Shōgun by James Clavell
Toranaga chose his words deliberately. “I believe that what Omi-san forecast will happen. With one exception: the Council won’t be impotent. The Council will wield enough influence to gather an invincible allied force. When the rains cease it will be thrown against the Kwanto, bypassing Izu. The Kwanto will be gobbled up, then Izu. Only after I’m dead will the daimyos fight among themselves.”
“But why, Sire?” Omi ventured.
“Because I’ve too many enemies, I own the Kwanto, I’ve warred for more than forty years and never lost a battle. They’re all afraid of me. I know that first the vultures will pack together to destroy me. Later they’ll destroy themselves, but first they’ll join to destroy me if they can. Know very clearly, all of you, I’m the only real threat to Yaemon, even though I’m no threat at all. That’s the irony of it. They all believe I want to be Shōgun. I don’t. This is another war that’s not necessary at all!”
Naga broke the silence. “Then what are you going to do, Sire?”
“Eh?”
“What are you going to do?”
“Obviously, Crimson Sky,” Toranaga said.
“But you said they’d eat us up?”
“They would—if I gave them any time. But I’m not going to give them any time. We go to war at once!”
“But the rains—what about the rains?”
“We will arrive in Kyoto wet. Hot and stinking and wet. Surprise, mobility, audacity, and timing win wars, neh? Yabu-san was right. The guns will blast a way through the mountains.”
For an hour they discussed plans and the feasibility of large-scale war in the rainy season—an unheard-of strategy. Then Toranaga sent them away, except Mariko, telling Naga to order the Anjin-san here. He watched them walk off. They had all been outwardly enthusiastic once the decision had been announced, Naga and Buntaro particularly. Only Omi had been reserved and thoughtful and unconvinced. Toranaga discounted Igurashi for he knew that, rightly, the soldier would do only what Yabu ordered, and he dismissed Yabu as a pawn, treacherous certainly, but still a pawn. Omi’s the only one worthwhile, he thought. I wonder if he’s worked out yet what I’m really going to do?
“Mariko-san. Find out, tactfully, how much the courtesan’s contract would cost.”
She blinked. “Kiku-san, Sire?”
“Yes.”
“Now, Sire? At once?”
“Tonight would do excellently.” He looked at her blandly. “Her contract’s not necessarily for me, perhaps for one of my officers.”
“I would imagine the price would depend on whom, Sire.”
“I imagine it will. But set a price. The girl of course has the right of refusal, if she wishes, when the samurai’s named, but tell her mama-san owner that I don’t expect the girl will have the bad manners to mistrust my choice for her. Tell the owner also that Kiku is a Lady of the First Class of Mishima and not Yedo or Osaka or Kyoto,” Toranaga added genially, “so I expect to pay Mishima prices and not Yedo or Osaka or Kyoto prices.”
“Yes, Sire, of course.”
Toranaga moved his shoulder to ease the ache, shifting his swords.
“May I massage it for you, Sire? Or send for Suwo?”
“No, thank you. I’ll see Suwo later.” Toranaga got up and relieved himself with great pleasure, then sat down again. He wore a short, light silk kimono, blue patterned, and the simple straw sandals. His fan was blue and decorated with his crest.
The sun was low, rain clouds building heavily.
“It’s vast to be alive,” he said happily. “I can almost hear the rain waiting to be born.”
“Yes,” she said.
Toranaga thought a moment. Then he said as a poem:
“The sky
Scorched by the sun,
Weeps
Fecund tears.”
Mariko obediently put her mind to work to play the poem game with him, so popular with most samurai, spontaneously twisting the words of the poem that he had made up, adapting them, making another from his. After a moment she replied:
“But the forest
Wounded by the wind,
Weeps
Dead leaves.”
