“I wish you’d seen him almost commit seppuku Buntaro-san. I … it was extraordinary. I saw death visit him, to be turned away by Omi’s hand. If he was Japanese previously, I think that would explain many things. Lord Toranaga thinks he’s very valuable to us now.”
“It’s time you stopped training him and became Japanese again.”
“Sire?”
“I think Lord Toranaga’s under his spell. And you.”
“Please excuse me, but I don’t think I am.”
“That other night in Anjiro, the one that went bad, on that night I felt you were with him, against me. Of course it was an evil thought, but I felt it.”
Her gaze left the blade. She looked at him steadily and did not reply. Another lamp spluttered briefly and went out. Now only one light remained in the room.
“Yes, I hated him that night,” Buntaro continued in the same calm voice, “and wanted him dead—and you and Fujiko-san. My bow whispered to me, like it does sometimes, asking for a killing. And when, the next dawn, I saw him coming down the hill with those cowardly little pistols in his hands, my arrows begged to drink his blood. But I put his killing off and humbled myself, hating my bad manners more than him, shamed by my bad manners and the saké.” His tiredness showed now. “So many shames to bear, you and I. Neh?”
“Yes.”
“You don’t want me to kill him?”
“You must do what you know to be your duty,” she said. “As I will always do mine.”
“We stay at the inn tonight,” he said.
“Yes.”
And then, because she had been a perfect guest and the cha-no-yu the best he had ever achieved, he changed his mind and gave her back time and peace in equal measure that he had received from her. “Go to the inn. Sleep,” he said. His hand picked up the stiletto and offered it. “When the maples are bare of leaves—or when you return from Osaka—we will begin again. As husband and wife.”
“Yes. Thank you.”
“Do you agree freely, Mariko-san?”
“Yes. Thank you.”
“Before your God?”
“Yes. Before God.”
Mariko bowed and accepted the knife, replaced it in its hiding place, bowed again and left.
Her footsteps died away. Buntaro looked down at the branchlet still in his fist, the tear still trapped in a tiny leaf. His fingers trembled as they gently laid the sprig on the last of the coals. The pure green leaves began to twist and char. The tear vanished with a hiss.
Then, in silence, he began to weep with rage, suddenly sure in his innermost being that she had betrayed him with the Anjin-san.
Blackthorne saw her come out of the garden and walk across the well-lit courtyard. He caught his breath at the whiteness of her beauty. Dawn was creeping into the eastern sky.
“Hello, Mariko-san.”
“Oh—hello, Anjin-san! You—so sorry, you startled me—I didn’t see you there. You’re up late.”
“No. Gomen nasai, I’m on time.” He smiled and motioned to the morning that was not far off. “It’s a habit I picked up at sea, to wake just before dawn, in good time to go aloft to get ready to shoot the sun.” His smile deepened. “It’s you who’re up late!”
“I didn’t realize that it was … that night was gone.” Samurai were posted at the gates and all doorways, watching curiously, Naga among them. Her voice became almost imperceptible as she switched to Latin. “Guard thine eyes, I beg thee. Even the darkness of night contains harbingers of doom.”
“I beg forgiveness.”
They glanced away as horses clattered up to the main gate. Falconers and the hunting party and guards. Dispiritedly Toranaga came from within.
“Everything’s ready, Sire,” Naga said. “May I come with you?”
“No, no, thank you. You get some rest. Mariko-san, how was the cha-no-yu?”
“Most beautiful, Sire. Most very beautiful.”
“Buntaro-san’s a master. You’re fortunate.”
“Yes, Sire.”
“Anjin-san! Would you like to go hunting? I’d like to learn how you fly a falcon.”
“Sire?”
Mariko translated at once.
“Yes, thank you,” Blackthorne said.
“Good.” Toranaga waved him to a horse. “You come with me.”
“Yes, Sire.”
Mariko watched them leave. When they had trotted up the path, she went to her room. Her maid helped her undress, remove her makeup, and take down her hair. Then she told the maid to stay in the room, that she was not to be disturbed until noon.
“Yes, mistress.”
