Shōgun (The Asian Saga Book 1)

Blackthorne awoke at dawn.  Alone.  At first he was sure he had been dreaming, but her perfume still lingered and he knew that it had not been a dream.

A discreet knock.

‘Hai?‘

‘Ohayo, Anjin-san, gomen nasai.‘  A maid opened the shoji for Fujiko, then carried in the tray with cha and a bowl of rice gruel and sweet rice cakes.

‘Ohayo, Fujiko-san, domo,‘ he said, thanking her.  She always came with his first meal personally, opened the net and waited while he ate, and the maid laid out a fresh kimono and tabi and loincloth.

He sipped the cha, wondering if Fujiko knew about last night.  Her face gave nothing away.

‘Ikaga desu ka?‘  How are you, Blackthorne asked.

‘Okagasama de genki desu, Anjin-san.  Anata wa?‘  Very well, thank you.  And you?

The maid took out his fresh clothes from the concealed cupboard that melted neatly into the rest of the paper-latticed room, then left them alone.

‘Anata wa yoku nemutta ka?‘  Did you sleep well?

‘Hai, Anjin-san, arigato goziemashita!‘  She smiled, put her hand to her head pretending pain, mimed being drunk and sleeping like a stone.  ‘Anata wa?‘

‘Watashi wa yoku nemuru.‘  I slept very well.

She corrected him, ‘Watashi wa yoku nemutta.‘

‘Domo.  Watashi wa yoku nemutta.‘

‘Yoi!  Taihenyoi!‘  Good.  Very good.

Then from the corridor he heard Mariko call out, ‘Fujiko-san?’

‘Hai, Mariko-san?’  Fujiko went to the shoji and opened it a crack.  He could not see Mariko.  And he did not understand what they were saying.

I hope no one knows, he thought.  I pray it is secret, just between us.  Perhaps it would be better if it had been a dream.

He began to dress.  Fujiko came back and knelt to do up the catches on the tabi.

‘Mariko-san?  Nan ja?‘

‘Nane mo, Anjin-san,’ she replied.  It was nothing important.

She went to the takonama, the alcove with its hanging scroll and flower arrangement, where his swords were always put.  She gave them to him.  He stuck them in his belt.  The swords no longer felt ridiculous to him, though he wished that he could wear them less self-consciously.

She had told him that her father had been granted the swords for bravery after a particularly bloody battle in the far north of Korea, seven years ago during the first invasion.  The Japanese armies had ripped through the kingdom, victorious, slashing north.  Then, when they were near the Yalu River, the Chinese hordes had abruptly poured across the border to join battle with the Japanese armies and, through the weight of their incredible numbers, had routed them.  Fujiko’s father had been part of the rearguard that had covered the retreat back to the mountains north of Seoul, where they had turned and fought the battle to a stalemate.  This and the second campaign had been the costliest military expedition ever undertaken.  When the Taikō had died last year, Toranaga, on behalf of the Council of Regents, had at once ordered the remnants of their armies home, to the great relief of the vast majority of daimyos, who detested the Korean campaign.

Blackthorne walked out to the veranda.  He stepped into his thongs and nodded to his servants, who had been assembled in a neat line to bow him off, as was custom.

It was a drab day.  The sky was overcast and a warm wet wind came off the sea.  The steppingstones that were set into the gravel of the path were wet with the rain that had fallen in the night.

Beyond the gate were the horses and his ten samurai outriders.  And Mariko.

She was already mounted and wore a pale yellow mantle over pale green silk trousers, a wide-brimmed hat and veil held with yellow ribbons, and gloves.  A rain parasol was ready in its saddle-sheath.

‘Ohayo,‘ he said formally. ‘Ohayo, Mariko-san.’

‘Ohayo, Anjin-san. Ikaga desu ka?‘

‘Okagesama de genki desu.  Anata wa?‘

She smiled.  ‘Yoi, arigato goziemashita.‘

She gave not the faintest hint that anything was different between them.  But he expected none, not in public, knowing how dangerous the situation was.  Her perfume came over him and he would have liked to kiss her here, in front of everyone.

‘Ikimasho!‘ he said and swung into the saddle, motioning the samurai to ride off ahead.  He walked his horse leisurely and Mariko fell into place beside him.  When they were alone, he relaxed.

‘Mariko.’

