Shōgun

  “Not helpless, Sire. All the daimyos will honor your son as they honor you.”

  The Taikō laughed. “Yes, they will. Today. While I’m alive—ah yes! But how do I make sure Yaemon will rule after me?”

  “Appoint a Council of Regents, Sire.”

  “Regents!” the Taikō said scornfully. “Perhaps I should make you my heir and let you judge if Yaemon’s worthy to follow you.”

  “I would not be worthy to do that. Your son should follow you.”

  “Yes, and Goroda’s sons should have followed him.”

  “No. They broke the peace.”

  “And you stamped them out on my orders.”

  “You held the Emperor’s mandate. They rebelled against your lawful mandate, Sire. Give me your orders now, and I will obey them.”

  “That’s why I called you here.”

  Then the Taikō said, “It’s a rare thing to have a son at fifty-seven and a foul thing to die at sixty-three—if he’s an only son and you’ve got no kin and you’re Lord of Japan. Neh?”

  “Yes,” Toranaga said.

  “Perhaps it would’ve been better if I’d never had a son, then I could pass the realm on to you as we agreed. You’ve more sons than a Portugee’s got lice.”

  “Karma.”

  The Taikō had laughed and a string of spittle, flecked with blood, seeped out of his mouth. With great care Yodoko wiped the spittle away and he smiled up at his wife. “Thank you, Yo-chan, thank you.” Then the eyes turned onto Ochiba herself and Ochiba had smiled back but his eyes weren’t smiling now, just probing, wondering, pondering the never-dared-to-be-asked question that she was sure was forever in his mind: Is Yaemon really my son?

  “Karma, O-chan. Neh?” It was gently said but Ochiba’s fear that he would ask her directly racked her and tears glistened in her eyes.

  “No need for tears. O-chan. Life’s only a dream within a dream,” the old man said. He lay for a moment musing, then he peered at Toranaga again, and with a sudden, unexpected warmth for which he was famous, said, “Eeeeee, old friend, what a life we’ve had, neh? All the battles? Fighting side by side—together unbeatable. We did the impossible, neh? Together we humbled the mighty and spat on their upturned arses while they groveled for more. Us—we did it, a peasant and a Minowara!” The old man chuckled. “Listen, a few more years and I’d have smashed the Garlic Eaters properly. Then with Korean legions and our own Japanese legions, a sharp thrust up to Peking and me on the Dragon Throne of China. Then I’d have given you Japan, which you want, and I’d have what I want.” The voice was strong, belying the inner fragility. “A peasant can straddle the Dragon Throne with face and honor—not like here. Neh?”

  “China and Japan are different, yes, Sire.”

  “Yes. They’re wise in China. There the first of a dynasty’s always a peasant or the son of a peasant, and the throne’s always taken by force with bloody hands. No hereditary caste there—isn’t that China’s strength?” Again the laugh. “Force and bloody hands and peasant—that’s me. Neh?”

  “Yes. But you’re also samurai. You changed the rules here. You’re first of a dynasty.”

  “I always liked you, Tora-san.” The old man sipped cha contentedly. “Yes—think of it, me on the Dragon Throne—think of that! Emperor of China, Yodoko Empress, and after her Ochiba the Fair, and after me Yaemon, and China and Japan forever joined together as they should be. Ah, it would have been so easy! Then with our legions and Chinese hordes I’d stab northwest and south and, like tenth-class whores, the empires of all the earth would lie panting in the dirt, their legs spread wide for us to take what we want. We’re unbeatable—you and I were unbeatable—Japanese’re unbeatable, of course we are—we know the whole point of life. Neh?”

  “Yes.”

  The eyes glittered strangely. “What is it?”

  “Duty, discipline, and death,” Toranaga replied.

  Again a chuckle, the old man seemingly tinier than ever, more wizened than ever, and then, with an equal suddenness for which he was also famous, all the warmth left him. “The Regents?” he asked, his voice venomous and firm. “Whom would you pick?”

  “Lords Kiyama, Ishido, Onoshi, Toda Hiro-matsu, and Sugiyama.”

  The Taikō’s face twisted with a malicious grin. “You are the cleverest man in the Empire—after me! Explain to my ladies why you’d pick those five.”

