Shogun (17 page)

The priest spoke to Omi haltingly.

Omi glanced at the cauldron. The water was hardly tepid yet. The boy had fainted but was unharmed. “Take him out of there,” he ordered. “Get a doctor if he needs one.”

His men obeyed. He saw Blackthorne go over to the boy and listen to his heart.

Omi motioned to the priest. “Tell the leader that the youth can also stay out of the pit today. If the leader behaves and the youth behaves, another of the barbarians
may
come out of the pit tomorrow. Then another. Perhaps. Or more than one. Perhaps. It depends on how the ones above behave. But you—” he looked directly at Blackthorne—“you are responsible for the smallest infraction of any rule or order. Do you understand?”

After the priest had translated this, Omi heard the barbarian say, “Yes,” and saw part of the blood-chilling anger go out of his eyes. But the hatred remained. How foolish, Omi thought, and how naive
to be so open. I wonder what he would have done if I had played with him further—pretended to go back on what I had promised, or implied that I had promised.

“Priest, what’s his name again? Say it slowly.”

He heard the priest say the name several times but it still sounded like gibberish.

“Can you say it?” he asked one of his men.

“No, Omi-san.”

“Priest, tell him from now on his name is Anjin—Pilot—
neh?
When he merits it, he will be called Anjin-san. Explain to him that there are no sounds in our tongue for us to say his real name as it is.” Omi added dryly, “Impress upon him that this is not meant to be insulting. Good-by, Anjin, for the moment.”

They all bowed to him. He returned the salutation politely and walked away. When he was well clear of the square and certain that no one was watching, he allowed himself to smile broadly. To have tamed the chief of the barbarians so quickly! To have discerned at once how to dominate him, and them!

How extraordinary those barbarians are, he thought. Eeee, the sooner the Anjin speaks our language the better. Then we’ll know how to smash the Christian barbarians once and for all!

“Why didn’t you piss in his face?” Yabu asked.

“At first I’d intended to, Lord. But the Pilot’s still an untamed animal, totally dangerous. To do it in his face—well, with us, to touch a man’s face is the worst of insults,
neh?
So I reasoned that I might have insulted him so deeply he would lose control. So I pissed on his back—which I think will be sufficient.”

They were seated on the veranda of his house, on silk cushions. Omi’s mother was serving them cha—tea—with all the ceremony she could command, and she had been well trained in her youth. She offered the cup with a bow to Yabu. He bowed and politely offered it to Omi, who of course refused with a deeper bow; then he accepted it and sipped with enjoyment, feeling complete.

“I’m very impressed with you, Omi-san,” he said. “Your reasoning is exceptional. Your planning and handling of this whole business has been splendid.”

“You are too kind, Sire. My efforts could have been much better, much better.”

“Where did you learn so much about the barbarian mind?”

“When I was fourteen, for a year I had a teacher who was the monk called Jiro. Once he’d been a Christian priest, at least he was an apprentice priest, but fortunately he learned the errors of his stupidity. I’ve always remembered one thing he told me. He said that the Christian religion was vulnerable because they taught that their chief deity, Jesu, said that all people should ‘love’ one another—he taught nothing about honor or duty, only love. And also that life was sacred—‘Thou shalt not kill,’
neh?
And other stupidities. These new barbarians claim to be Christian also, even though the priest denies it, so I reasoned that perhaps they’re just a different sect, and that’s the cause of their enmity, just as some of the Buddhist sects hate each other. I thought if they ‘love one another,’ perhaps we could control the leader by taking the life or even threatening to take the life of one of his men.” Omi knew that this conversation was dangerous because of the torture death, the befouled death. He felt his mother’s unspoken warning crossing the space between them.

“Will you have more cha, Yabu-sama?” his mother asked.

“Thank you,” Yabu said. “It’s very, very good.”

“Thank you, Sire. But Omi-san, is the barbarian broken for good?” his mother asked, twisting the conversation. “Perhaps you should tell our Lord if you think it’s temporary or permanent.”

Omi hesitated. “Temporary. But I think he should learn our language as fast as possible. That’s very important to you, Sire. You will probably have to destroy one or two of them to keep him and the rest in control, but by that time he will have learned how to behave. Once you can talk directly to him, Yabu-sama, you can use his knowledge. If what the priest said is true—that he piloted the ship ten thousand
ri
—he must be more than just a little clever.”

“You’re more than just a little clever.” Yabu laughed. “You’re put in charge of the animals. Omi-san, trainer of men!”

Omi laughed with him. “I’ll try, Lord.”