Mariko lay down and closed her eyes and allowed her body to fall into the exquisite softness of the down quilts. She was exhausted and elated. The cha-no-yu had pushed her to a strange height of peacefulness, cleansing her, and from there, the sublime, joy-filled decision to go into death had sent her to a further pinnacle never attained before. Returning from the summit into life once more had left her with an eerie, unbelievable awareness of the beauty of being alive. She had seemed to be outside herself as she answered Buntaro patiently, sure her answers and her performance had been equally perfect. She curled up in the bed, so glad that peace existed now … until the leaves fell.
Oh, Madonna, she prayed fervently, I thank thee for thy mercy in granting me my glorious reprieve. I thank thee and worship thee with all my heart and with all my soul and for all eternity.
She repeated an Ave Maria in humility and then, asking forgiveness, in accordance to her custom and in obedience to her liege lord, for another day she put her God into a compartment of her mind.
What would I have done, she mused just before sleep took her, if Buntaro had asked to share my bed?
I would have refused.
And then, if he had insisted, as is his right?
I would have kept my promise to him. Oh, yes. Nothing’s changed.
CHAPTER 44
At the Hour of the Goat the cortege crossed the bridge again. Everything was as before, except that now Zataki and his men were lightly dressed for traveling—or skirmishing. They were all heavily armed and, though very well disciplined, all were spoiling for the death fight, if it came. They seated themselves neatly opposite Toranaga’s forces, which heavily outnumbered them. Father Alvito was to one side among the onlookers. And Blackthorne.
Toranaga welcomed Zataki with the same calm formality, prolonging the ceremonious seating. Today the two daimyos were alone on the dais, the cushions farther apart under a lower sky. Yabu, Omi, Naga, and Buntaro were on the earth surrounding Toranaga and four of Zataki’s fighting counselors spaced themselves behind him.
At the correct time, Zataki took out the second scroll. “I’ve come for your formal answer.”
“I agree to go to Osaka and to submit to the will of the Council,” replied Toranaga evenly, and bowed.
“You’re going to submit?” Zataki began, his face twisting with disbelief. “You, Toranaga-noh-Minowara, you’re going—”
“Listen,” Toranaga interrupted in his resonant commanding voice that richocheted around the clearing without seeming to be loud. “The Council of Regents should be obeyed! Even though it’s illegal, it is constituted and no single daimyo has the right to tear the realm apart, however much truth is on his side. The realm takes precedence. If one daimyo revolts, it is the duty of all to stamp him out. I swore to the Taikō I’d never be the first to break the peace, and I won’t, even though evil is in the land. I accept the invitation. I will leave today.”
Aghast, each samurai was trying to foretell what this unbelievable about-face would mean. All were achingly certain that most, if not all, would be forced to become ronin, with all that that implied—loss of honor, of revenue, of family, of future.
Buntaro knew that he would accompany Toranaga on his last journey and share his fate—death with all his family, of all generations. Ishido was too much his own personal enemy to forgive, and anyway, who would want to stay alive when his own lord gave up
the true fight in such cowardly fashion. Karma, Buntaro thought bitterly. Buddha give me strength! Now I’m committed to take Mariko’s life and our son’s life before I take my own. When? When my duty’s done and our lord is safely and honorably gone into the Void. He will need a faithful second, neh? All gone, like autumn leaves, all the future and the present, Crimson Sky and destiny. It’s just as well, neh? Now Lord Yaemon will surely inherit. Lord Toranaga must be secretly tempted in his most private heart to take power, however much he denies it. Perhaps the Taikō will live again through his son and, in time, we’ll war on China again and win this time, to stand at the summit of the world as is our divine duty. Yes, the Lady Ochiba and Yaemon won’t sell us out next time as Ishido and his cowardly supporters did the last….
Naga was bewildered. No Crimson Sky? No honorable war? No fighting to the death in the Shinano mountains or on the Kyoto plains? No honorable death in battle heroically defending the standard of his father, no mounds of enemy dead to straddle in a last glorious stand, or in a divine victory? No charge even with the filthy guns? None of that—just a seppuku, probably hurried, without pomp or ceremony or honor and his head stuck on a spike for common people to jeer at. Just a death and the end of the Yoshi line. For of course every one of them would die, his father, all his brothers and sisters and cousins, nephews and nieces and aunts and uncles. His eyes focused on Zataki. Blood lust began to flood his brain….
