Shōgun by James Clavell
“One last thing, Sire. I went to the Mission—all around the Mission. The guards were very alert and I could never get in there—at least, I don’t think so, not unless I went past one of them. I watched for a while, but before I left I saw Chimmoko, Lady Toda’s maid, go in.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yes. Another maid was with her. I think—”
“Lady Mariko? Disguised?”
“No, Sire. I’m sure it was not—this second maid was too tall.”
Blackthorne looked seaward again and murmured, half to himself, “What’s the significance of that?”
“Lady Mariko is Chris—she’s Catholic, neh? She knows the Father-Visitor very well. It was he who converted her. Lady Mariko is the most very important Lady, the most famous in the realm, after the three highest nobility: the Lady Ochiba, the Lady Genjiko, and Yodoko-sama, the wife of the Taikō.”
“Mariko-san might want Confession? Or a Mass? Or a conference? She sent Chimmoko to arrange them?”
“Any or all, Anjin-san. All ladies of the daimyos, both of friends to the Lord General and of those who might oppose him, are confined very much to the castle, neh? Once in, they stay in, like fish in a golden bowl, waiting to be speared.”
“Leave it! Enough of your doom talk.”
“So sorry. Even so, Anjin-san, I think now the Lady Toda will come out no more. Until the nineteenth day.”
“I told you to leave it! I understand about hostages and a last day.” It was quiet on deck, all their voices muted. The guard was resting easily, waiting out their watch. Small water lapped the hull and the ropes creaked pleasantly.
After a moment, Uraga said, “Perhaps Chimmoko brought a summons—a request for the Father-Visitor to go to her. She was surely under guard when she crossed First Bridge. Surely Toda Mariko-noh-Buntaro-noh-Jinsai was under guard from the first moments she crossed from Lord Toranaga’s borders. Neh?”
“Can we know if the Father-Visitor goes to the castle?”
“Yes. That is easy.”
“How to know what’s said—or what’s done?”
“That is very hard. Very sorry, but they would speak Portuguese or Latin, neh? And who speaks both but you and me? I would be recognized by both.” Uraga motioned at the castle and at the city. “There are many Christians there. Any would gain great favor by removing you, or me—neh?”
Blackthorne did not answer. No answer was needed. He was seeing the donjon etched against the stars and he remembered Uraga telling him about the legendary, limitless treasure it protected, the Taikō’s plunder-levy of the Empire. But now his mind was on what Toranaga might be doing and thinking and planning, and exactly where Mariko was and what was the use of going on to Nagasaki. ‘Then you’re saying the nineteenth day is the last day, a death day, Yabu-san?’ he had repeated, almost nauseated by the knowledge that the trap was sprung on Toranaga. And therefore on him and Erasmus.
‘Shigata ga nai! We go quickly Nagasaki and back again. Quick, understand? Only four days to get men. Then come back.’
‘But why? When Toranaga here, all die, neh?’ he had said. But Yabu had gone ashore, telling him that the day after tomorrow they would leave. In a ferment he had watched him go, wishing that he had brought Erasmus and not the galley. If he had had Erasmus he knew that he would have somehow bypassed Osaka and headed straight for Nagasaki, or even more probably, he would have limped off over the horizon to find some snug harbor and taken time out from eternity to train his vassals to work the ship.
You’re a fool, he flayed himself. With the few crew you’ve got now you couldn’t have docked her here, let alone found that harbor to wait out the devil storm. You’d be dead already.
“No worry, Sire. Karma,” Uraga was saying.
“Aye. Karma.” Then Blackthorne heard danger seaward and his body moved before his mind ordered it and he was twisting as the arrow swooshed past, missed him fractionally to shudder into the bulkhead. He lunged at Uraga to pull him down to safety as another arrow of the same volley hissed into Uraga’s throat, impaling him, and then they were both cowering in safety on the deck, Uraga shrieking and samurai shouting and peering over the gunwale out to sea. Grays from the shore guard poured aboard. Another volley came out of the night from the sea and everyone scattered for cover. Blackthorne crawled to the gunwale and peeped through a scupper and saw a nearby fishing boat dousing its flare to vanish into the darkness. All the boats were doing the same, and for a split second he saw scullers pulling away frantically, light glinting off swords and bows.