‘Hai?‘

Then he said in Latin, ‘Thou art beautiful and I love thee.’

‘I thank thee, but so much wine last night makes my head to feel not beautiful today, not in truth, and love is a Christian word.’

‘Thou art beautiful and Christian, and wine could not touch thee.’

‘Thank thee for the lie, Anjin-san, yes, thank thee.’

‘No.  I should thank thee.’

‘Oh?  Why?’

‘Never ‘why,’ no ‘why.’  I thank thee sincerely.’

‘If wine and meat make thee so warm and fine and gallant,’ she said, ‘then I must tell thy consort to move the heaven and the earth to obtain them for thee every evening.’

‘Yes.  I would have everything the same, always.’

‘Thou art untoward happy today,’ she said.  ‘Good, very good.  But why?  Why truly?’

‘Because of thee.  Thou knowest why.’

‘I know nothing, Anjin-san.’

‘Nothing?’ he teased.

‘Nothing.’

He was taken aback.  They were quite alone, and safe.

‘Why doth ‘nothing’ take the heart out of thy smile?’ she asked.

‘Stupidity!  Absolute stupidity!  I forgot that it is most wise to be cautious.  It was only that we were alone and I wanted to speak of it.  And, in truth, to say more.’

‘Thou speakest in riddles.  I do not understand thee.’

He was nonplussed again.  ‘Thou dost not wish to talk about it?  At all?’

‘About what, Anjin-san?’

‘What passed in the night then?’

‘I passed thy door in the night when my maid, Koi, was with thee.’

‘What?’

‘We, your consort and I, we thought she would be a pleasing gift for thee.  She pleased thee, did she not?’

Blackthorne was trying to recover.  Mariko’s maid was her size but younger and never so fair and never so pretty, and yes, it was pitch dark and yes, his head was fogged with wine but no, it was not the maid.

‘That’s not possible,’ he said in Portuguese.

‘What’s not possible, senhor?’ she asked in the same language.

He reverted to Latin again, as the outriders were not far away, the wind blowing in their direction.  ‘Please do not joke with me.  No one can hear.  I know a presence and a perfume.’

‘Thou thinkest it was me?  Oh, it was not, Anjin-san.  I would be honored but I could never possibly . . . however much I might want—oh no, Anjin-san.  It was not me but Koi, my maid.  I would be honored, but I belong to another even though he’s dead.’

‘Yes, but it wasn’t your maid.’  He bit back his anger.  ‘But leave it as thou desirest.’

‘It was my maid, Anjin-san,’ she said placatingly.  ‘We anointed her with my perfume and instructed her:  no words, only touch.  We never thought for a moment thou wouldst consider her to be me!  This was not to trick thee but for thine ease, knowing that discussing things of the pillow still embarrasses thee.’  She was looking at him with wide, innocent eyes.  ‘She pleasured thee, Anjin-san?  Thou pleasured her.’

‘A joke concerning things of great importance is sometimes without humor.’

‘Things of great import will always be treated with great import.  But a maid in the night with a man is without import.’

‘I do not consider thee without import.’

‘I thank thee.  I say that equally.  But a maid in the night with a man is private and without import.  It is a gift from her to him and, sometimes, from him to her.  Nothing more.’

‘Never?’

‘Sometimes.  But this private pillow matter does not have this vast seriousness of thine.’

‘Never?’

‘Only when the woman and man join together against the law.  In this land.’

He reined in, finally comprehending the reason for her denial.  ‘I apologize,’ he said.  ‘Yes, thou art right and I most very wrong.  I should never have spoken.  I apologize.’

‘Why apologize?  For what?  Tell me, Anjin-san, was this girl wearing a crucifix?’

‘No.

‘I always wear it.  Always.’

‘A crucifix can be taken off,’ he said automatically in Portuguese.  ‘That proves nothing.  It could be loaned, like a perfume.’

‘Tell me a last truth:  Did you really see the girl?  Really see her?’

‘Of course.  Please let us forget I ever—’

‘The night was very dark, the moon overcast.  Please, the truth, Anjin-san. Think!  Did you really see the girl?’

Of course I saw her, he thought indignantly.

God damn it, think truly.  You didn’t see her.  Your head was fogged.  She could have been the maid but you knew it was Mariko because you wanted Mariko and saw only Mariko in your head, believing that Mariko would want you equally.  You’re a fool.  A God damned fool.

