Shōgun

  “I’ll wager the Anjin-san got plenty close last night for her to stand at the gateway like that! Eeee, what wouldn’t I give to have been him.” Uo wiped the sweat off his brow. Like all of them he wore only a loincloth and a bamboo, conical hat, and was barefoot.

  “Eeee! I was there, Uo, in the square, and I saw it all. I saw her smile and I felt it down through my Fruit and into my toes.”

  “Yes,” another said. “I have to admit just her smile made me stiff as an oar.”

  “But not as big as the Anjin-san, eh, Mura-san?” Uo chuckled. “Go on, please tell us the story again.”

  Happily Mura obliged and told about the first night and the bath house. His story had improved in the many tellings, but none of them minded.

  “Oh, to be so vast!” Uo mimed carrying a giant erection before him, and laughed so much he slipped in the mud.

  “Who’d have thought the barbarian stranger’d ever get from the pit to paradise?” Mura leaned on his shovel a moment, collecting his breath. “I’d never have believed it—like an ancient legend. Karma, neh?”

  “Perhaps he was one of us—in a previous life—and he’s come back with the same mind but a different skin.”

  Ninjin nodded. “That’s possible. Must be—because from what the Holy Father said I thought he’d be burning in the Devil’s Hell Furnace long since. Didn’t the Father say he’d put a special curse on him? I heard him bring down the vengeance of the great Jesus kami himself on the Anjin-san and, oh ko, even I was very frightened.” He crossed himself and the others hardly noticed. “But the Jesus Christ Madonna God punishes His enemies very strangely if you ask me.”

  Uo said, “Well, I’m not a Christian, as well you know, but, so sorry, it seems to me the Anjin-san’s a good man, please excuse me, and better than the Christian Father who stank and cursed and frightened everyone. And he’s been good to us, neh? He treats his people well—some say he’s Lord Toranaga’s friend, must be with all his honors, neh? And don’t forget Kiku-san honored him with her Golden Gully.”

  “It’s golden all right. I heard the night cost him five koban!”

  “Fifteen koku for one night?” Ninjin spluttered. “Eeeeeee, how lucky the Anjin-san is! His karma’s vast for an enemy of God the Father, Son, and Madonna.”

  Mura said, “He paid one koban—three koku. But if you think that’s a lot …” He stopped and looked around conspiratorially to make sure there were no eavesdroppers, though of course in this rain he knew there would be none—and even if there were, what did that matter?

  They all stopped and moved closer. “Yes, Mura-san?”

  “I just had it whispered to me she’s going to be Lord Toranaga’s consort. He bought her contract this morning. Three thousand koku.”

  It was a mind-boggling figure, more than their whole village earned in fish and rice in twenty years. Their respect for her increased, if that were possible. And for the Anjin-san, who was therefore the last man on earth to enjoy her as a courtesan of the First Rank.

  “Eeee!” Uo mumbled, hard put to talk. “So much money—I don’t know whether I want to vomit or piss or fart.”

  “Do none,” said Mura laconically. “Dig. Let’s find the swords.”

  They obeyed, each lost in his own thoughts. Inexorably, the pit was deepening.

  Soon Ninjin, whipped by worry, could contain himself no longer, and he stopped digging. “Mura-san, please excuse me, but what have you decided about the new taxes?” he asked. The others stopped.

  Mura kept on digging at his methodical, grinding pace. “What’s there to decide? Yabu-sama says pay, so we pay, neh?”

  “But Toranaga-sama cut our taxes to four parts out of ten and he’s our liege Lord now.”

  “True. But Lord Yabu was given back Izu—and Suruga and Totomi as well—and made overlord again, so who is our liege Lord?”

  “Toranaga-sama. Surely, Mura-san, Tora—”

  “Are you going to complain to him, Ninjin? Eh? Wake up, Yabusama’s overlord as he always was. Nothing’s changed. And if he puts up taxes we pay more taxes. Finish!”

  “But that’ll take all our winter stocks. All of them.” Ninjin’s voice was an infuriating whine but all knew the truth of what he said. “Even with the rice we stole—”

  “The rice we’ve saved,” Uo hissed at him, correcting him.