“Well said! Yes, very well said!” Toranaga looked at her contentedly, enjoying what he saw. She was dressed in a pale green kimono with patterns of bamboo, a dark green obi and orange sunshade. There was a marvelous sheen to the blue-black hair, which was piled high under her wide-brimmed hat. He remembered nostalgically how they had all—even the Dictator Goroda himself—wanted her when she was thirteen and her father, Akechi Jinsai, had first presented this, his eldest daughter, at Goroda’s court. And how Nakamura, the Taikō-to-be, had begged the Dictator to give her to him, and then how Goroda had laughed, and publicly called him his randy little monkey general, and told him to “stick to fighting battles, peasant, don’t fight to stick patrician holes!” Akechi Jinsai had openly scorned Nakamura, his rival for Goroda’s favor, the main reason why Nakamura had delighted in smashing him. And why also Nakamura had delighted in watching Buntaro squirm for years, Buntaro who had been given the girl to cement an alliance between Goroda and Toda Hiro-matsu. I wonder, Toranaga asked himself mischievously, looking at her, I wonder if Buntaro were dead, would she consent to be one of my consorts? Toranaga had always preferred experienced women, widows or divorced wives, but never too pretty or too wise or too young or too well-born, so never too much trouble and always grateful.
He chuckled to himself. I’d never ask her because she’s everything I don’t want in a consort—except that her age is perfect.
“Sire?” she asked.
“I was thinking about your poem, Mariko-san,” he said, even more blandly. Then added:
“Why so wintery?
Summer’s
Yet to come, and the fall of
Glorious autumn.”
She said in answer:
“If I could use words
Like falling leaves,
What a bonfire
My poems would make!”
He laughed and bowed with mock humility. “I concede victory, Mariko-sama. What will the favor be? A fan? Or a scarf for your hair?”
“Thank you, Sire,” she replied. “Yes, whatever pleases you.”
“Ten thousand koku yearly to your son.”
“Oh, Sire, we don’t deserve such favor!”
“You won a victory. Victory and duty must be rewarded. How old is Saruji now?”
“Fifteen—almost fifteen.”
“Ah, yes—he was betrothed to one of Lord Kiyama’s granddaughters recently, wasn’t he?”
“Yes, Sire. It was in the eleventh month last year, the Month of the White Frost. He’s presently at Osaka with Lord Kiyama.”
“Good. Ten thousand koku, beginning at once. I will send the authority with tomorrow’s mail. Now, enough of poems, please give me your opinion.”
“My opinion, Sire, is that we are all safe in your hands, as the land is safe in your hands.”
“I want you to be serious.”
“Oh, but I am, Sire. I thank you for the favor to my son. That makes everything perfect. I believe whatever you do will be right. By the Madon—yes, by the Madonna, I swear I believe that.”
“Good. But I still want your opinion.”
Immediately she replied, without a care in the world, as an equal to an equal. “First, you should bring Lord Zataki secretly back to your side. I’d surmise you either know how to do this already, or more probably, you have a secret agreement with your half brother, and you prompted his mythical ‘defection’ in the first place to lull Ishido into a false position. Next: You’ll never attack first. You never have, you’ve always counseled patience, and you only attack when you’re sure to win, so publicly ordering Crimson Sky at once is only another diversion. Next, timing: My opinion is you should do what you will do, pretend to order Crimson Sky but never commit it. This will throw Ishido into confusion because, obviously, spies here and in Yedo will report your plan, and he’ll have to scatter his force li
“I’ve already made my position clear on that,” Toranaga rapped, no longer amused. “And you forget yourself.”
Mariko said carelessly and happily, “I have to talk secrets today, Sire, because of the hostages. They’re a knife in your heart.”
“What about them?”
“Be patient with me please, Sire. I may never be able to talk to you in what the Anjin-san would call an ‘open English private way’ ever again—you’re never alone like we’re alone now. I beg you to excuse my bad manners.” Mariko gathered her wits and, astoundingly, continued to speak as an equal. “My absolute opinion is that Naga-san was right. You must become Shōgun, or you will have failed in your duty to the Empire and to the Minowara.”
“How dare you say such a thing!”
Mariko remained quite serene, his open anger touching her not at all. “I counsel you to marry the Lady Ochiba. It’s eight years before Yaemon’s old enough, legally, to inherit—that’s an eternity! Who knows what could happen in eight months, let alone eight years.”
