Shōgun

  “That’s quite right,” someone said. “What would old Iron Fist have done if he’d been here?”

  “He’d have slit his belly before he gave up his swords! He’d have done it tonight in the forecourt!” a young man said. He was Serata Tomo, the general’s eldest son, second-in-command of the Fourth Army. “I wish Iron Fist were here! He could get sense … he’d have slit his belly first.”

  “I considered it.” General Kiyoshio cleared his throat harshly. “Someone has to be responsible—and do his duty! Someone has to make the point that liege lord means responsibility and duty!”

  “So sorry, but you’d better watch your tongue,” Yabu advised.

  “What’s the use of a tongue in a samurai’s mouth if he’s forbidden to be samurai?”

  “None,” Isamu, an old counselor, replied. “I agree. Better to be dead.”

  “So sorry, Isamu-san, but that’s our immediate future anyway,” the young Serata Tomo said. “We’re staked pigeons to a certain dishonored hawk!”

  “Please hold your tongues!” Yabu said, hiding his own satisfaction. Then he added carefully, “He’s our liege lord and until Lord Sudara or the Council takes open responsibility he stays liege lord and he is to be obeyed. Neh?”

  General Kiyoshio studied him, his hand unconsciously feeling for his sword hilt. “What have you heard, Yabu-sama?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Buntaro-san said that—” the counselor began.

  General Kiyoshio interrupted thinly. “Please excuse me, Isamu-san, but what General Buntaro said or what he didn’t say is unimportant. What Yabu-sama says is true. A liege lord is a liege lord. Even so, a samurai has rights, a vassal has rights. Even daimyos. Neh?”

  Yabu looked back at him, gauging the depth of that invitation. “Izu is Lord Toranaga’s province. I’m no longer daimyo of Izu—only overlord for him.” He glanced around the huge room. “Everyone’s here; neh?”

  “Except Lord Noboru,” a general said, mentioning Toranaga’s eldest son, who was universally loathed.

  “Yes. Just as well. Never mind, General, the Chinese sickness’ll finish him soon and we’ll be done with his foul humor forever,” someone said.

  “And stench.”

  “When’s he coming back?”

  “Who knows? We don’t even know why Toranaga-sama sent him north. Better he stays there, neh?”

  “If you had that sickness, you’d be as foul-humored as he is, neh?”

  “Yes, Yabu-san. Yes, I would. Pity he’s poxed, he’s a good general—better than the Cold Fish,” General Kiyoshio added, using Sudara’s private nickname.

  “Eeeee,” the counselor whistled. “There’re devils in the air tonight to make you so careless with your tongue. Or is it saké?”

  “Perhaps it’s the Chinese sickness,” General Kiyoshio replied with a bitter laugh.

  “Buddha protect me from that!” Yabu said. “If only Lord Toranaga would change his mind about Osaka!”

  “I’d slit my belly now if that’d convince him,” the young man said.

  “No offense, my son, but your head’s in the clouds. He’ll never change.”

  “Yes, Father. But I just don’t understand him….”

  “We’re all to go with him? In the same contingent?” Yabu asked after a moment.

  Isamu, the old counselor, said, “Yes. We’re to go as an escort. With two thousand men with full ceremonial equipment and trappings. It’ll take us thirty days to get there. We’ve six days left.”

  General Kiyoshio said, “That’s not much time. Is it, Yabu-sama?”

  Yabu did not reply. There was no need. The general did not require an answer. They settled into their own thoughts.

  A side door opened. Toranaga came in. Sudara followed. Everyone bowed stiffly. Toranaga bowed back and sat facing them, Sudara as heir presumptive slightly in front of him, also facing the others. Naga came in from the main door and closed it.

  Only Toranaga wore swords.

  “It’s been reported that some of you speak treason, think treason, and plan treason,” he said coldly. No one answered or moved. Slowly, relentlessly, Toranaga looked from face to face.

  Still no movement. Then General Kiyoshio spoke. “May I respectfully ask, Sire, what do you mean by ‘treason’?”

  “Any questioning of an order, or a decision, or a position of any liege lord, at any time, is treason,” Toranaga slammed back at him.

