lord Yabu—Lord Buntaro,” Kiri said with a flustered bow. “I’m so sorry to have kept you waiting. Lord Toranaga was going to come down, but in the end, decided not to. You are to leave now, he said. Please accept my apologies.”

“None are necessary.” Yabu wanted to be quit of the castle as soon as possible, and quit of Osaka, and back in Izu. He still could hardly believe that he was leaving with his head, with the barbarian, with the guns, with everything. He had sent urgent messages by carrier pigeon to his wife in Yedo to make sure that all was prepared at Mishima, his capital, and to Omi at the village of Anjiro. “Are you ready?”

Tears glittered in Kiri’s eyes. “Just let me catch my breath and then I’ll get into the litter. Oh, I wish I didn’t have to go!” She looked around, seeking Blackthorne, finally catching sight of him in the shadows. “Who is responsible for the Anjin-san? Until we get to the ship?”

Buntaro said testily, “I’ve ordered him to walk beside my wife’s litter. If she can’t keep him in control, I will.”

“Perhaps, Lord Yabu, you’d escort the Lady Sazuko—”

“Guards!”

The warning shout came from the forecourt. Buntaro and Yabu hurried through the fortified door as all the men swirled after them and others poured from the innerworks.

Ishido was approaching down the avenue between the castle walls at the head of two hundred Grays. He stopped in the forecourt outside the gate and, though no man seemed hostile on either side and no man had his hand on his sword or an arrow in his bow, all were ready.

Ishido bowed elaborately. “A fine evening, Lord Yabu.”

“Yes, yes indeed.”

Ishido nodded perfunctorily to Buntaro, who was equally offhand, returning the minimum politeness allowable. Both had been favorite generals of the Taikō. Buntaro had led one of the regiments in Korea when Ishido had been in overall command. Each had accused the other of treachery. Only the personal intervention and a direct order of the Taikō had prevented bloodshed and a vendetta.

Ishido studied the Browns. Then his eyes found Blackthorne. He saw the man half bow and nodded in return. Through the gateway he could see the three women and the other litter. His eyes came to rest on Yabu again. “You’d think you were all going into battle, Yabu-san, instead of just being a ceremonial escort for the Lady Kiritsubo.”

“Hiro-matsu-san issued orders, because of the Amida assassin. . . .”

Yabu stopped as Buntaro stomped pugnaciously forward and planted his huge legs in the center of the gateway. “We’re always ready for battle. With or without armor. We can take on ten men for each one of ours, and fifty of the Garlic Eaters. We never turn our backs and run like snot-nosed cowards, leaving our comrades to be overwhelmed!”

Ishido’s smile was filled with contempt, his voice a goad. “Oh? Perhaps you’ll get an opportunity soon—to stand against real men, not Garlic Eaters!”

“How soon? Why not tonight? Why not here?”

Yabu moved carefully between them. He also had been in Korea and he knew that there was truth on both sides and that neither was to be trusted, Buntaro less than Ishido. “Not tonight because we’re among friends, Buntaro-san,” he said placatingly, wanting desperately to avoid a clash that would lock them forever within the castle. “We’re among friends, Buntaro-san.”

“What friends? I know friends—and I know enemies!” Buntaro whirled back to Ishido. “Where’s this man—this real man you talked of, Ishido-san? Eh? Or men? Let him—let them all crawl out of their holes and stand in front of me—Toda Buntaro, Lord of Sakura—if any one of them’s got the juice!”

Everyone readied.

Ishido stared back malevolently.

Yabu said, “This is not the time, Buntaro-san. Friends or ene—”

“Friends? Where? In this manure pile?” Buntaro spat into the dust.

One of the Grays’ hands flashed for his sword hilt, ten Browns followed, fifty Grays were a split second behind, and now all were waiting for Ishido’s sword to come out to signal the attack.

Then Hiro-matsu walked out of the garden shadows, through the gateway into the forecourt, his killing sword loose in his hands and half out of its scabbard.

“You can find friends in manure, sometimes, my son,” he said calmly. Hands eased off sword hilts. Samurai on the opposing battlements—Grays and Browns—slackened the tension of their arrow-armed bowstrings. “We have friends all over the castle. All over Osaka. Yes. Our Lord Toranaga keeps telling us so.” He stood like a rock in front of his only living son, seeing the blood lust in his eyes. The moment Ishido had been seen approaching, Hiro-matsu had taken up his battle station at the inner doorway. Then, when the first danger had passed, he had moved with catlike quiet into the shadows. He stared down into Buntaro’s eyes. “Isn’t that so, my son?”

With an enormous effort, Buntaro nodded and stepped back a pace. But he still blocked the way to the garden.

Hiro-matsu turned his attention to Ishido. “We did not expect you tonight, Ishido-san.”

“I came to pay my respects to the Lady Kiritsubo. I was not informed until a few moments ago that anyone was leaving.”

“Is my son right? We should worry we’re not among friends? Are we hostages who should beg favors?”

“No. But Lord Toranaga and I agreed on protocol during his visit. A day’s notice of the arival or departure of high personages was to be given so I could pay the proper respects.”

“It was a sudden decision of Lord Toranaga’s. He did not consider the matter of sending one of his ladies back to Yedo important enough to disturb you,” Hiro-matsu told him. “Yes, Lord Toranaga is merely preparing for his own departure.”

“Has that been decided upon?”

“Yes. The day the meeting of the Regents concludes. You’ll be informed at the correct time, according to protocol.”

“Good. Of course, the meeting may be delayed again. The Lord Kiyama is even sicker.”

“Is it delayed? Or isn’t it?”

“I merely mentioned that it might be. We hope to have the pleasure of Lord Toranaga’s presence for a long time to come, neh? He will hunt with me tomorrow?”

“I have requested him to cancel all hunting until the meeting. I don’t consider it safe. I don’t consider any of this area safe any longer. If filthy assassins can get through your sentries so easily, how much more easy would treachery be outside the walls?”

Ishido let the insult pass. He knew this and the affronts would further inflame his men but it did not suit him to light the fuse yet. He had been glad that Hiro-matsu had interceded for he had almost lost control. The thought of Buntaro’s head in the dust, the teeth chattering, had consumed him. “All commanders of the guards on that night have already been ordered into the Great Void as you well know. The Amidas are laws unto themselves, unfortunately. But they will be stamped out very soon. The Regents will be asked to deal with them once and for all. Now, perhaps I may pay my respects to Kiritsubo-san.”

Ishido walked forward. His personal bodyguard of Grays stepped after him. They all shuddered to a stop. Buntaro had an arrow in his bow and, though the arrow pointed at the ground, the bow was already bent to its limit. “Grays are forbidden through this gate. That’s agreed by protocol!”

“I’m Governor of Osaka Castle and Commander of the Heir’s Bodyguard! I have the right to go anywhere!”

Once more Hiro-matsu took control of the situation. “True, you are Commander of the Heir’s Bodyguard and you do have the right to go anywhere. But only five men may accompany you through that gate. Wasn’t that agreed by you and my Master while he is here?”

“Five or fifty, it makes no difference! This insult is intol—”

“Insult? My son means no insult. He’s following orders agreed by his liege Lord and by you. Five men. Five!” The word was an order and Hiro-matsu turned his back on Ishido and looked at his son. “The Lord Ishido does us honor by wishing to pay respect to the Lady Kiritsubo.”

The old man’s sword was two inches out of its scabbard and no one was sure if it was to slash at Ishido if the fight began or to hack off his son’s head if he pointed the arrow. All knew that there was no affection between father and son, only a mutual respect for the other’s viciousness. “Well, my son, what do you say to the Commander of the Heir’s Bodyguard?”

The sweat was running down Buntaro’s face. After a moment he stepped aside and eased the tension off the bow. But he kept the arrow poised.

Many times Ishido had seen Buntaro in the competition lists firing arrows at two hundred paces, six arrows launched before the first hit the target, all equally accurate. He would happily have ordered the attack now and obliterated these two, the father and son, and all the rest. But he knew it would be the act of a fool to start with them and not with Toranaga, and, in any event, perhaps when the real war came Hiro-matsu would be tempted to leave Toranaga and fight with him. The Lady Ochiba had said she would approach old Iron Fist when the time came. She had sworn that he would never forsake the Heir, that she would weld Iron Fist to her, away from Toranaga, perhaps even get him to assassinate his master and so avoid any conflict. What hold, what secret, what knowledge does she have over him? Ishido asked himself again. He had ordered Lady Ochiba to be spirited out of Yedo, if it was possible, before the Regents’ meeting. Her life would not be worth a grain of rice after Toranaga’s impeachment—which all the other Regents had agreed upon. Impeachment and immediate seppuku, forced if need be. If she escapes, good. If not, never mind. The Heir will rule in eight years.

He strode through the gateway into the garden, Hiro-matsu and Yabu accompanying him. Five guards followed. He bowed politely and wished Kiritsubo well. Then, satisfied that all was as it should be, he turned and left with all his men.

Hiro-matsu exhaled and scratched his piles. “You’d better leave now, Yabu-san. That rice maggot’ll give you no more trouble.”

“Yes. At once.”

Kiri kerchiefed the sweat off her brow. “He’s a devil kami! I’m afraid for our Master.” The tears began to flow. “I don’t want to leave!”

“No harm will come to Lord Toranaga, I promise you, Lady,” Hiro-matsu said. “You must go. Now!”

Kiri tried to stifle her sobs and unloosed the thick veil that hung from the brim of her wide hat. “Oh, Yabu-sama, would you escort Lady Sazuko inside? Please?”

“Of course.”

Lady Sazuko bowed and hurried off, Yabu following. The girl ran up the steps. As she neared the top she slipped and fell.

“The baby!” Kiri shrieked. “Is she hurt?”

All their eyes flashed to the prostrate girl. Mariko ran for her but Yabu reached her first. He picked her up. Sazuko was more startled than hurt. “I’m all right,” she said, a little breathlessly. “Don’t worry, I’m perfectly all right. It was foolish of me.”

When he was sure, Yabu walked back to the forecourt preparing for instant departure.

Mariko came back to the gateway, greatly relieved. Blackthorne was gaping at the garden.

“What is it?” she asked.

“Nothing,” he said after a pause. “What did Lady Kiritsubo shout out?”

“ ‘The baby! Is she hurt?’ The Lady Sazuko’s with child,” she explained. “We were all afraid the fall might have hurt her.”

“Toranaga-sama’s child?”

“Yes,” Mariko said, looking back at the litter.

Kiri was inside the closed translucent curtains now, the veil loosed. Poor woman, Mariko thought, knowing she was only trying to hide the tears. I would be equally terrified to leave my Lord, if I were she.

Her eyes went to Sazuko, who waved once more from the top of the steps, then went inside. The iron door clanged after her. That sounded like a death knell, Mariko thought. Will we ever see them again?

“What did Ishido want?” Blackthorne asked.

“He was—I don’t know the correct word. He was investigating—making a tour of inspection without warning.”

“Why?”

“He’s Commander of the Castle,” she said, not wishing to tell the real reason.

Yabu was shouting orders at the head of the column and set off. Mariko got into her litter, leaving the curtains partially open. Buntaro motioned Blackthorne to move aside. He obeyed.

They waited for Kiri’s litter to pass. Blackthorne stared at the half-seen, shrouded figure, hearing the muffled sobs. The two frightened maids, Asa and Sono, walked alongside. Then he glanced back a last time. Hiro-matsu was standing alone beside the little hut, leaning on his sword. Now the garden was shut from his view as samurai closed the huge fortified door. The great wooden bar fell into place. There were no guards in the forecourt now. They were all on the battlements.

“What’s going on?” Blackthorne asked.

“Please, Anjin-san?”

“It looks like they’re under siege. Browns against the Grays. Are they expecting trouble? More trouble?”

“Oh, so sorry. It’s normal to close the doors at night,” Mariko said.

He began to walk beside her as her litter moved off, Buntaro and the remainder of the rear guard taking up their station behind him. Blackthorne was watching the litter ahead, the swaying gait of the bearers and the misted figure inside the curtains. He was greatly unsettled though he tried to hide it. When Kiritsubo had suddenly shrieked, he had looked at her instantly. Everyone else was looking at the prostrate girl on the staircase. His impulse was to look over there as well but he saw Kiritsubo suddenly scuttle with surprising speed inside the little hut. For a moment he thought his eyes were playing him tricks because in the night her dark cloak and dark kimono and dark hat and dark veil made her almost invisible. He watched as the figure vanished for a moment, then reappeared, darted into the litter, and jerked the curtains closed. For an instant their eyes met. It was Toranaga.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

The little cortege surrounding the two litters went slowly through the maze of the castle and through the continual checkpoints. Each time there were formal bows, the documents were meticulously examined afresh, a new captain and group of escorting Grays took over, and then they were passed. At each checkpoint Blackthorne watched with ever increasing misgivings as the captain of the guard came close to scrutinize the drawn curtains of Kiritsubo’s litter. Each time the man bowed politely to the half-seen figure, hearing the muffled sobs, and in the course of time, waved them on again.

Who else knows? Blackthorne was asking himself desperately. The maids must know—that would explain why they’re so frightened. Hiro-matsu certainly must have known, and Lady Sazuko, the decoy, absolutely. Mariko? I don’t think so. Yabu? Would Toranaga trust him? That neckless maniac Buntaro? Probably not.

Obviously this is a highly secret escape attempt. But why should Toranaga risk his life outside the castle? Isn’t he safer inside? Why the secrecy? Who’s he escaping from? Ishido? The assassins? Or someone else in the castle? Probably all of them, Blackthorne thought, wishing they were safely in the galley and out to sea. If Toranaga’s discovered it’s going to rain dung, the fight’s going to be to the death and no quarter asked or given. I’m unarmed and even if I had a brace of pistols or a twenty pounder and a hundred bully boys, the Grays’d swamp us. I’ve nowhere to run and nowhere to hide. It’s a turd-stuffed fornicator whichever way you count it!

“Are you tiring, Anjin-san?” Mariko asked daintily. “If you like, I’ll walk and you can ride.”

“Thanks,” he replied sourly, missing his boots, the thonged slippers still awkward. “My legs are fine. I was just wishing we were safe at sea, that’s all.”

“Is the sea ever safe?”

“Sometimes, senhora. Not often.” Blackthorne hardly heard her. He was thinking, by the Lord Jesus, I hope I don’t give Toranaga away. That would be terrible! It’d be so much simpler if I hadn’t seen him. That was just bad luck, one of those accidents that can disrupt a perfectly planned and executed scheme. The old girl, Kiritsubo, she’s a great actress, and the young one too. It was only because I couldn’t understand what she’d shouted out that I didn’t fall for the ruse. Just bad luck I saw Toranaga clearly—be-wigged, made up, kimonoed, and cloaked, just like Kiritsubo, but still Toranaga.

At the next checkpoint the new captain of Grays came closer than ever before, the maids tearfully bowing and standing in the way without trying to appear as though they were standing in the way. The captain peered across at Blackthorne and walked over. After an incredulous scrutiny he talked with Mariko, who shook her head and answered him. The man grunted and strolled back to Yabu, returned the documents and waved the procession onward again.

“What did he say?” Blackthorne asked.

“He wondered where you were from—where your home was.”

“But you shook your head. How was that an answer?”

“Oh, so sorry, he said—he wondered if the far-distant ancestors of your people were related to the kami—the spirit—that lives to the north, on the outskirts of China. Till quite recently we thought China was the only other civilized place on earth—except for Japan, neh? China is so immense it is like the world itself,” she said, and closed the subject. The captain had actually asked if she thought this barbarian was descended from Harimwakairi, the kami that looked after cats, adding this one certainly stank like a polecat in rut, as the kami was supposed to do.

She had replied that she didn’t think so, inwardly ashamed of the captain’s rudeness, for the Anjin-san did not have a stench like Tsukku-san or the Father-Visitor or usual barbarians. His aroma was almost imperceptible now.

Blackthorne knew she wasn’t telling him the truth. I wish I could speak their gibberish, he thought. I wish more I could get off this cursed island, back aboard Erasmus, the crew fit and plenty of grub, grog, powder, and shot, our goods traded and away home again. When will that be? Toranaga said soon. Can he be trusted? How did he get the ship to Yedo? Tow it? Did the Portuguese sail her? I wonder how Rodrigues is. Did his leg rot? He should know by now if he’s going to live with two legs or one—if the amputation doesn’t kill him—or if he’s going to die. Jesus God in Heaven, protect me from wounds and all doctors. And priests.

Another checkpoint. For the life of him, Blackthorne could not understand how everyone could remain so polite and patient, always bowing and allowing the documents to be handed over and handed back, always smiling and no sign of irritation whatsoever on either side. They’re so different from us.

He glanced at Mariko’s face, which was partially obscured by her veil and wide hat. He thought she looked very pretty and he was glad that he had had it out with her over her mistake. At least I won’t have any more of that nonsense, he told himself. Bastard queers, they’re all blood-mucked bastards!

After he had accepted her apology this morning he had begun to ask about Yedo and Japanese customs and Ishido and about the castle. He had avoided the topic of sex. She had answered at length, but had avoided any political explanations and her replies were informative but innocuous. Soon she and the maids had left to prepare for her departure, and he had been alone with the samurai guards.

Being so closely hemmed in all the time was making him edgy. There’s always someone around, he thought. There are too many of them. They’re like ants. I’d like the peace of a bolted oak door for a change, the bolt on my side and not theirs. I can’t wait to get aboard again, out into the air, out to sea. Even in that sow-bellied gut-churner of a galley.

Now as he walked through Osaka Castle, he realized that he would have Toranaga in his own element, at sea, where he himself was king. We’ll have time enough to talk, Mariko’ll interpret and I’ll get everything settled. Trade agreements, the ship, the return of our silver, and payment if he wants to trade for the muskets and powder. I’ll make arrangements to come back next year with a full cargo of silk. Terrible about Friar Domingo, but I’ll put his information to good use. I’m going to take Erasmus and sail her up the Pearl River to Canton and I’ll break the Portuguese and China blockade. Give me my ship back and I’m rich. Richer than Drake! When I get home I’ll call up all the seadogs from Plymouth to the Zuider Zee and we’ll take over the trade of all Asia. Where Drake singed Philip’s beard, I’m going to cut off his testicles. Without silk, Macao dies, without Macao, Malacca dies, then Goa! We can roll up the Portuguese Empire like a carpet. “You want the trade of India, Your Majesty? Afrique? Asia? The Japans? Here’s how you can take it in five years!”

“Arise, Sir John!”

Yes, knighthood was within easy reach, at long last. And perhaps more. Captains and navigators became admirals, knights, lords, even earls. The only way for an Englishman, a commoner, to safety, the true safety of position within the realm, was through the Queen’s favor, bless her. And the way to her favor was to bring her treasure, to help her pay for the war against stinking Spain, and that bastard the Pope.

Three years’ll give me three trips, Blackthorne gloated. Oh, I know about the monsoon winds and the great storms, but Erasmus’ll be close-hauled and we’ll ship in smaller amounts. Wait a minute—why not do the job properly and forget the small amounts? Why not take this year’s Black Ship? Then you have everything!

How?

Easily—if she has no escort and we catch her unawares. But I’ve not enough men. Wait, there’re men at Nagasaki! Isn’t that where all the Portuguese are? Didn’t Domingo say it was almost like a Portuguese seaport? Rodrigues said the same! Aren’t there always seamen in their ships who’ve been pressed aboard or forced aboard, always some who’re ready to jump ship for quick profit on their own, whoever the captain and whatever the flag? With Erasmus and our silver I could hire a crew. I know I could. I don’t need three years. Two will be enough. Two more years with my ship and a crew, then home. I’ll be rich and famous. And we’ll part company, the sea and I, at long last. Forever.

Toranaga’s the key. How are you going to handle him?

They passed another checkpoint, and turned a corner. Ahead was the last portcullis and last gateway of the castle proper, and beyond it, the final drawbridge and final moat. At the far side was the ultimate strongpoint. A multitude of flares made the night into crimson day.

Then Ishido stepped out of the shadows.

The Browns saw him almost at the same instant. Hostility whipped through them. Buntaro almost leaped past Blackthorne to get nearer the head of the column.

“That bastard’s spoiling for a fight,” Blackthorne said.

“Senhor? I’m sorry, senhor, what did you say?”

“Just—I said your husband seems—Ishido seems to get your husband very angry, very quickly.”

She made no reply.

Yabu halted. Unconcerned he handed the safe conduct to the captain of the gate and wandered over to Ishido. “I didn’t expect to see you again. Your guards are very efficient.”

“Thank you.” Ishido was watching Buntaro and the closed litter behind him.

“Once should be enough to check our pass,” Buntaro said, his weapons rattling ominously. “Twice at the most. What are we—a war party? It’s insulting.”

“No insult is intended, Buntaro-san. Because of the assassin, I ordered tighter security.” Ishido eyed Blackthorne briefly and wondered again if he should let him go or hold him as Onoshi and Kiyama wanted. Then he looked at Buntaro again. Offal, he thought. Your head will be on a spike soon. How could such exquisiteness as Mariko stay married to an ape like you?

The new captain was meticulously checking everyone, ensuring that they matched the list. “Everything’s in order, Yabu-sama,” he said as he returned to the head of the column. “You don’t need the pass anymore. We keep it here.”

“Good.” Yabu turned to Ishido. “We meet soon.”

Ishido took a roll of parchment out of his sleeve. “I wanted to ask Lady Kiritsubo if she’d take this with her to Yedo. For my niece. It’s unlikely I’ll go to Yedo for some time.”

“Certainly.” Yabu put out his hand.

“Don’t trouble yourself, Yabu-san. I’ll ask her.” Ishido walked toward the litter.

The maids obsequiously intercepted him. Asa held out her hand. “May I take the message, Lord. My Mis—”

“No.”

To the surprise of Ishido and everyone nearby, the maids did not move out of the way.

“But my Mis—”

“Move!” Buntaro snarled.

Both maids backed off with abject humility, frightened now.

Ishido bowed to the curtain. “Kiritsubo-san, I wonder if you’d be kind enough to take this message for me to Yedo? To my niece?”

There was a slight hesitation between the sobs and the figure bowed an assent.

“Thank you.” Ishido offered up the slim roll of parchment an inch from the curtains.

The sobs stopped. Blackthorne realized Toranaga was trapped. Politeness demanded that Toranaga take the scroll and his hand would give him away.

Everyone waited for the hand to appear.

“Kiritsubo-san?”

Still no movement. Then Ishido took a quick pace forward, jerked the curtains apart and at the same instant Blackthorne let out a bellow and began dancing up and down like a maniac. Ishido and the others whirled on him dumbfounded.

For an instant Toranaga was in full view behind Ishido. Blackthorne thought that perhaps Toranaga could pass for Kiritsubo at twenty-paces but here at five, impossible, even though the veil covered his face. And in the never-ending second before Toranaga had tugged the curtains closed again, Blackthorne knew that Yabu had recognized him, Mariko certainly, Buntaro probably, and some of the samurai possibly. He lunged forward, grabbed the roll of parchment and thrust it through a crack in the curtains and turned, babbling, “It’s bad luck in my country for a prince to give a message himself like a common bastard . . . bad luck . . .”

It had all happened so unexpectedly and so fast that Ishido’s sword was not out until Blackthorne was bowing and raving in front of him like an insane jack-in-the-box, then his reflexes took over and sent the sword slashing for the throat.

Blackthorne’s desperate eyes found Mariko. “For Christ’s sake, help—bad luck—bad luck!”

She cried out. The blade stopped a hair’s breadth from his neck. Mariko poured out an explanation of what Blackthorne had said. Ishido lowered his sword, listened for a moment, overrode her with a furious harangue, then shouted with increasing vehemence and hit Blackthorne in the face with the back of his hand.

Blackthorne went berserk. He bunched his great fists and hurled himself at Ishido.

If Yabu hadn’t been quick enough to catch Ishido’s sword arm Blackthorne’s head would have rolled in the dust. Buntaro, a split second later, grabbed Blackthorne, who already had his hands around Ishido’s throat. It took four Browns to haul him off Ishido, then Buntaro smashed him hard on the back of the neck, stunning him. Grays leaped to their master’s defense, but Browns surrounded Blackthorne and the litters and for a moment it was a standoff, Mariko and the maids deliberately wailing and crying, helping to create further chaos and diversions.

Yabu began placating Ishido, Mariko tearfully repeated over and over in forced semihysteria that the mad barbarian believed he was only trying to save Ishido, the Great Commander—whom he thought was a prince—from a bad kami. “And it’s the worst insult to touch their faces, just like with us, that’s what sent him momentarily mad. He’s a senseless barbarian but a daimyo in his own land and he was only trying to help you, Lord!”

Ishido ranted and kicked Blackthorne, who was just coming to. Blackthorne heard the tumult with great peace. His eyes cleared. Grays were surrounding them twenty to one, swords drawn, but so far no one was dead and everyone waited in discipline.

Blackthorne saw that all attention was focused on him. But now he knew he had allies.

Ishido spun on him again and came closer, shouting. He felt the grip of the Browns tighten and knew the blow was coming, but this time, instead of trying to fight out of their grasp, which they expected, he started to collapse, then immediately straightened and broke away, laughing insanely, and began a jibbering hornpipe. Friar Domingo had told him that everyone in Japan believed madness was caused only by a kami and thus madmen, like all young children and very old men, were not responsible and had special privileges, sometimes. So he capered in a frenzy, singing in time to Mariko, “Help . . . I need help for God’s sake . . . can’t keep this up much longer . . . help . . .” desperately acting the lunatic, knowing it was the only thing that might save them.

“He’s mad—he’s possessed,” Mariko cried out, at once realizing Blackthorne’s ploy.

“Yes,” Yabu said, still trying to recover from the shock of seeing Toranaga, not knowing yet if the Anjin-san was acting or if he had really gone mad.

Mariko was beside herself. She didn’t know what to do. The Anjin-san saved Lord Toranaga but how did he know? she kept repeating to herself senselessly.

Blackthorne’s face was bloodless except for the scarlet weal from the blows. He danced on and on, frantically waiting for help but none came. Then, silently damning Yabu and Buntaro as motherless cowards and Mariko for the stupid bitch she was, he stopped the dance suddenly, bowed to Ishido like a spastic puppet and half walked, half danced for the gateway. “Follow me, follow me!” he shouted, his voice almost strangling him, trying to lead the way like a Pied Piper.

The Grays barred his way. He roared with feigned rage and imperiously ordered them out of the way, immediately switching to hysterical laughter.

Ishido grabbed a bow and arrow. The Grays scattered. Blackthorne was almost through the gateway. He turned at bay, knowing there was no point in running. Helplessly he began his rabid dance again.

“He’s mad, a mad dog! Mad dogs have to be dealt with!” Ishido’s voice was raw. He armed the bow and aimed.

At once Mariko leapt forward from her protective position near Toranaga’s litter and began to walk toward Blackthorne. “Don’t worry, Lord Ishido,” she cried out. “There’s no need to worry—it’s a momentary madness—may I be permitted . . .” As she came closer she could see Blackthorne’s exhaustion, the set maniacal smile, and she was frightened in spite of herself. “I can help now, Anjin-san,” she said hurriedly. “We have to try to—to walk out. I will follow you. Don’t worry, he won’t shoot us. Please stop dancing now.”

Blackthorne stopped instantly, turned and walked quietly onto the bridge. She followed a pace behind him as was custom, expecting the arrows, hearing them.

A thousand eyes watched the giant madman and the tiny woman on the bridge, walking away.

