Father Martin Alvito of the Society of Jesus was enraged. Just when he knew he should be preparing for his meeting with Toranaga, at which he would need all his wits, he was faced with this new abomination that could not wait. “What have you got to say for yourself?” he lashed out at the cowled Japanese acolyte who knelt abjectly in front of him. The other Brothers stood around the small room in a semicircle.
   “Please forgive me, Father. I have sinned,” the man stammered in complete misery. “Please forgive—”
   “I repeat: It is for Almighty God in His wisdom to forgive, not me. You’ve committed a mortal sin. You’ve broken your Holy Oath. Well?”
   The reply was barely audible. “I’m sorry, Father.” The man was thin and frail. His baptismal name was Joseph and he was thirty. His fellow acolytes, all Brothers of the Society, ranged from eighteen to forty. All were tonsured, all of noble samurai birth from provinces in Kyushu, all rigorously trained for the priesthood though none yet ordained.
   “I confessed, Father,” Brother Joseph said, keeping his head bowed.
   “You think that’s enough?” Impatiently Alvito turned away and walked to the window. The room was ordinary, the mats fair, the paper shoji screens poorly repaired. The inn was seedy and third class but the best that he could find in Yokosé, the rest taken by samurai. He stared out into the night, half listening to Kiku’s distant voice soaring over the noise of the river. Until the courtesan finished Alvito knew he would not be sent for by Toranaga. “Filthy whore,” he said, half to himself, the wailing discordance of Japanese singing annoying him more than usual, intensifying his anger at Joseph’s betrayal.
   “Listen, Brothers,” Alvito said to the rest, turning back to them. “We are in judgment over Brother Joseph, who went with a whore of this town last night, breaking his Holy Oath of chastity, breaking his Holy Oath of obedience, desecrating his immortal soul, his position as a Jesuit, his place in the Church and all that that stands for. Before God I ask each of you—have you done likewise?”
   They all shook their heads.
   “Have you ever done likewise?”
   “No, Father.”
   “You, sinner! Before God, you admit your sin?”
   “Yes, Father, I’ve already con—”
   “Before God, is this the first time?”
   “No, this was not the first time,” Joseph said. “I—I went with another four nights ago—in Mishima.”
   “But … but yesterday we said Mass! What about your confession yesterday and the night before and the one before that, you didn’t– Yesterday we said Mass! For the love of God, you took the Eucharist unconfessed, with full knowledge of a mortal sin?”
   Brother Joseph was gray with shame. He had been with the Jesuits since he was eight. “It was the—it was the first time, Father. Only four days ago. I’ve been sinless all my life. Again I was tempted—and, the Blessed Madonna forgive me, this time I failed. I’m thirty. I’m a man—we’re all men. Please, the Lord Jesus Father forgave sinners—why can’t you forgive me? We’re all men—”
   “We’re all priests!”
   “We’re not real priests! We’re not professed—we’re not even ordained! We’re not real Jesuits. We can’t take the fourth vow like you, Father,” Joseph said sullenly. “Other Orders ordain their brethren but not the Jesuits. Why shouldn’t—”
   “Hold your tongue!”
   “I won’t!” Joseph flared. “Please excuse me, Father, but why shouldn’t some of us be ordained?” He pointed at one of the Brothers, a tall, round-faced man who watched serenely. “Why shouldn’t Brother Michael be ordained? He’s studied since he was twelve. Now he’s thirty-six and a perfect Christian, almost a saint. He’s converted thousands but he’s still not been ordained though—”
   “In the name of God, you will—”
   “In the name of God, Father, why can’t one of us be ordained? Someone has to dare to ask you!” Joseph was on his feet now. “I’ve been training for sixteen years, Brother Matteo for twenty-three, Juliao more, all our lives—countless years. We know the prayers and catechisms and hymns better than you, and Michael and I even speak Latin as well as Portu—”
   “Stop!”
   “—Portuguese, and we do most of the preaching and debating with the Buddhists and all the other idolaters and do most of the converting. We do! In the name of God and the Madonna, what’s wrong with us? Why aren’t we good enough for Jesuits? Is it just because we’re not Portuguese or Spanish, or because we’re not hairy or round-eyed? In the name of God, Father, why isn’t there an ordained Japanese Jesuit?”
   “Now you will hold your tongue!”
   “We’ve even been to Rome, Michael, Juliao, and me,” Joseph burst out. “You’ve never been to Rome or met the Father-General or His Holiness the Pope as we’ve done—”
   “Which is another reason you should know better than to argue. You’re vowed to chastity, poverty, and obedience. You were chosen among the many, favored out of the many, and now you’ve let your soul get so corrupted that—”
   “So sorry, Father, but I don’t think we were favored to spend eight years going there and coming back if after all our learning and praying and preaching and waiting not one of us is ordained even though it’s been promised. I was twelve when I left. Juliao was elev—”
   “I forbid you to say any more! I order you to stop.” Then in the awful silence Alvito looked at the others, who lined the walls, watching and listening closely. “You will all be ordained in time. But you, Joseph, before God you will—”
   “Before God,” Joseph erupted, “in whose time?”
   “In God’s time,” Alvito slammed back, stunned by the open rebellion, his zeal blazing. “Get-down-on-your-knees!”
   Brother Joseph tried to stare him down but he could not, then his fit passing, he exhaled, sank to his knees, and bowed his head.
   “May God have mercy on you. You are self-confessed to hideous mortal sin, guilty of breaking your Holy vow of chastity, your Holy vow of obedience to your superiors. And guilty of unbelievable insolence. How dare you question our General’s orders or the policy of the Church? You have jeopardized your immortal soul. You are a disgrace to your God, your Company, your Church, your family, and your friends. Your case is so serious it will have to be dealt with by the Visitor-General himself. Until that time you will not take communion, you will not be confessed or hear confession or any part in any service …” Joseph’s shoulders began shaking with the agony of remorse that possessed him. “As initial penance you are forbidden to talk, you will have only rice and water for thirty days, you will spend every night for the next thirty nights on your knees in prayer to the Blessed Madonna for forgiveness for your hideous sins, and further you will be scourged. Thirty lashes. Take off your cassock.”
   The shoulders stopped trembling. Joseph looked up. “I accept everything you’ve ordered, Father,” he said, “and I apologize with all my heart, with all my soul. I beg your forgiveness as I will beg His forgiveness forever. But I will not be lashed like a common criminal.”
   “You-will-be-scourged!”
   “Please excuse me, Father,” Joseph said. “In the name of the Blessed Madonna, it’s not the pain. Pain is nothing to me, death is nothing to me. That I’m damned and will burn in hellfire for all eternity may be my karma, and I will endure it. But I’m samurai. I’m of Lord Harima’s family.”
   “Your pride sickens me. It’s not for the pain you’re to be punished, but to remove your disgusting pride. Common criminal? Where is your humility? Our Lord Jesus Christ endured mortification. And he died with common criminals.”
   “Yes. That’s our major problem here, Father.”
   “What?”
   “Please excuse my, bluntness, Father, but if the King of Kings had not died like a common criminal on the cross, samurai could accept—”
   “Stop!”
   “—Christianity more easily. The Society’s wise to avoid preaching Christ crucified like the other Orders—”
   Like an avenging angel, Alvito held up his cross as a shield in front of him. “In the name of God, keep silent and obey or-you-are-excommunicated! Seize him and strip him!”
   The others came to life and moved forward, but Joseph sprang to his feet. A knife appeared in his hand from under his robes. He put his back to the wall. Everyone stopped in his tracks. Except Brother Michael. Brother Michael came forward slowly and calmly, his hand outstretched. “Please give me the knife, Brother,” he said gently.
   “No. Please excuse me.”
   “Then pray for me, Brother, as I pray for you.” Michael quietly reached up for the weapon.
   Joseph darted a few paces back, then readied for a death thrust. “Forgive me, Michael.”
   Michael continued to approach.
   “Michael, stop! Leave him alone,” Alvito commanded.
   Michael obeyed, inches from the hovering blade.
   Then Alvito said, ashen, “God have mercy on you, Joseph. You are excommunicated. Satan has possessed your soul on earth as he will possess it after death. Get thee gone!”
   “I renounce the Christian God! I’m Japanese—I’m Shinto. My soul’s my own now. I’m not afraid,” Joseph shouted. “Yes, we’ve pride—unlike barbarians. We’re Japanese, we’re not barbarians. Even our peasants are not barbarians.”
   Gravely Alvito made the sign of the cross as protection for all of them and fearlessly turned his back on the knife. “Let us pray together, Brothers. Satan is in our midst.”
   The others also turned away, many sadly, some still in shock. Only Michael remained where he was, looking at Joseph. Joseph ripped off his rosary and cross. He was going to hurl it away but Michael held out his hand again. “Please, Brother, please give it to me—it is such a simple gift,” he said.
   Joseph looked at him a long moment, then he gave it to him. “Please excuse me.”
   “I will pray for you,” Michael said.
   “Didn’t you hear? I’ve renounced God!”
   “I will pray that God will not renounce you, Uraga-noh-Tadamasa-san.”
   “Forgive me, Brother,” Joseph said. He stuck the knife in his sash, jerked the door open, and walked blindly along the corridor out onto the veranda. People watched him curiously, among them Uo the fisherman, who was waiting patiently in the shadows. Joseph crossed the courtyard and went toward the gate. A samurai stood in his way.
   “Halt!”
   Joseph stopped.
   “Where are you going, please?”
   “I’m sorry, please excuse me, I—I don’t know.”
   “I serve Lord Toranaga. So sorry, I couldn’t help hearing what went on in there. The whole inn must have heard. Shocking bad manners … shocking for your leader to shout like that and disturb the peace. And you too. I’m on duty here. I think it’s best you see the officer of my watch.”
   “I think—thank you, I’ll go the other way. Please excuse—”
   “You’ll go nowhere, so sorry. Except to see my officer.”
