Blackthorne smiled back, unguarded, and then he was on deck and his mind whirled from the impact of Osaka, its immensity, the teaming anthills of people, and the enormous castle that dominated the city. From within the castle’s vastness came the soaring beauty of the donjon—the central keep—seven or eight stories high, pointed gables with curved roofs at each level, the tiles all gilded and the walls blue.
   That’s where Toranaga will be, he thought, an ice barb suddenly in his bowels.
   A closed palanquin took him to a large house. There he was bathed and he ate, inevitably, fish soup, raw and steamed fish, a few pickled vegetables, and the hot herbed water. Instead of wheat gruel, this house provided him with a bowl of rice. He had seen rice once in Naples. It was white and wholesome, but to him tasteless. His stomach cried for meat and bread, new-baked crusty bread heavy with butter, and a haunch of beef and pies and chickens and beer and eggs.
   The next day a maid came for him. The clothes that Rodrigues had given him were laundered. She watched while he dressed, and helped him into new tabi sock-shoes. Outside was a new pair of thongs. His boots were missing. She shook her head and pointed at the thongs and then at the curtained palanquin. A phalanx of samurai surrounded it. The leader motioned him to hurry up and get in.
   They moved off immediately. The curtains were tight closed. After an age, the palanquin stopped.
   “You will not be afraid,” he said aloud, and got out.
   The gigantic stone gate of the castle was in front of him. It was set into a thirty-foot wall with interlocking battlements, bastions, and outworks. The door was huge and iron plated and open, the forged iron portcullis up. Beyond was a wooden bridge, twenty paces wide and two hundred long, that spanned the moat and ended at an enormous drawbridge, and another gate that was set into the second wall, equally vast.
   Hundreds of samurai were everywhere. All wore the same somber gray uniform—belted kimonos, each with five small circular insignias, one on each arm, on each breast, and one in the center of the back. The insignia was blue, seemingly a flower or flowers.
   “Anjin-san!”
   Hiro-matsu was seated stiffly on an open palanquin carried by four liveried bearers. His kimono was brown and stark, his belt black, the same as the fifty samurai that surrounded him. Their kimonos, too, had five insignias, but these were scarlet, the same that had fluttered at the mast head, Toranaga’s cipher. These samurai carried long gleaming spears with tiny flags at their heads.
   Blackthorne bowed without thinking, taken by Hiro-matsu’s majesty. The old man bowed back formally, his long sword loose in his lap, and signed for him to follow.
   The officer at the gate came forward. There was a ceremonial reading of the paper that Hiro-matsu offered and many bows and looks toward Blackthorne and then they were passed on to the bridge, an escort of the Grays falling in beside them.
   The surface of the deep moat was fifty feet below and stretched about three hundred paces on either side, then followed the walls as they turned north and Blackthorne thought, Lord God, I’d hate to have to try to mount an attack here. The defenders could let the outerwall garrison perish and burn the bridge, then they’re safe inside. Jesus God, the outer wall must be nearly a mile square and look, it must be twenty, thirty feet thick—the inner one, too. And it’s made out of huge blocks of stone. Each one must be ten feet by ten feet! At least! And cut perfectly and set into place without mortar. They must weigh fifty tons at least. Better than any we could make. Siege guns? Certainly they could batter the outer walls, but the guns defending would give as good as they got. It’d be hard to get them up here, and there’s no higher point from which to lob fireballs into the castle. If the outer wall was taken, the defenders could still blast the attackers off the battlements. But even if siege guns could be mounted there and they were turned on the next wall and battered it, they wouldn’t hurt it. They could damage the far gate, but what would that accomplish? How could the moat be crossed? It’s too vast for the normal methods. The castle must be impregnable—with enough soldiers. How many soldiers are here? How many townspeople would have sanctuary inside?
   It makes the Tower of London like a pigsty. And the whole of Hampton Court would fit into one corner!
   At the next gate there was another ceremonial checking of papers and the road turned left immediately, down a vast avenue lined with heavily fortified houses behind easily defended greater walls and lesser walls, then doubled on itself into a labyrinth of steps and roads. Then there was another gate and more checking, another portcullis and another vast moat and new twistings and turnings until Blackthorne, who was an acute observer with an extraordinary memory and sense of direction, was lost in the deliberate maze. And all the time numberless Grays stared down at them from escarpments and ramparts and battlements and parapets and bastions. And there were more on foot, guarding, marching, training or tending horses in open stables. Soldiers everywhere, by the thousand. All well armed and meticulously clothed.
   He cursed himself for not being clever enough to get more out of Rodrigues. Apart from the information about the Taikō and the converts, which was staggering enough, Rodrigues had been as closemouthed as a man should be—as you were, avoiding his questions.
   Concentrate. Look for clues. What’s special about this castle? It’s the biggest. No, something’s different. What?
   Are the Grays hostile to the Browns? I can’t tell, they’re all so serious.
   Blackthorne watched them carefully and focused on details. To the left was a carefully tended, multicolored garden, with little bridges and a tiny stream. The walls were now spaced closer together, the roads narrower. They were nearing the donjon. There were no towns people inside but hundreds of servants and—There are no cannon! That’s what’s different!
   You haven’t seen any cannon. Not one.
   Lord God in Heaven, no cannon—therefore no siege guns!
   If you had modern weapons and the defenders none, could you blow the walls down, the doors down, rain fireballs on the castle, set it afire and take it?
   You couldn’t get across the first moat.
   With siege guns you could make it difficult for the defenders but they could hold out forever—if the garrison was determined, if there were enough of them, with enough food, water, and ammunition.
   How to cross the moats? By boat? Rafts with towers?
   His mind was trying to devise a plan when the palanquin stopped. Hiro-matsu got down. They were in a narrow cul-desac. A huge iron-fortified timber gate was let into the twenty-foot wall which melted into the outworks of the fortified strongpoint above, still distant from the donjon, which from here was mostly obscured. Unlike all other gateways this was guarded by Browns, the only ones Blackthorne had seen within the castle. It was clear that they were more than a little pleased to see Hiro-matsu.
   The Grays turned and left. Blackthorne noted the hostile looks they had received from the Browns.
   So they’re enemies!
   The gate swung open and he followed the old man inside. Alone. The other samurai stayed outside.
   The inner courtyard was guarded by more Browns and so was the garden beyond. They crossed the garden and entered the fort. Hiro-matsu kicked off his thongs and Blackthorne did likewise.
   The corridor inside was richly carpeted with tatamis, the same rush mats, clean and kind to the feet, that were set into the floors of all but the poorest houses. Blackthorne had noticed before that they were all the same size, about six feet by three feet. Come to think of it, he told himself, I’ve never seen any mats shaped or cut to size. And there’s never been an odd-shaped room! Haven’t all the rooms been exactly square or rectangular? Of course! That means that all houses—or rooms—must be constructed to fit an exact number of mats. So they’re all standard! How very odd!
   They climbed winding, defendable stairs, and went along additional corridors and more stairs. There were many guards, always Browns. Shafts of sunlight from the wall embrasures cast intricate patterns. Blackthorne could see that now they were high over the three encircling main walls. The city and the harbor were a patterned quilt below.
   The corridor turned a sharp corner and ended fifty paces away.
   Blackthorne tasted bile in his mouth. Don’t worry, he told himself, you’ve decided what to do. You’re committed.
   Massed samurai, their young officer in front of them, protected the last door—each with right hand on the sword hilt, left on the scabbard, motionless and ready, staring toward the two men who approached.
   Hiro-matsu was reassured by their readiness. He had personally selected these guards. He hated the castle and thought again how dangerous it had been for Toranaga to put himself into the enemy’s power. Directly he had landed yesterday he had rushed to Toranaga, to tell him what had happened and to find out if anything untoward had occurred in his absence. But all was still quiet though their spies whispered about dangerous enemy buildups to the north and east, and that their main allies, the Regents, Onoshi and Kiyama, the greatest of the Christian daimyos, were going to defect to Ishido. He had changed the guard and the passwords and had again begged Toranaga to leave, to no avail.
   Ten paces from the officer he stopped.

Chapter 11

   Yoshi Naga, officer of the watch, was a mean-tempered, dangerous youth of seventeen. “Good morning, Sire. Welcome back.”
   “Thank you. Lord Toranaga’s expecting me.”
   “Yes.” Even if Hiro-matsu had not been expected, Naga would still have admitted him. Toda Hiro-matsu was one of only three persons in the world who were to be allowed into Toranaga’s presence by day or by night, without appointment.
   “Search the barbarian,” Naga said. He was Toranaga’s fifth son by one of his consorts, and he worshiped his father.
   Blackthorne submitted quietly, realizing what they were doing. The two samurai were very expert. Nothing would have escaped them.
   Naga motioned to the rest of his men. They moved aside. He opened the thick door himself.
   Hiro-matsu entered the immense audience room. Just beyond the doorway he knelt, put his swords on the floor in front of him, placed his hands flat on the floor beside them and bowed his head low, waiting in that abject position.
   Naga, ever watchful, indicated to Blackthorne to do the same.
   Blackthorne walked in. The room was forty paces square and ten high, the tatami mats the best quality, four fingers thick and impeccable. There were two doors in the far wall. Near the dais, in a niche, was a small earthenware vase with a single spray of cherry blossom and this filled the room with color and fragrance.
   Both doors were guarded. Ten paces from the dais, circling it, were twenty more samurai, seated cross-legged and facing outward.
   Toranaga sat on a single cushion on the dais. He was repairing a broken wing feather of a hooded falcon as delicately as any ivory carver.
   Neither he nor anyone in the room had acknowledged Hiro-matsu or paid any attention to Blackthorne as he walked in and stopped beside the old man. But unlike Hiro-matsu, Blackthorne bowed as Rodrigues had shown him, then, taking a deep breath, he sat crosslegged and stared at Toranaga.
   All eyes flashed to Blackthorne.
   In the doorway Naga’s hand was on his sword. Hiro-matsu had already grasped his, though his head was still bent.
   Blackthorne felt naked but he had committed himself and now he could only wait. Rodrigues had said, ‘With Japmen you’ve got to act like a king,’ and though this wasn’t acting like a king, it was more than enough.
   Toranaga looked up slowly.
   A bead of sweat started at Blackthorne’s temple as everything Rodrigues had told him about samurai seemed to crystalize in this one man. He felt the sweat trickle down his cheek to his chin. He willed his blue eyes firm and unblinking, his face calm.
   Toranaga’s gaze was equally steady.
   Blackthorne felt the almost overwhelming power of the man reach out to him. He forced himself to count slowly to six, and then he inclined his head and bowed slightly again and formed a small, calm smile.
   Toranaga watched him briefly, his face impassive, then looked down and concentrated on his work again. Tension subsided in the room.
   The falcon was a peregrine and she was in her prime. The handler, a gnarled old samurai, knelt in front of Toranaga and held her as though she were spun glass. Toranaga cut the broken quill, dipped the tiny bamboo imping needle into the glue and inserted it into the haft of the feather, then delicately slipped the new cut feather over the other end. He adjusted the angle until it was perfect and bound it with a silken thread. The tiny bells on her feet jingled, and he gentled the fear out of her.
   Yoshi Toranaga, Lord of the Kwanto—the Eight Provinces—head of the clan Yoshi, Chief General of the Armies of the East, President of the Council of Regents, was a short man with a big belly and large nose. His eyebrows were thick and dark and his mustache and beard gray-flecked and sparse. Eyes dominated his face. He was fifty-eight and strong for his age. His kimono was simple, an ordinary Brown uniform, his sash belt cotton. But his swords were the best in the world.
   “There, my beauty,” he said with a lover’s tenderness. “Now you are whole again.” He caressed the bird with a feather as she sat hooded on the handler’s gauntleted fist. She shivered and preened herself contentedly. “We’ll fly her within the week.”
   The handler bowed and left.
   Toranaga turned his eyes on the two men at the door. “Welcome, Iron Fist, I’m pleased to see you,” he said. “So this is your famous barbarian?”
   “Yes, Lord.” Hiro-matsu came closer, leaving his swords at the doorway as was custom, but Toranaga insisted he bring them with him.
   “I would feel uncomfortable if you didn’t have them in your hands,” he said.
   Hiro-matsu thanked him. Even so, he sat five paces away. By custom, no one armed could safely come closer to Toranaga. In the front rank of the guards was Usagi, Hiro-matsu’s favorite grand-son-in-law, and he nodded to him briefly. The youth bowed deeply, honored and pleased to be noticed. Perhaps I should adopt him formally, Hiro-matsu told himself happily, warmed by the thought of his favorite granddaughter and his first great-grandson that they had presented him with last year.
   “How is your back?” Toranaga asked solicitously.
   “All right, thank you, Lord. But I must tell you I’m glad to be off that ship and on land again.”
   “I hear you’ve a new toy here to idle away the hours with, neh?”
   The old man guffawed. “I can only tell you, Lord, the hours weren’t idle. I haven’t been so hard in years.”
   Toranaga laughed with him. “Then we should reward her. Your health is important to me. May I send her a token of my thanks?”
   “Ah, Toranaga-sama, you’re so kind.” Hiro-matsu became serious. “You could reward all of us, Sire, by leaving this hornet’s nest at once, and going back to your castle at Yedo where your vassals can protect you. Here we’re naked. Any moment Ishido could—”
   “I will. As soon as the Council of Regents meeting is concluded.” Toranaga turned and beckoned the lean-faced Portuguese who was sitting patiently in his shadow. “Will you interpret for me now, my friend?”