‘In truth, no.  In truth I should really apologize,’ he said.  ‘How do I apologize?’

‘There’s no need to apologize, Anjin-san,’ she replied calmly.  ‘I’ve told you many times a man never apologizes, even when he’s wrong.  You were not wrong.’  Her eyes teased him now.  ‘My maid needs no apology.’

‘Thank you,’ he said, laughing.  ‘You make me feel less of a fool.’

‘The years flee from you when you laugh.  The so-serious Anjin-san becomes a boy again.’

‘My father told me I was born old.’

‘Were you?’

‘He thought so.’

‘What’s he like?’

‘He was a fine man.  A shipowner, a captain.  The Spanish killed him at a place called Antwerp when they put that city to the sword.  They burned his ship.  I was six, but I remember him as a big, tall, good-natured man with golden hair.  My older brother, Arthur, he was just eight—We had bad times then, Mariko-san.’

‘Why?  Please tell me.  Please!’

‘It’s all very ordinary.  Every penny of money was tied into the ship and that was lost . . . and, well, not long after that, my sister died.  She starved to death really.  There was famine in ’71 and plague again.’

‘We have plague sometimes.  The smallpox.  You were many in your family?’

‘Three of us,’ he said, glad to talk to take away the other hurt.  ‘Willia, my sister, she was nine when she died.  Arthur, he was next—he wanted to be an artist, a sculptor, but he had to become an apprentice stonemason to help support us.  He was killed in the Armada.  He was twenty-five, poor fool, he just joined a ship, untrained, such a waste.  I’m the last of the Blackthornes.  Arthur’s wife and daughter live with my wife and kids now.  My mother’s still alive and so’s old Granny Jacoba—she’s seventy-five and hard as a piece of English oak though she was Irish.  At least they were alive when I left more than two years ago.’

The ache was coming back.  I’ll think about them when I start for home, he promised himself, but not until then.

‘There’ll be a storm tomorrow,’ he said, watching the sea.  ‘A strong one, Mariko-san.  Then in three days we’ll have fair weather.’

‘This is the season of squalls.  Mostly it’s overcast and rainfilled.  When the rains stop it becomes very humid.  Then begin the tai-funs.‘

I wish I were at sea again, he was thinking.  Was I ever at sea?  Was the ship real?  What’s reality?  Mariko or the maid?

‘You don’t laugh very much, do you, Anjin-san?’

‘I’ve been seafaring too long.  Seamen’re always serious.  We’ve learned to watch the sea.  We’re always watching and waiting for disaster.  Take your eyes off the sea for a second and she’ll grasp your ship and make her matchwood.’

‘I’m afraid of the sea,’ she said.

‘So am I.  An old fisherman told me once, ‘The man who’s not afraid of the sea’ll soon be drownded for he’ll go out on a day he shouldn’t.  But we be afraid of the sea so we be only drownded now and again.”  He looked at her.  ‘Mariko-san . . .’

‘Yes?’

‘A few minutes ago you’d convinced me that—well, let’s say I was convinced.  Now I’m not.  What’s the truth?  The honto.  I must know.’

‘Ears are to hear with.  Of course it was the maid.’

‘This maid.  Can I ask for her whenever I want?’

‘Of course.  A wise man would not.’

‘Because I might be disappointed?  Next time?’

‘Possibly.’

‘I find it difficult to possess a maid and lose a maid, difficult to say nothing. . . .’

‘Pillowing is a pleasure.  Of the body.  Nothing has to be said.’

‘But how do I tell a maid that she is beautiful?  That I love her?  That she filled me with ecstasy?’

‘It isn’t seemly to ‘love’ a maid this way.  Not here, Anjin-san.  That passion’s not even for a wife or a consort.’  Her eyes crinkled suddenly.  ‘But only toward someone like Kiku-san, the courtesan, who is so beautiful and merits this.’

‘Where can I find this girl?’

‘In the village.  It would be my honor to act as your go-between.’

‘By Christ, I think you mean it.’

‘Of course.  A man needs passions of all kinds.  This Lady is worthy of romance—if you can afford her.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘She would be very expensive.’

‘You don’t buy love.  That type’s worth nothing.  ‘Love’ is without price.’

She smiled.  ‘Pillowing always has its price.  Always.  Not necessarily money, Anjin-san.  But a man pays, always, for pillowing in one way, or in another.  True love, we call it duty, is of soul to soul and needs no such expression—no physical expression, except perhaps the gift of death.’

