Shōgun by James Clavell
“I insist on seeing her.”
“So sorry, Omi-san, but surely you don’t insist? Kiku-san belongs to your liege Lord, neh?”
“I know whom she belongs to,” Omi shouted. “I want to see her, that’s all.”
“Oh, so sorry, of course, you have every right to shout and curse, so sorry, please excuse me. But, so sorry, she’s not well. This evening—or perhaps later—or tomorrow—what can I do, Omi-san? If she becomes well enough perhaps I could send word if you’ll tell me where you’re staying….”
He told her, knowing that there was nothing he could do, and stormed off wanting to hack all Mishima to pieces.
Gyoko thought about Omi. Then she sent for Kiku and told her the program she’d arranged for her two nights in Mishima. “Perhaps we can persuade our Lady Toda to delay four or five nights, child. I know half a dozen here who’ll pay a father’s ransom to have you entertain them at private parties. Ha! Now that the great daimyo’s bought you, none can touch you, not ever again, so you can sing and dance and mime and be our first gei-sha!”
“And poor Omi-san, Mistress? I’ve never heard him so cross before, so sorry he shouted at you.”
“Ha! What’s a shout or two when we consort with daimyos and the richest of the rich rice and silk brokers at long last. Tonight I’ll tell Omi-san where you’ll be the last time you sing, but much too soon so he’ll have to wait. I’ll arrange a nearby room. Meanwhile he’ll have lots of saké … and Akiko to serve him. It won’t hurt to sing a sad song or two to him afterwards—we’re still not sure about Toranaga-sama, neh? We still haven’t had a down payment, let alone the balance.”
“Please excuse me, wouldn’t Choko be a better choice? She’s prettier and younger and sweeter. I’m sure he would enjoy her more.”
“Yes, child. But Akiko’s strong and very experienced. When this sort of madness is on men they’re inclined to be rough. Rougher than you’d imagine. Even Omi-san. I don’t want Choko damaged. Akiko likes danger and needs some violence to perform well. She’ll take the sting out of his Beauteous Barb. Run along now, your prettiest kimono and best perfumes….”
Gyoko shooed Kiku away to get ready and once more hurled herself into finishing the management of her house. Then, everything completed—even the formal cha invitation tomorrow to the eight most influential Mama-sans in Mishima to discuss a matter of great import—she sank gratefully into a perfect bath, “Ahhhhhhhhh!”
At the perfect time, a perfect massage. Perfume and powder and makeup and coiffure. New loose kimono of rare frothy silk. Then, at the perfect moment, her favorite arrived. He was eighteen, a student, son of an impoverished samurai, his name Inari.
“Oh, how lovely you are—I rushed here the moment your poem arrived,” he said breathlessly. “Did you have a pleasant journey? I’m so happy to welcome you back! Thank you, thank you for the presents—the sword is perfect and the kimono! Oh, how good you are to me!”
Yes, I am, she told herself, though she stoutly denied it to his face. Soon she was lying beside him, sweaty and languorous. Ah, Inari, she thought bemused, your Pellucid Pestle’s not built like the Anjin-san’s but what you lack in size you surely make up with cataclysmic vigor!
“Why do you laugh?” he asked sleepily.
“Because you make me happy,” she sighed, delighted that she’d had the great good fortune to be educated. She chatted easily, complimented him extravagantly, and petted him to sleep, her hands and voice out of long habit smoothly achieving all that was necessary of their own volition. Her mind was far away. She was wondering about Mariko and her paramour, rethinking the alternatives. How far dare she press Mariko? Or whom should she give them away to, or threaten her with, subtly of course—Toranaga, Buntaro, or whom? The Christian priest? Would there be any profit in that? Or Lord Kiyama—certainly any scandal connecting the great Lady Toda with the barbarian would ruin her son’s chance of marrying Kiyama’s granddaughter. Would that threat bend her to my will? Or should I do nothing—is there more profit in that somehow?
Pity about Mariko. Such a lovely lady! My, but she’d make a sensational courtesan! Pity about the Anjin-san. My, but he’s a clever one—I could make a fortune out of him too.
How can I best use this secret, most profitably, before it’s no longer a secret and those two are destroyed?