Yabu came to life. “If you want him killed, let me do it, Ishido-sama. It’s unseemly for you to take his life. A general doesn’t kill with his own hands. Others should do his killing for him.” He came very close and he dropped his voice. “Leave him alive. The madness came from your blow. He’s a daimyo in his own land and the blow—it was as Mariko-san said, neh? Trust me, he’s valuable to us alive.”

“What?”

“He’s more valuable alive. Trust me. You can have him dead any time. We need him alive.”

Ishido read desperation in Yabu’s face, and truth. He put the bow down. “Very well. But one day I’ll want him alive. I’ll hang him by his heels over the pit.”

Yabu swallowed and half bowed. He nervously waved the cortege onward, fearful that Ishido would remember the litter and “Kiritsubo.”

Buntaro, pretending deference, took the initiative and started the Browns on their way. He did not question the fact that Toranaga had magically appeared like a kami in their midst, only that his master was in danger and almost defenseless. He saw that Ishido had not taken his eyes off Mariko and the Anjin-san, but even so, he bowed politely to him and set himself behind Toranaga’s litter to protect his master from any arrows if the fight began here.

The column was approaching the gate now. Yabu fell into place as a lonely rear guard. Any moment he expected the cortege to be halted. Surely some of the Grays must have seen Toranaga, he thought. How soon before they tell Ishido? Won’t he think I was part of the escape attempt? Won’t this ruin me forever?

Halfway over the bridge Mariko looked back for an instant. “They’re following, Anjin-san, both litters are through the gate and they’re on the bridge now!”

Blackthorne did not reply or turn back. It required all of his remaining will to stay erect. He had lost his sandals, his face burned from the blow, and his head pounded with pain. The last guards let him through the portcullis and beyond. They also let Mariko pass without stopping. And then the litters.

Blackthorne led the way down the slight hill, past the open ground and across the far bridge. Only when he was in the wooded area totally out of sight of the castle did he collapse.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

“Anjin-san—Anjin-san!”

Semiconscious, he allowed Mariko to help him drink some saké. The column had halted, the Browns arranged tightly around the curtained litter, their escorting Grays ahead and behind. Buntaro had shouted at one of the maids, who had immediately produced the flask from one of the baggage kagas, told his personal guards to keep everyone away from “Kiritsubo-san’s” litter, then hurried to Mariko. “Is the Anjin-san all right?”

“Yes, yes, I think so,” Mariko replied. Yabu joined them.

To try to throw off the captain of the Grays, Yabu said carelessly, “We can go on, Captain. We’ll leave a few men and Mariko-san. When the barbarian’s recovered, she and the men can follow.”

“With great deference, Yabu-san, we will wait. I’m charged to deliver you all safely to the galley. As one party,” the captain told him.

They all looked down as Blackthorne choked slightly on the wine. “Thanks,” he croaked. “Are we safe now? Who else knows that—”

“You’re safe now!” she interrupted deliberately. She had her back to the captain and she cautioned him with her eyes. “Anjin-san, you’re safe now and there’s no need to worry. Do you understand? You had some kind of fit. Just look around—you’re safe now!”

Blackthorne did as she ordered. He saw the captain and the Grays and understood. His strength was returning quickly now, helped by the wine. “Sorry, senhora. It was just panic, I think. I must be getting old. I go mad often and can never remember afterwards what happened. Speaking Portuguese is exhausting, isn’t it?” He switched to Latin. “Canst thou understand?”

“Assuredly.”

“Is this tongue ‘easier’?”

“Perhaps,” she said, relieved that he understood the need for caution, even using Latin, which was to Japanese an almost incomprehensible and unlearnable language except to a handful of men in the Empire, all of whom would be Jesuit trained and most committed to the priesthood. She was the only woman in all their world who could speak and read and write Latin and Portuguese. “Both languages are difficult, each hath dangers.”

“Who else knoweth the ‘dangers’?”

“My husband and he who leads us.”

“Art thou sure?”

“Both indicated thusly.”

The captain of Grays shifted restlessly and said something to Mariko.

“He asks if thou art yet dangerous, if thy hands and feet should be restrained. I said no. Thou art cured of thy palsy now.”

“Yes,” he said, lapsing back into Portuguese. “I have fits often. If someone hits me in the face it sends me mad. I’m sorry. Never can remember what happens during them. It’s the Finger of God.” He saw that the captain was concentrating on his lips and he thought, caught you, you bastard, I’ll bet you understand Portuguese.

Sono the maid had her head bent close to the litter curtains. She listened, and came back to Mariko.

“So sorry, Mariko-sama, but my Mistress asks if the madman is well enough to continue? She asks if you would give him your litter because my Mistress feels we should hurry for the tide. All the trouble that the madman has caused has made her even more upset. But, knowing that the mad are only afflicted by the gods, she will say prayers for his return to health, and will personally give him medicines to cure him once we are aboard.”

Mariko translated.

“Yes. I’m all right now.” Blackthorne got up and swayed on his feet.

Yabu barked a command.

“Yabu-san says you will ride in the litter, Anjin-san.” Mariko smiled when he began to protest. “I’m really very strong and you needn’t worry, I’ll walk beside you so you can talk if you wish.”

He allowed himself to be helped into the litter. At once they started again. The rolling gait was soothing and he lay back depleted. He waited until the captain of the Grays had strode away to the head of the column, then whispered in Latin, warning her, “That centurion understandeth the other tongue.”

“Aye. And I believe some Latin also,” she whispered back as quietly. She walked for a moment. “In seriousness, thou art a brave man. I thank thee for saving him.”

“Thou hadst stronger bravery.”

“No, the Lord God hath placed my feet onto the path, and rendered me a little useful. Again I thank thee.”

The city by night was a fairyland. The rich houses had many colored lanterns, oil-lit and candle-lit, hanging over their gateways and in their gardens, the shoji screens giving off a delightful translucence. Even the poor houses were mellowed by the shojis. Lanterns lit the way of pedestrians and kagas, and of samurai, who rode horseback.

“We burn oil for lamps in the houses as well as candles, but with the coming of night, most people go to bed,” Mariko explained as they continued through the city streets, winding and curling, the pedestrians bowing and the very poor on their knees until they had passed, the sea glittering in the moonlight.

“It’s the same with us. How do you cook? Over a wood stove?” Blackthorne’s strength had returned quickly and his legs no longer felt like jelly. She had refused to take the litter back, so he lay there, enjoying the air and the conversation.

“We use a charcoal brazier. We don’t eat foods like you do, so our cooking is more simple. Just rice and a little fish, raw mostly, or cooked over charcoal with a sharp sauce and pickled vegetables, a little soup perhaps. No meat—never meat. We’re a frugal people—we have to be, only so little of our land, perhaps a fifth of our soil, can be cultivated—and we’re many. With us it’s a virtue to be frugal, even in the amount of food we eat.”

“Thou art brave. I thank thee. The arrows flew not, because of the shield of thy back.”

“No, Captain of Ships. It cometh from the will of God.”

“Thou art brave and thou art beautiful.”

She walked in silence for a moment. No one has ever called me beautiful before—no one, she thought. “I am not brave and I am not beautiful. Swords are beautiful. Honor is beautiful.”

“Courage is beautiful and thou hast it in abundance.”

Mariko did not answer. She was remembering this morning and all the evil words and evil thoughts. How can a man be so brave and so stupid, so gentle and so cruel, so warming and so detestable—all at the same time? The Anjin-san was limitlessly brave to take Ishido’s attention off the litter, and completely clever to feign madness and so lead Toranaga out of the trap. How wise of Toranaga to escape this way! But be cautious, Mariko, she warned herself. Think about Toranaga and not about this stranger. Remember his evil and stop the moist warmth in your loins that you have never had before, the warmth courtesans talk about and storybooks and pillowbooks describe.

“Aye,” she said. “Courage is beautiful and thou hast it in abundance.” Then she turned to Portuguese once more. “Latin is such a tiring language.”

“You learned it in school?”

“No, Anjin-san, it was later. After I was married I lived in the far north for quite a long time. I was alone, except for servants and villagers, and the only books I had were Portuguese and Latin—some grammars and religious books, and a Bible. Learning the languages passed the time very well, and occupied my mind. I was very fortunate.”

“Where was your husband?”

“At war.”

“How long were you alone?”

“We have a saying that time has no single measure, that time can be like frost or lightning or a tear or siege or storm or sunset, or even like a rock.”

“That’s a wise saying,” he told her. Then added, “Your Portuguese is very good, senhora. And your Latin. Better than mine.”

“You have a honeyed tongue, Anjin-san!”

“It’s honto!”

“Honto is a good word. The honto is that one day a Christian Father came to the village. We were like two lost souls. He stayed for four years and helped me immensely. I’m glad I can speak well,” she said, without vanity. “My father wanted me to learn the languages.”

“Why?”

“He thought we should know the devil with which we had to deal.”

“He was a wise man.”

“No. Not wise.”

“Why?”

“One day I will tell you the story. It’s a sadness.”

“Why were you alone for a rock of time?”

“Why don’t you rest? We have a long way to go yet.”

“Do you want to ride?” Again he began to get up but she shook her head.

“No, thank you. Please stay where you are. I enjoy walking.”

“All right. But you don’t want to talk anymore?”

“If it pleases you we can talk. What do you want to know?”

“Why were you alone for a rock of time?”

“My husband sent me away. My presence had offended him. He was perfectly correct to do this. He honored me by not divorcing me. Then he honored me even more by accepting me and our son back again.” Mariko looked at him. “My son is fifteen now. I’m really an old lady.”

“I don’t believe you, senhora.”

“It’s honto.”

“How old were you when you were married?”

“Old, Anjin-san. Very old.”

“We have a saying: Age is like frost or siege or sunset, even sometimes like a rock.” She laughed. Everything about her is so graceful, he thought, mesmerized by her. “On you, Venerable Lady, old age sits prettily.”

“For a woman, Anjin-san, old age is never pretty.”

“Thou art wise as thou art beautiful.” The Latin came too easily and though it sounded more formal and more regal, it was more intimate. Watch yourself, he thought.

No one has ever called me beautiful before, she repeated to herself. I wish it were true. “Here it is not wise to notice another man’s woman,” she said. “Our customs are quite severe. For example, if a married woman is found alone with a man in a room with the door closed—just if they are alone and talking privately—by law her husband or his brother or his father has the right to put her to death instantly. If the girl is unmarried, the father can, of course, always do with her as he pleases.”

“That’s not fair or civilized.” He regretted the slip instantly.

“We find ourselves quite civilized, Anjin-san.” Mariko was glad to be insulted again, for it had broken the spell and dispelled the warmth. “Our laws are very wise. There are far too many women, free and unattached, for a man to take one who belongs elsewhere. It’s a protection for women, in truth. A wife’s duty is solely to her husband. Be patient. You’ll see how civilized, how advanced we are. Women have a place, men have a place. A man may have only one official wife at one time—but of course, many consorts—but women here have much more freedom than Spanish or Portuguese ladies, from what I’ve been told. We can go freely where we please, when we please. We may leave our husbands, if we wish, divorce them. We may refuse to marry in the first place, if we wish. We own our own wealth and property, our bodies and our spirits. We have tremendous powers if we wish. Who looks after all your wealth, your money, in your household?”

“I do, naturally.”

“Here the wife looks after everything. Money is nothing to a samurai. It’s beneath contempt to a real man. I manage all my husband’s affairs. He makes all the decisions. I merely carry out his wishes and pay his bills. This leaves him totally free to do his duty to his lord, which is his sole duty. Oh, yes, Anjin-san, you must be patient before you criticize.”

“It wasn’t meant as a criticism, senhora. It’s just that we believe in the sanctity of life, that no one can lightly be put to death unless a law court—the Queen’s law court—agrees.”

She refused to allow herself to be soothed. “You say a lot of things I don’t understand, Anjin-san. But didn’t you say ‘not fair and not civilized’?”

“Yes.”

“That then is a criticism, neh? Lord Toranaga asked me to point out it’s unseemly to criticize without knowledge. You must remember our civilization, our culture, is thousands of years old. Three thousand of these are documented. Oh yes, we are an ancient people. As ancient as China. How many years does your culture go back?”

“Not long, senhora.”

“Our Emperor, Go-Nijo, is the one hundred and seventh of his unbroken line, right back to Jimmu-tenno, the first earthling, who was descended from the five generations of terrestrial spirits and, before them, the seven generations of celestial spirits who came from Kuni-toko-tachi-noh-Mikoto—the first spirit—who appeared when the earth was split from the heavens. Not even China can claim such a history. How many generations have your kings ruled your land?”

“Our Queen’s the third of the Tudor line, senhora. But she’s old now and childless so she’s the last.”

“One hundred and seven generations, Anjin-san, back to divinity,” she repeated proudly.

“If you believe that, senhora, how can you also say you’re Catholic?” He saw her bridle, then shrug.

“I am only a ten-year Christian and therefore a novice, and though I believe in the Christian God, in God the Father and the Son and the Holy Ghost, with all my heart, our Emperor is directly descended from the gods or from God. He is divine. There are a lot of things I cannot explain or understand. But the divinity of my Emperor is without question. Yes, I am Christian, but first I am a Japanese.”

Is this the key to all of you? That first you are Japanese? he asked himself. He had watched her, astonished by what she was saying. Their customs are insane! Money means nothing to a real man? That explains why Toranaga was so contemptuous when I mentioned money at the first meeting. One hundred and seven generations? Impossible! Instant death just for being innocently in a closed room with a woman? That’s barbarism—an open invitation to murder. They advocate and admire murder! Isn’t that what Rodrigues said? Isn’t that what Omi-san did? Didn’t he just murder that peasant? By Christ’s blood, I haven’t thought of Omi-san for days. Or the village. Or the pit or being on my knees in front of him. Forget him, listen to her, be patient as she says, ask her questions because she’ll supply the means to bend Toranaga to your plan. Now Toranaga is absolutely in your debt. You saved him. He knows it, everyone knows it. Didn’t she thank you, not for saving her but for saving him?

The column was moving through the city heading for the sea. He saw Yabu keeping the pace up and momentarily Pieterzoon’s screams came soaring into his head. “One thing at a time,” he muttered, half to himself.

“Yes,” Mariko was saying. “It must be very difficult for you. Our world is so very different from yours. Very different but very wise.” She could see the dim figure of Toranaga within the litter ahead and she thanked God again for his escape. How to explain to the barbarian about us, to compliment him for his bravery? Toranaga had ordered her to explain, but how? “Let me tell you a story, Anjin-san. When I was young my father was a general for a daimyo called Goroda. At that time Lord Goroda was not the great Dictator but a daimyo still struggling for power. My father invited this Goroda and his chief vassals to a feast. It never occurred to him that there was no money to buy all the food and saké and lacquerware and tatamis that such a visit, by custom, demanded. Lest you think my mother was a bad manager, she wasn’t. Every groat of my father’s revenue went to his own vassal samurai and although, officially, he had only enough for four thousand warriors, by scrimping and saving and manipulating my mother saw that he led five thousand three hundred into battle to the glory of his liege lord. We, the family—my mother, my father’s consorts, my brothers and sisters—we had barely enough to eat. But what did that matter? My father and his men had the finest weapons and the finest horses, and they gave of their best to their lord.

“Yes, there was not enough money for this feast, so my mother went to the wigmakers in Kyoto and sold them her hair. I remember it was like molten darkness and hung to the pit of her back. But she sold it. The wigmakers cut it off the same day and gave her a cheap wig and she bought everything that was necessary and saved the honor of my father. It was her duty to pay the bills and she paid. She did her duty. For us duty is all important.”

“What did he say, your father, when he found out?”

“What should he say, other than to thank her? It was her duty to find the money. To save his honor.”

“She must have loved him very much.”

“Love is a Christian word, Anjin-san. Love is a Christian thought, a Christian ideal. We have no word for ‘love’ as I understand you to mean it. Duty, loyalty, honor, respect, desire, those words and thoughts are what we have, all that we need.” She looked at him and in spite of herself, she relived the instant when he had saved Toranaga, and through Toranaga, her husband. Never forget they were both trapped there, they would both be dead now, but for this man.

She made sure that no one was near. “Why did you do what you did?”

“I don’t know. Perhaps because . . .” He stopped. There were so many things he could say: ‘Perhaps because Toranaga was helpless and I didn’t want to get chopped. . . . Because if he was discovered we’d all be caught in the mess. . . . Because I knew that no one knew except me and it was up to me to gamble. . . . Because I didn’t want to die—there’s too much to do to waste my life, and Toranaga’s the only one who can give me back my ship and my freedom.’ Instead he replied in Latin, “Because He hath said, render to Caesar the things that are Caesar’s.”

“Aye,” she said, and added in the same language, “aye, that is what I was attempting to say. To Caesar those things, and to God those things. It is thusly with us. God is God and our Emperor is from God. And Caesar is Caesar, to be honored as Caesar.” Then, touched by his understanding and the tenderness in his voice, she said, “Thou art wise. Sometimes I think thou understandst more than thou sayest.”

Aren’t you doing what you swore you would never do? Blackthorne asked himself. Aren’t you playing the hypocrite? Yes and no. I owe them nothing. I’m a prisoner. They’ve stolen my ship and my goods and murdered one of my men. They’re heathen—well, some of them are heathen and the rest are Catholics. I owe nothing to heathens and Catholics. But you’d like to bed her and you were complimenting her, weren’t you?

God curse all consciences!

The sea was nearer now, half a mile away. He could see many ships, and the Portuguese frigate with her riding lights. She’d make quite a prize. With twenty bully boys I could take her. He turned back to Mariko. Strange woman, from a strange family. Why did she offend Buntaro—that baboon? How could she bed with that, or marry that? What is the “sadness”?

“Senhora,” he said, keeping his voice gentle, “your mother must have been a rare woman. To do that.”

“Yes. But because of what she did, she will live forever. Now she is legend. She was as samurai as—as my father was samurai.”

“I thought only men were samurai.”

“Oh, no, Anjin-san. Men and women are equally samurai, warriors with responsibilities to their lords. My mother was true samurai, her dutifulness to her husband exceeded everything.”

“She’s at your home now?”

“No. Neither she nor my father nor any of my brothers or sisters or family. I am the last of my line.”

“There was a catastrophe?”

Mariko suddenly felt tired. I’m tired of speaking Latin and foul-sounding Portuguese and tired of being a teacher, she told herself. I’m not a teacher. I’m only a woman who knows her duty and wants to do it in peace. I want none of that warmth again and none of this man who unsettles me so much. I want none of him.

“In a way, Anjin-san, it was a catastrophe. One day I will tell you about it.” She quickened her pace slightly and walked away, nearer to the other litter. The two maids smiled nervously.

“Have we far to go, Mariko-san?” Sono asked.

“I hope not too far,” she said reassuringly.

The captain of Grays loomed abruptly out of the darkness on the other side of the litter. She wondered how much that she had said to the Anjin-san had been overheard.

“You’d like a kaga, Mariko-san? Are you getting tired?” the captain asked.

“No, no thank you.” She slowed deliberately, drawing him away from Toranaga’s litter. “I’m not tired at all.”

“The barbarian’s behaving himself? He’s not troubling you?”

“Oh, no. He seems to be quite calm now.”

“What were you talking about?”

“All sorts of things. I was trying to explain some of our laws and customs to him.” She motioned back to the castle donjon that was etched against the sky above. “Lord Toranaga asked me to try to get some sense into him.”

“Ah yes, Lord Toranaga.” The captain looked briefly at the castle, then back to Blackthorne. “Why’s Lord Toranaga so interested in him, Lady?”

“I don’t know. I suppose because he’s an oddity.”

They turned a corner, into another street, with houses behind garden walls. There were few people about. Beyond were wharves and the sea. Masts sprouted over the buildings and the air was thick with the smell of seaweed. “What else did you talk about?”

“They’ve some very strange ideas. They think of money all the time.”

“Rumor says his whole nation’s made up of filthy merchant pirates. Not a samurai among them. What’s Lord Toranaga want with him?”

“So sorry, I don’t know.”

“Rumor says he’s Christian, he claims to be Christian. Is he?”

“Not our sort of Christian, Captain. You’re Christian, Captain?”

“My Master’s Christian so I am Christian. My Master is Lord Kiyama.”

“I have the honor to know him well. He honored my husband by betrothing one of his granddaughters to my son.”

“Yes, I know, Lady Toda.”

“Is Lord Kiyama better now? I understand the doctors won’t allow anyone to see him.”

“I haven’t seen him for a week. None of us has. Perhaps it’s the Chinese pox. God protect him from that, and God curse all Chinese!” He glared toward Blackthorne. “Doctors say these barbarians brought the pest to China, to Macao, and thence to our shores.”

“Sumus omnes in manu Dei,” she said. We are all in the hands of God.

“Ita, amen,” the captain replied without thinking, falling into the trap.

Blackthorne had caught the slip also and he saw a flash of anger on the captain’s face and heard him say something through his teeth to Mariko, who flushed and stopped also. He slid out of the litter and walked back to them. “If thou speakest Latin, Centurion, then it would be a kindness if thou wouldst speak a little with me. I am eager to learn about this great country of thine.”

“Yes, I can speak thy tongue, foreigner.”

“It is not my tongue, Centurion, but that of the Church and of all educated people in my world. Thou speakest it well. How and when did thou learn?”

The cortege was passing them and all the samurai, both Grays and Browns, were watching them. Buntaro, near Toranaga’s litter, stopped and turned back. The captain hesitated, then began walking again and Mariko was glad that Blackthorne had joined them. They walked in silence a moment.

“The Centurion speaks the tongue fluidly, splendidly, doesn’t he?” Blackthorne said to Mariko.

“Yes, indeed. Didst thou learn it in a seminary, Centurion?”

“And thou, foreigner,” the captain said coldly, paying her no attention, loathing the recollection of the seminary at Macao that he had been ordered into as a child by Kiyama to learn the languages. “Now that we speak directly, tell me with simplicity why did thou ask this lady: ‘Who else knoweth . . .’ Who else knoweth what?”

“I recollect not. My mind was wandering.”

“Ah, wandering, eh? Then why didst thou say: ‘Things of Caesar render to Caesar’?”

“It was just a pleasantry. I was in discussion with this lady, who tells illuminating stories that are sometimes difficult to understand.”

“Yes, there is much to understand. What sent thee mad at the gate? And why didst thou recover so quickly from thy fit?”

“That came through the beneficence of God.”

They were walking beside the litter once more, the captain furious that he had been trapped so easily. He had been forewarned by Lord Kiyama, his master, that the woman was filled with boundless cleverness: ‘Don’t forget she carries the taint of treachery throughout her whole being, and the pirate’s spawned by the devil Satan. Watch, listen, and remember. Perhaps she’ll impeach herself and become a further witness against Toranaga for the Regents. Kill the pirate the moment the ambush begins.’

The arrows came out of the night and the first impaled the captain through the throat and, as he felt his lungs fill with molten fire and death swallowing him, his last thought was one of wonder because the ambush was not to have been here in this street but further on, down beside the wharves, and the attack was not to be against them but against the pirate.

Another arrow had slammed into the litter post an inch from Blackthorne’s head. Two arrows had pierced the closed curtains of Kiritsubo’s litter ahead, and another had struck the girl Asa in the waist. As she began screaming, the bearers dropped the litters and took to their heels in the darkness, Blackthorne rolled for cover, taking Mariko with him into the lee of the tumbled litter, Grays and Browns scattering. A shower of arrows straddled both litters. One thudded into the ground where Mariko had been the instant before. Buntaro was covering Toranaga’s litter with his body as best he could, an arrow stuck into the back of his leather-chainmail-bamboo armor, and then, when the volley ceased, he rushed forward and ripped the curtains apart. The two arrows were imbedded in Toranaga’s chest and side but he was unharmed and he jerked the barbs out of the protective armor he wore beneath the kimono. Then he tore off the wide-brimmed hat and the wig. Buntaro searched the darkness for the enemy, on guard, an arrow ready in his bow, while Toranaga fought out of the curtains and, pulling his sword from under the coverlet, leapt to his feet. Mariko started to scramble to help Toranaga but Blackthorne pulled her back with a shout of warning as again arrows bracketed the litters, killing two Browns and a Gray. Another came so close to Blackthorne that it took the skin off his cheek. Another pinned the skirt of his kimono to the earth. The maid, Sono, was beside the writhing girl, who was bravely holding back her screams. Then Yabu shouted and pointed and charged. Dim figures could be seen on one of the tiled roofs. A last volley whooshed out of the darkness, always at the litters. Buntaro and other Browns blocked their path to Toranaga. One man died. A shaft ripped through a joint in Buntaro’s shoulder armor and he grunted with pain. Yabu and Browns and Grays were near the wall now in pursuit but the ambushers vanished into the blackness, and though a dozen Browns and Grays raced for the corner to head them off, all knew that it was hopeless. Blackthorne groped to his feet and helped Mariko up. She was shaken but untouched.

“Thank you,” she said, and hurried over to Toranaga to help screen him from Grays. Buntaro was shouting to some of his men to douse the flares near the litters. Then one of the Grays said, “Toranaga!” and though it was spoken quietly everyone heard.

In the flickering light of the flares, the sweat-streaked makeup made Toranaga seem grotesque.

One of the officer Grays bowed hastily. Here, incredibly, was the enemy of his master, free, outside the castle walls. “You will wait here, Lord Toranaga. You,” he snapped at one of his men, “report to Lord Ishido at once,” and the man raced away.

“Stop him,” Toranaga said quietly. Buntaro launched two arrows. The man fell dying. The officer whipped out his two-handed sword and leaped for Toranaga with a screaming battle cry but Buntaro was ready and parried the blow. Simultaneously the Browns and the Grays, all intermixed, jerked out their swords and jumped for space. The street erupted into a swirling melee. Buntaro and the officer were well matched, feinting and slashing. Suddenly a Gray broke from the pack and charged for Toranaga but Mariko immediately picked up a flare, ran forward, and shoved it into the officer’s face. Buntaro hacked his assailant in two, then whirled and ripped the second man apart, and cut down another who was trying to reach Toranaga as Mariko darted back out of the way, a sword now in her hands, her eyes never leaving Toranaga or Buntaro, his monstrous bodyguard.

Four Grays banded together and hurled themselves at Blackthorne, who was still rooted near his litter. Helplessly he saw them coming. Yabu and a Brown leaped to intercept, fighting demonically. Blackthorne jumped away, grabbed a flare, and using it as a whirling mace, threw the attackers momentarily off balance. Yabu killed one, maimed another, then four Browns rushed back to dispose of the last two Grays. Without hesitation Yabu and the wounded Brown hurled themselves into the attack once more, protecting Toranaga. Blackthorne ran forward and picked up a long half-sword, half-spear and raced nearer to Toranaga. Toranaga alone stood motionless, his sword sheathed, in the screaming fracas.

The Grays fought courageously. Four joined in a suicidal charge at Toranaga. The Browns broke it and pressed their advantage. The Grays regrouped and charged again. Then a senior officer ordered three to retreat for help and the rest to guard the retreat. The three Grays tore off, and though they were pursued and Buntaro shot one, two escaped.