  “Even with that, there won’t be enough to last through winter. We’ll have to sell a boat or two—”

  “We sell no boats,” Mura said. He jabbed his shovel into the mud and wiped the sweat out of his eyes, retied the string of his hat more firmly. Then he began to dig again. “Work, Ninjin. That will take your mind off tomorrow.”

  “How do we last the winter, Mura-san?”

  “We still have to get through the summer.”

  “Yes,” Ninjin agreed bitterly. “We’ve paid more than two years’ taxes in advance, and still it’s not enough.”

  “Karma, Ninjin,” Uo said.

  “War’s coming. Perhaps we’ll get a new lord who’ll be fairer, neh?” another said.

  “He can’t be worse—no one can be worse.”

  “Don’t wager on that,” Mura told them all. “You’re alive—you can be very dead very quickly and then no more Golden Gullies, with or without the forest.” His shovel hit a rock and he stopped. “Give me a hand, Uo, old friend.”

  Together they fought the rock out of the mud. Uo whispered anxiously, “Mura-san, what if the Holy Father asks about the weapons?”

  “Tell him. And tell him we’re ready—that Anjiro’s ready.”

  CHAPTER 42

  They came to Yokosé by noon. Buntaro had already intercepted Zataki the previous evening and, as Toranaga had ordered, had welcomed him with great formality. “I asked him to camp outside the village, to the north, Sire, until the meeting place could be prepared,” Buntaro said. “The formal meeting’s to take place here this afternoon, if it pleases you.” He added humorlessly, “I thought the Hour of the Goat would be auspicious.”

  “Good.”

  “He wanted to meet you tonight but I overruled that. I told him you’d be ‘honored’ to meet today or tomorrow, whichever he wished, but not after dark.”

  Toranaga grunted approval but did not yet dismount from his lathered horse. He wore a breastplate, helmet, and light bamboo armor, like his equally travel-stained escort. Again he looked around carefully. The clearing had been well chosen with no chance for ambush. There were no trees or houses within range that could hide archers or musketeers. Just east of the village the land was flat and somewhat higher. North, west, and south were guarded by the village and by the wooden bridge that spanned the fast-flowing river. Here at the narrows the water was swirling and rock-infested. Eastward, behind him and his weary, sweated riders, the track climbed steeply up the pass to the misted crest, five ri away. Mountains towered all around, many volcanic, and most with their peaks sleeping in the overcast. In the center of the clearing a twelve-mat dais had been especially erected on low pilings. A tall rush canopy covered it. Haste did not show in the craftsmanship. Two brocade cushions faced each other on the tatamis.

  “I’ve men there, there, and there,” Buntaro continued, pointing with his bow at all the overlooking outcrops. “You can see for many ri in all directions, Sire. Good defensive positions—the bridge and the whole village are covered. Eastward your retreat’s secured by more men. Of course, the bridge is locked tight with sentries and I’ve left an ‘honor guard’ of a hundred men at his camp.”

  “Lord Zataki’s there now?”

  “No, Sire. I selected an inn for him and his equerries on the outskirts of the village, to the north, worthy of his rank, and invited him to enjoy the baths there. That inn’s isolated and secured. I implied you’d be going on to Shuzenji Spa tomorrow and he’d be your guest.” Buntaro indicated a neat, single-story inn on the edge of the clearing that faced the best view, near to a hot spring that bubbled from the rock into a natural bath. “That inn’s yours, Sire.” In f
ront of the inn was a group of men, all on their knees, their heads very low, bowing motionlessly toward them. “They’re the headman and village elders. I didn’t know if you wanted to see them at once.”

  “Later.” Toranaga’s horse neighed wearily and cast its head about, the bridles jingling. He gentled him, and now completely satisfied with the security, he signed to his men and dismounted. One of Buntaro’s samurai caught his reins—the samurai, like Buntaro and all of them, armored, battle-armed, and ready.

