Shōgun

  “Welcome, brother.” Toranaga stepped off the dais and bowed. He wore the simplest of kimonos and soldier’s straw sandals. And swords. “Please excuse me for receiving you so informally, but I came as quickly as I could.”

  “Please excuse me for disturbing you. You look well, brother. Very well.” Zataki got out of the palanquin and bowed in return, beginning the interminable, meticulous formalities of the ceremonial that now ruled both of them.

  “Please take this cushion, Lord Zataki.”

  “Please excuse me, I would be honored if you would be seated first, Lord Toranaga.”

  “You’re so kind. But please, honor me by sitting first.”

  They continued playing the game that they had played so many times before, with each other and with friends and enemies, climbing the ladder of power, enjoying the rules that governed each movement and each phrase, that protected their individual honor so that neither could ever make a mistake and endanger himself or his mission.

  At length they were seated opposite each other on the cushions, two sword lengths away. Buntaro was behind and to the left of Toranaga. Zataki’s chief aide, an elderly gray-haired samurai, was behind and to his left. Around the dais, twenty paces away, were seated ranks of Toranaga samurai, all deliberately still costumed in the clothing they’d journeyed in, but their weapons in perfect condition. Omi was seated on the earth at the edge of the dais, Naga at the opposite side. Zataki’s men were dressed formally and richly, their vast, wing-shouldered overmantles belted with silver buckles. But they were equally well armed. They settled themselves, also twenty paces away.

  Mariko served ceremonial cha and there was innocuous, formal conversation between the two brothers. At the correct time Mariko bowed and left, Buntaro achingly aware of her and vastly proud of her grace and beauty. And then, too soon, Zataki said brusquely, “I bring orders from the Council of Regents.”

  A sudden hush fell on the square. Everyone, even his own men, was aghast at Zataki’s lack of manners, at the insolent way he had said “orders” and not “message,” and at his failure to wait for Toranaga to ask, “How can I be of service?” as ceremonial demanded.

  Naga shot a quick glance away from Zataki’s sword arm to his father. He saw the flush on Toranaga’s neck that was an infallible sign of impending explosion. But Toranaga’s face was tranquil, and Naga was amazed as he heard the controlled reply: “So sorry, you have orders? For whom, Brother? Surely you have a message?”

  Zataki ripped two small scrolls out of his sleeve. Buntaro’s hand almost flashed for his waiting sword at the unexpected suddenness, for ritual called for all movements to be slow and deliberate. Toranaga had not moved.

  Zataki broke the seal of the first scroll and read in a loud, chilling voice: “By order of the Council of Regents, in the name of Emperor Go-Niji, the Son of Heaven: We greet our illustrious vassal Yoshi Toranaga-noh-Minowara and invite him to make obeisance before us in Osaka forthwith, and invite him to inform our illustrious ambassador, the Regent, Lord Saigawa Zataki, if our invitation is accepted or refused—forthwith.”

  He looked up and in an equally loud voice continued, “It’s signed by all Regents and sealed with the Great Seal of the Realm.” Haughtily he placed the scroll in front of him. Toranaga signaled to Buntaro, who went forward, bowed low to Zataki, picked up the scroll, turned to Toranaga, bowed again. Toranaga accepted the scroll, and motioned Buntaro back to his place.

  Toranaga studied the scroll interminably.

  “All the signatures are genuine,” Zataki said. “Do you accept or refuse?”

  In a subdued voice, so that only those on the dais and Omi and Naga could hear him, Toranaga said, “Why shouldn’t I take your head for your foul manners?”

  “Because I’m my mother’s son,” Zataki replied.

  “That won’t protect you if you continue this way.”

  “Then she’ll die before her time.”

  “What?”

  “The Lady, our mother, is in Takato.” Takato was the landlocked, impregnable fortress and capital city of Shinano, Zataki’s province. “I regret her body will stay there forever.”

  “Bluff! You honor her as much as I do.”

  “On her immortal spirit, Brother, as much as I honor her, I detest what you’re doing to the realm even more.”

  “I seek no more territory and no—”

  “You seek to overthrow the succession.”

  “Wrong again, and I’ll always protect my nephew from traitors.”