Be careful, Gyoko, she admonished herself. There’s not much time left to decide about this, or about the other new secrets: about the guns and arms hidden by the peasants in Anjiro for instance, or about the new Musket Regiment—its numbers, officers, organization, and number of guns. Or about Toranaga, who, the last night in Yokosé, pillowed Kiku pleasantly, using a classic “six shallow and five deep” rhythm for the hundred thrusts with the strength of a thirty-year-old and slept till dawn like a babe. That’s not the pattern of a man distraught with worry, neh?
What about the agony of the tonsured virgin priest who, naked and on his knees, prayed first to his bigot Christian God, begging forgiveness for the sin he was about to commit with the girl, and the other sin, a real one, that he had done in Osaka—strange secret things of the “confessional” that were whispered to him by a leper, then treacherously passed on by him to Lord Harima. What would Toranaga make of that? Endlessly pouring out what was whispered and passed onward, and then the praying with tight-closed eyes—before the poor demented fool spread the girl wide with no finesse and, later, slunk off like a foul night creature. So much hatred and agony and twisted shame.
What about Omi’s second cook, who whispered to a maid who whispered to her paramour who whispered to Akiko that he’d overheard Omi and his mother plotting the death of Kasigi Yabu, their liege lord? Ha! That knowledge made public would set a cat among all the Kasigi pigeons! So would Omi’s and Yabu’s secret offer to Zataki if whispered into Toranaga’s ear—or the words Zataki muttered in his sleep that his pillow partner memorized and sold to me the next day for a whole silver chojin, words that implied General Ishido and Lady Ochiba ate together, slept together, and that Zataki himself had heard them grunting and groaning and crying out as Yang pierced Yin even up to the Far Field! Gyoko smiled to herself smugly. Shocking, neh, people in such high places!
What about the other strange fact that at the moment of the Clouds and the Rain, and a few times before, the Lord Zataki had unconsciously called his pillow partner “Ochiba.” Curious, neh?
Would the oh-so-necessary-to-both-sides Zataki change his song if Toranaga offered him Ochiba as bait? Gyoko chuckled, warmed by all the lovely secrets, all so valuable in the right ears, that men had spilled out with their Joyful Juice. “He’d change,” she murmured confidently. “Oh, very yes.”
“What?”
“Nothing, nothing Inari-chan. Did you sleep well?”
“What?”
She smiled and let him slide back into sleep. Then, when he was ready, she put her hands and lips on him for his pleasure. And for hers.
“Where’s the Ingeles now, Father?”
“I don’t know exactly, Rodrigues. Yet. It would be one of the inns south of Mishima. I left a servant to find out which.” Alvito gathered up the last of the gravy with a crust of new bread.
“When will you know?”
“Tomorrow, without fail.”
“Que va, I’d like to see him again. Is he fit?” Rodrigues asked levelly.
“Yes.” The ship’s bell sounded six times. Three o’clock in the afternoon.
“Did he tell you what happened to him since he left Osaka?”
“I know parts of it. From him and others. It’s a long story and there’s much to tell. First I’ll deal with my dispatches, then we’ll talk.”
Rodrigues leaned back in his chair in the small stern cabin. “Good. That’d be very good.” He saw the sharp features of the Jesuit, the sharp brown eyes flecked with yellow. Cat’s eyes. “Listen, Father,” he said, “the Ingeles saved my ship and my life. Sure he’s enemy, sure he’s heretic, but he’s a pilot, one of the best that’s ever been. It?
“The Lord Jesus forgave his enemies but they still crucified Him.” Calmly Alvito returned the pilot’s gaze. “But I like him too. At least, I understand him better. Let’s leave him for the moment.”
Rodrigues nodded agreeably. He noticed the priest’s plate was empty so he reached across the table and moved the platter closer. “Here, Father, have some more capon. Bread?”
“Thank you. Yes, I will. I didn’t realize how hungry I was.” The priest gratefully tore off another leg and took more sage and onion and bread stuffing, then poured the last of the rich gravy over it.
“Wine?”
“Yes, thank you.”
“Where are the rest of your people, Father?”
“I left them at an inn near the wharf.”
Rodrigues glanced out of the stern bay windows that overlooked Nimazu, the wharfs and the port and, just to starboard, the mouth of the Kano, where the water was darker than the rest of the sea. Many fishing boats were plying back and forth. “This servant you left, Father—you can trust him? You’re sure he’ll find us?”
