Shōgun

by James Clavell

  “That was to curb the Taikō, to bring him an economic crisis in the midst of his stupid war on Korea and China, because of the Nagasaki martyrdoms he had ordered, because of his insane attack on the Church and the Expulsion Edicts he had just published expelling us all from Japan. If you cooperate with us, follow our advice, all Japan would be Christian in a single generation! What is more important—trade or the salvation of souls?”

  “My answer is souls. But since you’ve enlightened me on Jappo affairs let me put Jappo affairs in their correct perspective. Jappo silver alone unlocks Chinese silks and Chinese gold. The immense profits we make and export to Malacca and Goa and thence to Lisbon support our whole Asian Empire, all forts, all missions, all expeditions, all missionaries, all discoveries, and pays for most, if not all of our European commitments, prevents the heretics from overrunning us and keeps them out of Asia, which would provide them with all the wealth they need to destroy us and the Faith at home. What’s more important, Father—Spanish, Portuguese, and Italian Christendom, or Jappo Christendom?”

  Dell’Aqua glared down at the soldier. “Once and for all, you-will-not-involve-yourself-with-the-internal-politics-here!”

  A coal fell from the fire and spluttered on the rug. Ferriera, the nearest, kicked it to safety. “And if I’m to be—to be curbed, what do you propose to do about the heretic? Or Toranaga?”

  Dell’Aqua sat down, believing that he had won. “I don’t know, at the moment. But even to think of removing Toranaga is ludicrous. He’s very sympathetic to us, and very sympathetic to increasing trade”—his voice became more withering—“and therefore to increasing your profits.”

  “And your profits,” Ferriera said, taking the bit again.

  “Our profits are committed to the work of Our Lord. As you well know.” Dell’Aqua tiredly poured some wine, offered it, placating him. “Come now, Ferriera, let’s not quarrel in this fashion. This business of the heretic—terrible, yes. But quarreling avails nothing. We need your counsel and your brains and your strength. You can believe me, Toranaga is vital to us. Without him to restrain the other Regents, this whole country will go back to anarchy again.”

  “Yes, it’s true, Captain-General,” Alvito said. “But I don’t understand why he’s still in the castle and has agreed to a delay in the meeting. It’s incredible that he seems to have been outmaneuvered. He must surely know that Osaka’s locked tighter than a jealous crusader’s chastity belt. He should have left days ago.”

  Ferriera said, “If he’s vital, why support Onoshi and Kiyama? Haven’t those two sided with Ishido against him? Why don’t you advise them against it? It was discussed only two days ago.”

  “They told us of their decision, Captain. We did not discuss it.”

  “Then perhaps you should have, Eminence. If it’s so important, why not order them against it? With a threat of excommunication.”

  Dell’Aqua sighed. “I wish it were so simple. You don’t do things like that in Japan. They abhor outside interference in their internal affairs. Even a suggestion on our part has to be offered with extreme delicacy.”

  Ferriera drained his silver goblet and poured some more wine and calmed himself, knowing that he needed the Jesuits on his side, that without them as interpreters he was helpless. You’ve got to make this voyage successful, he told himself. You’ve soldiered and sweated eleven years in the service of the King to earn, rightfully—twenty times over—the richest prize in his power to give, the Captain-Generalship of the annual Black Ship for one year and the tenth part that goes with the honor, a tenth of all silk, of all gold, of all silver, and of all profit from each transaction. You’re rich for life now, for thirty lifetimes if you had them, all from this one single voyage. If you accomplish it.

  Ferriera’s hand went to the haft of his rapier, to the silver cross that formed part of the silver filigree. “By the Blood of Christ, my Black Ship will sail on time from Macao to Nagasaki and then, the richest treasure ship in history, she’ll head south with the monsoon in November for Goa and thence home! As Christ is my judge, that’s what’s going to happen. And he added silently, if I have to burn all Japan and all Macao and all China to do it, by the Madonna!”

  “Our prayers are with you, of course they are,” dell’Aqua replied, meaning it. “We know the importance of your voyage.”

  “Then what do you suggest? Without port clearances and safe conducts to trade, I’m hamstrung. Can’t we avoid the Regents? Perhaps there’s another way?”

