Shōgun

by James Clavell

  “Afternoon,” Blackthorne said politely, not recognizing either of them.

  Neither bowed. “Afternoon, Anjin-san,” one replied.

  “Please, where my other guards?”

  “All guards taken away Hour of the Hare, this morning. Understand Hour of Hare? We’re not your guards, Anjin-san. This is our ordinary post.”

  Blackthorne felt the cold sweat trickling down his back. “Guards taken away—who order?”

  Both samurai laughed. The tall one said, “Here, inside the donjon, Anjin-san, only the Lord General gives orders—or the Lady Ochiba. How do you feel now?”

  “Better, thank you.”

  The taller samurai called out down the hall. In a few moments an officer came out of a room with four samurai. He was young and taut. When he saw Blackthorne his eyes lit up. “Ah, Anjin-san. How do you feel?”

  “Better, thank you. Please excuse me, but where my guards?”

  “I am ordered to tell you, when you wake up, that you’re to go back to your ship. Here’s your pass.” The captain took the paper from his sleeve and gave it to him and pointed contemptuously at Michael. “This fellow’s to be your guide.”

  Blackthorne tried to get his head working, his brain screeching danger. “Yes. Thank you. But first, please must see Lord Ishido. Very important.”

  “So sorry. Your orders are to go back to the ship as soon as you wake up. Do you understand?”

  “Yes. Please excuse me, but very important I see Lord Ishido. Please tell your captain. Now. Must see Lord Ishido before leave. Very important, so sorry.”

  The samurai scratched at the pockmarks on his chin. “I will ask. Please dress.” He strode off importantly to Blackthorne’s relief. The four samurai remained. Blackthorne went back and dressed quickly. They watched him. The priest waited in the corridor.

  Be patient, he told himself. Don’t think and don’t worry. It’s a mistake. Nothing’s changed. You’ve still the power you always had.

  He put both swords in his sash and drank the rest of the cha. Then he saw the pass. The paper was stamped and covered with characters. There’s no mistake about that, he thought, the fresh kimono already sticking to him.

  “Hey, Anjin-san,” one of the samurai said, “hear you kill five ninja. Very, very good, neh?”

  “So sorry, two only. Perhaps three.” Blackthorne twisted his head from side to side to ease the ache and dizziness.

  “I heard there were fifty-seven ninja dead—one hundred and sixteen Browns. Is that right?”

  “I don’t know. So sorry.”

  The captain came back into the room. “Your orders are to go to your ship, Anjin-san. This priest is your guide.”

  “Yes. Thank you. But first, so sorry, must see Lady Ochiba. Very, very important. Please ask your—”

  The captain spun on Michael and spoke gutturally and very fast. “Neh?” Michael bowed, unperturbed, and turned to Blackthorne. “So sorry, senhor. He says his superior is asking his superior, but meanwhile you are to leave at once and follow me—to the galley.”

  “Ima!” the captain added for emphasis.

  Blackthorne knew he was a dead man. He heard himself say, “Thank you, Captain. Where my guards, please?”

  “You haven’t any guards.”

  “Please send my ship. Please fetch my own vassals from—”

  “Order go ship now! Understand, neh?” The words were impolite and very final. “Go ship!” the captain added with a crooked smile, waiting for Blackthorne to bow first.

  Blackthorne noticed this and it all became a nightmare, everything slowed and fogged, and he desperately wanted to empty himself and wipe the sweat off his face and bow, but he was sure that the captain would hardly bow back, perhaps not even politely and never as an equal, so he would be shamed before all of them. It was clear that he had been betrayed and sold out to the Christian enemy, that Kiyama and Ishido and the priests were part of the betrayal, and for whatever reason, whatever the price, there was nothing now that he could do except wipe off the sweat and bow and leave and they would be waiting for him.

  Then Mariko was with him and he remembered her terror and all that she had meant and all that she had done and all that she had taught him. He forced his hand onto the broken hilt of his sword and set his feet truculently apart, knowing that his fate was decided, his karma fixed, and that if he had to die he preferred to die now with pride than later.

  “I’m John Blackthorne, Anjin-san,” he said, his absolute commitment lending him a strange power and perfect rudeness. “General of Lord Toranaga ship. All ship. Samurai and hatamoto! Who are you?”