   “Certainly, Sire.” The tonsured priest came forward, with practiced grace kneeled in Japanese style close to the dais, his body as spare as his face, his eyes dark and liquid, an air of serene concentration about him. He wore tabi socks and a flowing kimono that seemed, on him, to belong. A rosary and a carved golden cross hung at his belt. He greeted Hiro-matsu as an equal, then glanced pleasantly at Blackthorne.
   “My name is Martin Alvito of the Society of Jesus, Captain-Pilot. Lord Toranaga has asked me to interpret for him.”
   “First tell him that we’re enemies and that—”
   “All in good time,” Father Alvito interrupted smoothly. Then he added, “We can speak Portuguese, Spanish, or, of course, Latin—whichever you prefer.”
   Blackthorne had not seen the priest until the man came forward. The dais had hidden him, and the other samurai. But he had been expecting him, forewarned by Rodrigues, and loathed what he saw: the easy elegance, the aura of strength and natural power of the Jesuits. He had assumed the priest would be much older, considering his influential position and the way Rodrigues had talked about him. But they were practically of an age, he and the Jesuit. Perhaps the priest was a few years older.
   “Portuguese,” he said, grimly hoping that this might give him a slight advantage. “You’re Portuguese?”
   “I have that privilege.”
   “You’re younger than I expected.”
   “Senhor Rodrigues is very kind. He gives me more credit than I deserve. He described you perfectly. Also your bravery.”
   Blackthorne saw him turn and talk fluently and affably to Toranaga for a while, and this further perturbed him. Hiro-Matsu alone, of all the men in the room, listened and watched attentively. The rest stared stonily into space.
   “Now, Captain-Pilot, we will begin. You will please listen to everything that Lord Toranaga says, without interruption,” Father Alvito began. “Then you will answer. From now on I will be translating what you say almost simultaneously, so please answer with great care.”
   “What’s the point? I don’t trust you!”
   Immediately Father Alvito was translating what he had said to Toranaga, who darkened perceptibly.
   Be careful, thought Blackthorne, he’s playing you like a fish! Three golden guineas to a chewed farthing he can land you whenever he wants. Whether or not he translates accurately, you’ve got to create the correct impression on Toranaga. This may be the only chance you’ll ever have.
   “You can trust me to translate exactly what you say as best I can.” The priest’s voice was gentle, in complete command. “This is the court of Lord Toranaga. I am the official interpreter to the Council of Regents, to General Lord Toranaga and to General Lord Ishido. Lord Toranaga has favored me with his confidence for many years. I suggest you answer truthfully because I can assure you he is a most discerning man. Also I should point out that I am not Father Sebastio, who is, perhaps, overzealous and does not, unfortunately, speak Japanese very well, or, unfortunately, have much experience in Japan. Your sudden presence took away God’s grace from him and, regrettably, he allowed his personal past to overwhelm him—his parents and brothers and sisters were massacred in the most horrible way in the Netherlands by your—by forces of the Prince of Orange. I ask your indulgence for him and your compassion.” He smiled benignly. “The Japanese word for ‘enemy’ is ‘teki.’ You may use it if you wish. If you point at me and use the word, Lord Toranaga will understand clearly what you mean. Yes, I am your enemy, Captain-Pilot John Blackthorne. Completely. But not your assassin. That you will do yourself.”
   Blackthorne saw him explain to Toranaga what he had said and heard the word “teki” used several times and he wondered if it truly meant “enemy.” Of course it does, he told himself. This man’s not like the other one.
   “Please, for a moment, forget that I exist,” Father Alvito said. “I’m merely an instrument for making your answers known to Lord Toranaga, exactly as I will put his questions to you.” Father Alvito settled himself, turned to Toranaga, bowed politely.
   Toranaga spoke curtly. The priest began translating simultaneously, a few words or so later, his voice an uncanny mirror of inflection and inner meaning.
   “Why are you an enemy of Tsukku-san, my friend and interpreter, who’s an enemy of no one?” Father Alvito added by way of explanation, “Tsukku-san’s my nickname as Japanese cannot pronounce my name either. They have no ‘l’ or ‘th’ sounds in their language. Tsukku’s a pun on the Japanese word ‘tsuyaku ’—to interpret. Please answer the question.”
   “We’re enemies because our countries are at war.”
   “Oh? What is your country?”
   “England.”
   “Where’s that?”
   “It’s an island kingdom, a thousand miles north of Portugal. Portugal’s part of a peninsula in Europe.”
   “How long have you been at war with Portugal?”
   “Ever since Portugal became a vassal state of Spain. That was in 1580, twenty years ago. Spain conquered Portugal. We’re really at war with Spain. We’ve been at war with Spain for almost thirty years.”
   Blackthorne noticed Toranaga’s surprise and his searching glance at Father Alvito, who stared serenely into the distance.
   “You say Portugal’s part of Spain?”
   “Yes, Lord Toranaga. A vassal state. Spain conquered Portugal and now they’re in effect the same country with the same king. But the Portuguese are subservient to Spain in most parts of the world and their leaders treated as unimportant in the Spanish Empire.”
   There was a long silence. Then Toranaga spoke directly to the Jesuit, who smiled and answered at length.
   “What did he say?” Blackthorne asked sharply.
   Father Alvito did not answer but translated as before, almost simultaneously, aping his inflection, continuing a virtuoso performance of interpreting.
   Toranaga answered Blackthorne directly, his voice flinty and cruel. “What I said is no concern of yours. When I wish you to know something I will tell you.”
   “I’m sorry, Lord Toranaga, I did not mean to be rude. May I tell you that we come in peace—”
   “You may not tell me anything at the moment. You will hold your tongue until I require an answer. Do you understand?”
   “Yes.”
   Mistake number one. Watch yourself. You can’t make mistakes, he told himself.
   “Why are you at war with Spain? And Portugal?”
   “Partially because Spain is bent on conquering the world and we English, and our allies the Netherlands, refuse to be conquered. And partially because of our religions.”
   “Ah! A religious war? What is your religion?”
   “I’m a Christian. Our Church—”
   “The Portuguese and Spanish are Christians! You said your religion was different. What is your religion?”
   “It’s Christian. It’s difficult to explain simply and quickly, Lord Toranaga. They’re both—”
   “There’s no need to be quick, Mr. Pilot, just accurate. I have plenty of time. I’m very patient. You’re a cultured man—obviously no peasant—so you can be simple or complicated as you wish, just so long as you’re clear. If you stray from the point I will bring you back. You were saying?”
   “My religion is Christian. There are two main Christian religions, Protestant and Catholic. Most English are Protestant.”
   “You worship the same God, the Madonna and Child?”
   “No, Sire. Not the way the Catholics do.” What does he want to know? Blackthorne was asking himself. Is he a Catholic? Should you answer what you think he wants to know, or what you think is the truth? Is he anti-Christian? Didn’t he call the Jesuit “my friend”? Is Toranaga a Catholic sympathizer, or is he going to become a Catholic?
   “Do you believe the Jesus is God?”
   “I believe in God,” he said carefully.
   “Do not evade a direct question! Do you believe the Jesus is God? Yes or no?”
   Blackthorne knew that in any Catholic court in the world he would have been damned long since for heresy. And in most, if not all, Protestant courts. Even to hesitate before answering such a question was an admission of doubt. Doubt was heresy. “You can’t answer questions about God with a simple ‘yes’ or ‘no.’ There have to be shades of ‘yes’ or ‘no.’ You don’t know for certain about God until you’re dead. Yes, I believe Jesus was God, but no, I don’t know for certain until I’m dead.”
   “Why did you smash the priest’s cross when you first arrived in Japan?”
   Blackthorne had not been expecting this question. Does Toranaga know everything that’s happened since I arrived? “I—I wanted to show the daimyo Yabu that the Jesuit, Father Sebastio—the only interpreter there—that he was my enemy, that he wasn’t to be trusted, at least, in my opinion. Because I was sure he wouldn’t necessarily translate accurately, not as Father Alvito is doing now. He accused us of being pirates, for instance. We’re not pirates, we come in peace.”
   “Ah yes! Pirates. I’ll come back to piracy in a moment. You say both your sects are Christian, both venerate Jesus the Christ? Isn’t the essence of his teaching ‘to love one another’?”
   “Yes.”
   “Then how can you be enemies?”
   “Their faith—their version of Christianity is a false interpretation of the Scriptures.”
   “Ah! At last we’re getting somewhere. So you’re at war through a difference of opinion about what is God or not God?”
   “Yes.”

   “That’s a very stupid reason to go to war.”
   Blackthorne said, “I agree.” He looked at the priest. “I agree with all my heart.”
   “How many ships are in your fleet?”
   “Five.”
   “And you were the senior pilot?”
   “Yes.”
   “Where are the others?”
   “Out to sea,” Blackthorne said carefully, continuing his lie, presuming that Toranaga had been primed to ask certain questions by Alvito. “We were split up in a storm and scattered. Where exactly I don’t know, Sire.”
   “Your ships were English?”
   “No, Sire. Dutch. From Holland.”
   “Why is an Englishman in charge of Dutch ships?”
   “That’s not unusual, Sire. We’re allies—Portuguese pilots sometimes lead Spanish ships and fleets. I understand Portuguese pilots con some of your ocean-going ships by law.”
   “There are no Dutch pilots?”
   “Many, Sire. But for such a long voyage English are more experienced.”
   “But why you? Why did they want you to lead their ships?”
   “Probably because my mother was Dutch and I speak the language fluently and I’m experienced. I was glad of the opportunity.”
   “Why?”
   “This was my first opportunity to sail into these waters. No English ships were planning to come so far. This was a chance to circumnavigate.”
   “You yourself, Pilot, you joined the fleet because of your religion and to war against your enemies Spain and Portugal?”
   “I’m a pilot, Sire, first and foremost. No one English or Dutch has been in these seas before. We’re primarily a trading fleet, though we’ve letters of marque to attack the enemy in the New World. We came to Japan to trade.”
   “What are letters of marque?”
   “Legal licenses issued by the Crown—or government—giving authority to war on the enemy.”
   “Ah, and your enemies are here. Do you plan to war on them here?”
   “We did not know what to expect when we got here, Sire. We came here only to trade. Your country’s almost unknown—it’s legend. The Portuguese and Spanish are very closemouthed about this area.”
   “Answer the question: Your enemies are here. Do you plan to war on them here?”
   “If they war on me. Yes.”
   Toranaga shifted irritably. “What you do at sea or in your own countries is your own affair. But here there is one law for all and foreigners are in our land by permission only. Any public mischief or quarrel is dealt with immediately by death. Our laws are clear and will be obeyed. Do you understand?”
   “Yes, Sire. But we come in peace. We came here to trade. Could we discuss trade, Sire? I need to careen my ship and make repairs—we can pay for everything. Then there’s the ques—”
   “When I wish to discuss trade or anything else I will tell you. Meanwhile please confine yourself to answering the questions. So you joined the expedition to trade, for profit, not because of duty or loyalty? For money?”
   “Yes. It’s our custom, Sire. To be paid and to have a share of all plun—of all trade and all enemy goods captured.”
   “So you’re a mercenary?”
   “I was hired as senior pilot to lead the expedition. Yes.” Blackthorne could feel Toranaga’s hostility but he did not understand why. What did I say that was wrong? Didn’t the priest say I’d assassinate myself?
   “It’s a normal custom with us, Toranaga-sama,” he said again.
   Toranaga started conversing with Hiro-matsu and they exchanged views in obvious agreement. Blackthorne thought he could see disgust in their faces. Why? Obviously it has something to do with “mercenary,” he thought. What’s wrong with that? Isn’t everyone paid? How else do you make enough money to live on? Even if you’ve inherited land, you still—
   “You said earlier you came here to trade peacefully,” Toranaga was saying. “Why then do you carry so many guns and so much powder, muskets and shot?”
   “Our Spanish and Portuguese enemies are very powerful and strong, Lord Toranaga. We have to protect ourselves and—”
   “You’re saying your arms are merely defensive?”
   “No. We use them not only to protect ourselves but to attack our enemies. And we produce them in abundance for trade, the best quality arms in the world. Perhaps we could trade with you in these, or in the other goods we carried.”
   “What is a pirate?”
   “An outlaw. A man who rapes, kills, or plunders for personal profit.”
   “Isn’t that the same as mercenary? Isn’t that what you are? A pirate and the leader of pirates?”
   “No. The truth is my ships have letters of marque from the legal rulers of Holland authorizing us to carry the war into all seas and places dominated up to now by our enemies. And to find markets for our goods. To the Spanish—and most Portuguese—yes, we’re pirates, and religious heretics, but I repeat, the truth is we’re not.”
   Father Alvito finished translating, then began to talk quietly but firmly, direct to Toranaga.
   I wish to God I could talk as directly, Blackthorne thought, cursing. Toranaga glanced at Hiro-matsu and the old man put some questions to the Jesuit, who answered lengthily. Then Toranaga returned to Blackthorne and his voice became even more severe.
   “Tsukku-san says that these ‘Dutchlands’—the Netherlands—were vassals of the Spanish king up to a few years ago. Is that true?”
   “Yes.”
   “Therefore the Netherlands—your allies—are in a state of rebellion against their lawful king?”
   “They’re fighting against the Spaniard, yes. But—”
   “Isn’t that rebellion? Yes or no?”