The rest died.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

They were hurrying through deserted back streets, circling for the wharf and the galley. There were ten of them—Toranaga leading, Yabu, Mariko, Blackthorne, and six samurai. The rest, under Buntaro, had been sent with the litters and baggage train by the planned route, with instructions to head leisurely for the galley. The body of Asa the maid was in one of the litters. During a lull in the fighting, Blackthorne had pulled the barbed shaft out of her. Toranaga had seen the dark blood that gushed in its wake and had watched, puzzled, as the pilot had cradled her instead of allowing her to die quietly in private dignity, and then, when the fighting had ceased entirely, how gently the pilot had put her into the litter. The girl was brave and had whimpered not at all, just looked up at him until death had come. Toranaga had left her in the curtained litter as a decoy and one of the wounded had been put in the second litter, also as a decoy.

Of the fifty Browns that had formed the escort, fifteen had been killed and eleven mortally wounded. The eleven had been quickly and honorably committed to the Great Void, three by their own hands, eight assisted by Buntaro at their request. Then Buntaro had assembled the remainder around the closed litters and had left. Forty-eight Grays lay in the dust.

Toranaga knew that he was dangerously unprotected but he was content. Everything has gone well, he thought, considering the vicissitudes of chance. How interesting life is! At first I was sure it was a bad omen that the pilot had seen me change places with Kiri. Then the pilot saved me and acted the madman perfectly, and because of him we escaped Ishido. I hadn’t planned for Ishido to be at the main gate, only at the forecourt. That was careless. Why was Ishido there? It isn’t like Ishido to be so careful. Who advised him? Kiyama? Onoshi? Or Yodoko? A woman, ever practical, would—could—suspect such a subterfuge.

It had been a good plan—the secret escape dash—and established for weeks, for it was obvious that Ishido would try to keep him in the castle, would turn the other Regents against him by promising them anything, would willingly sacrifice his hostage at Yedo, the Lady Ochiba, and would use any means to keep him under guard until the final meeting of the Regents, where he would be cornered, impeached, and dispatched.

“But they’ll still impeach you!” Hiro-matsu had said when Toranaga had sent for him just after dusk last night to explain what was to be attempted and why he, Toranaga, had been vacillating. “Even if you escape, the Regents will impeach you behind your back as easily as they’ll do it to your face. So you’re bound to commit seppuku when they order it, as they will order it.”

“Yes,” Toranaga had said. “As President of the Regents I am bound to do that if the four vote against me. But here”—he had taken a rolled parchment out of his sleeve—“here is my formal resignation from the Council of Regents. You will give it to Ishido when my escape is known.”

“What?”

“If I resign I’m no longer bound by my Regent’s oath. Neh? The Taikō never forbade me to resign, neh? Give Ishido this, too.” He had handed Hiro-matsu the chop, the official seal of his office as President.

“But now you’re totally isolated. You’re doomed!”

“You’re wrong. Listen, the Taikō’s testament implanted a council of five Regents on the realm. Now there are four. To be legal, before they can exercise the Emperor’s mandate, the four have to elect or appoint a new member, a fifth, neh? Ishido, Kiyama, Onoshi, and Sugiyama have to agree, neh? Doesn’t the new Regent have to be acceptable to all of them? Of course! Now, old comrade, who in all the world will those enemies agree to share ultimate power with? Eh? And while they’re arguing, no decisions and—”

“We’re preparing for war and you’re no longer bound and you can drop a little honey here and bile there and those pile-infested dung-makers will eat themselves up!” Hiro-matsu had said with a rush. “Ah, Yoshi Toranaga-noh-Minowara, you’re a man among men. I’ll eat my arse if you’re not the wisest man in the land!”

Yes, it was a good plan, Toranaga thought, and they all played their parts well: Hiro-matsu, Kiri, and my lovely Sazuko. And now they’re locked up tight and they will stay that way or they will be allowed to leave. I think they will never be allowed to leave.

I will be sorry to lose them.

He was leading the party unerringly, his pace fast but measured, the pace he hunted at, the pace he could keep up continuously for two days and one night if need be. He still wore the traveling cloak and Kiri’s kimono, but the skirts were hitched up out of the way, his military leggings incongruous.

They crossed another deserted street and headed down an alleyway. He knew the alarm would soon reach Ishido and then the hunt would be on in earnest. There’s time enough, he told himself.

Yes, it was a good plan. But I didn’t anticipate the ambush. That’s cost me three days of safety. Kiri was sure she could keep the deception a secret for at least three days. But the secret’s out now and I won’t be able to slip aboard and out to sea. Who was the ambush for? Me or the pilot? Of course the pilot. But didn’t the arrows bracket both litters? Yes, but the archers were quite far away and it would be hard to see, and it would be wiser and safer to kill both, just in case.

Who ordered the attack, Kiyama or Onoshi? or the Portuguese? or the Christian Fathers?

Toranaga turned around to check the pilot. He saw that he was not flagging, nor was the woman who walked beside him, though both were tired. On the skyline he could see the vast squat bulk of the castle and the phallus of the donjon. Tonight was the second time I’ve almost died there, he thought. Is that castle really going to be my nemesis? The Taikō told me often enough: ‘While Osaka Castle lives my line will never die and you, Toranaga Minowara, your epitaph will be written on its walls. Osaka will cause your death, my faithful vassal!’ And always the hissing, baiting laugh that set his soul on edge.

Does the Taikō live within Yaemon? Whether he does or not, Yaemon is his legal heir.

With an effort Toranaga tore his eyes away from the castle and turned another corner and fled into a maze of alleys. At length he stopped outside a battered gate. A fish was etched into its timbers. He knocked in code. The door opened at once. Instantly the ill-kempt samurai bowed. “Sire?”

“Bring your men and follow me,” Toranaga said and set off again.

“Gladly.” This samurai did not wear the Brown uniform kimono, only motley rags of a ronin, but he was one of the special elite secret troops that Toranaga had smuggled into Osaka against such an emergency. Fifteen men, similarly clothed, and equally well armed, followed him and quickly fell into place as advance and rear guard, while another ran off to spread the alarm to other secret cadres. Soon Toranaga had fifty troops with him. Another hundred covered his flanks. Another thousand would be ready at dawn should he need them. He relaxed and slackened his pace, sensing that the pilot and the woman were tiring too fast. He needed them strong.

Toranaga stood in the shadows of the warehouse and studied the galley and the wharf and the foreshore. Yabu and a samurai were beside him. The others had been left in a tight knot a hundred paces back down the alley.

A detachment of a hundred Grays waited near the gangway of the galley a few hundred paces away, across a wide expanse of beaten earth that precluded any surprise attack. The galley itself was alongside, moored to stanchions fixed into the stone wharf that extended a hundred yards out into the sea. The oars were shipped neatly, and he could see indistinctly many seamen and warriors on deck.

“Are they ours or theirs?” he asked quietly.

“It’s too far to be sure,” Yabu replied.

The tide was high. Beyond the galley, night fishing boats were coming in and going out, lanterns serving as their riding and fishing lights. North, along the shore, were rows of beached fishing craft of many sizes, tended by a few fishermen. Five hundred paces south, alongside another stone wharf, was the Portuguese frigate, the Santa Theresa. Under the light of flares, clusters of porters were busily loading barrels and bales. Another large group of Grays lolled nearby. This was usual because all Portuguese and all foreign ships in port were, by law, under perpetual surveillance. It was only at Nagasaki that Portuguese shipping moved in and out freely.

If security could be tightened there, the safer we’d all sleep at night, Toranaga told himself. Yes, but could we lock them up and still have trade with China in ever increasing amounts? That’s one trap the Southern Barbarians have us in from which there’s no escape, not while the Christian daimyos dominate Kyushu and the priests are needed. The best we can do is what the Taikō did. Give the barbarians a little, pretend to take it away, try to bluff, knowing that without the China trade, life would be impossible.

“With your permission, Lord, I will attack at once,” the samurai whispered.

“I advise against it,” Yabu said. “We don’t know if our men are aboard. And there could be a thousand men hidden all around here. Those men”—he pointed at the Grays near the Portuguese ship—“those’ll raise the alarm. We could never take the ship and get it out to sea before they’d bottled us up. We need ten times the men we’ve got now.”

“General Lord Ishido will know soon,” the samurai said. “Then all Osaka’ll be swarming with more hostiles than there are flies on a new battlefield. I’ve a hundred and fifty men with those on our flanks. That’ll be enough.”

“Not for safety. Not if our sailors aren’t ready on the oars. Better to create a diversion, one that’d draw off the Grays—and any that are in hiding. Those, too.” Yabu pointed again at the men near the frigate.

“What kind of diversion?” Toranaga said.

“Fire the street.”

“That’s impossible!” the samurai protested, aghast. Arson was a crime punishable by the public burning of all the family of the guilty person, of every generation of the family. The penalty was the most severe by law because fire was the greatest hazard to any village or town or city in the Empire. Wood and paper were their only building materials, except for tiles on some roofs. Every home, every warehouse, every hovel, and every palace was a tinderbox. “We can’t fire the street!”

“What’s more important,” Yabu asked him, “the destruction of a few streets, or the death of our Master?”

“The fire’d spread, Yabu-san. We can’t burn Osaka. There are a million people here—more.”

“Is that your answer to my question?”

Ashen, the samurai turned to Toranaga. “Sire, I’ll do anything you ask. Is that what you want me to do?”

Toranaga merely looked at Yabu.

The daimyo jerked his thumb contemptuously at the city. “Two years ago half of it burned down and look at it now. Five years ago was the Great Fire. How many hundred thousand were lost then? What does it matter? They’re only shopkeepers, merchants, craftsmen, and eta. It’s not as though Osaka’s a village filled with peasants.”

Toranaga had long since gauged the wind. It was slight and would not fan the blaze. Perhaps. But a blaze could easily become a holocaust that would eat up all the city. Except the castle. Ah, if it would only consume the castle I wouldn’t hesitate for a moment.

He turned on his heel and went back to the others. “Mariko-san, take the pilot and our six samurai and go to the galley. Pretend to be almost in panic. Tell the Grays that there’s been an ambush—by bandits or ronin, you’re not sure which. Tell them where it happened, that you were sent ahead urgently by the captain of our escorting Grays to get the Grays here to help, that the battle’s still raging, that you think Kiritsubo’s been killed or wounded—to please hurry. If you’re convincing, this will draw most of them off.”

“I understand perfectly, Sire.”

“Then, no matter what the Grays do, go on board with the pilot. If our sailors are there and the ship’s safe and secure, come back to the gangway and pretend to faint. That’s our signal. Do it exactly at the head of the gangway.” Toranaga let his eyes rest on Blackthorne. “Tell him what you’re going to do, but not that you’re going to faint.” He turned away to give orders to the rest of his men and special private instructions to the six samurai.

When Toranaga had finished, Yabu drew him aside. “Why send the barbarian? Wouldn’t it be safer to leave him here? Safer for you?”

“Safer for him, Yabu-san, but not for me. He’s a useful decoy.”

“Firing the street would be even safer.”

“Yes.” Toranaga thought that it was better to have Yabu on his side than on Ishido’s. I’m glad I did not make him jump off the tower yesterday.

“Sire?”

“Yes, Mariko-san?”

“I’m sorry, but the Anjin-san asks what happens if the ship’s held by the enemy?”

“Tell him there’s no need to go with you if he’s not strong enough.”

Blackthorne kept his temper when she told him what Toranaga had said. “Tell Lord Toranaga that his plan is no good for you, that you should stay here. If all’s well I can signal.”

“I can’t do that, Anjin-san, that’s not what our Master has ordered,” Mariko told him firmly. “Any plan he makes is bound to be very wise.”

Blackthorne realized there was no point in arguing. God curse their bloody-minded, mule-headed arrogance, he thought. But, by the Lord God, what courage they’ve got! The men and this woman.

He had watched her, standing at the ambush, in her hands the long killing sword that was almost as tall as herself, ready to fight to the death for Toranaga. He had seen her use the sword once, expertly, and though Buntaro had killed the attacker, she had made it easier by forcing the man to back off. There was still blood on her kimono now and it was torn in places and her face was dirty.

“Where did you learn to use a sword?” he had asked while they rushed for the docks.

“You should know that all samurai ladies are taught very early to use a knife to defend their honor and that of their lords,” she had said matter-of-factly, and showed him how the stiletto was kept safe in the obi, ready for instant use. “But some of us, a few, are also taught about sword and spear, Anjin-san. Some fathers feel daughters as well as sons must be prepared to do battle for their lords. Of course, some women are more warlike than others and enjoy going into battle with their husbands or fathers. My mother was one of these. My father and mother decided I should know the sword and the spear.”

“If it hadn’t been for the captain of the Grays being in the way, the first arrow would have gone right through you,” he had said.

“Through you, Anjin-san,” she corrected him, very sure. “But you did save my life by pulling me to safety.”

Now, looking at her, he knew that he would not like anything to happen to her. “Let me go with the samurai, Mariko-san. You stay here. Please.”

“That’s not possible, Anjin-san.”

“Then I want a knife. Better, give me two.”

She passed this request to Toranaga, who agreed. Blackthorne slid one under the sash, inside his kimono. The other he tied, haft downwards, to the inside of his forearm with a strip of silk he tore off the hem of his kimono.

“My Master asks do all Englishmen carry knives secretly in their sleeves like that?”

“No. But most seamen do.”

“That’s not usual here—or with the Portuguese,” she said.

“The best place for a spare knife’s in your boot. Then you can do wicked damage, very fast. If need be.”

She translated this and Blackthorne noticed the attentive eyes of Toranaga and Yabu, and he sensed that they did not like him armed. Good, he thought. Perhaps I can stay armed.

He wondered again about Toranaga. After the ambush had been beaten off and the Grays killed, Toranaga had, through Mariko, thanked him before all the Browns for his “loyalty.” Nothing more, no promises, no agreements, no rewards. But Blackthorne knew that those would come later. The old monk had told him that loyalty was the only thing they rewarded. ‘Loyalty and duty, señor,’ he had said. ‘It is their cult, this bushido. Where we give our lives to God and His Blessed Son Jesus, and Mary the Mother of God, these animals give themselves to their masters and die like dogs. Remember, señor, for thy soul’s sake, they’re animals.’

They’re not animals, Blackthorne thought. And much of what you said, Father, is wrong and a fanatic’s exaggeration.

He said to Mariko, “We need a signal—if the ship’s safe or if it isn’t.”

Again she translated, innocently this time. “Lord Toranaga says that one of our soldiers will do that.”

“I don’t consider it brave to send a woman to do a man’s job.”

“Please be patient with us, Anjin-san. There’s no difference between men and women. Women are equal as samurai. In this plan a woman would be so much better than a man.”

Toranaga spoke to her shortly.

“Are you ready, Anjin-san? We’re to go now.”

“The plan’s rotten and dangerous and I’m tired of being a goddamned sacrificial plucked duck, but I’m ready.”

She laughed, bowed once to Toranaga, and ran off. Blackthorne and the six samurai raced after her.

She was very fleet and he did not catch up with her as they rounded the corner and headed across the open space. He had never felt so naked. The moment they appeared, the Grays spotted them and surged forward. Soon they were surrounded, Mariko jabbering feverishly with the samurai and the Grays. Then he too added to the babel in a panting mixture of Portuguese, English, and Dutch, motioning them to hurry, and groped for the gangway to lean against it, not needing to pretend that he was badly winded. He tried to see inside the ship but could make out nothing distinctly, only many heads appearing at the gunwale. He could see the shaven pates of many samurai and many seamen. He could not discern the color of the kimonos.

From behind, one of the Grays was talking rapidly to him, and he turned around, telling him that he didn’t understand—to go there, quickly, back up the street where the God-cursed battle was going on. “Wakarimasu ka? Get your scuttle-tailed arse to hell out of here! Wakarimasu ka? The fight’s there!”

Mariko was frantically haranguing the senior officer of the Grays. The officer came back toward the ship and shouted orders. Immediately more than a hundred samurai, all Grays, began pouring off the ship. He sent a few north along the shore to intercept the wounded and help them if necessary. One was sent scurrying off to get help from the Grays near the Portuguese galley. Leaving ten men behind to guard the gangway, he led the remainder in a rush for the street which curled away from the dock, up to the city proper.

Mariko came up to Blackthorne. “Does the ship seem all right to you?” she asked.

“She’s floating.” With a great effort Blackthorne grasped the gangway ropes and pulled himself on deck. Mariko followed. Two Browns came after her.

The seamen packing the port gunwale gave way. Four Grays were guarding the quarterdeck and two more were on the forepoop. All were armed with bows and arrows as well as swords.

Mariko questioned one of the sailors. The man answered her obligingly. “They’re all sailors hired to take Kiritsubo-san to Yedo,” she told Blackthorne.

“Ask him . . .” Blackthorne stopped as he recognized the short, squat mate he had made captain of the galley after the storm. “Konbanwa, Captain-san!”—Good evening.

“Konbanwa, Anjin-san. Watashi iyé Captain-san ima,” the mate replied with a grin, shaking his head. He pointed at a lithe sailor with an iron-gray stubbly queue who stood alone on the quarterdeck. “Imasu Captain-san!”

“Ah, so desu? Halloa, Captain-san!” Blackthorne called out and bowed, and lowered his voice. “Mariko-san, find out if there are any Grays below.”

Before she could say anything the captain had bowed back and shouted to the mate. The mate nodded and replied at length. Some of the sailors also voiced their agreement. The captain and all aboard were very impressed.

“Ah, so desu, Anjin-san!” Then the captain cried out, “Keirei!”—Salute! All aboard, except the samurai, bowed to Blackthorne in salute.

Mariko said, “This mate told the captain that you saved the ship during the storm, Anjin-san. You did not tell us about the storm or your voyage.”

“There’s little to tell. It was just another storm. Please thank the captain and say I’m happy to be aboard again. Ask him if we’re ready to leave when the others arrive.” And added quietly, “Find out if there are any more Grays below.”

She did as she was ordered.

The captain came over and she asked for more information and then, picking up the captain’s cue concerning the importance of Blackthorne aboard, she bowed to Blackthorne. “Anjin-san, he thanks you for the life of his ship and says they’re ready,” adding softly, “About the other, he doesn’t know.”

Blackthorne glanced ashore. There was no sign of Buntaro or the column to the north. The samurai sent running southward toward the Santa Theresa was still a hundred yards from his destination, unnoticed as yet. “What now?” he said, when he could stand the waiting no longer.

She was asking herself, Is the ship safe? Decide.

“That man’ll get there any moment,” he said, looking at the frigate.

“What?”

He pointed. “That one—the samurai!”

“What samurai? I’m sorry, I can’t see that far, Anjin-san. I can see everything on the ship, though the Grays to the front of the ship are misted. What man?”

He told her, adding in Latin, “Now he is barely fifty paces away. Now he is seen. We need assistance gravely. Who giveth the sign? With importance it should be given quickly.”

“My husband, is there any sign of him?” she asked in Portuguese.

He shook his head.

Sixteen Grays stand between my Master and his safety, she told herself. Oh Madonna, protect him!

Then, committing her soul to God, frightened that she was making the wrong decision, she went weakly to the head of the gangway and pretended to faint.

Blackthorne was taken unawares. He saw her head crash nastily against the wooden slats. Seamen began to crowd, Grays converged from the dock and from the decks as he rushed over. He picked her up and carried her back, through the men, toward the quarterdeck.

“Get some water—water, hai?”

The seamen stared at him without comprehension. Desperately he searched his mind for the Japanese word. The old monk had told it to him fifty times. Christ God, what is it? “Oh—mizu, mizu, hai?”

“Ah, mizu! Hai, Anjin-san.” A man began to hurry away. There was a sudden cry of alarm.

Ashore, thirty of Toranaga’s ronin-disguised samurai were loping out of the alleyway. The Grays that had begun to leave the dock spun around on the gangway. Those on the quarterdeck and forepoop craned to see better. Abruptly one shouted orders. The archers armed their bows. All samurai, Browns and Grays below, tore out their swords, and most rushed back to the wharf.

“Bandits!” one of the Browns screamed on cue. At once the two Browns on deck split up, one going forward, one aft. The four on land fanned out, intermingling with the waiting Grays.

“Halt!”

Toranaga’s ronin-samurai charged. An arrow smashed a man in the chest and he fell heavily. Instantly the Brown on the forepoop killed the Gray archer and tried for the other but this samurai was too quick and they locked swords, the Gray shouting a warning of treachery to the others. The Brown on the aft quarterdeck had maimed one of the Grays but the other three dispatched him quickly and they raced for the head of the gangway, seamen scattering. The samurai on the dock below were fighting to the death, the Grays overwhelming the four Browns, knowing that they had been betrayed and that, at any moment, they too would be engulfed by the attackers. The leader of the Grays on deck, a large tough grizzle-bearded man, confronted Blackthorne and Mariko.

“Kill the traitors!” he bellowed, and with a battle cry, he charged.

Blackthorne had seen them all look down at Mariko, still lying in her faint, murder in their eyes, and he knew that if he did not get help soon they were both dead, and that help would not be forthcoming from the seamen. He remembered that only samurai may fight samurai.

He slid his knife into his hand and hurled it in an arc. It took the samurai in the throat. The other two Grays lunged for Blackthorne, killing swords high. He held the second knife and stood his ground over Mariko, knowing that he dare not leave her unprotected. From the corner of his eye he saw the battle for the gangway was almost won. Only three Grays still held the bridge below, only these three kept help from flooding aboard. If he could stay alive for less than a minute he was safe and she was safe. Kill ’em, kill the bastards!

He felt, more than saw, the sword slashing for his throat and leaped backward out of its way. One Gray stabbed after him, the other halted over Mariko, sword raised. At that instant Blackthorne saw Mariko come to life. She threw herself into the unsuspecting samurai’s legs, crashing him to the deck. Then, scrambling across to the dead Gray, she grabbed the sword out of his still twitching hand and leaped on the guard with a cry. The Gray had regained his feet, and, howling with rage, he came at her. She backed and slashed bravely but Blackthorne knew she was lost, the man too strong. Somehow Blackthorne avoided another death thrust from his own foe and kicked him away and threw his knife at Mariko’s assailant. It struck the man in the back, causing his blow to go wild, and then Blackthorne found himself on the quarterdeck, helplessly at bay, one Gray bounding up the steps after him, the other, who had just won the forepoop fight, racing toward him along the deck. He jumped for the gunwale and the safety of the sea but slipped on the blood-wet deck.

Mariko was staring up, white-faced, at the huge samurai who still had her cornered, swaying on his feet, his life ebbing fast but not fast enough. She hacked at him with all her force but he parried the blow, held her sword, and tore it out of her grasp. He gathered his ultimate strength, and lunged as the ronin-samurai burst up the gangway, over the dead Grays. One pounced on Mariko’s assailant, another fired an arrow at the quarterdeck.

The arrow ripped into the Gray’s back, smashing him off balance, and his sword sliced past Blackthorne into the gunwale. Blackthorne tried to scramble away but the man caught him, brought him crashing to the deck, and clawed for his eyes. Another arrow hit the second Gray in the shoulder and he dropped his sword, screaming with pain and rage, tearing futilely at the shaft. A third arrow twisted him around. Blood surged out of his mouth, and, choking, his eyes staring, he groped for Blackthorne and fell on him as the last Gray arrived for the kill, a short stabbing knife in his hands. He hacked downward, Blackthorne helpless, but a friendly hand caught the knife arm, then the enemy head had vanished from the neck, a fountain of blood spraying upwards. Both corpses were pulled off Blackthorne and he was hauled to his feet. Wiping the blood off his face, he dimly saw that Mariko was stretched out on the deck, ronin-samurai milling around her. He shook off his helpers and stumbled toward her, but his knees gave out and he collapsed.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

It took Blackthorne a good ten minutes to regain enough strength to stand unaided. In that time the ronin-samurai had dispatched the badly wounded and had cast all corpses into the sea. The six Browns had perished, and all the Grays. They had cleansed the ship and made her ready for instant departure, sent seamen to their oars and stationed others by the stanchions, waiting to slip the mooring ropes. All flares had been doused. A few samurai had been sent to scout north along the shore to intercept Buntaro. The bulk of Toranaga’s men hurried southward to a stone breakwater about two hundred paces away, where they took up a strong defensive position against the hundred Grays from the frigate who, having seen the attack, were approaching fast.

When all aboard had been checked and double-checked, the leader cupped his hands around his lips and hallooed shoreward. At once more ronin-disguised samurai under Yabu came out of the night, and fanned into protective shields, north and south. Then Toranaga appeared and began to walk slowly toward the gangway alone. He had discarded the woman’s kimono and the dark traveling cloak and removed the makeup. Now he wore his armor, and over it a simple brown kimono, swords in his sash. The gap behind him was closed by the last of his guards and the phalanx moved with measured tread toward the wharf.

Bastard, Blackthorne thought. You’re a cruel, cold-gutted, heartless bastard but you’ve got majesty, no doubt about that.

Earlier, he had seen Mariko carried below, helped by a young woman, and he had presumed that she was wounded but not badly, because all badly wounded samurai are murdered at once if they won’t or can’t kill themselves, and she’s samurai.

His hands were very weak but he grasped the helm and pulled himself upright, helped by the seaman, and felt better, the slight breeze taking away the dregs of nausea. Swaying on his feet, still dulled, he watched Toranaga.

There was a sudden flash from the donjon and the faint echoing of alarm bells. Then, from the castle walls, fires began to reach for the stars. Signal fires.

Christ Jesus, they must’ve got the news, they must’ve heard about Toranaga’s escape!

In the great silence he saw Toranaga looking back and upward. Lights began to flicker all over the city. Without haste Toranaga turned and came aboard.

From the north distant cries came down on the wind. Buntaro! It must be, with the rest of the column. Blackthorne searched the far darkness but could see nothing. Southward the gap between attacking Grays and defending Browns was closing rapidly. He estimated numbers. About equal at the moment. But for how long?

“Keirei!” All aboard knelt and bowed low as Toranaga came on deck. Toranaga motioned to Yabu, who followed him. Instantly Yabu took command, giving orders to cast off. Fifty samurai from the phalanx ran up the gangway to take defensive positions, facing shoreward, arming their bows.

Blackthorne felt someone tugging at his sleeve.

“Anjin-san!”

“Hai?” He stared down into the captain’s face. The man uttered a spate of words, pointing at the helm. Blackthorne realized that the captain presumed he held the con and was asking permission to cast off.

“Hai, Captain-san,” he replied. “Cast off! Isogi!” Yes, very quick, he told himself, wondering how he remembered the word so easily.

The galley eased away from the jetty, helped by the wind, the oarsmen deft. Then Blackthorne saw the Grays hit the breakwater away up the shore and the tumultuous assault began. At that moment, out of the darkness from behind a nearby line of beached boats charged three men and a girl embroiled in a running fight with nine Grays. Blackthorne recognized Buntaro and the girl Sono.

Buntaro led the hacking retreat to the jetty, his sword bloody, arrows sticking into the armor on his chest and back. The girl was armed with a spear but she was stumbling, her wind gone. One of the Browns stopped courageously to cover the retreat. The Grays swamped him. Buntaro raced up the steps, the girl beside him with the last Brown, then he turned and hit the Grays like a mad bull. The first two went crashing off the ten-foot wharf; one broke his back on the stones below and the other fell howling, his right arm gone. The Grays hesitated momentarily, giving the girl time to aim her spear, but all aboard knew it was only a gesture. The last Brown rushed past his master and flung himself headlong at the enemy. The Grays cut him down, then charged en masse.

Archers from the ship fired volley after volley, killing or maiming all but two of the attacking Grays. A sword ricocheted off Buntaro’s helmet onto his shoulder armor. Buntaro smashed the Gray under the chin with his mailed forearm, breaking his neck, and hurled himself at the last.

This man died too.