   “What? Oh—yes. Yes, I’m sorry, of course.” Joseph tried to make his brain work.
   “Good. Thank you.” The samurai turned as another samurai approached from the bridge and saluted.
   “I’m to fetch the Tsukku-san for Lord Toranaga.”
   “Good. You’re expected.”

Chapter 43

   Toranaga watched the tall priest approach across the clearing, the flickering light of the torches making the lean face starker than usual above the blackness of his beard. The priest’s orange Buddhist robe was elegant and a rosary and cross hung at his waist.
   Ten paces away Father Alvito stopped, knelt, and bowed deferentially, beginning the customary formalities.
   Toranaga was sitting alone on the dais, guards in a semicircle around him, well out of hearing. Only Blackthorne was nearby and he lolled against the platform as he had been ordered, his eyes boring into the priest. Alvito appeared not to notice him.
   “It is good to see you, Sire,” Father Alvito said when it was polite to do so.
   “And to see you, Tsukku-san.” Toranaga motioned the priest to make himself comfortable on the cushion that had been placed on a tatami on the ground in front of the platform. “It’s a long time since I saw you.”
   “Yes, Sire, there’s much to tell.” Alvito was deeply conscious that the cushion was on the earth and not on the dais. Also, he was acutely aware of the samurai swords that Blackthorne now wore so near to Toranaga and the way he slouched with such indifference. “I bring a confidential message from my superior, the Father-Visitor, who greets you with deference.”
   “Thank you. But first, tell me about you.”
   “Ah, Sire,” Alvito said, knowing that Toranaga was far too discerning not to have noticed the remorse that beset him, much as he had tried to throw it off. “Tonight I’m too aware of my own failings. Tonight I’d like to be allowed to put off my earthly duties and go into a retreat to pray, to beg for God’s favor.” He was shamed by his own lack of humility. Although Joseph’s sin had been terrible, Alvito had acted with haste and anger and stupidity. It was his fault that a soul had been outcast, to be lost forever. “Our Lord once said, ‘Please, Father, let this cup pass from me.’ But even He had to retain the cup. We, in the world, we have to try to follow in His footsteps as best we can. Please excuse me for allowing my problem to show.”
   “What was your ‘cup,’ old friend?”
   Alvito told him. He knew there was no reason to hide the facts for, of course, Toranaga would hear them very soon if he did not already know them, and it was much better to hear the truth than a garbled version. “It’s so very sad to lose a Brother, terrible to make one an outcast, however terrible the crime. I should have been more patient. It was my fault.”
   “Where is he now?”
   “I don’t know, Sire.”
   Toranaga called a guard. “Find the renegade Christian and bring him to me at noon tomorrow.” The samurai hurried away.
   “I beg mercy for him, Sire,” Alvito said quickly, meaning it. But he knew whatever he said would do little to dissuade Toranaga from a path already chosen. Again he wished the Society had its own secular arm empowered to arrest and punish apostates, like elsewhere in the world. He had repeatedly recommended that this be created but he had always been overruled, here in Japan, and also in Rome by the General of the Order. Yet without our own secular arm, he thought tiredly, we’ll never be able to exercise real discipline over our Brethren and our flock.
   “Why aren’t there ordained priests within your Society, Tsukku-san?”
   “Because, Sire, not one of our acolytes is yet sufficiently well trained. For instance, Latin is an absolute necessity because our Order requires any Brother to travel anywhere in the world at any time, and Latin, unfortunately, is very difficult to learn. Not one is trained yet, or ready.”
   Alvito believed this with all his heart. He was also bitterly opposed to a Japanese-ordained Jesuit clergy, in opposition to the Father-Visitor. “Eminence,” he had always said, “I beg you, don’t be fooled by their modest and decorous exterior. Underneath they’re all unreliable characters, and their pride and Japaneseness will always dominate in the end. They’ll never be true servants of the Society, or reliable soldiers of His Holiness, the Vicar of Christ on earth, obedient to him alone. Never.”
   Alvito glanced momentarily at Blackthorne then back to Toranaga, who said, “But two or three of these apprentice priests speak Latin, neh, and Portuguese? It’s true what that man said, neh? Why haven’t they been chosen?”
   “So sorry, but the General of our Society doesn’t consider them sufficiently prepared. Perhaps Joseph’s tragic fall is an example.”
   “Bad to break a solemn oath,” Toranaga said. He remembered the year the three boys had sailed off from Nagasaki in a Black Ship to be feted in the court of the Spanish king and the court of the High Priest of the Christians, the same year Goroda had been assassinated. Nine years later they had returned but all their time away had been carefully controlled and monitored. They had left as naive, youthful Christian zealots and returned just as narrow-minded and almost as ill-informed as when they had left. Stupid waste, Toranaga thought, waste of an incredible opportunity which Goroda had refused to take advantage of, as much as he had advised it.
   “No, Tora-san, we need the Christians against the Buddhists,” Goroda had said. “Many Buddhist priests and monks are soldiers, neh? Most of them are. The Christians aren’t, neh? Let the Giant Priest have the three youths he wants—they’re only Kyushu stumbleheads, neh? I tell you to encourage Christians. Don’t bother me with a ten-year plan, but burn every Buddhist monastery within reach. Buddhists are like flies on carrion, and Christians nothing but a bag of fart.”
   Now they’re not, Toranaga thought with growing irritation. Now they’re hornets.
   “Yes,” he said aloud. “Very bad to break an oath and shout and disturb the harmony of an inn.”
   “Please excuse me, Sire, and forgive me for mentioning my problems. Thank you for listening. As always your concern makes me feel better. May I be permitted to greet the pilot?”
   Toranaga assented.
   “I must congratulate you, Pilot,” Alvito said in Portuguese. “Your swords suit you.”
   “Thank you, Father, I’m learning to use them,” Blackthorne replied. “But, sorry to say, I’m not very good with them yet. I’ll stick to pistols or cutlasses or cannon when I have to fight.”
   “I pray that you may never have to fight again, Pilot, and that your eyes will be opened to God’s infinite mercy.”
   “Mine are open. Yours are fogged.”
   “For your own soul’s sake, Pilot, keep your eyes open, and your mind open. Perhaps you may be mistaken. Even so, I must thank you for saving Lord Toranaga’s life.”
   “Who told you that?”
   Alvito did not reply. He turned back to Toranaga.
   “What was said?” Toranaga asked, breaking a silence.
   Alvito told him, adding, “Though he’s the enemy of my faith and a pirate, I’m glad he saved you, Sire. God moves in mysterious ways. You’ve honored him greatly by making him samurai.”
   “He’s hatamoto also.” Toranaga was pleasured by the priest’s fleeting amazement. “Did you bring a dictionary?”
   “Yes, Sire, with several of the maps you wanted, showing some of the Portuguese bases en route from Goa. The book’s in my luggage. May I send someone for it, or may I give it to him later myself?”
   “Give it to him later. Tonight, or tomorrow. Did you also bring the report?”
   “About the alleged guns that were supposed to be brought from Macao? The Father-Visitor is preparing it, Sire.”
   “And the numbers of Japanese mercenaries employed at each of your new bases?”
   “The Father-Visitor has requested an up-to-date report from all of them, Sire, which he will give you as soon as they’re complete.”
   “Good. Now tell me, how did you know about my rescue?”
   “Hardly a thing that happens to Toranaga-noh-Minowara is not the subject of rumor and legend. Coming from Mishima we heard that you were almost swallowed up in an earthquake, Sire, but that the ‘Golden Barbarian’ had pulled you out. Also, that you’d done the same for him and a lady—I presume the Lady Mariko?”
   Toranaga nodded briefly. “Yes. She’s here in Yokosé.” He thought a moment, then said, “Tomorrow she would like to be confessed, according to your customs. But only those things that are nonpolitical. I would imagine that excludes everything to do with me, and my various hatamoto, neh? I explained that to her also.”
   Alvito bowed his understanding. “With your permission, could I say Mass for all the Christians here, Sire? It would be very discreet, of course. Tomorrow?”
   “I’ll consider it.” Toranaga continued to talk about inconsequential matters for a while, then he said, “You have a message for me? From your Chief Priest?”
   “With humility, Sire, I beg to say that it was a private message.”
   Toranaga pretended to think about that, even though he had determined exactly how the meeting would proceed and had already given the Anjin-san specific instructions how to act and what to say. “Very well.” He turned to Blackthorne, “Anjin-san, you can go now and we’ll talk more later.”
   “Yes, Sire,” Blackthorne replied. “So sorry, the Black Ship. Arrive Nagasaki?”
   “Ah, yes. Thank you,” he replied, pleased that the Anjin-san’s question didn’t sound rehearsed. “Well, Tsukku-san, has it docked yet?”
   Alvito was startled by Blackthorne’s Japanese and greatly perturbed by the question. “Yes, Sire. It docked fourteen days ago.”
   “Ah, fourteen?” said Toranaga. “You understand, Anjin-san?”
   “Yes. Thank you.”
   “Good. Anything else you can ask Tsukku-san later, neh?”
   “Yes, Sire. Please excuse me.” Blackthorne got up and bowed and wandered off.
   Toranaga watched him go. “A most interesting man—for a pirate. Now, first tell me about the Black Ship.”
   “It arrived safely, Sire, with the greatest cargo of silk that has ever been.” Alvito tried to sound enthusiatic. “The arrangement made between the Lords Harima, Kiyama, Onoshi, and yourself is in effect. Your treasury will be richer with tens of thousands of koban by this time next year. The quality of silks is the finest, Sire. I’ve brought a copy of the manifest for your quartermaster. The Captain-General Ferriera sends his respects, hoping to see you in person soon. That was the reason for my delay in coming to see you. The Visitor-General sent me post haste from Osaka to Nagasaki to make certain everything was perfect. Just as I was leaving Nagasaki we heard you’d left Yedo for Izu, so I came here as quickly as I could, by ship to Port Nimazu with one of our fastest cutters, then by road. At Mishima I fell in with Lord Zataki and asked permission to join him.”
