Shōgun (The Asian Saga Book 1)

Blackthorne was suddenly awake.  For a moment he thought he was dreaming because he was ashore and the room unbelievable.  It was small and very clean and covered with soft mats.  He was lying on a thick quilt and another was thrown over him.  The ceiling was polished cedar and the walls were lathes of cedar, in squares, covered with an opaque paper that muted the light pleasantly.  Beside him was a scarlet tray bearing small bowls.  One contained cold cooked vegetables and he wolfed them, hardly noticing the piquant taste.  Another contained a fish soup and he drained that.  Another was filled with a thick porridge of wheat or barley and he finished it quickly, eating with his fingers.  The water in an odd-shaped gourd was warm and tasted curious—slightly bitter but savory.

Then he noticed the crucifix in its niche.

This house is Spanish or Portuguese, he thought aghast.  Is this the Japans?  or Cathay?

A panel of the wall slid open.  A middle-aged, heavy-set, roundfaced woman was on her knees beside the door and she bowed and smiled.  Her skin was golden and her eyes black and narrow and her long black hair was piled neatly on her head.  She wore a gay silk robe and short white socks with a thick sole and a wide purple band around her waist.

‘Goshujin-sama, gokibun wa ikaga desu ka?‘ she said.  She waited as he stared at her blankly, then said it again.

‘Is this the Japans?’ he asked.  ‘Japans?  Or Cathay?’

She stared at him uncomprehendingly and said something else he could not understand.  Then he realized that he was naked.  His clothes were nowhere in sight.  With sign language he showed her that he wanted to get dressed.  Then he pointed at the food bowls and she knew that he was still hungry.

She smiled and bowed and slid the door shut.

He lay back exhausted, the untoward, nauseating nonmotion of the floor making his head spin.  With an effort he tried to collect himself.  I remember getting the anchor out, he thought.  With Vinck.  I think it was Vinck.  We were in a bay and the ship had nosed a shoal and stopped.  We could hear waves breaking on the beach but everything was safe.  There were lights ashore and then I was in my cabin and blackness.  I don’t remember anything.  Then there were lights through the blackness and strange voices.  I was talking English, then Portuguese.  One of the natives talked a little Portuguese.  Or was he Portuguese?  No, I think he was a native.  Did I ask him where we were?  I don’t remember.  Then we were back in the reef again and the big wave came once more and I was carried out to sea and drowning—it was freezing—no, the sea was warm and like a silk bed a fathom thick.  They must have carried me ashore and put me here.

‘It must have been this bed that felt so soft and warm,’ he said aloud.  ‘I’ve never slept on silk before.’  His weakness overcame him and he slept dreamlessly.

When he awoke there was more food in earthenware bowls and his clothes were beside him in a neat pile.  They had been washed and pressed and mended with tiny, exquisite stitching.

But his knife was gone, and so were his keys.

I’d better get a knife and quickly, he thought.  Or a pistol.

His eyes went to the crucifix.  In spite of his dread, his excitement quickened.  All his life he had heard legends told among pilots and sailormen about the incredible riches of Portugal’s secret empire in the East, how they had by now converted the heathens to Catholicism and so held them in bondage, where gold was as cheap as pig iron, and emeralds, rubies, diamonds, and sapphires as plentiful as pebbles on a beach.

If the Catholic part’s true, he told himself, perhaps the rest is too.  About the riches.  Yes.  But the sooner I’m armed and back aboard Erasmus and behind her cannon, the better.

He consumed the food, dressed, and stood shakily, feeling out of his element as he always did ashore.  His boots were missing.  He went to the door, reeling slightly, and put out a hand to steady himself but the light, square lathes could not bear his weight and they shattered, the paper ripping apart.  He righted himself.  The shocked woman in the corridor was staring up at him.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said, strangely ill at ease with his clumsiness.  The purity of the room was somehow defiled.

‘Where are my boots?’

The woman stared at him blankly.  So, patiently, he asked her again with sign language and she hurried down a passage, knelt and opened another lathe door, and beckoned him.  Voices were nearby, and the sound of running water.  He went through the doorway and found himself in another room, also almost bare.  This opened onto a veranda with steps leading to a small garden surrounded by a high wall.  Beside this main entrance were two old women, three children dressed in scarlet robes, and an old man, obviously a gardener, with a rake in his hand.  At once they all bowed gravely and kept their heads low.

To his astonishment Blackthorne saw that the old man was naked but for a brief, narrow loincloth, hardly covering his organs.

‘Morning,’ he said to them, not knowing what to say.

They stayed motionless, still bowing.

Nonplussed, he stared at them, then, awkwardly he bowed back to them.  They all straightened and smiled at him.  The old man bowed once more and went back to work in the garden.  The children stared at him, then, laughing, dashed away.  The old women disappeared into the depths of the house.  But he could feel their eyes on him.

He saw his boots at the bottom of the steps.  Before he could pick them up, the middle-aged woman was there on her knees, to his embarrassment, and she helped him to put them on.

‘Thank you,’ he said.  He thought a moment and then pointed at himself.  ‘Blackthorne,’ he said deliberately.  ‘Blackthorne.’  Then he pointed at her.  ‘What’s your name?’

She stared at him uncomprehendingly.

‘Black-thorne, ‘ he repeated carefully, pointing at himself, and again pointed at her.  ‘What’s your name?’

She frowned, then with a flood of understanding pointed at herself and said, ‘Onna!  Onna!‘

‘Onna!‘ he repeated, very proud of himself as she was with herself.  ‘Onna.‘

She nodded happily.  ‘Onna!‘

The garden was unlike anything he had ever seen:  a little waterfall and stream and small bridge and manicured pebbled paths and rocks and flowers and shrubs.  It’s so clean, he thought.  So neat.

‘Incredible,’ he said.

‘ ‘Nkerriberr?’ she repeated helpfully.

‘Nothing,’ he said.  Then not knowing what else to do, he waved her away.  Obediently she bowed politely and left.

Blackthorne sat in the warm sun, leaning against a post.  Feeling very frail, he watched the old man weeding an already weedless garden.  I wonder where the others are.  Is the Captain-General still alive?  How many days have I been asleep?  I can remember waking and eating and sleeping again, the eating unsatisfactory like the dreams.

The children flurried past, chasing one another, and he was embarrassed for them at the gardener’s nakedness, for when the man bent over or stooped you could see everything and he was astounded that the children appeared not to notice.  He saw tiled and thatched roofs of other buildings over the wall and, far off, high mountains.  A crisp wind broomed the sky and kept the cumulus advancing.  Bees were foraging and it was a lovely spring day.  His body begged for more sleep but he pushed himself erect and went to the garden door.  The gardener smiled and bowed and ran to open the door and bowed and closed it after him.

The village was set around the crescent harbor that faced east, perhaps two hundred houses unlike any he’d ever seen nestling at the beginning of the mountain which spilled down to the shore.  Above were terraced fields and dirt roads that led north and south.  Below, the waterfront was cobbled and a stone launching ramp went from the shore into the sea.  A good safe harbor and a stone jetty, and men and women cleaning fish and making nets, a uniquely designed boat being built at the northern side.  There were islands far out to sea, to the east and to the south.  The reefs would be there or beyond the horizon.