   “Yes. But there are mitigating circumstances. Serious miti—”
   “There are no ‘mitigating circumstances’ when it comes to rebellion against a sovereign lord.”
   “Unless you win.”
   Toranaga looked intently at him. Then laughed uproariously. He said something to Hiro-matsu through his laughter and Hiro-matsu nodded.
   “Yes, Mister Foreigner with the impossible name, yes. You named the one mitigating factor.” Another chuckle, then the humor vanished as suddenly as it had begun. “Will you win?”
   “Hai.”
   Toranaga spoke again but the priest didn’t translate at once. He was smiling peculiarly, his eyes fixed on Blackthorne. He sighed and said, “You’re very sure?”
   “Is that what he said or what you’re saying?”
   “Lord Toranaga said that. My—he said that.”
   “Yes. Tell him yes, I’m very sure. May I please explain why?”
   Father Alvito talked to Toranaga, for much longer than it took to translate that simple question. Are you as calm as you make out? Blackthorne wanted to ask him. What’s the key that’ll unlock you? How do I destroy you?
   Toranaga spoke and took a fan out of his sleeve.
   Father Alvito began translating again with the same eerie unfriendliness, heavy with irony. “Yes, Pilot, you may tell me why you think you will win this war.”
   Blackthorne tried to remain confident, aware that the priest was dominating him. “We presently rule the seas in Europe—most of the seas in Europe,” he said, correcting himself. Don’t get carried away. Tell the truth. Twist it a little, just as the Jesuit’s sure to be doing, but tell the truth. “We English smashed two huge Spanish and Portuguese war armadas—invasions—and they’re unlikely to be able to mount any others. Our small island’s a fortress and we’re safe now. Our navy dominates the sea. Our ships are faster, more modern, and better armed. The Spanish haven’t beaten the Dutch after more than fifty years of terror, Inquisition, and bloodshed. Our allies are safe and strong and something more—they’re bleeding the Spanish Empire to death. We’ll win because we own the seas and because the Spanish king, in his vain arrogance, won’t let an alien people free.”
   “You own the seas? Our seas too? The ones around our coasts?”
   “No, of course not, Toranaga-sama. I didn’t mean to sound arrogant. I meant, of course, European seas, though—”
   “Good, I’m glad that’s clear. You were saying? Though …?”
   “Though on all the high seas, we will soon be sweeping the enemy away,” Blackthorne said clearly.
   “You said ‘the enemy.’ Perhaps we’re your enemies too? What then? Will you try to sink our ships and lay waste our shores?”
   “I cannot conceive of being enemy to you.”
   “I can, very easily. What then?”
   “If you came against my land I would attack you and try to beat you,” Blackthorne said.
   “And if your ruler orders you to attack us here?”
   “I would advise against it. Strongly. Our Queen would listen. She’s—”
   “You’re ruled by a queen and not a king?”
   “Yes, Lord Toranaga. Our Queen is wise. She wouldn’t—couldn’t make such an unwise order.”
   “And if she did? Or if your legal ruler did?”
   “Then I would commend my soul to God for I would surely die. One way or another.”
   “Yes. You would. You and all your legions.” Toranaga paused for a moment. Then: “How long did it take you to come here?”
   “Almost two years. Accurately one year, eleven months, and two days. An approximate sea distance of four thousand leagues, each of three miles.”
   Father Alvito translated, then added a brief elaboration. Toranaga and Hiro-matsu questioned the priest, and he nodded and replied. Toranaga used his fan thoughtfully.
   “I converted the time and distance, Captain-Pilot Blackthorne, into their measures,” the priest said politely.
   “Thank you.”
   Toranaga spoke directly again. “How did you get here? By what route?”
   “By the Pass of Magellan. If I had my maps and rutters I could show you clearly, but they were stolen—they were removed from my ship with my letters of marque and all my papers. If you—”
   Blackthorne stopped as Toranaga spoke brusquely with Hiro-matsu, who was equally perturbed.
   “You claim all your papers were removed—stolen?”
   “Yes.”
   “That’s terrible, if true. We abhor theft in Nippon—Japan. The punishment for theft is death. The matter will be investigated instantly. It seems incredible that any Japanese would do such a thing, though there are foul bandits and pirates, here and there.”
   “Perhaps they were misplaced,” Blackthorne said. “And put in safekeeping somewhere. But they are valuable, Lord Toranaga. Without my sea charts I would be like a blind man in a maze. Would you like me to explain my route?”
   “Yes, but later. First tell me why you came all that distance.”
   “We came to trade, peacefully,” Blackthorne repeated, holding on to his impatience. “To trade and go home again. To make you richer and us richer. And to try—”
   “You richer and us richer? Which of those is most important?”
   “Both partners must profit, of course, and trade must be fair. We’re seeking long-term trade; we’ll offer better terms than you get from the Portuguese and Spanish and give better service. Our merchants–” Blackthorne stopped at the sound of loud voices outside the room. Hiro-matsu and half the guards were instantly at the doorway and the others moved into a tight knot screening the dais. The samurai on the inner doors readied as well.
   Toranaga had not moved. He spoke to Father Alvito.
   “You are to come over here, Captain Blackthorne, away from the door,” Father Alvito said with carefully contained urgency. “If you value your life, don’t move suddenly or say anything.” He moved slowly to the left inner door and sat down near it.
   Blackthorne bowed uneasily to Toranaga, who ignored him, and walked toward the priest cautiously, deeply conscious that from his point of view the interview was a disaster. “What’s going on?” he whispered as he sat.
   The nearby guards stiffened menacingly and the priest said some thing quickly to reassure them. “You’ll be a dead man the next time you speak,” he said to Blackthorne, and thought, the sooner the better. With measured slowness, he took a handkerchief from his sleeve and wiped the sweat off his hands. It had taken all his training and fortitude to remain calm and genial during the heretic’s interview, which had been worse than even he and the Father-Visitor had expected.
   “You’ll have to be present?” the Father-Visitor had asked last night.
   “Toranaga has asked me specifically.”
   “I think it’s very dangerous for you and for all of us. Perhaps you could plead sickness. If you’re there you’ll have to translate what the pirate says—and from what Father Sebastio writes he’s a devil on earth, as cunning as a Jew.”
   “It’s much better I should be there, Eminence. At least I’ll be able to intercept Blackthorne’s less obvious lies.”
   “Why has he come here? Why now, when everything was becoming perfect again? Do they really have other ships in the Pacific? Is it possible they’ve sent a fleet against Spanish Manila? Not that I care one whit for that pestilential city or any of the Spanish colonies in the Philippines, but an enemy fleet in the Pacific! That would have terrible implications for us here in Asia. And if he could get Toranaga’s ear, or Ishido’s, or any of the more powerful daimyos —well, it would be enormously difficult, to say the least.”
   “Blackthorne’s a fact. Fortunately we’re in a position to deal with him.”
   “As God is my judge, if I didn’t know better I’d almost believe the Spaniards—or more probably their misguided lackeys, the Franciscans and Benedictines—deliberately guided him here just to plague us.”

   “Perhaps they did, Eminence. There’s nothing the monks won’t do to destroy us. But that’s only jealousy because we’re succeeding where they’re failing. Surely God will show them the error of their ways! Perhaps the Englishman will ‘remove’ himself before he does any harm. His rutters prove him to be what he is. A pirate and leader of pirates!”
   “Read them to Toranaga, Martin. The parts where he describes the sacking of the defenseless settlements from Africa to Chile, and the lists of plunder and all the killings.”
   “Perhaps we should wait, Eminence. We can always produce the rutters. Let’s hope he’ll damn himself without them.”
   Father Alvito wiped the palms of his hands again. He could feel Blackthorne’s eyes on him. God have mercy on you, he thought. For what you’ve said today to Toranaga, your life’s not worth a counterfeit mite, and worse, your soul’s beyond redemption. You’re crucified, even without the evidence in your rutters. Should we send them back to Father Sebastio so he can return them to Mura? What would Toranaga do if the papers were never discovered? No, that’d be too dangerous for Mura.
   The door at the far end shivered open.
   “Lord Ishido wishes to see you, Sire,” Naga announced. “He’s—he’s here in the corridor and he wishes to see you. At once, he says.”
   “All of you, go back to your places,” Toranaga said to his men. He was instantly obeyed. But all samurai sat facing the door, Hiro-Matsu at their head, swords eased in their scabbards. “Naga-san, tell Lord Ishido he is always welcome. Ask him to come in.”
   The tall man strode into the room. Ten of his samurai—Grays—followed, but they remained at the doorway and, at his signal, sat cross-legged.
   Toranaga bowed with precise formality and the bow was returned with equal exactitude.
   Father Alvito blessed his luck that he was present. The impending clash between the two rival leaders would completely affect the course of the Empire and the future of Mother Church in Japan, so any clue or direct information that might help the Jesuits to decide where to throw their influence would be of immeasurable importance. Ishido was Zen Buddhist and fanatically anti-Christian, Toranaga was Zen Buddhist and openly sympathetic. But most Christian daimyos supported Ishido, fearing—with justification, Father Alvito believed—the ascendence of Toranaga. The Christian daimyos felt that if Toranaga eliminated Ishido’s influence from the Council of Regents, Toranaga would usurp all power for himself. And once he had power, they believed he would implement the Taikō’s Expulsion Edicts and stamp out the True Faith. If, however, Toranaga was eliminated, the succession, a weak succession, would be assured and the Mother Church would prosper.
   As the allegiance of the Christian daimyos wavered, so it was with all the other daimyos in the land, and the balance of power between the two leaders fluctuated constantly, so no one knew for certain which side was, in reality, the most powerful. Even he, Father Alvito, the most informed European in the Empire, could not say for certain which side even the Christian daimyos would actually support when the clash became open, or which faction would prevail.
   He watched Toranaga walk off the dais, through the encircling safety of his men.
   “Welcome, Lord Ishido. Please sit there.” Toranaga gestured at the single cushion on the dais. “I’d like you to be comfortable.”
   “Thank you, no, Lord Toranaga.” Ishido Kazunari was lean and swarthy and very tough, a year younger than Toranaga. They were ancient enemies. Eighty thousand samurai in and around Osaka Castle did his bidding, for he was Commander of the garrison—and therefore Commander of the Heir’s Bodyguard—Chief General of the Armies of the West, Conqueror of Korea, member of the Council of Regents, and formally Inspector General of all the late Taikō’s armies, which were legally all the armies of all daimyos throughout the realm.
   “Thank you, no,” he repeated. “I’d be embarrassed to be comfortable while you were not, neh? One day I will take your cushion, but not today.”
   A current of anger went through the Browns at Ishido’s implied threat, but Toranaga replied amiably, “You came at a most opportune moment. I was just finishing interviewing the new barbarian. Tsukku-san, please tell him to stand up.”
   The priest did as he was bidden. He felt Ishido’s hostility from across the room. Apart from being anti-Christian, Ishido had always been vigorous in his condemnation of all Europeans and wanted the Empire totally closed to them.
   Ishido looked at Blackthorne with pronounced distaste. “I heard he was ugly but I didn’t realize how ugly. Rumor has it that he’s a pirate. Is he?”
   “Can you doubt it? And he’s also a liar.”
   “Then before you crucify him, please let me have him for half a day. The Heir might be amused to see him with his head on first.” Ishido laughed roughly. “Or perhaps he should be taught to dance like a bear, then you could exhibit him throughout the Empire: ‘The Freak from the East.’”
   Though it was true that Blackthorne had, uniquely, come out of the eastern seas—unlike the Portuguese, who always came from the south and hence were called Southern Barbarians—Ishido was blatantly implying that Toranaga, who dominated the eastern provinces, was the true freak.
   But Toranaga merely smiled as though he did not understand. “You’re a man of vast humor, Lord Ishido,” he said. “But I agree the sooner the barbarian’s removed the better. He’s long-winded, arrogant, loud-mouthed, an oddity, yes, but one of little value, and with no manners whatsoever. Naga-san, send some men and put him with the common criminals. Tsukku-san, tell him to follow them.”
   “Captain-Pilot, you are to follow those men.”
   “Where am I going?”
   Father Alvito hesitated. He was glad that he had won, but his opponent was brave and had an immortal soul which could yet be saved. “You are to be detained,” he said.
   “For how long?”
   “I don’t know, my son. Until Lord Toranaga decides.”

Chapter 12

   As Toranaga watched the barbarian leave the room, he took his mind regretfully off the startling interview and came to grips with the more immediate problem of Ishido.
   Toranaga had decided not to dismiss the priest, knowing it would further infuriate Ishido, even though he was equally certain the continued presence of the priest might be dangerous. The less foreigners know, the better. The less anyone knows the better, he thought. Will Tsukku-san’s influence on the Christian daimyos be for me or against me? Until today I would have trusted him implicitly. But there were some strange moments with the barbarian that I don’t yet understand.
   Ishido deliberately did not follow the usual courtesies but came instantly to the point. “Again I must ask, what is your answer to the Council of Regents?”
   “Again I repeat: As President of the Council of Regents I do not believe any answer is necessary. I’ve made a few minor family relationships that are unimportant. No answer is required.”
   “You betrothe your son, Naga-san, to the daughter of Lord Masamune—marry one of your granddaughters to Lord Zataki’s son and heir—another granddaughter to Lord Kiyama’s son. All the marriages are to feudal lords or their close relations and therefore not minor and absolutely contrary to our Master’s orders.”
