Shōgun

  “For the last time, my son, accept your karma, I beg you.”

  “My karma is to destroy Yabu.”

  The old lady had sighed. “Very well. You’re a man. You have the right to decide. What is to be is to be. But the killing of Yabu by itself is nothing. We must plan. His son must also be removed, and also Igurashi. Particularly Igurashi. Then your father will lead the clan as is his right.”

  “How do we do that, Mother?”

  “We will plan, you and I. And be patient, neh? Then we must consult with your father. Midori, even you may give counsel, but try not to make it valueless, neh?”

  “What about Lord Toranaga? He gave Yabu his sword.”

  “I think Lord Toranaga only wants Izu strong and a vassal state. Not as an ally. He doesn’t want allies any more than the Taikō did. Yabu thinks he’s an ally. I think Toranaga detests allies. Our clan will prosper as Toranaga vassals. Or as Ishido vassals! Who to choose, eh? And how to do the killing?”

  Omi remembered the surge of joy that had possessed him once the decision had been made final.

  He felt it now. But none of it showed on his face as cha and wine were offered by carefully selected maids imported from Mishima for Yabu. He watched Yabu and the Anjin-san and Mariko and Igurashi. They were all waiting for Yabu to begin.

  The room was large and airy, big enough for thirty officers to dine and wine and talk. There were many other rooms and kitchens for bodyguards and servants, and a skirting garden, and though all were makeshift and temporary, they had been excellently constructed in the time at his disposal and easily defendable. That the cost had come out of Omi’s increased fief bothered him not at all. This had been his duty.

  He looked through the open shoji. Many sentries in the forecourt. A stable. The fortress was guarded by a ditch. The stockade was constructed of giant bamboos lashed tightly. Big central pillars supported the tiled roof. Walls were light sliding shoji screens, some shuttered, most of them covered with oiled paper as was usual. Good planks for the flooring were set on pilings raised off beaten earth below and these were covered with tatamis.

  At Yabu’s command, Omi had ransacked four villages for materials to construct this and the other house and Igurashi had brought quality tatamis and futons and things unobtainable in the village.

  Omi was proud of his work, and the bivouac camp for three thousand samurai had been made ready on the plateau over the hill that guarded the roads that led to the village and to the shore. Now the village was locked tight and safe by land. From the sea there would always be plenty of warning for a liege lord to escape.

  But I have no liege lord. Whom shall I serve now, Omi was asking himself. Ikawa Jukkyu? Or Toranaga directly? Would Toranaga give me what I want in return? Or Ishido? Ishido’s so difficult to get to, neh? But much to tell him now….

  This afternoon Yabu had summoned Igurashi, Omi, and the four chief captains and had set into motion his clandestine training plan for the five hundred gun-samurai. Igurashi was to be commander, Omi was to lead one of the hundreds. They had arranged how to induct Toranaga’s men into the units when they arrived, and how these outlanders were to be neutralized if they proved treacherous.

  Omi had suggested that another highly secret cadre of three more units of one hundred samurai each should be trained surreptitiously on the other side of the peninsula as replacements, as a reserve, and as a precaution against a treacherous move by Toranaga.

  “Who’ll command Toranaga’s men? Who’ll he send as second in command?” Igurashi had asked.

  “It makes no difference,” Yabu had said. “I’ll appoint his five assistant officers, who’ll be given the responsibility of slitting his throat, should it be necessary. The code for killing him and all the outlanders will be ‘Plum Tree.’ Tomorrow, Igurashi-san, you will choose the men. I will approve each personally and none of them is to know, yet, my overall strategy of the musket regiment.”

  Now as Omi was watching Yabu, he savored the newfound ecstasy of vengeance. To kill Yabu would be easy, but the killing must be coordinated. Only then would his father or his elder brother be able to assume control of the clan, and Izu.

  Yabu came to the point. “Mariko-san, please tell the Anjin-san, tomorrow I want him to start training my men to shoot like barbarians and I want to learn everything there is to know about the way that barbarians war.”

  “But, so sorry, the guns won’t arrive for six days, Yabu-san,” Mariko reminded him.