‘You’re wrong.  I wish I could show you the world as it is.’

‘I know the world as it is, and as it will be forever.  You want this contemptible maid again?’

‘Yes.  You know I want . . .’

Mariko laughed gaily.  ‘Then she will be sent to you.  At sunset.  We will escort her, Fujiko and I!’

‘Goddamn it—I think you would too!’  He laughed with her.

‘Ah, Anjin-san, it is good to see you laugh.  Since you came back to Anjiro you have gone through a great change.  A very great change.’

‘No.  Not so much.  But last night I dreamed a dream.  That dream was perfection.’

‘God is perfection.  And sometimes so is a sunset or moonrise or the first crocus of the year.’

‘I don’t understand you at all.’

She turned back the veil on her hat and looked directly at him.  ‘Once another man said to me, ‘I don’t understand you at all,’ and my husband said, ‘Your pardon, Lord, but no man can understand her.  Her father doesn’t understand her, neither do the gods, nor her barbarian God, not even her mother understands her.”

‘That was Toranaga?  Lord Toranaga?’

‘Oh, no, Anjin-san.  That was the Taikō.  Lord Toranaga understands me.  He understands everything.’

‘Even me?’

‘Very much you.’

‘You’re sure of that, aren’t you?’

‘Yes.  Oh, very yes.’

‘Will he win the war?’

‘Yes.’

‘I’m his favored vassal?’

‘Yes.’

‘Will he take my navy?’

‘Yes.’

‘When will I get my ship back?’

‘You won’t.’

‘Why?’

Her gravity vanished.  ‘Because you’ll have your ‘maid’ in Anjiro and you’ll be pillowing so much you’ll have no energy to leave, even on your hands and knees, when she begs you to go aboard your ship, and when Lord Toranaga asks you to go aboard and to leave us all!’

‘There you go again!  One moment so serious, the next not!’

‘That’s only to answer you, Anjin-san, and to put certain things in a correct place.  Ah, but before you leave us you should see the Lady Kiku.  She’s worthy of a great passion.  She’s so beautiful and talented.  For her you would have to be extraordinary!’

‘I’m tempted to accept that challenge.’

‘I challenge no one.  But if you’re prepared to be samurai and not—not foreigner—if you’re prepared to treat pillowing for what it is, then I would be honored to act as go-between.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘When you’re in good humor, when you’re ready for very special amusement, ask your consort to ask me.’

‘Why Fujiko-san?’

‘Because it’s your consort’s duty to see that you are pleasured.  It is our custom to make life simple.  We admire simplicity, so men and women can take pillowing for what it is:  an important part of life, certainly, but between a man and a woman there are more vital things.  Humility, for one.  Respect.  Duty.  Even this ‘love’ of yours.  Fujiko ‘loves’ you.’

‘No she doesn’t!’

‘She will give you her life.  What more is there to give?’

At length he took his eyes off her and looked at the sea.  The waves were cresting the shore as the wind freshened.  He turned back to her.  ‘Then nothing is to be said?’ he asked.  ‘Between us?’

‘Nothing.  That is wise.’

‘And if I don’t agree?’

‘You must agree.  You are here.  This is your home.’

The attacking five hundred galloped over the lip of the hill in a haphazard pack, down onto the rock-strewn valley floor where the two thousand ‘defenders’ were drawn up in a battle array.  Each rider wore a musket slung on his back and a belt with pouches for bullets, flints, and a powder horn.  Like most samurai, their clothes were a motley collection of kimonos and rags, but their weapons always the best that each could afford.  Only Toranaga and Ishido, copying him, insisted that their troops be uniformed and punctilious in their dress.  All other daimyos considered such outward extravagance a foolish squandering of money, an unnecessary innovation.  Even Blackthorne had agreed.  The armies of Europe were never uniformed—what king could afford that, except for a personal guard?

He was standing on a rise with Yabu and his aides, Jozen and all his men, and Mariko.  This was the first full-scale rehearsal of an attack.  He waited uneasily.  Yabu was uncommonly tense, and Omi and Naga both had been touchy almost to the point of belligerence.  Particularly Naga.

‘What’s the matter with everyone?’ he had asked Mariko.

‘Perhaps they wish to do well in front of their lord and his guest.’

