Shōgun (The Asian Saga Book 1)
Shōgun: Book 1 – Chapter 7

Toda Hiro-matsu, overlord of the provinces of Sagami and Kozuké, Toranaga’s most trusted general and adviser, commander-in-chief of all his armies, strode down the gangplank onto the wharf alone. He was tall for a Japanese, just under six feet, a bull-like man with heavy jowls, who carried his sixty-seven years with strength. His military kimono was brown silk, stark but for the five small Toranaga crests—three interlocked bamboo sprays. He wore a burnished breastplate and steel arm protectors. Only the short sword was in his belt. The other, the killing sword, he carried loose in his hand. He was ready to unsheathe it instantly and to kill instantly to protect his liege lord. This had been his custom ever since he was fifteen.

No one, not even the Taikō, had been able to change him.

A year ago, when the Taikō died, Hiro-matsu had become Toranaga’s vassal. Toranaga had given him Sagami and Kozuké, two of his eight provinces, to overlord, five hundred thousand koku yearly, and had also left him to his custom. Hiro-matsu was very good at killing.

Now the shore was lined with all the villagers—men, women, children—on their knees, their heads low. The samurai were in neat, formal rows in front of them. Yabu was at their head with his lieutenants.

If Yabu had been a woman or a weaker man, he knew that he would be beating his breast and wailing and tearing his hair out. This was too much of a coincidence. For the famous Toda Hiro-matsu to be here, on this day, meant that Yabu had been betrayed—either in Yedo by one of his household, or here in Anjiro by Omi, one of Omi’s men, or one of the villagers. He had been trapped in disobedience. An enemy had taken advantage of his interest in the ship.

He knelt and bowed and all his samurai followed him, and he cursed the ship and all who sailed in it.

‘Ah, Yabu-sama,’ he heard Hiro-matsu say, and saw him kneel on the matting that had been set out for him and return his bow. But the depth of the bow was less than correct and Hiro-matsu did not wait for him to bow again, so he knew, without being told, that he was in vast jeopardy. He saw the general sit back on his heels. ‘Iron Fist’ he was called behind his back. Only Toranaga or one of three counselors would have the privilege of flying the Toranaga flag. Why send so important a general to catch me away from Yedo?

‘You honor me by coming to one of my poor villages, Hiro-matsu-sama,’ he said.

‘My Master ordered me here.’ Hiro-matsu was known for his bluntness. He had neither guile nor cunning, only an absolute trustworthiness to his liege lord.

‘I’m honored and very glad,’ Yabu said. ‘I rushed here from Yedo because of that barbarian ship.’

‘Lord Toranaga invited all friendly daimyos to wait in Yedo until he returned from Osaka.’

‘How is our Lord? I hope everything goes well with him?’

‘The sooner Lord Toranaga is safe in his own castle at Yedo the better. The sooner the clash with Ishido is open and we marshal our armies and cut a path back to Osaka Castle and burn it to the bricks, the better.’ The old man’s jowls reddened as his anxiety for Toranaga increased; he hated being away from him. The Taikō had built Osaka Castle to be invulnerable. It was the greatest in the Empire, with interlocking keeps and moats, lesser castles, towers, and bridges, and space for eighty thousand soldiers within its walls. And around the walls and the huge city were other armies, equally disciplined and equally well armed, all fanatic supporters of Yaemon, the Heir. ‘I’ve told him a dozen times that he was mad to put himself into Ishido’s power. Lunatic!’

‘Lord Toranaga had to go, neh? He had no choice.’ The Taikō had ordered that the Council of Regents, who ruled in Yaemon’s name, were to meet for ten days at least twice a year and always within Osaka’s castle keep, bringing with them a maximum of five hundred retainers within the walls. And all other daimyos were equally obliged to visit the castle with their families to pay their respects to the Heir, also twice a year. So all were controlled, all defenseless for part of the year, every year. ‘The meeting was fixed, neh? If he didn’t go it would be treason, neh?‘

‘Treason against whom?’ Hiro-matsu reddened even more. ‘Ishido’s trying to isolate our Master. Listen, if I had Ishido in my power like he has Lord Toranaga, I wouldn’t hesitate for a moment—whatever the risks. Ishido’s head would have been off his shoulders long since, and his spirit awaiting rebirth.’ The general was involuntarily twisting the well-used sheath of the sword that he carried in his left hand. His right hand, gnarled and calloused, lay ready in his lap. He studied Erasmus. ‘Where are the cannon?’

‘I had them brought ashore. For safety. Will Toranaga-sama make another compromise with Ishido?’

‘When I left Osaka, all was quiet. The Council was to meet in three days.’

‘Will the clash become open?’

‘I’d like it open. But my Lord? If he wants to compromise, he will compromise.’ Hiro-matsu looked back at Yabu. ‘He ordered all allied daimyos to wait for him at Yedo. Until he returned. This is not Yedo.’

‘Yes. I felt that the ship was important enough to our cause to investigate it immediately.’

‘There was no need, Yabu-san. You should have more confidence. Nothing happens without our Master’s knowledge. He would have sent someone to investigate it. It happens he sent me. How long have you been here?’

‘A day and a night.’

‘Then you were two days coming from Yedo?’

‘Yes.’

‘You came very quickly. You are to be complimented.’

To gain time Yabu began telling Hiro-matsu about his forced march. But his mind was on more vital matters. Who was the spy? How had Toranaga got the information about the ship as quickly as he himself? And who had told Toranaga about his departure? How could he maneuver now and deal with Hiro-matsu?

Hiro-matsu heard him out, then said pointedly, ‘Lord Toranaga has confiscated the ship and all its contents.’

A shocked silence swamped the shore. This was Izu, Yabu’s fief, and Toranaga had no rights here. Neither had Hiro-matsu any rights to order anything. Yabu’s hand tightened on his sword.

Hiro-matsu waited with practiced calmness. He had done exactly as Toranaga had ordered and now he was committed. It was implacably kill or be killed.

Yabu knew also that now he must commit himself. There was no more waiting. If he refused to give up the ship he would have to kill Hiro-matsu Iron Fist, because Hiro-matsu Iron Fist would never leave without it. There were perhaps two hundred elite samurai on the galley that was moored to the dock. They would also have to die. He could invite them ashore and beguile them, and within a few hours he could easily have enough samurai in Anjiro to overwhelm them all, for he was a master at ambush. But that would force Toranaga to send armies against Izu. You will be swallowed up, he told himself, unless Ishido comes to your rescue. And why should Ishido rescue you when your enemy Ikawa Jikkyo is Ishido’s kinsman and wants Izu for himself? Killing Hiro-matsu will open hostilities, because Toranaga will be honor bound to move against you, which would force Ishido’s hand, and Izu would be the first battlefield.

What about my guns? My beautiful guns and my beautiful plan? I’ll lose my immortal chance forever if I have to turn them over to Toranaga.

His hand was on the Murasama sword and he could feel the blood in his sword arm and the blinding urge to begin. He had discarded at once the possibility of not mentioning the muskets. If the news of the ship had been betrayed, certainly the identity of its cargo was equally betrayed. But how did Toranaga get the news so quickly? By carrier pigeon! That’s the only answer. From Yedo or from here? Who possesses carrier pigeons here? Why haven’t I such a service? That’s Zukimoto’s fault—he should have thought of it, neh?

Make up your mind. War or no war?

Yabu called down the ill will of Buddha, of all kami, of all gods that had ever been or were yet to be invented, upon the man or men who had betrayed him, upon their parents and upon their descendants for ten thousand generations. And he conceded.

‘Lord Toranaga cannot confiscate the ship because it’s already a gift to him. I’ve dictated a letter to that effect. Isn’t that so, Zujimoto?’

‘Yes, Sire.’

‘Of course, if Lord Toranaga wishes to consider it confiscated he may. But it was to be a gift.’ Yabu was pleased to hear that his voice sounded matter-of-fact. ‘He will be happy with the booty.’

‘Thank you on behalf of my Master.’ Hiro-matsu again marveled at Toranaga’s foresight. Toranaga had predicted that this would happen and that there would be no fighting. ‘I don’t believe it,’ Hiro-Matsu had said. ‘No daimyo would stand for such usurping of his rights. Yabu won’t. I certainly wouldn’t. Not even to you, Sire.’

‘But you would have obeyed orders and you would have told me about the ship. Yabu must be manipulated, neh? I need his violence and cunning—he neutralizes Ikawa Jikkyu and guards my flank.’

Here on the beach under a good sun Hiro-matsu forced himself into a polite bow, hating his own duplicity. ‘Lord Toranaga will be delighted with your generosity.’

Yabu was watching him closely. ‘It’s not a Portuguese ship.’

‘Yes. So we heard.’

‘And it’s pirate.’ He saw the general’s eyes narrow.

‘Eh?’

As he told him what the priest had said, Yabu thought, if that’s news to you as it was to me, doesn’t that mean that Toranaga had the same original information as I? But if you know the contents of the ship, then the spy is Omi, one of his samurai, or a villager. ‘There’s an abundance of cloth. Some treasure. Muskets, powder, and shot.’

Hiro-matsu hesitated. Then he said, ‘The cloth is Chinese silks?’

‘No, Hiro-matsu-san,’ he said, using the ‘san.’ They were daimyos equally. But now that he was magnanimously ‘giving’ the ship, he felt safe enough to use the less deferential term. He was pleased to see that the word had not gone unnoticed by the older man. I’m daimyo of Izu, by the sun, the moon, and the stars!