Uraga’s shrieking subsided into a burbling, gut-shattering agony as Grays rushed on to the quarterdeck, bows ready, the whole ship now in an uproar. Vinck came on deck fast, pistol ready, ducked over as he ran. “Christ, what’s going on—you all right, Pilot?”
“Yes. Watch out—they’re in the fishing boats!” Blackthorne slithered back to Uraga, who was clawing at the shaft, blood seeping from his nose and mouth and ears.
“Jesus,” Vinck gasped.
Blackthorne took hold of the arrow’s barb with one hand and put his other on the warm, pulsing flesh and pulled with all his strength. The arrow came out cleanly but in its wake blood gushed in a pumping stream. Uraga began to choke.
Now Grays and Blackthorne’s own samurai surrounded them. Some had brought shields and they covered Blackthorne, heedless of their own safety. Others quaked in safety though the danger was over. Others were raging at the night, firing at the night, ordering the vanished fishing boats back.
Blackthorne held Uraga in his arms helplessly, knowing there was something he should do but not knowing what, knowing nothing could be done, the frantic sick-sweet-death smell clogging his nostrils, his brain shrieking as always, ‘Christ Jesus, thank God it’s not my blood, not mine, thank God.’
He saw Uraga’s eyes begging, the mouth working with no sound but choking, the chest heaving, then he saw his own fingers move of themselves and they made the sign of the cross before the eyes and he felt Uraga’s body shuddering, fluttering, the mouth howling soundlessly, reminding him of any one of the impaled fish.
It took Uraga a hideous time to die.
CHAPTER 53
Now Blackthorne was walking in the castle with his honor guard of twenty vassals surrounded by ten times that number of escorting Grays. Proudly he wore a new uniform, Brown kimono with the five Toranaga ciphers and, for the first time, a formal, huge-winged over-mantle. His golden wavy hair was tied in a neat queue. The swords that Toranaga had given him jutted from his sash correctly. His feet were encased in new tabi and thonged sandals.
Grays in abundance were at every intersection, covering every battlement, in a vast show of Ishido strength, for every daimyo and general and every samurai officer of importance in Osaka had been invited tonight to the Great Hall that the Taikō had built within the inner ring of fortifications. The sun was down and night arriving quickly.
It’s terrible luck to lose Uraga, Blackthorne was thinking, still not knowing if the attack had been against Uraga or himself. I’ve lost the best source of knowledge I could ever have.
“At noon you go castle, Anjin-san,” Yabu had said this morning, when he had returned to the galley. “Grays come for you. You understand?”
“Yes, Yabu-sama.”
“Quite safe now. Sorry about attack. Shigata ga nai! Grays take you safe place. Tonight you stay in castle. Toranaga part of castle. Also next day we go Nagasaki.”
“We have permission?” he had asked.
Yabu shook his head with exasperation. “Pretend go Mishima to collect Lord Hiro-matsu. Also Lord Sudara and family. Understand?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Sleep now, Anjin-san. Don’t worry about attack. Now all boats ordered stay away from here. It’s kinjiru here now.”
“I understand. Please excuse me, what happens tonight? Why me to castle?”
Yabu had smiled his twisted smile and told him he was on show, that Ishido was curious to see him again. “As a guest you
Blackthorne had gone below, leaving Vinck on watch, but the moment he was deeply asleep Vinck was tugging him awake and he rushed on deck again.
A small Portuguese twenty-cannon frigate was barreling into harbor, the bit between her teeth, heeled over under a full press of canvas.
“Bastard’s in a hurry,” Vinck said, quaking.
“Got to be Rodrigues. No one else’d come in with all that sail.”
“If I was you, Pilot, I’d get us the hell away from here on the tide, or without the tide. Christ Jesus, we’re like moths in a grog bottle. Let’s get out—”
“We stay! Can’t you get it through your head? We stay until we’re allowed to leave. We stay until Ishido says we can go even if the Pope and the King of Spain come ashore together with the whole God-cursed Armada!”