In the harbor were many other quaintly shaped boats, mostly fishing craft, some with one large sail, several being sculled—the oarsmen standing and pushing against the sea, not sitting and pulling as he would have done.  A few of the boats were heading out to sea, others were nosing at the wooden dock, and Erasmus was anchored neatly, fifty yards from shore, in good water, with three bow cables.  Who did that? he asked himself.  There were boats alongside her and he could see native men aboard.  But none of his.  Where could they be?

He looked around the village and became conscious of the many people watching him.  When they saw that he had noticed them they all bowed and, still uncomfortable, he bowed back.  Once more there was happy activity and they passed to and fro, stopping, bargaining, bowing to each other, seemingly oblivious of him, like so many multicolored butterflies.  But he felt eyes studying him from every window and doorway as he walked toward the shore.

What is it about them that’s so weird? he asked himself.  It’s not just their clothes and behavior.  It’s—they’ve no weapons, he thought, astounded.  No swords or guns!  Why is that?

Open shops filled with odd goods and bales lined the small street.  The floors of the shops were raised and the sellers and the buyers knelt or squatted on the clean wooden floors.  He saw that most had clogs or rush sandals, some with the same white socks with the thick sole that were split between the big toe and the next to hold the thongs, but they left the clogs and sandals outside in the dirt.  Those who were barefoot cleansed their feet and slipped on clean, indoor sandals that were waiting for them.  That’s very sensible if you think about it, he told himself, awed.

Then he saw the tonsured man approaching and fear swept sickeningly from his testicles into his stomach.  The priest was obviously Portuguese or Spanish, and, though his flowing robe was orange, there was no mistaking the rosary and crucifix at his belt, or the cold hostility on his face.  His robe was travel stained and his European style boots besmirched with mud.  He was looking out into the harbor at Erasmus, and Blackthorne knew that he must recognize her as Dutch or English, new to most seas, leaner, faster, a merchant fighting ship, patterned and improved on the English privateers that had wreaked so much havoc on the Spanish Main.  With the priest were ten natives, blackhaired and black-eyed, one dressed like him except that he had thong slippers.  The others wore varicolored robes or loose trousers, or simply loincloths.  But none was armed.

Blackthorne wanted to run while there was time but he knew he did not have the strength and there was nowhere to hide.  His height and size and the color of his eyes made him alien in this world.  He put his back against the wall.

‘Who are you?’ the priest said in Portuguese.  He was a thick, dark, well-fed man in his middle twenties, with a long beard.

‘Who are you?’  Blackthorne stared back at him.

‘That’s a Netherlander privateer.  You’re a heretic Dutchman.  You’re pirates.  God have mercy on you!’

‘We’re not pirates.  We’re peaceful merchants, except to our enemies.  I’m pilot of that ship.  Who are you?’

‘Father Sebastio.  How did you get here?  How?’

‘We were blown ashore.  What is this place?  Is it the Japans?’

‘Yes.  Japan.  Nippon,’ the priest said impatiently.  He turned to one of the men, older than the rest, small and lean with strong arms and calloused hands, his pate shaved and his hair drawn into a thin queue as gray as his eyebrows.  The priest spoke haltingly to him in Japanese, pointing at Blackthorne.  All of them were shocked and one made the sign of the cross protectively.

‘Dutchmen are heretics, rebels, and pirates.  What’s your name?’

‘Is this a Portuguese settlement?’

The priest’s eyes were hard and bloodshot.  ‘The village headman says he’s told the authorities about you.  Your sins have caught up with you.  Where’s the rest of your crew?’

‘We were blown off course.  We just need food and water and time to repair our ship.  Then we’ll be off.  We can pay for every—’

‘Where’s the rest of your crew?’

‘I don’t know.  Aboard.  I suppose they’re aboard.’

Again the priest questioned the headman, who replied and motioned to the other end of the village, explaining at length.  The priest turned back to Blackthorne.  ‘They crucify criminals here, Pilot.  You’re going to die.  The daimyo’s coming with his samurai.  God have mercy on you.’

‘What’s a daimyo?‘

‘A feudal lord.  He owns this whole province.  How did you get here?’

‘And samurai?‘

‘Warriors—soldiers—members of the warrior caste,’ the priest said with growing irritation.  ‘Where did you come from and who are you?’

‘I don’t recognize your accent,’ Blackthorne said, to throw him off balance.  ‘You’re a Spaniard?’

‘I’m Portuguese,’ the priest flared, taking the bait.  ‘I told you, I’m Father Sebastio from Portugal.  Where did you learn such good Portuguese.  Eh?’

‘But Portugal and Spain are the same country now,’ Blackthorne said, taunting.  ‘You’ve the same king.’

‘We’re a separate country.  We’re a different people.  We have been forever.  We fly our own flag.  Our overseas possessions are separate, yes, separate.  King Philip agreed when he stole my country.’  Father Sebastio controlled his temper with an effort, his fingers trembling.  ‘He took my country by force of arms twenty years ago!  His soldiers and that devil-spawned Spaniard tyrant, the Duke of Alva, they crushed our real king.  Que va!  Now Philip’s son rules but he’s not our real king either.  Soon we’ll have our own king back again.’  Then he added with venom, ‘You know it’s the truth.  What devil Alva did to your country he did to mine.’

‘That’s a lie.  Alva was a plague in the Netherlands, but he never conquered them.  They’re still free.  Always will be.  But in Portugal he smashed one small army and the whole country gave in.  No courage.  You could throw the Spaniard out if you wanted to, but you’ll never do it.  No honor.  No cojones.  Except to burn innocents in the name of God.’

‘May God burn you in hellfire for all eternity,’ the priest flared.  ‘Satan walks abroad and will be stamped out.  Heretics will be stamped out.  You’re cursed before God!’

In spite of himself Blackthorne felt the religious terror begin to rise within him.  ‘Priests don’t have the ear of God, or speak with His voice.  We’re free of your stinking yoke and we’re going to stay free!’

It was only forty years ago that Bloody Mary Tudor was Queen of England and the Spaniard Philip II, Philip the Cruel, her husband.  This deeply religious daughter of Henry VIII had brought back Catholic priests and inquisitors and heresy trials and the dominance of the foreign Pope again to England and had reversed her father’s curbs and historic changes to the Church of Rome in England, against the will of the majority.  She had ruled for five years and the realm was torn asunder with hatred and fear and bloodshed.  But she had died and Elizabeth became queen at twenty-four.

Blackthorne was filled with wonder, and deep filial love, when he thought of Elizabeth.  For forty years she’s battled with the world.  She’s outfoxed and outfought Popes, the Holy Roman Empire, France and Spain combined.  Excommunicated, spat on, reviled abroad, she’s led us into harbor—safe, strong, separate.

‘We’re free,’ Blackthorne said to the priest.  ‘You’re broken.  We’ve our own schools now, our own books, our own Bible, our own Church.  You Spaniards are all the same.  Offal!  You monks are all the same.  Idol worshipers!’