‘Is he a daimyo too?’

‘No.  But important, one of Lord Ishido’s generals.  It would be good if everything were perfect today.’

‘I wish I’d been told there was to be a rehearsal.’

‘What would that have accomplished?  Everything you could do, you have done.’

Yes, Blackthorne thought, as he watched the five hundred.  But they’re nowhere near ready yet.  Surely Yabu knows that too, everyone does.  So if there is a disaster, well, that’s karma, he told himself with more confidence, and found consolation in that thought.

The attackers gathered speed and the defenders stood waiting under the banners of their captains, jeering at the ‘enemy’ as they would normally do, strung out in loose formation, three or four men deep.  Soon the attackers would dismount out of arrow range.  Then the most valiant warriors on both sides would truculently strut to the fore to throw down the gauntlet, proclaiming their own lineage and superiority with the most obvious of insults.  Single armed conflicts would begin, gradually increasing in numbers, until one commander would order a general attack and then it was every man for himself.  Usually the greater number defeated the smaller, then the reserves would be brought up and committed, and again the melee until the morale of one side broke, and the few cowards that retreated would soon be joined by the many and a rout would ensue.  Treachery was not unusual.  Sometimes whole regiments, following their master’s orders, would switch sides, to be welcomed as allies—always welcomed but never trusted.  Sometimes the defeated commanders would flee to regroup to fight again.  Sometimes they would stay and fight to the death, sometimes they would commit seppuku with ceremony.  Rarely were they captured.  Some offered their services to the victors.  Sometimes this was accepted but most times refused.  Death was the lot of the vanquished, quick for the brave and shame-filled for the cowardly.  And this was the historic pattern of all skirmishes in this land, even at great battles, soldiers here the same as everywhere, except that here they were more ferocious and many, many more were prepared to die for their masters than anywhere else on earth.

The thunder of the hoofs echoed in the valley.

‘Where’s the attack commander?  Where’s Omi-san?’ Jozen asked.

‘Among the men, be patient,’ Yabu replied.

‘But where’s his standard?  And why isn’t he wearing battle armor and plumes?  Where’s the commander’s standard?  They’re just like a bunch of filthy no-good bandits!’

‘Be patient!  All officers are ordered to remain nondescript.  I told you.  And please don’t forget we’re pretending a battle is raging, that this is part of a big battle, with reserves and arm—’

Jozen burst out, ‘Where are their swords?  None of them are wearing swords!  Samurai without swords?  They’d be massacred!’

‘Be patient!’

Now the attackers were dismounting.  The first warriors strode out from the defending ranks to show their valor.  An equal number began to measure up against them.  Then, suddenly, the ungainly mass of attackers rushed into five tight-disciplined phalanxes, each with four ranks of twenty-five men, three phalanxes ahead and two in reserve, forty paces back.  As one, they charged the enemy.  In range they shuddered to a stop on command and the front ranks fired an earshattering salvo in unison.  Screams and men dying.  Jozen and his men ducked reflexively, then watched appalled as the front ranks knelt and began to reload and the second ranks fired over them, with the third and fourth ranks following the same pattern.  At each salvo more defenders fell, and the valley was filled with shouts and screams and confusion.

‘You’re killing your own men!’ Jozen shouted above the uproar.

‘It’s blank ammunition, not real.  They’re all acting, but imagine it’s a real attack with real bullets!  Watch!’

Now the defenders ‘recovered’ from the initial shock.  They regrouped and whirled back to a frontal attack.  But by this time the front ranks had reloaded and, on command, fired another salvo from a kneeling position, then the second rank fired standing, immediately kneeling to reload, then the third and the fourth, as before, and though many musketeers were slow and the ranks ragged, it was easy to imagine the awful decimation trained men would cause.  The counterattack faltered, then broke apart, and the defenders retreated in pretended confusion, back up the rise to stop just below the observers.  Many ‘dead’ littered the ground.

Jozen and his men were shaken.  ‘Those guns would break any line!’

‘Wait.  The battle’s not over!’

Again the defenders re-formed and now their commanders exhorted them to victory, committed the reserves, and ordered the final general attack.  The samurai rushed down the hill, emitting their terrible battle cries, to fall on the enemy.

‘Now they’ll be stamped into the ground,’ Jozen said, caught up like all of them in the realism of this mock battle.

