Shōgun

by James Clavell

  Blackthorne turned helplessly as the shoji of his room blew out. That wall vanished and so did the opposite one. Soon all the walls were in shreds. He could see throughout the house. But the roof supports held and the tiled roof did not shift. Bedding and lanterns and mats skittered away, servants chasing them.

  The storm demolished the walls of all the houses in the village. And some dwellings were obliterated completely. No one was badly hurt. At dawn the wind subsided and men and women began to rebuild their homes.

  By noon the walls of Blackthorne’s house were remade and half the village was back to normal. The light lattice walls required little work to put up once more, only wooden pegs and lashings for joints that were always morticed and carpentered with great skill. Tiled and thatched roofs were more difficult but he saw that people helped each other, smiling and quick and very practiced. Mura hurried through the village, advising, guiding, chivying, and supervising. He came up the hill to inspect progress.

  “Mura, you made …” Blackthorne sought the words. “You make it look easy.”

  “Ah, thank you, Anjin-san. Yes, thank you, but we were fortunate there were no fires.”

  “You fires oftens?”

  “So sorry, ‘Do you have fires often?’”

  “Do you have fires often?” Blackthorne repeated.

  “Yes. But I’d ordered the village prepared. Prepared, you understand?”

  “Yes.”

  “When these storms come—” Mura stiffened and glanced over Blackthorne’s shoulder. His bow was low.

  Omi was approaching in his bouncing easy stride, his friendly eyes only on Blackthorne, as though Mura did not exist. “Morning, Anjin-san,” he said.

  “Morning, Omi-san. Your house is good?”

  “All right. Thank you.” Omi looked at Mura and said brusquely, “The men should be fishing, or working the fields. The women too. Yabu-sama wants his taxes. Are you trying to shame me in front of him with laziness?”

  “No, Omi-sama. Please excuse me. I will see to it at once.”

  “It shouldn’t be necessary to tell you. I won’t tell you next time.”

  “I apologize for my stupidity.” Mura hurried away.

  “You’re all right today,” Omi said to Blackthorne. “No troubles in the night?”

  “Good today, thank you. And you?”

  Omi spoke at length. Blackthorne did not catch all of it, as he had not understood all of what Omi had said to Mura, only a few words here, a few there.

  “So sorry. I don’t understand.”

  “Enjoy? How did you like yesterday? The attack? The ‘pretend’ battle?”

  “Ah, I understand. Yes, I think good.”

  “And the witnessing?”

  “Please?”

  “Witnessing! The ronin Nebara Jozen and his men?” Omi imitated the bayonet lunge with a laugh. “You witnessed their deaths. Deaths! You understand?”

  “Ah, yes. The truth, Omi-san, not like killings.”

  “Karma, Anjin-san.”

  “Karma. Today trainings?”

  “Yes. But Yabu-sama wants to talk only. Later. Understand, Anjin-san? Talk only, later,” Omi repeatedly patiently.

  “Talk only. Understand.”

  “You’re beginning to speak our language very well. Yes. Very well.”

  “Thank you. Difficult. Small time.”

  “Yes. But you’re a good man and you try very hard. That’s important. We’ll get you time, Anjin-san, don’t worry—I’ll help you.” Omi could see that most of what he was saying was lost, but he didn’t mind, so long as the Anjin-san got the gist. “I want to be your friend,” he said, then repeated it very clearly. “Do you understand?”

  “Friend? I understand ‘friend.’”

  Omi pointed at himself then at Blackthorne. “I want to be your friend.”

  “Ah! Thank you. Honored.”

  Omi smiled again and bowed, equal to equal, and walked away. “Friends with him?” Blackthorne muttered. “Has he forgotten? I haven’t.”

  “Ah, Anjin-san,” Fujiko said, hurrying up to him. “Would you like to eat? Yabu-sama is going to send for you soon.”

  “Yes, thank you. Many breakings?” he asked, pointing at the house.

  “Excuse me, so sorry, but you should say, ‘Was there much breakage?’”

  “Was there much breakage?”

  “No real damage, Anjin-san.”

  “Good. No hurtings?”

  “Excuse me, so sorry, you should say, ‘No one was hurt?’”

  “Thank you. No one was hurt?”

