Shōgun

  “No!” Blackthorne wanted only to sleep. But because he knew that he needed this man on his side he forced a smile, indicated the crucifix. “You’re a Christian?”

  Mura nodded. “Christian.”

  “I’m Christian.”

  “Father say not. Not Christian.”

  “I’m a Christian. Not a Catholic. But I’m still Christian.” But Mura could not understand. Neither was there any way Blackthorne could explain, however much he tried.

  “Want onna?”

  “The—the dimyo—when come?”

  “Dimyo? No understand.”

  “Dimyo—ah, I mean daimyo.”

  “Ah, daimyo. Hai. Daimyo!” Mura shrugged. “Daimyo come when come. Sleep. First clean. Please.”

  “What?”

  “Clean. Bath, please.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  Mura came closer and crinkled his nose distastefully.

  “Stinku. Bad. Like all Portugeezu. Bath. This clean house.”

  “I’ll bathe when I want and I don’t stink!” Blackthorne fumed. “Everyone knows baths are dangerous. You want me to catch the flux? You think I’m God-cursed stupid? You get the hell out of here and let me sleep!”

  “Bath!” Mura ordered, shocked at the barbarian’s open anger—the height of bad manners. And it was not just that the barbarian stank, as indeed he did, but he had not bathed correctly for three days to his knowledge, and the courtesan quite rightly would refuse to pillow with him, however much the fee. These awful foreigners, he thought. Astonishing! How astoundingly filthy their habits are! Never mind. I’m responsible for you. You will be taught manners. You will bathe like a human being, and Mother will know that which she wants to know. “Bath!”

  “Now get out before I snap you into pieces!” Blackthorne glowered at him, motioning him away.

  There was a moment’s pause and the other three Japanese appeared along with three of the women. Mura explained curtly what was the matter, then said with finality to Blackthorne, “Bath. Please.”

  “Out!”

  Mura came forward alone into the room. Blackthorne shoved out his arm, not wanting to hurt the man, just to push him away. Suddenly Blackthorne let out a bellow of pain. Somehow Mura had chopped his elbow with the side of his hand and now Blackthorne’s arm hung down, momentarily paralyzed. Enraged, he charged. But the room spun and he was flat on his face and there was another stabbing, paralyzing pain in his back and he could not move.

  “By God …”

  He tried to get up but his legs buckled under him. Then Mura calmly put out his small but iron-hard finger and touched a nerve center in Blackthorne’s neck. There was a blinding pain.

  “Good sweet Jesus …”

  “Bath? Please?”

  “Yes—yes,” Blackthorne gasped through his agony, astounded that he had been overcome so easily by such a tiny man and now lay helpless as any child, ready to have his throat cut.

  Years ago Mura had learned the arts of judo and karate as well as how to fight with sword and spear. This was when he was a warrior and fought for Nakamura, the peasant general, the Taikō long before the Taikō had become the Taikō—when peasants could be samurai and samurai could be peasants, or craftsmen or even lowly merchants, and warriors again. Strange, Mura thought absently, looking down at the fallen giant, that almost the first thing the Taikō did when he became all powerful was to order all peasants to cease being soldiers and at once give up all weapons. The Taikō had forbidden them weapons forever and set up the immutable caste system that now controlled all the lives in all the empire: samurai above all, below them the peasants, next craftsmen, then the merchants followed by actors, outcasts, and bandits, and finally at the bottom of the scale, the eta, the nonhumans, those who dealt with dead bodies, the curing of leather and handling of dead animals, who were also the public executioners, branders, and mutilators. Of course, any barbarian was beneath consideration in this scale.

  “Please excuse me, Captain-san,” Mura said, bowing low, ashamed for the barbarian’s loss of face as he lay groaning like a baby still at suck. Yes, I’m very sorry, he thought, but it had to be done. You provoked me beyond all reasonableness, even for a barbarian. You shout like a lunatic, upset my mother, interrupt my house’s tranquillity, disturb the servants, and my wife’s already had to replace one shoji door. I could not possibly permit your obvious lack of manners to go unopposed. Or allow you to go against my wishes in my own house. It’s really for your own good. Then, too, it’s not so bad because you barbarians really have no face to lose. Except the priests—they’re different. They still smell horrible, but they’re the anointed of God the Father so they have great face. But you—you’re a liar as well as a pirate. No honor. How astonishing! Claiming to be a Christian! Unfortunately that won’t help you at all. Our daimyo hates the True Faith and barbarians and tolerates them only because he has to. But you’re not a Portuguese or a Christian, therefore not protected by law, neh? So even though you are a dead man—or at least a mutilated one—it is my duty to see that you go to your fate clean. “Bath very good!”