  The captain flushed. “Saigo Masakatsu of Kaga, Captain, of Lord Ishido’s garrison.”

  “I’m hatamoto—are you hatamoto?” Blackthorne asked, even more rudely, not even acknowledging the name of his opponent, only seeing him with an enormous, unreal clarity—seeing every pore, every stub-bled whisker, every fleck of color in the hostile brown eyes, every hair on the back of the man’s hand gripping the sword hilt.

  “No, not hatamoto.”

  “Are you samurai—or ronin?” The last word hissed out and Blackthorne felt men behind him but he did not care. He was only watching the captain, waiting for the sudden, death-dealing blow that summoned up all hara-gei, all the innermost source of energy, and he readied to return the blow with equal blinding force in a mutual, honorable death, and so defeat his enemy.

  To his astonishment he saw the captain’s eyes change, and the man shriveled and bowed, low and humble. The man held the bow, leaving himself defenseless. “Please—please excuse my bad manners. I—I was ronin but—but the Lord General gave me a second chance. Please excuse my bad manners, Anjin-san.” The voice was laced with shame.

  It was all unreal and Blackthorne was still ready to strike, expecting to strike, expecting death and not a conquest. He looked at the other samurai. As one man they bowed and held the bow with their captain, granting him victory.

  After a moment Blackthorne bowed stiffly. But not as an equal. They held their bow until he turned and walked along the corridor, Michael following, out onto the main steps, down the steps into the forecourt. He could feel no pain now. He was filled only with an enormous glow. Grays were watching him, and the group of samurai that escorted him and Michael to the first checkpoint kept carefully out of his sword range. One man was hurriedly sent ahead.

  At the next checkpoint the new officer bowed politely as an equal and he bowed back. The pass was examined meticulously but correctly. Another escort took them to the next checkpoint where everything was repeated. Thence over the innermost moat, and the next. No one interfered with them. Hardly any samurai paid attention to him.

  Gradually he noticed his head was scarcely aching. His sweat had dried. He unknotted his fingers from his sword hilt and flexed them a moment. He stopped at a fountain which was set in a wall and drank and splashed water on his head.

  The escorting Grays stopped and waited politely, and all the time he was trying to work out why he had lost favor and the protection of Ishido and Lady Ochiba. Nothing’s changed, he thought frantically. He looked up and saw Michael staring at him. “What do you want?”

  “Nothing, senhor,” Michael said politely. Then a smile spread and it was filled with warmth. “Ah, senhor, you did me a great service back there, making that foul-mannered cabron drink his own urine. Oh, that was good to see! Thou,” he added in Latin. “I thank thee.”

  “I did nothing for you,” Blackthorne said in Portuguese, not wanting to talk Latin.

  “Yes. But peace be upon you, senhor. Know that God moves in mysterious ways. It was a service for all men. That ronin was shamed and he deserved it. It is a filthy thing to abuse bushido.”

  “You’re samurai too?”

  “Yes, senhor, I have that honor,” Michael said. “My father is cousin to Lord Kiyama and my clan is of Hizen Province in Kyushu. How did you know he was ronin?”

  Blackthorne tried to remember. “I’m not sure. Perha
ps because he said he was from Kaga and that’s a long way off and Mariko—Lady Toda said Kaga’s far north. I don’t know—I don’t remember really what I said.”

  The officer of the escort came back to them. “Please excuse me, Anjin-san, but is this fellow bothering you?”

  “No. No, thank you.” Blackthorne set off again. The pass was checked again, with courtesy, and they went on.

  The sun was lowering now, still a few hours to sunset, and dust devils whirled in tiny spirals in the heated air currents. They passed many stables, all horses facing out—lances and spears and saddles ready for instant departure, samurai grooming the horses and cleaning equipment. Blackthorne was astounded by their number.

  “How many horse, Captain?” he asked.

  “Thousands, Anjin-san. Ten, twenty, thirty thousand here and elsewhere in the castle.”

  When they were crossing the next to last moat, Blackthorne beckoned Michael. “You’re guiding me to the galley?”

  “Yes. That’s what I was told to do, senhor.”

  “Nowhere else?”