  The general’s back stiffened. “Then I’m guilty of treason.”

  “Then go out and commit seppuku at once.”

  “I will, Sire,” the soldier said proudly, “but first I claim the right of free speech before your loyal vassals, officers, and coun—”

  “You’ve forfeited all rights!”

  “Very well. Then I claim it as a dying wish—as hatamoto—and in return for twenty-eight years of faithful service!”

  “Make it very short.”

  “I will, Sire,” General Kiyoshio replied icily. “I beg to say, first: Going to Osaka and bowing to the peasant Ishido is treason against your honor, the honor of your clan, the honor of your faithful vassals, your special heritage, and totally against bushido. Second: I indict you for this treason and say you’ve therefore forfeited your right to be our liege lord. Third: I petition that you immediately abdicate in Lord Sudara’s favor and honorably depart this life—or shave your head and retire to a monastery, whichever you prefer.”

  The general bowed stiffly, then sat back on his haunches. Everyone waited, hardly breathing now that the unbelievable had become a reality.

  Abruptly Toranaga hissed, “What are you waiting for?”

  General Kiyoshio stared back at him. “Nothing, Sire. Please excuse me.” His son began to get up.

  “No. You’re ordered to stay here!” he said.

  The general bowed a last time to Toranaga, got up, and walked out with immense dignity. Some stirred nervously and a swell moved through the room but Toranaga’s harshness dominated again: “Is there anyone else who admits treason? Anyone else who dares to break bushido, anyone who dares to accuse his liege lord of treason?”

  “Please excuse me, Sire,” Isamu, the old counselor, said calmly. “But I regret to say that if you go to Osaka it is treason against your heritage.”

  “The day I go to Osaka you will depart this earth.”

  The gray-haired man bowed politely. “Yes, Sire.”

  Toranaga looked them over. Pitilessly. Someone shifted uneasily and eyes snapped onto him. The samurai, a warrior who years ago had lost his wish to fight and had shaved his head to become a Buddhist monk and was now a member of Toranaga’s civil administration, said nothing, almost wilting with an untoward fear he tried desperately to hide.

  “What’re you afraid of, Numata-san?”

  “Nothing, Sire,” the man said, his eyes downcast.

  “Good. Then go and commit seppuku because you’re a liar and your fear’s an infectious stench.”

  The man whimpered and stumbled out. Dread stalked them all now. Toranaga watched. And waited.

  The air became oppressive, the slight crackling of the torch flames seemed strangely loud. Then, knowing it was his duty and responsibility, Sudara turned and bowed. “Please, Sire, may I respectfully make a statement?”

  “What statement?”

  “Sire, I believe there is no … no more treason here, and that there will be no more trea—”

  “I don’t share your opinion.”

  “Please excuse me, Sire, you know I will obey you. We will all obey you. We seek only the best for your—”

  “The best is my decision. What I decide is best.”

  Helplessly Sudara bowed his acquiescence and became silent. Toranaga did not look away from him. His gaze was remorseless. “You are no longer my heir.”

  Sudara paled. Then Toranaga shattered the tension in the room: “I am liege lord here.”

  He waited a moment, then, in utter silence, he got up and arrogantly marched out. The door closed
behind him. A great sigh went through the room. Hands sought sword hilts impotently. But no one left his place.

  “This … this morning I … I heard from our commander-in-chief,” Sudara began at last. “Lord Hiro-matsu will be here in a few days. I will … talk to him. Be silent, be patient, be loyal to our liege Lord. Let us go and pay our respects to General Serata Kiyoshio….”

  Toranaga was climbing the stairs, a great loneliness upon him, his footsteps reverberating in the emptiness of the tower. Near the top he stopped and leaned momentarily against the wall, his breathing heavy. The ache was gripping his chest again and he tried to rub it away. “It’s just lack of exercise,” he muttered. “That’s all, just lack of exercise.”

  He went on. He knew he was in great jeopardy. Treason and fear were contagious and both had to be cauterized without pity the moment they appeared. Even then you could never be sure they were eradicated. The struggle he was locked into was not a child’s game. The weak had to be food for the strong, the strong pawns for the very strong. If Sudara publicly claimed his mantle he was powerless to prevent it. Until Zataki answered, he had to wait.