‘It’s very unusual, a thick heavy cloth, totally useless to us,’ he said. ‘I’ve had everything worth salvaging brought ashore.’

‘Good. Please put all of it aboard my ship.’

‘What?’ Yabu’s bowels almost burst.

‘All of it. At once.’

‘Now?’

‘Yes. So sorry, but you’ll naturally understand that I want to return to Osaka as soon as possible.’

‘Yes but—but will there be space for everything?’

‘Put the cannon back on the barbarian ship and seal it up. Boats will be arriving within three days to tow it to Yedo. As to the muskets, powder, and shot, there’s—’ Hiro-matsu stopped, avoiding the trap that he suddenly realized had been set for him.

‘There’s just enough space for the five hundred muskets,’ Toranaga had told him. ‘And all the powder and the twenty thousand silver doubloons aboard the galley. Leave the cannon on the deck of the ship and the cloth in the holds. Let Yabu do the talking and give him orders, don’t let him have time to think. But don’t get irritated or impatient with him. I need him, but I want those guns and that ship. Beware of his trying to trap you into revealing that you know the exactness of the cargo, because he must not uncover our spy.’

Hiro-matsu cursed his inability to play these necessary games. ‘As to the space needed,’ he said shortly, ‘perhaps you should tell me. And just exactly what is the cargo? How many muskets and shot and so forth? And is the bullion in bar or coins—is it silver or gold?’

‘Zukimoto!’

‘Yes, Yabu-sama.’

‘Get the list of the contents.’ I’ll deal with you later, Yabu thought.

Zukimoto hurried away.

‘You must be tired, Hiro-matsu-san. Perhaps some cha? Accommodations have been prepared for you, such as they are. The baths are totally inadequate, but perhaps one would refresh you a little.’

‘Thank you. You’re very thoughtful. Some cha and a bath would be excellent. Later. First tell me everything that has happened since the ship arrived here.’

Yabu told him the facts, omitting the part about the courtesan and the boy, which was unimportant. On Yabu’s orders, Omi told his story, except for his private conversations with Yabu. And Mura told his, excluding the part about the Anjin’s erection which, Mura reasoned, though interesting, might have offended Hiro-matsu, whose own, at his age, might be few and far between.

Hiro-matsu looked at the plume of smoke that still rose from the pyre. ‘How many of the pirates are left?’

‘Ten, Sire, including the leader,’ Omi said.

‘Where’s the leader now?’

‘In Mura’s house.’

‘What did he do? What was the first thing he did there after getting out of the pit?’

‘He went straight to the bath house, Sire,’ Mura said quickly. ‘Now he’s asleep, Sire, like a dead man.’

‘You didn’t have to carry him this time?’

‘No, Sire.’

‘He seems to learn quickly.’ Hiro-matsu glanced back at Omi. ‘You think they can be taught to behave?’

‘No. Not for certain, Hiro-matsu-sama.’

‘Could you clean away an enemy’s urine from your back?’

‘No, Lord.’

‘Nor could I. Never. Barbarians are very strange.’ Hiro-matsu turned his mind back to the ship. ‘Who will be supervising the loading?’

‘My nephew, Omi-san.’

‘Good. Omi-san, I want to leave before dusk. My captain will help you be very quick. Within three sticks.’ The unit of time was the time it took for a standard stick of incense to smolder away, approximately one hour for one stick.

‘Yes, Lord.’

‘Why not come with me to Osaka, Yabu-san?’ Hiro-matsu said as though it was a sudden thought. ‘Lord Toranaga would be delighted to receive all these things from your hands. Personally. Please, there’s room enough.’ When Yabu began to protest he allowed him to continue for a time, as Toranaga had ordered, and then he said, as Toranaga had ordered, ‘I insist. In Lord Toranaga’s name, I insist. Your generosity needs to be rewarded.’

With my head and my lands? Yabu asked himself bitterly, knowing that there was nothing he could do now but accept gratefully. ‘Thank you. I would be honored.’

‘Good. Well then, that’s all done,’ Iron Fist said with obvious relief. ‘Now some cha. And a bath.’

Yabu politely led the way up the hill to Omi’s house. The old man was washed and scoured and then he lay gratefully in the steaming heat. Later Suwo’s hands made him new again. A little rice and raw fish and pickled vegetables taken sparingly in private. Cha sipped from good porcelain. A short dreamless nap.

After three sticks the shoji slid open. The personal bodyguard knew better than to go into the room uninvited; Hiro-Matsu was already awake and the sword half unsheathed and ready.

‘Yabu-sama is waiting outside, Sire. He says the ship is loaded.’

‘Excellent.’

Hiro-matsu went onto the veranda and relieved himself into the bucket. ‘Your men are very efficient, Yabu-san.’

‘Your men helped, Hiro-matsu-san. They are more than efficient.’

Yes, and by the sun, they had better be, Hiro-matsu thought, then said genially, ‘Nothing like a good piss from a full bladder so long as there’s plenty of power behind the stream. Neh? Makes you feel young again. At my age you need to feel young.’ He eased his loincloth comfortably, expecting Yabu to make some polite remark in agreement, but none was forthcoming. His irritation began to rise but he curbed it. ‘Have the pirate leader taken to my ship.’

‘What?’

‘You were generous enough to make a gift of the ship and the contents. The crew are contents. So I’m taking the pirate leader to Osaka. Lord Toranaga wants to see him. Naturally you do what you like with the rest of them. But during your absence, please make certain that your retainers realize the barbarians are my Master’s property and that there had better be nine in good health, alive, and here when he wants them.’

Yabu hurried away to the jetty where Omi would be.

When, earlier, he had left Hiro-matsu to his bath, he had walked up the track that meandered past the funeral ground. There he had bowed briefly to the pyre and continued on, skirting the terraced fields of wheat and fruit to come out at length on a small plateau high above the village. A tidy kami shrine guarded this tender place. An ancient tree bequeathed shade and tranquillity. He had gone there to quell his rage and to think. He had not dared to go near the ship or Omi or his men for he knew that he would have ordered most, if not all of them, to commit seppuku, which would have been a waste, and he would have slaughtered the village, which would have been foolish—peasants alone caught the fish and grew the rice that provided the wealth of the samurai.

While he had sat and fumed alone and tried to sharpen his brain, the sun bent down and drove the sea mists away. The clouds that shrouded the distant mountains to the west had parted for an instant and he had seen the beauty of the snow-capped peaks soaring. The sight had settled him and he had begun to relax and think and plan.

Set your spies to replace the spy, he told himself. Nothing that Hiro-matsu said indicated whether the betrayal was from here or from Yedo. In Osaka you’ve powerful friends, the Lord Ishido himself among them. Perhaps one of them can smell out the fiend. But send a private message at once to your wife in case the informer is there. What about Omi? Make him responsible for replaceing the informer here? Is he the informer? That’s not likely, but not impossible. It’s more than probable the betrayal began in Yedo. A matter of timing. If Toranaga in Osaka got the information about the ship when it arrived, then Hiro-matsu would have been here first. You’ve informers in Yedo. Let them prove their worth.

What about the barbarians? Now they’re your only profit from the ship. How can you use them? Wait, didn’t Omi give you the answer? You could use their knowledge of the sea and ships to barter with Toranaga for guns. Neh?

Another possibility: become Toranaga’s vassal completely. Give him your plan. Ask him to allow you to lead the Regiment of the Guns—for his glory. But a vassal should never expect his lord to reward his services or even acknowledge them: To serve is duty, duty is samurai, samurai is immortality. That would be the best way, the very best, Yabu thought. Can I truly be his vassal? Or Ishido’s?

No, that’s unthinkable. Ally yes, vassal no.

Good, so the barbarians are an asset after all. Omi’s right again.

He had felt more composed and then, when the time had come and a messenger had brought the information that the ship was loaded, he had gone to Hiro-matsu and discovered that now he had lost even the barbarians.

He was boiling when he reached the jetty.

‘Omi-san!’

‘Yes, Yabu-sama?’

‘Bring the barbarian leader here. I’m taking him to Osaka. As to the others, see that they’re well cared for while I’m away. I want them fit, and well behaved. Use the pit if you have to.’

Ever since the galley had arrived, Omi’s mind had been in a turmoil and he had been filled with anxiety for Yabu’s safety. ‘Let me come with you, Lord. Perhaps I can help.’

‘No, now I want you to look after the barbarians.’

‘Please. Perhaps in some small way I can repay your kindness to me.’

‘There’s no need,’ Yabu said, more kindly than he wanted to. He remembered that he had increased Omi’s salary to three thousand koku and extended his fief because of the bullion and the guns. Which now had vanished. But he had seen the concern that filled the youth and had felt an involuntary warmth. With vassals like this, I will carve an empire, he promised himself. Omi will lead one of the units when I get back my guns. ‘When war comes—well, I’ll have a very important job for you, Omi-san. Now go and get the barbarian.’

Omi took four guards with him. And Mura to interpret.

Blackthorne was dragged out of sleep. It took him a minute to clear his head. When the fog lifted Omi was staring down at him.

One of the samurai had pulled the quilt off him, another had shaken him awake, the other two carried thin, vicious-looking bamboo canes. Mura had a short coil of rope.

Mura knelt and bowed. ‘Konnichi wa‘—Good day.

‘Konnichi wa.‘ Blackthorne pulled himself onto his knees and, though he was naked, he bowed with equal politeness.

It’s only a politeness, Blackthorne told himself. It’s their custom and they bow for good manners so there’s no shame to it. And nakedness is ignored and is also their custom, and there’s no shame to nakedness either.