  “No, senhor.”

  “By whom?”

  “Lord Kiyama. And the Father-Visitor, senhor.”

  “Ah, him! I prefer Anjin-san, not senhor—Father.”

  “Please excuse me, Anjin-san, but I’m not a Father. I’m not ordained.”

  “When does that happen?”

  “In God’s time,” Michael said confidently.

  “Where’s Yabu-san?”

  “I don’t know, so sorry.”

  “You’re just taking me to my ship, nowhere else?”

  “Yes, Anjin-san.”

  “And then I’m free? Free to go where I want?”

  “I was told to ask how you were, then to guide you to the ship, nothing more. I’m just a messenger, a guide.”

  “Before God?”

  “I’m just a guide, Anjin-san.”

  “Where did you learn to speak Portuguese so well? And Latin?”

  “I was one of the four … the four acolytes sent by the Father-Visitor to Rome. I was thirteen, Uraga-noh-Tadamasa twelve.”

  “Ah! Now I remember. Uraga-san told me you were one of them. You were his friend. You know he’s dead?”

  “Yes. I was sickened to hear about it.”

  “Christians did that.”

  “Murderers did that, Anjin-san. Assassins. They will be judged, never fear.”

  After a moment, Blackthorne said, “How did you like Rome?”

  “I detested it. We all did. Everything about it—the food and the filth and ugliness. They’re all eta there—unbelievable! It took us eight years to get there and back and oh how I blessed the Madonna when at last I got back.”

  “And the Church? The Fathers?”

  “Detestable. Many of them,” Michael said calmly. “I was shocked with their morals and mistresses and greed and pomp and hypocrisy and lack of manners—and their two standards, one for the flock and one for the shepherds. It was all hateful … and yet I found God among some of them, Anjin-san. So strange. I found the Truth, in the cathedrals and cloisters and among the Fathers.” Michael looked at him guilelessly, a tenderness permeating him. “It was rare, Anjin-san, very rarely that I found a glimmer—that’s true. But I did find the Truth and God and know that Christianity is the only path to life everlasting … please excuse me, Catholic Christianity.”

  “Did you see the auto-da-fé—or Inquisition—or jails—witch trials?”

  “I saw many terrible things. Very few men are wise—most are sinners and great evil happens on earth in God’s name. But not of God. This world is a vale of tears and only a preparation for Everlasting Peace.” He prayed silently for a moment, then, refreshed, he looked up. “Even some heretics can be good, neh?”

  “Maybe,” Blackthorne replied, liking him.

  The last moat and last gate, the main south gate. The last checkpoint, and his paper was taken away. Michael walked under the last portcullis. Blackthorne followed. Outside the castle a hundred samurai were waiting. Kiyama’s men. He saw their crucifixes and their hostility and he stopped. Michael did not. The officer motioned Blackthorne onward. He obeyed. The samurai closed up behind him and around him, locking him in their midst. Porters and tradesmen on this main road scattered and bowed and groveled until they were passed. A few held up pathetic crosses and Michael blessed them, leading the way down the slight slope, past the burial ground where the pit no longer smoked, across a bridge and into the city, heading for the sea. Grays and other samurai were coming up from the city among the pedestrians. When they saw Michael they scowled and would have forced him onto the side if it hadn’t been for the mass of Kiyama samurai.

  Blackthorne followed Michael. He was beyond fear, though not beyond wishing to escape. But there was no place to run, or to hide. On land. His only safety was aboard Erasmus, beating out to sea, a full crew with him, provisioned and armed.

  “What happens at the galley, Brother?”

  “I don’t know, Anjin-san.”

  Now they were in the city streets, nearing the sea. Michael turned a corner and came into an open fish market. Pretty maids and fat maids and old ladies and youths and men and buyers and sellers and children all gaped at him, then began bowing hastily. Blackthorne followed the samurai through the stalls and panniers and bamboo trays of all kinds of fish, sea-sparkling fresh, laid out so cleanly—many swimming in tanks, prawns and shrimps, lobster and crabs and crayfish. Never so clean in London, he thought absently, neither the fish nor those who sold them. Then he saw a row of food stalls to one side, each with a small charcoal brazier, and he caught the full perfume of broiling crayfish.