The priest lifted his crucifix and held it between Blackthorne and himself as a shield.  ‘Oh, God, protect us from this evil!  I’m not Spanish, I tell you!  I’m Portuguese.  And I’m not a monk.  I’m a brother of the Society of Jesus!’

‘Ah, one of them.  A Jesuit!’

‘Yes.  May God have mercy on your soul!’  Father Sebastio snapped something in Japanese and the men surged toward Blackthorne.  He backed against the wall and hit one man hard but the others swarmed over him and he felt himself choking.

‘Nanigoto da?‘

Abruptly the melee ceased.

The young man was ten paces away.  He wore breeches and clogs and a light kimono and two scabbarded swords were stuck into his belt.  One was daggerlike.  The other, a two-handed killing sword, was long and slightly curved.  His right hand was casually on the hilt.

‘Nanigoto da?‘ he asked harshly and when no one answered instantly, ‘NANIGOTO DA?‘

The Japanese fell to their knees, their heads bowed into the dirt.  Only the priest stayed on his feet.  He bowed and began to explain haltingly, but the man contemptuously cut him short and pointed at, the headman.  ‘Mura!’

Mura, the headman, kept his head bowed and began explaining rapidly.  Several times he pointed at Blackthorne, once at the ship, and twice at the priest.  Now there was no movement on the street.  All who were visible were on their knees and bowing low.  The headman finished.  The armed man arrogantly questioned him for a moment and he was answered deferentially and quickly.  Then the soldier said something to the headman and waved with open contempt at the priest, then at Blackthorne, and the gray-haired man put it more simply to the priest, who flushed.

The man, who was a head shorter and much younger than Blackthorne, his handsome face slightly pock-marked, stared at the stranger.  ‘Onushi ittai doko kara kitanoda? Doko no kuni no monoda?‘

The priest said nervously, ‘Kasigi Omi-san says, ‘Where do you come from and what’s your nationality?’ ‘

‘Is Mr. Omisan the daimyo?‘ Blackthorne asked, afraid of the swords in spite of himself.

‘No.  He’s a samurai, the samurai in charge of the village.  His surname’s Kasigi, Omi’s his given name.  Here they always put their surnames first.  ‘San’ means ‘honorable,’ and you add it to all names as a politeness.  You’d better learn to be polite—and find some manners quickly.  Here they don’t tolerate lack of manners.’  His voice edged.  ‘Hurry up and answer!’

‘Amsterdam.  I’m English.’

Father Sebastio’s shock was open.  He said, ‘English.  England,’ to the samurai and began an explanation but Omi impatiently cut him short and rapped out a flurry of words.

‘Omi-san asks if you’re the leader.  The headman says there are only a few of you heretics alive and most are sick.  Is there a Captain-General?’

‘I’m the leader,’ Blackthorne answered even though, truly, now that they were ashore, the Captain-General was in command.  ‘I’m in command,’ he added, knowing that Captain-General Spillbergen could command nothing, ashore or afloat, even when he was fit and well.

Another spate of words from the samurai.  ‘Omi-san says, because you are the leader you are allowed to walk around the village freely, wherever you want, until his master comes.  His master, the daimyo, will decide your fate.  Until then, you are permitted to live as a guest in the headman’s house and come and go as you please.  But you are not to leave the village.  Your crew are confined to their house and are not allowed to leave it.  Do you understand?’

‘Yes.  Where are my crew?’

Father Sebastio pointed vaguely at a cluster of houses near a wharf, obviously distressed by Omi’s decision and impatience.  ‘There!  Enjoy your freedom, pirate.  Your evil’s caught up with—’

‘Wakarimasu ka?‘ Omi said directly to Blackthorne.

‘He says, ‘Do you understand?’ ‘

‘What’s ‘yes’ in Japanese?’

Father Sebastio said to the samurai, ‘Wakarimasu.‘

Omi disdainfully waved them away.  They all bowed low.  Except one man who rose deliberately, without bowing.

With blinding speed the killing sword made a hissing silver arc and the man’s head toppled off his shoulders and a fountain of blood sprayed the earth.  The body rippled a few times and was still.  Involuntarily, the priest had backed off a pace.  No one else in the street had moved a muscle.  Their heads remained low and motionless.  Blackthorne was rigid, in shock.

Omi put his foot carelessly on the corpse.

‘Ikinasai!‘ he said, motioning them away.

The men in front of him bowed again, to the earth.  Then they got up and went away impassively.  The street began to empty.  And the shops.

Father Sebastio looked down at the body.  Gravely he made the sign of the cross over him and said, ‘In nomine Patris et Filii et Spiritus Sancti.‘  He stared back at the samurai without fear now.

‘Ikinasai!‘  The tip of the gleaming sword rested on the body.

After a long moment the priest turned and walked away.  With dignity.  Omi watched him narrowly, then glanced at Blackthorne.  Blackthorne backed away and then, when safely distant, he quickly turned a corner and vanished.

Omi began to laugh uproariously.  The street was empty now.  When his laughter was exhausted, he grasped his sword with both hands and began to hack the body methodically into small pieces.

Blackthorne was in a small boat, the boatman sculling happily toward Erasmus.  He had had no trouble in getting the boat and he could see men on the main deck.  All were samurai.  Some had steel breastplates but most wore simple kimonos, as the robes were called, and the two swords.  All wore their hair the same way:  the top of the head shaved and the hair at the back and sides gathered into a queue, oiled, then doubled over the crown and tied neatly.  Only samurai were allowed this style and, for them, it was obligatory.  Only samurai could wear the two swords—always the long, two-handed killing sword and the short, daggerlike one—and, for them, the swords were obligatory.

The samurai lined the gunwales of his ship watching him.

Filled with disquiet, he climbed up the gangway and came on deck.  One samurai, more elaborately dressed than the others, came over to him and bowed.  Blackthorne had learned well and he bowed back equally and everyone on the deck beamed genially.  He still felt the horror of the sudden killing in the street, and their smiles did not allay his foreboding.  He went toward the companionway and stopped abruptly.  Across the doorway was pasted a wide band of red silk and, beside it, a small sign with queer, squiggled writing.  He hesitated, checked the other door, but that too was sealed up with a similar band, and a similar sign was nailed to the bulkhead.

He reached out to remove the silk.

‘Hotté oké!‘  To make the point quite clear the samurai on guard shook his head.  He was no longer smiling.

‘But this is my ship and I want . . .’  Blackthorne bottled his anxiety, eyes on the swords.  I’ve got to get below, he thought.  I’ve got to get the rutters, mine and the secret one.  Christ Jesus, if they’re found and given to the priests or to the Japaners we’re finished.  Any court in the world-outside of England and the Netherlands-would convict us as pirates with that evidence.  My rutter gives dates, places, and amounts of plunder taken, the number of dead at our three landings in the Americas and the one in Spanish Africa, the number of churches sacked, and how we burned the towns and the shipping.  And the Portuguese rutter?  That’s our death warrant, for of course it’s stolen.  At least it was bought from a Portuguese traitor, and by their law any foreigner caught in possession of any rutter of theirs, let alone one that unlocks the Magellan, is to be put to death at once.  And if the rutter is found aboard an enemy ship, the ship is to be burned and all aboard executed without mercy.

‘Nan no yoda?‘ one of the samurai said.