  “I’ve enough among my men to begin with,” Yabu replied. “I want him to start tomorrow.”

  Mariko spoke to Blackthorne.

  “What does he want to know about war?” he asked.

  “He said everything.”

  “What particularly?”

  Mariko asked Yabu.

  “Yabu-san says, have you been part of any battles on land?”

  “Yes. In the Netherlands. One in France.”

  “Yabu-san says, excellent. He wants to know European strategy. He wants to know how battles are fought in your lands. In detail.”

  Blackthorne thought a moment. Then he said, “Tell Yabu-san I can train any number of men for him and I know exactly what he wants to know.” He had learned a great deal about the way the Japanese warred from Friar Domingo. The friar had been an expert and vitally concerned. ‘After all, señor,’ the old man had said, ‘that knowledge is essential, isn’t it—to know how the heathen war? Every Father must protect his flock. And are not our glorious conquistadores the blessed spearhead of Mother Church? And haven’t I been with them in the front of the fighting in the New World and the Philippines and studied them for more than twenty years? I know war, señor, I know war. It has been my duty—God’s will to know war. Perhaps God has sent you to me to teach you, in case I die. Listen, my flock here in this jail have been my teachers about Japan warfare, señor. So now I know how their armies fight and how to beat them. How they could beat us. Remember, señor, I tell thee a secret on thy soul: Never join Japanese ferocity with modern weapons and modern methods. Or on land they will destroy us.’

  Blackthorne committed himself to God. And began. “Tell Lord Yabu I can help him very much. And Lord Toranaga. I can make their armies unbeatable.”

  “Lord Yabu says, if your information proves useful, Anjin-san, he will increase your salary from Lord Toranaga’s two hundred and forty koku to five hundred koku after one month.”

  “Thank him. But say, if I do all that for him, I request a favor in return: I want him to rescind his decree about the village and I want my ship and crew back in five months.”

  Mariko said, “Anjin-san, you cannot bargain with him, like a trader.”

  “Please ask him. As a humble favor. From an honored guest and grateful vassal-to-be.”

  Yabu frowned and replied at length.

  “Yabu-san says that the village is unimportant. The villagers need a fire under their rumps to make them do anything. You are not to concern yourself with them. As to the ship, it’s in Lord Toranaga’s care. He’s sure you’ll get it back soon. He asked me to put your request to Lord Toranaga the moment I arrive in Yedo. I’ll do this, Anjin-san.”

  “Please apologize to Lord Yabu, but I must ask him to rescind the decree. Tonight.”

  “He’s just said no, Anjin-san. It would not be good manners.”

  “Yes, I understand. But please ask him again. It’s very important to me … a petition.”

  “He says you must be patient. Don’t concern yourself with villagers.”

  Blackthorne nodded. Then he decided. “Thank you. I understand. Yes. Please thank Yabu-san but tell him I cannot live with this shame.”

  Mariko blanched. “What?”

  “I cannot live with the shame of having the village on my conscience. I’m dishonored. I cannot endure this. It’s against my Christian belief. I will have to commit suicide at once.”

  “Suicide?”

  “Yes. That’s what I’ve decided to do.”

  Yabu interrupted. “Nan j
a, Mariko-san?”

  Haltingly she translated what Blackthorne had said. Yabu questioned her and she answered. Then Yabu said, “If it wasn’t for your reaction this would be a joke, Mariko-san. Why are you so concerned? Why do you think he means it?”

  “I don’t know, Sire. He seems … I don’t know….” Her voice trailed off.

  “Omi-san?”

  “Suicide’s against all Christian beliefs, Sire. They never suicide as we do. As a samurai would.”

  “Mariko-san, you’re Christian. Is that true?”

  “Yes, Sire. Suicide’s a mortal sin, against the word of God.”

  “Igurashi-san? What do you think?”

  “It’s a bluff. He’s no Christian. Remember the first day, Sire? Remember what he did to the priest? And what he allowed Omi-san to do to him to save the boy?”

  Yabu smiled, recollecting that day and the night that had followed. “Yes. I agree. He’s no Christian, Mariko-san.”

  “So sorry, but I don’t understand, Sire. What about the priest?”