“Your fief is increased from five hundred koku to three thousand. You will have control within twenty ri.” A
ri
was a measure of distance that approximated one mile. “As a further token of my affection, when I return to Yedo I will send you two horses, twenty silk kimonos, one suit of armor, two swords, and enough arms to equip a further hundred samurai which you will recruit. When war comes you will immediately join my personal staff as a hatamoto.” Yabu was feeling expansive: A hatamoto was a special personal retainer of a
daimyo
who had the right of access to his lord and could
wear swords in the presence of his lord. He was delighted with Omi and felt rested, even reborn. He had slept exquisitely. When he had awoken he was alone, which was to be expected, because he had not asked either the girl or the boy to stay. He had drunk a little tea and eaten sparingly of rice gruel. Then a bath and Suwo’s massage.

That was a marvelous experience, he thought. Never have I felt so close to nature, to the trees and mountains and earth, to the inestimable sadness of life and its transience. The screams had perfected everything.

“Omi-san, there’s a rock in my garden at Mishima that I’d like you to accept, also to commemorate this happening, and that marvelous night and our good fortune. I’ll send it with the other things,” he said. “The stone comes from Kyushu. I called it ‘The Waiting Stone’ because we were waiting for the Lord Taikō to order an attack when I found it. That was, oh, fifteen years ago. I was part of his army which smashed the rebels and subdued the island.”

“You do me much honor.”

“Why not put it here, in your garden, and rename it? Why not call it ‘The Stone of Barbarian Peace,’ to commemorate the night and his endless waiting for peace.”

“Perhaps I may be allowed to call it ‘The Happiness Stone’ to remind me and my descendants of the honors you do to me, Uncle?”

“No—better just simply name it ‘The Waiting Barbarian.’ Yes, I like that. That joins us further together—him and me. He was waiting as I was waiting. I lived, he died.” Yabu looked at the garden, musing. “Good, ‘The Waiting Barbarian’! I like that. There are curious flecks on one side of the rock that remind me of tears, and veins of blue mixed with a reddish quartz that remind me of flesh—the impermanence of it!” Yabu sighed, enjoying his melancholy. Then he added, “It’s good for a man to plant a stone and name a stone. The barbarian took a long time to die,
neh?
Perhaps he will be reborn Japanese, to compensate for his suffering. Wouldn’t that be marvelous? Then one day, perhaps, his descendants would see his stone and be content.”

Omi poured out his heartfelt thanks, and protested that he did not deserve such bounty. Yabu knew that the bounty was not more than deserved. He could easily have given more, but he had remembered the old adage that you can always increase a fief, but to reduce one causes enmity. And treachery.

“Oku-san,” he said to the woman, giving her the title of Honorable
Mother, “my brother should have told me sooner about the great qualities of his youngest son. Then Omi-san would have been much further advanced today. My brother’s too retiring, too thoughtless.”

“My husband’s too thoughtful for you, my Lord, to worry you,” she replied, aware of the underlying criticism. “I’m glad that my son has had an opportunity of serving you, and that he’s pleased you. My son has only done his duty,
neh?
It’s our duty—Mizuno-san and all of us—to serve.”

Horses clattered up the rise. Igurashi, Yabu’s chief retainer, strode through the garden. “Everything’s ready, Sire. If you want to get back to Yedo quickly we should leave now.”

“Good. Omi-san, you and your men will go with the convoy and assist Igurashi-san to see it safely into the castle.” Yabu saw a shadow cross Omi’s face. “What?”

“I was just thinking about the barbarians.”

“Leave a few guards for them. Compared to the convoy, they’re unimportant. Do what you want with them—put them back into the pit, do what you like. When and if you obtain anything useful from them, send me word.”

“Yes, Lord,” Omi replied. “I’ll leave ten samurai and specific instructions with Mura—they’ll come to no harm in five or six days. What do you want done with the ship itself?”

“Keep it safe here. You’re responsible for it, of course. Zukimoto has sent letters to a dealer at Nagasaki to offer it for sale to the Portuguese. The Portuguese can come and collect it.”

Omi hesitated. “Perhaps you should keep the ship, Sire, and get the barbarians to train some of our sailors to handle it.”

“What do I need with barbarian ships?” Yabu laughed derisively. “Should I become a filthy merchant?”

“Of course not, Sire,” Omi said quickly. “I just thought Zukimoto might have found a use for such a vessel.”

“What do I need with a trading ship?”

“The priest said this was a warship, Sire. He seemed afraid of it. When war starts, a warship could—”

“Our war will be fought on land. The sea’s for merchants, all of whom are filthy usurers, pirates or fishermen.” Yabu got up and began to walk down the steps toward the garden gate, where a samurai was holding the bridle of his horse. He stopped and stared out to sea. His knees went weak.

Omi followed his glance.

A ship was rounding the headland. She was a large galley with a multitude of oars, the swiftest of the Japanese coastal vessels because she depended neither upon the wind, nor upon the tide. The flag at the masthead carried the Toranaga crest.

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!”