The girl was on her knees now, trying to catch her breath. Buntaro did not waste time making sure the Grays were dead. He simply hacked off their heads with single, perfect blows, and then, when the jetty was completely secure, he turned seaward, waved at Toranaga exhausted but happy. Toranaga called back, equally pleased.

The ship was twenty yards from the jetty, the gap still widening.

“Captain-san,” Blackthorne called out, gesturing urgently. “Go back to the wharf! Isogi!”

Obediently the captain shouted the orders. All oars ceased and began to back water. At once Yabu came hurtling across to the quarterdeck and spoke heatedly to the captain. The order was clear. The ship was not to return.

“There’s plenty of time, for Christ’s sake. Look!” Blackthorne pointed at the empty beaten earth and at the breakwater where the ronin were holding the Grays at bay.

But Yabu shook his head.

The gap was thirty yards now and Blackthorne’s mind was shouting, What’s the matter with you, that’s Buntaro, her husband.

“You can’t let him die, he’s one of ours,” he shouted at Yabu and at the ship. “Him! Buntaro!” He spun round on the captain. “Back there! Isogi!” But this time the seaman shook his head helplessly and held the escape course and the oarsmaster continued the beat on the great drum.

Blackthorne rushed for Toranaga, who had his back to him, studying the shore and wharf. At once four bodyguard samurai stepped in the pilot’s way, swords on high. He called out, “Toranaga-sama! Dozo! Order the ship back! There! Dozo—please! Go back!”

“Iyé, Anjin-san.” Toranaga pointed once at the castle signal flares and once at the breakwater, and turned his back again with finality.

“Why, you shitless coward . . .” Blackthorne began, but stopped. Then he rushed for the gunwale and leaned over it. “Swiiiiimm!” he hollered, making the motions. “Swim, for Christ’s sake!”

Buntaro understood. He raised the girl to her feet and spoke to her and half-shoved her toward the wharf edge but she cried out and fell on her knees in front of him. Obviously she could not swim.

Desperately Blackthorne searched the deck. No time to launch a small boat. Much too far to throw a rope. Not enough strength to swim there and back. No life jackets. As a last resort he ran over to the nearest oarsmen, two to each great sweep, and stopped their pull. All oars on the portside were momentarily thrown off tempo, oar crashing into oar. The galley slewed awkwardly, the beat stopped, and Blackthorne showed the oarsmen what he wanted.

Two samurai went forward to restrain him but Toranaga ordered them away.

Together, Blackthorne and four seamen launched the oar like a dart over the side. It sailed for some way then hit the water cleanly, and its momentum carried it to the wharf.

At that moment there was a victory shout from the breakwater. Reinforcements of Grays were streaming down from the city and, though the ronin-samurai were holding off the present attackers, it was only a matter of time before the wall was breached.

“Come on,” Blackthorne shouted. “Isogiiii!”

Buntaro pulled the girl up, pointed at the oar and then out to the ship. She bowed weakly. He dismissed her and turned his full attention to battle, his vast legs set firm on the jetty.

The girl called out once to the ship. A woman’s voice answered and she jumped. Her head broke the surface. She flailed for the oar and grabbed it. It bore her weight easily and she kicked for the ship. A small wave caught her and she rode it safely and came closer to the galley. Then her fear caused her to loosen her grip and the oar slipped away from her. She thrashed for an endless moment, then vanished below the surface.

She never came back.

Buntaro was alone now on the wharf and he stood watching the rise and the fall of the battle. More reinforcement Grays, a few cavalry among them, were coming up from the south to join the others and he knew that soon the breakwater would be engulfed by a sea of men. Carefully he examined the north and west and south. Then he turned his back to the battle and went to the far end of the jetty. The galley was safely seventy yards from its tip, at rest, waiting. All fishing boats had long since fled the area and they waited as far away as possible on both sides of the harbor, their riding lights like so many cats’ eyes in the darkness.

When he reached the end of the dock, Buntaro took off his helmet and his bow and quiver and his top body armor and put them beside his scabbards. The naked killing sword and the naked short sword he placed separately. Then, stripped to the waist, he picked up his equipment and cast it into the sea. The killing sword he studied reverently, then tossed it with all his force, far out into the deep. It vanished with hardly a splash.

He bowed formally to the galley, to Toranaga, who went at once to the quarterdeck where he could be seen. He bowed back.

Buntaro knelt and placed the short sword neatly on the stone in front of him, moonlight flashing briefly on the blade, and stayed motionless, almost as though in prayer, facing the galley.

“What the hell’s he waiting for?” Blackthorne muttered, the galley eerily quiet without the drumbeat. “Why doesn’t he jump and swim?”

“He’s preparing to commit seppuku.”

Mariko was standing nearby, propped by a young woman.

“Jesus, Mariko, are you all right?”

“All right,” she said, hardly listening to him, her face haggard but no less beautiful.

He saw the crude bandage on her left arm near the shoulder where the sleeve had been slashed away, her arm resting in a sling of material torn from a kimono. Blood stained the bandage and a dribble ran down her arm.

“I’m so glad—” Then it dawned on him what she had said. “Seppuku? He’s going to kill himself? Why? There’s plenty of time for him to get here! If he can’t swim, look—there’s an oar that’ll hold him easily. There, near the jetty, you see it? Can’t you see it?”

“Yes, but my husband can swim, Anjin-san,” she said. “All of Lord Toranaga’s officers must—must learn—he insists. But he has decided not to swim.”

“For Christ’s sake, why?”

A sudden frenzy broke out shoreward, a few muskets went off, and the wall was breached. Some of the ronin-samurai fell back and ferocious individual combat began again. This time the enemy spearhead was contained, and repelled.

“Tell him to swim, by God!”

“He won’t, Anjin-san. He’s preparing to die.”

“If he wants to die, for Christ’s sake, why doesn’t he go there?” Blackthorne’s finger stabbed toward the fight. “Why doesn’t he help his men? If he wants to die, why doesn’t he die fighting, like a man?”

Mariko did not take her eyes from the wharf, leaning against the young woman. “Because he might be captured, and if he swam he might also be captured, and then the enemy would put him on show before the common people, shame him, do terrible things. A samurai cannot be captured and remain samurai. That’s the worst dishonor—to be captured by an enemy—so my husband is doing what a man, a samurai, must do. A samurai dies with dignity. For what is life to a samurai? Nothing at all. All life is suffering, neh? It is his right and duty to die with honor, before witnesses.”

“What a stupid waste,” Blackthorne said, through his teeth.

“Be patient with us, Anjin-san.”

“Patient for what? For more lies? Why won’t you trust me? Haven’t I earned that? You lied, didn’t you? You pretended to faint and that was the signal. Wasn’t it? I asked you and you lied.”

“I was ordered . . . it was an order to protect you. Of course I trust you.”

“You lied,” he said, knowing that he was being unreasonable, but he was beyond caring, abhorring the insane disregard for life and starved for sleep and peace, starved for his own food and his own drink and his own ship and his own kind. “You’re all animals,” he said in English, knowing they were not, and moved away.

“What was he saying, Mariko-san?” the young woman asked, hard put to hide her distaste. She was half a head taller than Mariko, bigger-boned and square-faced with little, needle-shaped teeth. She was Usagi Fujiko, Mariko’s niece, and she was nineteen.

Mariko told her.

“What an awful man! What foul manners! Disgusting, neh? How can you bear to be near him?”

“Because he saved our Master’s honor. Without his bravery I’m sure Lord Toranaga would have been captured—we’d all have been captured.” Both women shuddered.

“The gods protect us from that shame!” Fujiko glanced at Blackthorne, who leaned against the gunwale up the deck, staring at the shore. She studied him a moment. “He looks like a golden ape with blue eyes—a creature to frighten children with. Horrid, neh?” Fujiko shivered and dismissed him and looked again at Buntaro. After a moment she said, “I envy your husband, Mariko-san.”

“Yes,” Mariko replied sadly. “But I wish he had a second to help him.” By custom another samurai always assisted at a seppuku, standing slightly behind the kneeling man, to decapitate him with a single stroke before the agony became unbearable and uncontrollable and so shamed the man at the supreme moment of his life. Unseconded, few men could die without shame.

“Karma,” Fujiko said.

“Yes. I pity him. That’s the one thing he feared—not to have a second.”

“We’re luckier than men, neh?” Samurai women committed seppuku by thrusting their knives into their throats and therefore needed no assistance.

“Yes,” Mariko said.

Screams and battle cries came wafting on the wind, distracting them. The breakwater was breached again. A small company of fifty Toranaga ronin-samurai raced out of the north in support, a few horsemen among them. Again the breach was ferociously contained, no quarter sought or given, the attackers thrown back and a few more moments of time gained.

Time for what? Blackthorne was asking bitterly. Toranaga’s safe now. He’s out to sea. He’s betrayed you all.

The drum began again.

Oars bit into the water, the prow dipped and began to cut through the waves, and aft a wake appeared. Signal fires still burned from the castle walls above. The whole city was almost awake.

The main body of Grays hit the breakwater. Blackthorne’s eyes went to Buntaro. “You poor bastard!” he said in English. “You poor, stupid bastard!”

He turned on his heel and walked down the companionway along the main deck toward the bow to watch for shoals ahead. No one except Fujiko and the captain noticed him leaving the quarterdeck.

The oarsmen pulled with fine discipline and the ship was gaining way. The sea was fair, the wind friendly. Blackthorne tasted the salt and welcomed it. Then he detected the ships crowding the harbor mouth half a league ahead. Fishing vessels yes, but they were crammed with samurai.

“We’re trapped,” he said out loud, knowing somehow they were enemy.

A tremor went through the ship. All who watched the battle on shore had shifted in unison.

Blackthorne looked back. Grays were calmly mopping up the breakwater, while others were heading unhurried toward the jetty for Buntaro, but four horsemen—Browns—were galloping across the beaten earth from out of the north, a fifth horse, a spare horse, tethered to the leader. This man clattered up the wide stone steps of the wharf with the spare horse and raced its length while the other three slammed toward the encroaching Grays. Buntaro had also looked around but he remained kneeling and, when the man reined in behind him, he waved him away and picked up the knife in both hands, blade toward himself. Immediately Toranaga cupped his hands and shouted, “Buntaro-san! Go with them now—try to escape!”

The cry swept across the waves and was repeated and then Buntaro heard it clearly. He hesitated, shocked, the knife poised. Again the call, insistent and imperious.

With effort Buntaro drew himself back from death and icily contemplated life and the escape that was ordered. The risk was bad. Better to die here, he told himself. Doesn’t Toranaga know that? Here is an honorable death. There, almost certain capture. Where do you run? Three hundred ri, all the way to Yedo? You’re certain to be captured!

He felt the strength in his arm, saw the firm, unshaking, needle-pointed dagger hovering near his naked abdomen, and he craved for the releasing agony of death at long last. At long last a death to expiate all the shame: the shame of his father’s kneeling to Toranaga’s standard when they should have kept faith with Yaemon, the Taikō’s heir, as they had sworn to do; the shame of killing so many men who honorably served the Taikō’s cause against the usurper, Toranaga; the shame of the woman, Mariko, and of his only son, both forever tainted, the son because of the mother and she because of her father, the monstrous assassin, Akechi Jinsai. And the shame of knowing that because of them, his own name was befouled forever.

How many thousand agonies have I not endured because of her?

His soul cried out for oblivion. Now so near and easy and honorable. The next life will be better; how could it be worse?

Even so, he put down the knife and obeyed, and cast himself back into the abyss of life. His liege lord had ordered the ultimate suffering and had decided to cancel his attempt at peace. What else is there for a samurai but obedience?

He jumped up, hurled himself into the saddle, jammed his heels into the horse’s sides, and, together with the other man, he fled. Other ronin-cavalry galloped out of the night to guard their retreat and cut down the leading Grays. Then they too vanished, a few Gray horsemen in pursuit.

Laughter erupted over the ship.

Toranaga was pounding the gunwale with his fist in glee, Yabu and the samurai were roaring. Even Mariko was laughing.

“One man got away, but what about all the dead?” Blackthorne cried out enraged. “Look ashore—there must be three, four hundred bodies there. Look at them, for Christ’s sake!”

But his shout did not come through the laughter.

Then a cry of alarm from the bow lookout. And the laughter died.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

Toranaga said calmly, “Can we break through them, Captain?” He was watching the grouped fishing boats five hundred yards ahead, and the tempting passage they had left between them.

“No, Sire.”

“We’ve no alternative,” Yabu said. “There’s nothing else we can do.” He glared aft at the massed Grays who waited on the shore and the jetty, their faint, jeering insults riding on the wind.

Toranaga and Yabu were on the forepoop now. The drum had been silenced and the galley wallowed in a light sea. All aboard waited to see what would be decided. They knew that they were bottled tight. Ashore disaster, ahead disaster, to wait disaster. The net would come closer and closer and then they would be captured. If need be, Ishido could wait days.

Yabu was seething. If we’d rushed for the harbor mouth directly we’d boarded instead of wasting useless time over Buntaro, we’d be safely out to sea by now, he told himself. Toranaga’s losing his wits. Ishido will believe I betrayed him. There’s nothing I can do—unless we can fight our way out, and even then I’m committed to fight for Toranaga against Ishido. Nothing I can do. Except give Ishido Toranaga’s head. Neh? That would make you a Regent and bring you the Kwanto, neh? And then with six months of time and the musket samurai, why not even President of the Council of Regents? Or why not the big prize! Eliminate Ishido and become Chief General of the Heir, Lord Protector and Governor of Osaka Castle, the controlling general of all the legendary wealth in the donjon, with power over the Empire during Yaemon’s minority, and afterwards power second only to Yaemon. Why not?

Or even the biggest prize of all. Shōgun. Eliminate Yaemon, then you’ll be Shōgun.

All for a single head and some benevolent gods!

Yabu’s knees felt weak as his longing soared. So easy to do, he thought, but no way to take the head and escape—yet.

“Order attack stations!” Toranaga commanded at last.

As Yabu gave the orders and samurai began to prepare, Toranaga turned his attention to the barbarian, who was still near the forepoop, where he had stopped when the alarm was given, leaning against the short mainmast.

I wish I could understand him, Toranaga thought. One moment so brave, the next so weak. One moment so valuable, the next so useless. One moment killer, the next coward. One moment docile, the next dangerous. He’s man and woman, Yang and Yin. He’s nothing but opposites, and unpredictable. Toranaga had studied him carefully during the escape from the castle, during the ambush and after it. He had heard from Mariko and the captain and others what had happened during the fight aboard. He had witnessed the astonishing anger a few moments ago and then, when Buntaro had been sent off, he had heard the shout and had seen through veiled eyes the stretched ugliness on the man’s face, and then, when there should have been laughter, only anger.

Why not laughter when an enemy’s outsmarted? Why not laughter to empty the tragedy from you when karma interrupts the beautiful death of a true samurai, when karma causes the useless death of a pretty girl? Isn’t it only through laughter that we become one with the gods and thus can endure life and can overcome all the horror and waste and suffering here on earth? Like tonight, watching all those brave men meet their fate here, on this shore, on this gentle night, through a karma ordained a thousand lifetimes ago, or perhaps even one.

Isn’t it only through laughter we can stay human?

Why doesn’t the pilot realize he’s governed by karma too, as I am, as we all are, as even this Jesus the Christ was, for, if the truth were known, it was only his karma that made him die dishonored like a common criminal with other common criminals, on the hill the barbarian priests tell about.

All karma.

How barbaric to nail a man to a piece of wood and wait for him to die. They’re worse than the Chinese, who are pleasured by torture.

“Ask him, Yabu-san!” Toranaga said.

“Sire?”

“Ask him what to do. The pilot. Isn’t this a sea battle? Haven’t you told me the pilot’s a genius at sea? Good, let’s see if you’re right. Let him prove it.”

Yabu’s mouth was a tight cruel line and Toranaga could feel the man’s fear and it delighted him.

“Mariko-san,” Yabu barked. “Ask the pilot how to get out—how to break through those ships.”

Obediently Mariko moved away from the gunwale, the girl still supporting her. “No, I’m all right now, Fujiko-san,” she said. “Thank you.” Fujiko let her go and watched Blackthorne distastefully.

Blackthorne’s answer was short.

“He says ‘with cannon,’ Yabu-san,” Mariko said.

“Tell him he’ll have to do better than that if he wants to retain his head!”

“We must be patient with him, Yabu-san,” Toranaga interrupted. “Mariko-san, tell him politely, ‘Regrettably we have no cannon. Isn’t there another way to break out? It’s impossible by land.’ Translate exactly what he replies. Exactly.”

Mariko did so. “I’m sorry, Lord, but he says, no. Just like that. ‘No.’ Not politely.”

Toranaga moved his sash and scratched an itch under his armor. “Well then,” he said genially, “the Anjin-san says cannon and he’s the expert, so cannon it is. Captain, go there!” His blunt, calloused finger pointed viciously at the Portuguese frigate. “Get the men ready, Yabu-san. If the Southern Barbarians won’t lend me their cannon, then you will have to take them. Won’t you?”

“With very great pleasure,” Yabu said softly.

“You were right, he is a genius.”

“But you found the solution, Toranaga-san.”

“It’s easy to find solutions given the answer, neh? What’s the solution to Osaka Castle, Ally?”

“There isn’t one. In that the Taikō was perfect.”

“Yes. What’s the solution to treachery?”

“Of course, ignominious death. But I don’t understand why you should ask me that.”

“A passing thought—Ally.” Toranaga glanced at Blackthorne. “Yes, he’s a clever man. I have great need of clever men. Mariko-san, will the barbarians give me their cannon?”

“Of course. Why shouldn’t they?” It had never occurred to her that they would not. She was still filled with anxiety over Buntaro. It would have been so much better to allow him to die back there. Why risk his honor? She wondered why Toranaga had ordered Buntaro away by land at the very last moment. Toranaga could just as easily have ordered him to swim to the boat. It would have been much safer and there was plenty of time. He could even have ordered it when Buntaro had first reached the end of the jetty. Why wait? Her most secret self answered that their lord must have had a very good reason to have waited and to have so ordered.

“And if they don’t? Are you prepared to kill Christians, Mariko-san?” Toranaga asked. “Isn’t that their most impossible law? Thou shalt not kill?”

“Yes, it is. But for you, Lord, we will go gladly into hell, my husband and my son and I.”

“Yes. You’re true samurai and I won’t forget that you took up a sword to defend me.”

“Please do not thank me. If I helped, in any minor way, it was my duty. If anyone is to be remembered, please let it be my husband or my son. They are more valuable to you.”

“At the moment you’re more valuable to me. You could be even more valuable.”

“Tell me how, Sire. And it will be done.”

“Put this foreign God away.”

“Sire?” Her face froze.

“Put your God away. You have one too many loyalties.”

“You mean become apostate, Sire? Give up Christianity?”

“Yes, unless you can put this God where He belongs—in the back of your spirit, not in the front.”

“Please excuse me, Sire,” she said shakily, “but my religion has never interfered with my loyalty to you. I’ve always kept my religion a private matter, all the time. How have I failed you?”

“You haven’t yet. But you will.”

“Tell me what I must do to please you.”

“The Christians may become my enemies, neh?”

“Your enemies are mine, Lord.”

“The priests oppose me now. They may order all Christians to war on me.”

“They can’t, Sire. They’re men of peace.”

“And if they continue to oppose me? If Christians war on me?”

“You will never have to fear my loyalty. Never.”

“This Anjin-san may speak the truth and your priests with false tongues.”

“There are good priests and bad priests, Sire. But you are my liege lord.”

“Very well, Mariko-san,” Toranaga said. “I’ll accept that. You’re ordered to become friends with this barbarian, to learn all he knows, to report everything he says, to learn to think like him, to ‘confess’ nothing about what you’re doing, to treat all priests with suspicion, to report everything the priests ask you or say to you. Your God must fit in between, elsewhere—or not at all.”

Mariko pushed a thread of hair out of her eyes. “I can do all that, Sire, and still remain Christian. I swear it.”

“Good. Swear it by this Christian God.”

“Before God I swear it.”

“Good.” Toranaga turned and called out, “Fujiko-san!”

“Yes, Sire?”

“Did you bring maids with you?”

“Yes, Sire. Two.”

“Give one to Mariko-san. Send the other for cha.”

“There’s saké if you wish.”

“Cha. Yabu-san, would you like cha or saké?”

“Cha, please.”

“Bring saké for the Anjin-san.”

Light caught the little golden crucifix that hung from Mariko’s neck. She saw Toranaga stare at it. “You . . . you wish me not to wear it, Sire? To throw it away?”

“No,” he said. “Wear it as a reminder of your oath.”

They all watched the frigate. Toranaga felt someone looking at him and glanced around. He saw the hard face and cold blue eyes and felt the hate—no, not hate, the suspicion. How dare the barbarian be suspicious of me, he thought.

“Ask the Anjin-san why didn’t he just say there’re plenty of cannon on the barbarian ship? Get them to escort us out of the trap?”

Mariko translated. Blackthorne answered.

“He says . . .” Mariko hesitated, then continued in a rush, “Please excuse me, he said, ‘It’s good for him to use his own head.’ ”

Toranaga laughed. “Thank him for his. It’s been most useful. I hope it stays on his shoulders. Tell him that now we’re equal.”

“He says, ‘No, we’re not equal, Toranaga-sama. But give me my ship and a crew and I’ll wipe the seas clean. Of any enemy.’ ”

“Mariko-san, do you think he meant me as well as the others—the Spanish and the Southern Barbarians?” The question was put lightly.

The breeze wafted strands of hair into her eyes. She pushed them away tiredly. “I don’t know, so sorry. Perhaps, perhaps not. Do you want me to ask him? I’m sorry, but he’s a . . . he’s very strange. I’m afraid I don’t understand him. Not at all.”

“We’ve plenty of time. Yes. In time he’ll explain himself to us.”

Blackthorne had seen the frigate quietly slip her moorings the moment her escort of Grays had hurried away, had watched her launch her longboat, which had quickly warped the ship away from her berth at the jetty, well out into the stream. Now she lay a few cables offshore in deep water, safe, a light bow anchor holding her gently, broadside to the shore. This was the normal maneuver of all European ships in alien or hostile harbors when a shore danger threatened. He knew, too, that though there was—and had been—no untoward movement on deck, by now all cannon would be primed, muskets issued, grape, cannonball, and chainshot ready in abundance, cutlasses waiting in their racks—and armed men aloft in the shrouds. Eyes would be searching all points of the compass. The galley would have been marked the moment it had changed course. The two stern chasers, thirty pounders, which were pointing directly at them, would be trained on them. Portuguese gunners were the best in the world, after the English.

And they’ll know about Toranaga, he told himself with great bitterness, because they’re clever and they’d have asked their porters or the Grays what all the trouble was about. Or by now the God-cursed Jesuits who know everything would have sent word about Toranaga’s escape, and about me.

He could feel his short hairs curling. Any one of those guns can blow us to hell. Yes, but we’re safe because Toranaga’s aboard. Thank God for Toranaga.

Mariko was saying, “My Master asks what is your custom when you want to approach a warship?”

“If you had cannon you’d fire a salute. Or you can signal with flags, asking permission to come alongside.”

“My Master says, and if you have no flags?”

Though they were still outside cannon range it was almost, to Blackthorne, as if he were already climbing down one of the barrels, though the gunports were still closed. The ship carried eight cannon a side on her main deck, two at the stern and two at the bow. Erasmus could take her, he told himself, without a doubt, providing the crew was right. I’d like to take her. Wake up, stop daydreaming, we’re not aboard Erasmus but this sow-gutted galley and that Portuguese ship’s the only hope we have. Under her guns we’re safe. Bless your luck for Toranaga.

“Tell the captain to break out Toranaga’s flag at the masthead. That’ll be enough, senhora. That’ll make it formal and tell them who’s aboard, but I’d bet they know already.”

This was done quickly. Everyone in the galley seemed to be more confident now. Blackthorne marked the change. Even he felt better under the flag.

“My Master says, but how do we tell them we wish to go alongside?”

“Tell him without signal flags he has two choices: he waits outside cannon range and sends a deputation aboard her in a small boat, or we go directly within hailing distance.”

“My Master says, which do you advise?”

“Go straight alongside. There’s no reason for caution. Lord Toranaga’s aboard. He’s the most important daimyo in the Empire. Of course she’ll help us and—Oh Jesus God!”

“Senhor?”

But he did not reply, so she quickly translated what had been said and listened to Toranaga’s next question. “My Master asks, the frigate will what? Please explain your thought and the reason you stopped.”

“I suddenly realized, he’s at war with Ishido now. Isn’t he? So the frigate may not be inclined to help him.”

“Of course they’ll help him.”

“No. Which side benefits the Portuguese more, Lord Toranaga or Ishido? If they believe Ishido will, they’ll blow us to hell out of the water.”

“It’s unthinkable that the Portuguese would fire on any Japanese ship,” Mariko said at once.

“Believe me, they will, senhora. And I’ll bet that frigate won’t let us alongside. I wouldn’t if I were her pilot. Christ Jesus!” Blackthorne stared ashore.

The taunting Grays had left the jetty now and were spreading out parallel to the shore. No chance there, he thought. The fishing boats still lay malevolently clogging the harbor’s neck. No chance there either. “Tell Toranaga there’s only one other way to get out of the harbor. That’s to hope for a storm. Maybe we could ride it out, where the fishing boats can’t. Then we could slip past the net.”

Toranaga questioned the captain, who answered at length, then Mariko said to Blackthorne, “My Master asks, do you think there’ll be a storm?”

“My nose says yes. But not for days. Two or three. Can we wait that long?”

“Your nose tells you? There is a smell to a storm?”

“No, senhora. It’s just an expression.”

Toranaga pondered. Then he gave an order.

“We are going to within hailing distance, Anjin-san.”

“Then tell him to go directly astern of her. That way we’re the smallest target. Tell him they’re treacherous—I know how seriously treacherous they are when their interests are threatened. They’re worse than the Dutch! If that ship helps Toranaga escape, Ishido will take it out on all Portuguese and they won’t risk that.”

“My Master says we’ll soon have that answer.”

“We’re naked, senhora. We’ve no chance against those cannon. If the ship’s hostile—even if it’s simply neutral—we’re sunk.”

“My Master says, yes, but it will be your duty to persuade them to be benevolent.”

“How can I do that? I’m their enemy.”

“My Master says, in war and in peace, a good enemy can be more valuable than a good ally. He says you will know their minds—you will think of a way to persuade them.”

“The only sure way’s by force.”

“Good. I agree, my Master says. Please tell me how you would pirate that ship.”

“What?”

“He said, good, I agree. How would you pirate the ship, how would you conquer it? I require the use of their cannon. So sorry, isn’t that clear, Anjin-san?”

“And again I say I’m going to blow her out of the water,” Ferriera, the Captain-General, declared.

“No,” dell’Aqua replied, watching the galley from the quarterdeck.

“Gunner, is she in range yet?”

“No, Don Ferriera,” the chief gunner replied. “Not yet.”

“Why else is she coming at us if not for hostile reasons, Eminence? Why doesn’t she just escape? The way’s clear.” The frigate was too far from the harbor mouth for anyone aboard to see the encroaching fishing boats crowding in ambush.

“We risk nothing, Eminence, and gain everything,” Ferriera said. “We pretend we didn’t know Toranaga was aboard. We thought the bandits—bandits led by the pirate heretic—were going to attack us. Don’t worry, it will be easy to provoke them once they’re in range.”

“No,” dell’Aqua ordered.