   “Your ship’s still at Nimazu?”
   “Yes, Sire. It will wait for me there.”
   “Good.” For a moment Toranaga wondered whether or not to send Mariko by that ship to Osaka, then decided to deal with that later. “Please give the manifest to the quartermaster tonight.”
   “Yes, Sire.”
   “And the arrangement about this year’s cargo is sealed?”
   “Yes. Absolutely.”
   “Good. Now the other part. The important part.”
   Alvito’s hands went dry. “Neither Lord Kiyama nor Lord Onoshi will agree to forsake General Ishido. I’m sorry. They will not agree to join your banner now in spite of our strongest suggestion.”
   Toranaga’s voice became low and cruel. “I already pointed out I required more than suggestions!”
   “I’m sorry to bring bad news in this part, Sire, but neither would agree to publicly come over to—”
   “Ah, publicly, you say? What about privately—secretly?”
   “Privately they were both as adamant as pub—”
   “You talked to them separately or together?”
   “Of course together, and separately, most confidentially, but nothing we suggested would—”
   “You only ‘suggested’ a course of action? Why didn’t you order them?”
   “It’s as the Father-Visitor said, Sire, we can’t order any daimyo or any—”
   “Ah, but you can order one of your Brethren? Neh?”
   “Yes. Sire.”
   “Did you threaten to make them outcast, too?”
   “No, Sire.”
   “Why?”
   “Because they’ve committed no mortal sin.” Alvito said it firmly, as he and dell’Aqua had agreed, but his heart was fluttering and he hated to be the bearer of terrible tidings, which were even worse now because the Lord Harima, who legally owned Nagasaki, had told them privately that all his immense wealth and influence were going to Ishido. “Please excuse me, Sire, but I don’t make divine rules, any more than you made the code of bushido, the Way of the Warrior. We, we have to comply with what—”
   “You make a poor fool outcast for a natural act like pillowing, but when two of your converts behave unnaturally—yes, even treacherously—when I seek your help, urgent help—and I’m your friend—you only make ‘suggestions.’ You understand the seriousness of this, neh?”
   “I’m sorry, Lord. Please excuse me but—”
   “Perhaps I won’t excuse you, Tsukku-san. It’s been said before: Now everyone has to choose a side,” Toranaga said.
   “Of course we are on your side, Sire. But we cannot order Lord Kiyama or Lord Onoshi to do anything—”
   “Fortunately I can order my Christian.”
   “Sire?”
   “I can order the Anjin-san freed. With his ship. With his cannon.”
   “Beware of him, Sire. The Pilot’s diabolically clever, but he’s a heretic, a pirate and not to be trust—”
   “Here the Anjin-san’s a samurai and hatamoto. At sea perhaps he’s a pirate. If he’s a pirate, I imagine he’ll attract many other corsairs and wako to him—many of them. What a foreigner does on the open sea’s his own business, neh? That’s always been our policy. Neh?”
   Alvito kept quiet and tried to make his brain function. No one had planned on the Ingeles’ becoming so close to Toranaga.
   “Those two Christian daimyos will make no commitments, not even a secret one?”
   “No, Sire. We tried ev—”
   “No concession, none?”
   “No, Sire.”
   “No barter, no arrangement, no compromise, nothing?”
   “No, Sire. We tried every inducement and persuasion. Please believe me.” Alvito knew he was in the trap and some of his desperation showed. “If it were me, yes, I would threaten them with excommunication, though it would be a false threat because I’d never carry it through, not unless they had committed a mortal sin and wouldn’t confess or be penitent and submit. But even a threat for temporal gain would be very wrong of me, Sire, a mortal sin. I’d risk eternal damnation.”
   “Are you saying if they sinned against your creed, then you’d cast them out?”
   “Yes. But I’m not suggesting that could be used to bring them to your side, Sire. Please excuse me but they … they’re totally opposed to you at the moment. I’m sorry but that’s the truth. They both made it very clear, together and in private. Before God I pray they change their minds. We gave you our words to try, before God, the Father-Visitor and I. We fulfilled our promise. Before God we failed.”
   “Then I shall lose,” Toranaga said. “You know that, don’t you? If they stand allied with Ishido, all the Christian daimyos will side with him. Then I have to lose. Twenty samurai against one of mine. Neh?”

   “Yes.”
   “What’s their plan? When will they attack me?”
   “I don’t know, Sire.”
   “Would you tell me if you did?”
   “Yes—yes I would.”
   I doubt it, Toranaga thought, and looked away into the night, the burden of his worry almost crushing him. Is it to be Crimson Sky after all, he asked himself helplessly? The stupid, bound-to-fail lunge at Kyoto?
   He hated the shameful cage that he was in. Like the Taikō and Goroda before him, he had to tolerate the Christian priests because the priests were as inseparable from the Portuguese traders as flies from a horse, holding absolute temporal and spiritual power over their unruly flock. Without the priests there was no trade. Their good will as negotiators and middle men in the Black Ship operation was vital because they spoke the language and were trusted by both sides, and, if ever the priests were completely forbidden the Empire, all barbarians would obediently sail away, never to return. He remembered the one time the Taikō had tried to get rid of the priests yet still encourage trade. For two years there was no Black Ship. Spies reported how the giant chief of the priests, sitting like a poisonous black spider in Macao, had ordered no more trade in reprisal for the Taikō’s Expulsion Edicts, knowing that at length the Taikō must humble himself. In the third year he had bowed to the inevitable and invited the priests back, turning a blind eye to his own Edicts and to the treason and rebellion the priests had advocated.
   There’s no escape from that reality, Toranaga thought. None. I don’t believe what the Anjin-san says—that trade is as essential to barbarians as it is to us, that their greed will make them trade, no matter what we do to the priests. The risk is too great to experiment and there’s no time and I don’t have the power. We experimented once and failed. Who knows? Perhaps the priests could wait us out ten years; they’re ruthless enough. If the priests order no trade, I believe there will be no trade. We could not wait ten years. Even five years. And if we expel all barbarians it must take twenty years for the English barbarian to fill up the gap, if the Anjin-san is telling the whole truth and if—and it is an immense if—if the Chinese would agree to trade with them against the Southern Barbarians. I don’t believe the Chinese will change their pattern. They never have. Twenty years is too long. Ten years is too long.
   There’s no escape from that reality. Or the worst reality of all, the specter that secretly petrified Goroda and the Taikō and is now rearing its foul head again: that the fanatical, fearless Christian priests, if pushed too far, will put all their influence and their trading power and sea power behind one of the great Christian daimyos. Further, they would engineer an invasion force of iron-clad, equally fanatic conquistadores armed with the latest muskets to support this one Christian daimyo—like they almost did the last time. By themselves, any number of invading barbarians and their priests are no threat against our overwhelming joint forces. We smashed the hordes of Kublai Khan and we can deal with any invader. But allied to one of our own, a great Christian daimyo with armies of samurai, and given civil wars throughout the realm, this could, ultimately, give this one daimyo absolute power over all of us.
   Kiyama or Onoshi? It’s obvious now, that has to be the priest’s scheme. The timing’s perfect. But which daimyo?
   Both, initially, helped by Harima of Nagasaki. But who’ll carry the final banner? Kiyama—because Onoshi the leper’s not long for this earth and Onoshi’s obvious reward for supporting his hated enemy and rival, Kiyama, would be a guaranteed, painless, everlasting life in the Christian heaven with a permanent seat at the right hand of the Christian God.
   They’ve four hundred thousand samurai between them now. Their base is Kyushu and that island’s safe from my grasp. Together those two could easily subjugate the whole island, then they have limitless troops, limitless food, all the ships necessary for an invasion, all the silk, and Nagasaki. Throughout the land there are perhaps another five or six hundred thousand Christians. Of these, more than half—the Jesuit Christian converts—are samurai, all salted nicely among the forces of all daimyos, a vast pool of potential traitors, spies, or assassins—should the priests order it. And why shouldn’t they? They’d get what they want above life itself: absolute power over all our souls, thus over the soul of this Land of the Gods—to inherit our earth and all that it contains—just as the Anjin-san has explained has already happened fifty times in this New World of theirs… They convert a king, then use him against his own kind, until all the land is swallowed up.
   It’s so easy for them to conquer us, this tiny band of barbarian priests. How many are there in all Japan? Fifty or sixty? But they’ve the power. And they believe. They’re prepared to die gladly for their beliefs, with pride and with bravery, with the name of their God on their lips. We saw that at Nagasaki when the Taikō’s experiment proved a disastrous mistake. Not one of the priests recanted, tens of thousands witnessed the burnings, tens of thousands were converted, and this “martyrdom” gave the Christian religion immense prestige that Christian priests have fed on ever since.
   For me, the priests have failed, but that won’t deter them from their relentless course. That’s reality, too.
   So, it’s Kiyama.
   Is the plan already settled, with Ishido a dupe and the Lady Ochiba and Yaemon also? Has Harima already thrown in with them secretly? Should I launch the Anjin-san at the Black Ship and Nagasaki immediately?
   What shall I do?
   Nothing more than usual. Be patient, seek harmony, put aside all worries about I or Thou, Life or Death, Oblivion or Afterlife, Now or Then, and set a new plan into motion. What plan, he wanted to shout in desperation. There isn’t one!
   “It saddens me that those two stay with the real enemy.”
   “I swear we tried, Sire.” Alvito watched him compassionately, seeing the heaviness of his spirit.
   “Yes. I believe that. I believe you and the Father-Visitor kept your solemn promise, so I will keep mine. You may begin to build your temple at Yedo at once. The land has been set aside. I cannot forbid the priests, the other Hairies, entrance to the Empire, but at least I can make them unwelcome in my domain. The new barbarians will be equally unwelcome, if they ever arrive. As to the Anjin-san …” Toranaga shrugged. “But how long all this … well, that’s karma, neh?”