  Dell’Aqua shook his head. “Martin? You’re our trade expert.”

  “I’m sorry, but it’s not possible,” Alvito said. He had listened to the heated exchange with simmering indignation. Foul-mannered, arrogant, motherless cretin, he had thought, then immediately, oh, God, give me patience, for without this man and others like him, the Church dies here. “I’m sure within a day or two, Captain-General, everything will be sealed. A week at the most. Toranaga has very special problems at the moment. It will be all right, I’m sure.”

  “I’ll wait a week. No more.” The undercurrent of menace in Ferriera’s tone was frightening. “I’d like to get my hands on that heretic. I’d rack the truth out of him. Did Toranaga say anything about the supposed fleet? An enemy fleet?”

  “No.”

  “I’d like to know that truth, because inbound, my ship will be wallowing like a fat pig, her holds bulging with more silks than have ever been sent at one time. We’re one of the biggest ships in the world but I’ve no escort, so if a single enemy frigate were to catch us at sea—or that Dutch whore, the Erasmus—we’d be at her mercy. She’d make me haul down the Imperial flag of Portugal with no trouble at all. The Ingeles had better not get his ship to sea, with gunners and cannon and shot aboard.”

  “E vero, è solamente vero,” dell’Aqua muttered.

  Ferriera finished his wine. “When’s Blackthorne being sent to Izu?”

  “Toranaga didn’t say,” Alvito replied. “I got the impression it would be soon.”

  “Today?”

  “I don’t know. Now the Regents meet in four days. I would imagine it would be after that.”

  Dell’Aqua said heavily, “Blackthorne must not be interfered with. Neither he nor Toranaga.”

  Ferriera stood up. “I’ll be getting back to my ship. You’ll dine with us? Both of you? At dusk? There’s a fine capon, a joint of beef and Madeira wine, even some new bread.”

  “Thank you, you’re very kind.” Dell’Aqua brightened slightly. “Yes, some good food again would be wonderful. You’re very kind.”

  “You’ll be informed the instant I have word from Toranaga, Captain-General,” Alvito said.

  “Thank you.”

  When Ferriera had gone and the Visitor was sure that he and Alvito could not be overheard, he said anxiously, “Martin, what else did Toranaga say?”

  “He wants an explanation, in writing, of the gun-running incident, and the request for conquistadores.”

  “Mamma mia …”

  “Toranaga was friendly, even gentle, but—well, I’ve never seen him like this before.”

  “What exactly did he say?”

  “‘I understand, Tsukku-san, that the previous head of your order of Christians, Father da Cunha, wrote to the governors of Macao, Goa, and the Spanish Viceroy in Manila, Don Sisco y Vivera, in July of 1588 of your counting, asking for an invasion of hundreds of Spanish soldiers with guns to support some Christian daimyos in a rebellion which the chief Christian priest was trying to incite against their lawful liege lord, my late master, the Taikō.

  What were the names of these daimyos? Is it true that no soldiers were sent but vast numbers of guns were smuggled into Nagasaki under your Christian seal from Macao? Is it true that the Father-Giant secretly seized these guns when he returned to Japan for the second time, as Ambassador from Goa, in March or April 1590, by your counting, and secretly smuggled them out of Nagasaki on the Portuguese ship, the Santa Cruz, back to Macao?’” Alvito wiped the sweat off
his hands.

  “Did he say anything more?”

  “Not of importance, Eminence. I had no chance to explain—he dismissed me at once. The dismissal was polite but it was still a dismissal.”

  “Where is that cursed Englishman getting his information from?”

  “I wish I knew.”

  “Those dates and names. You’re not mistaken? He said them exactly like that?”

  “No, Eminence. The names were written on a piece of paper. He showed it to me.”

  “Blackthorne’s writing?”

  “No. The names were written phonetically in Japanese, in hiragana.”

  “We’ve got to find out who’s interpreting for Toranaga. He must be astonishingly good. Surely not one of ours? It can’t be Brother Manuel, can it?” he asked bitterly, using Masamanu Jiro’s baptismal name. Jiro was the son of a Christian samurai who had been educated by the Jesuits since childhood and, being intelligent and devout, had been selected to enter the seminary to be trained to be a full priest of the four vows, of which there were none from the Japanese yet. Jiro had been with the Society for twenty years, then, incredibly, he left before being ordained and he was now a violent antagonist of the Church.

