Shōgun

by James Clavell

  “What about the nineteen days—eighteen now? Toranaga must be here, neh?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then isn’t this as Ishido says, a waste of time?”

  “Truly I don’t know. I only know that nineteen, eighteen, or even three days can be an eternity.”

  “Or tomorrow?”

  “Tomorrow also. Or the next day.”

  “And if Ishido will not let thee go tomorrow?”

  “This is the only chance we have. All of us. Ishido must be humbled.”

  “Thou art certain?”

  “Yes, before God, Anjin-san.”

  Blackthorne clawed out of a nightmare again but the moment he was truly awake the dream vanished. Grays were staring at him through the mosquito net in the light of early dawn.

  “Good morning,” he said to them, hating to have been watched while he slept.

  He came from under the net and went out into the corridor, down staircases, until he came to the garden toilet. Guards, both Browns and Grays, accompanied him. He hardly noticed them.

  The dawn was smoky. The sky to the east was already burnt clean of the haze. The air smelled salt and wet from the sea. Flies already swarmed. It’ll be hot today, he thought.

  Footsteps approached. Through the door opening he saw Chimmoko. She waited patiently, chatting with the guards, and when he came out she bowed and greeted him.

  “Where Mariko-san?” he asked.

  “With Kiritsubo-san, Anjin-san.”

  “Thank you. When leave?”

  “Soon, Sire.”

  “Say to Mariko-san like say good morning before leave.” He said it again although Mariko had already promised to find him before she went back to her home to collect her belongings.

  “Yes, Anjin-san.”

  He nodded as a samurai should and left her and went to wash and bathe. It was not custom to have a hot bath in the morning. But every morning he would always go there and pour cold water all over himself. “Eeeee, Anjin-san,” his guards or watchers would always say, “that surely is most very good for your health.”

  He dressed and went to the battlements that overlooked the forecourt of this castle wing. He wore a Brown kimono and swords, his pistol concealed under his sash. Browns on sentry duty welcomed him as one of them, though very disquieted by his Grays. Other Grays teemed on the battlements opposite, overlooking them, and outside their gate.

  “Many Grays, many more than usual. Understand, Anjin-san?” Yoshinaka said, coming out onto the balcony.

  “Yes.”

  The captain of the Grays moved up to them. “Please don’t go too near the edge, Anjin-san. So sorry.”

  The sun was on the horizon. Its warmth felt good on Blackthorne’s skin. There were no clouds in the sky and the breeze was dying.

  The captain of the Grays pointed at Blackthorne’s sword. “Is that Oil Seller, Anjin-san?”

  “Yes, Captain.”

  “May I be allowed to see the blade?”

  Blackthorne drew the sword part way from its scabbard. Custom decreed a sword should not be totally drawn unless it was to be used.

  “Eeee, beautiful, neh?” the captain said. The others, Browns and Grays, crowded round, equally impressed.

  Blackthorne shoved the sword back, not displeased. “Honor to wear Oil Seller.”

  “Can you use a sword, Anjin-san?” the captain asked.

  “No, Captain. Not as samurai. But I learn.”

  “Ah, yes. That’s very good.”

  In the forecourt two stories below, Browns were exercising, still in shadow. Blackthorne watched them. “How many samurai here, Yoshinaka-san?”

  “Four hundred and three, Anjin-san, including two hundred that came with me.”

  “And out there?”

  “Grays?” Yoshinaka laughed. “Lots—very many.”

  The Grays’ captain showed his teeth with his grin. “Almost one hundred thousand. You understand, Anjin-san, ‘one hundred thousand’?”

  “Yes. Thank you.”

  They all looked away as a phalanx of porters and pack horses and three palanquins rounded the far corner and approached under guard from the end of the access to this cul-de-sac. The avenue was still deeply shadowed and dark between the tall guarded walls. Flares still burned in wall sockets. Even from this distance they could see the nervousness of the porters. Grays across from them seemed more hushed and attentive, and so did the Browns on guard.

  The tall gates opened to admit the party, their escorting Grays staying outside with their comrades, then closed again. The great iron bar clanged back into the large brackets that were set deep into the granite walls. No portcullis guarded this gateway.