  “You seek the Heir’s downfall, that is what I believe, so I’ve decided to stay alive and lock Shinano and the northern route against you, whatever the cost, and I’ll continue to do that until the Kwanto’s in friendly hands—whatever the cost.”

  “In your hands, Brother?”

  “Any safe hands—which excludes yours. Brother.”

  “You trust Ishido?”

  “I trust no one, you’ve taught me that. Ishido’s Ishido, but his loyalty’s unquestioned. Even you’ll admit that.”

  “I’ll admit that Ishido’s trying to destroy me and split the realm, that he’s usurped power and that he’s breaking the Taikō’s will.”

  “But you did plot with Lord Sugiyama to wreck the Council of Regents. Neh?”

  The vein in Zataki’s forehead was throbbing like a black worm. “What can you say? One of his counselors admitted the treason: that you plotted with Sugiyama for him to accept Lord Ito in your place, then to resign the day before the first meeting and escape by night, and so throw the realm into confusion. I heard the confession—Brother.”

  “Were you one of the murderers?”

  Zataki flushed. “Overzealous ronin killed Sugiyama, not I, nor any of Ishido’s men!”

  “Curious that you took his place as Regent so quickly, neh?”

  “No. My lineage is as ancient as yours. But I didn’t order the death, nor did Ishido—he swore it on his honor as a samurai. So do I. Ronin killed Sugiyama, but he deserved to die.”

  “By torture, dishonored in a filthy cellar, his children and consorts hacked up in front of him?”

  “That’s a rumor spread by filthy malcontents—perhaps by your spies—to discredit Lord Ishido and through him the Lady Ochiba and the Heir. There’s no proof of that.”

  “Look at their bodies.”

  “The ronin set fire to the house. There are no bodies.”

  “So convenient, neh? How can you be so gullible? You’re not a stupid peasant?”

  “I refuse to sit here and listen to this manure. Give me your answer now. And then either take my head and she dies or let me go.” Zataki leaned forward. “Within moments of my head leaving my shoulders, ten carrier pigeons will be racing north for Takato. I have trustworthy men north, east, and west, a day’s march away, out of your reach, and if they fail there are more in safety across your borders. If you take my head or have me assassinated or if I die in Izu—whatever the reason—she dies also. Now, either take my head or let’s finish the giving of the scrolls and I’ll leave Izu at once. Choose!”

  “Ishido murdered Lord Sugiyama. In time I can get you proof. That’s important, neh? I only need a little—”

  “You’ve no more time! Forthwith, the message said. Of course you refuse to obey, good, so it’s done. Here.” Zataki put the second scroll on the tatamis. “Here’s your formal impeachment and order to commit seppuku, which you’ll treat with equal contempt—may Lord Buddha forgive you! Now everything’s done. I’ll leave at once, and the next time we meet will be on a battlefield and by the Lord Buddha, before sunset on the same day, I’ve promised myself I’ll see your head on a spike.”

  Toranaga kept his eyes on his adversary. “Lord Sugiyama was your friend and mine. Our comrade, as honorable a samurai as ever lived. The truth about his death should be of importance to you.”

  “Yours has more importance, Brother.”

  “Ishido’s sucked you in like a starving infant at its mother’s tit.”

  Zataki turned
to his counselor. “On your honor as a samurai, have I posted men and what is the message?”

  The gray-haired, dignified old samurai, chief of Zataki’s confidants and well known to Toranaga as an honorable man, felt sickened and ashamed by the blatant display of hatred, as was everyone within hearing. “So sorry, Lord,” he said in a choked whisper, bowing to Toranaga, “but my Master is of course telling the truth. How could this be questioned? And, please excuse me, but it is my duty, with all honor and humility, to point out to both of you that such … such astonishing and shameful lack of politeness between you is not worthy of your rank or the solemnity of this occasion. If your vassals—if they could have heard—I doubt if either of you could have held them back. You forget your duty as samurai and your duty to your men. Please excuse me”—he bowed to both of them—“but it had to be said.” Then he added, “All messages were the same, Lord Toranaga, and under the official seal of Lord Zataki: ‘Put the Lady, my mother, to death at once.’”

  “How can I prove I’m not trying to overthrow the Heir?” Toranaga asked his brother.