  He helped the other men carry the still dazed Blackthorne through the house, out into the garden, along a roofed-in walk of which he was very proud, and into the bath house. The women followed.

  It became one of the great experiences of his life. He knew at the time that he would tell and retell the tale to his incredulous friends over barrels of hot saké, as the national wine of Japan was called; to his fellow elders, fishermen, villagers, to his children who also would not at first believe him. But they, in their turn, would regale their children and the name of Mura the fisherman would live forever in the village of Anjiro, which was in the province of Izu on the south-eastern coast of the main island of Honshu. All because he, Mura the fisherman, had the good fortune to be headman in the first year after the death of the Taikō and therefore temporarily responsible for the leader of the strange barbarians who came out of the eastern sea.

  CHAPTER 2

  “The daimyo, Kasigi Yabu, Lord of Izu, wants to know who you are, where you come from, how you got here, and what acts of piracy you have committed,” Father Sebastio said.

  “I keep telling you we’re not pirates.” The morning was clear and warm and Blackthorne was kneeling in front of the platform in the village square, his head still aching from the blow. Keep calm and get your brain working, he told himself. You’re on trial for your lives. You’re the spokesman and that’s all there is to it. The Jesuit’s hostile and the only interpreter available and you’ll have no way of knowing what he’s saying except you can be sure he’ll not help you…. ‘Get your wits about you boy,’ he could almost hear old Alban Caradoc saying. ‘When the storm’s the worst and the sea the most dreadful, that’s when you need your special wits. That’s what keeps you alive and your ship alive—if you’re the pilot. Get your wits about you and take the juice out of every day, however bad…’.

  The juice of today is bile, Blackthorne thought grimly. Why do I hear Alban’s voice so clearly?

  “First tell the daimyo that we’re at war, that we’re enemies,” he said. “Tell him England and the Netherlands are at war with Spain and Portugal.”

  “I caution you again to speak simply and not to twist the facts. The Netherlands—or Holland, Zeeland, the United Provinces, whatever you filthy Dutch rebels call it—is a small, rebellious province of the Spanish Empire. You’re leader of traitors who are in a state of insurrection against their lawful king.”

  “England’s at war and the Netherlands have been sepa—” Blackthorne did not continue because the priest was no longer listening but interpreting.

  The daimyo was on the platform, short, squat, and dominating. He knelt comfortably, his heels tucked neatly under him, flanked by four lieutenants, one of whom was Kasigi Omi, his nephew and vassal. They all wore silk kimonos and, over them, ornate surcoats with wide belts nipping them in at the waist and huge, starched shoulders. And the inevitable swords.
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  Mura knelt in the dirt of the square. He was the only villager present and the only other onlookers were the fifty samurai who came with the daimyo. They sat in disciplined, silent rows. The rabble of the ship’s crew were behind Blackthorne and, like him, were on their knees, guards nearby. They had had to carry the Captain-General with them when they were sent for, even though he was ailing badly. He had been allowed to lie down in the dirt, still in semicoma. Blackthorne had bowed with all of them when they had come in front of the daimyo, but this was not enough. Samurai had slammed all of them on their knees and pushed their heads into the dust in the manner of peasants. He had tried to resist and shouted to the priest to explain that it was not their custom, that he was the leader and an emissary of their country and should be treated as such. But the haft of a spear had sent him reeling. His men gathered themselves for an impulsive charge, but he shouted at them to stop and to kneel. Fortunately they obeyed. The daimyo had uttered something guttural and the priest interpreted this as a caution to him to tell the truth and tell it quickly. Blackthorne had asked for a chair but the priest said the Japanese did not use chairs and there were none in Japan.

  Blackthorne was concentrating on the priest as he spoke to the daimyo, seeking a clue, a way through this reef.