  Toranaga stretched gratefully and limbered up to ease the cramped muscles in his back and legs. He had led the way from Anjiro in a single forced march, stopping only to change mounts. The rest of the baggage train under Omi’s command—palanquins and bearers—was still far behind, strung out on the road that came down from the crest. The road from Anjiro had snaked along the coast, then branched. They had taken the west road inland and climbed steadily through luxuriant forests teeming with game, Mount Omura to their right, the peaks of the volcanic Amagi Range on their left soaring almost five thousand feet. The ride had exhilarated him—at last some action! Part of the journey had been through such good hawking country that he promised himself, one day, he would hunt all Izu.

  “Good. Yes, very good,” he said over the bustle of his men dismounting and chattering and sorting themselves out. “You’ve done well.”

  “If you want to honor me, Sire, I beg you to allow me to obliterate Lord Zataki and his men at once.”

  “He insulted you?”

  “No—on the contrary—his manners were worthy of a courtier, but the flag he travels under’s a treason against you.”

  “Patience. How often do I have to tell you?” Toranaga said, not unkindly.

  “I’m afraid forever, Sire,” Buntaro replied gruffly. “Please excuse me.”

  “You used to be his friend.”

  “He used to be your ally.”

  “He saved your life at Odawara.”

  “We were on the same side at Odawara,” Buntaro said bleakly, then burst out, “How can he do this to you, Sire? Your own brother! Haven’t you favored him, fought on the same side—all his life?”

  “People change.” Toranaga put his full attention on the dais. Delicate silk curtains had been hung from the rafters over the platform for decoration. Ornamental brocade tassels that matched the cushions made a pleasing frieze and larger ones were on the four corner posts. “It’s much too rich and gives the meeting too much importance,” he said. “Make it simple. Remove the curtains, all the tassels and cushions, return them to the merchants, and if they won’t give the quartermaster back the money, tell him to sell them. Get four cushions, not two—simple, chaff-filled.”

  “Yes, Sire.”

  Toranaga’s gaze fell on the spring and he wandered over to it. The water, steaming and sulphurous, hissed as it came from a cleft in the rocks. His body ached for a bath. “And the Christian?” he asked.

  “Sire?”

  “Tsukku-san, the Christian priest?”

  “Oh him! He’s somewhere in the village, but the other side of the bridge. He’s forbidden this side without your permission. Why? Is it important? He said something about how he’d be honored to see you, when convenient. Do you want him here now?”

  “Was he alone?”

  Buntaro’s lip curled. “No. He had an escort of twenty acolytes, all tonsured like him—all Kyushu men, Sire, all well-born and all samurai. All well mounted but no weapons. I had them searched. Thoroughly.”

  “And him?”

  “Of course him—him more than any. There were four carrier pigeons among his luggage. I confiscated them.”

  “Good. Destroy them…. Some fool did it in error, so sorry, neh?”

  “I understand. You want me to send for him now?”

  “Later. I’ll see him later.”

  Buntaro frowned. “Was it wrong to search him?”

  Toranaga shook his head, and absently looked back at the crest, lost in thought. Then he said, “Send a couple of men we can trust to watch the Musket Regiment.”

  “I’ve already done that, Sire.” Buntaro’s face lit up with grim satisfaction. “And Lord Yabu’s personal guards contain some of our ears and eyes. He won’t be able to fart without your knowing it, if that’s your wish.”

  “Good.” The head of the baggage train, still far distant, rounded a bend in the curling track. Toranaga could see the three palanquins, Omi mounted in the lead as ordered, the Anjin-san beside him now, also riding easily.

  He turned his back on them. “I’ve brought your wife with me.”

  “Yes, Sire.”

  “She’s asking my permission to go to Osaka.”

  Buntaro stared at him, but said nothing. Then he squinted back at the barely discernible figures.

  “I gave her my approval—providing, of course, that you also approve.”

  “Whatever you approve, Sire, I approve,” Buntaro said.

  “I can allow her to go by land from Mishima or she can accompany the Anjin-san to Yedo, and go by sea to Osaka from there. The Anjin-san’s agreed to be responsible for her—if you approve.”

  “It would be safer by sea.” Buntaro was smoldering.