“Oh, yes. They’ll certainly not move for two days at least.” Alvito had already decided not to mention what he, or more truthfully he reminded himself, what Brother Michael suspected, so he just added, “Don’t forget they’re traveling in state. With Toda Mariko’s rank, and Toranaga’s banners, they’re very much in state. Everyone within four leagues would know about them and where they’re staying.”
Rodrigues laughed. “The Ingeles in state? Who’d have believed that? Like a poxy daimyo!”
“That’s not the half of it, Pilot. Toranaga’s made him samurai and hatamoto.”
“What?”
“Now Pilot-Major Blackthorne wears the two swords. With his pistols. And now he’s Toranaga’s confidant, to a certain extent, and protégé.”
“The Ingeles?”
“Yes.” Alvito let the silence hang in the cabin and went back to eating.
“Do you know the why of it?” Rodrigues asked.
“Yes, in part. All in good time, Pilot.”
“Just tell me the why. Briefly. Details later, please.”
“The Anjin-san saved Toranaga’s life for the third time. Twice during the escape from Osaka, the last in Izu during an earthquake.” Alvito chomped lustily on the thigh meat. A thread of juice ran into his black beard.
Rodrigues waited but the priest said no more. Thoughtfully his eyes dropped to the goblet cradled in his hands. The surface of the deep red wine caught the light. After a long pause, he said, “It wouldn’t be good for us, that piss-cutting Ingeles close to Toranaga. Not at all. Not him. Eh?”
“I agree.”
“Even so, I’d like to see him.” The priest said nothing. Rodrigues let him clean his plate in silence, then offered more, the joy gone out of him. The last of the carcass and the final wing were accepted, and another goblet of wine. Then, to finish, some fine French cognac that Father Alvito got from a cupboard.
“Rodrigues? Would you care for a glass?”
“Thank you.” The seaman watched Alvito pour the nut-brown liquor into the crystal glass. All the wine and cognac had come from the Father-Visitor’s private stock as a parting gift to his Jesuit friend.
“Of course, Rodrigues, you’re welcome to share it with the Father,” dell’Aqua had said. “Go with God, may He watch over you and bring you safely to port and home again.”
“Thank you, Eminence.”
Yes, thank you, Eminence, but no God-cursed thanks, Rodrigues told himself bitterly, no thanks for getting my Captain-General to order me aboard this pigboat under this Jesuit’s command and out of my Gracia’s arms, poor darling. Madonna, life’s so short, too short and too treacherous to waste being chaperone to gut-stinking priests, even Alvito who’s more of a man than any and, because of that, more dangerous. Madonna, give me some help!
“Oh! You reave, Rod-san? Reave so soon? Oh, so sorry….”
“Soon come back, my darling.”
“Oh, so sorry … we miss, ritt’e one and I.”
For a moment he had considered taking her aboard the Santa Filipa, but instantly dismissed the thought, knowing it to be perilous for her and for him and for the ship. “So sorry, back soon.”
“We wait, Rod-san. Please excuse my sad, so sorry.”
Always the hesitant, heavily accented Portuguese she tried so hard to speak, insisting that she be called by her baptismal name Gracia and not by the lovely-sounding Nyan-nyan, which meant Kitten and suited her so well and pleased him better.
He had sailed away from Nagasaki, hating to leave, cursing all priests and captain-generals, wanting an end to summer and autumn so he could up-anchor the Black Ship, her holds weighed now with bullion, to head for home at long last, rich and independent. But then what? The perpetual question swamped him. What about her—and the child? Madonna, help me to answer that with peace.
“An excellent meal, Rodrigues,” Alvito said, toying with a crumb on the table. “Thank you.”
“Good.” Rodrigues was serious now. “What’s your plan, Father? We should—” He stopped in mid-sentence and glanced out of the windows. Then, dissatisfied, he got up from the table and limped painfully over to a land side porthole and peered out.
“What is it, Rodrigues?”
“Thought I felt the tide change. Just want to check our sea room.” He opened the cover further and leaned out, but still couldn’t see the bow anchor. “Excuse me a moment, Father.”
He went on deck. Water lapped the anchor chain that angled into the muddy water. No movement. Then a thread of wake appeared and the ship began to ease off safely, to take up her new station with the ebb. He checked her lie, then the lookouts. Everything was perfect. No other boats were near. The afternoon was fine, the mist long since gone. They were a cable or so offshore, far enough out to preclude a sudden boarding, and well away from the sea lanes that fed the wharves.