  “Because they all hate each other, but combined, they can rule effectively and stamp out any opposition.”

  “Even you?”

  “No, not me, Sire.” Then Toranaga looked at Ochiba and spoke directly to her. “For Yaemon to inherit power you have to weather another nine years. To do that, above all else, you must maintain the Taikō’s peace. I pick Kiyama because he’s the chief Christian daimyo, a great general, and a most loyal vassal. Next, Sugiyama because he’s the richest daimyo in the land, his family ancient, he heartily detests Christians, and has the most to gain if Yaemon gets power. Onoshi because he detests Kiyama, offsets his power, is also Christian, but a leper who grasps at life, will live for twenty years and hates all the others with a monstrous violence, particularly Ishido. Ishido because he’ll be sniffing out plots—because he’s a peasant, detests hereditary samurai, and is violently opposed to Christians. Toda Hiro-matsu because he’s honest, obedient, and faithful, as constant as the sun and like the sudden best sword of a master sword-smith. He should be president of the Council.”

  “And you?”

  “I will commit seppuku with my eldest son, Noboru. My son Sudara’s married to the Lady Ochiba’s sister, so he’s no threat, could never be a threat. He could inherit the Kwanto, if it pleases you, providing he swears perpetual allegiance to your house.”

  No one was surprised that Toranaga had offered to do what was obviously in the Taikō’s mind, for Toranaga alone among the daimyos was the real threat. Then she had heard her husband say, “O-chan, what is your counsel?”

  “Everything that the Lord Toranaga has said, Sire,” she had answered at once, “except that you should order my sister divorced from Sudara who should commit seppuku. The Lord Noboru should be Lord Toranaga’s heir and should inherit the two provinces of Musashi and Shimoosa, and the rest of the Kwanto should go to your heir, Yaemon. I counsel this to be ordered today.”

  “Yodoko-sama?”

  To her astonishment, Yodoko had said, “Ah, Tokichi, you know I adore you with all my heart and the O-chan and Yaemon as my own son. I say make Toranaga sole Regent.”

  “What?”

  “If you order him to die, I think you kill our son. Only Lord Toranaga has skill enough, prestige enough, cunning enough to inherit now. Put Yaemon into his keeping until he’s of age. Order Lord Toranaga to adopt our son formally. Let Yaemon be coached by Lord Toranaga and inherit after Toranaga.”

  “No—this must not be done,” Ochiba had protested.

  “What do you say to that, Tora-san?” the Taikō asked.

  “With humility I must refuse, Sire. I cannot accept that and beg to be allowed to commit seppuku and go before you.”

  “You will be sole Regent.”

  “I’ve never refused to obey you since we made our bargain. But this order I refuse.”

  Ochiba remembered how she had tried to will the Taikō to let Toranaga obliterate himself as she knew the Taikō had already decided. But the Taikō had changed his mind and, at length, had accepted part of what Yodoko had advised, and made the compromise that Toranaga would be a Regent and President of the Regents. Toranaga had sworn eternal faith to Yaemon but now he was still spinning the web that embroiled them all, like this crisis Mariko had precipitated. “I know it was on his orders,” Ochiba muttered, and now Lady Yodoko had wanted her to submit to him totally.

  Marry Toranaga? Buddha protect me from that shame, from having to welcome him and feel his weight and his spurting life.

  Shame?

  Ochiba, what is the truth? she asked herself. The truth is that you wanted him once—before the Taikō
, neh? Even during, neh? Many times in your secret heart. Neh? The Wise One was right again about pride being your enemy and about needing a man, a husband. Why not accept Ishido? He honors you and wants you and he’s going to win. He would be easy to manage. Neh? No, not that uncouth bog trotter! Oh, I know the filthy rumors spread by enemies—filthy impertinence! I swear I’d rather lie with my maids and put my faith in a harigata for another thousand lifetimes than abuse my Lord’s memory with Ishido. Be honest, Ochiba. Consider Toranaga. Don’t you really hate him just because he might have seen you on that dream day?