  “This all depends on Lord Zataki’s message. If Ishido’s formally declared war on me, then of course I must forbid it. If not, your wife can go on tomorrow or the day after, if you approve.”

  “Whatever you decide I agree to.”

  “This afternoon pass over your duties to Naga-san. This is a good moment to make peace between you and your wife.”

  “Please excuse me, Sire. I should stay with my men. I beg you to leave me with my men. Until you’re safely away.”

  “Tonight you will pass over your duties to my son. You and your wife will join me at my evening meal. You will stay at the inn. You will make a peace.”

  Buntaro stared at the ground. Then he said, even more stonily, “Yes, Sire.”

  “You’re ordered to attempt a peace,” said Toranaga. He was in a mind to add “an honorable peace is better than war, neh?” But that wasn’t true and might have begun a philosophic argument and he was tired and wanted no arguments, just a bath and a rest. “Now fetch the headman!”

  The headman and elders fell over themselves in their haste to bow before him, welcoming him in the most extravagant way. Toranaga told them bluntly that the bill they would present to his quartermaster when he left would of course be fair and reasonable. “Neh?”

  “Hai,” they chorused humbly, blessing the gods for their unexpected good fortune and the fat pickings that this visit would inevitably bring them. With many more bows and compliments, saying how proud and honored they were to be allowed to serve the greatest daimyo in the Empire, the sprightly old headman ushered him into the inn.

  Toranaga inspected it completely through coveys of bowing, smiling maids of all ages, the pick of the village. There were ten rooms around a nondescript garden with a small cha house in the center, kitchens in the back, and to the west, nestling the rocks, a large bath house fed from the living springs. The whole inn was neatly fenced—a covered walk led to the bath—and it was easy to defend.

  “I don’t need the whole inn, Buntaro-san,” he said, standing again on the veranda. “Three rooms will be sufficient—one for myself, one for the Anjin-san, and one for the women. You take a fourth. There’s no need to pay for the rest.”

  “My quartermaster tells me he made a very good arrangement for the whole inn, Sire, day by day, better than half price, and it’s still out of season. I approved the cost because of your security.”

  “Very well,” Toranaga agreed reluctantly. “But I want to see the bill before we leave. There’s no need to waste money. You’d better fill the rooms with guards, four to a room.”

  “Yes, Sire.” Buntaro had already decided to do that. He watched Toranaga stride off with two personal guards, surrounded by four of the prettiest maids, to go to his room in the east wing. Dully, he was wondering, what women? What women needed the
room? Fujiko? Never mind, he thought tiredly, I’ll know soon enough.

  A maid fluttered past. She smiled brightly at him and he smiled back mechanically. She was young and pretty and soft-skinned and he had pillowed with her last night. But the joining had given him no pleasure and though she was deft and enthusiastic and well-trained, his lust soon vanished—he had never felt desire for her. Eventually, for the sake of good manners, he had pretended to reach the pinnacle, as she had pretended, and then she had left him.

  Still brooding, he walked out of the courtyard to stare up at the road.

  Why Osaka?

  At the Hour of the Goat the sentries on the bridge stood aside. The cortege began to cross. First were heralds carrying banners bedecked with the all-powerful cipher of the Regents, then the rich palanquin, and finally more guards.

  Villagers bowed. All were on their knees, secretly agog at such richness and pomp. The headman had cautiously asked if he should assemble all their people to honor the occasion. Toranaga had sent a message that those who were not working could watch, with their masters’ permission. So the headman, with even more care, had selected a deputation that included mostly the old and the obedient young, just enough to make a show—though every adult would have liked to be present—but not enough to go against the great daimyo’s orders. All who could were watching surreptitiously from vantage points in windows and doors.

  Saigawa Zataki, Lord of Shinano, was taller than Toranaga, and younger by five years, with the same breadth of shoulders and prominent nose. But his stomach was flat, the stubble of his beard black and heavy, his eyes mere slits in his face. Though there seemed to be an uncanny resemblance between the half brothers when they were apart, now that they were together they were quite dissimilar. Zataki’s kimono was rich, his armor glittering and ceremonial, his swords well used.