Omi was watching Toranaga with half-seeing eyes, hatred devouring him. Our Master’s gone mad, he thought. How can he be so stupid? We’ve a hundred thousand men and the Musket Regiment and fifty thousand more around Osaka! Crimson Sky’s a million times better than a lonely stinking grave!
His hand was heavy on his sword hilt and, for an ecstatic moment, he imagined himself leaping forward to decapitate Toranaga, to hand the head to the Regent Zataki and so end the contemptuous charade. Then to die by his own hand with honor, here, before everyone. For what was the point of living now? Now Kiku was beyond his reach, her contract bought and owned by Toranaga who had betrayed them all. Last night his body had been on fire during her singing and he knew her song had been secretly for him, and him alone. Unrequited fire—him and her. Wait—why not a suicide together? To die beautifully together, to be together for all eternity. Oh, how wonderful that would be! To mix our souls in death as a never-ending witness to our adoration of life. But first the traitor Toranaga, neh?
With an effort Omi dragged himself back from the brink.
Everything’s gone wrong, he thought. No peace in my house, always anger and quarreling, and Midori always in tears. No nearer my revenge on Yabu. No private, secret arrangement with Zataki, with or without Yabu, negotiated over the hours last night. No deal of any kind. Nothing right anymore. Even when Mura found the swords, both were so mutilated by the earth’s force that I know Toranaga hated me for showing them to him. And now finally this—this cowardly, traitorous surrender!
It’s almost as though I’m bedeviled—in an evil spell. Cast by the Anjin-san? Perhaps. But everything’s still lost. No swords and no revenge and no secret escape route and no Kiku and no future. Wait. There’s a future with her. Death’s a future and past and present and it’ll be so clean and simple….
“You’re giving up? We’re not going to war?” Yabu bellowed, aware that his death and the death of his line were now guaranteed.
“I accept the Council’s invitation,” Toranaga replied. “As you will accept the Council’s invitation!”
“I won’t do—”
Omi came out of his reverie with enough presence of mind to know that he had to interrupt Yabu and protect him from the instant death that any confrontation with Toranaga would bring. But he deliberately froze his lips, shouting to himself with glee at this heaven-sent gift, and waited for Yabu’s disaster to overtake him.
“You won’t do what?” Toranaga asked.
Yabu’s soul shrieked danger. He managed to croak, “I—I—of course your vassals will obey. Yes—if you decide—whatever you decide I—I will do.”
Omi cursed and allowed the glazed expression to return, his mind still withered by Toranaga’s totally unexpected capitulation.
Angrily Toranaga let Yabu stutter on, increasing the strength of the apology. Then contemptuously he cut him short. “Good.” He turned back to Zataki but he did not relax his vigil. “So, Brother, you can put away the second scroll. There’s nothing more—” From the corner of his eye he saw Naga’s face change and he wheeled on him. “Naga!”
The youth almost leapt out of his skin, but his hand left his sword. “Yes, Father?” he stammered.
“Go and fetch my writing materials! Now!” When Naga was well out of sword range Toranaga exhaled, relieved that he had prevented the attack on Zataki before it had begun. His eyes studied Buntaro carefully. Then Omi. And last Yabu. He thought the three of them were now sufficiently controlled not to make any foolish move that would precipitate an immediate riot and a great killing.
Once again he addressed Zataki. “I’ll give you my formal written acceptance at once. This will prepare the Council for my state visit.” He lowered his voice and spoke for Zataki’s ears alone. “Inside Izu you’re safe, Regent. Outside it you’re safe. Until my mother’s out of your grasp you’re safe. Only until then. This meeting is over.”
“Good. ‘State visit’?” Zataki was openly contemptuous. “What hypocrisy! I never thought I’d see the day when Yoshi Toranaga-noh-Minowara would kowtow to General Ishido. You’re just—”
“Which is more important, Brother?” Toranaga said. “The continuity of my line—or the continuity of the realm?”