  “Immediately abdicate all your tides and power to your son and heir, Lord Sudara, and commit seppuku today. Then I and all my men—to the last man—will support Sudara as Lord of the Kwanto.”

  “I’ll consider what you’ve said.”

  “Eh?”

  “I’ll consider what you’ve said.” Toranaga repeated if more firmly. “We’ll meet tomorrow at this time, if it pleases you.”

  Zataki’s face twisted. “Is this another of your tricks? What’s there to meet about?”

  “About what you said, and about this.” Toranaga held up the scroll that was in his hand. “I’ll give you my answer tomorrow.”

  “Buntaro-san!” Zataki motioned at the second scroll. “Please give this to your master.”

  “No!” Toranaga’s voice reverberated around the clearing. Then, with great ceremony, he added loudly, “I am honored formally to accept the Council’s message and will submit my answer to their illustrious ambassador, my brother, the Lord of Shinano, tomorrow at this time.”

  Zataki stared at him suspiciously. “What possible ans—”

  “Please excuse me, Lord,” the old samurai interrupted quietly with grave dignity, again keeping the conversation private, “so sorry, but Lord Toranaga is perfectly correct to suggest this. It is a solemn choice you have given him, a choice not contained in the scrolls. It is fair and honorable that he should be given the time he requires.”

  Zataki picked up the second scroll and shoved it back into his sleeve. “Very well. I agree. Lord Toranaga, please excuse my bad manners. Lastly, please tell me where Kasigi Yabu is? I’ve a scroll for him. Only one in his case.”

  “I’ll send him to you.”

  The falcon closed her wings and fell a thousand feet out of the evening sky and smashed into the fleeing pigeon with a burst of feathers, then caught it in her talons and carried it earthward, still falling like a stone, and then, a few feet off the ground, she released her now dead prey, braked frantically and landed on it perfectly. “Ek-ek-ek-eeekk!” she shrieked, fluttering her neck feathers in pride, her talons ripping off the pigeon’s head in her ecstasy of conquest.

  Toranaga, with Naga as his equerry, galloped up. The daimyo slid off his horse. He called her gently to fist. Obediently she stepped up onto his glove. At once she was rewarded with a morsel of flesh from a previous kill. He slipped on her hood, tightening the thongs with his teeth. Naga picked up the pigeon and put it into the half-full game bag that hung from his father’s saddle, then turned and beckoned to the distant beaters and guards.

  Toranaga got back into the saddle, the falcon comfortably on his glove, held by her thin leather jesses. He looked up into the sky, measuring the light still remaining.

  In the late afternoon the sun had broken through, and now in the valley, the day dying fast, the sun long since bedded by the western crest, it was cool and pleasant. The clouds were northward, pushed there by the dominant wind, hovering over the mountain peaks and hiding many. At this altitude, land-locked, the air was clean and sweet.

  “We should have a good day tomorrow, Naga-san. Cloudless, I’d imagine. I think I’ll hunt with the dawn.”

  “Yes, Father.” Naga watched him, perplexed, afraid to ask questions as always, yet wanting to know everything. He could not fathom how his father could be so detached after such a hideous meeting. To bow Zataki away with the due ceremony then, at once, to summon his hawks and beaters and guards and halloo them away to the rolling hills beyond the forest, seemed to Naga to be an unearthly display of self-control. Just the thought of Zataki made Naga’s flesh crawl now, and he knew that the old counselor was right: if one tenth of the conversation had been overheard, samurai would have leapt to defend their lord’s honor. If it weren’t for the threat that hung over his revered grandmother’s head, he would have rushed at Zataki himself. I suppose that’s why my father is what he is, and is where he is, he thought….

  His eyes picked out horsemen breaking from the forest below and galloping up toward them over the rolling foothills. Beyond the dark green of the forest, the river was a twisted ribbon of black. The lights in the inns blinked like fireflies. “Father!”

  “Eh? Ah yes, I see them now. Who are they?”

  “Yabu-san, Omi-san and … eight guards.”

  “Your eyes are better than mine. Ah yes, now I recognize them.”

  Naga said without thinking, “I wouldn’t have let Yabu-san go alone to Lord Zataki without—” He stopped and stuttered, “Please excuse me.”

  “Why wouldn’t you have sent Yabu-san alone?”