‘Anjin. Please to dress,’ Mura said.

Anjin? Ah, I remember now. The priest said they can’t pronounce my name so they’ve given me the name ‘Anjin’ which means ‘pilot’ and this is not meant as an insult. And I will be called ‘Anjin-san’—Mr. Pilot—when I merit it.

Don’t look at Omi, he cautioned himself. Not yet. Don’t remember the village square and Omi and Croocq and Pieterzoon. One thing at a time. That’s what you’re going to do. That’s what you have sworn before God to do: One thing at a time. Vengeance will be mine, by the Lord God.

Blackthorne saw that his clothes had been cleaned again and he blessed whoever had done it. He had crawled out of his clothes in the bath house as though they had been plague-infested. Three times he had made them scour his back. With the roughest sponge and with pumice. But he could still feel the piss-burn.

He took his eyes off Mura and looked at Omi. He derived a twisted pleasure from the knowledge that his enemy was alive and nearby.

He bowed as he had seen equals bow and he held the bow. ‘Konnichi wa, Omi-san,’ he said. There’s no shame in speaking their language, no shame in saying ‘good day’ or in bowing first as is their custom.

Omi bowed back.

Blackthorne noted that it was not quite equal, but it was enough for the moment.

‘Konnichi wa, Anjin,’ Omi said.

The voice was polite, but not enough.

‘Anjin-san!‘ Blackthorne looked directly at him.

Their wills locked and Omi was called as a man is called at cards or at dice. Do you have manners?

‘Konnichi wa, Anjin-san,‘ Omi said at length, with a brief smile.

Blackthorne dressed quickly.

He wore loose trousers and a codpiece, socks and shirt and coat, his long hair tied into a neat queue and his beard trimmed with scissors the barber had loaned to him.

‘Hai, Omi-san?’ Blackthorne asked when he was dressed, feeling better but very guarded, wishing he had more words to use.

‘Please, hand,’ Mura said.

Blackthorne did not understand and said so with signs. Mura held out his own hands and parodied tying them together.

‘Hand, please.’

‘No.’ Blackthorne said it directly to Omi and shook his head. ‘That’s not necessary,’ he said in English, ‘not necessary at all. I’ve given my word.’ He kept his voice gentle and reasonable, then added harshly, copying Omi, ‘Wakarimasu ka, Omi-san?’ Do you understand?

Omi laughed. Then he said, ‘Hai, Anjin-san. Wakarimasu.‘ He turned and left.

Mura and the others stared after him, astounded. Blackthorne followed Omi into the sun. His boots had been cleaned. Before he could slip them on, the maid ‘Onna’ was there on her knees and she helped him.

‘Thank you, Haku-san,’ he said, remembering her real name. What’s the word for ‘thank you’? he wondered.

He walked through the gate, Omi ahead.

I’m after you, you God-cursed bas—Wait a minute! Remember what you promised yourself? And why swear at him, even to yourself? He hasn’t sworn at you. Swearing’s for the weak, or for fools. Isn’t it?

One thing at a time. It is enough that you are after him. You know it clearly and he knows it clearly. Make no mistake, he knows it very clearly.

The four samurai flanked Blackthorne as he walked down the hill, the harbor still hidden from him, Mura discreetly ten paces back, Omi ahead.

Are they going to put me underground again? he wondered. Why did they want to bind my hands? Didn’t Omi say yesterday—Christ Jesus, was that only yesterday? —’If you behave you can stay out of the pit. If you behave, tomorrow another man will be taken out of the pit. Perhaps. And more, perhaps.’ Isn’t that what he said? Have I behaved? I wonder how Croocq is. The lad was alive when they carried him off to the house where the crew first stayed.

Blackthorne felt better today. The bath and the sleep and the fresh food had begun to repair him. He knew that if he was careful and could rest and sleep and eat, within a month he would be able to run a mile and swim a mile and command a fighting ship and take her around the earth.

Don’t think about that yet! Just guard your strength this day. A month’s not much to hope for, eh?

The walk down the hill and through the village was tiring him. You’re weaker than you thought. . . . No, you are stronger than you thought, he ordered himself.

The masts of Erasmus jutted over the tiled roofs and his heart quickened. Ahead the street curved with the contour of the hillside, slid down to the square and ended. A curtained palanquin stood in the sun. Four bearers in brief loincloths squatted beside it, absently picking their teeth. The moment they saw Omi they were on their knees, bowing mightily.

Omi barely nodded at them as he strode past, but then a girl came out of the neat gateway to go to the palanquin and he stopped.

Blackthorne caught his breath and stopped also.

A young maid ran out to hold a green parasol to shade the girl. Omi bowed and the girl bowed and they talked happily to each other, the strutting arrogance vanishing from Omi.

The girl wore a peach-colored kimono and a wide sash of gold and gold-thonged slippers. Blackthorne saw her glance at him. Clearly she and Omi were discussing him. He did not know how to react, or what to do, so he did nothing but wait patiently, glorying in the sight of her, the cleanliness and the warmth of her presence. He wondered if she and Omi were lovers, or if she was Omi’s wife, and he thought, Is she truly real?

Omi asked her something and she answered and fluttered her green fan that shimmered and danced in the sunlight, her laugh musical, the delicacy of her exquisite. Omi was smiling too, then he turned on his heel and strode off, samurai once more.

Blackthorne followed. Her eyes were on him as he passed and he said, ‘Konnichi wa.‘

‘Konnichi wa, Anjin-san,’ she replied, her voice touching him. She was barely five feet tall and perfect. As she bowed slightly the breeze shook the outer silk and showed the beginnings of the scarlet under-kimono, which he found surprisingly erotic.

The girl’s perfume still surrounded him as he turned the corner. He saw the trapdoor and Erasmus. And the galley. The girl vanished from his mind.

Why are our gun ports empty? Where are our cannon and what in the name of Christ is a slave galley doing here and what’s happened in the pit?

One thing at a time.

First Erasmus: the stub of the foremast that the storm had carried away jutted nastily. That doesn’t matter, he thought. We could get her out to sea easily. We could slip the moorings—the night airflow and the tide would take us out silently and we could careen tomorrow on the far side of that speck of island. Half a day to step the spare mast and then all sails ho and away into the far deep. Maybe it’d be better not to anchor but to flee to safer waters. But who’d crew? You can’t take her out by yourself.

Where did that slaver come from? And why is it here?

He could see knots of samurai and sailors down at the wharf. The sixty-oared vessel—thirty oars a side—was neat and trim, the oars stacked with care, ready for instant departure, and he shivered involuntarily. The last time he’d seen a galley was off the Gold Coast two years ago when his fleet was outward bound, all five ships together. She had been a rich coastal trader, a Portuguese, and she was fleeing from him against the wind. Erasmus could not catch her, to capture her or sink her.

Blackthorne knew the North African coast well. He had been a pilot and ship’s master for ten years for the London Company of Barbary Merchants, the joint stock company that fitted out fighting merchantmen to run the Spanish blockade and trade the Barbary Coast. He had piloted to West and North Africa, south as far as Lagos, north and eastward through the treacherous straits of Gibraltar—ever Spanish patrolled—as far as Salerno in the Kingdom of Naples. The Mediterranean was dangerous to English and Dutch shipping. Spanish and Portuguese enemy were there in strength and, worse, the Ottomans, the infidel Turks, swarmed the seas with slave galleys and with fighting ships.

These voyages had been very profitable for him and he had bought his own ship, a hundred-fifty-ton brig, to trade on his own behalf. But he had had her sunk under him and lost everything. They had been caught a-lee, windless off Sardinia, when the Turk galley had come out of the sun. The fight was cruel and then, toward sunset, the enemy ram caught their stern and they were boarded fast. He had never forgotten the screaming cry ‘Allahhhhhhhh!’ as the corsairs came over his gunwales. They were armed with swords and with muskets. He had rallied his men and the first attack had been beaten off, but the second overwhelmed them and he ordered the magazine fired. His ship was in flames and he decided that it was better to die than to be put to the oars. He had always had a mortal terror of being taken alive and made a galley slave—not an unusual fate for a captured seaman.

When the magazine blew, the explosion tore the bottom out of his ship and destroyed part of the corsair galley and, in the confusion, he managed to swim to the longboat and escape with four of the crew. Those who could not swim to him he had had to leave and he still remembered their cries for help in God’s name. But God had turned His face from those men that day, so they had perished or gone to the oars. And God had kept His face on Blackthorne and the four men that time, and they had managed to reach Cagliari in Sardinia. And from there they had made it home, penniless.

That was eight years ago, the same year that plague had erupted again in London. Plague and famine and riots of the starving unemployed. His younger brother and family had been wiped out. His own first-born son had perished. But in the winter the plague vanished and he had easily got a new ship and gone to sea to repair his fortune. First for the London Company of Barbary Merchants. Then a voyage to the West Indies hunting Spaniards. After that, a little richer, he navigated for Kees Veerman, the Dutchman, on his second voyage to search for the legendary Northeast Passage to Cathay and the Spice Islands of Asia, that was supposed to exist in the Ice Seas, north of tsarist Russia. They searched for two years, then Kees Veerman died in the Arctic wastes with eighty percent of the crew and Blackthorne turned back and led the rest of the men home. Then, three years ago, he’d been approached by the newly formed Dutch East India Company and asked to pilot their first expedition to the New World. They whispered secretly that they had acquired, at huge cost, a contraband Portuguese rutter that supposedly gave away the secrets of Magellan’s Strait, and they wanted to prove it. Of course the Dutch merchants would have preferred to use one of their own pilots, but there was none to compare in quality with Englishmen trained by the monopolistic Trinity House, and the awesome value of this rutter forced them to gamble on Blackthorne. But he was the perfect choice: He was the best Protestant pilot alive, his mother had been Dutch, and he spoke Dutch perfectly. Blackthorne had agreed enthusiastically and accepted the fifteen percent of all profit as his fee and, as was custom, had solemnly, before God, sworn allegiance to the Company and vowed to take their fleet out, and to bring it home again.