   Alvito was thanking God fervently for His mercy and favor at the unexpected reprieve. “Thank you, Sire,” he said, hardly able to talk. “I know you’ll not regret it. I pray that your enemies will be scattered like chaff and that you may reap the rewards of Heaven.”
   “I’m sorry for my harsh words. They were spoken in anger. There’s so much …” Toranaga got up ponderously. “You have my permission to say your service tomorrow, old friend.”
   “Thank you, Sire,” Alvito said, bowing low, pitying the normally majestic man. “Thank you with all my heart. May the Divinity bless you and take you into His keeping.”
   Toranaga trudged into the inn, his guards following. “Naga-san!”
   “Yes, Father,” the youth said, hurrying up.
   “Where’s the Lady Mariko?”
   “There, Sire, with Buntaro-san.” Naga pointed to the small, lantern-lit cha house inside its enclosure in the garden, the shadowed figures within. “Shall I interrupt the cha-no-yu?” A cha-no-yu was a formal, extremely ritualized Tea Ceremony.
   “No. That must never be interfered with. Where are Omi and Yabu-san?”
   “They’re at their inn, Sire.” Naga indicated the sprawling low building on the other side of the river, near the far bank.
   “Who chose that one?”
   “I did, Sire. Please excuse me, you asked me to find them an inn on the other side of the bridge. Did I misunderstand you?”
   “The Anjin-san?”
   “He’s in his room, Sire. He’s waiting in case you want him.”
   Again Toranaga shook his head. “I’ll see him tomorrow.” After a pause, he said in the same faraway voice, “I’m going to take a bath now. Then I don’t wish to be disturbed till dawn except—”
   Naga waited uneasily, watching his father stare sightlessly into space, greatly disconcerted by his manner. “Are you all right, Father?”
   “What? Oh, yes—yes, I’m all right. Why?”
   “Nothing—please excuse me. Do you still want to hunt at dawn?”
   “Hunt? Ah yes, that’s a good idea. Thank you for suggesting it, yes, that would be very good. See to it. Well, good night … Oh yes, the Tsukku-san has my permission to give a private service tomorrow. All Christians may go. You go also.”
   “Sire?”
   “On the first day of the New Year you will become a Christian.”
   “Me!”
   “Yes. Of your own free will. Tell Tsukku-san privately.”
   “Sire?”
   Toranaga wheeled on him. “Are you deaf? Don’t you understand the simplest thing anymore?”
   “Please excuse me. Yes, Father. I understand.”
   “Good.” Toranaga fell back into his distracted attitude, then wandered off, his personal bodyguard in tow. All samurai bowed stiffly, but he took no notice of them.
   An officer came up to Naga, equally apprehensive. “What’s the matter with our Lord?”
   “I don’t know, Yoshinaka-san.” Naga looked back at the clearing. Alvito was just leaving, heading toward the bridge, a single samurai escorting him. “Must be something to do with him.”
   “I’ve never seen Lord Toranaga walk so heavily. Never. They say—they say that barbarian priest’s a magician, a wizard. He must be to speak our tongue so well, neh? Could he have put a spell on our Lord?”
   “No. Never. Not my father.”
   “Barbarians make my spine shake too, Naga-san. Did you hear about the row—Tsukku-san and his band shouting and quarreling like ill-mannered eta?”
   “Yes. Disgusting. I’m sure that man must have destroyed my father’s harmony.”
   “If you ask me, an arrow in that priest’s throat would save our Master a lot of trouble.”
   “Yes.”
   “Perhaps we should tell Buntaro-san about Lord Toranaga? He’s our senior officer.”
   “I agree—but later. My father said clearly I was not to interrupt the cha-no-yu. I’ll wait till he’s finished.”


   In the peace and quiet of the little house, Buntaro fastidiously opened the small earthenware tea caddy of the T’ang Dynasty and, with equal care, took up the bamboo spoon, beginning the final part of the ceremony. Deftly he spooned up exactly the right amount of green powder and put it into the handleless porcelain cup. An ancient cast-iron kettle was singing over the charcoal. With the same tranquil grace Buntaro poured the bubbling water into the cup, replaced the kettle on its tripod, then gently beat the powder and water with the bamboo whisk to blend it perfectly.
   He added a spoonful of cool water, bowed to Mariko, who knelt opposite him, and offered the cup. She bowed and took it with equal refinement, admiring the green liquid, and sipped three times, rested, then sipped again, finishing it. She offered the cup back. He repeated the symmetry of the formal cha-making and again offered it. She begged him to taste the cha himself, as was expected of her. He sipped, and then again, and finished it. Then he made a third cup and a fourth. More was politely refused.
   With great care, ritually he washed and dried the cup, using the peerless cotton cloth, and laid both in their places. He bowed to her and she to him. The cha-no-yu was finished.
   Buntaro was content that he had done his best and that now, at least for the moment, there was peace between them. This afternoon there had been none.
   He had met her palanquin. At once, as always, he had felt coarse and uncouth in contrast to her fragile perfection—like one of the wild, despised, barbaric Hairy Ainu tribesmen that once inhabited the land but were now driven to the far north, across the straits, to the unexplored island of Hokkaido. All of his well-thought-out words, had left him and he clumsily invited her to the cha-no-yu, adding, “It’s years since we … I’ve never given one for you but tonight will be convenient.” Then he had blurted out, never meaning to say it, knowing that it was stupid, inelegant, and a vast mistake, “Lord Toranaga said it was time for us to talk.”
   “But you do not, Sire?”
   In spite of his resolve he flushed and his voice rasped, “I’d like harmony between us, yes, and more. I’ve never changed, neh?”
   “Of course, Sire, and why should you? If there’s any fault it’s not your place to change but mine. If any fault exists, it’s because of me, please excuse me.”
   “I’ll excuse you,” he said, towering over her there beside the palanquin, deeply conscious that others were watching, the Anjin-san and Omi among them. She was so lovely and tiny and unique, her hair piled high, her lowered eyes seemingly so demure, yet for him filled now with that same black ice that always sent him into a blind, impotent frenzy, making him want to kill and shout and mutilate and smash and behave the way a samurai never should behave.
   “I’ve reserved the cha house for tonight,” he told her. “For tonight, after the evening meal. We’re ordered to eat the evening meal with Lord Toranaga. I would be honored if you would be my guest afterwards.”
   “It’s I who am honored.” She bowed and waited with the same lowered eyes and he wanted to smash her to death into the ground, then go off and plunge his knife crisscross into his belly and let the eternal pain cleanse the torment from his soul.
   He saw her look up at him discerningly.
   “Was there anything else, Sire?” she asked, so softly.
   The sweat was running down his back and thighs, staining his kimono, his chest hurting like his head. “You’re—you’re staying at the inn tonight.” Then he had left her and made careful dispositions for the whole baggage train. As soon as he could, he had handed his duties over to Naga and strode off with a pretended truculence down the river bank, and when he was alone, he had plunged naked into the torrent, careless of his safety, and fought the river until his head had cleared and the pounding ache had gone.
   He had lain on the bank collecting himself. Now that she had accepted he had to begin. There was little time. He summoned his strength and walked back to the rough garden gate that was within the mother garden and stood there for a moment rethinking his plan. Tonight he wanted everything to be perfect. Obviously the hut was imperfect, like its garden—an uncouth provincial attempt at a real cha house. Never mind, he thought, now completely absorbed in his task, it will have to do. Night will hide many faults and lights will have to create the form it lacks.
   Servants had already brought the things he had ordered earlier—tatamis, pottery oil lamps, and cleaning utensils—the very best in Yokosé, everything brand-new but modest, discreet and unpretentious.
   He stripped off his kimono, laid down his swords, and began to clean. First the tiny reception room and kitchen and veranda. Then the winding path and the flagstones that were let into the moss, and finally the rocks and skirting garden. He scrubbed and broomed and brushed until everything was spotless, letting himself swoop into the humility of manual labor that was the beginning of the cha-no-yu, where the host alone was required to make everything faultless. The first perfection was absolute cleanliness.
   By dusk he had finished most of the preparations. Then he had bathed meticulously, endured the evening meal, and the singing. As soon as he could he had changed again into more somber clothes and hurried back to the garden. He latched the gate. First he put the taper to the oil lamps. Then, carefully, he sprinkled water on the flagstones and the trees that were now splashed here and there with flickering light, until the tiny garden was a fairyland of dewdrops dancing in the warmth of the summer’s breeze. He repositioned some of the lanterns. Finally satisfied, he unlatched the gate and went to the vestibule. The carefully selected pieces of charcoal that had been placed punctiliously in a pyramid on white sand were burning correctly. The flowers seemed correct in the takonama. Once more he cleaned the already impeccable utensils. The kettle began to sing and he was pleased with the sound that was enriched by the little pieces of iron he had placed so diligently in the bottom.

   All was ready. The first perfection of the cha-no-yu was cleanliness, the second, complete simplicity. The last and greatest, suitability to the particular guest or guests.
   He heard her footsteps on the flagstones, the sound of her dipping her hands ritually in the cistern of fresh river water and drying them. Three soft steps up to the veranda. Two more to the curtained doorway. Even she had to bend to come through the tiny door that was made deliberately small to humble everyone. At a cha-no-yu all were equal, host and guest, the most high daimyo and merest samurai. Even a peasant if he was invited.
   First she studied her husband’s flower arrangement. He had chosen the blossom of a single white wild rose and put a single pearl of water on the green leaf, and set it on red stones. Autumn is coming, he was suggesting with the flower, talking through the flower, do not weep for the time of fall, the time of dying when the earth begins to sleep; enjoy the time of beginning again and experience the glorious cool of the autumn air on this summer evening … soon the tear will vanish and the rose, only the stones will remain—soon you and I will vanish and only the stones will remain.
