Shōgun

by James Clavell

  “Thank you, Sire, but I don’t deserve such an honor,” Omi said, exulting.

  “Naga will be second-in-command. Next: You’re appointed head of the Kasigis and your new fief will be the border lands of Izu, from Atami on the east to Nimazu on the west, including the capital, Mishima, with a yearly income of thirty thousand koku.”

  “Yes, Sire, thank you. Please … I don’t know how to thank you. I’m not worthy of such honors.”

  “Make sure you are, Omi-sama,” Toranaga said good-naturedly. “Take possession of the castle at Mishima at once. Leave Yokohama today. Report to Lord Sudara at Mishima. The Musket Regiment will be sent to Hakoné and be there in four days. Next, privately, for your knowledge alone: I’m sending the Anjin-san back to Anjiro. He’ll build a new ship there. You’ll pass over your present fief to him. At once.”

  “Yes, Sire. May I give him my house?”

  “Yes, you may,” Toranaga said, though of course a fief contained everything therein, houses, property, peasants, fishermen, boats. Both men looked off as Kiku’s trilling laugh came through the air and they saw her playing the fan-throwing game in the far courtyard with her maid, Suisen, whose contract Toranaga had also bought as a consolation gift to Kiku after the unfortunate miscarriage of his child.

  Omi’s adoration was clear for all the world to see, much as he tried to hide it, so sudden and unexpected had been her appearance. Then they saw her look toward them. A lovely smile spread over her face and she waved gaily and Toranaga waved back and she returned to her game.

  “She’s pretty, neh?”

  Omi felt his ears burning. “Yes.”

  Toranaga had originally bought her contract to exclude Omi from her, because she was one of Omi’s weaknesses and clearly a prize, to give or withhold, until Omi had declared and proved his real allegiance and had assisted or not assisted in Yabu’s removal. And he had assisted, miraculously, and proved himself many times. Investigating the servants had been Omi’s suggestion. Many, if not all, of Yabu’s fine ideas had come from Omi. Omi had, a month ago, uncovered the details of Yabu’s secret plot with some of the Izu officers in the Musket Regiment to assassinate Naga and the other Brown officers during battle.

  “There’s no mistake, Omi-san?” he had asked when Omi reported to him secretly at Mishima, while he was awaiting the outcome of Mariko’s challenge.

  “No, Sire. Kiwami Matano of the Third Izu Regiment is outside.”

  The Izu officer, a jowly, heavy set, middle-aged man, had laid out the whole plot, given the passwords, and explained how the scheme would work. “I couldn’t live with the shame of this knowledge anymore, Sire. You are our liege lord. Of course, in fairness I should say the plan was only if necessary. I supposed that meant if Yabu-sama decided to change sides suddenly during the battle. So sorry, you were to be the prime target, then Naga-san. Then Lord Sudara.”

  “When was this plan first ordered and who knows about it?”

  “Shortly after the regiment was formed. Fifty-four of us know—I’ve given all the names in writing to Omi-sama. The plan, code name ‘Plum Tree,’ was confirmed personally by Kasigi Yabu-sama before he left for Osaka the last time.”

  “Thank you. I commend your loyalty. You are to keep this secret until I tell you. Then you will be given a fief worth five thousand koku.”

  “Please excuse me, I deserve nothing, Sire. I beg permission to commit seppuku for having held this shameful secret so long.”

  “Permission is refused. It will be as I ordered.”

  “Please excuse me, I do not deserve such reward. At least allow me to remain as I am. This is my duty and merits no reward. Truly I should be punished.”

  “What’s your income now?”

  “Four hundred koku, Sire. It’s enough.”

  “I’ll consider what you say, Kiwami-san.”

  After the officer had left he had said, “What did you promise him, Omi-san?”

  “Nothing, Sire. He came to me of his own accord yesterday.”

  “An honest man? You’re telling me he’s an honest man?”

  “I don’t know about that, Sire. But he came to me yesterday, and I rushed here to tell you.”

  “Then he will really be rewarded. Such loyalty’s more important than anything, neh?”

  “Yes, Sire.”

  “Say nothing of this to anyone.”