  Naga cursed himself for opening his mouth and quailed under Toranaga’s gaze. “Please excuse me, because then I’d never know what secret arrangement they would have made. He could, Father, easily. I would have kept them apart—please excuse me. I don’t trust him.”

  “If Yabu-san and Zataki-san plan treachery behind my back, they’ll do it whether I send a witness or not. Sometimes it’s wiser to give a quarry extra line—that’s how to catch a fish, neh?”

  “Yes, please excuse me.”

  Toranaga realized that his son didn’t understand, would never understand, would always be merely a hawk to hurl at an enemy, swift, sharp, and deadly.

  “I’m glad you understand, my son,” he said to encourage him, knowing his good qualities, and valuing them. “You’re a good son,” he added, meaning it.

  “Thank you, Father,” Naga said, filled with pride at the rare compliment. “I only hope you’ll forgive my stupidities and teach me to serve you better.”

  “You’re not stupid.” Yabu’s stupid, Toranaga almost added. The less people know the better, and it’s not necessary to stretch your mind, Naga. You’re so young—my youngest but for your half brother, Tadateru. How old is he? Ah, seven, yes, he’d be seven.

  He watched the approaching horsemen a moment. “How’s your mother, Naga?”

  “As always, the happiest lady in the world. She’ll still only let me see her once a year. Can’t you persuade her to change?”

  “No,” said Toranaga. “She’ll never change.”

  Toranaga always felt a glow when he thought of Chano-Tsuboné, his eighth official consort and Naga’s mother. He laughed to himself as he remembered her earthy humor, her dimpled cheeks and saucy bottom, the way she wriggled and the enthusiasm of her pillowing.

  She had been the widow of a farmer near Yedo who had attracted him twenty years ago. She had stayed with him three years, then asked to be allowed to return to the land. He had allowed her to go. Now she lived on a good farm near where she was born—fat and content, a dowager Buddhist nun honored by all and beholden to none. Once in a while he would go to see her and they would laugh together, without reason, friends.

  “Ah, she’s a good woman,” Toranaga said.

  Yabu and Omi rode up and dismounted. Ten paces away they stopped and bowed.

  “He gave me a scroll,” Yabu said, enr
aged, brandishing it. “‘… We invite you to leave Izu at once for Osaka, today, and present yourself at Osaka Castle for an audience, or all your lands are now forfeit and you are hereby declared outlaw.’” He crushed the scroll in his fist and threw it on the ground. “Today!”

  “Then you’d better leave at once,” Toranaga said, suddenly in a foul humor at Yabu’s truculence and stupidity.

  “Sire, I beg you,” Omi began hastily, dropping abjectly to his knees, “Lord Yabu’s your devoted vassal and I beg you humbly not to taunt him. Forgive me for being so rude, but Lord Zataki … Forgive me for being so rude.”

  “Yabu-san, please excuse the remark—it was meant kindly,” Toranaga said, cursing his lapse. “We should all have a sense of humor about such messages, neh?” He called up his falconer, gave him the bird from his fist, dismissed him and the beaters. Then he waved all samurai except Naga out of earshot, squatting on his haunches, and bade them do the same. “Perhaps you’d better tell me what happened.”

  Yabu said, “There’s almost nothing to tell. I went to see him. He received me with the barest minimum of courtesy. First there were ‘greetings’ from Lord Ishido and a blunt invitation to ally myself secretly with him, to plan your immediate assassination, and to murder every Toranaga samurai in Izu. Of course I refused to listen, and at once—at once—without any courtesy whatsoever, he handed me that!” His finger stabbed belligerently toward the scroll. “If it hadn’t been for your direct order protecting him I’d have hacked him to pieces at once! I demand you rescind that order. I cannot live with this shame. I must have revenge!”

  “Is that everything that happened?”

  “Isn’t that enough?”

  Toranaga passed over Yabu’s rudeness and scowled at Omi. “You’re to blame, neh? Why didn’t you have the intelligence to protect your Lord better? You’re supposed to be an adviser. You should have been his shield. You should have drawn Lord Zataki into the open, tried to find out what Ishido had in mind, what the bribe was, what plans they had. You’re supposed to be a valued counselor. You’re given a perfect opportunity and you waste it like an unpracticed dullard!”