Father Alvito turned back from the gunwale. “The galley’s flying Toranaga’s flag, Captain-General.”

“False colors!” Ferriera added sardonically, “That’s the oldest sea trick in the world. We haven’t seen Toranaga. Perhaps he isn’t aboard.”

“No.”

“God’s death, war would be a catastrophe! It’ll hurt, if not ruin, the Black Ship’s voyage this year. I can’t afford that! I won’t have anything interfere with that!”

“Our finances are in a worse position than yours, Captain-General,” dell’Aqua rapped. “If we don’t trade this year, the Church is bankrupt, is that clear? We’ve had no funds from Goa or Lisbon for three years and the loss of last year’s profit. . . . God give me patience! I know better than you what’s at stake. The answer is no!”

Rodrigues was sitting painfully in his seachair, his leg in a splint resting on a padded stool that was lashed safe near the binnacle. “The Captain-General’s right, Eminence. Why should she come at us, if not to try something? Why not escape, eh? Eminence, we’ve a piss-cutting opportunity here.”

“Yes, and it is a military decision,” Ferriera said.

Alvito turned on him sharply. “No, his Eminence is arbiter in this, Captain-General. We must not hurt Toranaga. We must help him.”

Rodrigues said, “You’ve told me a dozen times that once war starts it’ll go on forever. War’s started, hasn’t it? We’ve seen it start. That’s got to hurt trade. With Toranaga dead the war’s over and all our interests are safe. I say blow the ship to hell.”

“We even get rid of the heretic,” Ferriera added, watching Rodrigues. “You prevent a war for the glory of God, and another heretic goes to torment.”

“It would be unwarranted interference in their politics,” dell’Aqua replied, avoiding the real reason.

“We interfere all the time. The Society of Jesus is famous for it. We’re not simple, thick-headed peasants!”

“I’m not suggesting you are. But while I’m aboard you will not sink that ship.”

“Then kindly go ashore.”

“The sooner the archmurderer is dead, the better, Eminence,” Rodrigues suggested. “Him or Ishido, what’s the difference? They’re both heathen, and you can’t trust either of them. The Captain-General’s right, we’ll never get an opportunity like this again. And what about our Black Ship?” Rodrigues was pilot with a fifteenth part of all the profit. The real pilot of the Black Ship had died of the pox in Macao three months ago and Rodrigues had been taken off his own ship, the Santa Theresa, and given the new post, to his everlasting joy. Pox was the official reason, Rodrigues reminded himself grimly, though many said the other pilot was knifed in the back by a ronin in a whorehouse brawl. By God, this is my great chance. Nothing’s going to interfere with that!

“I will accept full responsibility,” Ferriera was saying. “It’s a military decision. We’re involved in a native war. My ship’s in danger.” He turned again to the chief gunner. “Are they in range yet?”

“Well, Don Ferriera, that depends what you wish.” The chief gunner blew on the end of the taper, which made it glow and spark. “I could take off her bow now, or her stern, or hit her amidships, whichever you prefer. But if you want a man dead, a particular man, then a moment or two would bring them into killing range.”

“I want Toranaga dead. And the heretic.”

“You mean the Ingeles, the pilot?”

“Yes.”

“Someone will have to point the Jappo out. The pilot I’ll recognize, doubtless.”

Rodrigues said, “If the pilot’s got to die to kill Toranaga and stop the war then I’m for it, Captain-General. Otherwise he should be spared.”

“He’s a heretic, an enemy of our country, an abomination, and he’s already caused us more trouble than a nest of vipers.”

“I’ve already pointed out that first the Ingeles is a pilot and last he’s a pilot, one of the best in the world.”

“Pilots should have special privileges? Even heretics?”

“Yes, by God. We should use him like they use us. It’d be a God-cursed waste to kill such experience. Without pilots there’s no piss-cutting Empire and no trade and no nothing. Without me, by God, there’s no Black Ship and no profit and no way home, so my opinion’s God-cursed important.”

There was a cry from the masthead, “Ho on the quarterdeck, the galley’s changing her course!” The galley had been heading straight for them but now she had swung a few points to port, out into the harbor.

Immediately Rodrigues shouted, “Action stations! Starboard watch aloft—all sails ho! Up anchor!” At once men rushed to obey.

“What’s amiss, Rodrigues?”

“I don’t know, Captain-General, but we’re getting out into open sea. That fat-gutted whore’s going to windward.”

“What does that matter? We can sink them at any time,” Ferriera said. “We’ve stores still to bring aboard and the Fathers have to go back to Osaka.”

“Aye. But no hostile’s getting to windward of my ship. That whore doesn’t depend on the wind, she can go against it. She might be coming round to hack at us from our bow where we’ve only one cannon and board us!”

Ferriera laughed contemptuously. “We’ve twenty cannon aboard! They’ve none! You think that filthy heathen pig boat would dare to try to attack us? You’re simple in the head!”

“Yes, Captain-General, that’s why I’ve still got one. The Santa Theresa’s ordered to sea!”

The sails were crackling out of their ropes and the wind took them, the spars grinding. Both watches were on deck at battle stations. The frigate began to make way but her going was slow. “Come on, you bitch,” Rodrigues urged.

“We’re ready, Don Ferriera,” the chief gunner said. “I’ve got her in my sights. I can’t hold her for long. Which is this Toranaga? Point him out!”

There were no flares aboard the galley; the only illumination came from the moonlight. The galley was still astern, a hundred yards off, but turned to port now and headed for the far shore, the oars dipping and falling in unbroken rhythm. “Is that the pilot? The tall man on the quarterdeck?”

“Yes,” Rodrigues said.

“Manuel and Perdito! Take him and the quarterdeck!” The cannon nearest made slight adjustments. “Which is this Toranaga? Quickly! Helmsmen, two points to starboard!”

“Two points to starboard it is, Gunner!”

Conscious of the sanding bottom and the shoals nearby, Rodrigues was watching the shrouds, ready at any second to override the chief gunner, who by custom had the con on a stern cannonade. “Ho, port maindeck cannon!” the gunner shouted. “Once we’ve fired we’ll let her fall off the wind. Drop all gun ports, prepare for a broadside!” The gun crews obeyed, their eyes going to the officers on the quarterdeck. And the priests. “For the love of God, Don Ferriera, which is this Toranaga?”

“Which is he, Father?” Ferriera had never seen him before.

Rodrigues had recognized Toranaga clearly on the foredeck in a ring of samurai, but he did not want to be the one to put the mark on him. Let the priests do that, he thought. Go on, Father, play the Judas. Why should we always do all the pox-foul work, not that I care a chipped doubloon for that heathen son of a whore.

Both priests were silent.

“Quick, which would Toranaga be?” the gunner asked again.

Impatiently Rodrigues pointed him out. “There, on the poop. The short, thickset bastard in the middle of those other heathen bastards.”

“I see him, Senhor Pilot.”

The gun crews made last slight adjustments.

Ferriera took the taper out of the gunner’s mate’s hand.

“Are you trained on the heretic?”

“Yes, Captain-General, are you ready? I’ll drop my hand. That’s the signal!”

“Good.”

“Thou shalt not kill!” It was dell’Aqua.

Ferriera whirled on him. “They’re heathens and heretics!”

“There are Christians among them and even if there weren’t—”

“Pay no attention to him, Gunner!” the Captain-General snarled. “We fire when you’re ready!”

Dell’Aqua went forward to the muzzle of the cannon and stood in the way. His bulk dominated the quarterdeck and the armed sailors that lay in ambush. His hand was on the crucifix. “I say, Thou shalt not kill!”

“We kill all the time, Father,” Ferriera said.

“I know, and I’m ashamed of it and I beg God’s forgiveness for it.” Dell’Aqua had never before been on the quarterdeck of a fighting ship with primed guns, and muskets, and fingers on triggers, readying for death. “While I’m here there’ll be no killing and I’ll not condone killing from ambush!”

“And if they attack us? Try to take the ship?”

“I will beg God to assist us against them!”

“What’s the difference, now or later?”

Dell’Aqua did not answer. Thou shalt not kill, he thought, and Toranaga has promised everything, Ishido nothing.

“What’s it to be, Captain-General? Now’s the time!” the master gunner cried. “Now!”

Ferriera bitterly turned his back on the priests, threw down the taper and went to the rail. “Get ready to repel an attack,” he shouted. “If she comes within fifty yards uninvited, you’re all ordered to blow her to hell whatever the priests say!”

Rodrigues was equally enraged but he knew that he was as helpless as the Captain-General against the priest. Thou shalt not kill? By the blessed Lord Jesus, what about you? he wanted to shout. What about the auto da fé? What about the Inquisition? What about you priests who pronounce the sentence “guilty” or “witch” or “satanist” or “heretic”? Remember the two thousand witches burned in Portugal alone, the year I sailed for Asia? What about almost every village and town in Portugal and Spain, and the dominions visited and investigated by the Scourges of God, as the cowled Inquisitors proudly called themselves, the smell of burning flesh in their wake? Oh, Lord Jesus Christ, protect us!

He pushed his fear and loathing away and concentrated on the galley. He could just see Blackthorne and he thought, ah Ingeles, it’s good to see you, standing there holding the con, so tall and cocky. I was afraid you’d gone to the execution ground. I’m glad you escaped, but even so it’s lucky you don’t have a single little cannon aboard, for then I’d blow you out of the water, and to hell with what the priests would say.

Oh, Madonna, protect me from a bad priest.

“Ahoy, Santa Theresa!”

“Ahoy, Ingeles!”

“Is that you, Rodrigues?”

“Aye!”

“Thy leg?”

“Thy mother!”

Rodrigues was greatly pleased by the bantering laugh that came across the sea that separated them.

For half an hour the two ships had maneuvered for position, chasing, tacking, and falling away, the galley trying to get windward and bottle the frigate on a lee shore, the frigate to gain sea room to sail out of harbor if she desired. But neither had been able to gain an advantage, and it was during this chase that those aboard the frigate had seen the fishing boats crowding the mouth of the harbor for the first time and realized their significance.

“That’s why he’s coming at us! For protection!”

“Even more reason for us to sink him now he’s trapped. Ishido will thank us forever,” Ferriera had said.

Dell’Aqua had remained obdurate. “Toranaga’s much too important. I insist first we must talk to Toranaga. You can always sink him. He doesn’t have cannon. Even I know that only cannon can fight cannon.”

So Rodrigues had allowed a stalemate to develop to give them breathing time. Both ships were in the center of the harbor, safe from fishing ships and safe from each other, the frigate trembling into the wind, ready to fall off instantly, and the galley, oars shipped, drifting broadside to just within calling distance. It was only when Rodrigues had seen the galley ship all oars and turn broadside to his guns that he had turned into the wind to allow her to approach within shouting range and had prepared for the next series of moves. Thank God, the blessed Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, we’ve cannon and that bastard has none, Rodrigues thought again. The Ingeles is too smart.

But it’s good to be opposed by a professional, he told himself. Much safer. Then no one makes a foolhardy mistake and no one gets hurt unnecessarily.

“Permission to come aboard?”

“Who, Ingeles?”

“Lord Toranaga, his interpreter, and guards.”

Ferriera said quietly, “No guards.”

Alvito said, “He must bring some. It’s a matter of face.”

“The pox on face. No guards.”

“I don’t want samurai aboard,” Rodrigues agreed.

“Would you agree to five?” Alvito asked. “Just his personal guards? You understand the problem, Rodrigues.”

Rodrigues thought a moment, then nodded. “Five are all right, Captain-General. We’ll detail five men as your ‘personal bodyguards’ with a brace of pistols apiece. Father, you fix the details now. Better the Father to arrange the details, Captain-General, he knows how. Go on, Father, but tell us what’s being said.”

Alvito went to the gunwale and shouted, “You gain nothing by your lies! Prepare your souls for hell—you and your bandits. You’ve ten minutes, then the Captain-General’s going to blow you to eternal torment!”

“We’re flying Lord Toranaga’s flag, by God!”

“False colors, pirate!”

Ferriera took a step forward. “What are you playing at, Father?”

“Please be patient, Captain-General,” Alvito said. “This is only a matter of form. Otherwise Toranaga has to be permanently offended that we’ve insulted his flag—which we have. That’s Toranaga—that’s no simple daimyo! Perhaps you’d better remember that he personally has more troops under arms than the King of Spain!”

The wind was sighing in the rigging, the spars clattering nervously. Then flares were lit on the quarterdeck and now they could see Toranaga clearly. His voice came across the waves.

“Tsukku-san! How dare you avoid my galley! There are no pirates here—only in those fishing ships at the harbor mouth. I wish to come alongside instantly!”

Alvito shouted back in Japanese, feigning astonishment, “But Lord Toranaga, so sorry, we had no idea! We thought it was just a trick. The Grays said bandit-ronin had taken the galley by force! We thought bandits, under the English pirate, were sailing under false colors. I will come immediately.”

“No. I will come alongside at once.”

“I beg you, Lord Toranaga, allow me to come to escort you. My Master, the Father-Visitor, is here and also the Captain-General. They insist we make amends. Please accept our apologies!” Alvito changed to Portuguese again and shouted loudly to the bosun, “Launch a longboat,” and back again to Toranaga in Japanese, “The boat is being launched at once, my Lord.”

Rodrigues listened to the cloying humility in Alvito’s voice and he thought how much more difficult it was to deal with Japanese than with Chinese. The Chinese understood the art of negotiation, of compromise and concession and reward. But the Japanese were pride-filled and when a man’s pride was injured—any Japanese, not necessarily just samurai—then death was a small price to repay the insult. Come on, get it over with, he wanted to shout.

“Captain-General, I’ll go at once,” Father Alvito was saying. “Eminence, if you come as well that compliment will do much to appease him.”

“I agree.”

“Isn’t that dangerous?” Ferriera said. “You two could be used as hostages.”

Dell’Aqua said, “The moment there’s a sign of treachery, I order you, in God’s name, to obliterate that ship and all who sail in her, whether we’re aboard or not.” He strode off the quarterdeck, down onto the main deck, past the guns, the skirts of his robe swinging majestically. At the head of the gangway he turned and made the sign of the cross. Then he clattered down the gangway into the boat.

The bosun cast off. All the sailors were armed with pistols, and a fused keg of powder was under the bosun’s seat.

Ferriera leaned over the gunwale and called down quietly, “Eminence, bring the heretic back with you.”

“What? What did you say?” It amused dell’Aqua to toy with the Captain-General, whose continual insolence had mortally offended him, for of course he had decided long since to acquire Blackthorne, and he could hear perfectly well. Che stupido, he was thinking.

“Bring the heretic back with you, eh?” Ferriera called again.

On the quarterdeck Rodrigues heard the muffled, “Yes, Captain-General,” and he thought, what treachery are you about, Ferriera?

He shifted in the chair with difficulty, his face bloodless. The pain in his leg was grinding and it took much of his strength to contain it. The bones were knitting well and, Madonna be praised, the wound was clean. But the fracture was still a fracture and even the slight dip of the ship at rest was troublesome. He took a swallow of grog from the well-used seabag that hung from a peg on the binnacle.

Ferriera was watching him. “Your leg’s bad?”

“It’s all right.” The grog deadened the hurt.

“Will it be all right enough to voyage from here to Macao?”

“Yes. And to fight a sea battle all the way. And to come back in the summer, if that’s what you mean.”

“Yes, that’s what I mean, Pilot.” The lips were thin again, drawn into that tight mocking smile. “I need a fit pilot.”

“I’m fit. My leg’s mending well.” Rodrigues shook off the pain. “The Ingeles won’t come aboard us willingly. I wouldn’t.”

“A hundred guineas says you’re wrong.”

“That’s more than I make in a year.”

“Payable after we reach Lisbon, from the profits from the Black Ship.”

“Done. Nothing’ll make him come aboard, not willingly. I’m a hundred guineas richer, by God!”

“Poorer! You forget the Jesuits want him here more than I do.”

“Why should they want that?”

Ferriera looked at him levelly and did not answer, wearing the same twisted smile. Then, baiting him, he said, “I’d escort Toranaga out, for possession of the heretic.”

“I’m glad I’m your comrade and necessary to you and the Black Ship,” Rodrigues said. “I wouldn’t want to be your enemy.”

“I’m glad we understand one another, Pilot. At long last.”

“I require escort out of the harbor. I need it quickly,” Toranaga told dell’Aqua through the interpreter Alvito, Mariko nearby, also listening, with Yabu. He stood on the galley’s poopdeck, dell’Aqua below on the main deck, Alvito beside him, but even so their eyes were almost level. “Or, if you wish, your warship can remove the fishing boats from out of my way.”

“Forgive me, but that would be an unwarranted hostile act that you would not—could not recommend to the frigate, Lord Toranaga,” dell’Aqua said, talking directly to him, finding Alvito’s simultaneous translation eerie, as always. “That would be impossible—an open act of war.”

“Then what do you suggest?”

“Please come back to the frigate. Let us ask the Captain-General. He will have a solution, now that we know what your problem is. He’s the military man, we are not.”

“Bring him here.”

“It would be quicker for you to go there, Sire. Apart, of course, from the honor you would do us.”

Toranaga knew the truth of this. Only moments before they had seen more fishing boats loaded with archers launched from the southern shore and, though they were safe at the moment, it was clear that within the hour the neck of the harbor would be choked with hostiles.

And he knew he had no choice.

“Sorry, Sire,” the Anjin-san had explained earlier, during the abortive chase, “I can’t get near the frigate. Rodrigues is too clever. I can stop him escaping if the wind holds but I can’t trap him, unless he makes a mistake. We’ll have to parley.”

“Will he make a mistake and will the wind hold?” he had asked through Mariko.

She had replied, “The Anjin-san says, a wise man never bets on the wind, unless it’s a trade wind and you’re out to sea. Here we’re in a harbor where the mountains cause the wind to eddy and flow. The pilot, Rodrigues, won’t make a mistake.”

Toranaga had watched the two pilots pit their wits against each other and he knew, beyond doubt, that both were masters. And he had come to realize also that neither he nor his lands nor the Empire would ever be safe without possessing modern barbarian ships, and through these ships, control of their own seas. The thought had shattered him.

“But how can I negotiate with them? What possible excuse could they use for such open hostility against me? Now it’s my duty to bury them for their insults to my honor.”

Then the Anjin-san had explained the ploy of false colors: how all ships used the device to get close to the enemy, or to attempt to avoid an enemy, and Toranaga had been greatly relieved that there might be an acceptable face-saving solution to that problem.

Now Alvito was saying, “I think we should go at once, Sire.”

“Very well,” Toranaga agreed. “Yabu-san, take command of the ship. Mariko-san, tell the Anjin-san he is to stay on the quarterdeck and to keep the helm, then you come with me.”

“Yes, Lord.”

It had been clear to Toranaga from the size of the longboat that he could take only five guards with him. But this, too, had been anticipated and the final plan was simple: if he could not persuade the frigate to help, then he and his guards would kill the Captain-General, their pilot, and the priests and barricade themselves in one of the cabins. Simultaneously the galley would be flung at the frigate from her bow as the Anjin-san had suggested and, together, they would try to take the frigate by storm. They would take her or they would not take her, but either way there would be a quick solution.

“It is a good plan, Yabu-san,” he had said.

“Please allow me to go in your place to negotiate.”

“They would not agree.”

“Very well, but once we’re out of the trap expel all barbarians from our realm. If you do, you’ll gain more daimyos than you lose.”

“I’ll consider it,” Toranaga had said, knowing it was nonsense, that he must have the Christian daimyos Onoshi and Kiyama on his side, and therefore the other Christian daimyos, or by default he would be eaten up. Why would Yabu wish to go to the frigate? What treachery did he plan if there was no help?

“Sire,” Alvito was saying for dell’Aqua, “may I invite the Anjin-san to accompany us?”

“Why?”

“It occurred to me that he might like to greet his colleague the anjin Rodrigues. The man has a broken leg and cannot come here. Rodrigues would like to see him again, thank him for saving his life, if you don’t mind.”

Toranaga could not think of any reason why the Anjin-san should not go. The man was under his protection, therefore inviolate. “If he wishes to do so, very well. Mariko-san, accompany Tsukku-san.”

Mariko bowed. She knew her job was to listen and to report and to ensure that everything that was said was reported correctly, without omission. She felt better now, her coiffure and face once more perfect, a fresh kimono borrowed from Lady Fujiko, her left arm in a neat sling. One of the mates, an apprentice doctor, had dressed her wound. The slice into her upper arm had not cut a tendon and the wound itself was clean. A bath would have made her whole, but there were no facilities on the galley.

Together she and Alvito walked back to the quarterdeck. He saw the knife in Blackthorne’s sash and the way the soiled kimono seemed to fit. How far has he leeched his way into Toranaga’s confidence, he asked himself. “Well met, Captain-Pilot Blackthorne.”

“Rot in hell, Father!” Blackthorne replied affably.

“Perhaps we’ll meet there, Anjin-san. Perhaps we will. Toranaga said you can come aboard the frigate.”

“His orders?”

“ ‘If you wish,’ he said.”

“I don’t wish.”

“Rodrigues would like to thank you again and to see you.”

“Give him my respects and say I’ll see him in hell. Or here.”

“His leg prevents that.”

“How is his leg?”

“Healing. Through your help and the grace of God, in a few weeks, God willing, he will walk, though he will limp forever.”

“Tell him I wish him well. You’d better be going, Father, time’s a-wasting.”

“Rodrigues would like to see you. There’s grog on the table and a fine roast capon with fresh greens and gravy and new fresh bread, butter hot. It’d be sad, Pilot, to waste such food.”

“What?”

“There’s new golden bread, Captain-Pilot, fresh hardtack, butter, and a side of beef. Fresh oranges from Goa and even a gallon of Madeira wine to wash it down with, or brandy if you’d prefer. There’s beer, too. Then there’s Macao capon, hot and juicy. The Captain-General’s an epicure.”

“God damn you to hell!”

“He will, when it pleases Him. I only tell you what exists.”

“What does ‘epicure’ mean?” Mariko asked.

“It’s one who enjoys food and sets a fine table, Senhora Maria,” Alvito said, using her baptismal name. He had marked the sudden change on Blackthorne’s face. He could almost see the saliva glands working and feel the stomach-churning agony. Tonight when he had seen the repast set out in the great cabin, the gleaming silver and white tablecloth and chairs, real leather-cushioned chairs, and smelt the new breads and butter and rich meats, he himself had been weak with hunger, and he wasn’t starved for food or unaccustomed to Japanese cuisine.

It is so simple to catch a man, he told himself. All you need to know is the right bait. “Good-by, Captain-Pilot!” Alvito turned and walked for the gangway. Blackthorne followed.

“What’s amiss, Ingeles?” Rodrigues asked.

“Where’s the food? Then we can talk. First the food you promised.” Blackthorne, stood shakily on the main deck.

“Please follow me,” Alvito said.

“Where are you taking him, Father?”

“Of course to the great cabin. Blackthorne can eat while Lord Toranaga and the Captain-General talk.”

“No. He can eat in my cabin.”

“It’s easier, surely, to go where the food is.”

“Bosun! See that the pilot’s fed at once—all that he needs, in my cabin, anything from the table. Ingeles, do you want grog, or wine or beer?”

“Beer first, then grog.”

“Bosun, see to it, take him below. And listen, Pesaro, give him some clothes out of my locker, and boots, everything. And stay with him till I call you.”

Wordlessly Blackthorne followed Pesaro the bosun, a large burly man, down the companionway. Alvito began to go back to dell’Aqua and Toranaga, who were talking through Mariko near the companionway, but Rodrigues stopped him.

“Father! Just a moment. What did you say to him?”

“Only that you would like to see him and that we had food aboard.”

“But I was offering him the food?”

“No, Rodrigues, I didn’t say that. But wouldn’t you want to offer food to a fellow pilot who was hungry?”

“That poor bastard’s not hungry, he’s starving. If he eats in that state he’ll gorge like a ravenous wolf, then he’ll vomit it up as fast as a drunk-gluttoned whore. Now, we wouldn’t want one of us, even a heretic, to eat like an animal and vomit like an animal in front of Toranaga, would we, Father? Not in front of a piss-cutting sonofabitch—particularly one as clean-minded as a pox-mucked whore’s cleft!”

“You must learn to control the filth of your tongue, my son,” Alvito said. “It will send you to hell. You’d better say a thousand Ave Marias and go without food for two days. Bread and water only. A penance to God’s Grace to remind you of His Mercy.”

“Thank you, Father, I will. Gladly. And if I could kneel I would, and I’d kiss your cross. Yes, Father, this poor sinner thanks you for your God-given patience. I must guard my tongue.”

Ferriera called out from the companionway, “Rodrigues, are you coming below?”

“I’ll stay on deck while that bitch galley’s there, Captain-General. If you need me I’m here.” Alvito began to leave. Rodrigues noticed Mariko. “Just a minute, Father. Who’s the woman?”

“Donna Maria Toda. One of Toranaga’s interpreters.”

Rodrigues whistled tonelessly. “Is she good?”

“Very good.”

“Stupid to allow her aboard. Why did you say ‘Toda’? She’s one of old Toda Hiro-matsu’s consorts?”

“No. She’s the wife of his son.”

“Stupid to bring her aboard.” Rodrigues beckoned one of the seamen. “Spread the word the woman speaks Portuguese.”

“Yes, senhor.” The man hurried away and Rodrigues turned back to Father Alvito.

The priest was not in the least intimidated by the obvious anger. “The Lady Maria speaks Latin too—and just as perfectly. Was there anything else, Pilot?”

“No, thank you. Perhaps I’d better get on with my Hail Marys.”

“Yes, you should.” The priest made the sign of the cross and left. Rodrigues spat into the scuppers and one of the helmsmen winced and crossed himself.

“Go nail yourself to the mast by your green-addled foreskin!” Rodrigues hissed.

“Yes, Captain-Pilot, sorry, senhor. But I get nervous near the good Father. I meant no harm.” The youth saw the last grains of sand fall through the neck of the hourglass and he turned it.

“At the half, go below, and take a God-cursed pail and water and a scrubbing brush with you, and clean up the mess in my cabin. Tell the bosun to bring the Ingeles aloft and you make my cabin clean. And it’d better be very clean, or I’ll have your guts for garters. And while you’re doing it, say Ave Marias for your God-cursed soul.”

“Yes, Senhor Pilot,” the youth said weakly. Rodrigues was a fanatic, a madman, about cleanliness, and his own cabin was like the ship’s Holy Grail. Everything had to be spotless, no matter what the weather.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

“There must be a solution, Captain-General,” dell’Aqua said patiently.

“Do you want an overt act of war against a friendly nation?”

“Of course not.”

Everyone in the great cabin knew that they were all in the same trap. Any overt act put them squarely with Toranaga against Ishido, which they should absolutely avoid in case Ishido was the eventual victor. Presently Ishido controlled Osaka, and the capital, Kyoto, and the majority of the Regents. And now, through the daimyos Onoshi and Kiyama, Ishido controlled most of the southern island of Kyushu, and with Kyushu, the port of Nagasaki, the main center of all trading, and thus all trade and the Black Ship this year.

Toranaga said through Father Alvito, “What’s so difficult? I just want you to blow the pirates out of the harbor mouth, neh?”

Toranaga sat uncomfortably in the place of honor, in the high-backed chair at the great table. Alvito sat next to him, the Captain-General opposite, dell’Aqua beside the Captain-General. Mariko stood behind Toranaga and the samurai guards waited near the door, facing the armed seamen. And all the Europeans were conscious that though Alvito translated for Toranaga everything that was said in the room, Mariko was there to ensure that nothing was said openly between them against her Master’s interests and that the translation was complete and accurate.