  Omi had left and Toranaga had wondered if Mizuno and Omi had trumped up the plot to discredit Yabu. At once he put his own spies to find out the truth. But the plot had been true, and the burning of the ship had been a perfect excuse to remove the fifty-three traitors, all of whom had been placed among the Izu guards on that night. Kiwami Matano he had sent to the far north with a good, though modest, fief.

  “Surely this Kiwami is the most dangerous of all,” Sudara had said, the only one admitted to the plot.

  “Yes. And he’ll be watched all his life and not trusted. But generally there’s good in evil people and evil in good people. You must choose the good and get rid of the evil without sacrificing the good. There’s no waste in my domains to be cast away lightly.”

  Yes, Toranaga thought with great satisfaction, you certainly deserve a prize, Omi.

  “Listen, Omi-san, the battle will begin in a few days. You’ve served me loyally. On the last battlefield, after my victory, I’ll appoint you Overlord of Izu, and make your line of the Kasigi hereditary daimyos again.”

  “So sorry, Sire, please excuse me, but I don’t deserve such honor,” Omi said.

  “You’re young but you show great promise, beyond your years. Your grandfather was very like you, very clever, but he had no patience.” Again the sound of the ladies’ laughter, and Toranaga watched Kiku, trying to decide about her, his original plan now cast aside.

  “May I ask what you mean by patience, Sire?” Omi said, instinctively feeling that Toranaga wanted the question to be asked.

  Toranaga still looked at the girl, warmed by her. “Patience means restraining yourself. There are seven emotions, neh? Joy, anger, anxiety, adoration, grief, fear, and hate. If a man doesn’t give way to these, he’s patient. I’m not as strong as I might be but I’m patient. Understand?”

  “Yes, Sire. Very clearly.”

  “Patience is very necessary in a leader.”

  “Yes.”

  “That lady, for example. She’s a distraction to me, too beautiful, too perfect for me. I’m too simple for such a rare creature. So I’ve decided she belongs elsewhere.”

  “But, Sire, even as one of your lesser ladies …” Omi mouthed the politeness that both men knew a sham, though obligatory, and all the time Omi was praying as he had never prayed before, knowing what was possible, knowing that he could never ask.

  “I quite agree,” Toranaga said. “But great talent merits sacrifice.” He was still watching her throwing her fan, catching her maid’s fan in return, her gaiety infectious. Then both the ladies were obscured by the horses. So sorry, Kiku-san, he thought, but I have to pass you on, to settle you out of reach quickly. The truth is, I really am getting too fond of you, though Gyoko would never believe I had told her the truth, nor will Omi, nor even you yourself. “Kiku-san is worthy of a house of her own. With a husband of her own.”

  “Better a consort of the lowest samurai than wife of a farmer or merchant, however rich.”

  “I don’t agree.”

  For Omi those words ended the matter. Karma, he told himself, his misery overwhelming him. Put your sadness away fool. Your liege lord has decided, so that is the end of it. Midori is a perfect wife. Your mother is to become a nun, so now your house will have harmony.

  So much sadness today. And happiness: daimyo of Izu-to-be; Commander of the Regiment; the Anjin-san’s to be kept in Anjiro, therefore the first ship is to be built within Izu—in my fief. Put aside your sadness. Life is all sadness. Kiku-san has her karma, I have mine, Toranaga has his, and my Lord Yabu shows how foolish it is to worry about this or that or anything.

  Omi looked
up at Toranaga, his mind clear and everything compartmentalized. “Please excuse me, Sire, I beg your forgiveness. I wasn’t thinking clearly.”

  “You may greet her if you wish, before you leave.”

  “Thank you, Sire.” Omi wrapped up Yabu’s head. “Do you wish me to bury it—or display it?”

  “Put it on a spear, facing the wreck.”

  “What was his death poem?”

  Omi said:

  ‘“What are clouds

  But an excuse for the sky?

  What is life

  But an escape from death?’”

  Toranaga smiled. “Interesting,” he said.

  Omi bowed and gave the wrapped head to one of his men and went through the horses and samurai to the far courtyard.

  “Ah, Lady,” he said to her with kind formality. “I’m so pleased to see you well and happy.”

  “I’m with my Lord, Omi-san, and he’s strong and content. How can I be anything but happy.”

  “Sayonara, Lady.”

  “Sayonara, Omi-sama.” She bowed, aware of a vast finality now, never quite realizing it before. A tear welled and she brushed it aside and bowed again as he walked away.