  “No, Anjin-san. No one was hurt.”

  Suddenly Blackthorne was sick of being continually corrected, so he terminated the conversation with an order. “I’m hunger. Food!”

  “Yes, immediately. So sorry, but you should say, ‘I’m hungry.’ A person has hunger, but is hungry.” She waited until he had said it correctly, then went away.

  He sat on the veranda and watched Ueki-ya, the old gardener, tidying up the damage and the scattered leaves. He could see women and children repairing the village, and boats going to sea through the chop. Other villagers trudged off to the fields, the wind abating now. I wonder what taxes they have to pay, he asked himself. I’d hate to be a peasant here. Not only here—anywhere.

  At first light he had been distressed by the apparent devastation of the village. “That storm’d hardly touch an English house,” he had said to Mariko. “Oh, it was a gale all right, but not a bad one. Why don’t you build out of stone or bricks?”

  “Because of the earthquakes, Anjin-san. Any stone building would, of course, split and collapse and probably hurt or kill the inhabitants. With our style of building there’s little damage. You’ll see how quickly everything’s put back together.”

  “Yes, but you’ve fire hazards. And what happens when the Great Winds come? The tai-funs?”

  “It is very bad then.”

  She had explained about the tai-funs and their seasons—from June until September, sometimes earlier, sometimes later. And about the other natural catastrophes.

  A few days ago there had been another tremor. It was slight. A kettle had fallen off the brazier and overturned it. Fortunately the coals had been smothered. One house in the village had caught fire but the fire did not spread. Blackthorne had never seen such efficient fire fighting. Apart from that, no one in the village had paid much attention. They had merely laughed and gone on with their lives.

  “Why do people laugh?”

  “We consider it very shameful and impolite to show strong feelings, particularly fear, so we hide them with a laugh or a smile. Of course we’re all afraid, though we must never show it.”

  Some of you show it, Blackthorne thought,

  Nebara Jozen had shown it. He had died badly, weeping with fear, begging for mercy, the killing slow and cruel. He had been allowed to run, then bayoneted carefully amidst laughter, then forced to run again, and hamstrung. Then he had been allowed to crawl away, then gutted slowly while he screamed, his blood dribbling with the phlegm, then left to die.

  Next Naga had turned his attention to the other samurai. At once three of Jozen’s men knelt and bared their bellies and put their short knives in front of them to commit ritual seppuku. Three of their comrades stood behind them as their seconds, long swords out and raised, two-handed, all of them now unmolested by Naga and his men. As the samurai who knelt reached out for their knives, they stretched their necks and the three swords flashed down and decapitated them with the single blow. Teeth chattered in the fallen heads, then were still. Flies swarmed.

  Then two samurai knelt, the last man standing ready as second. The first of those kneeling was decapitated in the manner of his comrades as he reached for the knife. The other said, “No. I, Hirasaki Kenko, I know how to die—how a samurai should die.”

  Kenko was a lithe young man, perfumed and almost pretty, pale-skinned, his hair well oiled and very neat. He picked up his knife reverently and partially wrapped the blade wi
th his sash to improve his grip.

  “I protest Nebara Jozen-san’s death and those of his men,” he said firmly, bowing to Naga. He took a last look at the sky and gave his second a last reassuring smile. “Sayonara, Tadeo.” Then he slid the knife deep into the left side of his stomach. He ripped it full across with both hands and took it out and plunged it deep again, just above his groin, and jerked it up in silence. His lacerated bowels spilled into his lap and as his hideously contorted, agonized face pitched forward, his second brought the sword down in a single slashing arc.

  Naga personally picked up this head by the hair knot and wiped off the dirt and closed the eyes. Then he told his men to see that the head was washed, wrapped, and sent to Ishido with full honors, with a complete report on Hirasaki Kenko’s bravery.

  The last samurai knelt. There was no one left to second him. He too was young. His fingers trembled and fear consumed him. Twice he had done his duty to his comrades, twice cut cleanly, honorably, saving them the trial of pain and the shame of fear. And once he had waited for his dearest friend to die as a samurai should die, self-immolated in pride-filled silence, then again cut cleanly with perfect skill. He had never killed before.