  “No. Manuel’s still in Kyushu, may he burn in hell forever. He’s still a violent enemy of Toranaga’s, he’d never help him. Fortunately, he was never party to any political secrets. The interpreter was the Lady Maria,” Alvito said, using Toda Mariko’s baptismal name.

  “Toranaga told you that?”

  “No, your Eminence. But I happen to know that she’s been visiting the castle, and she was seen with the Ingeles.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Our information is completely accurate.”

  “Good,” dell’Aqua said. “Perhaps God is helping us in His inscrutable fashion. Send for her at once.”

  “I’ve already seen her. I made it my business to meet her by chance. She was delightful as always, deferential, pious as always, but she said pointedly before I had an opportunity to question her, ‘Of course, the Empire is a very private land, Father, and some things, by custom, have to stay very private. Is it the same in Portugal, and within the Society of Jesus?’”

  “You’re her confessor.”

  “Yes. But she won’t say anything.”

  “Why?”

  “Clearly she’s been forewarned and forbidden to discuss what happened and what was said. I know them too well. In this, Toranaga’s influence would be greater than ours.”

  “Is her faith so small? Has our training of her been so inept? Surely not. She’s as devout and as good a Christian as any woman I’ve ever met. One day she’ll become a nun—perhaps even the first Japanese abbess.”

  “Yes. But she will say nothing now.”

  “The Church is in jeopardy. This is important, perhaps too important,” dell’Aqua said. “She would understand that. She’s far too intelligent not to realize it.”

  “I beg you, do not put her faith to the test in this. We must lose. She warned me. That’s what she was saying as clearly as if it were written down.”

  “Perhaps it would be good to put her to the test. For her own salvation.”

  “That’s up to you to order or not to order. But I’m afraid that she must obey Toranaga, Eminence, and not us.”

  “I will think about Maria. Yes,” dell’Aqua said. He let his eyes drift to the fire, the weight of his office crushing him. Poor Maria. That cursed heretic! How do we avoid the trap? How do we conceal the truth about the guns? How could a Father Superior and Vice-Provincial like da Cunha, who was so well trained, so experienced, with seven years’ practical knowledge in Macao and Japan—how could he make such a hideous mistake?

  “How?” he asked the flames.

  I can answer, he told himself. It’s too easy. You panic or you forget the glory of God or become pride-filled or arrogant or petrified. Who wouldn’t have, perhaps, under the same circumstances? To be received by the Taikō at sunset with favor, a triumphal meeting with pomp and ceremony—almost like an act of contrition by the Taikō, who was seemingly on the point of converting. And then to be awakened in the middle of the same night with the Taikō’s Expulsion Edicts decreeing that all religious orders were to be out of Japan within twenty days on pain of death, never to return, and worse, that all Japanese converts throughout the land were ordered to recant at once or they would immediately be exiled or put to death.

  Driven to despair, the Superior had wildly advised the Kyushu Christian daimyos—Onoshi, Misaki, Kiyama and Harima of Nagasaki among them—to rebel to save the Church and had written frantically for conquistadores to stiffen the revolt.

  The fire spluttered and danced in the iron grate. Yes, all true, dell’Aqua thought. If only I’d known, if only da Cunha had consulted me first. But how could he? It takes six months to send a letter to Goa and perhaps another six months for one to return and da Cunha did write immediately but he was the Superior and on his own and had to cope at once with the disaster.

  Though dell’Aqua had sailed immediately on receiving the letter, with hastily arranged credentials as Ambassador from the Viceroy of Goa, it had taken months to arrive at Macao, only to learn that da Cunha was dead, and that he and all Fathers were forbidden to enter Japan on pain of death.

  But the guns had already gone.

  Then, after ten weeks, came the news that the Church was not obliterated in Japan, that the Taikō was not enforcing his new laws. Only half a hundred churches had been burned. Only Takayama had been smashed. And word seeped back that though the Edicts would remain officially in force, the Taikō was now prepared to allow things to be as they were, provided that the Fathers were much more discreet in their conversions, their converts more discreet and well behaved, and that there were no more blatant public worship or demonstrations and no burning of Buddhist churches by zealots.