Again he had gone below but sleep had avoided him. At noon, Grays arrived. Heavily escorted, he went with them to the castle. They wound through the city passing the execution ground, the five crosses still there, figures still being tied up and taken down, each cross with its two spearsmen, the crowd watching. He had relived that agony and the terror of the ambush, and the feel of his hand on the hilt of his sword, the kimono about him, his own vassals with him, did not lessen his dread.
The Grays had guided him to Toranaga’s part of the castle that he had visited the first time, where Kiritsubo and the Lady Sazuko and her child were still ensconced, along with the remainder of Toranaga’s samurai. There he had had a bath and found the new clothes that had been laid out for him.
“Is Lady Mariko here?”
“No, Sire, so sorry,” the servant had told him.
“Then where can I find her, please? I have urgent message.”
“So sorry, Anjin-san, I don’t know. Please excuse me.”
None of the servants would help him. All said, “So sorry, I don’t know.”
He had dressed, then referred to his dictionary, remembering key words that he would need and prepared as best he could. Then he went into the garden to watch the rocks growing. But they never grew.
Now he was walking across the innermost moat. Flares were everywhere.
He shook off his anxiety and stepped out onto the wooden bridge. Other guests with Grays were all around heading the same way. He could feel them watching him covertly.
His feet took him under the final portcullis and his Grays led through the maze again up to the huge door. Here they left him. So did his own men. They went to one side with other samurai to await him. He went forward into the flare-lit maw.
It was an immense, high-raftered room with a golden ornamented ceiling. Gold-paneled columns supported the rafters, which were made of rare and polished woods and cherished like the hangings on the walls. Five hundred samurai and their ladies were there, wearing all the colors of the rainbow, their fragrances mingling with incense perfume from the precious woods that smoked on tiny wall braziers. Blackthorne’s eyes raced over the crowd to find Mariko, or Yabu, or any friendly face. But he found none. To one side was a line of guests who waited to bow before the raised platform at the far end. The courtier, Prince Ogaki Takamoto, was standing there. Blackthorne recognized Ishido—tall, lean, and autocratic—also beside the platform, and he remembered vividly the blinding power of the man’s blow on his face, and then his own fingers knotting around the man’s throat.
On the platform, alone, was the Lady Ochiba. She sat comfortably on a cushion. Even from this distance he could see the exquisite richness of her kimono, gold threads on the rarest blue-black silk. “The Most High,” Uraga had called her in awe, telling him much about her and her history during their journey.
She was slight, almost girlish in build, with a luminous glow to her fair skin. Her sloe eyes were large under painted, arched brows, her hair set like a winged helmet.
The procession of guests crept forward. Blackthorne was standing to one side in a pool of light, a head taller than those nearby. Politely he stepped aside to get out of the way of some passing guests and saw Ochiba’s eyes turn to him. Now Ishido was looking at him too. They said something to each other and her fan moved. Their eyes returned to him. Uneasily he went toward a wall to become less conspicuous but a Gray barred his way. “Dozo,” this samurai said politely, motioning at the line.
“Hai, domo,” Blackthorne said and joined it.
Those in front bowed and others that came after him bowed. He returned their bows. Soon all conversation died. Everyone was looking at him.
Embarrassed, the men and women ahead in the line moved out of his way. Now no one was between him and the platform. He stood rigid momentarily. Then, in the utter silence, he walked forward.
In front of the platform he knelt and bowed formally, once to her and once to Ishido as he had seen others do. He got up again, petrified that his swords would fall or that he would slip and be disgraced, but everything went satisfactorily and he began to back away.
“Please wait, Anjin-san,” she said.
He waited. Her luminosity seemed to have increased, and her femininity. He felt the extraordinary sensuality that surrounded her, without conscious effort on her part.
“It is said that you speak our language?” Her voice was unaccountably personal.
“Please excuse me, Highness,” Blackthorne began, using his time-tried stock phrase, stumbling slightly in his nervousness. “So sorry, but I have to use short words and respectfully ask you to use very simple words to me so that I may have the honor of understanding you.” He knew that without doubt his life could easily depend on his answers. All attention in the room was on them now. Then he noticed Yabu moving carefully through the throng, coming closer. “May I respectfully congratulate you on your birthday and pray that you live to enjoy a thousand more.”
“These are hardly simple words, Anjin-san,” Lady Ochiba said, very impressed.