“Your whole family can be obliterated in eight days!”
“Yes, Sire. But that has nothing to do with you and your duty, and the realm. Naga-san’s right. You must take the power to give power.” With mock gravity she added breathlessly, “And now may your faithful counselor commit seppuku or should I do it later?” and she pretended to swoon.
Toranaga gawked at her incredible effrontery, then he roared with laughter and pounded his fist on the ground. When he could talk, he choked out, “I’ll never understand you, Mariko-san.”
“Ah, but you do, Sire,” she said, patting the perspiration off her forehead. “You’re kind to let this devoted vassal make you laugh, to listen to her requests, to say what must be said, had to be said. Forgive me my impertinence, please.”
“Why should I, eh? Why?” Toranaga smiled, genial now.
“Because of the hostages, Sire,” she said simply.
“Ah, them!” He too became serious.
“Yes. I must go to Osaka.”
“Yes,” he said. “I know.”
CHAPTER 38
Accompanied by Naga, Blackthorne trudged disconsolately down the hill toward the two figures who sat on the futons in the center of the ring of guards. Beyond the guards were the rising foothills of the mountains that soared to a clouded sky. The day was sultry. His head was aching from the grief of the last few days, from worrying about Mariko, and from being unable to talk except in Japanese for so long. Now he recognized her and some of his misery left him.
Many times he had gone to Omi’s house to see Mariko or to inquire about her. Samurai had always turned him away, politely but firmly. Omi had told him as a tomodashi, a friend, that she was all right. Don’t worry, Anjin-san. Do you understand? Yes, he had said, understanding only that he could not see her.
Then he had been sent for by Toranaga and had wanted to tell him so much but because of his lack of words had failed to do anything other than irritate him. Fujiko had gone several times to see Mariko. When she came back she always said that Mariko was well, adding the inevitable, “Shinpai suruna, Anjin-san. Wakarimasu?” Don’t worry—do you understand?
With Buntaro it had been as though nothing had ever happened. They mouthed polite greetings when they met during the day. Apart from occasionally using the bath house, Buntaro was like any other samurai in Anjiro, neither friendly nor unfriendly.
From dawn to dusk Blackthorne had been chased by the accelerated training. He had had to suppress his frustration as he tried to teach, and strove to learn the language. By nightfall he was always exhausted. Hot and sweating and rain-soaked. And alone. Never had he felt so alone, so aware of not belonging in this alien world.
Then there was the horror that began three days ago. It had been a very long humid day. At sunset he had wearily ridden home and had instantly felt trouble permeating his house. Fujiko had greeted him nervously.
“Nan desu ka?”
She had replied quietly, at length, eyes lowered.
“Wakarimasen.” I don’t understand. “Nan desu ka?” he asked again, impatiently, his fatigue making him irritable.
Then she had beckoned him into the garden. She pointed at the eaves but the roof seemed sound enough to him. More words and signs and it finally dawned on him that she was pointing to where he had hung the pheasant.
“Oh, I’d forgotten about that! Watashi …” But he couldn’t remember how to say it so he just shrugged wearily. “Wakarimasu. Nan desu kiji ka?” I understand. What about the pheasant?
Servants were peering at him from doors and windows, clearly petrified. She spoke again. He concentrated but her words did not make sense.
“Wakarimasen, Fujiko-san.” I don’t understand, Fujiko-san.
She took a deep breath, then shakily imitated someone removing the pheasant, carrying it away, and burying it.
“Ahhhh! Wakarimasu, Fujiko-san. Wakarimasu! Was it getting high?” he asked. As he did not know the Japanese word he held his nose and pantomimed stench.
“Hai, hai, Anjin-san. Dozo gomen nasai, gomen nasai.” She made the sound of flies and, with her hands, painted a picture of a buzzing cloud.