  His eyes focused on his own knife. He bared his stomach and prayed for his lover’s courage. Tears were gathering but he willed his face into a frozen, smiling mask. He unwound his sash and partially wrapped the blade. Then, because the youth had done his duty well, Naga signaled to his lieutenant.

  This samurai came forward and bowed, introducing himself formally. “Osaragi Nampo, Captain of Lord Toranaga’s Ninth Legion. I would be honored to act as your second.”

  “Ikomo Tadeo, First Officer, vassal of Lord Ishido,” the youth replied. “Thank you. I would be honored to accept you as my second.”

  His death was quick, painless, and honorable.

  The heads were collected. Later Jozen shrieked into life again. His frantic hands tried helplessly to remake his belly.

  They left him to the dogs that had come up from the village.

  CHAPTER 34

  At the Hour of the Horse, eleven o’clock in the morning, ten days after the death of Jozen and all his men, a convoy of three galleys rounded the headland at Anjiro. They were crammed with troops. Toranaga came ashore. Beside him was Buntaro.

  “First I wish to see an attack exercise, Yabu-san, with the original five hundred,” Toranaga said. “At once.”

  “Could it be tomorrow? That would give me time to prepare,” Yabu said affably, but inwardly he was furious at the suddenness of Toranaga’s arrival and incensed with his spies for not forewarning him. He had had barely enough time to hurry to the shore with a guard of honor. “You must be tired—”

  “I’m not tired, thank you,” Toranaga said, intentionally brusque. “I don’t need ‘defenders’ or an elaborate setting or screams or pretended deaths. You forget, old friend, I’ve acted in enough Nōh plays and staged enough to be able to use my imagination. I’m not a ronin—peasant! Please order it mounted at once.”

  They were on the beach beside the wharf. Toranaga was surrounded by elite guards, and more were pouring off the moored galley. Another thousand heavily armed samurai were crammed into the two galleys that waited just offshore. It was a warm day, the sky cloudless, with a light surf and heat haze on the horizon.

  “Igurashi, see to it!” Yabu bottled his rage. Since the first message he had sent concerning Jozen’s arrival eleven days ago, there had been the merest trickle of noncommittal reports from Yedo from his own espionage network, and nothing but sporadic and infuriatingly inconclusive replies from Toranaga to his ever more urgent signals: “Your message received and under serious study.” “Shocked by your news about my son. Please wait for further instructions.” Then, four days ago: “Those responsible for Jozen’s death will be punished. They are to remain at their posts but to continue under arrest until I can consult with Lord Ishido.” And yesterday, the bombshell: “Today I received the new Council of Regents’ formal invitation to the Osaka Flower-Viewing Ceremony. When do you plan to leave? Advise immediately.”

  “Surely that doesn’t mean Toranaga’s actually going?” Yabu had asked, baffled.

  “He’s forcing you to commit yourself,” Igurashi had replied. “Whatever you say traps you.”

  “I agree,” Omi had said.

  “Why aren’t we getting news from Yedo? What’s happened to our spies?”

  “It’s almost as though Toranaga’s put a blanket over the whole Kwanto,” Omi had told him. “Perhaps he knows who your spies are!”

  “Today’s the tenth day, Sire,” Igurashi had reminded Yabu. “Everything’s ready for your departure to Osaka. Do you want to leave or not?”

  Now, here on the beach, Yabu blessed his guardian kami who had persuaded him to accept Omi’s advice to stay until the last possible day, three days hence.

  “About your final message, Toranaga-sama, the one that arrived yesterday,” he said. “You’re surely not going to Osaka?”

  “Are you?”

  “I acknowledge you as leader. Of course, I’ve been waiting for your decision.”

  “My decision is easy, Yabu-sama. But yours is hard. If you go, the Regents will certainly chop you for destroying Jozen and his men. And Ishido is really very angry—and rightly so. Neh?”

  “I didn’t do it, Lord Toranaga. Jozen’s destruction—however merited—was against my orders.”

  “It was just as well Naga-san did it, neh? Otherwise you’d certainly have had to do it yourself. I’ll discuss Naga-san later, but come along, we’ll talk as we walk up to the training ground. No need to waste time.” Toranaga set off at his brisk pace, his guards following closely. “Yes, you really are in a dilemma, old friend. If you go, you lose your head, you lose Izu, and of course your whole Kasigi family goes to the execution ground. If you stay, the Council will order the same thing.” He looked across at him. “Perhaps you should do what you suggested I do the last time I was in Anjiro. I’ll be happy to be your second. Perhaps your head will ease Ishido’s ill humor when I meet him.”