  There’s arrogance and cruelty in the daimyo’s face, he thought. I’ll bet he’s a real bastard. The priest’s Japanese isn’t fluent. Ah, see that? Irritation and impatience. Did the daimyo ask for another word, a clearer word? I think so. Why’s the Jesuit wearing orange robes? Is the daimyo a Catholic? Look, the Jesuit’s very deferential and sweating a lot. I’ll bet the daimyo’s not a Catholic. Be accurate! Perhaps he’s not a Catholic. Either way you’ll get no quarter from him. How can you use the evil bastard? How do you talk direct to him? How’re you going to work the priest? How discredit him? What’s the bait? Come on, think! You know enough about Jesuits—

  “The daimyo says hurry up and answer his questions.”

  “Yes. Of course, I’m sorry. My name’s John Blackthorne. I’m English, Pilot-Major of a Netherlands fleet. Our home port’s Amsterdam.”

  “Fleet? What fleet? You’re lying. There’s no fleet. Why is an Englishman pilot of a Dutch ship?”

  “All in good time. First please translate what I said.”

  “Why are you the pilot of a Dutch privateer? Hurry up!”

  Blackthorne decided to gamble. His voice abruptly hardened and it cut through the morning warmth. “Que va! First translate what I said, Spaniard! Now!”

  The priest flushed. “I’m Portuguese. I’ve told you before. Answer the question.”

  “I’m here to talk to the daimyo, not to you. Translate what I said, you motherless offal!” Blackthorne saw the priest redden even more and felt that this had not gone unnoticed by the daimyo. Be cautions, he warned himself. That yellow bastard will carve you into pieces quicker than a school of sharks if you overreach yourself. “Tell the lord daimyo!” Blackthorne deliberately bowed low to the platform and felt the chill sweat beginning to pearl as he committed himself irrevocably to his course of action.

  Father Sebastio knew that his training should make him impervious to the pirate’s insults and the obvious plan to discredit him in front of the daimyo. But, for the first time, it did not and he felt lost. When Mura’s messenger had brought news of the ship to his mission in the neighboring province, he had been rocked by the implications. It can’t be Dutch or English! he had thought. There had never been a heretic ship in the Pacific except those of the archdevil corsair Drake, and never one here in Asia. The routes were secret and guarded. At once he had prepared to leave and had sent an urgent carrier pigeon message to his superior in Osaka, wishing that he could first have consulted with him, knowing that he was young, almost untried and new to Japan, barely two years here, not yet ordained, and not competent to deal with this emergency. He had rushed to Anjiro, hoping and praying that the news was untrue. But the ship was Dutch and the pilot English, and all of his loathing for the satanic heresies of Luther, Calvin, Henry VIII, and the archfiend Elizabeth, his bastard daughter, had overwhelmed him. And still swamped his judgment.

  “Priest, translate what the pirate said,” he heard the daimyo say.

  O Blessed Mother of God, help me to do thy will. Help me to be strong in front of the daimyo and give me the gift of tongues, and let me convert him to the True Faith.

  Father Sebastio gathered his wits and began to speak more confidently.

  Blackthorne listened carefully, trying to pick out the words and meanings. The Father used “England” and “Blackthorne” and pointed at the ship, which lay nicely at anchor in the harbor.

  “How did you get here?” Father Sebastio said.

  “By Magellan’s Pass. This is the one hundred and thirty-sixth day from there. Tell the daimyo—”

  “You’re lying. Magellan’s Pass is secret. You came via Africa and India. You’ll have to tell the truth eventually. They use torture here.”

  “The Pass was secret. A Portuguese sold us a rutter. One of your own people sold you out for a little Judas gold. You’re all manure! Now all English warships—and Dutch warships—know the way through to the Pacific. There’s a fleet—twenty English ships-of-the-line, sixty-cannon warships—attacking Manila right now. Your empire’s finished.”

  “You’re lying!”

  Yes, Blackthorne thought, knowing there was no way to prove the lie except to go to Manila. “That fleet will harry your sea-lanes and stamp out your colonies. There’s another Dutch fleet due here any week now. The Spanish-Portuguese pig is back in his pigsty and your Jesuit General’s penis is in his anus—where it belongs!” He turned away and bowed low to the daimyo.

  “God curse you and your filthy mouth!”

  “Ano mono wa nani o moshité oru?” the daimyo snapped impatiently.

  The priest spoke more quickly, harder, and said “Magellan” and “Manila” but Blackthorne thought that the daimyo and his lieutenants did not seem to understand too clearly.

  Yabu was wearying of this trial. He looked out into the harbor, to the ship that had obsessed him ever since he had received Omi’s secret message, and he wondered again if it was the gift from the gods that he hoped.