   He watched her, apart from himself, now deep in the near trance that a cha-master sometimes was fortunate enough to experience, completely in harmony with his surroundings. She bowed to the flower in homage and came and knelt opposite him. Her kimono was dark brown, a thread of burnt gold at the seams enhancing the white column of her throat and face; her obi the darkest of greens that matched the underkimono; her hair simple and upswept and unadorned.
   “You are welcome,” he said with a bow, beginning the ritual.
   “It is my honor,” she replied, accepting her role.
   He served the tiny repast on a blemishless lacquered tray, the chopsticks placed just so, the slivers of fish on rice that he had prepared a part of the pattern, and to complete the effect, a few wild flowers that he had found near the river bank scattered in perfect disarray. When she had finished eating and he, in his turn, had finished eating, he lifted the tray, every movement formalized—to be observed and judged and recorded—and took it through the low doorway into the kitchen.
   Then alone, at rest, Mariko watched the fire critically, the coals a glowing mountain on a sea of stark white sand below the tripod, her ears listening to the hissing sound of the fire melding with the sighing of the barely simmering kettle above, and, from the unseen kitchen, the sibilance of cloth on porcelain and water cleaning the already clean. In time her eyes wandered to the raw twisted rafters and to the bamboos and the reeds that formed the thatch. The shadows cast by the few lamps he had placed seemingly at random made the small large and the insignificant rare, and the whole a perfect harmony. After she had seen everything and measured her soul against it, she went again into the garden, to the shallow basin that, over eons, nature had formed in the rock. Once more she purified her hands and mouth with the cool, fresh water, drying them on a new towel.
   When she had settled back into her place he said, “Perhaps now you would take cha?”
   “It would be my honor. But please do not put yourself to so much trouble on my account.”
   “It is my honor. You are my guest.”
   So he had served her. And now there was the ending.
   In the silence, Mariko did not move for a moment, but stayed in her tranquillity, not wishing yet to acknowledge the ending or disturb the peace surrounding her. But she felt the growing strength of his eyes. The cha-no-yu was ended. Now life must begin again.
   “You did it perfectly,” she whispered, her sadness overwhelming her. A tear slid from her eyes and the falling ripped the heart from his chest.
   “No—no. Please excuse me … you are perfect … it was ordinary,” he said, startled by such unexpected praise.
   “It was the best I’ve ever seen,” she said, moved by the stark honesty in his voice.
   “No. No, please excuse me, if it was fair it was because of you, Mariko-san. It was only fair—you made it better.”
   “For me it was flawless. Everything. How sad that others, more worthy than I, couldn’t have witnessed it also!” Her eyes glistened in the flickering light.
   “You witnessed it. That is everything. It was only for you. Others wouldn’t have understood.”
   She felt the hot tears now on her cheeks. Normally she would have been ashamed of them but now they did not trouble her. “Thank you, how can I thank you?”
   He picked up a sprig of wild thyme and, his fingers trembling leaned over and gently caught one of her tears. Silently he looked down at the tear and the branchlet dwarfed by his huge fist. “My work—any work—is inadequate against the beauty of this. Thank you.”
   He watched the tear on the leaf. A piece of charcoal fell down the mountain and, without thinking, he picked up the tongs and replaced it. A few sparks danced into the air from the mountaintop and it became an erupting volcano.
   Both drifted into a sweet melancholia, joined by the simplicity of the single tear, content together in the quiet, joined in humility, knowing that what had been given had been returned in purity.
   Later he said, “If our duty did not forbid it, I would ask you to join me in death. Now.”
   “I would go with you. Gladly,” she answered at once. “Let us go to death. Now.”
   “We can’t. Our duty is to Lord Toranaga.”
   She took out the stiletto that was in her obi and reverently placed it on the tatami. “Then please allow me to prepare the way.”
   “No. That would be failing in our duty.”
   “What is to be, will be. You and I cannot turn the scale.”
   “Yes. But we may not go before our Master. Neither you nor I. He needs every trustworthy vassal for a little longer. Please excuse me, I must forbid it.”
   “I would be pleased to go tonight. I’m prepared. More than that, I totally desire to go beyond. Yes. My soul is brimming with joy.” A hesitant smile. “Please excuse me for being selfish. You’re perfectly right about our duty.”
   The razor-sharp blade glistened in the candlelight. They watched it, lost in contemplation. Then he broke the spell.
   “Why Osaka, Mariko-san?”
   “There are things to be done there which only I can do.”
   His frown deepened as he watched the light from a guttering wick catch the tear and become refracted into a billion colors.
   “What things?”
   “Things that concern the future of our house which must be done by me.”
   “In that case you must go.” He looked at her searchingly. “But you alone?”
   “Yes. I wish to make sure all family arrangements are perfect between us and Lord Kiyama for Saruji’s marriage. Money and dowry and lands and so on. There’s his increased fief to formalize. Lord Hiro-matsu and Lord Toranaga require it done. I am responsible for the house.”
   “Yes,” he said slowly, “that’s your duty.” His eyes held hers. “If Lord Toranaga says you can go, then go, but it’s not likely you’ll be permitted there. Even so … you must return quickly. Very quickly. It would be unwise to stay in Osaka a moment longer than necessary.”
   “Yes.”
   “By sea would be quicker than by road. But you’ve always hated the sea.”
   “I still hate the sea.”
   “Do you have to be there quickly?”
   “I don’t think half a month or a month would matter. Perhaps, I don’t know. I just feel I should go at once.”
   “Then we will leave the time and the matter of the going to Lord Toranaga—if he permits you to go at all. With Lord Zataki here, and the two scrolls, that can only mean war. It will be too dangerous to go.”
   “Yes. Thank you.”
   Glad that that was now finished, he looked around the little room contentedly, unconcerned now that his ugly bulk dominated the space, each of his thighs broader than her waist, his arms thicker than her neck. “This has been a fine room, better than I’d dared to hope. I’ve enjoyed being here. I’m reminded again that a body’s nothing but a hut in the wilderness. Thank you for being here. I’m so glad you came to Yokosé, Mariko-san. If it hadn’t been for you I would never have given a cha-no-yu here and never felt so one with eternity.”
   She hesitated, then shyly picked up the T’ang cha caddy. It was a simple, covered jar without adornment. The orange-brown glaze had run just short, leaving an uneven rim of bare porcelain at the bottom, dramatizing the spontaneity of the potter and his unwillingness to disguise the simplicity of his materials. Buntaro had bought it from Sen-Nakada, the most famous cha-master who had ever lived, for twenty thousand koku. “It’s so beautiful,” she murmured, enjoying the touch of it. “So perfect for the ceremony.”
   “Yes.”
   “You were truly a master tonight, Buntaro-san. You gave me so much happiness.” Her voice was low and intent and she leaned forward a little. “Everything was perfect for me, the garden and how you used artistry to overcome the flaws with light and shadow. And this”—again she touched the cha caddy. “Everything perfect, even the character you’d written on the towel, ai —affection. For me tonight, affection was the perfect word.” Again tears spilled down her cheeks. “Please excuse me,” she said, brushing them away.
   He bowed, embarrassed by such praise. To hide it he began to wrap the caddy in its silken sheaths. When he had finished, he set it into its box and placed it carefully in front of her. “Mariko-san, if our house has money problems, take this. Sell it.”
   “Never!” It was the only possession, apart from his swords and longbow, that he prized in life. “That would be the last thing I would ever sell.”
   “Please excuse me, but if pay for my vassals is a problem, take it.”
   “There’s enough for all of them, with care. And the best weapons and the best horses. In that, our house is strong. No, Buntaro-san, the T’ang is yours.”
   “We’ve not much time left to us. Who should I will it to? Saruji?”
   She looked at the coals and the fire consuming the volcano, humbling it. “No. Not until he’s a worthy cha-master, equaling his father. I counsel you to leave the T’ang to Lord Toranaga, who’s worthy of it, and ask him before he dies to judge if our son will ever merit receiving it.”
   “And if Lord Toranaga loses and dies before winter, as I’m certain he’ll lose?”
   “What?”
   “Here in this privacy I can tell you quietly that truth, without pretense. Isn’t an important part of the cha-no-yu to be without pretense? Yes, he will lose, unless he gets Kiyama and Onoshi—and Zataki.”
   “In that case, set down in your will that the T’ang should be sent with a cortege to His Imperial Highness, petition him to accept it. Certainly the T’ang merits divinity.”
   “Yes. That would be the perfect choice.” He studied the knife then added gloomily, “Ah, Mariko-san, there’s nothing to be done for Lord Toranaga. His karma’s written. He wins or he loses. And if he wins or loses there’ll be a great killing.”
   “Yes.”
   Brooding, he took his eyes off her knife and contemplated the wild thyme sprig, the tear still pure. Later he said, “If he loses, before I die—or if I’m dead—I or one of my men will kill the Anjin-san.”
   Her face was ethereal against the darkness. The soft breeze moved threads of her hair, making her seem even more statuelike. “Please excuse me, may I ask why?”
   “He’s too dangerous to leave alive. His knowledge, his ideas that I’ve heard even fifth hand … he’ll infect the realm, even Lord Yaemon. Lord Toranaga’s already under his spell, neh?”
   “Lord Toranaga enjoys his knowledge,” Mariko said.
   “The moment Lord Toranaga dies, that also is the Anjin-san’s death order. But I hope our Lord’s eyes are opened before that time.” The guttering lamp spluttered and went out. He glanced up at her. “Are you under his spell?”
   “He’s a fascinating man. But his mind’s so different from ours … his values … yes, so different in so many ways that it’s almost impossible to understand him at times. Once I tried to explain a cha-no-yu to him, but it was beyond him.”
   “It must be terrible to be born barbarian—terrible,” Buntaro said.
   “Yes.”
   His eyes dropped to the blade of her stiletto. “Some people think the Anjin-san was Japanese in a previous life. He’s not like other barbarians and he … he tries hard to speak and act like one of us though he fails, neh?”