By God, I am going to bring Erasmus home, Blackthorne thought. And with as many of the men as He leaves alive.

They were crossing the square now and he took his eyes off the slaver and saw the three samurai guarding the trapdoor. They were eating deftly from bowls with the wooden sticks that Blackthorne had seen them use many times but could not manage himself.

‘Omi-san!’ With signs he explained that he wanted to go to the trapdoor, just to shout down to his friends. Only for a moment. But Omi shook his head and said something he did not understand and continued across the square, down the foreshore, past the cauldron, and on to the jetty. Blackthorne followed obediently. One thing at a time, he told himself. Be patient.

Once on the jetty, Omi turned and called back to the guards on the trapdoor. Blackthorne saw them open the trapdoor and peer down. One of them beckoned to villagers who fetched the ladder and a full fresh-water barrel and carried it below. The empty one they brought back aloft. And the latrine barrel.

There! If you’re patient and play their game with their rules, you can help your crew, he thought with satisfaction.

Groups of samurai were collected near the galley. A tall old man was standing apart. From the deference that the daimyo Yabu showed him, and the way the others jumped at his slightest remark, Blackthorne immediately realized his importance. Is he their king? he wondered.

Omi knelt with humility. The old man half bowed, turned his eyes on him.

Mustering as much grace as he could, Blackthorne knelt and put his hands flat on the sand floor of the jetty, as Omi had done, and bowed as low as Omi.

‘Konnichi wa, Sama,’ he said politely.

He saw the old man half bow again.

Now there was a discussion between Yabu and the old man and Omi. Yabu spoke to Mura.

Mura pointed at the galley. ‘Anjin-san. Please there.’

‘Why?’

‘Go! Now. Go!’

Blackthorne felt his panic rising. ‘Why?’

‘Isogi!‘ Omi commanded, waving him toward the galley.

‘No, I’m not going to—’

There was an immediate order from Omi and four samurai fell on Blackthorne and pinioned his arms. Mura produced the rope and began to bind his hands behind him.

‘You sons of bitches!’ Blackthorne shouted. ‘I’m not going to go aboard that God-cursed slave ship!’

‘Madonna! Leave him alone! Hey, you piss-eating monkeys, let that bastard alone! Kinjiru, neh? Is he the pilot? The Anjin, ka?‘

Blackthorne could scarcely believe his ears. The boisterous abuse in Portuguese had come from the deck of the galley. Then he saw the man start down the gangway. As tall as he and about his age, but black-haired and darkeyed and carelessly dressed in seaman’s clothes, rapier by his side, pistols in his belt. A jeweled crucifix hung from his neck. He wore a jaunty cap and a smile split his face.

‘Are you the pilot? The pilot of the Dutchman?’

‘Yes,’ Blackthorne heard himself reply.

‘Good. Good. I’m Vasco Rodrigues, pilot of this galley!’ He turned to the old man and spoke a mixture of Japanese and Portuguese, and called him Monkey-sama and sometimes Toda-sama but the way it sounded it came out ‘Toadysama.’ Twice he pulled out his pistol and pointed it emphatically at Blackthorne and stuck it back in his belt, his Japanese heavily laced with sweet vulgarities in gutter Portuguese that only seafarers would understand.

Hiro-matsu spoke briefly and the samurai released Blackthorne and Mura untied him.

‘That’s better. Listen, Pilot, this man’s like a king. I told him I’d be responsible for you, that I’d blow your head off as soon as drink with you!’ Rodrigues bowed to Hiro-matsu, then beamed at Blackthorne. ‘Bow to the Bastard-sama.’

Dreamlike, Blackthorne did as he was told.

‘You do that like a Japper,’ Rodrigues said with a grin. ‘You’re really the pilot?’

‘Yes.’

‘What’s the latitude of The Lizard?’

‘Forty-nine degrees fifty-six minutes North—and watch out for the reefs that bear sou’ by sou’west.’

‘You’re the pilot, by God!’ Rodrigues shook Blackthorne’s hand warmly. ‘Come aboard. There’s food and brandy and wine and grog and all pilots should love all pilots, who’re the sperm of the earth. Amen! Right?’

‘Yes,’ Blackthorne said weakly.

‘When I heard we were carrying a pilot back with us, good says I. It’s years since I had the pleasure of talking to a real pilot. Come aboard. How did you sneak past Malacca? How did you avoid our Indian Ocean patrols, eh? Whose rutter did you steal?’

‘Where are you taking me?’

‘Osaka. The Great Lord High Executioner himself wants to see you.’

Blackthorne felt his panic returning. ‘Who?’

‘Toranaga! Lord of the Eight Provinces, wherever the hell they are! The chief daimyo of Japan—a daimyo’s like a king or feudal lord but better. They’re all despots.’

‘What’s he want with me?’

‘I don’t know but that’s why we’re here, and if Toranaga wants to see you, Pilot, he’ll see you. They say he’s got a million of these slant-eyed fanatics who’ll die for the honor of wiping his arse if that’s his pleasure! ‘Toranaga wants you to bring back the pilot, Vasco,’ his interpreter said. ‘Bring back the pilot and the ship’s cargo. Take old Toda Hiro-matsu there to examine the ship and—’ Oh yes, Pilot, it’s all confiscated, so I hear, your ship, and everything in it!’

‘Confiscated?’

‘It may be a rumor. Jappers sometimes confiscate things with one hand, give’em back with the other—or pretend they’ve never given the order. It’s hard to understand the poxy little bastards!’

Blackthorne felt the cold eyes of the Japanese boring into him and he tried to hide his fear. Rodrigues followed his glance. ‘Yes, they’re getting restless. Time enough to talk. Come aboard.’ He turned but Blackthorne stopped him.

‘What about my friends, my crew?’

‘Eh?’

Blackthorne told him briefly about the pit. Rodrigues questioned Omi in pidgin Japanese. ‘He says they’ll be all right. Listen, there’s nothing you or me can do now. You’ll have to wait—you can never tell with a Jappo. They’re six-faced and three-hearted.’ Rodrigues bowed like a European courtier to Hiro-matsu. ‘This is the way we do it in Japan. Like we’re at the court of Fornicating Philip II, God take that Spaniard to an early grave.’ He led the way on deck. To Blackthorne’s astonishment there were no chains and no slaves.

‘What’s the matter? You sick?’ Rodrigues asked.

‘No. I thought this was a slaver.’

‘They don’t have’em in Japan. Not even in their mines. Lunatic, but there you are. You’ve never seen such lunatics and I’ve traveled the world three times. We’ve samurai rowers. They’re soldiers, the old bugger’s personal soldiers—and you’ve never seen slaves row better, or men fight better.’ Rodrigues laughed. ‘They put their arses into the oars and I push’em just to watch the buggers bleed. They never quit. We came all the way from Osaka—three-hundred-odd sea miles in forty hours. Come below. We’ll cast off shortly. You sure you’re all right?’

‘Yes. Yes, I think so.’ Blackthorne was looking at Erasmus. She was moored a hundred yards away. ‘Pilot, there’s no chance of going aboard, is there? They haven’t let me back aboard, I’ve no clothes and they sealed her up the moment we arrived. Please?’

Rodrigues scrutinized the ship.

‘When did you lose the foremast?’

‘Just before we made landfall here.’

‘There a spare still aboard?’

‘Yes.’

‘Where’s her home port?’

‘Rotterdam.’

‘She was built there?’

‘Yes.’

‘I’ve been there. Bad shoals but a pisscutter of a harbor. She’s got good lines, your ship. New—haven’t seen one of her class before. Madonna, she’d be fast, very fast. Very rough to deal with.’ Rodrigues looked at him. ‘Can you get your gear quickly?’ He turned over the half-hour glass sand timer that was beside the hourglass, both attached to the binnacle.

‘Yes.’ Blackthorne tried to keep his growing hope off his face.

‘There’d be a condition, Pilot. No weapons, up your sleeve or anywhere. Your word as a pilot. I’ve told the monkeys I’d be responsible for you.’

‘I agree.’ Blackthorne watched the sand falling silently through the neck of the timer.

‘I’ll blow your head off, pilot or no, if there’s the merest whiff of trickery, or cut your throat. If I agree.’

‘I give you my word, pilot to pilot, by God. And the pox on the Spanish!’

Rodrigues smiled and banged him warmly on the back. ‘I’m beginning to like you, Ingeles.’

‘How’d you know I’m English?’ Blackthorne asked, knowing his Portuguese was perfect and that nothing he had said could have differentiated him from a Dutchman.

‘I’m a soothsayer. Aren’t all pilots?’ Rodrigues laughed.

‘You talked to the priest? Father Sebastio told you?’