And he was right.  The phalanxes did not hold their ground.  They broke and fled before the battle cries of the true samurai with their swords and spears, and Jozen and his men added their shouts of scorn as the regiments hurtled to the kill.  The musketeers were fleeing like the Garlic Eaters, a hundred paces, two hundred paces, three hundred, then suddenly, on command, the phalanxes regrouped, this time in a V formation.  Again the shattering salvos began.  The attack faltered.  Then stopped.  But the guns continued.  Then they, too, stopped.  The game ceased.  But all on the rise knew that under actual conditions the two thousand would have been slaughtered.

Now, in the silence, defenders and attackers began to sort themselves out.  The ‘bodies’ got up, weapons were collected.  There was laughter and groaning.  Many men limped and a few were badly hurt.

‘I congratulate you, Yabu-sama,’ Jozen said with great sincerity.  ‘Now I understand what all of you meant.’

‘The firing was ragged,’ Yabu said, inwardly delighted.  ‘It will take months to train them.’

Jozen shook his head.  ‘I wouldn’t like to attack them now.  Not if they had real ammunition.  No army could withstand that punch—no line.  The ranks could never stay closed.  And then you’d pour ordinary troops and cavalry through the gap and roll up the sides like an old scroll.’  He thanked all kami that he’d had the sense to see one attack.  ‘It was terrible to watch.  For a moment I thought the battle was real.’

‘They were ordered to make it look real.  And now you may review my musketeers, if you wish.’

‘Thank you.  That would be an honor.’

The defenders were streaming off to their camps that sat on the far hillside.  The five hundred musketeers waited below, near the path that went over the rise and slid down to the village.  They were forming into their companies, Omi and Naga in front of them, both wearing swords again.

‘Yabu-sama?’

‘Yes, Anjin-san?’

‘Good, no?’

‘Yes, good.’

‘Thank you, Yabu-sama.  I please.’

Mariko corrected him automatically.  ‘I am pleased.’

‘Ah, so sorry.  I am pleased.’

Jozen took Yabu aside.  ‘This is all out of the Anjin-san’s head?’

‘No,’ Yabu lied.  ‘But it’s the way barbarians fight.  He’s just training the men to load and to fire.’

‘Why not do as Naga-san advised?  You’ve the barbarian’s knowledge now.  Why risk its spreading?  He is a plague.  Very dangerous, Yabu-sama.  Naga-san was right.  It’s true—peasants could fight this way.  Easily.  Get rid of the barbarian now.’

‘If Lord Ishido wants his head, he has only to ask.’

‘I ask it.  Now.’  Again the truculence.  ‘I speak with his voice.’

‘I’ll consider it, Jozen-san.’

‘And also, in his name, I ask that all guns be withdrawn from those troops at once.’

Yabu frowned, then turned his attention to the companies.  They were approaching up the hill, their straight, disciplined ranks faintly ludicrous as always, only because such order was unusual.  Fifty paces away they halted.  Omi and Naga came on alone and saluted.

‘It was all right for a first exercise,’ Yabu said.

‘Thank you, Sire,’ Omi replied.  He was limping slightly and his face was dirty, bruised, and powder marked.

Jozen said, ‘Your troops would have to carry swords in a real battle, Yabu-sama, neh?  A samurai must carry swords—eventually they’d run out of ammunition, neh?‘

‘Swords will be in their way, in charge and retreat.  Oh, they’ll wear them as usual to maintain surprise, but just before the first charge they’ll get rid of them.’

‘Samurai will always need swords.  In a real battle.  Even so, I’m glad you’ll never have to use this attack force, or—’  Jozen was going to add, ‘or this filthy, treacherous method of war.’  Instead he said, ‘Or we’ll all have to give our swords away.’

‘Perhaps we will, Jozen-san, when we go to war.’

‘You’d give up your Murasama blade?  Or even Toranaga’s gift?’

‘To win a battle, yes.  Otherwise no.’

‘Then you might have to run very fast to save your fruit when your musket jammed or your powder got wet.’  Jozen laughed at his own sally.  Yabu did not.

‘Omi-san!  Show him!’ he ordered.

At once Omi gave an order.  His men slipped out the short sheathed bayonet sword that hung almost unnoticed from the back of their belts and snapped it into a socket on the muzzle of their muskets.