   “I wish you’d seen him almost commit seppuku Buntaro-san. I … it was extraordinary. I saw death visit him, to be turned away by Omi’s hand. If he was Japanese previously, I think that would explain many things. Lord Toranaga thinks he’s very valuable to us now.”
   “It’s time you stopped training him and became Japanese again.”
   “Sire?”
   “I think Lord Toranaga’s under his spell. And you.”
   “Please excuse me, but I don’t think I am.”
   “That other night in Anjiro, the one that went bad, on that night I felt you were with him, against me. Of course it was an evil thought, but I felt it.”
   Her gaze left the blade. She looked at him steadily and did not reply. Another lamp spluttered briefly and went out. Now only one light remained in the room.
   “Yes, I hated him that night,” Buntaro continued in the same calm voice, “and wanted him dead—and you and Fujiko-san. My bow whispered to me, like it does sometimes, asking for a killing. And when, the next dawn, I saw him coming down the hill with those cowardly little pistols in his hands, my arrows begged to drink his blood. But I put his killing off and humbled myself, hating my bad manners more than him, shamed by my bad manners and the saké.” His tiredness showed now. “So many shames to bear, you and I. Neh?”
   “Yes.”
   “You don’t want me to kill him?”
   “You must do what you know to be your duty,” she said. “As I will always do mine.”
   “We stay at the inn tonight,” he said.
   “Yes.”
   And then, because she had been a perfect guest and the cha-no-yu the best he had ever achieved, he changed his mind and gave her back time and peace in equal measure that he had received from her. “Go to the inn. Sleep,” he said. His hand picked up the stiletto and offered it. “When the maples are bare of leaves—or when you return from Osaka—we will begin again. As husband and wife.”
   “Yes. Thank you.”
   “Do you agree freely, Mariko-san?”
   “Yes. Thank you.”
   “Before your God?”
   “Yes. Before God.”
   Mariko bowed and accepted the knife, replaced it in its hiding place, bowed again and left.
   Her footsteps died away. Buntaro looked down at the branchlet still in his fist, the tear still trapped in a tiny leaf. His fingers trembled as they gently laid the sprig on the last of the coals. The pure green leaves began to twist and char. The tear vanished with a hiss.
   Then, in silence, he began to weep with rage, suddenly sure in his innermost being that she had betrayed him with the Anjin-san.

 
   Blackthorne saw her come out of the garden and walk across the well-lit courtyard. He caught his breath at the whiteness of her beauty. Dawn was creeping into the eastern sky.
   “Hello, Mariko-san.”
   “Oh—hello, Anjin-san! You—so sorry, you startled me—I didn’t see you there. You’re up late.”
   “No. Gomen nasai, I’m on time.” He smiled and motioned to the morning that was not far off. “It’s a habit I picked up at sea, to wake just before dawn, in good time to go aloft to get ready to shoot the sun.” His smile deepened. “It’s you who’re up late!”
   “I didn’t realize that it was … that night was gone.” Samurai were posted at the gates and all doorways, watching curiously, Naga among them. Her voice became almost imperceptible as she switched to Latin. “Guard thine eyes, I beg thee. Even the darkness of night contains harbingers of doom.”
   “I beg forgiveness.”
   They glanced away as horses clattered up to the main gate. Falconers and the hunting party and guards. Dispiritedly Toranaga came from within.
   “Everything’s ready, Sire,” Naga said. “May I come with you?”
   “No, no, thank you. You get some rest. Mariko-san, how was the cha-no-yu?”
   “Most beautiful, Sire. Most very beautiful.”
   “Buntaro-san’s a master. You’re fortunate.”
   “Yes, Sire.”
   “Anjin-san! Would you like to go hunting? I’d like to learn how you fly a falcon.”
   “Sire?”
   Mariko translated at once.
   “Yes, thank you,” Blackthorne said.
   “Good.” Toranaga waved him to a horse. “You come with me.”
   “Yes, Sire.”
   Mariko watched them leave. When they had trotted up the path, she went to her room. Her maid helped her undress, remove her makeup, and take down her hair. Then she told the maid to stay in the room, that she was not to be disturbed until noon.
   “Yes, mistress.”
   Mariko lay down and closed her eyes and allowed her body to fall into the exquisite softness of the down quilts. She was exhausted and elated. The cha-no-yu had pushed her to a strange height of peacefulness, cleansing her, and from there, the sublime, joy-filled decision to go into death had sent her to a further pinnacle never attained before. Returning from the summit into life once more had left her with an eerie, unbelievable awareness of the beauty of being alive. She had seemed to be outside herself as she answered Buntaro patiently, sure her answers and her performance had been equally perfect. She curled up in the bed, so glad that peace existed now—until the leaves fell.
   Oh, Madonna, she prayed fervently, I thank thee for thy mercy in granting me my glorious reprieve. I thank thee and worship thee with all my heart and with all my soul and for all eternity.
   She repeated an Ave Maria in humility and then, asking forgiveness, in accordance to her custom and in obedience to her liege lord, for another day she put her God into a compartment of her mind.
   What would I have done, she mused just before sleep took her, if Buntaro had asked to share my bed?
   I would have refused.
   And then, if he had insisted, as is his right?
   I would have kept my promise to him. Oh, yes. Nothing’s changed.

Chapter 44

   At the Hour of the Goat the cortege crossed the bridge again. Everything was as before, except that now Zataki and his men were lightly dressed for traveling—or skirmishing. They were all heavily armed and, though very well disciplined, all were spoiling for the death fight, if it came. They seated themselves neatly opposite Toranaga’s forces, which heavily outnumbered them. Father Alvito was to one side among the onlookers. And Blackthorne.
   Toranaga welcomed Zataki with the same calm formality, prolonging the ceremonious seating. Today the two daimyos were alone on the dais, the cushions farther apart under a lower sky. Yabu, Omi, Naga, and Buntaro were on the earth surrounding Toranaga and four of Zataki’s fighting counselors spaced themselves behind him.
   At the correct time, Zataki took out the second scroll. “I’ve come for your formal answer.”
   “I agree to go to Osaka and to submit to the will of the Council,” replied Toranaga evenly, and bowed.
   “You’re going to submit?” Zataki began, his face twisting with disbelief. “You, Toranaga-noh-Minowara, you’re going—”
   “Listen,” Toranaga interrupted in his resonant commanding voice that richocheted around the clearing without seeming to be loud. “The Council of Regents should be obeyed! Even though it’s illegal, it is constituted and no single daimyo has the right to tear the realm apart, however much truth is on his side. The realm takes precedence. If one daimyo revolts, it is the duty of all to stamp him out. I swore to the Taikō I’d never be the first to break the peace, and I won’t, even though evil is in the land. I accept the invitation. I will leave today.”
   Aghast, each samurai was trying to foretell what this unbelievable about-face would mean. All were achingly certain that most, if not all, would be forced to become ronin, with all that that implied—loss of honor, of revenue, of family, of future.
   Buntaro knew that he would accompany Toranaga on his last journey and share his fate—death with all his family, of all generations. Ishido was too much his own personal enemy to forgive, and anyway, who would want to stay alive when his own lord gave up the true fight in such cowardly fashion. Karma, Buntaro thought bitterly. Buddha give me strength! Now I’m committed to take Mariko’s life and our son’s life before I take my own. When? When my duty’s done and our lord is safely and honorably gone into the Void. He will need a faithful second, neh? All gone, like autumn leaves, all the future and the present, Crimson Sky and destiny. It’s just as well, neh? Now Lord Yaemon will surely inherit. Lord Toranaga must be secretly tempted in his most private heart to take power, however much he denies it. Perhaps the Taikō will live again through his son and, in time, we’ll war on China again and win this time, to stand at the summit of the world as is our divine duty. Yes, the Lady Ochiba and Yaemon won’t sell us out next time as Ishido and his cowardly supporters did the last…
   Naga was bewildered. No Crimson Sky? No honorable war? No fighting to the death in the Shinano mountains or on the Kyoto plains? No honorable death in battle heroically defending the standard of his father, no mounds of enemy dead to straddle in a last glorious stand, or in a divine victory? No charge even with the filthy guns? None of that—just a seppuku, probably hurried, without pomp or ceremony or honor and his head stuck on a spike for common people to jeer at. Just a death and the end of the Yoshi line. For of course every one of them would die, his father, all his brothers and sisters and cousins, nephews and nieces and aunts and uncles. His eyes focused on Zataki. Blood lust began to flood his brain…
   Omi was watching Toranaga with half-seeing eyes, hatred devouring him. Our Master’s gone mad, he thought. How can he be so stupid? We’ve a hundred thousand men and the Musket Regiment and fifty thousand more around Osaka! Crimson Sky’s a million times better than a lonely stinking grave!
   His hand was heavy on his sword hilt and, for an ecstatic moment, he imagined himself leaping forward to decapitate Toranaga, to hand the head to the Regent Zataki and so end the contemptuous charade. Then to die by his own hand with honor, here, before everyone. For what was the point of living now? Now Kiku was beyond his reach, her contract bought and owned by Toranaga who had betrayed them all. Last night his body had been on fire during her singing and he knew her song had been secretly for him, and him alone. Unrequited fire—him and her. Wait—why not a suicide together? To die beautifully together, to be together for all eternity. Oh, how wonderful that would be! To mix our souls in death as a never-ending witness to our adoration of life. But first the traitor Toranaga, neh?
   With an effort Omi dragged himself back from the brink.
   Everything’s gone wrong, he thought. No peace in my house, always anger and quarreling, and Midori always in tears. No nearer my revenge on Yabu. No private, secret arrangement with Zataki, with or without Yabu, negotiated over the hours last night. No deal of any kind. Nothing right anymore. Even when Mura found the swords, both were so mutilated by the earth’s force that I know Toranaga hated me for showing them to him. And now finally this—this cowardly, traitorous surrender!