‘I don’t talk to priests if I can help it. Once a week’s more than enough for any man.’ Rodrigues spat deftly into the scuppers and went to the port gangway that overlooked the jetty. ‘Toady-sama! Ikimasho ka?‘

‘Ikimasho, Rodrigu-san. Ima!‘

‘Ima it is.’ Rodrigues looked at Blackthorne thoughtfully. ”Ima‘ means ‘now,’ ‘at once.’ We’re to leave at once, Ingeles.’

The sand had already made a small, neat mound in the bottom of the glass.

‘Will you ask him, please? If I can go aboard my ship?’

‘No, Ingeles. I won’t ask him a poxy thing.’

Blackthorne suddenly felt empty. And very old. He watched Rodrigues go to the railing of the quarterdeck and bellow to a small, distinguished seaman who stood on the raised fore-poop deck at the bow. ‘Hey, Captain-san. Ikimasho? Get samurai aboard-u, ima! Ima, wakarimasu ka?’

‘Hai, Anjin-san.’

Immediately Rodrigues rang the ship’s bell loudly six times and the Captain-san began shouting orders to the seamen and samurai ashore and aboard. Seamen hurried up on deck from below to prepare for departure and, in the disciplined, controlled confusion, Rodrigues quietly took Blackthorne’s arm and shoved him toward the starboard gangway, away from the shore.

‘There’s a dinghy below, Ingeles. Don’t move fast, don’t look around, and don’t pay attention to anyone but me. If I tell you to come back, do it quickly.’

Blackthorne walked across the deck, down the gangway, toward the small Japanese skiff. He heard angry voices behind him and he felt the hairs on his neck rising for there were many samurai all over the ship, some armed with bows and arrows, a few with muskets.

‘You don’t have to worry about him, Captain-san, I’m responsible. Me, Rodrigu-san, ichi ban Anjin-san, by the Virgin! Wakarimasu ka?‘ was dominating the other voices, but they were getting angrier every moment.

Blackthorne was almost in the dinghy now and he saw that there were no rowlocks. I can’t scull like they do, he told himself. I can’t use the boat! It’s too far to swim. Or is it?

He hesitated, checking the distance. If he had had his full strength he would not have waited a moment. But now?

Feet clattered down the gangway behind him and he fought the impulse to turn.

‘Sit in the stern,’ he heard Rodrigues say urgently. ‘Hurry up!’

He did as he was told and Rodrigues jumped in nimbly, grabbed the oars and, still standing, shoved off with great skill.

A samurai was at the head of the gangway, very perturbed, and two other samurai were beside him, bows ready. The captain samurai called out, unmistakably beckoning them to come back.

A few yards from the vessel Rodrigues turned. ‘Just go there,’ he shouted up at him, pointing at Erasmus. ‘Get samurai aboard!’ He set his back firmly to his ship and continued sculling, pushing against the oars in Japanese fashion, standing amidships. ‘Tell me if they put arrows in their bows, Ingeles! Watch’em carefully! What’re they doing now?’

‘The captain’s very angry. You won’t get into trouble, will you?’

‘If we don’t sail at the turn, Old Toady might have cause for complaint. What’re those bowmen doing?’

‘Nothing. They’re listening to him. He seems undecided. No. Now one of them’s drawing out an arrow.’

Rodrigues prepared to stop. ‘Madonna, they’re too God-cursed accurate to risk anything. Is it in the bow yet?’

‘Yes—but wait a moment! The captain’s—someone’s come up to him, a seaman I think. Looks like he’s asking him something about the ship. The captain’s looking at us. He said something to the man with the arrow. Now the man’s putting it away. The seaman’s pointing at something on deck.’

Rodrigues sneaked a quick look to make sure and breathed easier. ‘That’s one of the mates. It’ll take him all of the half hour to get his oarsmen settled.’

Blackthorne waited, the distance increased. ‘The captain’s looking at us again. No, we’re all right. He’s gone away. But one of the samurai’s watching us.’

‘Let him.’ Rodrigues relaxed but he did not slacken the pace of his sculling or look back. ‘Don’t like my back to samurai, not when they’ve weapons in their hands. Not that I’ve ever seen one of the bastards unarmed. They’re all bastards!’

‘Why?’

‘They love to kill, Ingeles. It’s their custom even to sleep with their swords. This is a great country, but samurai’re dangerous as vipers and a sight more mean.’

‘Why?’

‘I don’t know why, Ingeles, but they are,’ Rodrigues replied, glad to talk to one of his own kind. ‘Of course, all Jappos are different from us—they don’t feel pain or cold like us—but samurai are even worse. They fear nothing, least of all death. Why? Only God knows, but it’s the truth. If their superiors say ‘kill,’ they kill, ‘die’ and they’ll fall on their swords or slit their own bellies open. They kill and die as easily as we piss. Women’re samurai too, Ingeles. They’ll kill to protect their masters, that’s what they call their husbands here, or they’ll kill themselves if they’re ordered to. They do it by slitting their throats. Here a samurai can order his wife to kill herself and that’s what she’s got to do, by law. Jesu Madonna, the women are something else though, a different species, Ingeles, nothing on earth like them, but the men. . . . Samurai’re reptiles and the safest thing to do is treat them like poisonous snakes. You all right now?’

‘Yes, thank you. A bit weak but all right.’

‘How was your voyage?’

‘Rough. About them—the samurai—how do they get to be one? Do they just pick up the two swords and get that haircut?’

‘You’ve got to be born one. Of course, there are all ranks of samurai from daimyos at the top of the muckheap to what we’d call a foot soldier at the bottom. It’s hereditary mostly, like with us. In the olden days, so I was told, it was the same as in Europe today—peasants could be soldiers and soldiers peasants, with hereditary knights and nobles up to kings. Some peasant soldiers rose to the highest rank. The Taikō was one.’

‘Who’s he?’

‘The Great Despot, the ruler of all Japan, the Great Murderer of all times—I’ll tell you about him one day. He died a year ago and now he’s burning in hell.’ Rodrigues spat overboard. ‘Nowadays you’ve got to be born samurai to be one. It’s all hereditary, Ingeles. Madonna, you’ve no idea how much store they put on heritage, on family, rank, and the like—you saw how Omi bows to that devil Yabu and they both grovel to old Toady-sama. ‘Samurai’ comes from a Jappo word meaning ‘to serve.’ But while they’ll all bow and scrape to the man above, they’re all samurai equally, with a samurai’s special privileges. What’s happening aboard?’

‘The captain’s jabbering away at another samurai and pointing at us. What’s special about them?’

‘Here samurai rule everything, own everything. They’ve their own code of honor and sets of rules. Arrogant? Madonna, you’ve no idea! The lowest of them can legally kill any non-samurai, any man, woman, or child, for any reason or for no reason. They can kill, legally, just to test the edge of their piss-cutting swords—I’ve seen’em do it—and they have the best swords in the world. Better’n Damascus steel. What’s that fornicator doing now?’

‘Just watching us. His bow’s on his back now.’ Blackthorne shuddered. ‘I hate those bastards more than Spaniards.’

Again Rodrigues laughed as he sculled. ‘If the truth’s known, they curdle my piss too! But if you want to get rich quick you’ve got to work with them because they own everything. You sure you’re all right?’

‘Yes. Thanks. You were saying? Samurai own everything?’

‘Yes. Whole country’s split up into castes, like in India. Samurai at the top, peasants next important.’ Rodrigues spat overboard. ‘Only peasants can own land. Understand? But samurai own all the produce. They own all the rice and that’s the only important crop, and they give back part to the peasants. Only samurai’re allowed to carry arms. For anyone except a samurai to attack a samurai is rebellion, punishable by instant death. And anyone who sees such an attack and doesn’t report it at once is equally liable, and so are their wives, and even their kids. The whole family’s put to death if one doesn’t report it. By the Madonna, they’re Satan’s whelps, samurai! I’ve seen kids chopped into mincemeat.’ Rodrigues hawked and spat.’ Even so, if you know a thing or two this place is heaven on earth.’ He glanced back at the galley to reassure himself, then he grinned. ‘Well, Ingeles, nothing like a boat ride around the harbor, eh?’

Blackthorne laughed. The years dropped off him as he reveled in the familiar dip of the waves, the smell of the sea salt, gulls calling and playing overhead, the sense of freedom, the sense of arriving after so very long. ‘I thought you weren’t going to help me get to Erasmus!‘

‘That’s the trouble with all Ingeles. No patience. Listen, here you don’t ask Japmen anything—samurai or others, they’re all the same. If you do, they’ll hesitate, then ask the man above for the decision. Here you have to act. Of course’—his hearty laugh ran across the waves—’sometimes you get killed if you act wrong.’

‘You scull very well. I was wondering how to use the oars when you came.’

‘You don’t think I’d let you go alone, do you? What’s your name?’

‘Blackthorne. John Blackthorne.’

‘Have you ever been north, Ingeles? Into the far north?’

‘I was with Kees Veerman in Der Lifle. Eight years ago. It was his second voyage to replace the Northeast Passage. Why?’

‘I’d like to hear about that—and all the places you’ve been. Do you think they’ll ever replace the way? The northern way to Asia, east or west?’

‘Yes. You and the Spanish block both southern routes, so we’ll have to. Yes, we will. Or the Dutch. Why?’

‘And you’ve piloted the Barbary Coast, eh?’

‘Yes. Why?’

‘And you know Tripoli?’

‘Most pilots have been there. Why?’

‘I thought I’d seen you once. Yes, it was Tripoli. You were pointed out to me. The famous Ingeles pilot. Who went with the Dutch explorer, Kees Veerman, into the Ice Seas—and was once a captain with Drake, eh? At the Armada? How old were you then?’