  Toranaga shut and bolted his door and walked to a window. Below, he could see his generals and counselors silently streaming away to their homes outside the donjon walls. Beyond the castle walls, the city lay in almost total darkness. Above, the moon was pallid and misted. It was a brooding, darkling night. And, it seemed to him, doom walked the heavens.

  CHAPTER 50

  Blackthorne was sitting alone in the morning sun in a corner of the garden outside his guest house daydreaming, his dictionary in his hand. It was a fine cloudless day—the first for many weeks—and the fifth day since he had last seen Toranaga. All that time he had been confined to the castle, unable to see Mariko or visit his ship or crew, or explore the city, or go hunting or riding. Once a day he went swimming in one of the moats with other samurai, and to pass the time he taught some to swim and some to dive. But this did not make the waiting easier.

  “So sorry, Anjin-san, but it’s the same for everyone,” Mariko had said yesterday when he met her by chance in his section of the castle. “Even Lord Hiro-matsu’s been kept waiting. It’s two days since he arrived and he still hasn’t seen Lord Toranaga. No one has.”

  “But this is important, Mariko-chan. I thought he understood every day’s vital. Isn’t there some way I can get a message to him?”

  “Oh yes, Anjin-san. That’s simple. You just write. If you tell me what you want to say I’ll write it for you. Everyone has to write for an interview, those are his present orders. Please be patient, that’s all we can do.”

  “Then please ask for an interview. I’d appreciate it ….”

  “That’s no trouble, it’s my pleasure.”

  “Where have you been? It’s four days since I saw you.”

  “Please excuse me but I’ve had to do so many things. It’s—it’s a little difficult for me, so many preparations ….”

  “What’s going on? This whole castle’s been like a hive about to swarm for almost a week now.”

  “Oh, so sorry. Everything’s fine, Anjin-san.”

  “Is it? So sorry, a general and a senior administrator commit seppuku in the donjon forecourt. That’s usual? Lord Toranaga locks himself away in the ivory tower, keeping people waiting without apparent reason—that’s also usual? What about Lord Hiro-matsu?”

  “Lord Toranaga is our lord. Whatever he does is right.”

  “And you, Mariko-san? Why haven’t I seen you?”

  “Please excuse me, so sorry, but Lord Toranaga ordered me to leave you to your studies. I’m visiting your consort now, Anjin-san. I’m not supposed to visit you.”

  “Why should he object to that?”

  “Merely, I suppose, so that you are obliged to speak our tongue. It’s only been a few days, neh?”

  “When are you leaving for Osaka?”

  “I don’t know. I expected to go three days ago but Lord Toranaga hasn’t signed my pass yet. I’ve arranged everything—porters and horses—and daily I submit my travel papers to his secretary for signing, but they’re always sent back. ‘Submit them tomorrow.’”

  “I thought I was going to take you to Osaka by sea. Didn’t he say I was to take you by sea?”

  “Yes. Yes, he did, but—well, Anjin-san, you never know with our liege Lord. He changes plans.”

  “Has he always been like that?”

  “Yes and no. Since Yokosé he’s been filled with—how do you say it—melancholy, neh?—yes, melancholy, and very different. He—yes, he’s different now.”

  “Since First Bridge you’ve been filled with melancholy and very different. Yes, you’re different now.”

  “First Bridge was an end and a beginning, Anjin-san, and our promise. Neh?”

  “Yes. Please excuse me.”

  She had bowed sadly and left, and then, once safely away, not turning back, she had whispered, “Thou …” The word lingered in the corridor with her perfume.

  At the evening meal he had tried to question Fujiko. But she also knew nothing of importance or would not, or could not, explain what was amiss at the castle.

  “Dozo gomen nasai, Anjin-san.”

  He went to bed seething. Seething with frustration over the delays, and the nights without Mariko. It was always bad knowing she was so near, that Buntaro was gone from the city, and now, because of the “Thou …” that her desire was still as intense as his. A few days ago he had gone to her house on the pretext that he needed help with Japanese. The samurai guard had told him, so sorry, she was not at home. He had thanked them, then wandered listlessly to the main south gate. He could see the ocean. Because the land was so flat, he could see nothing of the wharves or docks though he thought he could distinguish the tall masts of his ship in the distance.