   It’s almost as though I’m bedeviled—in an evil spell. Cast by the Anjin-san? Perhaps. But everything’s still lost. No swords and no revenge and no secret escape route and no Kiku and no future. Wait. There’s a future with her. Death’s a future and past and present and it’ll be so clean and simple…
   “You’re giving up? We’re not going to war?” Yabu bellowed, aware that his death and the death of his line were now guaranteed.
   “I accept the Council’s invitation,” Toranaga replied. “As you will accept the Council’s invitation!”
   “I won’t do—”
   Omi came out of his reverie with enough presence of mind to know that he had to interrupt Yabu and protect him from the instant death that any confrontation with Toranaga would bring. But he deliberately froze his lips, shouting to himself with glee at this heaven-sent gift, and waited for Yabu’s disaster to overtake him.
   “You won’t do what?” Toranaga asked.
   Yabu’s soul shrieked danger. He managed to croak, “I—I—of course your vassals will obey. Yes—if you decide—whatever you decide I—I will do.”
   Omi cursed and allowed the glazed expression to return, his mind still withered by Toranaga’s totally unexpected capitulation.
   Angrily Toranaga let Yabu stutter on, increasing the strength of the apology. Then contemptuously he cut him short. “Good.” He turned back to Zataki but he did not relax his vigil. “So, Brother, you can put away the second scroll. There’s nothing more—” From the corner of his eye he saw Naga’s face change and he wheeled on him. “Naga!”
   The youth almost leapt out of his skin, but his hand left his sword. “Yes, Father?” he stammered.
   “Go and fetch my writing materials! Now!” When Naga was well out of sword range Toranaga exhaled, relieved that he had prevented the attack on Zataki before it had begun. His eyes studied Buntaro carefully. Then Omi. And last Yabu. He thought the three of them were now sufficiently controlled not to make any foolish move that would precipitate an immediate riot and a great killing.
   Once again he addressed Zataki. “I’ll give you my formal written acceptance at once. This will prepare the Council for my state visit.” He lowered his voice and spoke for Zataki’s ears alone. “Inside Izu you’re safe, Regent. Outside it you’re safe. Until my mother’s out of your grasp you’re safe. Only until then. This meeting is over.”
   “Good. ‘State visit’?” Zataki was openly contemptuous. “What hypocrisy! I never thought I’d see the day when Yoshi Toranaga-noh-Minowara would kowtow to General Ishido. You’re just–”
   “Which is more important, Brother?” Toranaga said. “The continuity of my line—or the continuity of the realm?”


   Gloom hung over the valley. It was pouring now, the base of the clouds barely three hundred feet from the ground, obscuring completely the way back up the pass. The clearing and the inn’s forecourt were filled with shoving, ill-tempered samurai. Horses stamped their feet irritably. Officers were shouting orders with unnecessary harshness. Frightened porters were rushing about readying the departing column. Barely an hour remained to darkness.
   Toranaga had written the flowery message and signed it, sending it by messenger to Zataki, over the entreaties of Buntaro, Omi, and Yabu, in private conference. He had listened to their arguments silently.
   When they had finished, he said, “I want no more talk. I’ve decided my path. Obey!”
   He had told them he was returning to Anjiro immediately to collect the rest of his men. Tomorrow he would head up the east coast road toward Atami and Odawara, thence over the mountain passes to Yedo. Buntaro would command his escort. Tomorrow the Musket Regiment was to embark on the galleys at Anjiro and put to sea to await him at Yedo, Yabu in command. The following day Omi was ordered to the frontier via the central road with all available Izu warriors. He was to assist Hiro-matsu, who was in overall command, and was to make sure that the enemy, Ikawa Jikkyu, did nothing to interfere with normal traffic. Omi was to base himself in Mishima for the time being, to guard that section of the Tokaidō Road, and to prepare palanquins and horses in sufficient quantity for Toranaga and the considerable entourage that was necessary to a formal state visit. “Alert all stations along the road and prepare them equally. You understand?”
   “Yes, Sire.”
   “Make sure that everything’s perfect!”
   “Yes, Sire. You may rely on me.” Even Omi had winced under the baleful glare.
   When everything was ready for his departure, Toranaga came out from his rooms onto the veranda. Everyone bowed. Sourly he motioned them to continue and sent for the innkeeper. The man fawned as he presented the bill on his knees. Toranaga checked it item by item. The bill was very fair. He nodded and threw it at his paymaster for payment, then summoned Mariko and the Anjin-san. Mariko was given permission to go to Osaka. “But first you’ll go directly from here to Mishima. Give this private dispatch to Hiro-matsu-san, then continue on to Yedo with the Anjin-san. You’re responsible for him until you arrive. You’ll probably go by sea to Osaka—I’ll decide that later. Anjin-san! Did you get the dictionary from the priest-san?”
   “Please? So sorry, I don’t understand.”
   Mariko had translated.
   “Sorry. Yes, I book got.”
   “When we meet in Yedo, you’ll speak better Japanese than you do now. Wakarimasu ka?”
   “Hai. Gomen nasai.”
   Despondently Toranaga stomped out of the courtyard, a samurai holding a large umbrella for him against the rain. As one, all samurai, porters, and villagers again bowed. Toranaga paid no attention to them, just got into his roofed palanquin at the head of the column and closed the curtains.
   At once, the six semi-naked bearers raised the litter and started off at a loping trot, their horny bare feet splashing the puddles. Mounted escorting samurai rode ahead, and another mounted guard surrounded the palanquin. Spare porters and the baggage train followed, all hurrying, all tense and filled with dread. Omi led the van. Buntaro was to command the rearguard. Yabu and Naga had already left for the Musket Regiment that was still athwart the road in ambush to await Toranaga at the crest; it would fall in behind to form a rearguard. “Rearguard against whom?” Yabu had snarled at Omi in the few moments of privacy they had had before he galloped off.
   Buntaro strode back to the high, curved gateway of the inn, careless of the downpour. “Mariko-san!”
   Obediently she hurried to him, her orange oiled-paper umbrella beaten by the heavy drops. “Yes, Sire?”
   His eyes raced over her under the brim of his bamboo hat, then went to Blackthorne, who watched from the veranda. “Tell him …” He stopped.
   “Sire?”
   He stared down at her. “Tell him I hold him responsible for you.”
   “Yes, Sire,” she said. “But, please excuse me, I am responsible for me.”
   Buntaro turned and measured the distance to the head of the column. When he glanced back his face showed a trace of his torment. “Now there’ll be no falling leaves for our eyes, neh?”
   “That is in the hands of God, Sire.”
   “No, that’s in Lord Toranaga’s hands,” he said with disdain.
   She looked up at him without wavering under his stare. The rain beat down. Droplets fell from the rim of her umbrella like a curtain of tears. Mud splattered the hem of her kimono. Then he said, “Sayonara —until I see you at Osaka.”
   She was startled. “Oh, so sorry, won’t I see you at Yedo? Surely you’ll be there with Lord Toranaga, you’ll arrive about the same time, neh? I’ll see you then.”
   “Yes. But at Osaka, when we meet there or when you return from there, then we begin again. That’s when I’ll truly see you, neh?”
   “Ah, I understand. So sorry.”
   “Sayonara, Mariko-san,” he said.
   “Sayonara, my Lord.” Mariko bowed. He returned her obeisance peremptorily and strode through the quagmire to his horse. He swung into the saddle and galloped away without looking back.
   “Go with God,” she said, staring after him.


   Blackthorne saw her eyes following Buntaro. He waited in the lee of the roof, the rain lessening. Soon the head of the column vanished into the clouds, then Toranaga’s palanquin, and he breathed easier, still shattered by Toranaga and the whole ill-omened day.
   This morning the hawking had begun so well. He had chosen a tiny, long-wing falcon, like a merlin, and flew her very successfully at a lark, the stoop and soaring chase blown southward beyond a belt of trees by the freshening wind. Leading the charge as was his privilege, he careered through the forest along a well-beaten path, itinerant peddlers and farmers scattering. But a weather-beaten oil seller with an equally threadbare horse blocked the way and cantankerously wouldn’t budge. In the excitement of the chase Blackthorne had shouted at the man to move, but the peddler would not, so he cursed him roundly. The oil seller replied rudely and shouted back and then Toranaga was there and Toranaga pointed at his own bodyguard and said, “Anjin-san, give him your sword a moment,” and some other words he did not understand. Blackthorne obeyed at once. Before he realized what was happening, the samurai lunged at the peddler. His blow was so savage and so perfect that the oil seller had walked on a pace before falling, divided in two at the waist.
   Toranaga had pounded his pommel with momentary delight, then fell back into his melancholy as the other samurai had cheered. The bodyguard cleansed the blade carefully, using his silken sash to protect the steel. He sheathed the sword with satisfaction and returned it, saying something that Mariko explained later. “He just said, Anjin-san, that he was proud to be allowed to test such a blade. Lord Toranaga is suggesting you should nickname the sword ‘Oil Seller,’ because such a blow and such sharpness should be remembered with honor. Your sword has now become legend, neh?”
   Blackthorne recalled how he had nodded, hiding his anguish. He was wearing “Oil Seller” now—Oil Seller it would be forevermore—the same sword that Toranaga had presented to him. I wish he’d never given it to me, he thought. But it wasn’t all their fault, it was mine too. I shouted at the man, he was rude in return, and samurai may not be treated rudely. What other course was there? Blackthorne knew there was none. Even so, the killing had taken the joy out of the hunt for him, though he had to hide that carefully because Toranaga had been moody and difficult all day.
   Just before noon, they had returned to Yokosé, then there was Toranaga’s meeting with Zataki and then after a steaming bath and massage, suddenly Father Alvito was standing in his way like a vengeful wraith, two hostile acolytes in attendance. “Christ Jesus, get away from me!”