‘Twenty-four. What were you doing in Tripoli?’

‘I was piloting an Ingeles privateer. My ship’d got taken in the Indies by this pirate, Morrow—Henry Morrow was his name. He burned my ship to the waterline after he’d sacked her and offered me the pilot’s job—his man was useless, so he said—you know how it is. He wanted to go from there—we were watering off Hispaniola when he caught us—south along the Main, then back across the Atlantic to try to intercept the annual Spanish gold ship near the Canaries, then on through the Straits to Tripoli if we missed her to try for other prizes, then north again to England. He made the usual offer to free my comrades, give them food and boats in return if I joined them. I said, ‘Sure, why not? Providing we don’t take any Portuguese shipping and you put me ashore near Lisbon and don’t steal my rutters.’ We argued back and forth as usual—you know how it is. Then I swore by the Madonna and we both swore on the Cross and that was that. We had a good voyage and some fat Spanish merchantmen fell into our wake. When we were off Lisbon he asked me to stay aboard, gave me the usual message from Good Queen Bess, how she’d pay a princely bounty to any Portuguese pilot who’d join her and teach others the skill at Trinity House, and give five thousand guineas for the rutter of Magellan’s Pass, or the Cape of Good Hope.’ His smile was broad, his teeth white and strong, and his dark mustache and beard well groomed. ‘I didn’t have them. At least that’s what I told him. Morrow kept his word, like all pirates should. He put me ashore with my rutters—of course he’d had them copied though he himself couldn’t read or write, and he even gave me my share of the prize money. You ever sail with him, Ingeles?’

‘No. The Queen knighted him a few years ago. I’ve never served on one of his ships. I’m glad he was fair with you.’

They were nearing Erasmus. Samurai were peering down at them quizzically.

‘That was the second time I’d piloted for heretics. The first time I wasn’t so lucky.’

‘Oh?’

Rodrigues shipped his oars and the boat swerved neatly to the side and he hung onto the boarding ropes. ‘Go aloft but leave the talking to me.’

Blackthorne began to climb while the other pilot tied the boat safely. Rodrigues was the first on deck. He bowed like a courtier. ‘Konnichi wa to all sod-eating samas!’

There were four samurai on deck. Blackthorne recognized one of them as a guard of the trapdoor. Nonplussed, they bowed stiffly to the Portuguese. Blackthorne aped him, feeling awkward, and would have preferred to bow correctly.

Rodrigues walked straight for the companionway. The seals were neatly in place. One of the samurai intercepted him.

‘Kinjiru, gomen nasai.‘ It’s forbidden, so sorry.

‘Kinjiru, eh?’ the Portuguese said, openly unimpressed. ‘I’m Rodrigu-san, anjin for Toda Hiro-matsu-sama. This seal,’ he said, pointing to the red stamp with the odd writing on it, ‘Toda Hiro-Matsu-sama, ka?‘

‘Iyé,‘ the samurai said, shaking his head. ‘Kasigi Yabu-sama!’

‘IYÉ?‘ Rodrigues said. ‘Kasigi Yabu-sama? I’m from Toda Hiro-Matsu-sama, who’s a bigger king than your bugger and Toady-sama’s from Toranaga-sama, who’s the biggest bugger-sama in this whole world. Neh?‘ He ripped the seal off the door, dropped a hand to one of his pistols. The swords were half out of their scabbards and he said quietly to Blackthorne, ‘Get ready to abandon ship,’ and to the samurai he said gruffly, ‘Toranaga-sama!’ He pointed with his left hand at the flag which fluttered at his own masthead. ‘Wakarimasu ka?‘

The samurai hesitated, their swords ready. Blackthorne prepared to dive over the side.

‘Toranaga-sama!’ Rodrigues crashed his foot against the door, the latch snapped and the door burst open. ‘WAKARIMASU KA?‘

‘Wakarimasu, Anjin-san.’ The samurai quickly put their swords away and bowed and apologized and bowed again and Rodrigues said hoarsely, ‘That’s better,’ and led the way below.

‘Christ Jesus, Rodrigues,’ Blackthorne said when they were on the lower deck. ‘Do you do this all the time and get away with it?’

‘I do it very seldom,’ the Portuguese said, wiping the sweat from his brow, ‘and even then I wish I’d never started it.’

Blackthorne leaned against the bulkhead. ‘I feel as if someone’s kicked me in the stomach.’

‘It’s the only way. You’ve got to act like a king. Even so, you can never tell with a samurai. They’re as dangerous as a pissed priest with a candle in his arse sitting on a half-full powder keg.’

‘What did you say to them?’

‘Toda Hiro-matsu is Toranaga’s chief adviser—he’s a bigger daimyo than this local one. That’s why they gave in.’

‘What’s he like, Toranaga?’

‘Long story, Ingeles.’ Rodrigues sat on the step, pulled his boot off, and rubbed his ankle. ‘I nearly broke my foot on your lice-eaten door. ‘

‘It wasn’t locked. You could have just opened it.’

‘I know. But that wouldn’t have been as effective. By the Blessed Virgin, you’ve got a lot to learn!’

‘Will you teach me?’

Rodrigues pulled his boot back on. ‘That depends,’ he said.

‘On what?’

‘We’ll have to see, won’t we? I’ve done all the talking so far, which is fair—I’m fit, you’re not. Soon it’ll be your turn. Which is your cabin?’

Blackthorne studied him for a moment. The smell below decks was stiff and weathered. ‘Thanks for helping me come aboard.’

He led the way aft. His door was unlocked. The cabin had been ransacked and everything removable had been taken. There were no books or clothes or instruments or quills. His sea chest too was unlocked. And empty.

White with rage, he walked into the Great Cabin, Rodrigues watching intently. Even the secret compartment had been found and looted.

‘They’ve taken everything. The sons of plague-infested lice!’

‘What did you expect?’

‘I don’t know. I thought—with the seals—’ Blackthorne went to the strong room. It was bare. So was the magazine. The holds contained only the bales of woolen cloth. ‘God curse all Jappers!’ He went back to his cabin and slammed his sea chest closed.

‘Where are they?’ Rodrigues asked.

‘What?’

‘Your rutters. Where are your rutters?’

Blackthorne looked at him sharply.

‘No pilot’d worry about clothes. You came for the rutters. Didn’t you?’

‘Yes.’

‘Why’re you so surprised, Ingeles? Why do you think I came aboard? To help you get more rags? They’re threadbare as it is and you’ll need others. I’ve plenty for you. But where are the rutters?’

‘They’ve gone. They were in my sea chest.’

‘I’m not going to steal them, Ingeles. I just want to read them. And copy them, if need be. I’ll cherish them like my own, so you’ve no need to worry.’ His voice hardened. ‘Please get them, Ingeles, we’ve little time left.’

‘I can’t. They’ve gone. They were in my sea chest.’

‘You wouldn’t have left them there—not coming into a foreign port. You wouldn’t forget a pilot’s first rule—to hide them carefully, and leave only false ones unprotected. Hurry up!’

‘They’re stolen!’

‘I don’t believe you. But I’ll admit you’ve hidden them very well. I searched for two hours and didn’t get a fornicating whiff.’

‘What?’

‘Why are you so surprised, Ingeles? Is your head up your arse? Naturally I came here from Osaka to investigate your rutters!’

‘You’ve already been aboard?’

‘Madonna!’ Rodrigues said impatiently. ‘Yes, of course, two or three hours ago with Hiro-matsu, who wanted to look around. He broke the seals and then, when we left, this local daimyo sealed her up again. Hurry up, by God,’ he added. ‘The sand’s running out.’

‘They’re stolen!‘ Blackthorne told him how they had arrived and how he had awakened ashore. Then he kicked his sea chest across the room, infuriated at the men who had looted his ship. ‘They’re stolen! All my charts! All my rutters! I’ve copies of some in England, but my rutter of this voyage’s gone and the—’ He stopped.

‘And the Portuguese rutter? Come on, Ingeles, it had to be Portuguese.’

‘Yes, and the Portuguese one, it’s gone too.’ Get hold of yourself, he thought. They’re gone and that’s the end. Who has them? The Japanese? Or did they give them to the priest? Without the rutters and the charts you can’t pilot your way home. You’ll never get home. . . . That’s not true. You can pilot your way home, with care, and enormous luck. . . . Don’t be ridiculous! You’re half-way around the earth, in enemy land, in enemy hands, and you’ve neither rutter nor charts. ‘Oh, Lord Jesus, give me strength!’

Rodrigues was watching him intently. At length he said, ‘I’m sorry for you, Ingeles. I know how you feel—it happened to me once. He was an Ingeles too, the thief, may his ship drown and he burn in hell forever. Come on, let’s go back aboard.’

Omi and the others waited on the jetty until the galley rounded the headland and vanished. To the west layers of night already etched the crimson sky. To the east, night joined the sky and the sea together, horizonless.

‘Mura, how long will it take to get all the cannon back on the ship?’

‘If we work through the night, by midday tomorrow, Omi-san. If we begin at dawn, we’ll be finished well before sunset. It would be safer to work during the day.’

‘Work through the night. Bring the priest to the pit at once.’

Omi glanced at Igurashi, Yabu’s chief lieutenant, who was still looking out toward the headland, his face stretched, the livid scar tissue over his empty eye socket eerily shadowed. ‘You’d be welcome to stay, Igurashi-san. My house is poor but perhaps we could make you comfortable.’