  Yoshinaka said, “Anjin-san, please excuse me. I must see all is well. All ready, neh?”

  “I wait here.”

  “Yes.” Yoshinaka left.

  The Grays’ captain went to the parapet and watched below. Christ Jesus, Blackthorne was thinking, I hope she’s right and Toranaga’s right. Not long now, eh? He measured the sun and muttered vaguely to himself in Portuguese, “Not long to go.”

  Unconsciously the captain grunted his agreement and Blackthorne realized the man understood him clearly in Portuguese, was therefore Catholic and another possible assassin. His mind rushed back to last night, and he remembered that everything he had said to Mariko had been in Latin. Was it all in Latin? Mother of God, what about her saying “… I can order them killed?” Was that in Latin? Does he speak Latin, too, like that other captain, the one who was killed during the first escape from Osaka?

  The sun was gathering strength now and Blackthorne took his eyes off the captain of Grays. If you didn’t murder me in the night maybe you’ll never do it, he thought, putting this Catholic into a compartment.

  He saw Kiri come out into the forecourt below. She was supervising maids bearing panniers and chests for the pack horses. She looked tiny, standing on the main steps where Sazuko had pretended to slip, initiating Toranaga’s escape. Just to the north was the lovely garden and tiny rustic house where he’d first seen Mariko and Yaemon, the Heir. His mind journeyed with the noon cortege out of the castle, curling through the maze, then safely out, through the woods, and down to the sea. He prayed that she would be safe and everyone safe. Once they were away, Yabu and he would leave and go to the galley and out to sea.

  From here on the battlements the sea seemed so near. The sea beckoned. And the horizon.

  “Konbanwa, Anjin-san.”

  “Mariko-san!” She was as radiant as ever.

  “Konbanwa,” he said, then in Latin, nonchalantly, “Beware of this Gray man—he understands,” continuing instantly in Portuguese to give her time to cover, “yes, I don’t understand how you can be so beautiful after so little sleep.” He took her arm and put her back to the captain, guiding her nearer the parapet. “Look, there’s Kiritsubo-san!”

  “Thank you. Yes—yes, I’m … thank you.”

  “Why don’t you wave to Kiritsubo-san?”

  She did as she was asked and called out her name. Kiri saw them and waved back.

  After a moment, relaxed again and in control, Mariko said, “Thank you, Anjin-san. You’re very clever and very wise.” She greeted the captain casually and wandered to a ledge and sat down, first making sure that the seat was clean. “It’s going to be a fine day, neh?”

  “Yes. How did you sleep?”

  “I didn’t, Anjin-san. Kiri and I chatted the last of the night away and I saw the dawn come. I love dawns. You?”

  “My rest was disturbed but—”

  “Oh, so sorry.”

  “I’m fine now—really. You’re leaving now?”

  “Yes, but I’ll be back at noon to collect Kiri-san and the Lady Sazuko.” She turned her face away from the captain and said in Latin, “Thou. Remember the Inn of the Blossoms?”

  “Assuredly. How could I forget?”

  “If there is a delay … tonight will be thus—as perfect and as peace-filled.”

  “Ah, that
that could be possible. But I would prefer thee safely on thy way.”

  Mariko continued in Portuguese. “Now I must go, Anjin-san. You will please excuse me?”

  “I’ll take you to the gate.”

  “No, please. Watch me from here. You and the captain can watch from here, neh?”

  “Of course,” Blackthorne said at once, understanding. “Go with God.”

  “And thee.”

  He stayed on the parapet. While he waited sunlight fell into the forecourt, thrusting the shadows away. Mariko appeared below. He saw her greet Kiri and Yoshinaka and they chatted together, no enemy Grays near them. Then they bowed. She looked up at him, shading her eyes, and waved gaily. He waved back. The gates were pushed aside and, with Chimmoko a few discreet paces behind her, she walked out, accompanied by her escort of ten Browns. The gates swung closed once more. For a moment she was lost from view. When she reappeared, fifty Grays from the swarm outside their walls had surrounded them as a further honor guard. The cortege marched away down the sunless avenue. He watched her until she had turned the far corner. She never looked back.