  “Jesus!” Without thinking, he changed direction. Immediately the samurai barred his way. “Gomen nasai, kinjiru,” one of them said.

  “Iyé!” Blackthorne replied as roughly. “Watashi tabetai desu, neh? Watashi Anjin-san, neh?” I’m hungry. I’m the Anjin-san!

  Blackthorne began to push through them. The senior officer hurried to intercept. Quickly Michael stepped back and talked placatingly, though with authority, and asked permission and, reluctantly, it was granted.

  “Please, Anjin-san,” he said, “the officer says eat if you wish. What would you like?”

  “Some of those, please.” Blackthorne pointed at the giant prawns that were headless and split down their length, all pink and white fleshed, the shells crisped to perfection. “Some of those.” He could not tear his eyes off them. “Please tell the officer I haven’t eaten for almost two days and I’m suddenly famished. So sorry.”

  The fish seller was an old man with three teeth and leathery skin and he wore only a loincloth. He was puffed with pride that his stall had been chosen and he picked out the five best prawns with nimble chopsticks and laid them neatly on a bamboo tray and set others to sizzle.

  “Dozo, Anjin-sama!”

  “Domo.” Blackthorne felt his stomach growling. He wanted to gorge. Instead he picked one up with the fresh wooden chopsticks, dipped it in the sauce, and ate with relish. It was delicious.

  “Brother Michael?” he asked, offering the plate. Michael took one, but only for good manners. The officer refused, though he thanked him.

  Blackthorne finished that plate and had two more. He could have eaten another two but decided not to for good manners and also because he didn’t want to strain his stomach.

  “Domo,” he said, setting down the plate with a polite obligatory belch. “Bimi desu!” Delicious.

  The man beamed and bowed and the stallkeepers nearby bowed and then Blackthorne realized to his horror that he had no money. He reddened.

  “What is it?” Michael asked.

  “I, er, I haven’t any money with me—or, er, anything to give the man. I’ve—could you lend me some please?”

  “I haven’t any money, Anjin-san. We don’t carry money.”

  There was an embarrassed silence. The seller grinned, waiting patiently. Then, with equal embarrassment, Michael turned to the officer and quie
tly asked him for money. The officer was coldly furious with Blackthorne. He spoke brusquely to one of his men who came forward and paid the stallkeeper handsomely, to be thanked profusely, as, pink and sweating, Michael turned and led again. Blackthorne caught up with him. “Sony about that but it … it never occurred to me! That’s the first time I’ve bought anything here. I’ve never had money, as crazy as it sounds, and I never thought … I’ve never used money….”

  “Please, forget it, Anjin-san. It was nothing.”

  “Please tell the officer I’ll pay him when I get to the ship.”

  Michael did as he was asked. They walked in silence for a while, Blackthorne getting his bearings. At the end of this street was the beach, the sea calm and dullish under the sunset light. Then he saw where they were and pointed left, to a wide street that ran east-west. “Let’s go that way.”

  “This way is quicker, Anjin-san.”

  “Yes, but your way we’ve got to pass the Jesuit Mission and the Portuguese lorcha. I’d rather make a detour and go the long way round.”

  “I was told to go this way.”

  “Let’s go the other way.” Blackthorne stopped. The officer asked what was the matter and Michael explained. The officer waved them onward—Michael’s way.

  Blackthorne weighed the results of refusing. He would be forced, or bound and carried, or dragged. None of these suited him, so he shrugged and strode on.

  They came out onto the wide road that skirted the beach. Half a ri ahead were the Jesuit wharves and warehouses and a hundred paces farther he could see the Portuguese ship. Beyond that, another two hundred paces, was his galley. It was too far away to see men aboard yet.

  Blackthorne picked up a stone and sent it whistling out to sea. “Let’s walk along the beach for a while.”

  “Certainly, Anjin-san.” Michael went down the sand. Blackthorne walked in the shallows, enjoying the cool of the sea, the soughing of the slight surf.

  “It’s a fine time of the day, neh?”

  “Ah, Anjin-san,” Michael said with sudden, open friendliness, “there are many times, Madonna forgive me, I wish I wasn’t a priest but just the son of my father, and this is one of them.”