Gloom hung over the valley. It was pouring now, the base of the clouds barely three hundred feet from the ground, obscuring completely the way back up the pass. The clearing and the inn’s forecourt were filled with shoving, ill-tempered samurai. Horses stamped their feet irritably. Officers were shouting orders with unnecessary harshness. Frightened porters were rushing about readying the departing column. Barely an hour remained to darkness.
Toranaga had written the flowery message and signed it, sending it by messenger to Zataki, over the entreaties of Buntaro, Omi, and Yabu, in private conference. He had listened to their arguments silently.
When they had finished, he said, “I want no more talk. I’ve decided my path. Obey!”
He had told them he was returning to Anjiro immediately to collect the rest of his men. Tomorrow he would head up the east coast road toward Atami and Odawara, thence over the mountain passes to Yedo. Buntaro would command his escort. Tomorrow the Musket Regiment was to embark on the galleys at Anjiro and put to sea to await him at Yedo, Yabu in command. The following day Omi was ordered to the frontier via the central road with all available Izu warriors. He was to assist Hiro-matsu, who was in overall command, and was to make sure that the enemy, Ikawa Jikkyu, did nothing to interfere with normal traffic. Omi was to base himself in Mishima for the time being, to guard that section of the Tokaidō Road, and to prepare palanquins and horses in sufficient quantity for Toranaga and the considerable entourage that was necessary to a formal state visit. “Alert all stations along the road and prepare them equally. You understand?”
“Yes, Sire.”
“Make sure that everything’s perfect!”
“Yes, Sire. You may rely on me.” Even Omi had winced under the baleful glare.
When everything was ready for his departure, Toranaga came out from his rooms onto the veranda. Everyone bowed. Sourly he motioned them to continue and sent for the innkeeper. The man fawned as he presented the bill on his knees. Toranaga checked it item by item. The bill was very fair. He nodded and threw it at his paymaster for payment, then summoned Mariko and the Anjin-san. Mariko was given permission to go to Osaka. “But first you’ll go directly from here to Mishima. Give this private dispatch to Hiro-matsu-san, then continue on to Yedo with the Anjin-san. You’re responsible for him until you arrive. You’ll probably go by sea to Osaka—I’ll decide
that later. Anjin-san! Did you get the dictionary from the priest-san?”
“Please? So sorry, I don’t understand.”
Mariko had translated.
“Sorry. Yes, I book got.”
“When we meet in Yedo, you’ll speak better Japanese than you do now. Wakarimasu ka?”
“Hai. Gomen nasai.”
Despondently Toranaga stomped out of the courtyard, a samurai holding a large umbrella for him against the rain. As one, all samurai, porters, and villagers again bowed. Toranaga paid no attention to them, just got into his roofed palanquin at the head of the column and closed the curtains.
At once, the six seminaked bearers raised the litter and started off at a loping trot, their horny bare feet splashing the puddles. Mounted escorting samurai rode ahead, and another mounted guard surrounded the palanquin. Spare porters and the baggage train followed, all hurrying, all tense and filled with dread. Omi led the van. Buntaro was to command the rearguard. Yabu and Naga had already left for the Musket Regiment that was still athwart the road in ambush to await Toranaga at the crest; it would fall in behind to form a rearguard. “Rearguard against whom?” Yabu had snarled at Omi in the few moments of privacy they had had before he galloped off.
Buntaro strode back to the high, curved gateway of the inn, careless of the downpour. “Mariko-san!”
Obediently she hurried to him, her orange oiled-paper umbrella beaten by the heavy drops. “Yes, Sire?”
His eyes raced over her under the brim of his bamboo hat, then went to Blackthorne, who watched from the veranda. “Tell him …” He stopped.
“Sire?”
He stared down at her. “Tell him I hold him responsible for you.”
“Yes, Sire,” she said. “But, please excuse me, I am responsible for me.”
Buntaro turned and measured the distance to the head of the column. When he glanced back his face showed a trace of his torment. “Now there’ll be no falling leaves for our eyes, neh?”
James Clavell Page 91