  “Go eat now, Captain,” he said.

  “Yes, of course, Anjin-san.”

  Blackthorne went to his own quarters and ate rice, pickled vegetables, and broiled chunks of fish, followed by early fruit from Kyushu—crisp small apples, apricots, and hard-fleshed plums. He savored the tart fruit and the cha.

  “More, Anjin-san?” the servant asked.

  “No, thank you.” He offered fruits to his guards and they were accepted gratefully, and when they had finished, he went back to the sunny battlements again. He would have liked to examine the priming of his concealed pistol but he thought it better not to draw attention to it. He had checked it once in the night as best he could under the sheet, under the mosquito net. But without actually seeing, he could not be sure of the tamping or the flint.

  There’s nothing more you can do, he thought. You’re a puppet. Be patient, Anjin-san, your watch ends at noon.

  He gauged the height of the sun. It will be the beginning of the two-hour period of the Snake. After the Snake comes the Horse. In the middle of the Horse is high noon.

  Temple bells throughout the castle and the city tolled the beginning of the Snake and he was pleased with his accuracy. He noticed a small stone on the battlement floor. He went forward and picked up the stone and placed it carefully on a ledge of an embrasure in the sun, then leaned back once more, propping his feet comfortably, and stared at it.

  Grays were watching his every movement. The captain frowned. After a while he said, “Anjin-san, what’s the significance of the stone?”

  “Please?”

  “The stone. Why stone, Anjin-san?”

  “Ah! I watch stone grow.”

  “Oh so sorry, I understand,” the captain replied apologetically. “Please excuse me for disturbing you.”

  Blackthorne laughed to himself, and turned his gaze back to the stone. “Grow, you bastard,” he said. But as much as he cursed it, ordered it, or cajoled it, it would not grow.

  Do you really expect to see a rock growing? he asked himself. No, of course not, but it passes the time and promotes tranquillity. You can’t have enough wa. Neh?

  Eeeeee, where’s the next attack coming from? There’s no defense against an assassin if the assassin is prepared to die. Is there?

  Rodrigues checked the priming of a musket he had taken at random from the rack beside the stern cannon. He found the flint was worn and pitted and therefore dangerous. Without a word he hurled the musket at the gunner. The man just managed to catch it before the stock smashed into his face.

  “Madonna, Senhor Pilot,” the man cried out, “there’s no need—”

  “Listen, you motherless turd, the next time I find anything wrong with a musket or cannon during your watch, you’ll get fifty lashes and lose three months’ pay. Bosun!”

  “Yes, Pilot?” Pesaro, the bosun, heaved his bulk nearer and scowled at the young gunner.

  “Turn out both watches! Check every musket and cannon, everything. Only God knows when we’ll need ’em.”

  “I’ll see to it, Pilot.” The bosun shoved his face at the gunner. “I’ll piss in your grog tonight, Gomez, for all the extra work an’ you’d better lap it up with a smile. Get to work!”

  There were eight small cannon amidships on the main deck, four port and four starboard and a bowchaser. Enough to beat off any uncannoned pirates but not enough to press home an attack. The small frigate was two-masted, called the Santa Luz.

  Rodrigues waited until the crews were at their tasks, then turned away and leaned on the gunwale. The castle glinted dully in the sun, the color of old pewter, except for the donjon with its blue and white walls and golden roofs. He spat into the water and watched the spittle to see if it would reach the jetty pilings as he hoped or go into the sea. It went into the sea. “Piss,” he muttered to no one, wishing he had his own frigate, the Santa Maria, under him right now. God-cursed bad luck that she’s in Macao just when we need her.

  “What’s amiss, Captain-General?” he had asked a few days ago at Nagasaki when he’d been routed out of his warm bed in his house that overlooked the city and the harbor.

  “I’ve got to get to Osaka at once,” Ferriera had said, plumed and arrogant as any bantam cock, even at this early hour. “An urgent signal’s arrived from dell’Aqua.”

  “What’s the matter now?”

  “He didn’t say—just that it was vital to the future of the Black Ship.”