‘Do you speak Portuguese?’ Blackthorne asked in that language.

The man shrugged. ‘Wakarimasen.‘

Another came forward and deferentially spoke to the leader, who nodded in agreement.

‘Portugeezu friend,’ this samurai said in heavily accented Portuguese.  He opened the top of his kimono and showed the small wooden crucifix that hung from his neck.

‘Christ’an!’  He pointed at himself and smiled.  ‘Christ’an.’  He pointed at Blackthorne.  ‘Christ’an ka?‘

Blackthorne hesitated, nodded.  ‘Christian.’

‘Portugeezu?’

‘English.’

The man chattered with the leader, then both shrugged and looked back at him.  ‘Portugeezu?’

Blackthorne shook his head, not liking to disagree with them on anything.  ‘My friends?  Where?’

The samurai pointed to the east end of the village.  ‘Friends.’

‘This is my ship.  I want to go below.’  Blackthorne said it in several ways and with signs and they understood.

‘Ah, so desu! Kinjiru,‘ they said emphatically, indicating the notice, and beamed.

It was quite clear that he was not allowed to go below.  Kinjiru must mean forbidden, Blackthorne thought irritably.  Well, to hell with that!  He snapped the handle of the door down and opened it a fraction.

‘KINJIRU!‘

He was jerked around to face the samurai.  Their swords were half out of the scabbards.  Motionlessly the two men waited for him to make up his mind.  Others on deck watched impassively.

Blackthorne knew he had no option but to back down, so he shrugged and walked away and checked the hawsers and the ship as best he could.  The tattered sails were down and tied in place.  But the lashings were different from any he’d ever seen, so he presumed that the Japaners had made the vessel secure.  He started down the gangway, and stopped.  He felt the cold sweat as he saw them all staring at him malevolently and he thought, Christ Jesus, how could I be so stupid.  He bowed politely and at once the hostility vanished and they all bowed and were smiling again.  But he could still feel the sweat trickling down his spine and he hated everything about the Japans and wished himself and his crew back aboard, armed, and out to sea.

‘By the Lord Jesus, I think you’re wrong, Pilot,’ Vinck said.  His toothless grin was wide and obscene.  ‘If you can put up with the swill they call food, it’s the best place I’ve been.  Ever.  I’ve had two women in three days and they’re like rabbits.  They’ll do anything if you show’em how.’

‘That’s right.  But you can’t do nothing without meat or brandy.  Nor for long.  I’m tired out, and I could only do it once,’ Maetsukker said, his narrow face twitching.  ‘The yellow bastards won’t understand that we need meat and beer and bread.  And brandy or wine.’

‘That’s the worst!  Lord Jesus, my kingdom for some grog!’  Baccus van Nekk was filled with gloom.  He walked over and stood close to Blackthorne and peered up at him.  He was very nearsighted and had lost his last pair of spectacles in the storm.  But even with them he would always stand as close as possible.  He was chief merchant, treasurer, and representative of the Dutch East India Company that had put up the money for the voyage.  ‘We’re ashore and safe and I haven’t had a drink yet.  Not a beautiful drop!  Terrible.  Did you get any, Pilot?’

‘No.’  Blackthorne disliked having anyone near him, but Baccus was a friend and almost blind so he did not move away.  ‘Just hot water with herbs in it.’

‘They simply won’t understand grog.  Nothing to drink but hot water and herbs—the good Lord help us!  Suppose there’s no liquor in the whole country!’  His eyebrows soared.  ‘Do me a huge favor, Pilot.  Ask for some liquor, will you?’

Blackthorne had found the house that they had been assigned on the eastern edge of the village.  The samurai guard had let him pass, but his men had confirmed that they themselves could not go out of the garden gate.  The house was many-roomed like his, but bigger and staffed with many servants of various ages, both men and women.

There were eleven of his men alive.  The dead had been taken away by the Japanese.  Lavish portions of fresh vegetables had begun to banish the scurvy and all but two of the men were healing rapidly.  These two had blood in their bowels and their insides were fluxed.  Vinck had bled them but this had not helped.  By nightfall he expected them to die.  The Captain-General was in another room, still very sick.

Sonk, the cook, a stocky little man, was saying with a laugh, ‘It’s good here, like Johann says, Pilot, excepting the food and no grog.  And it’s all right with the natives so long as you don’t wear your shoes in the house.  It sends the little yellow bastards mad if you don’t take off your shoes.’

‘Listen,’ Blackstone said.  ‘There’s a priest here.  A Jesuit.’

‘Christ Jesus!’  All banter left them as he told them about the priest and about the beheading.

‘Why’d he chop the man’s head off, Pilot?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘We better get back aboard.  If Papists catch us ashore . . . ‘

There was great fear in the room now.  Salamon, the mute, watched Blackthorne.  His mouth worked, a bubble of phlegm appearing at the corners.

‘No, Salamon, there’s no mistake,’ Blackthorne said kindly, answering the silent question.  ‘He said he was Jesuit.’

‘Christ, Jesuit or Dominican or what-the-hell-ever makes no muckeating difference,’ Vinck said.  ‘We’d better get back aboard.  Pilot, you ask that samurai, eh?’

‘We’re in God’s hands,’ Jan Roper said.  He was one of the merchant adventurers, a narrow-eyed young man with a high forehead and thin nose.  ‘He will protect us from the Satan worshipers.’

Vinck looked back at Blackthorne.  ‘What about Portuguese, Pilot?  Did you see any around?’

‘No.  There were no signs of them in the village.’

‘They’ll swarm here soon as they know about us.’  Maetsukker said it for all of them and the boy Croocq let out a moan.

‘Yes, and if there’s one priest, there’s got to be others.’  Ginsel licked dry lips.  ‘And then their God-cursed conquistadores are never far away.’

‘That’s right,’ Vinck added uneasily.  ‘They’re like lice.’

‘Christ Jesus!  Papists!’ someone muttered.  ‘And conquistadores!’

‘But we’re in the Japans, Pilot?’ van Nekk asked.  ‘He told you that?’

‘Yes.  Why?’

Van Nekk moved closer and dropped his voice.  ‘If priests are here, and some of the natives are Catholic, perhaps the other part’s true—about the riches, the gold and silver and precious stones.’  A hush fell on them.  ‘Did you see any, Pilot?  Any gold?  Any gems on the natives, or gold?’

‘No.  None.’  Blackthorne thought a moment.  ‘I don’t remember seeing any.  No necklaces or beads or bracelets.  Listen, there’s something else to tell you.  I went aboard Erasmus but she’s sealed up.’  He related what had happened and their anxiety increased.

‘Jesus, if we can’t go back aboard and there are priests ashore and Papists. . . . We’ve got to get away from here.’  Maetsukker’s voice began to tremble.  ‘Pilot, what are we going to do?  They’ll burn us!  Conquistadores—those bastards’ll shove their swords . . .’

‘We’re in God’s hands,’ Jan Roper called out confidently.  ‘He will protect us from the anti-Christ.  That’s His promise.  There’s nothing to be afraid of.’