  It had been more than six years ago in Kyushu when she and her ladies had been out hawking with the Taikō and Toranaga. Their party was spread over a wide area and she had been galloping after one of her falcons, separated from the others. She was in the hills in a wood and she’d suddenly come upon this peasant gathering berries beside the lonely path. Her first weakling son had been dead almost two years and there were no more stirrings in her womb, though she had tried every position or trick or regimen, every superstition or potion or prayer, desperate to satisfy her lord’s obsession for an heir.

  The meeting with the peasant had been so sudden. He gawked up at her as though she were a kami and she at him because he was the image of the Taikō, small and monkey like, but he had youth.

  Her mind had shouted that here was the gift from the gods she had prayed for, and she had dismounted and taken his hand and together they went a few paces into the wood and she became like a bitch in heat.

  Everything had had a dreamlike quality to it, the frenzy and lust and coarseness, lying on the earth, and even today she could still feel his gushing liquid fire, his sweet breath, his hands clutching her marvelously. Then she had felt his full dead weight and abruptly his breath became putrid and everything about him vile except the wetness, so she had pushed him off. He had wanted more but she had hit him and cursed him and told him to thank the gods she did not turn him into a tree for his insolence, and the poor superstitious fool had cowered on his knees begging her forgiveness—of course she was a kami, why else would such beauty squirm in the dirt for such as him?

  Weakly she had climbed into the saddle and walked the horse away, dazed, the man and the clearing soon lost, half wondering if all had been a dream and the peasant a real kami, praying that he was a kami, his essence god-given, that it would make another son for the glory of her Lord and give him the peace that he deserved. Then, just the other side of the wood, Toranaga had been waiting for her. Had he seen her, she wondered in panic.

  “I was worried about you, Lady,” he had said.

  “I’m—I’m perfectly all right, thank you.”

  “But your kimono’s all torn—there’s bracken down your back and in your hair….”

  “My horse threw me—it’s nothing.” Then she had challenged him to a race home to prove that nothing was wrong, and had set off like the wild wind, her back still smarting from the brambles that sweet oils soon soothed and, the same night, she had pillowed with her Lord and Master and, nine months later, she had birthed Yaemon to his eternal joy. And hers.

  “Of course our husband is Yaemon’s father,” Ochiba said with complete certainty to the husk of Yodoko. “He fathered both my children—the other was a dream.”

  Why delude yourself? It was not a dream, she thought. It happened. That man was not a kami. You rutted with a peasant in the dirt to sire a son you needed as desperately as the Taikō to bind him to you. He would have taken another consort, neh?

  What about your first-born?

  “Karma,” Ochiba said, dismissing that latent agony as well.

  “Drink this, child,” Yodoko had said to her when she was sixteen, a year after she had become the Taikō’s formal consort. And she had drunk the strange, warming herb cha and felt so sleepy and the next evening when she awoke again she remembered only strange erotic dreams and bizarre colors and an eerie timelessness. Yodoko had been there when she awakened, as when she had gone to sleep, so considerate, and as worried over the harmony of their lord as she had been. Nine months later she had birthed, the first of all the Taikō’s women to do so. But the child was sickly and that child died in infancy.

  Karma, she thought.

  Nothing had ever been said between herself and Yodoko. About what had happened, or what might have happened, during that vast deep sleep. Nothing, except “Forgive me….” a few moments ago, and, “There is nothing to forgive.”

  You’re blameless, Yodoko-sama, and nothing occurred, no secret act or anything. And if there did, rest in peace, Old One, now that secret lies buried with you. Her eyes were on the empty face, so frail and pathetic now, just as the Taikō had been so frail and pathetic at his ending, his question also never asked. Karma that he died, she thought dispassionately. If he’d lived another ten years I’d be Empress of China, but now … now I’m alone.

  “Strange that you died before I could promise, Lady,” she said, the smell of incense and the musk of death surrounding her. “I would have promised but you died before I promised. Is that my karma too? Do I obey a request and an unspoken promise? What should I do?”

  My son, my son, I feel so helpless.

  Then she remembered something the Wise One had said: ‘Think like the Taikō would—or Toranaga would.’

  Ochiba felt new strength pour through her. She sat back in the stillness and, coldly, began to obey.