  “Madonna, what mischief’re they up to now? What’s vital? Our ship’s as sound as any ship afloat, her bottom’s clean and rigging perfect. Trade’s better than we ever imagined and on time, the monkeys’re behaving themselves, pigarse Harima’s confident, and—” He stopped as the thought exploded in his brain. “The Ingeles! He’s put to sea?”

  “I don’t know. But if he has …”

  Rodrigues had stared out of the great harbor mouth, half expecting to see Erasmus already blockading there, showing the hated flag of England, waiting there like a rabid dog against the day they’d have to put to sea for Macao and home. “Jesu, Mother of God and all saints, let that not happen!”

  “What’s our fastest way? Lorcha?”

  “The Santa Luz, Captain-General. We can sail within the hour. Listen, the Ingeles can do nothing without men. Don’t forget—” “Madonna, you listen, he can speak their jibberish now, eh? Why can’t he use monkeys, eh? There are enough Jappo pirates to crew him twenty times over.”

  “Yes, but not gunners and not sailors as he’d need ’em—he’s not got time to train Jappos. By next year maybe, but not against us.”

  “Why in the name of the Madonna and the saints the priests gave him one of their dictionaries I’ll never know. Meddling bastards! They must’ve been possessed by the Devil! It’s almost as though the Ingeles is protected by the Devil!”

  “I tell you he’s just clever!”

  “There are many who’ve been here for twenty years and can’t speak a word of Jappo gibberish, but the Ingeles can, eh? I tell you he’s given his soul to Satan, and in return for the black arts he’s protected. How else do you explain it? How many years’ve you been trying to talk their tongue and you even live with one? Leche, he could easily use Jappo pirates.”

  “No, Captain-General, he’s got to get men from here and we’re waiting for him and you’ve already put anyone suspect in irons.”

  “With twenty thousand cruzados in silver and a promise about the Black Ship, he can buy all the men he needs, including the jailers and the God-cursed jail around them. Cabron! Perhaps he can buy you, too.”

  “Watch your tongue!”

  “You’re the motherless, milkless Spaniard, Rodrigues! It’s your fault he’s alive, you’re responsible. Twice you let him escape!” The Captain-General had squared up to him in rage. “You should have killed him when he was in your power.”

  “Perhaps, but that’s froth on my life’s wake,”
Rodrigues had said bitterly. “I went to kill him when I could.”

  “Did you?”

  “I’ve told you twenty times. Have you no ears! Or is Spanish dung as usual in your ears as well as in your mouth!” His hand had reached for his pistol and the Captain-General had drawn his sword, then the frightened Japanese girl was between them. “Prees, Rod-san, no angers—no quarre’, prees! Christian, prees!”

  The blinding rage had fallen off both of them, and Ferriera had said, “I tell you before God, the Ingeles must be Devil-spawned—I almost killed you, and you me, Rodrigues. I see it clearly now. He’s put a spell on all of us—particularly you!”

  Now in the sunshine at Osaka, Rodrigues reached for the crucifix he wore around his neck and he prayed a desperate prayer that he be protected from all warlocks and his immortal soul kept safe from Satan.

  Isn’t the Captain-General right, isn’t that the only answer, he reasoned again, filled with foreboding. The Ingeles’ life is charmed. Now he’s an intimate of the archfiend Toranaga, now he’s got his ship back and the money back and wako, in spite of everything, and he does speak like one of them and that’s impossible so quickly even with the dictionary, but he did get the dictionary and priceless help. Jesus God and Madonna, take the Evil Eye off me!

  “Why’d you give the Ingeles the dictionary, Father?” he had asked Alvito at Mishima. “Surely you should have delayed that?”

  “Yes, Rodrigues,” Father Alvito had told him confidently, “and I needn’t have gone out of my way to help him. But I’m convinced there’s a chance of converting him. I’m so sure. Toranaga’s finished now…. It’s just one man and a soul. I have to try to save him.”

  Priests, Rodrigues thought. Leche on all priests. But not on dell’Aqua and Alvito. Oh, Madonna, I apologize for all my evil thoughts about him and the Father Alvito. Forgive me and bury the Ingeles somehow before I have him in my sights. I do not wish to kill him because of my Holy Oath, even though, before Thee, I know he must die quickly….