‘Thank you,’ the older man said, turning back to him, ‘but our Master said to return to Yedo at once, so I will return at once.’ More of his concern showed. ‘I wish I was on that galley.’

‘Yes.’

‘I hate the thought of Yabu-sama being aboard with only two men. I hate it.’

‘Yes.’

He pointed at Erasmus. ‘A devil ship, that’s what it is! So much wealth, then nothing.’

‘Surely everything? Won’t Lord Toranaga be pleased, enormously pleased with Lord Yabu’s gift?’

‘That money-infected province grabber is so filled with his own importance, he won’t even notice the amount of silver he’ll have stolen from our Master. Where are your brains?’

‘I presume only your anxiety over the possible danger to our Lord prompted you to make such a remark.’

‘You’re right, Omi-san. No insult was intended. You’ve been very clever and helpful to our Master. Perhaps you’re right about Toranaga too,’ Igurashi said, but he was thinking, Enjoy your newfound wealth, you poor fool. I know my Master better than you, and your increased fief will do you no good at all. Your advancement would have been a fair return for the ship, the bullion, and the arms. But now they’ve vanished. And because of you, my Master’s in jeopardy. You sent the message and you said, ‘See the barbarians first,’ tempting him. We should have left yesterday. Yes, then my Master would have been safely away by now, with the money and arms. Are you a traitor? Are you acting for yourself, or your stupid father, or for an enemy? For Toranaga, perhaps? It doesn’t matter. You can believe me, Omi, you dung-eating young fool, you and your branch of the Kasigi clan are not long for this earth. I’d tell you to your face but then I’d have to kill you and I would have spurned my Master’s trust. He’s the one to say when, not me.

‘Thank you for your hospitality, Omi-san,’ he said. ‘I’ll look forward to seeing you soon, but I’ll be on my way now.’

‘Would you do something for me, please? Give my respects to my father. I’d appreciate it very much.’

‘I’d be happy to. He’s a fine man. And I haven’t congratulated you yet on your new fief.’

‘You’re too kind.’

‘Thank you again, Omi-san.’ He raised his hand in friendly salutation, motioned to his men, and led the phalanx of horsemen out of the village.

Omi went to the pit. The priest was there. Omi could see the man was angry and he hoped that he would do something overt, publicly, so he could have him thrashed.

‘Priest, tell the barbarians they are to come up, one by one. Tell them Lord Yabu has said they may live again in the world of men.’ Omi kept his language deliberately simple. ‘But the smallest breaking of a rule, and two will be put back into the pit. They are to behave and obey all orders. Is that clear?’

‘Yes.’

Omi made the priest repeat it to him as before. When he was sure the man had it all correctly, he made him speak it down into the pit.

The men came up, one by one. All were afraid. Some had to be helped. One man was in great pain and screamed every time someone touched his arm.

‘There should be nine.’

‘One is dead. His body is down there, in the pit,’ the priest said.

Omi thought for a moment. ‘Mura, burn the corpse and keep the ashes with those of the other barbarian. Put these men in the same house as before. Give them plenty of vegetables and fish. And barley soup and fruit. Have them washed. They stink. Priest, tell them that if they behave and obey, the food will continue.’

Omi watched and listened carefully. He saw them all react gratefully and he thought with contempt, how stupid! I deprive them for only two days, then give them back a pittance and now they’ll eat dung, they really will. ‘Mura, make them bow properly and take them away.’

Then he turned to the priest. ‘Well?’

‘I go now. Go my home. Leave Anjiro.’

‘Better you leave and stay away forever, you and every priest like you. Perhaps the next time one of you comes into my fief it is because some of my Christian peasants or vassals are considering treason,’ he said, using the veiled threat and classic ploy that anti-Christian samurai used to control the indiscriminate spread of the foreign dogma in their fiefs, for though foreign priests were protected, their Japanese converts were not.

‘Christians good Japanese. Always. Only good vassals. Never had bad thoughts. No.’

‘I’m glad to hear it. Don’t forget my fief stretches twenty ri in every direction. Do you understand?’

‘I understand. Yes. I understand very well.’

He watched the man bow stiffly—even barbarian priests had to have manners—and walk away.

‘Omi-san?’ one of his samurai said. He was young and very handsome.

‘Yes?’

‘Please excuse me, I know you haven’t forgotten but Masijiro-san is still in the pit.’ Omi went to the trapdoor and stared down at the samurai. Instantly the man was on his knees, bowing deferentially.

The two days had aged him. Omi weighed his past service and his future worth. Then he took the young samurai’s dagger from his sash and dropped it into the pit.

At the bottom of the ladder Masijiro stared at the knife in disbelief. Tears began coursing his cheeks. ‘I don’t deserve this honor, Omi-san,’ he said abjectly.

‘Yes.’

‘Thank you.’

The young samurai beside Omi said, ‘May I please ask that he be allowed to commit seppuku here, on the beach?’

‘He failed in the pit. He stays in the pit. Order the villagers to fill it in. Obliterate all traces of it. The barbarians have defiled it.’

Kiku laughed and shook her head. ‘No, Omi-san, so sorry, please no more saké for me or my hair will fall down, I’ll fall down, and then where would we be?’

‘I’d fall down with you and we’d pillow and be in nirvana, outside ourselves,’ Omi said happily, his head swimming from the wine.

‘Ah, but I’d be snoring and you can’t pillow a snoring, horrid drunken girl and get much pleasure. Certainly not, so sorry. Oh no, Omi-sama of the Huge New Fief, you deserve better than that!’ She poured another thimble of the warm wine into the tiny porcelain cup and offered it with both hands, her left forefinger and thumb delicately holding the cup, the forefinger of her right hand touching the underside. ‘Here, because you are wonderful!’

He accepted it and sipped, enjoying its warmth and mellow tang. ‘I’m so glad I was able to persuade you to stay an extra day, neh? You are so beautiful, Kiku-san.’

‘You are beautiful, and it is my pleasure.’ Her eyes were dancing in the light of a candle encased in a paper and bamboo flower that hung from the cedar rafter. This was the best suite of rooms in the Tea House near the Square. She leaned over to help him to some more rice from the simple wooden bowl that was on the low black lacquered table in front of him, but he shook his head.

‘No, no, thank you.’

‘You should eat more, a strong man like you.’

‘I’m full, really.’

He did not offer her any because she had barely touched her small salad—thinly sliced cucumbers and tiny sculptured radishes pickled in sweet vinegar—which was all she would accept of the whole meal. There had been slivers of raw fish on balls of tacky rice, soup, the salad, and some fresh vegetables served with a piquant sauce of soya and ginger. And rice.

She clapped her hands softly and the shoji was opened instantly by her personal maid.

‘Yes, Mistress?’

‘Suisen, take all these things away and bring more saké and a fresh pot of cha. And fruit. The saké should be warmer than last time. Hurry up, good-for-nothing!’ She tried to sound imperious.

Suisen was fourteen, sweet, anxious to please, and an apprentice courtesan. She had been with Kiku for two years and Kiku was responsible for her training.

With an effort, Kiku took her eyes off the pure white rice that she would have loved to have eaten and dismissed her own hunger. You ate before you arrived and you will eat later, she reminded herself. Yes, but even then it was so little. ‘Ah, but ladies have tiny appetites, very tiny appetites,’ her teacher used to say. ‘Guests eat and drink—the more the better. Ladies don’t, and certainly never with guests. How can ladies talk or entertain or play the samisen or dance if they’re stuffing their mouths? You will eat later, be patient. Concentrate on your guest.’

While she watched Suisen critically, gauging her skill, she told Omi stories to make him laugh and forget the world outside. The young girl knelt beside Omi, tidied the small bowls and chopsticks on the lacquer tray into a pleasing pattern as she had been taught. Then she picked up the empty saké flask, poured to make sure it was empty—it would have been very bad manners to have shaken the flask—then got up with the tray, noiselessly carried it to the shoji door, knelt, put the tray down, opened the shoji, got up, stepped through the door, knelt again, lifted the tray out, put it down again as noiselessly, and closed the door completely.

‘I’ll really have to get another maid,’ Kiku said, not displeased. That color suits her, she was thinking. I must send to Yedo for some more of that silk. What a shame it’s so expensive! Never mind, with all the money Gyoko-san was given for last night and tonight, there will be more than enough from my share to buy little Suisen twenty kimonos. She’s such a sweet child, and really very graceful. ‘She makes so much noise—it disturbs the whole room—so sorry.’

‘I didn’t notice her. Only you,’ Omi said, finishing his wine.

Kiku fluttered her fan, her smile lighting her face. ‘You make me feel very good, Omi-san. Yes. And beloved.’

Suisen brought the saké quickly. And the cha. Her mistress poured Omi some wine and gave it to him. The young girl unobtrusively filled the cups. She did not spill a drop and she thought the sound that the liquid made going into the cup had the right quiet kind of ring to it, so she sighed inwardly with vast relief, sat back on her heels, and waited.

Kiku was telling an amusing story that she had heard from one of her friends in Mishima and Omi was laughing. As she did so, she took one of the small oranges and, using her long fingernails, opened it as though it were a flower, the sections of the fruit the petals, the divisions of the skin its leaves. She removed a fleck of pith and offered it with both hands as if this were the usual way a lady would serve the fruit to her guest.

‘Would you like an orange, Omi-san?’

Omi’s first reaction was to say, I can’t destroy such beauty. But that would be inept, he thought, dazzled by her artistry. How can I compliment her, and her unnamed teacher? How can I return the happiness that she has given me, letting me watch her fingers create something so precious yet so ephemeral?