  She watched his tall, firm stride and would have wept aloud, her heart near breaking, but then, as always, she heard the so-many-times-said words in her memory, kindly spoken, wisely spoken, ‘Why do you weep, child? We of the Floating World live only for the moment, giving all our time to the pleasures of cherry blossoms and snow and maple leaves, the calling of a cricket, the beauty of the moon, waning and growing and being reborn, singing our songs and drinking cha and saké, knowing perfumes and the touch of silks, caressing for pleasure, and drifting, always drifting. Listen, child: never sad, always drifting as a lily on the current in the stream of life. How lucky you are, Kiku-chan, you’re a Princess of Ukiyo, the Floating World, drift, live for the moment….’

  Kiku brushed away a second tear, a last tear. Silly girl to weep. Weep no more! she ordered herself. You’re so incredibly lucky! You’re consort to the greatest daimyo himself, even though a very lesser, unofficial one, but what does that matter—your sons will be born samurai. Isn’t this the most incredible gift in the world? Didn’t the soothsayer predict such an incredible good fortune, never to be believed? But now it’s true, neh? If you must weep there are more important things to weep about. About the growing seed in your loins that the weird-tasting cha took out of you. But why weep about that? It was only an “it” and not a child and who was the father? Truly?

  “I don’t know, not for certain, Gyoko-san, so sorry, but I think it’s my Lord’s,” she had said finally, wanting his child so much to bind the promise of samurai.

  “But say the child’s born with blue eyes and a fair skin? It may, neh? Count the days.”

  “I’ve counted and counted, oh, how I’ve counted!”

  “Then be honest with yourself. So sorry, but both of our futures depend on you now. You’ve many a birthing year ahead of you. You’re just eighteen, child, neh? Better to be sure, neh?”

  Yes, she thought again, how wise you are, Gyoko-san, and how silly I was, bewitched. It was only an “it” and how sensible we Japanese are to know that a child is not a proper child until thirty days after birth when its spirit is firmly fixed in its body and its karma inexorable. Oh, how lucky I am, and I want a son and another and another and never a girl child. Poor girl children! Oh gods, bless the soothsayer and thank you thank you thank you for my karma that I am favored by the great daimyo, that my sons will be samurai and oh, please make me worthy of such marvelousness….

  “What is it, Mistress?” little Suisen asked, awed by the joy that seemed to pour out of Kiku.

  Kiku sighed contentedly. “I was thinking about the soothsayer and my Lord and my karma, just drifting, drifting….”

  She went farther out into the courtyard, shading herself with her scarlet umbrella, to seek Toranaga. He was almost hidden by the horses and samurai and falcons in the courtyard, but she could see he was still on the veranda, sipping cha now, Fujiko bowing before him again. Soon it’ll be my turn, she thought. Perhaps tonight we can begin a new “it.” Oh, please…. Then, greatly happy, she turned back to her game.

  Outside the gateway Omi was mounting his horse and he galloped off with his guards, faster and ever faster, the speed refreshing him, cleansing him, the pungent sweat-smell of his horse pleasing. He did not look back at her because there was no need. He knew that he had left all his life’s passion, and everything that he had adored, at her feet. He was sure he would never know passion again, the spirit-joining ecstasy that ignited man and woman. But this did not displease him. On the contrary, he thought with a newfound icy clarity, I bless Toranaga for releasing me from servitude. Now nothing binds me. Neither father nor mother nor Kiku. Now I can be patient too. I’m twenty-one, I’m almost daimyo of Izu, and I’ve a world to conquer.

  “Yes, Sire?” Fujiko was saying.

  “You’re to go direct from here to Anjiro. I’ve decided to change the Anjin-san’s fief from around Yokohama to Anjiro. Twenty ri in every direction from the village, with a yearly income of four thousand koku. You’ll take over Omi-san’s house.”

  “May I thank you on his behalf, Sire. So sorry, do I understand that he doesn’t know about this yet?”

  “No. I’ll tell him today. I’ve ordered him to build another ship, Fujiko-san, to replace the one lost, and Anjiro will be a perfect shipyard, much better than Yokohama. I’ve arranged with the Gyoko woman for her eldest son to be business overseer for the Anjin-san, and all materials and craftsmen will be paid for out of my treasury. You’ll have to help him set up some form of administration.”