Blackthorne said, ‘The way the samurai Omi-san snarled at the priest—I’m sure he hated him.  That’s good, eh?  What I’d like to know is why the priest wasn’t wearing their usual robes.  Why the orange one?  I’ve never seen that before.’

‘Yes, that’s curious,’ van Nekk said.

Blackthorne looked up at him.  ‘Maybe their hold here isn’t strong.  That could help us greatly.’

‘What should we do, Pilot?’ Ginsel asked.

‘Be patient and wait till their chief, this daimyo, comes.  He’ll let us go.  Why shouldn’t he?  We’ve done them no harm.  We’ve goods to trade.  We’re not pirates, we’ve nothing to fear.’

‘Very true, and don’t forget the Pilot said the savages aren’t all Papists,’ van Nekk said, more to encourage himself than the others.  ‘Yes.  It’s good the samurai hated the priest.  And it’s only the samurai who are armed.  That’s not so bad, eh?  Just watch out for the samurai and get our weapons back—that’s the idea.  We’ll be aboard before you know it.’

‘What happens if this daimyo’s Papist?’ Jan Roper asked.

No one answered him.  Then Ginsel said, ‘Pilot, the man with the sword?  He cut the other wog into pieces, after chopping his head off?’

‘Yes.’

‘Christ!  They’re barbarians!  Lunatics!’  Ginsel was tall, a goodlooking youth with short arms and very bowed legs.  The scurvy had taken all his teeth.  ‘After he chopped his head off, the others just walked away?  Without saying anything?’

‘Yes.’

‘Christ Jesus, an unarmed man, murdered, just like that?  Why’d he do it?  Why’d he kill him?’

‘I don’t know, Ginsel.  But you’ve never seen such speed.  One moment the sword was sheathed, the next the man’s head was rolling.’

‘God protect us!’

‘Dear Lord Jesus,’ van Nekk murmured.  ‘If we can’t get back to the ship. . . .  God damn that storm, I feel so helpless without my spectacles!’

‘How many samurai were aboard, Pilot?’ Ginsel asked.

‘Twenty-two were on deck.  But there were more ashore.’

‘The wrath of God will be upon the heathen and on sinners and they’ll burn in hell for all eternity.’

‘I’d like to be sure of that, Jan Roper,’ Blackthorne said, an edge to his voice, as he felt the fear of God’s vengeance sweep through the room.  He was very tired and wanted to sleep.

‘You can be sure, Pilot, oh yes, I am.  I pray that your eyes are opened to God’s truth.  That you come to realize we’re here only because of you—what’s left of us.’

‘What?’ Blackthorne said dangerously.

‘Why did you really persuade the Captain-General to try for the Japans?  It wasn’t in our orders.  We were to pillage the New World, to carry the war into the enemy’s belly, then go home.’

‘There were Spanish ships south and north of us and nowhere else to run.  Has your memory gone along with your wits?  We had to sail west—it was our only chance.’

‘I never saw enemy ships, Pilot.  None of us did.’

‘Come now, Jan,’ van Nekk said wearily.  ‘The Pilot did what he thought best.  Of course the Spaniards were there.’

‘Aye, that’s the truth, and we was a thousand leagues from friends and in enemy waters, by God!’  Vinck spat.  ‘That’s the God’s truth—and the God’s truth was we put it to a vote.  We all said yes.’

‘I didn’t.’

Sonk said, ‘No one asked me.’

‘Oh, Christ Jesus!’

‘Calm down, Johann,’ van Nekk said, trying to ease the tension.  ‘We’re the first ones to reach the Japans.  Remember all the stories, eh?  We’re rich if we keep our wits.  We have trade goods and there’s gold here—there must be.  Where else could we sell our cargo?  Not there in the New World, hunted and harried!  They were hunting us and the Spaniards knew we were off Santa Maria.  We had to quit Chile and there was no escape back through the Strait—of course they’d be lying in wait for us, of course they would!  No, here was our only chance and a good idea.  Our cargo exchanged for spices and gold and silver, eh?  Think of the profit—a thousandfold, that’s usual.  We’re in the Spice Islands.  You know the riches of the Japans and Cathay, you’ve heard about them forever.  We all have.  Why else did we all sign on?  We’ll be rich, you’ll see!’

‘We’re dead men, like all the others.  We’re in the land of Satan.’

Vinck said angrily, ‘Shut your mouth, Roper!  The Pilot did right.  Not his fault the others died—not his fault.  Men always die on these voyages.’

Jan Roper’s eyes were flecked, the pupils tiny.  ‘Yes, God rest their souls.  My brother was one.’

Blackthorne looked into the fanatic eyes, hating Jan Roper.  Inside he was asking himself if he had really sailed west to elude the enemy ships.  Or was it because he was the first English pilot through the Strait, first in position, ready and able to stab west and therefore first with the chance of circumnavigating?

Jan Roper hissed, ‘Didn’t the others die through your ambition, Pilot?  God will punish you!’

‘Now hold your tongue.’  Blackthorne’s words were soft and final.

Jan Roper stared back with the same frozen hatchet face, but he kept his mouth shut.

‘Good.’  Blackthorne sat tiredly on the floor and rested against one of the uprights.

‘What should we do, Pilot?’

‘Wait and get fit.  Their chief is coming soon—then we’ll get everything settled.’

Vinck was looking out into the garden at the samurai who sat motionless on his heels beside the gateway.  ‘Look at that bastard.  Been there for hours, never moves, never says anything, doesn’t even pick his nose.’

‘He’s been no trouble though, Johann.  None at all,’ van Nekk said.

‘Yes, but all we’ve been doing is sleeping and fornicating and eating the swill.’

‘Pilot, he’s only one man.  We’re ten,’ Ginsel said quietly.

‘I’ve thought of that.  But we’re not fit enough yet.  It’ll take a week for the scurvy to go,’ Blackthorne replied, disquieted.  ‘There are too many of them aboard ship.  I wouldn’t like to take on even one without a spear or gun.  Are you guarded at night?’

‘Yes.  They change guard three or four times.  Has anyone seen a sentry asleep?’ van Nekk asked.

They shook their heads.

‘We could be aboard tonight,’ Jan Roper said.  ‘With the help of God we’ll overpower the heathen and take the ship.’

‘Clear the shit out of your ears!  The pilot’s just got through telling you!  Don’t you listen?’  Vicki spat disgustedly.

‘That’s right,’ Pieterzoon, a gunner, agreed.  ‘Stop hacking at old Vinck!’

Jan Roper’s eyes narrowed even more.  ‘Look to your soul, Johann Vinck.  And yours, Hans Pieterzoon.  The Day of Judgment approaches.’  He walked away and sat on the veranda.

Van Nekk broke the silence.  ‘Everything is going to be all right.  You’ll see.’

‘Roper’s right.  It’s greed that put us here,’ the boy Croocq said, his voice quavering.  ‘It’s God’s punishment that—’

‘Stop it!’

The boy jerked.  ‘Yes, Pilot.  Sorry, but—well . . .’  Maximilian Croocq was the youngest of them, just sixteen, and he had signed on for the voyage because his father had been captain of one of the ships and they were going to make their fortune.  But he had seen his father die badly when they had sacked the Spanish town of Santa Magdellana in the Argentine.  The plunder had been good and he had seen what rape was and he had tried it, hating himself, glutted by the blood smell and the killing.  Later he had seen more of his friends die and the five ships became one and now he felt he was the oldest among them.  ‘Sorry.  I’m sorry.’