  Yabu told her what had happened the first day between Blackthorne and the priest.

  “He desecrated a cross?” she said, openly shocked.

  “And threw the pieces into the dust,” Igurashi added. “It’s all a bluff, Sire. If this thing with the village dishonors him, how can he stay here when Omi-san so dishonored him by pissing on him?”

  “What? I’m sorry, Sire,” Mariko said, “but again I don’t understand.”

  Yabu said to Omi, “Explain that to her.”

  Omi obeyed. She was disgusted by what he told her but kept it off her face.

  “Afterwards the Anjin-san was completely cowed, Mariko-san.” Omi finished, “Without weapons he’ll always be cowed.”

  Yabu sipped some saké. “Say this to him, Mariko-san: suicide’s not a barbarian custom. It’s against his Christian God. So how can he suicide?”

  Mariko translated. Yabu was watching carefully as Blackthorne replied.

  “The Anjin-san apologizes with great humility, but he says, custom or not, God or not, this shame of the village is too great to bear. He says that … that he’s in Japan, he’s hatamoto and has the right to live according to our laws.” Her hands were trembling. “That’s what he said, Yabu-san. The right to live according to our customs—our law.”

  “Barbarians have no rights.”

  She said, “Lord Toranaga made him hatamoto. That gives him the right, neh?”

  A breeze touched the shojis, rattling them.

  “How could he commit suicide? Eh? Ask him.”

  Blackthorne took out the short, needle-sharp sword and placed it gently on the tatami, point facing him.

  Igurashi said simply, “It’s a bluff! Who ever heard of a barbarian acting like a civilized person?”

  Yabu frowned, his heartbeat slowed by the excitement. “He’s a brave man, Igurashi-san. No doubt about that. And strange. But this?” Yabu wanted to see the act, to witness the barbarian’s measure, to see how he went into death, to experience with him the ecstasy of the going. With an effort he stopped the rising tide of his own pleasure. “What’s your counsel, Omi-san?” he asked throatily.

  “You said to the village, Sire, ‘If the Anjin-san did not learn satisfactorily.’ I counsel you to make a slight concession. Say to him that whatever he learns within the five months will be ‘satisfactory,’ but he must, in return, swear by his God never to reveal this to the village.”

  “But he’s not Christian. How will that oath bind him?”

  “I believe he’s a type of Christian, Sire. He’s against the Black Robes and that’s what is important. I believe swearing by his own God will be binding. And he should also swear, in this God’s name, that he’ll apply his mind totally to learning and totally to your service. Because he’s clever he will have learned very much in five months. Thus, your honor is saved, his—if it exists or not—is also saved. You lose nothing, gain everything. Very important, you gain his allegiance of his own free will.”

  “You believe he’ll kill himself?”

  “Yes.”

  “Mariko-san?”

  “I don’t know, Yabu-san. I’m sorry, I cannot advise you. A few hours ago I would have said, no, he will not commit suicide. Now I don’t know. He’s … since Omi-san came for him tonight, he’s been … different.”

  “Igurashi-san?”

  “If you give in to him now and it’s bluff he’ll use the same trick all the time. He’s cunning as a fox-kami—we’ve all seen how cunning, neh? You’ll have to say ‘no’ one day, Sire. I counsel you to say it now—it’s a bluff.”

  Omi leaned forward and shook his head. “Sire, please excuse me, but I must repeat, if you say no you risk a great loss. If it is a bluff—and it may well be—then as a proud man he will become hate-filled at his further humiliation and he won’t help you to the limit of his being, which you need. He’s asked for something as a hatamoto which he’s entitled to, he says he wants to live according to our customs of his own free will. Isn’t that an enormous step forward, Sire? That’s marvelous for you, and for him. I counsel caution. Use him to your advantage.”

  “I intend to,” Yabu said thickly.

  Igurashi said, “Yes, he’s valuable and yes, I want his knowledge. But he’s got to be controlled—you’ve said that many times, Omi-san. He’s barbarian. That’s all he is. Oh, I know he’s hatamoto today and yes, he can wear the two swords from today. But that doesn’t make him samurai. He’s not samurai and never will be.”