“Ah so desu! Wakarimasu.” Once upon a time he would have apologized and, if he had known the words, he would have said, I’m so sorry for the inconvenience. Instead he just shrugged, eased the ache in his back, and mumbled, “Shigata ga nai,” wanting only to slide into the ecstasy of the bath and massage, the only joy that made life possible. “The hell with it,” he said in English, turning away. “If I’d been here during the day I’d’ve noticed it. The hell with it!”
“Dozo, Anjin-san?”
“Shigata ga nai,” he repeated louder.
“Ah so desu, arigato goziemashita.”
“Tare toru desu ka?” Who took it?
“Ueki-ya.”
“Oh, that old bugger!” Ueki-ya, the gardener, the kind, toothless old man who tended the plants with loving hands and made his garden beautiful. “Yoi. Motte kuru Ueki-ya.” Good, fetch him.
Fujiko shook her head. Her face had become chalky white.
“Ueki-ya shinda desu, shinda desu!” she whispered.
“Ueki-ya ga shindato? Donoyoni? Doshité? Doshité shindanoda?” How? Why? How did he die?
Her hand pointed at the place where the pheasant had been and she spoke many gentle incomprehensible words. Then she mimed the single cut of a sword.
“Jesus Christ God! You put that old man to death over a stinking, God-cursed pheasant?”
At once all the servants rushed to the garden and fell on their knees. They put their heads into the dirt and froze, even the children of the cook.
“What the piss-hell’s going on?” Blackthorne was almost berserk.
Fujiko waited stoically until they were all there, then she too went down on her knees and bowed, as a samurai and not as a peasant. “Gomen nasai, dozo gomen na—”
“The pox on your gomen nasai! What right’ve you to do that? Ehhhhh?” and he began to swear at her foully. “Why in the name of Christ didn’t you ask me first? Eh?”
He fought for control, aware that all of his servants knew he legally could hack Fujiko and all of them to pieces here in the garden for causing him so much displeasure, or for no reason at all, and that not even Toranaga himself could interfere with his handling of his own household.
He saw one of the children was trembling with terror and panic. “Jesus Christ in heaven, give me strength …” He held on to one of the posts to steady himself. “It’s not your fault,” he choked out, not realizing he wasn’t speaking Japanese. “It’s hers! It’s you! You
Fujiko looked up slowly. She saw the accusing finger and the hatred on his face. She whispered a command to her maid, Nigatsu.
Nigatsu shook her head and began to beg.
“Ima!”
The maid fled. She returned with the killing sword, tears streaming her face. Fujiko took the sword and offered it to Blackthorne with both hands. She spoke and though he did not know all the words he knew that she was saying, “I’m responsible, please take my life because I’ve displeasured you.”
“IYÉ!” He grabbed the sword and threw it away. “You think that’ll bring Ueki-ya back to life?”
Then, suddenly, he realized what he had done, and what he was doing now. “Oh, Jesus God …”
He left them. In despair he went to the outcrop above the village near the shrine that was beside the ancient gnarled cypress tree and he wept.
He wept because a good man was dead unnecessarily and because he knew now that he had murdered him. “Lord God forgive me. I’m responsible—not Fujiko. I killed him. I ordered that no one was to touch the pheasant but me. I asked her if everyone understood and she said yes. I ordered it with mock gravity but that doesn’t matter now. I gave the orders, knowing their law and knowing their customs. The old man broke my stupid order so what else could Fujiko-san do? I’m to blame.”
In time the tears were spent. It was deep night now. He returned to his house.
Fujiko was waiting for him as always, but alone. The sword was across her lap. She offered it to him. “Dozo—dozo, Anjin-san.”
“Iyé,” he said, taking the sword as a sword should be taken. “Iyé, Fujiko-san. Shigata ga nai, neh? Karma, neh?” His hand touched her in apology. He knew that she had had to bear all the worst of his stupidity.
Her tears spilled. “Arigato, arigato go—goziemashita, Anjin-san,” she said brokenly. “Gomen nasai …”
His heart went out to her.
Yes, Blackthorne thought with great sadness, yes it did, but that doesn’t excuse you or take away her humiliation—or bring Ueki-ya back to life. You were to blame. You should have known better….