‘How long have we been ashore, Baccus?’ Blackthorne asked.

‘This is the third day.’  Van Nekk moved close again, squatting on his haunches.  ‘Don’t remember the arrival too clearly, but when I woke up the savages were all over the ship.  Very polite and kind though.  Gave us food and hot water.  They took the dead away and put the anchors out.  Don’t remember much but I think they towed us to a safe mooring.  You were delirious when they carried you ashore.  We wanted to keep you with us but they wouldn’t let us.  One of them spoke a few words of Portuguese.  He seemed to be the headman, he had gray hair.  He didn’t understand ‘Pilot-Major’ but knew ‘Captain.’  It was quite clear he wanted our ‘Captain’ to have different quarters from us, but he said we shouldn’t worry because you’d be well looked after.  Us too.  Then he guided us here, they carried us mostly, and said we were to stay inside until his captain came.  We didn’t want to let them take you but there was nothing we could do.  Will you ask the headman about wine or brandy, Pilot?’  Van Nekk licked his lips thirstily, then added, ‘Now that I think of it, he mentioned ‘daimyo‘ too.  What’s going to happen when the daimyo arrives?’

‘Has anyone got a knife or a pistol?’

‘No,’ van Nekk said, scratching absently at the lice in his hair.  ‘They took all our clothes away to clean them and kept the weapons.  I didn’t think anything about it at the time.  They took my keys too, as well as my pistol.  I had all my keys on a ring.  The strong room, the strongbox, and the magazine.’

‘Everything’s locked tight aboard.  No need to worry about that.’

‘I don’t like not having my keys.  Makes me very nervous.  Damn my eyes, I could use a brandy right now.  Even a flagon of ale.’

‘Lord Jesus!  The sameree cut him into pieces, did he?’  Sonk said to no one in particular.

‘For the love of God, shut your mouth.  It’s ‘samurai.’  You’re enough to make a man shit himself.’ Ginsel said.

‘I hope that bastard priest doesn’t come here,’ Vinck said.

‘We’re safe in the good Lord’s hands.’  Van Nekk was still trying to sound confident.  ‘When the daimyo comes we’ll be released.  We’ll get our ship back and our guns.  You’ll see.  We’ll sell all our goods and we’ll get back to Holland rich and safe having gone round the world—the first Dutchmen ever.  The Catholics’ll go to hell and that’s the end of it.’

‘No, it isn’t,’ Vinck said.  ‘Papists make my skin crawl.  I can’t help it.  That and the thought of the conquistadores.  You think they’ll be here in strength, Pilot?’

‘I don’t know.  I’d think yes!  I wish we had all our squadron here.’

‘Poor bastards,’ Vinck said.  ‘At least we’re alive.’

Maetsukker said, ‘Maybe they’re back home.  Maybe they turned back at the Magellan when the storms scattered us.’

‘I hope you’re right,’ Blackthorne said.  ‘But I think they’re lost with all hands.’

Ginsel shuddered.  ‘At least we’re alive.’

‘With Papists here, and these heathens with their stinking tempers, I wouldn’t give an old whore’s crack for our lives.’

‘Goddamn the day I left Holland,’ Pieterzoon said.  ‘Goddamn all grog!  If I hadn’t been drunker than a fiddler’s bitch I’d still be heads down in Amsterdam with my old woman.’

‘Damn what you like, Pieterzoon.  But don’t damn liquor.  It’s the stuff of life!’

‘I’d say we’re in the sewer, up to our chins, and the tide’s coming in fast.’  Vinck rolled his eyes.  ‘Yes, very fast.’

‘I never thought we’d reach land,’ Maetsukker said.  He looked like a ferret, except he had no teeth.  ‘Never.  Least of all the Japans.  Lousy stinking Papists!  We’ll never leave here alive!  I wish we had some guns.  What a rotten landfall!  I didn’t mean anything, Pilot,’ he said quickly as Blackthorne looked at him.  ‘Just bad luck, that’s all.’

Later servants brought them food again.  Always the same:  vegetables—cooked and raw—with a little vinegar, fish soup, and the wheat or barley porridge.  They all spurned the small pieces of raw fish and asked for meat and liquor.  But they were not understood and then, near sunset, Blackthorne left.  He had wearied of their fears and hates and obscenities.  He told them that he would return after dawn.

The shops were busy on the narrow streets.  He found his street and the gate of his house.  The stains on the earth had been swept away and the body had vanished.  It’s almost as though I dreamed the whole thing, he thought.  The garden gate opened before he could put a hand on it.

The old gardener, still loinclothed although there was a chill on the wind, beamed and bowed.  ‘Konbanwa.‘

‘Hello,’ Blackthorne said without thinking.  He walked up the steps, stopped, remembering his boots.  He took them off and went barefoot onto the veranda and into the room.  He crossed it into a corridor but could not find his room.

‘Onna!’ he called out.

An old woman appeared.  ‘Hai?‘

‘Where’s Onna?’

The old woman frowned and pointed to herself.  ‘Onna!’

‘Oh, for the love of God,’ Blackthorne said irritably.  ‘Where’s my room?  Where’s Onna?’  He slid open another latticed door.  Four Japanese were seated on the floor around a low table, eating.  He recognized one of them as the gray-haired man, the village headman, who had been with the priest.  They all bowed.  ‘Oh, sorry,’ he said, and pulled the door to.

‘Onna!’ he called out.

The old woman thought a moment, then beckoned.  He followed her into another corridor.  She slid a door aside.  He recognized his room from the crucifix.  The quilts were already laid out neatly.

‘Thank you,’ he said, relieved.  ‘Now fetch Onna!’

The old woman padded away.  He sat down, his head and body aching, and wished there was a chair, wondering where they were kept.  How to get aboard?  How to get some guns?  There must be a way.  Feet padded back and there were three women now, the old woman, a young round-faced girl, and the middle-aged lady.

The old woman pointed at the girl, who seemed a little frightened.  ‘Onna.’

‘No.’  Blackthorne got up ill-temperedly and jerked a finger at the middle-aged woman.  ‘This is Onna, for God’s sake!  Don’t you know your name?  Onna!  I’m hungry.  Could I have some food?’  He rubbed his stomach parodying hunger.  They looked at each other.  Then the middle-aged woman shrugged, said something that made the others laugh, went over to the bed, and began to undress.  The other two squatted, wide-eyed and expectant.

Blackthorne was appalled.  ‘What are you doing?’

‘Ishimasho!‘ she said, setting aside her wide waistband and opening her kimono.  Her breasts were flat and dried up and her belly huge.

It was quite clear that she was going to get into the bed.  He shook his head and told her to get dressed and took her arm and they all began chattering and gesticulating and the woman was becoming quite angry.  She stepped out of her long underskirt and, naked, tried to get back into bed.

Their chattering stopped and they all bowed as the headman came quietly down the corridor.  ‘Nanda?  Nanda?‘ he asked.