  Mariko knew that of all of them she should be able to read the Anjin-san the most clearly. But she could not. One moment she understood him, the next, he was incomprehensible again. One moment she liked him, the next she hated him. Why?

  Blackthorne’s haunted eyes looked into the distance. But now there were beads of sweat on his forehead. Is that from fear? thought Yabu. Fear that the bluff will be called? Is he bluffing?

  “Mariko-san?”

  “Yes, Lord?”

  “Tell him …” Yabu’s mouth was suddenly dry, his chest aching. “Tell the Anjin-san the sentence stays.”

  “Sire, please excuse me, but I urge you to accept Omi-san’s advice.”

  Yabu did not look at her, only at Blackthorne. The vein in his forehead pulsed. “The Anjin-san says he’s decided. So be it. Let’s see if he’s barbarian—or hatamoto.”

  Mariko’s voice was almost imperceptible. “Anjin-san, Yabu-san says the sentence stays. I’m sorry.”

  Blackthorne heard the words but they did not disturb him. He felt stronger and more at peace than he had ever been, with a greater awareness of life than he had ever had.

  While he was waiting he had not been listening to them or watching them. The commitment had been made. The rest he had left to God. He had been locked in his own head, hearing the same words over and over, the same that had given him the clue to life here, the words that surely had been sent from God, through Mariko as medium: ‘There is an easy solution—die. To survive here you must live according to our customs….’

  “… the sentence stays.”

  So now I must die.

  I should be afraid. But I’m not.

  Why?

  I don’t know. I know only that once I truly decided that the sole way to live here as a man is to do so according to their customs, to risk death, to die—perhaps to die—that suddenly the fear of death was gone. ‘Life and death are the same … Leave karma to karma.’

  I am not afraid to die.

  Beyond the shoji, a gentle rain had begun to fall. He looked down at the knife.

  I’ve had a good life, he thought.

  His eyes came back to Yabu. “Wakarimasu,” he said clearly and though he knew his lips had formed the word it was as though someone else had spoken.

  No one moved.

  He watched his right hand pick up the knife. Then his left also grasped the hilt, the blade steady and pointing at his heart. Now there was only the sound of his life, building and building, soarin
g louder and louder until he could listen no more. His soul cried out for eternal silence.

  The cry triggered his reflexes. His hands drove the knife unerringly toward its target.

  Omi had been ready to stop him but he was unprepared for the suddenness and ferocity of Blackthorne’s thrust, and as Omi’s left hand caught the blade and his right the haft, pain bit into him and blood spilled from his left hand. He fought the power of the thrust with all his strength. He was losing. Then Igurashi helped. Together they halted the blow. The knife was taken away. A thin trickle of blood ran from the skin over Blackthorne’s heart where the point of the knife had entered.

  Mariko and Yabu had not moved.

  Yabu said, “Say to him, say to him whatever he learns is enough, Mariko-san. Order him—no, ask him, ask the Anjin-san to swear as Omi-san said. Everything as Omi-san said.”

  Blackthorne came back from death slowly. He stared at them and the knife from an immense distance, without understanding. Then the torrent of his life rushed back but he could not grasp its significance, believing himself dead and not alive.

  “Anjin-san? Anjin-san?”

  He saw her lips move and heard her words but all his senses were concentrated on the rain and the breeze.

  “Yes?” His own voice was still far off but he smelled the rain and heard the droplets and tasted the sea salt upon the air.

  I’m alive, he told himself in wonder. I’m alive and that’s real rain outside and the wind’s real and from the north. There’s a real brazier with real coals and if I pick up the cup it will have real liquid in it and it will have taste. I’m not dead. I’m alive!

  The others sat in silence, waiting patiently, gentle with him to honor his bravery. No man in Japan had ever seen what they had seen. Each was asking silently, what’s the Anjin-san going to do now? Will he be able to stand by himself and walk away or will his spirit leave him? How would I act if I were he?

  Silently a servant brought a bandage and bound Omi’s hand where the blade had cut deeply, staunching the flow of blood. Everything was very still. From time to time Mariko would say his name quietly as they sipped cha or saké, but very sparingly, savoring the waiting, the watching, and the remembering.