His ship was a lorcha, a Japanese hull adapted to modern Portuguese sails and rigging: swift, two-masted, and sloop-rigged. It had four cannon amidships, two small bow chasers and two stern chasers. Her name was the Santa Filipa and she carried a crew of thirty.
His eyes went to the city, and to the hills beyond. “Pesaro!”
“Yes, senhor?”
“Get the longboat ready. I’m going ashore before dusk.”
“Good. She’ll be ready. When’re you back?”
“Dawn.”
“Even better! I’ll lead the shore party—ten men.”
“No shore leave, Pesaro. It’s kinjiru! Madonna, is your brain addled?” Rodrigues straddled the quarterdeck and leaned against the gunwale.
“Not right that all should suffer,” said the bosun, Pesaro, his great calloused hands flexing. “I’ll lead the party and promise there’ll be no trouble. We’ve been cooped up for two weeks now.”
“The port authorities here said kinjiru, so sorry, but still goddamned kinjiru! Remember? This isn’t Nagasaki!”
“Yes, by the blood of Christ Jesus, and more’s the pity!” The heavy-set man scowled. “It was only one Jappo that got chopped.”
“One chopped dead, two knifed badly, a lot of wounded, and a girl hurt before the samurai stopped the riot. I warned you all before you went ashore: ‘Nimazu’s not Nagasaki—so behave yourselves!’ Madonna! We were lucky to get away with just one of our seamen dead. They’d have been within the law to chop all five of you.”
“Their law, Pilot, not ours. God-cursed monkeys! It was only a whorehouse brawl.”
“Yes, but your men started it, the authorities have quarantined my ship, and you’re all benched. You included!” Rodrigues moved his leg to ease the pain. “Be patient, Pesaro. Now that the Father’s back we’ll be off.”
“On the tide? At dawn? Is that an order?”
“No, not yet. Just get the longboat ready. Gomez will come with me.”
“Let me come as well, eh? Per favor, Pilot. I’m si
“No. And you’d better not go ashore tonight. You or any.”
“And if you’re not back by dawn?”
“You rot here at anchor till I do. Clear?”
The bosun’s scowl deepened. He hesitated, then backed down. “Yes, yes, that’s clear, by God.”
“Good.” Rodrigues went below.
Alvito was asleep but he awoke the moment the pilot opened the cabin door. “Ah, all’s well?” he asked, replete now in mind and body.
“Yes. It was just the turn.” Rodrigues gulped some wine to take the foul taste out of his mouth. It was always like that after a near mutiny. If Pesaro had not yielded instantly, once again Rodrigues would have had to blow a hole in a man’s face or put him in irons or order fifty lashes or keelhaul the man or perform any one of a hundred obscenities essential by sea law to maintain discipline. Without discipline any ship was lost. “What’s the plan now, Father? We sail at dawn?”
“How are the carrier pigeons?”
“In good health. We’ve still six—four Nagasakis, two Osakas.”
The priest checked the angle of the sun. Four or five hours to sunset. Plenty of time to launch the birds with the first coded message long since planned: “Toranaga surrenders to Regents’ order. I’m going first to Yedo, then Osaka. I will accompany Toranaga to Osaka. He says we can still build the cathedral at Yedo. Detailed dispatch with Rodrigues.”
“Would you please ask the handler to prepare two Nagasakis and one Osaka immediately,” Alvito said. “Then we’ll talk. I won’t be sailing back with you. I’m going on to Yedo by road. It’ll take me most of the night and tomorrow to write a detailed dispatch which you’ll carry to the Father-Visitor, for his hands only. Will you sail as soon as I’ve finished?”
“All right. If it’s too near dusk I’ll wait till dawn. There are shoals and shifting sands for ten leagues.”
Alvito assented. The twelve extra hours would make no difference. He knew it would have been far better if he’d been able to send off the news from Yokosé, God curse the heathen devil who destroyed my birds there! Be patient, he told himself. What’s the hurry? Isn’t that a vital rule of our Order? Patience. All comes to him who waits—and works. What does twelve hours matter, or even eight days? Those won’t change the course of history. The die was cast in Yokosé.