‘Charge!‘

Instantly the samurai charged with their battle cry, ‘Kasigiiiiiii!‘

The forest of naked steel stopped a pace away from them.  Jozen and his men were laughing nervously from the sudden, unexpected ferocity.  ‘Good, very good,’ Jozen said.  He reached out and touched one of the bayonets.  It was extremely sharp.  ‘Perhaps you’re right, Yabu-sama.  Let’s hope it’s never put to the test.’

‘Omi-san!’ Yabu called.  ‘Form them up.  Jozen-san’s going to review them.  Then go back to camp.  Mariko-san, Anjin-san, you follow me!’  He strode down the rise through the ranks, his aides, Blackthorne, and Mariko following.

‘Form up at the path.  Replace bayonets!’

Half the men obeyed at once, turned about, and walked down the slope again.  Naga and his two hundred and fifty samurai remained where they were, bayonets still threatening.

Jozen bristled.  ‘What’s going on?’

‘I consider your insults intolerable,’ Naga said venomously.

‘That’s nonsense.  I haven’t insulted you, or anyone!  Your bayonets insult my position!  Yabu-sama!’

Yabu turned back.  Now he was on the other side of the Toranaga contingent.  ‘Naga-san,’ he called out coldly.  ‘What’s the meaning of this?’

‘I cannot forgive this man’s insults to my father—or to me.’

‘He’s protected.  You cannot touch him now!  He’s under the cipher of the Regents!’

‘Your pardon, Yabu-sama, but this is between Jozen-san and myself.’

‘No.  You are under my orders.  I order you to tell your men to return to camp.’

Not a man moved.  The rain began.

‘Your pardon, Yabu-san, please forgive me, but this is between him and me and whatever happens I absolve you of responsibility for my action and those of my men.’

Behind Naga, one of Jozen’s men drew his sword and lunged for Naga’s unprotected back.  A volley of twenty muskets blew off his head at once.  These twenty men knelt and began to reload.  The second rank readied.

‘Who ordered live ammunition?’ Yabu demanded.

‘I did.  I, Yoshi Naga-noh-Toranaga!’

‘Naga-san!  I order you to let Nebara Jozen and his men go free.  You are ordered to your quarters until I can consult Lord Toranaga about your insubordination!’

‘Of course you will inform Lord Toranaga and karma is karma.  But I regret, Lord Yabu, that first this man must die.  All of them must die.  Today!’

Jozen shrieked, ‘I’m protected by the Regents!  You’ll gain nothing by killing me.’

‘I regain my honor, neh?‘ Naga said.  ‘I repay your sneers at my father and your insults to me.  But you would have had to die anyway.  Neh?  I could not have been more clear last night.  Now you’ve seen an attack.  I cannot risk Ishido learning all this’—his hand waved at the battlefield—’ this horror!’

‘He already knows!’ Jozen blurted out, blessing his foresight of the previous evening.  ‘He knows already!  I sent a message by pigeon secretly at dawn!  You gain nothing by killing me, Naga-san!’

Naga motioned to one of his men, an old samurai, who came forward and threw the strangled pigeon at Jozen’s feet.  Then a man’s severed head was also cast upon the ground—the head of the samurai, Masumoto, sent yesterday by Jozen with the scroll.  The eyes were still open, the lips drawn back in a hate-filled grimace.  The head began to roll.  It tumbled through the ranks until it came to rest against a rock.

A moan broke from Jozen’s lips.  Naga and all his men laughed.  Even Yabu smiled.  Another of Jozen’s samurai leaped for Naga.  Twenty muskets blasted him, and the man next to him, who had not moved, also fell in agony, mortally wounded.

The laughter ceased.

Omi said, ‘Shall I order my men to attack, Sire?’  It had been so easy to maneuver Naga.

Yabu wiped the rain off his face.  ‘No, that would achieve nothing.  Jozen-san and his men are already dead, whatever I do.  That’s his karma, as Naga-san has his.  Naga-san!’ he called out.  ‘For the last time, I order you to let them all go!’

‘Please excuse me but I must refuse.’

‘Very well.  When it is finished, report to me.’

‘Yes.  There should be an official witness, Yabu-sama.  For Lord Toranaga and for Lord Ishido.’

‘Omi-san, you will stay.  You will sign the death certification and make out the dispatch.  Naga-san and I will countersign it.’

Naga pointed at Blackthorne.  ‘Let him stay too.  Also as witness.  He’s responsible for their deaths.  He should witness them.’