   “Our late Master, the Taikō, has been dead a year. Unfortunately. Yes. I regret my brother-in-law’s death and would have preferred him alive and still guiding the destiny of the Empire.” Toranaga added pleasantly, turning a knife in a constant wound, “If my brother-in-law were alive there’s no doubt he would approve these family connections. His instructions applied to marriages that threatened the succession of his house. I don’t threaten his house or my nephew Yaemon, the Heir. I’m content as Lord of the Kwanto. I seek no more territory. I’m at peace with my neighbors and wish his peace to continue. By the Lord Buddha, I’ll not be the first to break the peace.”
   For six centuries the realm had been seared by constant civil war. Thirty-five years ago, a minor daimyo called Goroda had taken possession of Kyoto, abetted mainly by Toranaga. Over the next two decades this warrior had miraculously subdued half of Japan, made a mountain of skulls and declared himself Dictator—still not yet powerful enough to petition the reigning Emperor to grant him the title Shōgun though he was vaguely descended from a branch of the Fujimotos. Then, sixteen years ago, Goroda was assassinated by one of his generals and his power fell into the hands of his chief vassal and most brilliant general, the peasant Nakamura.
   In four short years, General Nakamura, helped by Toranaga, Ishido, and others, obliterated Goroda’s descendants and brought the whole of Japan under his absolute, sole control, the first time in history that one man had subjugated all the realm. In triumph, he went to Kyoto to bow before Go-Nijo, the Son of Heaven. There, because he was born peasant, Nakamura had had to accept the lesser title of Kwampaku, Chief Adviser, which later he renounced in favor of his son, taking for himself the title Taikō. But every daimyo bowed before him, even Toranaga. Incredibly, there had been complete peace for twelve years. Last year the Taikō had died.
   “By the Lord Buddha,” Toranaga said again. “I’ll not be the first to break the peace.”
   “But you will go to war?”
   “A wise man prepares for treachery, neh? There are evil men in every province. Some are in high places. We both know the limitless extent of treachery in the hearts of men.” Toranaga stiffened. “Where the Taikō left a legacy of unity, now we are split into my East and your West. The Council of Regents is divided. The daimyos are at odds. A Council cannot rule a maggot-infested hamlet, let alone an Empire. The sooner the Taikō’s son is of age, the better. The sooner there’s another Kwampaku the better.”
   “Or perhaps Shōgun?” Ishido said insinuatingly.
   “Kwampaku or Shōgun or Taikō, the power is the same,” Toranaga said. “Of what real value is a title? The power is the only important thing. Goroda never became Shōgun. Nakamura was more than content as Kwampaku and later Taikō. He ruled and that is the important thing. What does it matter that my brother-in-law was once a peasant? What does it matter that my family is ancient? What does it matter that you’re low born? You’re a general, a liege lord, even one of the Council of Regents.”
   It matters very much, Ishido thought. You know it. I know it. Every daimyo knows it. Even the Taikō knew it. “Yaemon is seven. In seven years he becomes Kwampaku. Until that time—”
   “In eight years, General Ishido. That’s our historic law. When my nephew is fifteen he becomes adult and inherits. Until that time we five Regents rule in his name. That’s what our late Master willed.”
   “Yes. And he also ordered that no hostages were to be taken by Regents against one another. Lady Ochiba, the mother of the Heir, is hostage in your castle at Yedo, against your safety here, and that also violates his will. You formally agreed to obey his covenants as did all the Regents. You even signed the document in your own blood.”
   Toranaga sighed. “The Lady Ochiba is visiting Yedo where her only sister is in labor. Her sister is married to my son and heir. My son’s place is in Yedo while I am here. What’s more natural than for a sister to visit a sister at such a time? Isn’t she honored? Perhaps I’ll have a first grandson, neh?”
   “The mother of the Heir is the most important lady in the Empire. She should not be in—” Ishido was going to say “enemy hands” but he thought better of it—”in an unusual city.” He paused, then added clearly, “The Council would like you to order her home today.”
   Toranaga avoided the trap. “I repeat, the Lady Ochiba’s no hostage and therefore is not under my orders and never was.”
   “Then let me put it differently. The Council requests her presence in Osaka instantly.”
   “Who requests this?”
   “I do. Lord Sugiyama. Lord Onoshi and Lord Kiyama. Further, we’re all agreed we wait here until she’s back in Osaka. Here are their signatures.”
   Toranaga was livid. Thus far he had manipulated the Council so that voting was always split two to three. He had never been able to win a four-to-one against Ishido, but neither had Ishido against him. Four to one meant isolation and disaster. Why had Onoshi defected? And Kiyama? Both implacable enemies even before they had converted to the foreign religion. And what hold had Ishido now over them?
   Ishido knew that he had shattered his enemy. But one move remained to make victory complete. So he implemented the plan that he and Onoshi had agreed upon. “We Regents are all agreed that the time has come to finish with those who are planning to usurp my Master’s power and kill the Heir. Traitors will be condemned. They will be exhibited in the streets as common criminals, with all their generations, and then they will be executed like common criminals, with all their generations. Fujimoto, Takashima, low born, high born—no matter who. Even Minowara!”
   A gasp of rage broke from every Toranaga samurai, for such sacrilege against the semi-regal families was unthinkable; then the young samurai, Usagi, Hiro-matsu’s grandson-in-law, was on his feet, flushed with anger. He ripped out his killing sword and leapt at Ishido, the naked blade readied for the two-handed slash.
   Ishido was prepared for the death blow and made no move to defend himself. This was what he had planned for, hoped for, and his men had been ordered not to interfere until he was dead. If he, Ishido, were killed here, now, by a Toranaga samurai, the whole Osaka garrison could fall on Toranaga legitimately and slay him, irrespective of the hostage. Then the Lady Ochiba would be eliminated in retaliation by Toranaga’s sons and the remaining Regents would be forced to move jointly against the Yoshi clan, who, now isolated, would be stamped out. Only then would the Heir’s succession be guaranteed and he, Ishido, would have done his duty to the Taikō.
   But the blow did not come. At the last moment Usagi came to his senses and tremulously sheathed the sword.
   “Your pardon, Lord Toranaga,” he said, kneeling abjectly. “I could not bear the shame of—of having you hear such—such insults. I ask permission—I apologize and—I ask permission to commit seppuku immediately for I cannot live with this shame.”
   Though Toranaga had remained still, he had been ready to intercept the blow and he knew Hiro-matsu was ready and that others would have been ready also, and that probably Ishido would only have been wounded. He understood, too, why Ishido had been so insulting and inflammatory. I will repay you with an enormity of interest, Ishido, he promised silently.
   Toranaga gave his attention to the kneeling youth. “How dare you imply that anything Lord Ishido said was meant in any way as an insult to me. Of course he would never be so impolite. How dare you listen to conversations that do not concern you. No, you will not be allowed to commit seppuku. That’s an honor. You have no honor and no self-discipline. You will be crucified like a common criminal today. Your swords will be broken and buried in the eta village. Your son will be buried in the eta village. You head will be put on a spike for all the population to jeer at with a sign on it: ‘This man was born samurai by mistake. His name has ceased to be!’”
   With a supreme effort Usagi controlled his breathing but the sweat dripped and the shame of it tortured him. He bowed to Toranaga, accepting his fate with outward calm.
   Hiro-matsu walked forward and tore both swords from his grand-son-in-law’s belt.
   “Lord Toranaga,” he said gravely, “with your permission I will personally see that your orders are carried out.”
   Toranaga nodded.
   The youth bowed a last time then began to get up, but Hiro-matsu pushed him back on the floor. “Samurai walk,” he said. “So do men. But you’re neither. You will crawl to your death.”
   Silently Usagi obeyed.
   And all in the room were warmed by the strength of the youth’s self-discipline now, and the measure of his courage. He will be reborn samurai, they told themselves contentedly.

Chapter 13

   That night Toranaga could not sleep. This was rare for him because normally he could defer the most pressing problem until the next day, knowing that if he was alive the next day he would solve it to the best of his ability. He had long since discovered that peaceful sleep could provide the answer to most puzzles, and if not, what did it really matter? Wasn’t life just a dewdrop within a dewdrop?
   But tonight, there were too many perplexing questions to ponder.
   What will I do about Ishido?
   Why has Onoshi defected to the enemy?
   How will I deal with the Council?
   Have the Christian priests meddled again?
   Where will the next assassination attempt come from?
   When should Yabu be dealt with?
   And what must I do about the barbarian?
   Was he telling the truth?
   Curious how the barbarian came out of the eastern seas just at this time. Is that an omen? Is it his karma to be the spark that will light the powder keg?
   Karma was an Indian word adopted by Japanese, part of Buddhist philosophy that referred to a person’s fate in this life, his fate immutably fixed because of deeds done in a previous life, good deeds giving a better position in this life’s strata, bad deeds the reverse. Just as the deeds of this life would completely affect the next rebirth. A person was ever being reborn into this world of tears until, after enduring and suffering and learning through many lifetimes, he became perfect at long last, going to nirvana, the Place of Perfect Peace, never having to suffer rebirth again.
   Strange that Buddha or some other god or perhaps just karma brought the Anjin-san to Yabu’s fief. Strange that he landed at the exact village where Mura, the secret head of the Izu spy system, had been settled so many years ago under the very nose of the Taikō and Yabu’s pox-diseased father. Strange that Tsukku-san was here in Osaka to interpret and not in Nagasaki where he’d normally be. That also the chief priest of the Christians is here in Osaka, and also the Captain-General of the Portuguese. Strange that the pilot, Rodrigues, was also available to take Hiro-matsu to Anjiro in time to capture the barbarian alive and take possession of the guns. Then there’s Kasigi Omi, son of the man who will give me Yabu’s head if I but crook my little finger.
   How beautiful life is and how sad! How fleeting, with no past and no future, only a limitless now.
   Toranaga sighed. One thing is certain: the barbarian will never leave. Neither alive nor dead. He is part of the realm forever.
   His ears heard almost imperceptible approaching footsteps and his sword was ready. Each night he changed his sleeping room, his guards, and the password haphazardly, against the assassins that were always waiting. The footsteps stopped outside the shoji. Then he heard Hiro-matsu’s voice and the beginning of the password: “ ‘If the Truth is already clear, what is the use of meditation?’”
   “ ‘And if the Truth is hidden?’ “ Toranaga said.
   “ ‘It’s already clear,’ “ Hiro-matsu answered correctly. The quotation was from the ancient Tantaric Buddhist teacher, Saraha.
   “Come in.”
   Only when Toranaga saw that it was, in truth, his counselor, did his sword relax. “Sit down.”
   “I heard you weren’t sleeping. I thought you might need something.”
   “No. Thank you.” Toranaga observed the deepened lines around the old man’s eyes. “I’m glad you’re here, old friend,” he said.
   “You’re sure you’re all right?”
   “Oh, yes.”
   “Then I’ll leave you. Sorry to disturb you, Lord.”
   “No, please, come in, I’m glad you’re here. Sit down.”
   The old man sat down beside the door, his back straight. “I’ve doubled the guards.”
   “Good.”
   After a while Hiro-matsu said, “About that madman, everything was done as you ordered. Everything.”
   “Thank you.”
   “His wife—as soon as she heard the sentence, my granddaughter asked my permission to kill herself, to accompany her husband and her son into the Great Void. I refused and ordered her to wait, pending your approval.” Hiro-matsu was bleeding inside. How terrible life is!
   “You did correctly.”
   “I formally ask permission to end my life. What he did put you in mortal danger, but it was my fault. I should have detected his flaw. I failed you.”
   “You may not commit seppuku.”
   “Please. I formally ask permission.”
   “No. You’re needed alive.”
   “I will obey you. But please accept my apologies.”
   “Your apologies are accepted.”
   After a time, Toranaga said, “What about the barbarian?”
   “Many things, Sire. One: If you hadn’t been waiting for the barbarian today you would have been hawking since first light, and Ishido would never have enmeshed you in such a disgusting meeting. You have no choice now but to declare war on him—if you can get out of this castle and back to Yedo.”
   “Second?”
   “And third and forty-third and a hundred and forty-third? I’m nowhere near as clever as you, Lord Toranaga, but even I could see that everything we’ve been led to believe by the Southern Barbarians is not true.” Hiro-matsu was glad to talk. It helped ease the hurt. “But if there are two Christian religions which hate each other, and if the Portuguese are part of the bigger Spanish nation and if this new barbarian’s country—whatever it was called—wars on both and beats them, and if this same country’s an island nation like ours, and the great ‘if’ of all, if he’s telling the truth and if the priest’s saying accurately what the barbarian was saying… Well, you can put all these ‘ifs’ together and make sense out of them, and a plan. I can’t, so sorry. I only know what I saw at Anjiro, and aboard the ship. That the Anjin-san is very strong in his head—weak in his body presently, though that would be because of the long voyage—and dominating at sea. I don’t understand anything about him. How could he be all of these things yet allow a man to piss on his back? Why did he save Yabu’s life after what the man did to him, and also the life of his self-admitted enemy, the Portuguese Rodrigu? My head spins from so many questions as though I’m sodden with saké.” Hiro-matsu paused. He was very weary. “But I think we should keep him on land and all like him, if others follow, and kill them all very quickly.”
   “What about Yabu?”
   “Order him to commit seppuku tonight.”
   “Why?”