The old woman explained what was the matter.  ‘You want this woman?’ he asked incredulously in heavily accented, barely understandable Portuguese, motioning at the naked woman.

‘No.  No, of course not.  I just wanted Onna to get me some food.’  Blackthorne pointed impatiently at her.  ‘Onna!’

‘Onna mean ‘woman.’ ‘  The Japanese motioned at all of them.  ‘Onna—onna—onna.  You want onna?‘

Blackthorne wearily shook his head.  ‘No.  No, thank you.  I made a mistake.  Sorry.  What’s her name?’

‘Please?’

‘What’s her name?’

‘Ah!  Namu is Haku.  Haku,’ he said.

‘Haku?’

‘Hai.  Haku!’

‘I’m sorry, Haku-san.  Thought onna your name.’

The man explained to Haku and she was not at all pleased.  But he said something and they all looked at Blackthorne and tittered behind their hands and left.  Haku walked off naked, her kimono over her arm, with a vast amount of dignity.

‘Thank you,’ Blackthorne said, enraged at his own stupidity.

‘This my house.  My namu Mura.’

‘Mura-san.  Mine’s Blackthorne.’

‘Please?’

‘My namu.  Blackthorne.’

‘Ah! Berr-rakk-fon.’  Mura tried to say it several times but could not.  Eventually he gave up and continued to study the colossus in front of him.  This was the first barbarian he had ever seen except for Father Sebastio, and the other priest, so many years ago.  But anyway, he thought, the priests are dark-haired and dark-eyed and of normal height.  But this man: tall and golden-haired and golden-bearded with blue eyes and a weird pallor to his skin where it is covered and redness where it is exposed.  Astonishing!  I thought all men had black hair and dark eyes.  We all do.  The Chinese do, and isn’t China the whole world, except for the land of the southern Portugee barbarians?  Astonishing!  And why does Father Sebastio hate this man so much?  Because he’s a Satan worshiper?  I wouldn’t think so, because Father Sebastio could cast out the devil if he wanted.  Eeee, I’ve never seen the good Father so angry.  Never.  Astonishing!

Are blue eyes and golden hair the mark of Satan?

Mura looked up at Blackthorne and remembered how he had tried to question him aboard the ship and then, when this Captain had become unconscious, he had decided to bring him to his own house because he was the leader and should have special consideration.  They had laid him on the quilt and undressed him, more than just a little curious.

‘His Peerless Parts are certainly impressive, neh?‘ Mura’s mother, Saiko, had said.  ‘I wonder how large he would be when erect?’

‘Large,’ he had answered and they had all laughed, his mother and wife and friends and servants, and the doctor.

‘I expect their women must be—must be as well endowed,’ his wife, Niji, said.

‘Nonsense, girl,’ said his mother.  ‘Any number of our courtesans could happily make the necessary accommodation.’  She shook her head in wonder.  ‘I’ve never seen anything like him in my whole life.  Very odd indeed, neh?‘

They had washed him and he had not come out of his coma.  The doctor had thought it unwise to immerse him in a proper bath until he was awake.  ‘Perhaps we should remember, Mura-san, we don’t know how the barbarian really is,’ he had said with careful wisdom.  ‘So sorry, but we might kill him by mistake.  Obviously he’s at the limit of his strength.  We should exercise patience.’

‘But what about the lice in his hair?’ Mura had asked.

‘They will have to stay for the time being.  I understand all barbarians have them.  So sorry, I’d advise patience.’

‘Don’t you think we could at least shampoo his head?’ his wife had said.  ‘We’d be very careful.  I’m sure the Mistress would supervise our poor efforts.  That should help the barbarian and keep our house clean.’

‘I agree.  You can shampoo him,’ his mother had said with finality.  ‘But I’d certainly like to know how large he is when erect.’

Now Mura glanced down at Blackthorne involuntarily.  Then he remembered what the priest had told them about these Satanists and pirates.  God the Father protect us from this evil, he thought.  If I’d known that he was so terrible I would never have brought him into my house.  No, he told himself.  You are obliged to treat him as a special guest until Omi-san says otherwise.  But you were wise to send word to the priest and send word to Omi-san instantly.  Very wise.  You’re headman, you’ve protected the village and you, alone, are responsible.

Yes.  And Omi-san will hold you responsible for the death this morning and the dead man’s impertinence, and quite rightly.

‘Don’t be stupid, Tamazaki!  You risk the good name of the village, neh?‘ he had warned his friend the fisherman a dozen times.  ‘Stop your intolerance.  Omi-san has no option but to sneer at Christians.  Doesn’t our daimyo detest Christians?  What else can Omi-san do?’

‘Nothing, I agree, Mura-san, please excuse me.’  Tamazaki had always replied as formally.  ‘But Buddhists should have more tolerance, neh?  Aren’t they both Zen Buddhists?’  Zen Buddhism was self-disciplining; it relied heavily on self-help and meditation to find Enlightenment.  Most samurai belonged to the Zen Buddhist sect, since it suited, seemed almost to be designed for, a proud, death-seeking warrior.

‘Yes, Buddhism teaches tolerance.  But how many times must you be reminded they’re samurai, and this is Izu and not Kyushu, and even if it were Kyushu, you’re still the one that’s wrong.  Always.  Neh?‘

‘Yes.  Please excuse me, I know I’m wrong.  But sometimes I feel I cannot live with my inner shame when Omi-san is so insulting about the True Faith.’

And now, Tamazaki, you are dead of your own choosing because you insulted Omi-san by not bowing simply because he said, ‘. . . this smelly priest of the foreign religion.’  Even though the priest does smell and the True Faith is foreign.  My poor friend.  That truth will not feed your family now or remove the stain from my village.

Oh, Madonna, bless my old friend and give him the joy of thy Heaven.

Expect a lot of trouble from Omi-san, Mura told himself.  And if that isn’t bad enough, now our daimyo is coming.

A pervading anxiety always filled him whenever he thought of his feudal lord, Kasigi Yabu, daimyo of Izu, Omi’s uncle—the man’s cruelty and lack of honor, the way he cheated all the villages of their rightful share of their catch and their crops, and the grinding weight of his rule.  When war comes, Mura asked himself, which side will Yabu declare for, Lord Ishido or Lord Toranaga?  We’re trapped between the giants and in pawn to both.

Northwards, Toranaga, the greatest general alive, Lord of the Kwanto, the Eight Provinces, the most important daimyo in the land, Chief General of the Armies of the East; to the west the domains of Ishido, Lord of Osaka Castle, conqueror of Korea, Protector of the Heir, Chief General of the Armies of the West.  And to the north, the Tokaidō, the Great Coastal Road that links Yedo, Toranaga’s capital city, to Osaka, Ishido’s capital city three hundred miles westward over which their legions must march.

Who will win the war?

Neither.

Because their war will envelop the empire again, alliances will fall apart, provinces will fight provinces until it is village against village as it ever was.  Except for the last ten years.  For the last ten years, incredibly, there had been a warlessness called peace throughout the empire, for the first time in history.

I was beginning to like peace, Mura thought.