  “Have you inspected the cargo yet, Omi-san?” he had asked this morning as soon as he had arrived, mud-spattered and very weary.

  “No, Lord. I thought it best to seal up the ship until you came personally, but the holds are filled with crates and bales. I hope I did it correctly. Here are all their keys. I confiscated them.”

  “Good.” Yabu had come from Yedo, Toranaga’s capital city, more than a hundred miles away, post haste, furtively and at great personal risk, and it was vital that he return as quickly. The journey had taken almost two days over foul roads and spring-filled streams, partly on horseback and partly by palanquin. “I’ll go to the ship at once.”

  “You should see the strangers, Lord,” Omi had said with a laugh. “They’re incredible. Most of them have blue eyes—like Siamese cats—and golden hair. But the best news of all is that they’re pirates ….”

  Omi had told him about the priest and what the priest had related about these corsairs and what the pirate had said and what had happened, and his excitement had tripled. Yabu had conquered his impatience to go aboard the ship and break the seals. Instead he had bathed and changed and ordered the barbarians brought in front of him.

  “You, priest,” he said, his voice sharp, hardly able to understand the priest’s bad Japanese. “Why is he so angry with you?”

  “He’s evil. Pirate. He worship devil.”

  Yabu leaned over to Omi, the man on his left. “Can you understand what he’s saying, nephew? Is he lying? What do you think?”

  “I don’t know, Lord. Who knows what barbarians really believe? I imagine the priest thinks the pirate is a devil worshiper. Of course, that’s all nonsense.”

  Yabu turned back to the priest, detesting him. He wished that he could crucify him tod
ay and obliterate Christianity from his domain once and for all. But he could not. Though he and all other daimyos had total power in their own domains, they were still subject to the overriding authority of the Council of Regents, the military ruling junta to whom the Taikō had legally willed his power during his son’s minority, and subject, too, to edicts the Taikō had issued in his lifetime, which were all still legally in force. One of these, promulgated years ago, dealt with the Portuguese barbarians and ordered that they were all protected persons and, within reason, their religion was to be tolerated and their priests allowed, within reason, to proselytize and convert. “You, priest! What else did the pirate say? What was he saying to you? Hurry up! Have you lost your tongue?”

  “Pirate says bad things. Bad. About more pirate war boatings—many.”

  “What do you mean, ‘war boatings’?”

  “Sorry, Lord, I don’t understand.”

  “‘War boatings’ doesn’t make sense, neh?”

  “Ah! Pirate says other ships war are in Manila, in Philippines.”

  “Omi-san, do you understand what he’s talking about?”

  “No, Lord. His accent’s appalling, it’s almost gibberish. Is he saying that more pirate ships are east of Japan?”

  “You, priest! Are these pirate ships off our coast? East? Eh?”

  “Yes, Lord. But I think he’s lying. He says at Manila.”

  “I don’t understand you. Where’s Manila?”

  “East. Many days’ journey.”

  “If any pirate ships come here, we’ll give them a pleasant welcome, wherever Manila is.”

  “Please excuse me, I don’t understand.”

  “Never mind,” Yabu said, his patience at an end. He had already decided the strangers were to die and he relished the prospect. Obviously these men did not come within the Taikō’s edict that specified “Portuguese barbarians,” and anyway they were pirates. As long as he could remember he had hated barbarians, their stench and filthiness and disgusting meat-eating habits, their stupid religion and arrogance and detestable manners. More than that, he was shamed, as was every daimyo, by their stranglehold over this Land of the Gods. A state of war had existed between China and Japan for centuries. China would allow no trade. Chinese silk cloth was vital to make the long, hot, humid Japanese summer bearable. For generations only a minuscule amount of contraband cloth had slipped through the net and was available, at huge cost, in Japan. Then, sixty-odd years ago, the barbarians had first arrived. The Chinese Emperor in Peking gave them a tiny permanent base at Macao in southern China and agreed to trade silks for silver. Japan had silver in abundance. Soon trade was flourishing. Both countries prospered. The middlemen, the Portuguese, grew rich, and their priests—Jesuits mostly—soon became vital to the trade. Only the priests managed to learn to speak Chinese and Japanese and therefore could act as negotiators and interpreters. As trade blossomed, the priests became more essential. Now the yearly trade was huge and touched the life of every samurai. So the priests had to be tolerated and the spread of their religion tolerated or the barbarians would sail away and trade would cease.