  In a sudden hush, Chimmoko came out of the small gates to the garden and walked over to Blackthorne and bowed. “Anjin-san, please excuse me, my Mistress wishes to see you. If you will wait a moment I will escort you.”

  “All right. Thank you.” Blackthorne got up, still deep in his reverie and his overpowering sense of doom. The shadows were long now. Already part of the forecourt was sunless. The Grays prepared to move with him.

  Chimmoko went over to Sumiyori. “Please excuse me, Captain, but my Lady asks you to please prepare everything.”

  “Where does she want it done?”

  The maid pointed at the space in front of the arch. “There, Sire.”

  Sumiyori was startled. “It’s to be public? Not in private with just a few witnesses? She’s doing it for all to see?”

  “Yes.”

  “But, well … if it’s to be here…. Her—her … what about her second?”

  “She believes the Lord Kiyama will honor her.”

  “And if he doesn’t?”

  “I don’t know, Captain. She—she hasn’t told me.” Chimmoko bowed and walked across to the veranda to bow again. “Kiritsubo-san, my Mistress says, so sorry, she’ll return shortly.”

  “Is she all right?”

  “Oh yes,” Chimmoko said proudly.

  Kiri and the others were composed now. When they had heard what had been said to the captain they had been equally perturbed. “Does she know other ladies are waiting to greet her?”

  “Oh yes, Kiritsubo-san. I—I was watching, and I told her. She said that she’s so honored by their presence and she will thank them in person soon. Please excuse me.”

  They all watched her go back to the gates and beckon Blackthorne. The Grays began to follow but Chimmoko shook her head and said her mistress had not bidden them. The captain allowed Blackthorne to leave.

  It was like a different world beyond the garden gates, verdant and serene, the sun on the treetops, birds chattering and insects foraging, the brook falling sweetly into the lily pond. But he could not shake off his gloom.

  Chimmoko stopped and pointed at the little cha-no-yu house. He went forward alone. He slipped his feet out of his thongs and walked up the three steps. He had to stoop, almost to his knees, to go through the tiny screened doorway. Then he was inside.

  “Thou,” she said.

  “Thou,” he said.

  She was kneeling, facing the doorway, freshly made up, lips crimson, immaculately coiffured, wearing a fresh kimono of somber blue edged with green, with a lighter green obi and a thin green ribbon for her hair.

  ?
??Thou art beautiful.”

  “And thou.” A tentative smile. “So sorry it was necessary for thee to watch.”

  “It was my duty.”

  “Not duty,” she said. “I did not expect—or plan for—so much killing.”

  “Karma.” Blackthorne pulled himself out of his trance and stopped talking Latin. “You’ve been planning all this for a long time—your suicide. Neh?”

  “My life’s never been my own, Anjin-san. It’s always belonged to my liege Lord, and, after him, to my Master. That’s our law.”

  “It’s a bad law.”

  “Yes. And no.” She looked up from the mats. “Are we going to quarrel about things that may not be changed?”

  “No. Please excuse me.”

  “I love thee,” she said in Latin.

  “Yes. I know that now. And I love thee. But death is thy aim, Mariko-san.”

  “Thou art wrong, my darling. The life of my Master is my aim. And thy life. And truly, Madonna forgive me, or bless me for it, there are times when thy life is more important.”

  “There’s no escape now. For anyone.”

  “Be patient. The sun has not yet set.”

  “I have no confidence in this sun, Mariko-san.” He reached out and touched her face. “Gomen nasai.”

  “I promised thee tonight would be like the Inn of the Blossoms. Be patient. I know Ishido and Ochiba and the others.”

  “Que va on the others,” he said in Portuguese, his mood changing. “You mean that you’re gambling that Toranaga knows what he’s doing. Neh?”

  “Que va on thy ill humor,” she replied gently. “This day’s too short.”

  “Sorry—you’re right again. Today’s no time for ill humor.” He watched her. Her face was streaked with shadow bars cast by the sun through the bamboo slats. The shadows climbed and vanished as the sun sank behind a battlement.

  “What can I do to help thee?” he asked.

  “Believe there is a tomorrow.”

  For a moment he caught a glimpse of her terror. His arms went out to her and he held her and the waiting was no longer terrible.