But the man who made the peace is dead.  The peasant soldier who became a samurai and then a general and then the greatest general and finally the Taikō, the absolute Lord Protector of Japan, is dead a year and his seven-year-old son is far too young to inherit supreme power.  So the boy, like us, is in pawn.  Between the giants.  And war inevitable.  Now not even the Taikō himself can protect his beloved son, his dynasty, his inheritance, or his empire.

Perhaps this is as it should be.  The Taikō subdued the land, made the peace, forced all the daimyos in the land to grovel like peasants before him, rearranged fiefs to suit his whim—promoting some, deposing others—and then he died.  He was a giant among pygmies.  But perhaps it’s right that all his work and greatness should die with him.  Isn’t man but a blossom taken by the wind, and only the mountains and the sea and the stars and this Land of the Gods real and everlasting?

We’re all trapped and that is a fact; war will come soon and that is a fact; Yabu alone will decide which side we are on and that is a fact; the village will always be a village because the paddy fields are rich and the sea abundant and that is a last fact.

Mura brought his mind back firmly to the barbarian pirate in front of him.  You’re a devil sent to plague us, he thought, and you’ve caused us nothing but trouble since you arrived.  Why couldn’t you have picked another village?

‘Captain-san want onna?‘ he asked helpfully.  At his suggestion the village council made physical arrangements for the other barbarians, both as a politeness and as a simple means of keeping them occupied until the authorities came.  That the village was entertained by the subsequent stories of the liaisons more than compensated for the money which had had to be invested.

‘Onna?‘ he repeated, naturally presuming that as the pirate was on his feet, he would be equally content to be on his belly, his Heavenly Spear warmly encased before sleeping, and anyway, all the preparations had been made.

‘No!’ Blackthorne wanted only to sleep.  But because he knew that he needed this man on his side he forced a smile, indicated the crucifix.  ‘You’re a Christian?’

Mura nodded.  ‘Christian.’

‘I’m Christian.’

‘Father say not.  Not Christian.’

‘I’m a Christian.  Not a Catholic.  But I’m still Christian.’

But Mura could not understand.  Neither was there any way Blackthorne could explain, however much he tried.

‘Want onna?‘

‘The—the dimyo—when come?’

‘Dimyo?  No understand.’

‘Dimyo—ah, I mean daimyo.‘

‘Ah, daimyo. Hai. Daimyo!‘ Mura shrugged.  ‘Daimyo come when come.  Sleep.  First clean.  Please.’

‘What?’

‘Clean.  Bath, please.’

‘I don’t understand.’

Mura came closer and crinkled his nose distastefully.

‘Stinku.  Bad.  Like all Portugeezu.  Bath.  This clean house.’

‘I’ll bathe when I want and I don’t stink!’  Blackthorne fumed.  ‘Everyone knows baths are dangerous.  You want me to catch the flux?  You think I’m God-cursed stupid?  You get the hell out of here and let me sleep!’

‘Bath!’  Mura ordered, shocked at the barbarian’s open anger—the height of bad manners.  And it was not just that the barbarian stank, as indeed he did, but he had not bathed correctly for three days to his knowledge, and the courtesan quite rightly would refuse to pillow with him, however much the fee.  These awful foreigners, he thought.  Astonishing!  How astoundingly filthy their habits are!  Never mind.  I’m responsible for you.  You will be taught manners.  You will bathe like a human being, and Mother will know that which she wants to know.  ‘Bath!’

‘Now get out before I snap you into pieces!’  Blackthorne glowered at him, motioning him away.

There was a moment’s pause and the other three Japanese appeared along with three of the women.  Mura explained curtly what was the matter, then said with finality to Blackthorne, ‘Bath.  Please.’

‘Out!’

Mura came forward alone into the room.  Blackthorne shoved out his arm, not wanting to hurt the man, just to push him away.  Suddenly Blackthorne let out a bellow of pain.  Somehow Mura had chopped his elbow with the side of his hand and now Blackthorne’s arm hung down, momentarily paralyzed.  Enraged, he charged.  But the room spun and he was flat on his face and there was another stabbing, paralyzing pain in his back and he could not move.  ”By God . . .’

He tried to get up but his legs buckled under him.  Then Mura calmly put out his small but iron-hard finger and touched a nerve center in Blackthorne’s neck.  There was a blinding pain.

‘Good sweet Jesus . . .’

‘Bath?  Please?’

‘Yes—yes,’ Blackthorne gasped through his agony, astounded that he had been overcome so easily by such a tiny man and now lay helpless as any child, ready to have his throat cut.

Years ago Mura had learned the arts of judo and karate as well as how to fight with sword and spear.  This was when he was a warrior and fought for Nakamura, the peasant general, the Taikō—long before the Taikō had become the Taikō—when peasants could be samurai and samurai could be peasants, or craftsmen or even lowly merchants, and warriors again.  Strange, Mura thought absently, looking down at the fallen giant, that almost the first thing the Taikō did when he became all powerful was to order all peasants to cease being soldiers and at once give up all weapons.  The Taikō had forbidden them weapons forever and set up the immutable caste system that now controlled all the lives in all the empire:  samurai above all, below them the peasants, next craftsmen, then the merchants followed by actors, outcasts, and bandits, and finally at the bottom of the scale, the eta, the nonhumans, those who dealt with dead bodies, the curing of leather and handling of dead animals, who were also the public executioners, branders, and mutilators.  Of course, any barbarian was beneath consideration in this scale.

‘Please excuse me, Captain-san,’ Mura said, bowing low, ashamed for the barbarian’s loss of face as he lay groaning like a baby still at suck.  Yes, I’m very sorry, he thought, but it had to be done.  You provoked me beyond all reasonableness, even for a barbarian.  You shout like a lunatic, upset my mother, interrupt my house’s tranquillity, disturb the servants, and my wife’s already had to replace one shoji door.  I could not possibly permit your obvious lack of manners to go unopposed.  Or allow you to go against my wishes in my own house.  It’s really for your own good.  Then, too, it’s not so bad because you barbarians really have no face to lose.  Except the priests—they’re different.  They still smell horrible, but they’re the anointed of God the Father so they have great face.  But you—you’re a liar as well as a pirate.  No honor.  How astonishing!  Claiming to be a Christian!  Unfortunately that won’t help you at all.  Our daimyo hates the True Faith and barbarians and tolerates them only because he has to.  But you’re not a Portuguese or a Christian, therefore not protected by law, neh?  So even though you are a dead man—or at least a mutilated one—it is my duty to see that you go to your fate clean.  ‘Bath very good!’

He helped the other men carry the still dazed Blackthorne through the house, out into the garden, along a roofed-in walk of which he was very proud, and into the bath house.  The women followed.

It became one of the great experiences of his life.  He knew at the time that he would tell and retell the tale to his incredulous friends over barrels of hot sake, as the national wine of Japan was called; to his fellow elders, fishermen, villagers, to his children who also would not at first believe him.  But they, in their turn, would regale their children and the name of Mura the fisherman would live forever in the village of Anjiro, which was in the province of Izu on the southeastern coast of the main island of Honshu.  All because he, Mura the fisherman, had the good fortune to be headman in the first year after the death of the Taikō and therefore temporarily responsible for the leader of the strange barbarians who came out of the eastern sea.