Dell’Aqua leaned forward. “Perhaps, Sire, you could send messengers ashore to Lord Ishido. Perhaps the solution lies in negotiation. We could offer this ship as a neutral place for the negotiations. Perhaps in this way you could settle the war.”

Toranaga laughed scornfully. “What war? We’re not at war, Ishido and I.”

“But, Sire, we saw the battle on the shore.”

“Don’t be naïve! Who were killed? A few worthless ronin. Who attacked whom? Only ronin, bandits or mistaken zealots.”

“And at the ambush? We understand that Browns fought Grays.”

“Bandits were attacking all of us, Browns and Grays. My men merely fought to protect me. In night skirmishes mistakes often happen. If Browns killed Grays or Grays Browns that’s a regrettable error. What are a few men to either of us? Nothing. We’re not at war.”

Toranaga read their disbelief so he added, “Tell them, Tsukku-san, that armies fight wars in Japan. These ridiculous skirmishes and assassination attempts are mere probes, to be dismissed when they fail. War didn’t begin tonight. It began when the Taikō died. Even before that, when he died without leaving a grown son to follow him. Perhaps even before that, when Goroda, the Lord Protector, was murdered. Tonight has no lasting significance. None of you understands our realm, or our politics. How could you? Of course Ishido’s trying to kill me. So are many other daimyos. They’ve done so in the past and they’ll do so in the future. Kiyama and Onoshi have been both friend and enemy. Listen, if I’m killed that would simplify things for Ishido, the real enemy, but only for a moment. I’m in his trap now and if his trap’s successful he merely has a momentary advantage. If I escape, there never was a trap. But understand clearly, all of you, that my death will not remove the cause of war nor will it prevent further conflict. Only if Ishido dies will there be no conflict. So there’s no open war now. None.” He shifted in the chair, detesting the odor in the cabin from the oily foods and unwashed bodies. “But we do have an immediate problem. I want your cannon. I want them now. Pirates beset me at the harbor mouth. I said earlier, Tsukku-san, that soon everyone must choose sides. Now, where do you and your leader and the whole Christian Church stand? And are my Portuguese friends with me or against me?”

Dell’Aqua said, “You may be assured, Lord Toranaga, we all support your interests.”

“Good. Then remove the pirates at once.”

“That’d be an act of war and there’s no profit in it. Perhaps we can make a trade, eh?” Ferriera said.

Alvito did not translate this but said instead, “The Captain-General says, we’re only trying to avoid meddling in your politics, Lord Toranaga. We’re traders.”

Mariko said in Japanese to Toranaga, “So sorry, Sire, that’s not correct. That’s not what was said.”

Alvito sighed. “I merely transposed some of his words, Sire. The Captain-General is not aware of certain politenesses as he is a stranger. He has no understanding of Japan.”

“But you do have, Tsukku-san?” Toranaga asked.

“I try, Sire.”

“What did he actually say?”

Alvito told him.

After a pause Toranaga said, “The Anjin-san told me the Portuguese were very interested in trade, and in trade they have no manners, or humor. I understand and will accept your explanation, Tsukku-san. But from now on please translate everything exactly as it is said.”

“Yes, Lord.”

“Tell the Captain-General this: When the conflict is resolved I will expand trade. I am in favor of trade. Ishido is not.”

Dell’Aqua had marked the exchange and hoped that Alvito had covered Ferriera’s stupidity. “We’re not politicians, Sire, we’re religious and we represent the Faith and the Faithful. We do support your interests. Yes.”

“I agree. I was considering—” Alvito stopped interpreting and his face lit up and he let Toranaga’s Japanese get away from him for a moment. “I’m sorry, Eminence, but Lord Toranaga said, ‘I was considering asking you to build a temple, a large temple in Yedo, as a measure of my confidence in your interests.’ ”

For years, ever since Toranaga had become Lord of the Eight Provinces, dell’Aqua had been maneuvering for that concession. And to get it from him now, in the third greatest city in the Empire, was a priceless concession. The Visitor knew the time had come to resolve the problem of the cannon. “Thank him, Martin Tsukku-san,” he said, using the code phrase that he had previously agreed upon with Alvito, committing their course of action, with Alvito the standard-bearer, “and say we will try always to be at his service. Oh yes, and ask him what he had in mind about the cathedral,” he added for the Captain-General’s benefit.

“Perhaps I may speak directly, Sire, for a moment,” Alvito began to Toranaga. “My Master thanks you and says what you previously asked is perhaps possible. He will endeavor always to assist you.”

“Endeavor is an abstract word, and unsatisfactory.”

“Yes, Sire.” Alvito glanced at the guards, who, of course, listened without appearing to. “But I remember you saying earlier that it is sometimes wise to be abstract.”

Toranaga understood at once. He waved his hand in dismissal to his men. “Wait outside, all of you.”

Uneasily they obeyed. Alvito turned to Ferriera. “We don’t need your guards now, Captain-General.”

When the samurai had gone Ferriera dismissed his men and glanced at Mariko. He wore pistols in his belt and had another in his boot.

Alvito said to Toranaga, “Perhaps, Sire, you would like the Lady Mariko to sit?”

Again Toranaga understood. He thought for a moment, then half nodded and said, without turning around, “Mariko-san, take one of my guards and find the Anjin-san. Stay with him until I send for you.”

“Yes, Lord.”

The door closed behind her.

Now they were alone. The four of them.

Ferriera said, “What’s the offer? What’s he offering?”

“Be patient, Captain-General,” dell’Aqua replied, his fingers drumming on his cross, praying for success.

“Sire,” Alvito began to Toranaga, “the Lord my Master says that everything you asked he will try to do. Within the forty days. He will send you word privately about progress. I will be the courier, with your permission.”

“And if he’s not successful?”

“It will not be through want of trying, or persuasion, or through want of thought. He gives you his word.”

“Before the Christian God?”

“Yes. Before God.”

“Good. I will have it in writing. Under his seal.”

“Sometimes full agreements, delicate agreements, should not be reduced to writing, Sire.”

“You’re saying unless I put my agreement in writing, you won’t?”

“I merely remembered one of your own sayings that a samurai’s honor is certainly more important than a piece of paper. The Visitor gives you his word before God, his word of honor, as a samurai would. Your honor is totally sufficient for the Visitor. I just thought he would be saddened to be so untrusted. Do you wish me to ask for a signature?”

At length Toranaga said, “Very well. His word before the God Jesus, neh? His word before his God?”

“I give it on his behalf. He has sworn by the Blessed Cross to try.”

“You as well, Tsukku-san?”

“You have equally my word, before my God, by the Blessed Cross, that I will do everything I can to help him persuade the Lords Onoshi and Kiyama to be your allies.”

“In return I will do what I previously promised. On the forty-first day you may lay the foundation stone for the biggest Christian temple in the Empire.”

“Could that land, Sire, be put aside at once?”

“As soon as I arrive at Yedo. Now. What about the pirates? The pirates in the fishing boats? You will remove them at once?”

“If you had cannon, would you have done that yourself, Sire?”

“Of course, Tsukku-san.”

“I apologize for being so devious, Sire, but we have had to formulate a plan. The cannon do not belong to us. Please give me one moment.” Alvito turned to dell’Aqua. “Everything is arranged about the cathedral, Eminence.” Then to Ferriera he added, beginning their agreed plan: “You will be glad you did not sink him, Captain-General. Lord Toranaga asks if you would carry ten thousand ducats of gold for him when you leave with the Black Ship for Goa, to invest in the gold market in India. We would be delighted to help in the transaction through our usual sources there, placing the gold for you. Lord Toranaga says half the profit is yours.” Both Alvito and dell’Aqua had decided that by the time the Black Ship had turned about, in six months, Toranaga either would be reinstated as President of the Regents and therefore more than pleased to permit this most profitable transaction, or he would be dead. “You should easily clear four thousand ducats profit. At no risk.”

“In return for what concession? That’s more than your annual subsidy from the King of Spain for your whole Society of Jesus in Asia. In return for what?”

“Lord Toranaga says pirates prevent him leaving the harbor. He would know better than you if they’re pirates.”

Ferriera replied in the same matter-of-fact voice that both knew was only for Toranaga’s benefit, “It’s ill-advised to put your faith in this man. His enemy holds all the royal cards. All the Christian kings are against him. Certainly the main two, I heard them with my own ears. They said this Jappo’s the real enemy. I believe them and not this motherless cretin.”

“I’m sure Lord Toranaga knows better than us who are pirates and who are not,” dell’Aqua told him unperturbed, knowing the solution as Alvito knew the solution. “I suppose you’ve no objection to Lord Toranaga’s dealing with the pirates himself?”

“Of course not.”

“You have plenty of spare cannon aboard,” the Visitor said. “Why not give him some privately. Sell him some, in effect. You sell arms all the time. He’s buying arms. Four cannon should be more than enough. It would be easy to transship them in the longboat, with enough powder and shot, again privately. Then the matter is solved.”

Ferriera sighed. “Cannon, my dear Eminence, are useless aboard the galley. There are no gun ports, no gun ropes, no gun stanchions. They can’t use cannon, even if they had the gunners, which they don’t.”

Both priests were flabbergasted. “Useless?”

“Totally.”

“But surely, Don Ferriera, they can adapt . . .”

“That galley’s incapable of using cannon without a refit. It would take at least a week.”

“Nan ja?” Toranaga said suspiciously, aware that something was amiss however much they had tried to hide it.

“What is it, Toranaga asks,” Alvito said.

Dell’Aqua knew the sand had run out on them. “Captain-General, please help us. Please. I ask you openly. We’ve gained enormous concessions for the Faith. You must believe me and yes, you must trust us. You must help Lord Toranaga out of the harbor somehow. I beg you on behalf of the Church. The cathedral alone is an enormous concession. Please.”

Ferriera allowed none of the ecstasy of victory to show. He even added a token gravity to his voice. “Since you ask help in the Church’s name, Eminence, of course I’ll do what you ask. I’ll get him out of this trap. But in return I want the Captain-Generalship of next year’s Black Ship whether this year’s is successful or not.”

“That’s the personal gift of the King of Spain, his alone. That’s not mine to bestow.”

“Next: I accept the offer of his gold, but I want your guarantee that I’ll have no trouble from the Viceroy at Goa, or here, about the gold or about either of the Black Ships.”

“You dare to hold me and the Church to ransom?”

“This is merely a business arrangement between you, me, and this monkey.”

“He’s no monkey, Captain-General. You’d better remember it.”

“Next: Fifteen percent of this year’s cargo instead of ten.”

“Impossible.”

“Next: To keep everything tidy, Eminence, your word before God—now—that neither you nor any of the priests under your jurisdiction will ever threaten me with excommunication unless I commit a future act of sacrilege, which none of this is. And further, your word that you and the Holy Fathers will actively support me and help these two Black Ships—also before God.”

“And next, Captain-General? Surely that’s not all? Surely there’s something else?”

“Last: I want the heretic.”

Mariko stared down at Blackthorne from the cabin doorway. He lay in a semicoma on the floor, retching his innards out. The bosun was leaning against the bunk leering at her, the stumps of his yellow teeth showing.

“Is he poisoned, or is he drunk?” she asked Totomi Kana, the samurai beside her, trying without success to close her nostrils to the stench of the food and the vomit, to the stench of the ugly seaman in front of her, and to the ever present stench from the bilges that pervaded the whole ship. “It almost looks as though he’s been poisoned, neh?”

“Perhaps he has, Mariko-san. Look at that filth!” The samurai waved distastefully at the table. It was strewn with wooden platters containing the remains of a mutilated haunch of roast beef, blood rare, half the carcass of a spitted chicken, torn bread and cheese and spilled beer, butter and a dish of cold bacon-fat gravy, and a half emptied bottle of brandy.

Neither of them had ever seen meat on a table before.

“What d’you want?” the bosun asked. “No monkeys in here, wakarimasu? No monkey-sans this-u room-u!” He looked at the samurai and waved him away. “Out! Piss off!” His eyes flowed back over Mariko. “What’s your name? Namu, eh?”

“What’s he saying, Mariko-san?” the samurai asked.

The bosun glanced at the samurai for a moment then back to Mariko again.

“What’s the barbarian saying, Mariko-san?”

Mariko took her mesmerized eyes off the table and concentrated on the bosun. “I’m sorry, senhor, I didn’t understand you. What did you say?”

“Eh?” The bosun’s mouth dropped farther open. He was a big fat man with eyes too close together and large ears, his hair in a ratty tarred pigtail. A crucifix hung from the rolls of his neck and pistols were loose in his belt. “Eh? You can talk Portuguese? A Jappo who can talk good Portuguese? Where’d you learn to talk civilized?”

“The—the Christian Father taught me.”

“I’ll be a God-cursed son of a whore! Madonna, a flower-san who can talk civilized!”

Blackthorne retched again and tried feebly to get off the deck.

“Can you—please can you put the pilot there?” She pointed at the bunk.

“Aye. If this monkey’ll help.”

“Who? I’m sorry, what did you say? Who?”

“Him! The Jappo. Him.”

The words rocked through her and it took all of her will to remain calm. She motioned to the samurai. “Kana-san, will you please help this barbarian. The Anjin-san should be put there.”

“With pleasure, Lady.”

Together the two men lifted Blackthorne and he flopped back in the bunk, his head too heavy, mouthing stupidly.

“He should be washed,” Mariko said in Japanese, still half stunned by what the bosun had called Kana.

“Yes, Mariko-san. Order the barbarian to send for servants.”

“Yes.” Her disbelieving eyes went inexorably to the table again. “Do they really eat that?”

The bosun followed her glance. At once he leaned over and tore off a chicken leg and offered it to her. “You hungry? Here, little Flower-san, it’s good. It’s fresh today—real Macao capon.”

She shook her head.

The bosun’s grizzled face split into a grin and he helpfully dipped the chicken leg into the heavy gravy and held it under her nose. “Gravy makes it even better. Hey, it’s good to be able to talk proper, eh? Never did that before. Go on, it’ll give you strength—where it counts! It’s Macao capon I tell you.”

“No—no, thank you. To eat meat—to eat meat is forbidden. It’s against the law, and against Buddhism and Shintoism.”

“Not in Nagasaki it isn’t!” The bosun laughed. “Lots of Jappos eat meat all the time. They all do when they can get it, and swill our grog as well. You’re Christian, eh? Go on, try, little Donna. How d’you know till you try?”

“No, no, thank you.”

“A man can’t live without meat. That’s real food. Makes you strong so you can jiggle like a stoat. Here—” He offered the chicken leg to Kana. “You want?”

Kana shook his head, equally nauseated. “Iyé!”

The bosun shrugged and threw it carelessly back onto the table. “Iyé it is. What’ve you done to your arm? You hurt in the fight?”

“Yes. But not badly.” Mariko moved it a little to show him and swallowed the pain.

“Poor little thing! What d’you want here, Donna Senhorita, eh?”

“To see the An—to see the pilot. Lord Toranaga sent me. The pilot’s drunk?”

“Yes, that and the food. Poor bastard ate too fast ’n drank too fast. Took half the bottle in a gulp. Ingeles’re all the same. Can’t hold their grog and they’ve no cojones.” His eyes went all over her. “I’ve never seen a flower as small as you before. And never talked to a Jappo who could talk civilized before.”

“Do you call all Japanese ladies and samurai Jappos and monkeys?”

The seaman laughed shortly. “Hey, senhorita, that was a slip of the tongue. That’s for usuals, you know, the pimps and whores in Nagasaki. No offense meant. I never did talk to a civilized senhorita before, never knowed there was any, by God.”

“Neither have I, senhor. I’ve never talked to a civilized Portuguese before, other than a Holy Father. We’re Japanese, not Jappos, neh? And monkeys are animals, aren’t they?”

“Sure.” The bosun showed the broken teeth. “You speak like a Donna. Yes. No offense, Donna Senhorita.”

Blackthorne began mumbling. She went to the bunk and shook him gently. “Anjin-san! Anjin-san!”

“Yes—yes?” Blackthorne opened his eyes. “Oh—hello—I’m sor—I . . .” But the weight of his pain and the spinning of the room forced him to lie back.

“Please send for a servant, senhor. He should be washed.”

“There’s slaves—but not for that, Donna Senhorita. Leave the Ingeles—what’s a little vomit to a heretic?”

“No servants?” she asked, flabbergasted.

“We have slaves—black bastards, but they’re lazy—wouldn’t trust one to wash him myself,” he added with a twisted grin.

Mariko knew she had no alternative. Lord Toranaga might have need of the Anjin-san at once and it was her duty. “Then I need some water,” she said. “To wash him with.”

“There’s a barrel in the stairwell. In the deck below.”

“Please fetch some for me, senhor.”

“Send him.” The bosun jerked a finger at Kana.

“No. You will please fetch it. Now.”

The bosun looked back at Blackthorne. “You his doxie?”

“What?”

“The Ingeles’s doxie?”

“What’s a doxie, senhor?”

“His woman. His mate, you know, senhorita, this pilot’s sweetheart, his jigajig. Doxie.”

“No. No, senhor, I’m not his doxie.”

“His, then? This mon—this samurai’s? Or the king’s maybe, him that’s just come aboard? Tora-something? You one of his?”

“No.”

“Nor any aboard’s?”

She shook her head. “Please, would you get some water?”

The bosun nodded and went out.

“That’s the ugliest, foulest-smelling man I’ve ever been near,” the samurai said. “What was he saying?”

“He—the man asked if—if I was one of the pilot’s consorts.”

The samurai went for the door.

“Kana-san!”

“I demand the right on your husband’s behalf to avenge that insult. At once! As though you’d cohabit with any barbarian!”

“Kana-san! Please close the door.”

“You’re Toda Mariko-san! How dare he insult you? The insult must be avenged!”

“It will be, Kana-san, and I thank you. Yes. I give you the right. But we are here at Lord Toranaga’s order. Until he gives his approval it would not be correct for you to do this.”

Kana closed the door reluctantly. “I agree. But I formally ask that you petition Lord Toranaga before we leave.”

“Yes. Thank you for your concern over my honor.” What would Kana do if he knew all that had been said, she asked herself, appalled. What would Lord Toranaga do? Or Hiro-matsu? Or my husband? Monkeys? Oh, Madonna, give me thy help to hold myself still and keep my mind working. To ease Kana’s wrath, she quickly changed the subject. “The Anjin-san looks so helpless. Just like a baby. It seems barbarians can’t stomach wine. Just like some of our men.”

“Yes. But it’s not the wine. Can’t be. It’s what he’s eaten.”

Blackthorne moved uneasily, groping for consciousness.

“They’ve no servants on the ship, Kana-san, so I’ll have to substitute for one of the Anjin-san’s ladies.” She began to undress Blackthorne, awkwardly because of her arm.

“Here, let me help you.” Kana was very deft. “I used to do this for my father when the saké took him.”

“It’s good for a man to get drunk once in a while. It releases all the evil spirits.”

“Yes. But my father used to suffer badly the next day.”

“My husband suffers very badly. For days.”

After a moment, Kana said, “May Buddha grant that Lord Buntaro escapes.”

“Yes.” Mariko looked around the cabin. “I don’t understand how they can live in such squalor. It’s worse than the poorest of our people. I was almost fainting in the other cabin from the stench.”

“It’s revolting. I’ve never been aboard a barbarian ship before.”

“I’ve never been on the sea before.”

The door opened and the bosun set down the pail. He was shocked at Blackthorne’s nudity and jerked out a blanket from under the bunk and covered him. “He’ll catch his death. Apart from that—shameful to do that to a man, even him.”

“What?”

“Nothing. What’s your name, Donna Senhorita?” His eyes glittered.

She did not answer. She pushed the blanket aside and washed Blackthorne clean, glad for something to do, hating the cabin and the foul presence of the bosun, wondering what they were talking about in the other cabin. Is our Master safe?

When she had finished she bundled the kimono and soiled loincloth. “Can this be laundered, senhor?”

“Eh?”

“These should be cleaned at once. Could you send for a slave, please?”

“They’re a lazy bunch of black bastards, I told you. That’d take a week or more. Throw ’em away, Donna Senhorita, they’re not worth breath. Our Pilot-Captain Rodrigues said to give him proper clothes. Here.” He opened a sea locker. “He said to give him any from here.”

“I don’t know how to dress a man in those.”

“He needs a shirt ’n trousers ’n codpiece ’n socks and boots ’n sea jacket.” The bosun took them out and showed her. Then, together, she and the samurai began to dress Blackthorne, still in his half-conscious stupor.

“How does he wear this?” She held up the triangular, baglike codpiece with its attached strings.

“Madonna, he wears it in front, like this,” the bosun said, embarrassed, fingering his own. “You tie it in place over his trousers, like I told. Over his cod.”

She looked at the bosun’s, studying it. He felt her look and stirred.

She put the codpiece on Blackthorne and settled him carefully in place, and together she and the samurai put the back strings between his legs and tied the strings around his waist. To the samurai she said quietly, “This is the most ridiculous way of dressing I’ve ever seen.”

“It must be very uncomfortable,” Kana replied. “Do priests wear them, Mariko-san? Under their robes?”

“I don’t know.”

She brushed a strand of hair out of her eyes. “Senhor. Is the Anjin-san dressed correctly now?”

“Aye. Except for his boots. They’re there. They can wait.” The bosun came over to her and her nostrils clogged. He dropped his voice, keeping his back to the samurai. “You want a quickie?”

“What?”

“I fancy you, senhorita, eh? What’d you say? There’s a bunk in the next cabin. Send your friend aloft. The Ingeles’s out for an hour yet. I’ll pay the usual.”

“What?”

“You’ll earn a piece of copper—even three if you’re like a stoat, and you’ll straddle the best cock between here and Lisbon, eh? What d’you say?”

The samurai saw her horror. “What is it, Mariko-san?”

Mariko pushed past the bosun, away from the bunk. Her words stumbled. “He . . . he said . . .”

Kana drew out his sword instantly but found himself staring into the barrels of two cocked pistols. Nevertheless he began to lunge.

“Stop, Kana-san!” Mariko gasped. “Lord Toranaga forbade any attack until he ordered it!”

“Go on, monkey, come at me, you stink-pissed shithead! You! Tell this monkey to put up his sword or he’ll be a headless sonofabitch before he can fart!”

Mariko was standing within a foot of the bosun. Her right hand was still in her obi, the haft of the stiletto knife still in her palm. But she remembered her duty and took her hand away. “Kana-san, replace your sword. Please. We must obey Lord Toranaga. We must obey him.”

With a supreme effort, Kana did as he was told.

“I’ve a mind to send you to hell, Jappo!”

“Please excuse him, senhor, and me,” Mariko said, trying to sound polite. “There was a mistake, a mis—”

“That monkey-faced bastard pulled a sword. That wasn’t a mistake, by Jesus!”

“Please excuse it, senhor, so sorry.”

The bosun wet his lips. “I’ll forget it if you’re friendly, Little Flower. Into the next cabin with you, and tell this monk—tell him to stay here and I’ll forget about it.”

“What—what’s your name, senhor?”

“Pesaro. Manuel Pesaro, why?”

“Nothing. Please excuse the misunderstanding, Senhor Pesaro.”

“Get in the next cabin. Now.”

“What’s going on? What’s . . .” Blackthorne did not know if he was awake or still in a nightmare, but he felt the danger. “What’s going on, by God!”

“This stinking Jappo drew on me!”

“It was a—a mistake, Anjin-san,” Mariko said. “I—I’ve apologized to the Senhor Pesaro.”

“Mariko? Is that you—Mariko-san?”

“Hai, Anjin-san. Honto. Honto.”

She came nearer. The bosun’s pistols never wavered off Kana. She had to brush past him and it took an even greater effort not to take out her knife and gut him. At that moment the door opened. The youthful helmsman came into the cabin with a pail of water. He gawked at the pistols and fled.

“Where’s Rodrigues?” Blackthorne said, attempting to get his mind working.

“Aloft, where a good pilot should be,” the bosun said, his voice grating. “This Jappo drew on me, by God!”

“Help me up on deck.” Blackthorne grasped the bunk sides. Mariko took his arm but she could not lift him.

The bosun waved a pistol at Kana. “Tell him to help. And tell him if there’s a God in heaven he’ll be swinging from the yardarm before the turn.”

First Mate Santiago took his ear away from the secret knothole in the wall of the great cabin, the final “Well, that’s all settled then” from dell’Aqua ringing in his brain. Noiselessly he slipped across the darkened cabin, out into the corridor, and closed the door quietly. He was a tall, spare man with a lived-in face, and wore his hair in a tarred pigtail. His clothes were neat, and like most seamen, he was barefoot. In a hurry, he shinned up the companionway, ran across the main deck up onto the quarterdeck where Rodrigues was talking to Mariko. He excused himself and leaned down to put his mouth very close to Rodrigues’ ear and began to pour out all that he had heard, and had been sent to hear, so that no one else on the quarterdeck could be party to it.

Blackthorne was sitting aft on the deck, leaning against the gunwale, his head resting on his bent knees. Mariko sat straight-backed facing Rodrigues, Japanese fashion, and Kana, the samurai, bleakly beside her. Armed seamen swarmed the decks and crow’s nest aloft and two more were at the helm. The ship still pointed into the wind, the air and night clean, the nimbus stronger and rain not far off. A hundred yards away the galley lay broadside, at the mercy of their cannon, oars shipped, except for two each side which kept her in station, the slight tide taking her. The ambushing fishing ships with hostile samurai archers were closer but they were not encroaching as yet.

Mariko was watching Rodrigues and the mate. She could not hear what was being said, and even if she could, her training would have made her prefer to close her ears. Privacy in paper houses was impossible without politeness and consideration; without privacy civilized life could not exist, so all Japanese were trained to hear and not hear. For the good of all.

When she had come on deck with Blackthorne, Rodrigues had listened to the bosun’s explanation and to her halting explanation that it was her fault, that she had mistaken what the bosun had said, and that this had caused Kana to pull out his sword to protect her honor. The bosun had listened, grinning, his pistols still leveled at the samurai’s back.

“I only asked if she was the Ingeles’s doxie, by God, she being so free with washing him and sticking his privates into the cod.”

“Put up your pistols, bosun.”

“He’s dangerous, I tell you. String him up!”

“I’ll watch him. Go for’ard!”

“This monkey’d’ve killed me if I wasn’t faster. Put him on the yardarm. That’s what we’d do in Nagasaki!”

“We’re not in Nagasaki—go for’ard! Now!”

And when the bosun had gone Rodrigues had asked, “What did he say to you, senhora? Actually say?”

“It—nothing, senhor. Please.”

“I apologize for that man’s insolence to you and to the samurai. Please apologize to the samurai for me, ask his pardon. And I ask you both formally to forget the bosun’s insults. It will not help your liege lord or mine to have trouble aboard. I promise you I will deal with him in my own way in my own time.”

She had spoken to Kana and, under her persuasion, at length he had agreed.

“Kana-san says, very well, but if he ever sees the bosun Pesaro on shore he will take his head.”

“That’s fair, by God. Yes. Domo arigato, Kana-san,” Rodrigues said with a smile, “and domo arigato gozaimashita, Mariko-san.”

“You speak Japanese?”

“Oh no, just a word or two. I’ve a wife in Nagasaki.”

“Oh! You have been long in Japan?”

“This is my second tour from Lisbon. I’ve spent seven years in these waters all told—here, and back and forth to Macao and to Goa.” Rodrigues added, “Pay no attention to him—he’s eta. But Buddha said even eta have a right to life. Neh?”