   “He’s got no manners. You foretold what he’d do when I arrived at Anjiro. He was going to steal your property. And he’s a liar. Don’t bother to see him tomorrow as you’ve arranged. Instead, let me take him your order now. You’ll have to kill him sooner or later. Better now when he’s accessible, with none of his own vassals surrounding him. I advise no delay.”
   There was a soft knock on the inner door. “Tora-chan?”
   Toranaga smiled as he always did at that very special voice, with that special diminutive. “Yes, Kiri-san?”
   “I’ve taken the liberty, Lord, of bringing cha for you and your guest. May I please come in?”
   “Yes.”
   Both men returned her bow. Kiri closed the door and busied herself with the pouring. She was fifty-three and substantial, Matron of Toranaga’s ladies-in-waiting, Kiritsubo-noh-Toshiko, nicknamed Kiri, the oldest of the ladies of his court. Her hair was gray-flecked, her waist thick, but her face sparkled with an eternal joy. “You shouldn’t be awake, no, not at this time of night, Tora-chan! It will be dawn soon and I suppose then you’ll be out in the hills with your hawks, neh? You need sleep!”
   “Yes, Kiri-chan!” Toranaga patted her vast rump affectionately.
   “Please don’t Kiri-chan me!” Kiri laughed. “I’m an old woman and I need lots of respect. Your other ladies give me enough trouble as it is. Kiritsubo-Toshiko-san, if you please, my Lord Yoshi Toranaga-noh-Chikitada!”
   “There, you see, Hiro-matsu. After twenty years she still tries to dominate me.”
   “So sorry, it’s more than thirty years, Tora-sama,” she said proudly. “And you were as manageable then as you are now!”
   When Toranaga was in his twenties he had been a hostage, too, then of the despotic Ikawa Tadazaki, Lord of Suruga and Totomi, father of the present Ikawa Jikkyu, who was Yabu’s enemy. The samurai responsible for Toranaga’s good conduct had just taken Kiritsubo as his second wife. She was seventeen then. Together this samurai and Kiri, his wife, had treated Toranaga honorably, given him wise counsel, and then, when Toranaga had rebelled against Tadazuki and joined Goroda, had followed him with many warriors and had fought bravely at his side. Later, in the fighting for the capital, Kiri’s husband had been killed. Toranaga had asked her if she would become one of his consorts and she had accepted gladly. In those days she was not fat. But she was equally protective and equally wise. That was her nineteenth year, his twenty-fourth, and she had been a focus of his household ever since. Kiri was very shrewd and very capable. For years now, she had run his household and kept it free of trouble.
   As free of trouble as any household with women could ever be, Toranaga thought.
   “You’re getting fat,” he said, not minding that she was fat.
   “Lord Toranaga! In front of Lord Toda! Oh, so sorry, I shall have to commit seppuku—or at least, I’ll have to shave my head and become a nun, and I thought I was so young and slender!” She burst out laughing. “Actually I agree I have a fat rump but what can I do? I just like to eat and that’s Buddha’s problem and my karma, neh?” She offered the cha. “There. Now I’ll be off. Would you like me to send the Lady Sazuko?”
   “No, my thoughtful Kiri-san, no, thank you. We’ll talk for a little, then I’ll sleep.”
   “Good night, Tora-sama. Sweet dreamlessness.” She bowed to him and to Hiro-matsu and then she was gone.
   They sipped their tea appreciatively.
   Toranaga said, “I’m always sorry we never had a son, Kiri-san and I. Once she conceived but she miscarried. That was when we were at the battle of Nagakudé.”
   “Ah, that one.”
   “Yes.”
   This was just after the Dictator Goroda had been assassinated when General Nakamura—the Taikō-to-be—was trying to consolidate all power into his own hands. At that time the issue was in doubt, as Toranaga supported one of Goroda’s sons, the legal heir. Nakamura came against Toranaga near the little village of Nagakudé and his force was mauled and routed and he lost that battle. Toranaga retreated cleverly, pursued by a new army, now commanded for Nakamura by Hiro-matsu. But Toranaga avoided the trap and escaped to his home provinces, his whole army intact, ready to battle again. Fifty thousand men died at Nagakudé, very few of them Toranaga’s. In his wisdom, the Taikō-to-be called off the civil war against Toranaga, though he would have won. Nagakudé was the only battle the Taikō had ever lost and Toranaga the only general who had ever beaten him.
   “I’m glad we never joined battle, Sire,” Hiro-matsu said.
   “Yes.”
   “You would have won.”
   “No. The Taikō was the greatest general and the wisest, cleverest man that has ever been.”
   Hiro-matsu smiled. “Yes. Except you.”
   “No. You’re wrong. That’s why I became his vassal.”
   “I’m sorry he’s dead.”
   “Yes.”
   “And Goroda—he was a fine man, neh? So many good men dead.” Hiro-matsu unconsciously turned and twisted the battered scabbard. “You’ll have to move against Ishido. That will force every daimyo to choose sides once and for all. We’ll win the war eventually. Then you can disband the Council and become Shōgun.”
   “I don’t seek that honor,” Toranaga said sharply. “How many times do I have to say it?”
   “Your pardon, Sire. I know. But I feel it would be best for Japan.”
   “That’s treason.”
   “Against whom, Lord? Against the Taikō? He’s dead. Against his last will and testament? That’s a piece of paper. Against the boy Yaemon? Yaemon’s the son of a peasant who usurped the power and heritage of a general whose heirs he stamped out. We were Goroda’s allies, then the Taikō’s vassals. Yes. But they’re both very dead.”
   “Would you advise that if you were one of the Regents?”
   “No. But then I’m not one of the Regents, and I’m very glad. I’m your vassal only. I chose sides a year ago. I did this freely.”
   “Why?” Toranaga had never asked him before.
   “Because you’re a man, because you’re Minowara and because you’ll do the wise thing. What you said to Ishido was right: we’re not a people to be ruled by committee. We need a leader. Whom should I have chosen to serve of the five Regents? Lord Onoshi? Yes, he’s a very wise man, and a good general. But he’s Christian and a cripple and his flesh is so rotten with leprosy that he stinks from fifty paces. Lord Sugiyama? He’s the richest daimyo in the land, his family’s as ancient as yours. But he’s a gutless turncoat and we both know him from eternity. Lord Kiyama? Wise, brave, a great general, and an old comrade. But he’s Christian too, and I think we have enough gods of our own in this Land of the Gods not to be so arrogant as to worship only one. Ishido? I’ve detested that treacherous peasant’s offal as long as I’ve known him and the only reason I never killed him was because he was the Taikō’s dog.” His leathery face cracked into a smile. “So you see, Yoshi Toranaga-noh-Minowara, you gave me no choice.”
   “And if I go against your advice? If I manipulate the Council of Regents, even Ishido, and put Yaemon into power?”
   “Whatever you do is wise. But all the Regents would like you dead. That’s the truth. I advocate immediate war. Immediate. Before they isolate you. Or more probably murder you.”
   Toranaga thought about his enemies. They were powerful and abundant.
   It would take him all of three weeks to get back to Yedo, traveling the Tokaidō Road, the main trunk road that followed the coast between Yedo and Osaka. To go by ship was more dangerous, and perhaps more time consuming, except by galley which could travel against wind and tide.

   Toranaga’s mind ranged again over the plan he had decided upon. He could find no flaw in it.
   “I heard secretly yesterday that Ishido’s mother is visiting her grandson in Nagoya,” he said and Hiro-matsu was at once attentive. Nagoya was a huge city-state that was, as yet, not committed to either side. “The lady should be ‘invited’ by the Abbot to visit the Johji Temple. To see the cherry blossoms.”
   “Immediately,” Hiro-matsu said. “By carrier pigeon.” The Johji Temple was famous for three things: its avenue of cherry trees, the militancy of its Zen Buddhist monks, and its open, undying fidelity to Toranaga, who had, years ago, paid for the building of the temple and maintained its upkeep ever since. “The blossoms will be past their prime but she will be there tomorrow. I don’t doubt the venerable lady will want to stay a few days, it’s so calming. Her grandson should go too, neh?”
   “No—just her. That would make the Abbot’s ‘invitation’ too obvious. Next: send a secret cipher to my son, Sudara: ‘I leave Osaka the moment the Council concludes this session—in four days.’ Send it by runner and confirm it by carrier pigeon tomorrow.”
   Hiro-matsu’s disapproval was apparent. “Then can I order up ten thousand men at once? To Osaka?”
   “No. The men here are sufficient. Thank you, old friend. I think I’ll sleep now.”
   Hiro-matsu got up and stretched his shoulders. Then at the doorway, “I may give Fujiko, my granddaughter, permission to kill herself?”
   “No.”
   “But Fujiko’s samurai, Lord, and you know how mothers are about their sons. The child was her first.”
   “Fujiko can have many children. How old is she? Eighteen-barely nineteen? I will find her another husband.”
   Hiro-matsu shook his head, “She will not accept one. I know her too well. It’s her innermost wish to end her life. Please?”
   “Tell your granddaughter I do not approve of useless death. Permission is refused.”
   At length Hiro-matsu bowed, and began to leave.
   “How long would the barbarian live in that prison?” Toranaga asked.
   Hiro-matsu did not turn back. “It depends how cruel a fighter he is.”
   “Thank you. Good night, Hiro-matsu.” When he was sure that he was alone, he said quietly, “Kiri-san?”
   The inner door opened, she entered and knelt.
   “Send an immediate message to Sudara: ‘All is well.’ Send it by racing pigeons. Release three of them at the same time at dawn. At noon do the same again.”
   “Yes, Lord.” She went away.
   One will get through, he thought. At least four will fall to arrows, spies, or hawks. But unless Ishido’s broken our code, the message will still mean nothing to him.
   The code was very private. Four people knew it. His eldest son, Noboru; his second son and heir, Sudara; Kiri; and himself. The message deciphered meant: “Disregard all other messages. Activate Plan Five.” By prearrangement, Plan Five contained orders to gather all Yoshi clan leaders and their most trusted inner counselors immediately at his capital, Yedo, and to mobilize for war. The code word that signaled war was “Crimson Sky.” His own assassination, or capture, made Crimson Sky inexorable and launched the war—an immediate fanatic assault upon Kyoto led by Sudara, his heir, with all the legions, to gain possession of that city and the puppet Emperor. This would be coupled with secret, meticulously planned insurrections in fifty provinces which had been prepared over the years against such eventuality. All targets, passes, cities, castles, bridges, had long since been selected. There were enough arms and men and resolve to carry it through.
   It’s a good plan, Toranaga thought. But it will fail if I don’t lead it. Sudara will fail. Not through want of trying or courage or intelligence, or because of treachery. Merely because Sudara hasn’t yet enough knowledge or experience and cannot carry enough of the uncommitted daimyos with him. And also because Osaka Castle and the heir, Yaemon, stand inviolate in the path, the rallying point for all the enmity and jealousy that I’ve earned in fifty-two years of war.
   Toranaga’s war had begun when he was six and had been ordered as hostage into the enemy camp, then reprieved, then captured by other enemies and pawned again, to be repawned until he was twelve. At twelve, he had led his first patrol and won his first battle.
   So many battles. None lost. But so many enemies. And now they’re gathering together.
   Sudara will fail. You’re the only one who could win with Crimson Sky, perhaps. The Taikō could do it, absolutely. But it would be better not to have to implement Crimson Sky.

Chapter 14

   For Blackthorne it was a hellish dawn. He was locked in a death battle with a fellow convict. The prize was a cup of gruel. Both men were naked. Whenever a convict was put into this vast, single-storied, wooden cell-block, his clothes were taken away. A clothed man occupied more space and clothes could hide weapons.
   The murky and suffocating room was fifty paces long and ten wide and packed with naked, sweating Japanese. Scarcely any light filtered through the boards and beams that made up the walls and low ceiling.
   Blackthorne could barely stand erect. His skin was blotched and scratched from the man’s broken nails and the wood burns from the walls. Finally, he butted his head into the man’s face, grabbed his throat and hammered the man’s head against the beams until he was senseless. Then he threw the body aside and charged through the sweating mass to the place he had claimed in the corner, and he readied himself for another attack.
   At dawn it had been feeding time and the guards began passing the cups of gruel and water through the small opening. This was the first food and water that had been given them since he was put inside at dusk the previous day. The lining up for food and water had been unusually calm. Without discipline no one would eat. Then this apelike man—unshaven, filthy, lice-ridden—had chopped him over the kidneys and taken his ration while the others waited to see what would happen. But Blackthorne had been in too many seafaring brawls to be beaten with one treacherous blow, so he feigned helplessness, then kicked out viciously and the fight had been joined. Now, in the corner, Blackthorne saw to his amazement that one of the men was offering the cup of gruel and the water that he had presumed lost. He took it and thanked the man.
   The corners were the choicest areas. A beam ran lengthwise, along the earthern floor, partitioning the room into two sections. In each section were three rows of men, two rows facing each other, their backs to the wall or beam, the other row between them. Only the weak and the sick took the center row. When the stronger men in the outer rows wanted to stretch their legs they had to do so over those in the middle.
   Blackthorne saw two corpses, swollen and flyblown, in one of the middle rows. But the feeble and dying men nearby seemed to ignore them.
   He could not see far in the heating gloom. Sun was baking the wood already. There were latrine buckets but the stench was terrible because the sick had befouled themselves and the places in which they hunched.