  “Oh ko, Sire,” she said, immediately concerned. “My time remaining with the Anjin-san will be so short.”

  “Yes. I’ll have to find him another consort—or wife. Neh?”

  Fujiko looked up, her eyes narrowing. Then she said, “Please, how may I help?”

  Toranaga said, “Whom would you suggest? I want the Anjin-san to be content. Contented men work better, neh?”

  “Yes.” Fujiko reached into her mind. Who would compare with Mariko-sama? Then she smiled. “Sire, Omi-san’s present wife, Midori-san. His mother hates her, as you know, and wants Omi divorced—so sorry, but she had the astounding bad manners to say it in front of me. Midori-san’s such a lovely lady and, oh, so very clever.”

  “You think Omi wants to be divorced?” Another piece of the puzzle fell in place.

  “Oh, no, Sire, I’m sure he doesn’t. What man wants really to obey his mother? But that’s our law, so he should have divorced her the first time his parents mentioned it, neh? Even though his mother’s very bad tempered, she surely knows what’s best for him, of course. So sorry, I have to be truthful as this is a most important matter. Of course I mean no offense, Sire, but filial duty to one’s parents is the corner post of our law.”

  “I agree,” Toranaga said, pondering this fortunate new thought. “The Anjin-san would consider Midori-san a good suggestion?”

  “No, Sire, not if you ordered the marriage … but, so sorry, there’s no need for you to order him.”

  “Oh?”

  “You could perhaps think of a way to make him think of it himself. That would certainly be best. With Omi-san, of course, you just order him.”

  “Of course. You’d approve of Midori-san?”

  “Oh, yes. She’s seventeen, her present son’s healthy, she’s from good samurai stock, so she’d give the Anjin-san fine sons. I suppose Omi’s parents will insist Midori give up her son to Omi-san, but if they don’t the Anjin-san could adopt him. I know my Master likes her because Mariko-sama told me she teased him about her. She’s very good samurai stock, very prudent, very clever. Oh, yes, he’d be very safe with her. Also her parents are both dead now so there’d be no ill feeling from them about her marrying a—marrying the Anjin-san.”

  Toranaga toyed with the idea. I’ve certainly got to keep Omi off balance, h
e told himself. Young Omi can become a thorn in my side too easily. Well, I won’t have to do anything to get Midori divorced. Omi’s father will absolutely have definite last wishes before he commits seppuku and his wife will certainly insist the most important last thing he does on this earth will be to get their son married correctly. So Midori will be divorced within a few days anyway. Yes, she’d be a very good wife.

  “If not her, Fujiko-san what about Kiku? Kiku-san?”

  Fujiko gaped at him. “Oh, so sorry, Sire, you’re going to relinquish her?”

  “I might. Well?”

  “I would have thought Kiku-san would be a perfect unofficial consort, Sire. She’s so brilliant and wonderful. Though I can see she would be an enormous distraction for an ordinary man, and, so sorry, it would be years before the Anjin-san would be able to appreciate the rare quality of her singing or dancing or wit. As wife?” she asked, with just enough emphasis to indicate absolute disapproval. “Ladies of the Willow World aren’t usually trained the same as … as others are, Sire. Their talents lie elsewhere. To be responsible for the finances and the affairs of a samurai house is different from the Floating World.”

  “Could she learn?”

  Fujiko hesitated a long while. “The perfect thing for the Anjin-san would be Midori-san for wife, Kiku-san as consort.”

  “Could they learn to live with all his—er—different attitudes?”

  “Midori-san’s samurai, Sire. It would be her duty. You would order her. Kiku-san also.”

  “But not the Anjin-san?”

  “You know him better than I, Sire. But in pillow things and … it would be better for him to, well, think of it himself.”

  “Toda Mariko-sama would have made a perfect wife for him. Neh?”

  “That’s an extraordinary idea, Sire,” Fujiko replied, without blinking. “Certainly both had an enormous respect for each other.”

  “Yes,” he said dryly. “Well, thank you, Fujiko-san. I’ll consider what you said. He’ll be at Anjiro in about ten days.”

  “Thank you, Sire. If I might suggest, the port of Ito and the Yokosé Spa should be included within the Anjin-san’s fief.”