“Of course,” Mariko said, the name and face branded forever into her mind.

“My wife speaks some Portuguese, nowhere near as perfectly as you. You’re Christian, of course?”

“Yes.”

“My wife’s a convert. Her father’s samurai, though a minor one. His liege lord is Lord Kiyama.”

“She is lucky to have such a husband,” Mariko said politely, but she asked herself, staggered, how could one marry and live with a barbarian? In spite of her inherent manners, she asked, “Does the lady, your wife, eat meat, like—like that in the cabin?”

“No,” Rodrigues replied with a laugh, his teeth white and fine and strong. “And in my house at Nagasaki I don’t eat meat either. At sea I do and in Europe. It’s our custom. A thousand years ago before the Buddha came it was your custom too, neh? Before Buddha lived to point the Tao, the Way, all people ate meat. Even here, senhora. Even here. Now of course, we know better, some of us, neh?”

Mariko thought about that. Then she said, “Do all Portuguese call us monkeys? And Jappos? Behind our backs?”

Rodrigues pulled at the earring he wore. “Don’t you call us barbarians? Even to our face? We’re civilized, at least we think so, senhora. In India, the land of Buddha, they call Japanese ‘Eastern Devils’ and won’t allow any to land if they’re armed. You call Indians ‘Blacks’ and nonhuman. What do the Chinese call Japanese? What do you call the Chinese? What do you call the Koreans? Garlic Eaters, neh?”

“I don’t think Lord Toranaga would be pleased. Or Lord Hiro-matsu, or even the father of your wife.”

“The Blessed Jesus said, ‘First cast the mote out of your own eye before you cast the beam out of mine.’ ”

She thought about that again now as she watched the first mate whispering urgently to the Portuguese pilot. It’s true: we sneer at other people. But then, we’re citizens of the Land of the Gods, and therefore especially chosen by the gods. We alone, of all peoples, are protected by a divine Emperor. Aren’t we, therefore, completely unique and superior to all others? And if you are Japanese and Christian? I don’t know. Oh, Madonna, give me thy understanding. This Rodrigues pilot is as strange as the English pilot. Why are they very special? Is it their training? It’s unbelievable what they do, neh? How can they sail around the earth and walk the sea as easily as we do the land? Would Rodrigues’ wife know the answer? I’d like to meet her, and talk to her.

The mate lowered his voice even more.

“He said what?” Rodrigues exclaimed with an involuntary curse and in spite of herself Mariko tried to listen. But she could not hear what the mate repeated. Then she saw them both look at Blackthorne and she followed their glance, perturbed by their concern.

“What else happened, Santiago?” Rodrigues asked guardedly, conscious of Mariko.

The mate told him in a whisper behind a cupped mouth. “How long’ll they stay below?”

“They were toasting each other. And the bargain.”

“Bastards!” Rodrigues caught the mate’s shirt. “No word of this, by God. On your life!”

“No need to say that, Pilot.”

“There’s always a need to say it.” Rodrigues glanced across at Blackthorne. “Wake him up!”

The mate went over and shook him roughly.

“Whatsamatter, eh?”

“Hit him!”

Santiago slapped him.

“Jesus Christ, I’ll . . .” Blackthorne was on his feet, his face on fire, but he swayed and fell.

“God damn you, wake up, Ingeles!” Furiously Rodrigues stabbed a finger at the two helmsmen. “Throw him overboard!”

“Eh?”

“Now, by God!”

As the two men hurriedly picked him up, Mariko said, “Pilot Rodrigues, you mustn’t—” but before she or Kana could interfere the two men had hurled Blackthorne over the side. He fell the twenty feet and belly-flopped in a cloud of spray and disappeared. In a moment he surfaced, choking and spluttering, flailing at the water, the ice-cold clearing his head.

Rodrigues was struggling out of his seachair. “Madonna, give me a hand!”

One of the helmsmen ran to help as the first mate got a hand under his armpit. “Christ Jesus, be careful, mind my foot, you clumsy dunghead!”

They helped him to the side. Blackthorne was still coughing and spluttering, but now as he swam for the side of the ship he was shouting curses at those who had cast him overboard.

“Two points starboard!” Rodrigues ordered. The ship fell off the wind slightly and eased away from Blackthorne. He shouted down, “Stay to hell off my ship!” Then urgently to his first mate, “Take the longboat, pick up the Ingeles, and put him aboard the galley. Fast. Tell him . . .” He dropped his voice.

Mariko was grateful that Blackthorne was not drowning. “Pilot! The Anjin-san’s under Lord Toranaga’s protection. I demand he be picked up at once!”

“Just a moment, Mariko-san!” Rodrigues continued to whisper to Santiago, who nodded, then scampered away. “I’m sorry, Mariko-san, gomen kudasai, but it was urgent. The Ingeles had to be woken up. I knew he could swim. He has to be alert and fast!”

“Why?”

“I’m his friend. Did he ever tell you that?”

“Yes. But England and Portugal are at war. Also Spain.”

“Yes. But pilots should be above war.”

“Then to whom do you owe duty?”

“To the flag.”

“Isn’t that to your king?”

“Yes and no, senhora. I owed the Ingeles a life.” Rodrigues was watching the longboat. “Steady as she goes—now put her into the wind,” he ordered the helmsman.

“Yes, senhor.”

He waited, checking and rechecking the wind and the shoals and the far shore. The leadsman called out the fathoms. “Sorry, senhora, you were saying?” Rodrigues looked at her momentarily, then went back once more to check the lie of his ship and the longboat. She watched the longboat too. The men had hauled Blackthorne out of the sea and were pulling hard for the galley, sitting instead of standing and pushing the oars. She could no longer see their faces clearly. Now the Anjin-san was blurred with the other man close beside him, the man that Rodrigues had whispered to. “What did you say to him, senhor?”

“Who?”

“Him. The senhor you sent after the Anjin-san.”

“Just to wish the Ingeles well and Godspeed.” The reply was flat and noncommittal.

She translated to Kana what had been said.

When Rodrigues saw the longboat alongside the galley he began to breathe again. “Hail Mary, Mother of God . . .”

The Captain-General and the Jesuits came up from below. Toranaga and his guards followed.

“Rodrigues! Launch the longboat! The Fathers are going ashore,” Ferriera said.

“And then?”

“And then we put to sea. For Yedo.”

“Why there? We were sailing for Macao,” Rodrigues replied, the picture of innocence.

“We’re taking Toranaga home to Yedo. First.”

“We’re what? But what about the galley?”

“She stays or she fights her way out.”

Rodrigues seemed to be even more surprised and looked at the galley, then at Mariko. He saw the accusation written in her eyes.

“Matsu,” the pilot told her quietly.

“What?” Father Alvito asked. “Patience? Why patience, Rodrigues?”

“Saying Hail Marys, Father. I was saying to the lady it teaches you patience.”

Ferriera was staring at the galley. “What’s our longboat doing there?”

“I sent the heretic back aboard.”

“You what?”

“I sent the Ingeles back aboard. What’s the problem, Captain-General? The Ingeles offended me so I threw the bugger overboard. I’d have let him drown but he could swim so I sent the mate to pick him up and put him back aboard his ship as he seemed to be in Lord Toranaga’s favor. What’s wrong?”

“Fetch him back aboard.”

“I’ll have to send an armed boarding party, Captain-General. Is that what you want? He was cursing and heaping hellfire on us. He won’t come back willingly this time.”

“I want him back aboard.”

“What’s the problem? Didn’t you say the galley’s to stay and fight or whatever? So what? So the Ingeles is hip-deep in shit. Good. Who needs the bugger, anyway? Surely the Fathers’d prefer him out of their sight. Eh, Father?”

Dell’Aqua did not reply. Nor did Alvito. This disrupted the plan that Ferriera had formulated and had been accepted by them and by Toranaga: that the priests would go ashore at once to smooth over Ishido, Kiyama, and Onoshi, professing that they had believed Toranaga’s story about the pirates and did not know that he had “escaped” from the castle. Meanwhile the frigate would charge for the harbor mouth, leaving the galley to draw off the fishing boats. If there was an overt attack on the frigate, it would be beaten off with cannon, and the die cast.

“But the boats shouldn’t attack us,” Ferriera had reasoned. “They have the galley to catch. It will be your responsibility, Eminence, to persuade Ishido that we had no other choice. After all, Toranaga is President of the Regents. Finally, the heretic stays aboard.”

Neither of the priests had asked why. Nor had Ferriera volunteered his reason.

The Visitor put a gentle hand on the Captain-General and turned his back on the galley. “Perhaps it’s just as well the heretic’s there,” he said, and he thought, how strange are the ways of God.

No, Ferriera wanted to scream. I wanted to see him drown. A man overboard in the early dawn at sea—no trace, no witnesses, so easy. Toranaga would never be the wiser; a tragic accident, as far as he was concerned. And it was the fate Blackthorne deserved. The Captain-General also knew the horror of sea death to a pilot.

“Nan ja?” Toranaga asked.

Father Alvito explained that the pilot was on the galley and why. Toranaga turned to Mariko, who nodded and added what Rodrigues had said previously.

Toranaga went to the side of the ship and gazed into the darkness. More fishing boats were being launched from the north shore and the others would soon be in place. He knew that the Anjin-san was a political embarrassment and this was a simple way the gods had given him if he desired to be rid of the Anjin-san. Do I want that? Certainly the Christian priests will be vastly happier if the Anjin-san vanishes, he thought. And also Onoshi and Kiyama, who feared the man so much that either or both had mounted the assassination attempts. Why such fear?

It’s karma that the Anjin-san is on the galley now and not safely here. Neh? So the Anjin-san will drown with the ship, along with Yabu and the others and the guns, and that is also karma. The guns I can lose, Yabu I can lose. But the Anjin-san?

Yes.

Because I still have eight more of these strange barbarians in reserve. Perhaps their collective knowledge will equal or exceed that of this single man. The important thing is to be back in Yedo as quickly as possible to prepare for the war, which cannot be avoided. Kiyama and Onoshi? Who knows if they’ll support me. Perhaps they will, perhaps not. But a plot of land and some promises are nothing in the balance if the Christian weight is on my side in forty days.

“It’s karma, Tsukku-san. Neh?”

“Yes, Sire.” Alvito glanced at the Captain-General, very satisfied. “Lord Toranaga suggests that nothing is done. It’s the will of God.”

“Is it?”

The drum on the galley began abruptly. The oars bit into the water with great strength.

“What, in the name of Christ, is he doing?” Ferriera bellowed.

And then, as they watched the galley pulling away from them, Toranaga’s pennant came fluttering down from the masthead.

Rodrigues said, “Looks like they’re telling every God-cursed fishing boat in the harbor that Lord Toranaga’s no longer aboard.”

“What’s he going to do?”

“I don’t know.”

“Don’t you?” Ferriera asked.

“No. But if I was him I’d head for sea and leave us in the cesspit—or try to. The Ingeles has put the finger on us now. What’s it to be?”

“You’re ordered to Yedo.” The Captain-General wanted to add, if you ram the galley all the better, but he didn’t. Because Mariko was listening.

The priests thankfully went ashore in the longboat.

“All sails ho!” Rodrigues shouted, his leg paining and throbbing. “Sou’ by sou’west! All hands lay to!”

“Senhora, please tell Lord Toranaga he’d best go below. It’ll be safer,” Ferriera said.

“He thanks you and says he will stay here.”

Ferriera shrugged, went to the edge of the quarterdeck. “Prime all cannon. Load grape! Action stations!”

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

“Isogi!” Blackthorne shouted, urging the oarsmaster to increase the beat. He looked aft at the frigate that was bearing down on them, close-hauled now under full sail, then for’ard again, estimating the next tack that she must use. He wondered if he had judged right, for there was very little sea room here near the cliffs, barely a few yards between disaster and success. Because of the wind, the frigate had to tack to make the harbor mouth, while the galley could maneuver at its whim. But the frigate had the advantage of speed. And on the last tack Rodrigues had made it clear that the galley had better stay out of the way when the Santa Theresa needed sea room.

Yabu was chattering at him again but he paid no heed. “Don’t understand—wakarimasen, Yabu-san! Listen, Toranaga-sama said, me, Anjin-san, ichiban ima! I’m chief Captain-san now! Wakarimasu ka, Yabu-san?” He pointed the course on the compass to the Japanese captain, who gesticulated at the frigate, barely fifty yards aft now, overtaking them rapidly on another collision path.

“Hold your course, by God!” Blackthorne said, the breeze cooling his seasodden clothes, which chilled him but helped to clear his head. He checked the sky. No clouds were near the bright moon and the wind was fair. No danger there, he thought. God keep the moon bright till we’re through.

“Hey, Captain!” he called out in English, knowing it made no difference if he spoke English or Portuguese or Dutch or Latin because he was alone. “Send someone for saké! Saké! Wakarimasu ka?”

“Hai, Anjin-san.”

A seaman was sent scurrying. As the man ran he looked over his shoulder, frightened by the size of the approaching frigate and her speed. Blackthorne held their course, trying to force the frigate to turn before she had gained all space to windward. But she never wavered and came directly at him. At the last second he swung out of her way and then, when her bowsprit was almost over their aft deck, he heard Rodrigues’ order, “Bear on the larboard tack! Let go stays’ls, and steady as she goes!” Then a shout at him in Spanish, “Thy mouth in the devil’s arse, Ingeles!”

“Thy mother was there first, Rodrigues!”

Then the frigate peeled off the wind to scud now for the far shore, where she would have to turn again to reach into the wind and tack for this side once more before she could turn a last time again and make for the harbor mouth.

For an instant the ships were so close that he could almost touch her, Rodrigues, Toranaga, Mariko, and the Captain-General swaying on the quarterdeck. Then the frigate was away and they were twisting in her wash.

“Isogi, isogi, by God!”

The rowers redoubled their efforts and with signs Blackthorne ordered more men on the oars until there were no reserves. He had to get to the mouth before the frigate or they were lost.

The galley was eating up the distance. But so was the frigate. At the far side of the harbor she spun like a dancer and he saw that Rodrigues had added tops’ls and topgallants.

“He’s as canny a bastard as any Portuguese born!”

The saké arrived but it was taken out of the seaman’s hands by the young woman who had helped Mariko and offered precariously to him. She had stayed gamely on deck, even though clearly out of her element. Her hands were strong, her hair well groomed, and her kimono rich, in good taste and neat. The galley lurched in the chop. The girl reeled and dropped the cup. Her face did not change but he saw the flush of shame.

“Por nada,” he said as she groped for it. “It doesn’t matter. Namae ka?”

“Usagi Fujiko, Anjin-san.”

“Fujiko-san. Here, give it to me. Dozo.” He held out his hand and took the flask and drank directly from it, gulping the wine, eager to have its heat inside his body. He concentrated on the new course, skirting the shoals that Santiago, on Rodrigues’ orders, had told him about. He rechecked the bearing from the headland that gave them a clean, hazardless run to the mouth while he finished the warmed wine, wondering in passing how it had been warmed, and why they always served it warm and in small quantities.

His head was clear now, and he felt strong enough, if he was careful. But he knew he had no reserves to draw upon, just as the ship had no reserves.

“Saké, dozo, Fujiko-san.” He handed her the flask and forgot her.

On the windward tack the frigate made way too well and she passed a hundred yards ahead of them, bearing for the shore. He heard obscenities coming down on the wind and did not bother to reply, conserving his energy.

“Isogi, by God! We’re losing!”

The excitement of the race and of being alone again and in command—more by the strength of his will than by position—added to the rare privilege of having Yabu in his power, filled him with unholy glee. “If it wasn’t that the ship’d go down and me with her, I’d put her on the rocks just to see you drown, shit-face Yabu! For old Pieterzoon!”

But didn’t Yabu save Rodrigues when you couldn’t? Didn’t he charge the bandits when you were ambushed? And he was brave tonight. Yes, he’s a shit-face, but even so he’s a brave shit-face and that’s the truth.

The flask of saké was offered again. “Domo,” he said.

The frigate was keeled over, close-hauled and greatly pleasing to him. “I couldn’t do better,” he said aloud to the wind. “But if I had her, I’d go through the boats and out to sea and never come back. I’d sail her home, somehow, and leave the Japans to the Japanese and to the pestilential Portuguese.” He saw Yabu and the captain staring at him. “I wouldn’t really, not yet. There’s a Black Ship to catch and plunder to be had. And revenge, eh, Yabu-san?”

“Nan desu ka, Anjin-san? Nan ja?”

“Ichi-ban! Number one!” he replied, waving at the frigate. He drained the flask. Fujiko took it from him.

“Saké, Anjin-san?”

“Domo, iyé!”

The two ships were very near the massed fishing boats now, the galley heading straight for the pass that had been deliberately left between them, the frigate on the last reach and turning for the harbor mouth. Here the wind freshened as the protecting headlands fell away, open sea half a mile ahead. Gusts billowed the frigate’s sails, the shrouds crackling like pistol shots, froth now at her bow and in her wake.

The rowers were bathed with sweat and flagging. One man dropped. And another. The fifty-odd ronin-samurai were already in position. Ahead, archers in the fishing boats either side of the narrow channel were arming their bows. Blackthorne saw small braziers in many of the boats and he knew that the arrows would be fire arrows when they came.

He had prepared for battle as best he could. Yabu had understood that they would have to fight, and had understood fire arrows immediately. Blackthorne had erected protective wooden bulkheads around the helm. He had broken open some of the crates of muskets and had set those who could to arming them with powder and with shot. And he had brought several small kegs of powder up onto the quarterdeck and fused them.

When Santiago, the first mate, had helped him aboard the longboat, he had told him that Rodrigues was going to help, with God’s good grace.

“Why?” he had asked.

“My Pilot says to tell you that he had you thrown overboard to sober you up, senhor.”

“Why?”

“Because, he said to tell you, Senhor Pilot, because there was danger aboard the Santa Theresa, danger for you.”

“What danger?”

“You are to fight your own way out, he tells you, if you can. But he will help.”

“Why?”

“For the Madonna’s sweet sake, hold your heretic tongue and listen, I’ve little time.”

Then the mate had told him about the shoals and the bearings and the way of the channel and the plan. And given him two pistols. “How good a shot are you, my Pilot asks.”

“Poor,” he had lied.

“Go with God, my Pilot said to tell you finally.”

“And him—and you.”

“For me I assign thee to hell!”

“Thy sister!”

Blackthorne had fused the kegs in case the cannon began and there was no plan, or if the plan proved false, and also against encroaching hostiles. Even such a little keg, the fuse alight, floated against the side of the frigate would sink her as surely as a seventy-gun broadside. It doesn’t matter how small the keg, he thought, providing it guts her.

“Isogi for your lives!” he called out and took the helm, thanking God for Rodrigues and the brightness of the moon.

Here at the mouth the harbor narrowed to four hundred yards. Deep water was almost shore to shore, the rock headlands rising sharp from the sea.

The space between the ambushing fishing boats was a hundred yards.

The Santa Theresa had the bit between her teeth now, the wind abaft the beam to starboard, strong wake aft, and she was gaining on them fast. Blackthorne held the center of the channel and signed to Yabu to be ready. All their ronin-samurai had been ordered to squat below the gunwales, unseen, until Blackthorne gave the signal, when it was every man—with musket or sword—to port or to starboard, wherever they were needed, Yabu commanding the fight. The Japanese captain knew that his oarsmen were to follow the drum and the drum master knew that he had to obey the Anjin-san. And the Anjin-san alone was to guide the ship.

The frigate was fifty yards astern, in mid-channel, heading directly for them, and making it obvious that she required the mid-channel path.

Aboard the frigate, Ferriera breathed softly to Rodrigues, “Ram him.” His eyes were on Mariko, who stood ten paces off, near the railings, with Toranaga.

“We daren’t—not with Toranaga there and the girl.”

“Senhora!” Ferriera called out. “Senhora—better to get below, you and your master. It’d be safer for him on the gundeck.”

Mariko translated to Toranaga, who thought a moment, then walked down the companionway onto the gundeck.

“God damn my eyes,” the chief gunner said to no one in particular. “I’d like to fire a broadside and sink something. It’s a God-cursed year since we sunk even a poxed pirate.”

“Aye. The monkeys deserve a bath.”

On the quarterdeck Ferriera repeated, “Ram the galley, Rodrigues!”

“Why kill your enemy when others’re doing it for you?”

“Madonna! You’re as bad as the priest! Thou hast no blood in thee!”

“Yes, I have none of the killing blood,” Rodrigues replied, also in Spanish. “But thou? Thou hast it. Eh? And Spanish blood perhaps?”

“Are you going to ram him or not?” Ferriera asked in Portuguese, the nearness of the kill possessing him.

“If she stays where she is, yes.”

“Then, Madonna, let her stay where she is.”

“What had you in mind for the Ingeles? Why were you so angry he wasn’t aboard us?”

“I do not like you or trust you now, Rodrigues. Twice you’ve sided, or seemed to side, with the heretic against me, or us. If there was another acceptable pilot in all Asia, I would beach you, Rodrigues, and I would sail off with my Black Ship.”

“Then you will drown. There’s a smell of death over you and only I can protect you.”

Ferriera crossed himself superstitiously. “Madonna, thou and thy filthy tongue! What right hast thou to say that?”

“My mother was a gypsy and she the seventh child of a seventh child, as I am.”

“Liar!”

Rodrigues smiled. “Ah, my Lord Captain-General, perhaps I am.” He cupped his hands and shouted, “Action stations!” and then to the helmsman, “Steady as she goes, and if that belly-gutter whore doesn’t move, sink her!”

Blackthorne held the wheel firmly, arms aching, legs aching. The oarsmaster was pounding the drum, the oarsmen making a final effort.

Now the frigate was twenty yards astern, now fifteen, now ten. Then Blackthorne swung hard to port. The frigate almost brushed them, heeled over toward them, and then she was alongside. Blackthorne swung hard astarboard to come parallel to the frigate, ten yards from her. Then, together—side by side—they were ready to run the gauntlet between the hostiles.

“Puuuull, pull, you bastards!” Blackthorne shouted, wanting to stay exactly alongside, because only here were they guarded by the frigate’s bulk and by her sails. Some musket shots, then a salvo of burning arrows slashed at them, doing no real damage, but several by mistake struck the frigate’s lower sails and fire broke out.

All the commanding samurai in the boats stopped their archers in horror. No one had ever attacked a Southern Barbarian ship before. Don’t they alone bring the silks which make every summer’s humid heat bearable, and every winter’s cold bearable, and every spring and fall a joy? Aren’t the Southern Barbarians protected by Imperial decrees? Wouldn’t burning one of their ships infuriate them so much that they would, rightly, never come back again?

So the commanders held their men in check while Toranaga’s galley was under the frigate’s wing, not daring to risk the merest chance that one of them would be the cause of the cessation of the Black Ships without General Ishido’s direct approval. And only when seamen on the frigate had doused the flames did they breathe easier.

When the arrows stopped, Blackthorne also began to relax. And Rodrigues. The plan was working. Rodrigues had surmised that under his lee the galley had a chance, its only chance. “But my Pilot says you must prepare for the unexpected, Ingeles,” Santiago had reported.

“Shove that bastard aside,” Ferriera said, “God damn it, I ordered you to shove him into the monkeys!”

“Five points to port!” Rodrigues ordered obligingly.

“Five points aport it is!” the helmsman echoed.

Blackthorne heard the command. Instantly he steered port five degrees and prayed. If Rodrigues held the course too long they would smash into the fishing boats and he lost. If he slackened the beat and fell behind, he knew the enemy boats would swamp him whether they believed Toranaga was aboard or not. He must stay alongside.

“Five points starboard!” Rodrigues ordered, just in time. He wanted no more fire arrows either; there was too much powder on deck. “Come on, you pimp,” he muttered to the wind. “Put your cojones in my sails and get us to hell out of here.”

Again Blackthorne had swung five points starboard to maintain station with the frigate and the two ships raced side by side, the galley’s starboard oars almost touching the frigate, the port oars almost swamping the fishing boats. Now the captain understood, and so did the oarsmaster and the rowers. They put their final strength into the oars. Yabu shouted a command and the ronin-samurai put down their bows and rushed to help and Yabu pitched in also.

Neck and neck. Only a few hundred yards to go.

Then Grays on some of the fishing boats, more intrepid than the others, sculled forward into their path and threw grappling hooks. The prow of the galley swamped the boats. The grappling hooks were cast overboard before they caught. The samurai holding them were drowned. And the stroke did not falter.

“Go more to port!”

“I daren’t, Captain-General. Toranaga’s no fool and look, there’s a reef ahead!”

Ferriera saw the spines near the last of the fishing boats. “Madonna, drive him onto it!”

“Two points port!”

Again the frigate swung over and so did Blackthorne. Both ships aimed for the massed fishing boats. Blackthorne had also seen the rocks. Another boat was swamped and a salvo of arrows came aboard. He held his course as long as he dared, then shouted, “Five points starboard!” to warn Rodrigues, and swung the helm over.

Rodrigues took evasive action and fell away. But this time he held a slight collision course which was not part of the plan.

“Go on, you bastard,” Rodrigues said, whipped by the chase and by dread. “Let’s weigh your cojones.”

Blackthorne had to choose instantly between the spines and the frigate. He blessed the rowers, who still stayed at their oars, and the crew and all aboard who, through their discipline, gave him the privilege of choice. And he chose.

He swung further to starboard, pulled out his pistol and aimed it. “Make way, by God!” he shouted and pulled the trigger. The ball whined over the frigate’s quarterdeck just between the Captain-General and Rodrigues.

As the Captain-General ducked, Rodrigues winced. Thou Ingeles son of a milkless whore! Was that luck or good shooting or did you aim to kill?

He saw the second pistol in Blackthorne’s hand, and Toranaga staring at him. He dismissed Toranaga as unimportant.

Blessed Mother of God, what should I do? Stick with the plan or change it? Isn’t it better to kill this Ingeles? For the good of all? Tell me, yes or no!

Answer thyself, Rodrigues, on thy eternal soul! Art thou not a man?

Listen then: Other heretics will follow this Ingeles now, like lice, whether this one is killed or not killed. I owe him a life and I swear I do not have the killing blood in me—not to kill a pilot.

“Starboard your helm,” he ordered and gave way.

“My Master asks why did you almost smash into the galley?”

“It was just a game, senhora, a game pilots play. To test the other’s nerves.”

“And the pistol shot?”

“Equally a game—to test my nerve. The rocks were too close and perhaps I was pushing the Ingeles too much. We are friends, no?”

“My Master says it is foolish to play such games.”

“Please give him my apologies. The important thing is that he is safe and now the galley is safe and therefore I am glad. Honto.”

“You arranged this escape, this ruse, with the Anjin-san?”

“It happened that he is very clever and was perfect in his timing. The moon lit his way, the sea favored him, and no one made a mistake. But why the hostiles didn’t swamp him, I don’t know. It was the will of God.”

“Was it?” Ferriera said. He was staring at the galley astern of them and he did not turn around.

They were well beyond the harbor mouth now, safely out into the Osaka Roads, the galley a few cables aft, neither ship hurrying. Most of the galley’s oars had been shipped temporarily, leaving only enough to make way calmly while the majority of the oarsmen recuperated.

Rodrigues paid Captain-General Ferriera no heed. He was absorbed instead with Toranaga. I’m glad we’re on Toranaga’s side, Rodrigues told himself. During the race, he had studied him carefully, glad for the rare opportunity. The man’s eyes had been everywhere, watching gunners and guns and the sails and the fire party with an insatiable curiosity, asking questions, through Mariko, of the seamen or the mate: What’s this for? How do you load a cannon? How much powder? How do you fire them? What are these ropes for?