   From time to time guards opened the iron door and names were called out. The men bowed to their comrades and left, but others were soon brought in and the space occupied again. All the prisoners seemed to have accepted their lot and tried, as best they could, to live unselfishly in peace with their immediate neighbors.
   One man against the wall began to vomit. He was quickly shoved into the middle row and collapsed, half suffocated, under the weight of legs.
   Blackthorne had to close his eyes and fight to control his terror and claustrophobia. Bastard Toranaga! I pray I get the opportunity of putting you inside here one day.
   Bastard guards! Last night when they had ordered him to strip he had fought them with a bitter hopelessness, knowing he was beaten, fighting only because he refused to surrender passively. And then he had been forced through the door.
   There were four such cell blocks. They were on the edge of the city, in a paved compound within high stone walls. Outside the walls was a roped-off area of beaten earth beside the river. Five crosses were erected there. Naked men and one woman had been bound straddled to the crosspieces by their wrists and ankles, and while Blackthorne had walked on the perimeter following his samurai guards, he saw executioners with long lances thrust the lances crisscross into the victims’ chests while the crowd jeered. Then the five were cut down and five more put up and samurai came forward and hacked the corpses into pieces with their long swords, laughing all the while.
   Bloody-gutter-festering-bastards!
   Unnoticed, the man Blackthorne had fought was coming to his senses. He lay in the middle row. Blood had congealed on one side of his face and his nose was smashed. Suddenly he leapt at Blackthorne, oblivious of the men in his way.
   Blackthorne saw him coming at the last moment, frantically parried the onslaught and knocked him in a heap. The prisoners that the man fell on cursed him and one of them, heavyset and built like a bulldog, chopped him viciously on the neck with the side of his hand. There was a dry snap and the man’s head sagged.
   The bulldog man lifted the half-shaven head by its scraggy, lice-infected top-knot and let it fall. He looked up at Blackthorne, said something gutturally, smiled with bare, toothless gums, and shrugged.
   “Thanks,” Blackthorne said, struggling for breath, thankful that his assailant had not had Mura’s skill at unarmed combat. “My namu Anjin-san,” he said, pointing at himself. “You?”
   “Ah, so desu! Anjin-san!” Bulldog pointed at himself and sucked in his breath. “Minikui.”
   “Minikui-san?”
   “Hai,” and he added a spate of Japanese.
   Blackthorne shrugged tiredly. “Wakarimasen.” I don’t understand.
   “Ah, so desu!” Bulldog chattered briefly with his neighbors. Then he shrugged again and Blackthorne shrugged and together they lifted the dead man and put him with the other corpses. When they came back to the corner no one had taken their places.
   Most of the inmates were asleep or fitfully trying to sleep.
   Blackthorne felt filthy and horrible and near death. Don’t worry, he told himself, you’ve a long way to go before you die… No, I can’t live long in this hell hole. There’re too many men. Oh, God, let me out! Why is the room swimming up and down, and is that Rodrigues floating up from the depths with moving pincers for eyes? I can’t breathe, I can’t breathe. I’ve got to get out of here, please, please, don’t put more wood in the fire and what are you doing here, Croocq lad, I thought they let you go. I thought you were back in the village but now we’re here in the village and how did I get here—it’s so cool and there’s that girl, so pretty, down by the docks but why are they dragging her away to the shore, the naked samurai, Omi there laughing? Why down across the sand, blood marks in the sand, all naked, me naked, hags and villagers and children, and there’s the cauldron and we’re in the cauldron and no, no more wood no more wood, I’m drowning in liquid filth, Oh God Oh God oh God I’m dying dying dying “In nomine Patris et Filii et Spiritus Sancti.” That’s the Last Sacrament and you’re Catholic we’re all Catholic and you’ll burn or drown in piss and burn with fire the fire the fire…
   He dragged himself out of the nightmare, his ears exploding with the peaceful, earth-shattering finality of the Last Sacrament. For a moment he did not know if he was awake or asleep because his disbelieving ears heard the Latin benediction again and his incredulous eyes were seeing a wrinkled old scarecrow of a European stooped over the middle row, fifteen paces away. The toothless old man had long filthy hair and a matted beard and broken nails and wore a foul, threadbare smock. He raised a hand like a vulture’s claw and held up the wooden cross over the half-hidden body. A shaft of sun caught it momentarily. Then he closed the dead man’s eyes, and mumbled a prayer and glanced up. He saw Blackthorne staring at him.
   “Mother of God, art thou real?” the man croaked in coarse, peasant Spanish, crossing himself.
   “Yes,” Blackthorne said in Spanish. “Who are you?”
   The old man groped his way over, mumbling to himself. The other inmates let him pass or step on them or over them without saying a word. He stared down at Blackthorne through rheumy eyes, his face warted. “Oh, Blessed Virgin, the señor is real. Who art thou? I’m … I’m Friar … Friar Domingo … Domingo … Domingo of the Sacred … the Sacred Order of St. Francis … the Order …” and then for a while his words became a jumble of Japanese and Latin and Spanish. His head twitched and he wiped away the ever present spittle that dribbled to his chin. “The señor is real?”
   “Yes, I’m real.” Blackthorne eased himself up.
   The priest muttered another Hail Mary, the tears coursing his cheeks. He kissed the cross repeatedly and would have got down on his knees if there had been space. Bulldog shook his neighbor awake. Both squatted and made just enough room for the priest to sit.
   “By the Blessed St. Francis, my prayers have been answered. Thou, thou, thou, I thought that I was seeing another apparition, señor, a ghost. Yes, an evil spirit. I’ve seen so many—so many—how long is the señor here? It’s hard for a body to see in the gloom and my eyes, they’re not good… How long?”
   “Yesterday. And you?”
   “I don’t know, señor. A long time. I’m put here in September—it was in the year of our Lord fifteen hundred ninety-eight.”
   “It’s May now. Sixteen hundred.”
   “Sixteen hundred?”
   A moaning cry distracted the monk. He got up and picked his way over the bodies like a spider, encouraging a man here, touching another there, his Japanese fluent. He could not find the dying man so he droned the last rites to that part of the cell and blessed everyone and no one minded.
   “Come with me, my son.”
   Without waiting, the monk hobbled down the cage, through the mass of men, into the gloom. Blackthorne hesitated, not wanting to leave his place. Then he got up and followed. After ten paces he looked back. His place had vanished. It seemed impossible that he had ever been there at all.
   He continued down the length of the hut. In the far corner was, incredibly, an open space. Just enough room for a small man to lie down in. It contained a few pots and bowls and an ancient straw mat.
   Father Domingo stepped through the men into the space and beckoned him. The surrounding Japanese watched silently, letting Blackthorne pass.
   “They are my flock, señor. They are all my sons in the Blessed Lord Jesus. I’ve converted so many here—this one’s John, and here’s Mark and Methuselah…” The priest stopped for breath. “I’m so tired. Tired. I … must, I must …” His words trailed off and he slept.
   At dusk more food arrived. When Blackthorne began to get up, one of the nearby Japanese motioned him to stay and brought him a well—filled bowl. Another man gently patted the priest awake, offering the food.
   “Iyé,” the old man said, shaking his head, a smile on his face, and pushed the bowl back into the man’s hands.
   “Iyé Farddah-sama.”
   The priest allowed himself to be persuaded and ate a little, then got up, his joints creaking, and handed his bowl to one of those in the middle row. This man touched the priest’s hand to his forehead and he was blessed.
   “I’m so pleased to see another of my own kind,” the priest said, sitting beside Blackthorne again, his peasant voice thick and sibilant. He pointed weakly to the other end of the cell block. “One of my flock said the señor used the word ‘pilot’, ‘anjin’? The señor is a pilot?”
   “Yes.”
   “There are others of the señor’s crew here?”
   “No, I’m alone. Why are you here?”
   “If the señor is alone—the señor came from Manila?”
   “No. I’ve never been to Asia before,” Blackthorne said carefully, his Spanish excellent. “This was my first voyage as pilot. I was … I was outward bound. Why are you here?”
   “Jesuits put me here, my son. Jesuits and their filthy lies. The señor was outward bound? Thou art not Spanish, no—nor Portuguese …” The monk peered at him suspiciously and Blackthorne was surrounded by his reeking breath. “Was the ship Portuguese? Tell the truth, before God!”
   “No, Father. It was not Portuguese. Before God!”
   “Oh, Blessed Virgin, thank you! Please forgive me, señor. I was afraid—I’m old and stupid and diseased. Thy ship was Spanish out of where? I’m so glad—where is the señor from originally? Spanish Flanders? Or the Duchy of Brandenburg perhaps? Some part of our dominions in Germania? Oh, it’s so good to talk my blessed mother tongue again! Was the señor shipwrecked like us? Then foully thrown into this jail, falsely accused by those devil Jesuits? May God curse them and show them the error of their treachery!” His eyes glittered fiercely. “The señor said he has never been to Asia before?”
   “No.”
   “If the señor has never been to Asia before, then he will be like a child in the wilderness. Yes, there’s so much to tell! Does the señor know that Jesuits are merely traders, gun runners, and usurers? That they control all the silk trade here, all trade with China? That the annual Black Ship is worth a million in gold? That they’ve forced His Holiness, the Pope, to grant them total power over Asia—them and their dogs, the Portuguese? That all other religious are forbidden here? That Jesuits deal in gold, buying and selling for profit—for themselves and the heathen—against the direct orders of His Holiness, Pope Clement, of King Philip, and against the laws of this land? That they secretly smuggled guns into Japan for Christian kings here, inciting them to rebellion? That they meddle in politics and pimp for the kings, lie and cheat and bear false witness against us! That their Father Superior himself sent a secret message to our Spanish Viceroy in Luzon asking him for conquistadores to conquer the land—they begged for a Spanish invasion to cover more Portuguese mistakes. All our troubles can be put at their threshold, señor. It’s the Jesuits who have lied and cheated and spread poison against Spain and our beloved King Philip! Their lies put me here and caused twenty-six Holy Fathers to be martyred! They think that just because I was a peasant once, I don’t understand … but I can read and write, señor, I can read and write! I was one of his Excellency’s secretaries, the Viceroy. They think we Franciscans don’t understand …” At this point he broke into another ranting jumble of Spanish and Latin.
   Blackthorne’s spirit had been revived, his curiosity agog with what the priest had said. What guns? What gold? What trade? What Black Ship? A million? What invasion? What Christian kings?
   Aren’t you cheating the poor sick man? he asked himself. He thinks you’re friend, not enemy.
   I haven’t lied to him.
   But haven’t you implied you’re friend?
   I answered him directly.
   But you volunteered nothing?
   No.
   Is that fair?
   That’s the first rule of survival in enemy waters: volunteer nothing.
   The monk’s tantrum grew apace. The nearby Japanese shifted uneasily. One of them got up and shook the priest gently and spoke to him. Father Domingo gradually came out of his fit, his eyes cleared. He looked at Blackthorne with recognition, replied to the Japanese, and calmed the rest.
   “So sorry, señor,” he said breathlessly. “They—they thought I was angry against—against the señor. God forgive my foolish rage! It was just—que va, Jesuits come from hell, along with heretics and heathens. I can tell you much about them.” The monk wiped the spittle off his chin and tried to calm himself. He pressed his chest to ease the pain there. “The señor was saying? Thy ship, it was cast ashore?”
   “Yes. In a way. We came aground,” Blackthorne replied. He eased his legs carefully. The men who were watching and listening gave him more room. One got up and motioned him to stretch out. “Thanks,” he said at once. “Oh, how do you say ‘thank you,’ Father?”
   “‘Domo. ’ Sometimes you say ‘arigato. ’ A woman has to be very polite, señor. She says ‘arigato goziemashita. ’”
   “Thank you. What’s his name?” Blackthorne indicated the man who had got up.
   “That’s Gonzalez.”

   “But what’s his Japanese name?”
   “Ah yes! He’s Akabo. But that just means ‘porter,’ señor. They don’t have names. Only samurai have names.”
   “What?”
   “Only samurai have names, first names and surnames. It’s their law, señor. Everyone else has to make do with what they are—porter, fisherman, cook, executioner, farmer, and so on. Sons and daughters are mostly just First Daughter, Second Daughter, First Son, and so on. Sometimes they’d call a man ‘fisherman who lives near the elm tree’ or ‘fisherman with bad eyes.’ “ The monk shrugged and stifled a yawn. “Ordinary Japanese aren’t allowed names. Whores give themselves names like Carp or Moon or Petal or Eel or Star. It’s strange, señor, but it’s their law. We give them Christian names, real names, when we baptize them, bringing them salvation and the word of God …” His words trailed off and he slept.
   “Domo, Akabo-san,” Blackthorne said to the porter.
   The man smiled shyly and bowed and sucked in his breath.
   Later the monk awakened and said a brief prayer and scratched. “Only yesterday, the señor said? He came here only yesterday? What occurred with the señor?”
   “When we landed there was a Jesuit there,” Blackthorne said. “But you, Father. You were saying they accused you? What happened to you and your ship?”