“Please excuse me, Highness. I learn that last night. The right way to say, neh?”
“Who taught you that?”
“Uraga-noh-Tadamasa, my vassal.”
She frowned, then glanced at Ishido, who bent forward and spoke, too rapidly for Blackthorne to catch anything other than the word “arrows.”
“Ah, the renegade Christian priest who was killed last night on your ship?”
“Highness?”
“The man—samurai who was killed, neh? Last night on ship. You understand?”
“Ah, so sorry. Yes, him.” Blackthorne glanced at Ishido, then back at her. “Please excuse me, Highness, your permission greet the Lord General?”
“Yes, you have that permission.”
“Good evening, Lord General,” Blackthorne said with studied politeness. “Last time meet, I very terrible mad. So sorry.”
Ishido returned the bow perfunctorily. “Yes, you were. And very impolite. I hope you won’t get mad tonight or any other night.”
“Very mad that night, please excuse me.”
“That madness is usual among barbarians, neh?”
Such public rudeness to a guest was very bad. Blackthorne’s eyes flashed to Lady Ochiba for an instant and he discerned surprise in her too. So he gambled. “Ah, Lord General, you are most very right. Barbarian always same madness. But, so sorry, now I am samurai—hatamoto—this great, so very great honor to me. I am no longer barbarian.” He used his quarterdeck voice which carried without shouting and filled all the corners of the room. “Now I understand samurai manners—and little bushido. And wa. I am no longer barbarian, please excuse. Neh?” He spoke the last word as a challenge, unafraid. He knew that Japanese understood masculinity and pride, and honored them.
Ishido laughed. “So, samurai Anjin-san,” he said, jovial now. “Yes, I accept your apology. Rumors about your courage are true. Good, very good. I should apologize also. Terrible that filthy ronin could do such a thing, you understand? Attack in night?”
“Yes, I understand, Sire. Very bad. Four men dead. One of my, three Grays.”
“Listen, bad, very bad. Don’t worry, Anjin-san. No more.” Thoughtfully Ishido glanced at the room. Everyone understood him very clearly. “Now I order guards. Understand? Very careful guards. No more assassin attacks. None. You very carefully guarded now. Quite safe in castle.”
“Thank you. So sorry for trouble.”
“No trouble. You important, neh? You samurai. You have special samurai place with Lord Toranaga. I don’t forget—never fear.”
Blackthorne thanked Ishido again and turned to the Lady Ochiba. “Highness, in my land we has Queen—have Queen. Please excuse my bad Japanese…. Yes, my land rule by Queen. In my land we have custom always must give lady birthday gift. Even Queen.” From the pocket in his sleeve he took out the pink camellia blossom that he had cut off a tree in the garden. He laid it in front of her, fearful he was overreaching himself. “Please excuse me if not good manners to give.”
She looked at the flower. Five hundred people waited breathlessly to see how she would respond to the daring and the gallantry of the barbarian—and the trap he had, perhaps, unwittingly placed her in.
“I am not a Queen, Anjin-san,” she said slowly. “Only the mother of the Heir and widow of the Lord Taikō. I cannot accept your gift as a Queen for I am not a Queen, could never be a Queen, do not pretend to be a Queen, and do not wish to be a Queen.” Then she smiled at the room and said to everyone, “But as a lady on her birthday, perhaps I may have your permission to accept the Anjin-san’s gift?”
The room burst into applause. Blackthorne bowed and thanked her, having understood only that the gift was accepted. When the crowd was silent again, Lady Ochiba called out, “Mariko-san, your pupil does you credit, neh?”
Mariko was coming through the guests, a youth beside her. Near them he recognized Kiritsubo and the Lady Sazuko. He saw the youth smile at a young girl then, self-consciously, catch up with Mariko. “Good evening, Lady Toda,” Blackthorne said, then added dangerously in Latin, intoxicated by his success, “The evening is more beautiful because of thy presence.”
“Thank you, Anjin-san,” she replied in Japanese, her cheeks coloring. She walked up to the platform, but the youth stayed within the circle of onlookers. Mariko bowed to Ochiba. “I have done little, Ochiba-sama. It’s all the Anjin-san’s work and the word book that the Christian Fathers gave him.”