“My Master says, perhaps it was just karma. You understand karma, Captain-Pilot?”

“Yes.”

“He thanks you for the use of your ship. Now he will go back to his own.”

“What?” Ferriera turned around at once. “We’ll be in Yedo long before the galley. Lord Toranaga’s welcome to stay aboard.”

“My Master says, there’s no need to trouble you anymore. He will go onto his own ship.”

“Please ask him to stay. I would enjoy his company.”

“Lord Toranaga thanks you but he wishes to go at once to his own ship.”

“Very well. Do as he says, Rodrigues. Signal her and lower the longboat.” Ferriera was disappointed. He had wanted to see Yedo and wanted to get to know Toranaga better now that so much of their future was tied to him. He did not believe what Toranaga had said about the means of avoiding war. We’re at war on this monkey’s side against Ishido whether we like it or not. And I don’t like it. “I’ll be sorry not to have Lord Toranaga’s company.” He bowed politely.

Toranaga bowed back, and spoke briefly.

“My Master thanks you.” To Rodrigues, she added, “My Master says he will reward you for the galley when you return with the Black Ship.”

“I did nothing. It was merely a duty. Please excuse me for not getting up from my chair—my leg, neh?” Rodrigues replied, bowing. “Go with God, senhora.”

“Thank you, Captain-Pilot. Do thou likewise.”

As she groped wearily down the companionway behind Toranaga, she noticed that the bosun Pesaro was commanding the longboat. Her skin crawled and she almost heaved. She willed the spasm away, thankful that Toranaga had ordered them all off this malodorous vessel.

“A fair wind and safe voyage,” Ferriera called down to them. He waved once and the salutation was returned and then the longboat cast off.

“Stand down when the longboat’s back and that bitch galley’s out of sight,” he ordered the chief gunner.

On the quarterdeck he stopped in front of Rodrigues. He pointed at the galley. “You’ll live to regret keeping him alive.”

“That’s in the hands of God. The Ingeles is an ‘acceptable’ pilot, if you could pass over his religion, my Captain-General.”

“I’ve considered that.”

“And?”

“The sooner we’re in Macao the better. Make record time, Rodrigues.” Ferriera went below.

Rodrigues’ leg was throbbing badly. He took a swig from the grog sack. May Ferriera go to hell, he told himself. But, please God, not until we reach Lisbon.

The wind veered slightly and a cloud reached for the nimbus of the moon, rain not far off and dawn streaking the sky. He put his full attention on his ship and her sails and the lie of her. When he was completely satisfied, he watched the longboat. And finally the galley.

He sipped more rum, content that his plan had worked so neatly. Even the pistol shot that had closed the issue. And content with his decision.

It was mine to make and I made it.

“Even so, Ingeles,” he said with a great sadness, “the Captain-General’s right. With thee, heresy has come to Eden.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

“Anjin-san?”

“Hai?” Blackthorne swooped out of a deep sleep.

“Here’s some food. And cha.”

For a moment he could not remember who he was or where he was. Then he recognized his cabin aboard the galley. A shaft of sunlight was piercing the darkness. He felt greatly rested. There was no drumbeat now and even in his deepest sleep, his senses had told him that the anchor was being lowered and his ship was safe, near shore, the sea gentle.

He saw a maid carrying a tray, Mariko beside her—her arm no longer in a sling—and he was lying in the pilot’s bunk, the same that he had used during the Rodrigues voyage from Anjiro village to Osaka and that was now, in a way, almost as familiar as his own bunk and cabin aboard Erasmus. Erasmus! It’ll be grand to be back aboard and to see the lads again.

He stretched luxuriously, then took the cup of cha Mariko offered.

“Thank you. That’s delicious. How’s your arm?”

“Much better, thank you.” Mariko flexed it to show him. “It was just a flesh wound.”

“You’re looking better, Mariko-san.”

“Yes, I’m better now.”

When she had come back aboard at dawn with Toranaga she had been near fainting. “Better to stay aloft,” he had told her. “The sickness will leave you faster.”

“My Master asks—asks why the pistol shot?”

“It was just a game pilots play,” he had told her.

“My Master compliments you on your seamanship.”

“We were lucky. The moon helped. And the crew were marvelous. Mariko-san, would you ask the Captain-san if he knows these waters? Sorry, but tell Toranaga-sama I can’t keep awake much longer. Or can we hove to for an hour or so out to sea? I’ve got to sleep.”

He vaguely remembered her telling him that Toranaga said he could go below, that the Captain-san was quite capable as they would be staying in coastal waters and not going out to sea.

Blackthorne stretched again and opened a cabin porthole. A rocky shore was two hundred-odd yards away. “Where are we?”

“Off the coast of Totomi Province, Anjin-san. Lord Toranaga wanted to swim and to rest the oarsmen for a few hours. We’ll be at Anjiro tomorrow.”

“The fishing village? That’s impossible. It’s near noon and at dawn we were off Osaka. It’s impossible!”

“Ah, that was yesterday, Anjin-san. You’ve slept a day and a night and half another day,” she replied. “Lord Toranaga said to let you sleep. Now he thinks a swim would be good to wake you up. After food.”

Food was two bowls of rice and charcoal-roasted fish with the dark, saltbitter, vinegar-sweet sauce that she had told him was made from fermented beans.

“Thank you—yes, I’d like a swim. Almost thirty-six hours? No wonder I feel fine.” He took the tray from the maid, ravenous. But he did not eat at once. “Why is she afraid?” he asked.

“She’s not, Anjin-san. Just a little nervous. Please excuse her. She’s never seen a foreigner close to before.”

“Tell her when the moon’s full, barbarians sprout horns and fire comes out of our mouths like dragons.”

Mariko laughed. “I certainly will not.” She pointed to the sea table. “There is tooth powder and a brush and water and fresh towels.” Then said in Latin, “It pleasures me to see thou art well. It is as was related on the march, thou hast great bravery.”

Their eyes locked and then the moment was allowed to pass. She bowed politely. The maid bowed. The door closed behind them.

Don’t think about her, he ordered himself. Think about Toranaga or Anjiro. Why do we stop at Anjiro tomorrow? To off-load Yabu? Good riddance!

Omi will be at Anjiro. What about Omi?

Why not ask Toranaga for Omi’s head? He owes you a favor or two. Or why not ask to fight Omi-san. How? With pistols or with swords? You’d have no chance with a sword and it’d be murder if you had a gun. Better to do nothing and wait. You’ll have a chance soon and then you’ll be revenged on both of them. You bask in Toranaga’s favor now. Be patient. Ask yourself what you need from him. Soon we’ll be in Yedo, so you’ve not much time. What about Toranaga?

Blackthorne was using the chopsticks as he had seen the men in the prison use them, lifting the bowl of rice to his lips and pushing the tacky rice from the lip of the bowl into his mouth with the sticks. The pieces of fish were more difficult. He was still not deft enough, so he used his fingers, glad to eat alone, knowing that to eat with his fingers would be very impolite in front of Mariko or Toranaga or any Japanese.

When every morsel was gone he was still famished.

“Got to get more food,” he said aloud. “Jesus God in heaven, I’d like some fresh bread and fried eggs and butter and cheese. . . .”

He came on deck. Almost everyone was naked. Some of the men were drying themselves, others sunbathing, and a few were leaping overboard. In the sea alongside the ship, samurai and seamen were swimming or splashing as children would.

“Konnichi wa, Anjin-san.”

“Konnichi wa, Toranaga-sama,” he said.

Toranaga, quite naked, was coming up the gangway that had been let down to the sea. “Sonata wa oyogitamo ka?” he said, motioning at the sea, slapping the water off his belly and his shoulders, warm under the bright sun.

“Hai, Toranaga-sama, domo,” Blackthorne said, presuming that he was being asked if he wanted to swim.

Again Toranaga pointed at the sea and spoke shortly, then called Mariko to interpret. Mariko walked down from the poopdeck, shielding her head with a crimson sunshade, her informal white cotton kimono casually belted.

“Toranaga-sama says you look very rested, Anjin-san. The water’s invigoration.”

“Invigorating,” he said, correcting her politely. “Yes.”

“Ah, thank you—invigorating. He says please swim then.”

Toranaga was leaning carelessly against the gunwale, wiping the water out of his ears with a small towel, and when his left ear would not clear, he hung his head over and hopped on his left heel until it did. Blackthorne saw that Toranaga was very muscular and very taut, apart from his belly. Ill at ease, very conscious of Mariko, he stripped off his shirt and his codpiece and trousers until he was equally naked.

“Lord Toranaga asks if all Englishmen are as hairy as you? The hair so fair?”

“Some are,” he said.

“We—our men don’t have hair on their chests or arms like you do. Not very much. He says you’ve a very good build.”

“So has he. Please thank him.” Blackthorne walked away from her to the head of the gangplank, aware of her and the young woman, Fujiko, who was kneeling on the poop under a yellow parasol, a maid beside her, also watching him. Then, unable to contain his dignity enough to walk naked all the way down to the sea, he dived over the side into the pale blue water. It was a fine dive and the sea chill reached into him exhilaratingly. The sandy bottom was three fathoms down, seaweed waving, multitudes of fish unfrightened by the swimmers. Near the seabed his plummeting stopped and he twisted and played with the fish, then surfaced and began a seemingly lazy, easy, but very fast overarm stroke for the shore that Alban Caradoc had taught him.

The small bay was desolate: many rocks, a tiny pebbled shore, and no sign of life. Mountains climbed a thousand feet to a blue, measureless sky.

He lay on a rock sunning himself. Four samurai had swum with him and were not far away. They smiled and waved. Later he swam back, and they followed. Toranaga was still watching him.

He came up on deck. His clothes were gone. Fujiko and Mariko and two maids were still there. One of the maids bowed and offered him a ridiculously small towel, which he took and began to dry himself with, turning uneasily into the gunwale.

I order you to be at ease, he told himself. You’re at ease naked in a locked room with Felicity, aren’t you? It’s only in public when women are around—when she’s around—that you’re embarrassed. Why? They don’t notice nakedness and that’s totally sensible. You’re in Japan. You’re to do as they do. You will be like them and act like a king.

“Lord Toranaga says you swim very well. Would you teach him that stroke?” Mariko was saying.

“I’d be glad to,” he said and forced himself to turn around and lean as Toranaga was leaning. Mariko was smiling up at him—looking so pretty, he thought.

“The way you dived into the sea. We’ve—we’ve never seen that before. We always jump. He wants to learn how to do that.”

“Now?”

“Yes, please.”

“I can teach him—at least, I can try.”

A maid was holding a cotton kimono for Blackthorne so, gratefully, he slipped it on, tying it with the belt. Now, completely relaxed, he explained how to dive, how to tuck your head between your arms and spring up and out but to beware of belly flopping.

“It’s best to start from the foot of the gangway and sort of fall in head first to begin with, without jumping or running. That’s the way we teach children.”

Toranaga listened and asked questions and then, when he was satisfied, he said through Mariko, “Good. I think I understand.” He walked to the head of the gangway. Before Blackthorne could stop him, Toranaga had launched himself toward the water, fifteen feet below. The belly flop was vicious. No one laughed. Toranaga spluttered back to the deck and tried again. Again he landed flat. Other samurai were equally unsuccessful.

“It’s not easy,” Blackthorne said. “It took me a long time to learn. Give it a rest and we’ll try again tomorrow.”

“Lord Toranaga says, ‘Tomorrow is tomorrow. Today I will learn how to dive.’ ”

Blackthorne put his kimono aside and demonstrated again. Samurai aped him. Again they failed. So did Toranaga. Six times.

After another demonstration dive Blackthorne scrambled onto the foot of the gangplank and saw Mariko among them, nude, readying to launch herself into space. Her body was exquisite, the bandage on her upper arm fresh. “Wait, Mariko-san! Better to try from here. The first time.”

“Very well, Anjin-san.”

She walked down to him, the tiny crucifix enhancing her nudity. He showed her how to bend and to fall forward into the sea, catching her by the waist to turn her over so that her head went in first.

Then Toranaga tried near the waterline and was moderately successful. Mariko tried again and the touch of her skin warmed Blackthorne and he clowned momentarily and fell into the water, directing them from there until he had cooled off. Then he ran up to the deck and stood on the gunwale and showed them a deadman’s dive, which he thought might be easier, knowing that it was vital for Toranaga to succeed. “But you’ve got to keep rigid, hai? Like a sword. Then you cannot fail.” He fell outward. The dive was clean and he trod water and waited.

Several samurai came forward but Toranaga waved them aside. He held up his arms stiffly, his backbone straight. His chest and loins were scarlet from the belly flops. Then he let himself fall forward as Blackthorne had shown. His head went into the water first and his legs tumbled over him, but it was a dive and the first successful dive of any of them and a roar of approval greeted him when he surfaced. He did it again, this time better. Other men followed, some successful, others not. Then Mariko tried.

Blackthorne saw the taut little breasts and tiny waist, flat stomach and curving legs. A flicker of pain went across her face as she lifted her arms above her head. But she held herself like an arrow and fell bravely outward. She speared the water cleanly. Almost no one except him noticed.

“That was a fine dive. Really fine,” he said, giving her a hand to lift her easily out of the water onto the gangway platform. “You should stop now. You might open up the cut on your arm.”

“Yes, thank you, Anjin-san.” She stood beside him, barely reaching his shoulder, very pleased with herself. “That’s a rare sensation, the falling outward and the having to stay stiff, and most of all, the having to dominate your fear. Yes, that was a very rare sensation indeed.” She walked up the companionway and put on the kimono that the maid held out for her. Then, drying her face delicately, she went below.

Christ Jesus, that’s much woman, he thought.

That sunset Toranaga sent for Blackthorne. He was sitting on the poopdeck on clean futons near a small charcoal brazier upon which small pieces of aromatic wood were smoking. They were used to perfume the air and keep away the dusk gnats and mosquitoes. His kimono was pressed and neat, and the huge, winglike shoulders of the starched overmantle gave him a formidable presence. Yabu, too, was formally dressed, and Mariko. Fujiko was also there. Twenty samurai sat silently on guard. Flares were set into stands and the galley still swung calmly at anchor in the bay.

“Saké, Anjin-san?”

“Domo, Toranaga-sama.” Blackthorne bowed and accepted the small cup from Fujiko, lifted it in toast to Toranaga and drained it. The cup was immediately refilled. Blackthorne was wearing a Brown uniform kimono and it felt easier and freer than his own clothes.

“Lord Toranaga says we’re staying here tonight. Tomorrow we arrive at Anjiro. He would like to hear more about your country and the world outside.”

“Of course. What would he like to know? It’s a lovely night, isn’t it?” Blackthorne settled himself comfortably, aware of her femininity. Too aware. Strange, I’m more conscious of her now that she’s clothed than when she wore nothing.

“Yes, very. Soon it will be humid, Anjin-san. Summer is not a good time.” She told Toranaga what she had said. “My Master says to tell you that Yedo is marshy. The mosquitoes are bad in summer, but spring and autumn are beautiful—yes, truly the birth and the dying seasons of the year are beautiful.”

“England’s temperate. The winter’s bad perhaps one winter in seven. And the summer also. Famine about once in six years, though sometimes we get two bad years in a row.”

“We have famine too. All famine is bad. How is it in your country now?”

“We’ve had bad harvests three times in the last ten years and no sun to ripen the corn. But that’s the Hand of the Almighty. Now England’s very strong. We’re prosperous. Our people work hard. We make all our own cloth, all arms—most of the woolen cloth of Europe. A few silks come from France but the quality’s poor and they’re only for the very rich.”

Blackthorne decided not to tell them about plague or the riots or insurrections caused by enclosing the common lands, and the drift of peasants to towns and to cities. Instead he told them about the good kings and queens, sound leaders and wise parliaments and successful wars.

“Lord Toranaga wants to be quite clear. You claim only sea power protects you from Spain and Portugal?”

“Yes. That alone. Command of our seas keeps us free. You’re an island nation too, just like us. Without command of your seas, aren’t you also defenseless against an outside enemy?”

“My Master agrees with you.”

“Ah, you’ve been invaded too?” Blackthorne saw a slight frown as she turned to Toranaga and he reminded himself to confine himself to answers and not questions.

When she spoke to him again she was more grave. “Lord Toranaga says I should answer your question, Anjin-san. Yes, we’ve been invaded twice. More than three hundred years ago—it would be 1274 of your counting—the Mongols of Kublai Khan, who had just conquered China and Korea, came against us when we refused to submit to his authority. A few thousand men landed in Kyushu but our samurai managed to contain them, and after a while the enemy withdrew. But seven years later they came again. This time the invasion consisted of almost a thousand Chinese and Korean ships with two hundred thousand enemy troops—Mongols, Chinese, and Korean—mostly cavalry. In all Chinese history, this was the greatest invasion force ever assembled. We were helpless against such an overwhelming force, Anjin-san. Again they began to land at Hakata Bay in Kyushu but before they could deploy all their armies a Great Wind, a tai-fun, came out of the south and destroyed the fleet and all it contained. Those left ashore were quickly killed. It was a kamikaze, a Divine Wind, Anjin-san,” she said with complete belief, “a kamikaze sent by the gods to protect this Land of the Gods from the foreign invader. The Mongols never came back and after eighty years or so their dynasty, the Chin, was thrown out of China,” Mariko added with great satisfaction. “The gods protected us against them. The gods will always protect us against invasion. After all, this is their land, neh?”

Blackthorne thought about the huge numbers of ships and men in the invasion; it made the Spanish Armada against England seem insignificant. “We were helped by a storm too, senhora,” he said with equal seriousness. “Many believe it was also sent by God—certainly it was a miracle—and who knows, perhaps it was.” He glanced at the brazier as a coal spluttered and flames danced. Then he said, “The Mongols nearly engulfed us in Europe, too.” He told her how the hordes of Genghis Khan, Kublai Khan’s grandfather, had come almost to the gates of Vienna before his onslaught was stopped and then turned back, mountains of skulls in his wake. “People in those days believed Genghis Khan and his soldiers were sent by God to punish the world for its sins.”

“Lord Toranaga says he was just a barbarian who was immensely good at war.”

“Yes. Even so, in England we bless our luck we’re an island. We thank God for that and the Channel. And our navy. With China so close and so powerful—and with you and China at war—I’m surprised you don’t have a big navy. Aren’t you afraid of another attack?” Mariko did not answer but translated for Toranaga what had been said. When she had finished, Toranaga spoke to Yabu, who nodded and answered, equally serious. The two men conversed for a while. Mariko answered another question from Toranaga, then spoke to Blackthorne once more.

“To control your seas, Anjin-san, how many ships do you need?”

“I don’t know exactly, but now the Queen’s got perhaps a hundred and fifty ships-of-the-line. Those are ships built only for war.”

“My Master asks how many ships a year does your queen build?”

“Twenty to thirty warships, the best and fleetest in the world. But the ships are usually built by private groups of merchants and then sold to the Crown.”

“For a profit?”

Blackthorne remembered samurai opinion of profit and money. “The Queen generously gives more than the actual cost to encourage research and new styles of building. Without royal favor this would hardly be possible. For example, Erasmus, my ship, is a new class, an English design built under license in Holland.”

“Could you build such a ship here?”

“Yes. If I had carpenters, interpreters, and all the materials and time. First I’d have to build a smaller vessel. I’ve never built one entirely by myself before so I’d have to experiment. . . . Of course,” he added, attempting to contain his excitement as the idea developed, “of course, if Lord Toranaga wanted a ship, or ships, perhaps a trade could be arranged. Perhaps he could order a number of warships to be built in England. We could sail them out here for him—rigged as he’d want and armed as he’d want.”

Mariko translated. Toranaga’s interest heightened. So did Yabu’s. “He asks, can our sailors be trained to sail such ships?”

“Certainly, given time. We could arrange for the sailing masters—or one of them—to stay in your waters for a year. Then he could set up a training program for you. In a few years you’d have your own navy. A modern navy. Second to none.”

Mariko spoke for a time. Toranaga questioned her again searchingly and so did Yabu.

“Yabu-san asks, second to none?”

“Yes. Better than anything the Spaniards would have. Or the Portuguese.”

A silence gathered. Toranaga was evidently swept by the idea though he tried to hide it.

“My Master asks, are you sure this could be arranged?”

“Yes.”

“How long would it take?”

“Two years for me to sail home. Two years to build a ship or ships. Two to sail back. Half the cost would have to be paid in advance, the remainder on delivery.”

Toranaga thoughtfully leaned forward and put some more aromatic wood on the brazier. They all watched him and waited. Then he talked with Yabu at length. Mariko did not translate what was being said and Blackthorne knew better than to ask, as much as he would dearly have liked to be party to the conversation. He studied them all, even the girl Fujiko, who also listened attentively, but he could gather nothing from any of them. He knew this was a brilliant idea that could bring immense profit and guarantee his safe passage back to England.

“Anjin-san, how many ships could you sail out?”

“A flotilla of five ships at a time would be best. You could expect to lose at least one ship through storm, tempest, or Spanish-Portuguese interference—I’m sure they’d try very hard to prevent your having warships. In ten years Lord Toranaga could have a navy of fifteen to twenty ships.” He let her translate that, then he continued, slowly. “The first flotilla could bring you master carpenters, shipwrights, gunners, seamen, and masters. In ten to fifteen years, England could supply Lord Toranaga with thirty modern warships, more than enough to dominate your home waters. And, by that time, if you wanted, you could possibly be building your own replacements here. We’ll—” He was going to say “sell” but changed the word. “My Queen would be honored to help you form your own navy, and yes, if you wish, we’ll train it and provision it.”

Oh yes, he thought exultantly, as the final embellishment to the plan dropped into place, and we’ll officer it and provide the Admiral and the Queen’ll offer you a binding alliance—good for you and good for us—which will be part of the trade, and then together, friend Toranaga, we will harry the Spaniard and Portuguese dog out of these seas and own them forever. This could be the greatest single trading pact any nation has ever made, he thought gleefully. And with an Anglo-Japanese fleet clearing these seas, we English will dominate the Japan-China silk trade. Then it’ll be millions every year!

If I can pull this off I’ll turn the course of history. I’ll have riches and honors beyond my dream. I’ll become an ancestor. And to become an ancestor is just about the best thing a man can try to do, even though he fails in the trying.

“My Master says, it’s a pity you don’t speak our language.”

“Yes, but I’m sure you’re interpreting perfectly.”

“He says that not as a criticism of me, Anjin-san, but as an observation. It’s true. It would be much better for my Lord to talk direct, as I can talk to you.”

“Do you have any dictionaries, Mariko-san? And grammars—Portuguese-Japanese or Latin-Japanese grammars? If Lord Toranaga could help me with books and teachers I’d try to learn your tongue.”

“We have no such books.”

“But the Jesuits have. You said so yourself.”

“Ah!” She spoke to Toranaga, and Blackthorne saw both Yabu’s and Toranaga’s eyes light up, and smiles spread over their faces.

“My Master says you will be helped, Anjin-san.”

At Toranaga’s orders Fujiko gave Blackthorne and Yabu more saké. Toranaga drank only cha, as did Mariko. Unable to contain himself Blackthorne said, “What does he say to my suggestion? What’s his answer?”

“Anjin-san, it would be better to be patient. He will answer in his own time.”

“Please ask him now.”

Reluctantly Mariko turned to Toranaga. “Please excuse me, Sire, but the Anjin-san asks with great deference, what do you think of his plan? He very humbly and most politely requests an answer.”

“He’ll have my answer in good time.”

Mariko said to Blackthorne, “My Master says he will consider your plan and think carefully about what you have said. He asks you to be patient.”

“Domo, Toranaga-sama.”

“I’m going to bed now. We’ll leave at dawn.” Toranaga got up. Everyone followed him below, except Blackthorne. Blackthorne was left with the night. At first promise of dawn Toranaga released four of the carrier pigeons that had been sent to the ship with the main baggage when the ship was being prepared. The birds circled twice, then broke off, two homing for Osaka, two for Yedo. The cipher message to Kiritsubo was an order to be passed on to Hiro-matsu that they should all attempt to leave peacefully at once. Should they be prevented, they were to lock themselves in. The moment the door was forced they were to set fire to that part of the castle and to commit seppuku.

The cipher to his son Sudara, in Yedo, told that he had escaped, was safe, and ordered him to continue secret preparations for war.

“Get to sea, Captain.”

“Yes, Lord.”

By noon they had crossed the bight between Totomi and Izu provinces and were off Cape Ito, the southernmost point of the Izu peninsula. The wind was fair, the swell modest, and the single mainsail helped their passage.

Then, close by shore in a deep channel between the mainland and some small rock islands, when they had turned north, there was an ominous rumbling ashore.

All oars ceased.

“What in the name of Christ . . .” Blackthorne’s eyes were riveted shoreward.

Suddenly a huge fissure snaked up the cliffs and a million tons of rock avalanched into the sea. The waters seemed to boil for a moment. A small wave came out to the galley, then passed by. The avalanche ceased. Again the rumbling, deeper now and more growling, but farther off. Rocks dribbled from the cliffs. Everyone listened intently and waited, watching the cliff face. Sounds of gulls, of surf and wind. Then Toranaga motioned to the drum master, who picked up the beat once more. The oars began. Life on the ship became normal.

“What was that?” Blackthorne said.

“Just an earthquake.” Mariko was perplexed. “You don’t have earthquakes?”

“No. Never. I’ve never seen one before.”

“Oh, we have them frequently, Anjin-san. That was nothing, just a small one. The main shock center would be somewhere else, even out to sea. Or perhaps this one was just a little one here, all by itself. You were lucky to witness a small one.”

“It was as though the whole earth was shaking. I could have sworn I saw . . . I’ve heard about tremors. In the Holy Land and the Ottomans, they have them sometimes. Jesus!” He exhaled, his heart still thumping roughly. “I could have sworn I saw that whole cliff shake.”

“Oh, it did, Anjin-san. When you’re on land, it’s the most terrible feeling in the whole world. There’s no warning, Anjin-san. The tremors come in waves, sometimes sideways, sometimes up and down, sometimes three or four shakes quickly. Sometimes a small one followed by a greater one a day later. There’s no pattern. The worst that I was in was at night, six years ago near Osaka, the third day of the Month of the Falling Leaves. Our house collapsed on us, Anjin-san. We weren’t hurt, my son and I. We dug ourselves out. The shocks went on for a week or more, some bad, some very bad. The Taikō’s great new castle at Fujimi was totally destroyed. Hundreds of thousands of people were lost in that earthquake and in the fires that followed. That’s the greatest danger, Anjin-san—the fires that always follow. Our towns and cities and villages die so easily. Sometimes there is a bad earthquake far out to sea and legend has it that this causes the birth of the Great Waves. They are ten or twenty feet high. There is never a warning and they have no season. A Great Wave just comes out of the sea to our shores and sweeps inland. Cities can vanish. Yedo was half destroyed some years ago by such a wave.”

“This is normal for you? Every year?”

“Oh, yes. Every year in this Land of the Gods we have earth tremors. And fires and flood and Great Waves, and the monster storms—the tai-funs. Nature is very strong with us.” Tears gathered at the corners of her eyes. “Perhaps that is why we love life so much, Anjin-san. You see, we have to. Death is part of our air and sea and earth. You should know, Anjin-san, in this Land of Tears, death is our heritage.”