   “Our ship? Did the señor ask about our ship? Was the señor coming from Manila like us? Or—oh, how foolish of me! I remember now, the señor was outward bound from home and never in Asia before. By the Blessed Body of Christ, it’s so good to talk to a civilized man again, in my blessed mother’s tongue! Que va, it’s been so long. My head aches, aches, señor. Our ship? We were going home at long last. Home from Manila to Acapulco, in the land of Cortes, in Mexico, thence overland to Vera Cruz. And thence another ship and across the Atlantic, and at long, long last, to home. My village is outside Madrid, señor, in the mountains. It is called Santa Veronica. Forty years I’ve been away, señor. In the New World, in Mexico and in the Philippines. Always with our glorious conquistadores, may the Virgin watch over them! I was in Luzon when we destroyed the heathen native king, Lumalon, and conquered Luzon, and so brought the word of God to the Philippines. Many of our Japan converts fought with us even then, señor. Such fighters! That was in 1575. Mother Church is well planted there, my son, and never a filthy Jesuit or Portuguese to be seen. I came to the Japans for almost two years, then had to leave for Manila again when the Jesuits betrayed us.”
   The monk stopped and closed his eyes, drifting off. Later he came back again, and, as old people will sometimes do, he continued as though he had never slept. “My ship was the great galleon San Felipe. We carried a cargo of spices, gold and silver, and specie to the value of a million and a half silver pesos. One of the great storms took us and cast us onto the shores of Shikoku. Our ship broke her back on the sand bar—on the third day—by that time we had landed our bullion and most of our cargo. Then word came that everything was confiscated, confiscated by the Taikō himself, that we were pirates and …” He stopped at the sudden silence.
   The iron door of the cell cage had swung open.
   Guards began to call names from the list. Bulldog, the man who had befriended Blackthorne, was one of those called. He walked out and did not look back. One of the men in the circle also was chosen. Akabo. Akabo knelt to the monk, who blessed him and made the sign of the cross over him and quickly gave him the Last Sacrament. The man kissed the cross and walked away.
   The door closed again.
   “They’re going to execute him?” Blackthorne asked.
   “Yes, his Calvary is outside the door. May the Holy Madonna take his soul swiftly and give him his everlasting reward.”
   “What did that man do?”
   “He broke the —their law, señor. The Japanese are a simple people. And very severe. They truly have only one punishment—death. By the cross, by strangulation, or by decapitation. For the crime of arson, it is death by burning. They have almost no other punishment—banishment sometimes, cutting the hair from women sometimes. But”—the old man sighed—”but most always it is death.”
   “You forgot imprisonment.”
   The monk’s nails picked absently at the scabs on his arm. “It’s not one of their punishments, my son. To them, prison is just a temporary place to keep the man until they decide his sentence. Only the guilty come here. For just a little while.”
   “That’s nonsense. What about you? You’ve been here a year, almost two years.”
   “One day they will come for me, like all the others. This is but a resting place between the hell of earth and the glory of Everlasting Life.”
   “I don’t believe you.”
   “Have no fear, my son. It is the will of God. I am here and can hear the señor’s confession and give him absolution and make him perfect—the glory of Everlasting Life is barely a hundred steps and moments away from that door. Would the señor like me to hear his confession now?”
   “No—no, thank you. Not now.” Blackthorne looked at the iron door. “Has anyone ever tried to break out of here?”
   “Why should they do that? There is nowhere to run—nowhere to hide. The authorities are very strict. Anyone helping an escaped convict or even a man who commits a crime—” He pointed vaguely at the door of the hut. “Gonzalez—Akabo the man who has—has left us. He’s a kaga-man. He told me—”
   “What’s a kaga-man?”
   “Oh, those are the porters, señor, the men that carry the palanquins, or the smaller two-man kaga that’s like a hammock swung on a pole. He told us his partner stole a silken scarf from a customer, poor fellow, and because he himself did not report the theft, his life is forfeit also. The señor may believe me, to try to escape or even to help someone to escape, the man would lose his life and all his family. They are very severe, señor.”
   “So everyone goes to execution like sheep then?”
   “There is no other choice. It is the will of God.”
   Don’t get angry, or panic, Blackthorne warned himself. Be patient. You can think of a way. Not everything the priest says is true. He’s deranged. Who wouldn’t be after so much time?
   “These prisons are new to them, señor,” the monk was saying. “The Taikō instituted prisons here a few years ago, so they say. Before him there were none. In previous days when a man was caught, he confessed his crime and he was executed.”
   “And if he didn’t confess?”
   “Everyone confesses—sooner is better, señor. It is the same in our world, if you are caught.”
   The monk slept a little, scratching in his sleep and muttering. When he woke up, Blackthorne said, “Please tell me, Father, how the cursed Jesuits put a man of God in this pest hole.”
   “There is not much to tell, and everything. After the Taikō’s men came and took all our bullion and goods, our Captain-General insisted on going to the capital to protest. There was no cause for the confiscation. Were we not servants of His Most Imperial Catholic Majesty, King Philip of Spain, ruler of the greatest and richest empire in the world? The most powerful monarch in the world? Were we not friends? Was not the Taikō asking Spanish Manila to trade direct with Japan, to break the filthy monopoly of the Portuguese? It was all a mistake, the confiscation. It had to be.
   “I went with our Captain-General because I could speak a little Japanese–not much in those days. Señor, the San Felipe had floundered and come ashore in October of 1597. The Jesuits—one was of the name Father Martin Alvito—they dared to offer to mediate for us, there in Kyoto, the capital. The impertinence! Our Franciscan Father Superior, Friar Braganza, he was in the capital, and he was an ambassador—a real ambassador from Spain to the court of the Taikō! The Blessed Friar Braganza, he had been there in the capital, in Kyoto, for five years, señor. The Taikō himself, personally, had asked our Viceroy in Manila to send Franciscan monks and an ambassador to Japan. So the Blessed Friar Braganza had come. And we, señor, we of the San Felipe, we knew that he was to be trusted, not like the Jesuits.
   “After many, many days of waiting, we had one interview with the Taikō—he was a tiny, ugly little man, señor—and we asked for our goods back and another ship, or passage on another ship, which our Captain-General offered to pay for handsomely. The interview went well, we thought, and the Taikō dismissed us. We went to our monastery in Kyoto and waited and then, over the next months while we waited for his decision, we continued to bring the word of God to the heathen. We held our services openly, not like thieves in the night as the Jesuits do.” Friar Domingo’s voice was edged with contempt. “We wore our habits and vestments—we didn’t go disguised, like native priests, as they do. We brought the Word to the people, the halt and sick and poor, not like the Jesuits, who consort with princes only. Our congregations increased. We had a hospital for lepers, our own church, and our flock prospered, señor. Greatly. We were about to convert many of their kings and then one day we were betrayed.
   “One day in January, we Franciscans, we were all brought before the magistrate and accused under the Taikō’s personal seal, señor, accused as violators of their law, as disturbers of their peace, and sentenced to death by crucifixion. There were forty-three of us. Our churches throughout the land were to be destroyed, all our congregations to be torn apart—Franciscan—not Jesuit, señor. Just us, señor. We had been falsely accused. The Jesuits had poured poison in the Taikō’s ear that we were conquistadores, that we wanted to invade these shores, when it was Jesuits who begged his Excellency, our Viceroy, to send an army from Manila. I saw the letter myself! From their Father Superior! They’re devils who pretend to serve the Church and Christ, but they serve only themselves. They lust for power, power at any cost. They hide behind a net of poverty and piousness, but underneath, they feed like kings and amass fortunes. Que va, señor, the truth is that they were jealous of our congregations, jealous of our church, jealous of our truth and way of life. The daimyo of Hizen, Dom Francisco—his Japanese name is Harima Tadao but he has been baptized Dom Francisco—he interceded for us. He is just like a king, all daimyos are like kings, and he’s a Franciscan and he interceded for us, but to no avail.
   “In the end, twenty-six were martyred. Six Spaniards, seventeen of our Japanese neophytes, and three others. The Blessed Braganza was one, and there were three boys among the neophytes. Oh, señor, the faithful were there in their thousands that day. Fifty, a hundred thousand people watched the Blessed Martyrdom at Nagasaki, so I was told. It was a bitter cold February day and a bitter year. That was the year of the earthquakes and typhoons and flood and storm and fire, when the Hand of God lay heavy on the Great Murderer and even smashed down his great castle, Fushimi, when He shuddered the earth. It was terrifying but marvelous to behold, the Finger of God, punishing the heathen and the sinners.
   “So they were martyred, señor, six good Spaniards. Our flock and our church were laid waste and the hospital closed up.” The old man’s face drained. “I—I was one of those chosen for martyrdom, but—but it was not to be my honor. They set us marching from Kyoto and when we came to Osaka they put some of us in one of our missions here and the rest—the rest had one of their ears cut off, then they were paraded like common criminals in the streets. Then the Blessed Brethren were set walking westward. For a month. Their blessed journey ended at the hill called Nishizaki, overlooking the great harbor of Nagasaki. I begged the samurai to let me go with them but, señor, he ordered me back to the mission here in Osaka. For no reason. And then, months later, we were put in this cell. There were three of us—I think it was three, but I was the only Spaniard. The others were neophytes, our lay brothers, Japaners. A few days later the guards called out their names. But they never called out mine. Perhaps it is the will of God, señor, or perhaps those filthy Jesuits leave me alive just to torture me—they who took away my chance at martyrdom among my own. It’s hard, señor, to be patient. So very hard …”
   The old monk closed his eyes, prayed, and cried himself to sleep.
   Much as he wished it, Blackthorne could not sleep though night had come. His flesh crawled from the lice bites. His head swarmed with terror.
   He knew, with terrible clarity, there was no way to break out. He was overwhelmed with futility and sensed he was on the brink of death. In the darkest part of the night terror swamped him, and, for the first time in his life, he gave up and wept.
   “Yes, my son?” the monk murmured. “What is it?”
   “Nothing, nothing,” Blackthorne said, his heart thundering. “Go back to sleep.”
   “There’s no need to fear. We are all in God’s hands,” the monk said and slept again.
   The great terror left Blackthorne. In its place was a terror that could be lived with. I’ll get out of here somehow, he told himself, trying to believe the lie.
   At dawn came food and water. Blackthorne was stronger now. Stupid to let go like that, he cautioned himself. Stupid and weak and dangerous. Don’t do that again or you’ll break and go mad and surely die. They’ll put you in the third row and you’ll die. Be careful and be patient and guard yourself.
   “How are you today, señor?”
   “Fine, thank you, Father. And you?”
   “Quite well, thank you.”
   “How do I say that in Japanese?”
   “Domo, genki desu.”
   “Domo, genki desu. You were saying yesterday, Father, about the Portuguese Black Ships—what are they like? Have you seen one?”
   “Oh, yes, señor. They’re the greatest ships in the world, almost two thousand tons. As many as two hundred men and boys are necessary to sail one, señor, and with crew and passengers her complement would be almost a thousand souls. I’m told these carracks sail well before the wind but lumber when the wind’s abeam.”
   “How many guns do they carry?”
   “Sometimes twenty or thirty on three decks.”
   Father Domingo was glad to answer questions and talk and teach, and Blackthorne was equally glad to listen and learn. The monk’s rambling knowledge was priceless and far reaching.
   “No, señor,” he was saying now. “Domo is thank you and dozo is please. Water is mizu. Always remember that Japaners put a great price on manners and courtesy. Once when I was in Nagasaki—Oh, if I only had ink and a quill and paper! Ah, I know—here, trace the words in the dirt, that will help you to remember them …”
   “Domo,” Blackthorne said. Then, after memorizing a few more words, he asked, “How long’ve Portuguese been here?”
   “Oh, the land was discovered in 1542, señor, the year I was born. There were three men, da Mota, Peixoto, and I can’t remember the other name. They were all Portuguese traders, trading the China coasts in a China junk from a port in Siam. Has the señor been to Siam?”
   “No.”
   “Ah, there is much to see in Asia. These three men were trading but they were caught in a great storm, a typhoon, and blown off their course to land safely at Tanegashima at Kyushu. That was the first time a European set foot on Japan’s soil, and at once trade began. A few years later, Francis Xavier, one of the founding members of the Jesuits, arrived here. That was in 1549 … a bad year for Japan, señor. One of our Brethren should have been first, then we would have inherited this realm, not the Portuguese. Francis Xavier died three years later in China, alone and forsaken … Did I tell the señor there’s a Jesuit already at the court of the Emperor of China, in a place called Peking? … Oh, you should see Manila, señor, and the Philippines! We have four cathedrals and almost three thousand conquistadores and nearly six thousand Japaner soldiers spread through the islands and three hundred Brethren …”
   Blackthorne’s mind filled with facts and Japanese words and phrases. He asked about life in Japan and daimyos and samurai and trade and Nagasaki and war and peace and Jesuits and Franciscans and Portuguese in Asia and about Spanish Manila, and always more about the Black Ship that plied annually from Macao. For three days and three nights Blackthorne sat with Father Domingo and questioned and listened and learned and slept in nightmare, to awaken and ask more questions and gain more knowledge.
   Then, on the fourth day, they called out his name.
   “Anjin-san!”

Chapter 15

   In the utter silence, Blackthorne got to his feet.
   “Thy confession, my son, say it quickly.”
   “I—I don’t think—I—” Blackthorne realized through his dulled mind that he was speaking English, so he pressed his lips together and began to walk away. The monk scrambled up, presuming his words to be Dutch or German, and grabbed his wrist and hobbled with him.
   “Quickly, señor. I will give the absolution. Be quick, for thine immortal soul. Say it quickly, just that the señor confesses before God all things past and present—”
   They were nearing the iron gate now, the monk holding on to Blackthorne with surprising strength.