  Then, when the ordeal seemed at an end, dell’Aqua had remembered that the guns had gone weeks before, under Father Superior da Cunha’s seal, that they still lay in the Jesuit Nagasaki warehouses.

  More weeks of agony ensued until the guns were secretly smuggled back to Macao—yes, under my seal this time, dell’Aqua reminded himself, hopefully the secret buried forever. But those secrets never leave you in peace, however much you wish or pray.

  How much does the heretic know?

  For more than an hour his Eminence sat motionless in his high-backed leather chair, staring sightlessly at the fire. Alvito waited patiently near the bookcase, his hands in his lap. Shafted sunlight danced off the silver crucifix on the wall behind the Father-Visitor. On one side wall was a small oil by the Venetian painter Titian that dell’Aqua had bought in his youth in Padua, where he had been sent by his father to study law. The other wall was lined with his Bibles and his books, in Latin, Portuguese, Italian, and Spanish. And, from the Society’s own movable-type press at Nagasaki that he had ordered and brought at so much cost from Goa ten years ago, two shelves of Japanese books and pamphlets: devotional books and catechisms of all sorts, translated with painstaking labor into Japanese by Jesuits; works adapted from Japanese into Latin to try to help Japanese acolytes learn that language; and last, two small books that were beyond price, the first Portuguese-Japanese grammar, Father Sancho Alvarez’s life’s work, printed six years ago, and its companion, the incredible Portuguese-Latin-Japanese dictionary printed last year in Roman letters as well as hiragana script. It had been begun at his order twenty years ago, the first dictionary of Japanese words ever compiled.

  Father Alvito picked up the book and caressed it lovingly. He knew that it was a unique work of art. For eighteen years her himself had been compiling such a work and it was still nowhere near finished.

  But his was to be a dictionary with explanatory supplements and far more detailed—almost an introduction to Japan and the Japanese, and he knew without vanity that if he managed to finish it, it would be a masterpiece compared to Father Alvarez’s work, that if his name was ever to be reme
mbered, it would be because of his book and the Father-Visitor, who was the only father he had ever known.

  “You want to leave Portugal, my son, and join the service of God?” the giant Jesuit had said the first day he had met him.

  “Oh, yes, please, Father,” he had replied, craning up at him with desperate longing.

  “How old are you, my son?”

  “I don’t know, Father, perhaps ten, perhaps eleven, but I can read and write, the priest taught me, and I’m alone, I’ve no one of my own, I belong to no one….”

  Dell’Aqua had taken him to Goa and thence to Nagasaki, where he had joined the seminary of the Society of Jesus, the youngest European in Asia, at long last belonging. Then came the miracle of the gift of tongues and the positions of trust as interpreter and trade adviser, first to Harima Tadao, daimyo of the fief of Hizen in Kyushu where Nagasaki lay, and then in time to the Taikō himself. He was ordained, and later even attained the privilege of the fourth vow. This was the special vow over and above the normal vows of poverty, chastity, and obedience, given only to the elite of Jesuits, the vow of obedience to the Pope personally—to be his personal tool for the work of God, to go where the Pope personally ordered and do what he personally wanted; to become, as the founder of the Society, the Basque soldier Loyola, designed, one of the Regimini Militantis Ecclesiae, one of the professed, the special private soldiers of God for His elected general on earth, the Vicar of Christ.

  I’ve been so very lucky, Alvito thought. Oh, God, help me to help.

  At last dell’Aqua got up and stretched and went to the window. Sun sparkled off the gilded tiles of the soaring central castle donjon, the sheer elegance of the structure belying its massive strength. Tower of evil, he thought. How long will it stand there to remind each one of us? Is it only fifteen—no, it was seventeen years ago that the Taikō put four hundred thousand men to building and excavating, and bled the country to pay for this, his monument, and then, in two short years, Osaka Castle was finished. Incredible man! Incredible people! Yes. And there it stands, indestructible. Except to the Finger of God. He can humble it in an instant, if He wishes. Oh, God, help me to do Thy will.