  “My head’s of no value to Ishido.”

  “I don’t agree.”

  Buntaro intercepted them. “Excuse me, Sire. Where do you want the men billeted?”

  “On the plateau. Make your permanent camp there. Two hundred guards will stay with me at the fortress. When you’ve made the arrangements join me. I’ll want you to see the training exercise.” Buntaro hurried off.

  “Permanent camp? You’re staying here?” Yabu asked.

  “No, only my men. If the attack’s as good as I hear, we’ll be forming nine assault battalions of five hundred samurai each.”

  “What?”

  “Yes. I’ve brought another thousand selected samurai for you now. You’ll provide the other thousand.”

  “But there aren’t enough guns and the train—”

  “So sorry, you’re wrong. I’ve brought a thousand muskets and plenty of powder and shot. The rest will arrive within a week with another thousand men.”

  “We’ll have nine assault battalions?”

  “Yes. They’ll be one regiment. Buntaro will command.”

  “Perhaps it would be better if I did that. He’ll be—”

  “Oh, but you forget the Council meets in a few days. How can you command a regiment if you’re going to Osaka? Haven’t you prepared to leave?”

  Yabu stopped. “We’re allies. We agreed you’re the leader and we pissed on the bargain. I’ve kept it, and I’m keeping it. Now I ask, what’s your plan? Do we war or don’t we?”

  “No one’s declared war on me. Yet.”

  Yabu craved to unsheath the Yoshitomo blade and splash Toranaga’s blood on the dirt, once and for all, whatever the cost. He could feel the breath of the Toranaga guards all around him but he was beyond caring now. “Isn’t the Council your death knell too? You said that yourself. Once they’ve met, you have to obey. Neh?”

  “Of course.” Toranaga waved his guards ba
ck, leaning easily on his sword, his stocky legs wide and firm.

  “Then what’s your decision? What do you propose?”

  “First to see an attack.”

  “Then?”

  “Then to go hunting.”

  “Are you going to Osaka?”

  “Of course.”

  “When?”

  “When it pleases me.”

  “You mean, not when it pleases Ishido.”

  “I mean when it pleases me.”

  “We’ll be isolated,” Yabu said. “We can’t fight all Japan, even with an assault regiment, and we can’t possibly train it in ten days.”

  “Yes.”

  “Then what’s the plan?”

  “What exactly happened with Jozen and Naga-san?”

  Yabu told it truly, omitting only the fact that Naga had been manipulated by Omi.

  “And my barbarian? How’s the Anjin-san behaving?”

  “Good. Very good.” Yabu told him about the attempted seppuku on the first night, and how he had neatly bent the Anjin-san to their mutual advantage.

  “That was clever,” Toranaga said slowly. “I’d never have guessed he’d try seppuku. Interesting.”

  “It was fortunate I told Omi to be ready.”

  “Yes.”

  Impatiently Yabu waited for more but Toranaga remained silent.

  “This news I sent about Lord Ito becoming a Regent,” Yabu said at last. “Did you know about it before I sent word?”

  Toranaga did not answer for a moment. “I’d heard rumors. Lord Ito’s a perfect choice for Ishido. The poor fool’s always enjoyed being shafted while he has his nose up another man’s anus. They’ll make good bedfellows.”

  “His vote will destroy you, even so.”

  “Providing there’s a Council.”

  “Ah, then you do have a plan?”

  “I always have a plan—or plans—didn’t you know? But you, what’s your plan, Ally? If you want to leave, leave. If you want to stay, stay. Choose!” He walked on.

  Mariko handed Toranaga a scroll of closely written characters.

  “Is this everything?” he asked.

  “Yes, Sire,” she replied, not liking the stuffiness of the cabin or being aboard the galley again, even moored at the dock. “A lot of what’s in the War Manual will be repeated, but I made notes every night and wrote down everything as it happened—or tried to. It’s almost like a diary of what was said and happened since you left.”