   “Say it now! The Blessed Virgin will watch over you!”
   Blackthorne tore his arm away, and said hoarsely in Spanish, “Go with God, Father.”
   The door slammed behind him.
   The day was incredibly cool and sweet, the clouds meandering before a fine southeasterly wind.
   He inhaled deep draughts of the clean, glorious air and blood surged through his veins. The joy of life possessed him.
   Several naked prisoners were in the courtyard along with an official, jailers with spears, eta, and a group of samurai. The official was dressed in a somber kimono and an overmantle with starched, winglike shoulders and he wore a small dark hat. This man stood in front of the first prisoner and read from a delicate scroll and, as he finished, each man began to plod after his party of jailers toward the great doors of the courtyard. Blackthorne was last. Unlike the others he was given a loin cloth, cotton kimono, and thonged clogs for his feet. And his guards were samurai.
   He had decided to run for it the moment he had passed the gate, but as he approached the threshold, the samurai surrounded him more closely and locked him in. They reached the gateway together. A large crowd looked on, clean and spruce, with crimson and yellow and golden sunshades. One man was already roped to his cross and the cross was lifted into the sky. And beside each cross two eta waited, their long lances sparkling in the sun.
   Blackthorne’s pace slowed. The samurai jostled closer, hurrying him. He thought numbly that it would be the better to die now, quickly, so he steadied his hand to lunge for the nearest sword. But he never took the opportunity because the samurai turned away from the arena and walked toward the perimeter, heading for the streets that led to the city and toward the castle.
   Blackthorne waited, scarcely breathing, wanting to be sure. They walked through the crowd, who backed away and bowed, and then they were in a street and now there was no mistake.
   Blackthorne felt reborn.
   When he could speak, he said, “Where are we going?” not caring that the words would not be understood or that they were in English. Blackthorne was quite light-headed. His step hardly touched the ground, the thongs of his clogs were not uncomfortable, the untoward touch of the kimono was not unpleasing. Actually, it feels quite good, he thought. A little draughty perhaps, but on a fine day like this just the sort of thing to wear on the quarterdeck!
   “By God, it’s wonderful to speak English again,” he said to the samurai. “Christ Jesus, I thought I was a dead man. That’s my eighth life gone. Do you know that, old friends? Now I’ve only one to go. Well, never mind! Pilots have ten lives, at least, that’s what Alban Caradoc used to say.” The samurai seemed to be growing irritated by his incomprehensible talk.
   Get hold of yourself, he told himself. Don’t make them touchier than they are.
   He noticed now that the samurai were all Grays. Ishido’s men. He had asked Father Alvito the name of the man who opposed Toranaga. Alvito had said “Ishido.” That was just before he had been ordered to stand up and had been taken away. Are all Grays Ishido’s men? As all Browns are Toranaga’s?
   “Where are we going? There?” He pointed at the castle which brooded above the town. “There, hai?”
   “Hai.” The leader nodded a cannonball head, his beard grizzled.
   What does Ishido want with me? Blackthorne asked himself.
   The leader turned into another street, always going away from the harbor. Then he saw her—a small Portuguese brig, her blue and white flag waving in the breeze. Ten cannon on the main deck, with bow and stern twenty-pounders. Erasmus could take her easily, Blackthorne told himself. What about my crew? What are they doing back there at the village? By the Blood of Christ, I’d like to see them. I was so glad to leave them that day and go back to my own house where Onna—Haku—was, the house of … what was his name? Ah yes, Mura-san. And what about that girl, the one in my floor-bed, and the other one, the angel beauty who talked that day to Omi-san? The one in the dream who was in the cauldron too.
   But why remember that nonsense? It weakens the mind. ‘You’ve got to be very strong in the head to live with the sea,’ Alban Caradoc had said. Poor Alban.
   Alban Caradoc had always appeared so huge and godlike, all seeing, all knowing, for so many years. But he had died in terror. It had been on the seventh day of the Armada. Blackthorne was commanding a hundred-ton gaff-rigged ketch out of Portsmouth, running arms and powder and shot and food to Drake’s war galleons off Dover as they harried and tore into the enemy fleet which was beating up the Channel toward Dunkirk where the Spanish legions lay, waiting to transship to conquer England.
   The great Spanish fleet had been ripped by storms and by the more vicious, more sleek, more maneuverable warships that Drake and Howard had built.
   Blackthorne had been in a swirling attack near Admiral Howard’s flagship Renown when the wind had changed, freshened to gale force, the squalls monstrous, and he had had to decide whether to try to beat to windward to escape the broadside that would burst from the great galleon Santa Cruz just ahead, or to run before the wind alone, through the enemy squadron, the rest of Howard’s ships having already turned about, hacking more northerly.
   “Go north to windward!” Alban Caradoc had shouted. He had shipped as second in command. Blackthorne was Captain-Pilot and responsible, and this his first command. Alban Caradoc had insisted on coming to the fight, even though he had no right to be aboard except that he was an Englishman and all Englishmen had the right to be aboard in this darkest time in history.
   “Belay there!” Blackthorne had ordered and had swung the tiller southward, heading into the maw of the enemy fleet, knowing the other way would leave them doomed by the guns of the galleon that now towered above them.
   So they had gone southerly, racing before the wind, through the galleons. The three-deck cannonade of the Santa Cruz passed safely overhead and he got off two broadsides into her, flea bites to so huge a vessel, and then they were scudding through the center of the enemy. The galleons on either side did not wish to fire at this lone ship, for their broadsides might have damaged each other, so the guns stayed silent. Then his ship was through and escaping when a three-deck cannonade from the Madre de Dios straddled them. Both their masts careened away like arrows, men enmeshed in the rigging. Half the starboard main deck had vanished, the dead and the dying everywhere.
   He had seen Alban Caradoc lying against a shattered gun carriage, so incredibly tiny without legs. He cradled the old seaman whose eyes were almost starting out of his head, his screams hideous. “Oh Christ I don’t want to die don’t want to die, help help me, help me help me, oh Jesus Christ it’s the pain, helllp!” Blackthorne knew there was only one thing he could do for Alban Caradoc. He picked up a belaying pin and smashed down with all his force.
   Then, weeks later, he had to tell Felicity that her father was dead. He told her no more than that Alban Caradoc had been killed instantly. He did not tell her he had blood on his hands that would never come off…
   Blackthorne and the samurai were walking through a wide winding street now. There were no shops, only houses side by side, each within its own land and high fences, the houses and fences and the road itself all staggeringly clean.
   This cleanliness was incredible to Blackthorne because in London and the cities and towns of England—and Europe—offal and night soil and urine were cast into the streets, to be scavenged or allowed to pile up until pedestrians and carts and horses could not pass. Only then would most townships perhaps cleanse themselves. The scavengers of London were great herds of swine that were driven through the main thoroughfares nightly. Mostly the rats and the packs of wild dogs and cats and fires did the cleansing of London. And the flies.
   But Osaka was so different. How do they do it? he asked himself. No pot holes, no piles of horse dung, no wheel ruts, no filth or refuse of any sort. Just hard-packed earth, swept and clean. Walls of wood and houses of wood, sparkling and neat. And where are the packs of beggars and cripples that fester every township in Christendom? And the gangs of footpads and wild youths that would inevitably be skulking in the shadows?
   The people they passed bowed politely, some knelt. Kaga-men hurried along with palanquins or the one-passenger kagas. Patties of samurai—Grays, never Browns—walked the streets carelessly.
   They were walking a shop-lined street when his legs gave out. He toppled heavily and landed on his hands and knees.
   The samurai helped him up but, for the moment, his strength had gone and he could walk no further.
   “Gomen nasai, dozo ga matsu,”—I’m sorry, please wait—he said, his legs cramped. He rubbed his knotted calf muscles and blessed Friar Domingo for the priceless things that the man had taught him.
   The samurai leader looked down at him and spoke at length.
   “Gomen nasai, nihon go ga hanase-masen,”—I’m sorry, I don’t speak Japanese, Blackthorne replied, slowly but clearly. “Dozo, ga matsu.”
   “Ah! So desu, Anjin-san. Wakarimasu,” the man said, understanding him. He gave a short sharp command and one of the samurai hurried away. After a while Blackthorne got up, tried to hobble along, but the leader of the samurai said “Iyé” and motioned him to wait.
   Soon the samurai came back with four semi-naked kaga-men and their kaga. Samurai showed Blackthorne how to recline in it and to hold on to the strap that hung from the central pole.
   The party set off again. Soon Blackthorne recovered his strength and preferred walking again, but he knew he was still weak. I’ve got to get some rest, he thought. I’ve no reserve. I must get a bath and some food. Real food.
   Now they were climbing wide steps that joined one street to another and entered a new residential section that skirted a substantial wood with tall trees and paths through it. Blackthorne found it vastly enjoyable to be out of the streets, the well-tended sward soft underfoot, the track wandering through the trees.
   When they were deep in the wood, another party of thirty-odd Grays approached from around a curve ahead. As they came alongside, they stopped, and after the usual ceremonial of their captains greeting each other, all their eyes turned on Blackthorne. There was a volley of questions and answers and then, as these men began to reassemble to leave, their leader calmly pulled out his sword and impaled the leader of Blackthorne’s samurai. Simultaneously the new group fell on the rest of Blackthorne’s samurai. The ambush was so sudden and so well planned that all ten Grays were dead almost at the same instant. Not one had even had time to draw his sword.
   The kaga-men were on their knees, horrified, their foreheads pressed into the grass. Blackthorne stood beside them. The captain-samurai, a heavyset man with a large paunch, sent sentries to either end of the track. Others were collecting the swords of the dead men. During all of this, the men paid Blackthorne no attention at all, until he began to back away. Immediately there was a hissing command from the captain which clearly meant to stay where he was.
   At another command all these new Grays stripped off their uniform kimonos. Underneath they wore a motley collection of rags and ancient kimonos. All pulled on masks that were already tied around their necks. One man collected the gray uniforms and vanished with them into the woods.
   They must be bandits, Blackthorne thought. Why else the masks? What do they want with me?
   The bandits chattered quietly among themselves, watching him as they cleaned their swords on the clothes of the dead samurai.
   “Anjin-san? Hai?” The captain’s eyes above the cloth mask were round and jet and piercing.
   “Hai,” Blackthorne replied, his skin crawling.
   The man pointed at the ground, clearly telling him not to move. “Wakarimasu ka?”
   “Hai.”
   They looked him up and down. Then one of their outpost sentries—no longer gray-uniformed but masked, like all of them—came out of the bushes for an instant, a hundred paces away. He waved and vanished again.
   Immediately the men surrounded Blackthorne, preparing to leave. The bandit captain put his eyes on the kaga-men, who shivered like dogs of a cruel master and put their heads deeper into the grass.
   Then the bandit leader barked an order. The four slowly raised their heads with disbelief. Again the same command and they bowed and groveled and backed away; then as one, they took to their heels and vanished into the undergrowth.
   The bandit smiled contemptuously and motioned Blackthorne to begin walking back toward the city.
   He went with them, helplessly. There was no running away.
   They were almost to the edge of the wood when they stopped. There were noises ahead and another party of thirty samurai rounded the bend. Browns and Grays, the Browns the vanguard, their leader in a palanquin, a few pack horses following. They stopped immediately. Both groups moved into skirmish positions, eyeing each other hostilely, seventy paces between them. The bandit leader walked into the space between, his movements jerky, and shouted angrily at the other samurai, pointing at Blackthorne and then farther back to where the ambush had taken place. He tore out his sword, held it threateningly on high, obviously telling the other party to get out of the way.
   All the swords of his men sang out of their scabbards. At his order one of the bandits stationed himself behind Blackthorne, his sword raised and readied, and again the leader harangued the opposition.
   Nothing happened for a moment, then Blackthorne saw the man in the palanquin get down and he instantly recognized him. It was Kasigi Yabu. Yabu shouted back at the bandit leader but this man shook his sword furiously, ordering them out of the way. His tirade stopped with finality. Then Yabu gave a curt order, and charged with a screaming battle cry, limping slightly, sword high, his men rushing with him, Grays not far behind.
   Blackthorne dropped to escape the sword blow that would have cut him in half, but the blow was ill-timed and the bandit leader turned and fled into the undergrowth, his men following.
   The Browns and the Grays were quickly alongside Blackthorne, who scrambled to his feet. Some of the samurai charged after the bandits into the bushes, others ran up the track, and the rest scattered protectively. Yabu stopped at the edge of the brush, shouted orders imperiously, then came back slowly, his limp more pronounced.
   “So desu, Anjin-san,” he said, panting from his exertion.
   “So desu, Kasigi Yabu-san,” Blackthorne replied, using the same phrase which meant something like “well” or “oh really” or “is that the truth.” He pointed in the direction that the bandits had run away. “Domo.” He bowed politely, equal to equal, and said another blessing for Friar Domingo. “Gomen nasai, nihon go ga hanasemasen”—I’m sorry, I can’t speak Japanese.
   “Hai,” Yabu said, not a little impressed, and added something that Blackthorne did not understand.
   “Tsuyaku ga imasu ka?” Blackthorne asked. Do you have an interpreter?
   “Iyé, Anjin-san. Gomen nasai.”
   Blackthorne felt a little easier. Now he could communicate directly. His vocabulary was sparse, but it was a beginning.
   Eeeee, I wish I did have an interpreter, Yabu was thinking fervently. By the Lord Buddha!