  The ocean beckoned him. It was the horizon more than the deep, the need for a fair wind washing him, eyes squinting against its strength, tongue tasting its salt, the deck heeled over, and aloft the spars and rigging and halyards creaking and groaning under the press of sails that, from time to time, would cackle with glee as the stalwart breeze shifted a point or two.

  And it was freedom more than the horizon. Freedom to go to any quarter in any weather at any whim. To stand on his quarterdeck and to be arbiter, as here Toranaga alone was arbiter.

  Blackthorne looked up at the topmost part of the donjon. Sun glinted off its shapely tiled curves. He had never seen movement there, though he knew that every window below the topmost floor was guarded.

  Gongs sounded the hour change. For the first time his mind told him this was the middle of the Hour of the Horse, and not eight bells of this watch—high noon.

  He put his dictionary into his sleeve, glad that it was time for the first real meal.

  Today it was rice and quick-broiled prawns and fish soup and pickled vegetables.

  “Would you like some more, Anjin-san?”

  “Thank you, Fujiko. Yes. Rice, please. And some fish. Good—very …” He looked up the word for “delicious” and said it several times to memorize it. “Yes, delicious, neh?”

  Fujiko was pleased. “Thank you. This fish from north. Water colder north, understand? Its name is ‘kurima-ebi.’”

  He repeated the name and put it into his memory. When he had finished and their trays were taken away, she poured more cha and took a package out of her sleeve.

  “Here money, Anjin-san.” She showed him the gold coins. “Fifty koban. Worth one hundred fifty koku. You want it, neh? For sailors. Please excuse me, do you understand?”

  “Yes, thank you.”

  “You’re welcome. Enough?”

  “Yes. Think so. Where get?”

  “Toranaga-sama’s chief …” Fujiko sought a simple way to say it. “I go important Toranaga man. Headman. Like Mura, neh? Not samurai—only money man. Sign my name for you.”

  “Ah, understand. Thank you. My money? My koku?”

  “Oh, yes.”

  “Th
is house. Food. Servants. Who pay?”

  “Oh, I pay. From your—from koku one year.”

  “Is that enough, please? Enough koku?”

  “Oh, yes. Yes, I believe so,” she said.

  “Why worry? Worry in face?”

  “Oh, please excuse me, Anjin-san. I’m not worried. No worry …”

  “Pain? Burn pain?”

  “No pain. See.” Fujiko carefully got off the thick cushions he insisted she use. She knelt directly onto the tatamis with no sign of discomfort, then sat back on her heels and settled herself. “There, all better.”

  “Eeeee, very good,” he said, pleased for her. “Show, eh?”

  She got up carefully and lifted the hem of her skirts and allowed him to look at the backs of her legs. The scar tissue had not split and there were no suppurations. “Very good,” he said. “Yes, soon like baby skin, neh?”

  “Thank you, yes. Soft. Thank you, Anjin-san.”

  He noticed the slight change in her voice but did not comment. That night he did not dismiss her.

  The pillowing was satisfactory. No more. For him there was no afterglow, no joyous lassitude. It was just a mating. So wrong, he thought, yet not wrong, neh?

  Before she left him she knelt and bowed again to him and put her hands on his forehead. “I thank you with all my heart. Please sleep now, Anjin-san.”

  “Thank you, Fujiko-san. I sleep later.”

  “Please sleep now. It is my duty and would give me great pleasure.”

  The touch of her hand was warm and dry and not pleasing. Nonetheless he pretended to sleep. She caressed him ineptly though with great patience. Then, quietly, she went back to her own room. Now alone again, glad to be alone, Blackthorne propped his head on his arms and looked up into the darkness.

  He had decided about Fujiko during the journey from Yokosé to Yedo. “It is your duty,” Mariko had told him, lying in his arms.

  “I think that’d be a mistake, neh? If she gets with child, well, it’ll take me four years to sail home and come back again and, in that time, God knows what could happen.” He remembered how Mariko had trembled then.