‘Anjin-san, go up there!  To Naga-san!  Do you understand?’

‘Yes, Yabu-san.  I understand, but why, please?’

‘To be a witness.’

‘Sorry, don’t understand.’

‘Mariko-san, explain ‘witness’ to him, that he’s to witness what’s going to happen—then you follow me.’  Hiding his vast satisfaction, Yabu turned and left.

Jozen shrieked, ‘Yabu-sama!  Please!  Yabuuuuu-samaaaa!’

Blackthorne watched.  When it was finished he went home.  There was silence in his house and a pall over the village.  A bath did not make him feel clean.  Saké did not take away the foulness from his mouth.  Incense did not unclog the stench from his nostrils.

Later Yabu sent for him.  The attack was dissected, moment by moment.  Omi and Naga were there with Mariko—Naga as always cold, listening, rarely commenting, still second-in-command.  None of them seemed touched by what had happened.

They worked till after sunset.  Yabu ordered the tempo of training stepped up.  A second five hundred was to be formed at once.  In one week another.

Blackthorne walked home alone, and ate alone, beset by his ghastly discovery:  that they had no sense of sin, they were all conscienceless—even Mariko.

That night he couldn’t sleep.  He left the house, the wind tugging at him.  Gusts were frothing the waves.  A stronger squall sent debris clattering against a village hovel.  Dogs howled at the sky and foraged.  The rice-thatched roofs moved like living things.  Shutters were banging and men and women, silent wraiths, fought them closed and barred them.  The tide came in heavily.  All the fishing boats had been hauled to safety much farther up the beach than usual.  Everything was battened down.

He walked the shore then returned to his house, leaning against the press of the wind.  He had met no one.  Rain squalled and he was soon drenched.

Fujiko waited for him on the veranda, the wind ripping at her, guttering the shielded oil lamp.  Everyone was awake.  Servants carried valuables to the squat adobe and stone storage building in the back of the garden.

The gale was not menacing yet.

A roof tile twisted loose as the wind squeezed under an eave and the whole roof shuddered.  The tile fell and shattered loudly.  Servants hurried about, some readying buckets of water, others trying to repair the roof.  The old gardener, Ueki-ya, helped by children, was lashing the tender bushes and trees to bamboo stakes.

Another gust rocked the house.

‘It’s going to blow down, Mariko-san.’

She said nothing, the wind clawing at her and Fujiko, wind tears in the corners of their eyes.  He looked at the village.  Now debris was blowing everywhere.  Then the wind poured through a rip in the paper shoji of one dwelling and the whole wall vanished, leaving only a latticed skeleton.  The opposite wall crumbled and the roof collapsed.

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

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

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

‘Mura, you made . . .’ Blackthorne sought the words.  ‘You make it look easy.’

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

‘You fires oftens?’

‘So sorry, ‘Do you have fires often?”

‘Do you have fires often?’ Blackthorne repeated.

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

‘Yes.’

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

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

‘Morning, Omi-san.  Your house is good?’

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

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

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

‘I apologize for my stupidity.’  Mura hurried away.

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

‘Good today, thank you.  And you?’

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

‘So sorry.  I don’t understand.’

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

‘Ah, I understand.  Yes, I think good.’

‘And the witnessing?’

‘Please?’

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

‘Ah, yes.  The truth, Omi-san, not like killings.’

‘Karma, Anjin-san.’

‘Karma.  Today trainings?’

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

‘Talk only.  Understand.’

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

‘Thank you.  Difficult.  Small time.’

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

‘Friend?  I understand ‘friend.”

Omi pointed at himself then at Blackthorne.  ‘I want to be your friend.’

‘Ah!  Thank you.  Honored.’

Omi smiled again and bowed, equal to equal, and walked away.

‘Friends with him?’  Blackthorne muttered.  ‘Has he forgotten?  I haven’t.’

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

‘Yes, thank you.  Many breakings?’ he asked, pointing at the house.

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

‘Was there much breakage?’

‘No real damage, Anjin-san.’

‘Good.  No hurtings?’

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

‘Thank you.  No one was hurt?’

‘No, Anjin-san.  No one was hurt.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘It is very bad then.’

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

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

‘Why do people laugh?’

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

Some of you show it, Blackthorne thought.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His death was quick, painless, and honorable.

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

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