He held the flower in his hands for a moment then nimbly removed four sections, equidistant from each other, and ate them with enjoyment. This left a new flower. He removed four more sections, creating a third floral design. Next he took one section, and moved a second so that the remaining three made still another blossom.

Then he took two sections and replaced the last in the orange cradle, in the center on its side, as though a crescent moon within a sun.

He ate one very slowly. When he had finished, he put the other in the center of his hand and offered it. ‘This you must have because it is the second to last. This is my gift to you.’

Suisen could hardly breathe. What was the last one for?

Kiku took the fruit and ate it. It was the best she had ever tasted.

‘This, the last one,’ Omi said, putting the whole flower gravely into the palm of his right hand, ‘this is my gift to the gods, whoever they are, wherever they are. I will never eat this fruit again, unless it is from your hands.’

‘That is too much, Omi-sama,’ Kiku said. ‘I release you from your vow! That was said under the influence of the kami who lives in all saké bottles!’

‘I refuse to be released.’

They were very happy together.

‘Suisen,’ she said. ‘Now leave us. And please, child, please try to do it with grace.’

‘Yes, Mistress.’ The young girl went into the next room and checked that the futons were meticulous, the love instruments and pleasure beads near at hand, and the flowers perfect. An imperceptible crease was smoothed from the already smooth cover. Then, satisfied, Suisen sat down, sighed with relief, fanned the heat out of her face with her lilac fan, and contentedly waited.

In the next room, which was the finest of all the rooms in the tea house, the only one with a garden of its own, Kiku picked up the long-handled samisen. It was three-stringed, guitarlike, and Kiku’s first soaring chord filled the room. Then she began to sing. At first soft, then trilling, soft again then louder, softer and sighing sweetly, ever sweetly, she sang of love and unrequited love and happiness and sadness.

‘Mistress?’ The whisper would not have awakened the lightest sleeper but Suisen knew that her mistress preferred not to sleep after the Clouds and the Rain, however strong. She preferred to rest, half awake, in tranquillity.

‘Yes, Sui-chan?’ Kiku whispered as quietly, using ‘chan’ as one would to a favorite child.

‘Omi-san’s wife has returned. Her palanquin has just gone up the path to his house.’

Kiku glanced at Omi. His neck rested comfortably on the padded wooden pillow, arms interlocked. His body was strong and unmarked, his skin firm and golden, a sheen there. She caressed him gently, enough to make the touch enter his dream but not enough to awaken him. Then she slid from under the quilt, gathering her kimonos around herself.

It took Kiku very little time to renew her makeup as Suisen combed and brushed her hair and retied it into the shimoda style. Then mistress and maid walked noiselessly along the corridor, out onto the veranda, through the garden to the square. Boats, like fireflies, plied from the barbarian ship to the jetty where seven of the cannon still remained to be loaded. It was still deep night, long before dawn.

The two women slipped along the narrow alley between a cluster of houses and began to climb the path.

Sweat-stained and exhausted bearers were collecting their strength around the palanquin on the hilltop outside Omi’s house. Kiku did not knock on the garden door. Candles were lit in the house and servants were hurrying to and fro. She motioned to Suisen, who immediately went to the veranda near the front door, knocked, and waited. In a moment the door opened. The maid nodded and vanished. Another moment and the maid returned and beckoned Kiku and bowed low as she swept past. Another maid scurried ahead and opened the shoji of the best room.

Omi’s mother’s bed was unslept in. She was sitting, rigidly erect, near the small alcove that held the flower arrangement. A small window shoji was open to the garden. Midori, Omi’s wife, was opposite her.

Kiku knelt. Is it only a night ago—that I was here and terrified on the Night of the Screams? She bowed, first to Omi’s mother, then to his wife, feeling the tension between the two women and she asked herself, Why is it there is always such violence between mother-in law and daughter-in-law? Doesn’t daughter-in-law, in time, become mother-in-law? Why does she then always treat her own daughter-in-law to a lashing tongue and make her life a misery, and why does that girl do the same in her turn? Doesn’t anyone learn?

‘I’m sorry to disturb you, Mistress-san.’

‘You’re very welcome, Kiku-san,’ the old woman replied. ‘There’s no trouble, I hope?’

‘Oh, no, but I didn’t know whether or not you’d want me to awaken your son,’ she said to her, already knowing the answer. ‘I thought I’d better ask you, as you, Midori-san’—she turned and smiled and bowed slightly to Midori, liking her greatly—’as you had returned.’

The old woman said, ‘You’re very kind, Kiku-san, and very thoughtful. No, leave him in peace.’

‘Very well. Please excuse me, disturbing you like this, but I thought it best to ask. Midori-san, I hope your journey was not too bad.’

‘So sorry, it was awful,’ Midori said. ‘I’m glad to be back and hated being away. Is my husband well?’

‘Yes, very well. He laughed a lot this evening and seemed to be happy. He ate and drank sparingly and he’s sleeping soundly.’

‘The Mistress-san was beginning to tell me some of the terrible things that happened while I was away and—’

‘You shouldn’t have gone. You were needed here,’ the old woman interrupted, venom in her voice. ‘Or perhaps not. Perhaps you should have stayed away permanently. Perhaps you brought a bad kami into our house along with your bed linen.’

‘I’d never do that, Mistress-san,’ Midori said patiently. ‘Please believe I would rather kill myself than bring the slightest stain to your good name. Please forgive my being away and my faults. I’m sorry.’

‘Since that devil ship came here we’ve had nothing but trouble. That’s bad kami. Very bad. And where were you when you were needed? Gossiping in Mishima, stuffing yourself and drinking saké.’

‘My father died, Mistress-san. The day before I arrived.’

‘Huh, you haven’t even got the courtesy or the foresight to be at your own father’s deathbed. The sooner you permanently leave our house, the better for all of us. I want some cha. We have a guest here and you haven’t even remembered your manners enough to offer her refreshment!’

‘It was ordered, instantly, the moment she—’

‘It hasn’t arrived instantly!’

The shoji opened. A maid nervously brought cha and some sweet cakes. First Midori served the old woman, who cursed the maid roundly and chomped toothlessly on a cake, slurping her drink. ‘You must excuse the maid, Kiku-san,’ the old woman said. ‘The cha’s tasteless. Tasteless! And scalding. I suppose that’s only to be expected in this house.’

‘Here, please have mine.’ Midori blew gently on the tea to cool it.

The old woman took it grudgingly. ‘Why can’t it be correct the first time?’ She lapsed into sullen silence.

‘What do you think about all this?’ Midori asked Kiku. ‘The ship and Yabu-sama and Toda Hiro-matsu-sama?’

‘I don’t know what to think. As to the barbarians, who knows? They’re certainly an extraordinary collection of men. And the great daimyo, Iron Fist? It’s very curious that he arrived almost the same time as Lord Yabu, neh? Well, you must excuse me, no, please, I can see myself out.’

‘Oh, no, Kiku-san, I wouldn’t hear of it.’

‘There, you see, Midori-san,’ the old woman interrupted impatiently. ‘Our guest’s uncomfortable and the cha awful.’

‘Oh, the cha was sufficient for me, Mistress-san, really. No, if you’ll excuse me, I am a little tired. Perhaps before I go tomorrow, I may be allowed to come to see you. It’s always such a pleasure to talk with you.’

The old woman allowed herself to be cajoled and Kiku followed Midori onto the veranda and into the garden.

‘Kiku-san, you’re so thoughtful,’ Midori said, holding her arm, warmed by her beauty. ‘It was very kind of you, thank you.’

Kiku glanced back at the house momentarily, and shivered. ‘Is she always like that?’

‘Tonight she was polite, compared to some times. If it wasn’t for Omi and my son I swear I’d shake her dust off my feet, shave my head, and become a nun. But I have Omi and my son and that makes up for everything. I only thank all kami for that. Fortunately Mistress-san prefers Yedo and can’t stay away from there for very long.’ Midori smiled sadly. ‘You train yourself not to listen, you know how it is.’ She sighed, so beautiful in the moonlight. ‘But that’s unimportant. Tell me what’s happened since I left.’

This was why Kiku had come to the house so urgently, for obviously neither the mother nor the wife would wish Omi’s sleep disturbed. She came to tell the lovely Lady Midori everything, so she could help to guard Kasigi Omi as she herself would try to guard him. She told her all that she knew except what had happened in the room with Yabu. She added the rumors she had heard and the stories the other girls had passed on to her or invented. And everything that Omi had told her—his hopes and fears and plans—everything about him, except what had happened in the room tonight. She knew that this was not important to his wife.

‘I’m afraid, Kiku-san, afraid for my husband.’

‘Everything he advised was wise, Lady. I think everything he did was correct. Lord Yabu doesn’t reward anyone lightly and three thousand koku is a worthy increase.’

‘But the ship’s Lord Toranaga’s now, and all that money.’

‘Yes, but for Yabu-sama to offer the ship as a gift was an idea of genius. Omi-san gave the idea to Yabu—surely this itself is payment enough, neh? Omi-san must be recognized as a preeminent vassal.’ Kiku twisted the truth just a trifle, knowing that Omi was in great danger, and all his house. What is to be will be, she reminded herself. But it does no harm to ease the brow of a nice woman.

‘Yes, I can see that,’ Midori said. Let it be the truth, she prayed. Please let it be the truth. She embraced the girl, her eyes filling with tears. ‘Thank you. You’re so kind, Kiku-san, so kind.’ She was seventeen.