   “There’s no need to be afraid, or to blaspheme.” Alvito had said.
   “God curse you and all priests!” Blackthorne said, trying to get hold of himself, knowing that he was deep in enemy territory. Earlier he’d seen half a hundred Catholic samurai trickling over the bridge to the Mass that Mariko had told him was being held in the forecourt of Alvito’s inn. His hand sought the hilt of his sword, but he was not wearing it with his bathrobe, or carrying it as was customary, and he cursed his stupidity, hating to be unarmed.
   “May God forgive you your blasphemy, Pilot. Yes. May He forgive you and open your eyes. I bear you no malice. I came to bring you a gift. Here, here’s a gift from God, Pilot.”
   Blackthorne took the package suspiciously. When he opened it and saw the Portuguese-Latin-Japanese dictionary/grammar, a thrill rushed through him. He leafed through a few pages. The printing was certainly the best he had ever seen, the quality and detail of the information staggering. “Yes, this is a gift from God all right, but Lord Toranaga ordered you to give it to me.”

  “We obey only God’s orders.”
   “Toranaga asked you to give it to me?”
   “Yes. It was his request.”
   “And a Toranaga ‘request’ isn’t an order?”
   “That depends, Captain-Pilot, on who you are, what you are, and how great your faith.” Alvito motioned at the book. “Three of our Brethren spent twenty-seven years preparing that.”
   “Why are you giving it to me?”
   “We were asked to.”
   “Why didn’t you avoid Lord Toranaga’s request? You’re more than cunning enough to do that.”
   Alvito shrugged. Quickly Blackthorne flicked through all the pages, checking. Excellent paper, the printing very clear. The numbers of the pages were in sequence.
   “It’s complete,” Alvito said, amused. “We don’t deal with half books.”
   “This is much too valuable to give away. What do you want in return?”
   “He asked us to give it to you. The Father-Visitor agreed. So you are given it. It was only printed this year, at long last. It’s beautiful, isn’t it? We only ask you to cherish it, to treat the book well. It’s worth treating well.”
   “It’s worth guarding with a life. This is priceless knowledge, like one of your rutters. But this is better. What do you want for it?”
   “We ask nothing in return.”
   “I don’t believe you.” Blackthorne weighed it in his hand, even more suspiciously. “You must know this makes me equal to you. It gives me all your knowledge and saves us ten, maybe twenty years. With this I’ll soon be speaking as well as you. Once I can do that, I can teach others. This is the key to Japan, neh? Language is the key to anywhere foreign, neh? In six months I’ll be able to talk direct to Toranaga-sama.”
   “Yes, perhaps you will. If you have six months.”
   “What does that mean?”
   “Nothing more than what you already know. Lord Toranaga will be dead long before six months is up.”
   “Why? What news did you bring him? Ever since he talked with you he’s been like a bull with half its throat ripped out. What did you say, eh?”
   “My message was private, from his Eminence to Lord Toranaga. I’m sorry—I’m merely a messenger. But General Ishido controls Osaka, as you surely know, and when Toranaga-sama goes to Osaka everything is finished for him. And for you.”
   Blackthorne felt ice in his marrow. “Why me?”
   “You can’t escape your fate, Pilot. You helped Toranaga against Ishido. Have you forgotten? You put your hands violently on Ishido. You led the dash out of Osaka harbor. I’m sorry, but being able to speak Japanese, or your swords and samurai status won’t help you at all. Perhaps it’s worse now that you’re samurai. Now you’ll be ordered to commit seppuku and if you refuse …” Alvito had added in the same gentle voice, “I told you before, they are a simple people.”
   “We English are simple people, too,” he said, with no little bravado. “When we’re dead we’re dead, but before that we put our trust in God and keep our powder dry. I’ve a few tricks left, never fear.”
   “Oh, I don’t fear, Pilot. I fear nothing, not you nor your heresy, nor your guns. They’re all spiked—as you’re spiked.”
   “That’s karma —in the hands of God—call it what you will,” Blackthorne told him, rattled. “But by the Lord God, I’ll get my ship back and then, in a couple of years, I’ll lead a squadron of English ships out here and blow you all to hell out of Asia.”
   Alvito spoke again with his vast unnerving calm. “That’s in the hands of God, Pilot. But here the die is cast and nothing of what you say will happen. Nothing.” Alvito had looked at him as though he were already dead. “May God have mercy on you, for as God is my judge, Pilot, I believe you’ll never leave these islands.”
   Blackthorne shivered, remembering the total conviction with which Alvito had said that.
   “You’re cold, Anjin-san?”
   Mariko was standing beside him on the veranda now, shaking out her umbrella in the dusk. “Oh, sorry, no, I’m not cold—I was just wandering.” He glanced up at the pass. The whole column had vanished into the cloud bank. The rain had abated a little and had become mild and soft. Some villagers and servants splashed through the puddles, homeward bound. The forecourt was empty, the garden waterlogged. Oil lanterns were coming on throughout the village. No longer were there sentries on the gateway, or at both sides of the bridge. A great emptiness seemed to dominate the twilight.
   “It’s much prettier at night, isn’t it?” she said.
   “Yes,” he replied, totally aware that they were alone together, and safe, if they were careful and if she wanted as he wanted.
   A maid came and took her umbrella, bringing dry tabi socks. She knelt and began to towel Mariko’s feet dry.
   “Tomorrow at dawn we’ll begin our journey, Anjin-san.”
   “How long will it take us?”
   “A number of days, Anjin-san. Lord Toranaga said—” Mariko glanced off as Gyoko padded obsequiously from inside the inn. “Lord Toranaga told me there was plenty of time.”
   Gyoko bowed low. “Good evening, Lady Toda, please excuse me for interrupting you.”
   “How are you, Gyoko-san?”
   “Fine, thank you, though I wish this rain would stop. I don’t like this mugginess. But then, when the rains stop, we have the heat and that’s so much worse, neh? But the autumn’s not far away… Ah, we’re so lucky to have autumn to look forward to, and heavenly spring, neh?”
   Mariko did not answer. The maid fastened the tabi for her and got up. “Thank you,” Mariko said, dismissing her. “So, Gyoko-san? There’s something I can do for you?”
   “Kiku-san asked if you would like her to serve you at dinner, or to dance or sing for you tonight. Lord Toranaga left instructions for her to entertain you, if you wished.”
   “Yes, he told me, Gyoko-san. That would be very nice, but perhaps not tonight. We have to leave at dawn and I’m very tired. There’ll be other nights, neh? Please give her my apologies, and, oh yes, please tell her I’m delighted to have the company of you both on the road.” Toranaga had ordered Mariko to take the two women with her, and she had thanked him, pleased to have them as a formal chaperone.
   “You’re too kind,” Gyoko said with honey on her tongue. “But it’s our honor. We’re still to go to Yedo?”
   “Yes. Of course. Why?”
   “Nothing, Lady Toda. But, in that case, perhaps we could stop in Mishima for a day or two? Kiku-san would like to gather up some clothes—she doesn’t feel adequately gowned for Lord Toranaga, and I hear the Yedo summer’s very sultry and mosquitoed. We should collect her wardrobe, bad as it is.”
   “Yes. Of course. You’ll both have more than enough time.”
   Gyoko did not look at Blackthorne, though both were very conscious of him. “It’s—it’s tragic about our Master, neh?”
   “Karma,” Mariko replied evenly. Then she added with a woman’s sweet viciousness, “But nothing’s changed, Gyoko-san. You’ll be paid the day you arrive, in silver, as the contract says.”
   “Oh, so sorry,” the older woman told her, pretending to be shocked. “So sorry, Lady Toda, but money? That was farthest from my mind. Never! I was only concerned with our Master’s future.”
   “He’s master of his own future,” Mariko said easily, believing it no more. “But your future’s good, isn’t it—whatever happens. You’re rich now. All your worldly troubles are over. Soon you’ll be a power in Yedo with your new guild of courtesans, whoever rules the Kwanto. Soon you’ll be the greatest of all Mama-sans, and whatever happens, well, Kiku-san’s still your protégée and her youth’s not touched, neither is her karma. Neh?”
   “My only concern is for Lord Toranaga,” Gyoko answered with practiced gravity, her anus twitching at the thought of two thousand five hundred koku so nearly in her strong room. “If there is any way I could help him I would—”
   “How generous of you, Gyoko-san! I’ll tell him of your offer. Yes, a thousand koku off the price would help very much. I accept on his behalf.”
   Gyoko fluttered her fan, put a gracious smile on her face, and just managed not to wail aloud at her imbecility for jumping into a trap like a saké-besotted novice. “Oh no, Lady Toda, how could money help so generous a patron? No, clearly money’s no help to him,” she babbled, trying to recover. “No, money’s no help. Better information or a service or—”
   “Please excuse me, what information?”
   “None, none at the moment. I was just using that as a figure of speech, so sorry. But money–”
   “Ah, so sorry, yes. Well, I’ll tell him of your offer. And of your generosity. On his behalf, thank you.”
   Gyoko bowed at the dismissal and scuttled back into the inn.
   Mariko’s little laugh trickled out.
   “What are you laughing at, Mariko-san?”
   She told him what had been said. “Mama-sans must be the same the world over. She’s just worried about her money.”
   “Will Lord Toranaga pay even though …” Blackthorne stopped. Mariko waited guilelessly. Then, under her gaze, he continued, “Father Alvito said when Lord Toranaga goes to Osaka, he’s finished.”
   “Oh, yes. Yes, Anjin-san, that’s most very true,” Mariko said with a brightness she did not feel. Then she put Toranaga and Osaka into their compartments and was tranquil again. “But Osaka’s many leagues away and countless sticks of time in the future, and until that time when what is to be is, Ishido doesn’t know, the good Father doesn’t truly know, we don’t know, no one knows what will truly happen. Neh? Except the Lord God. But He won’t tell us, will He? Until perhaps it has already come to pass. Neh?”
   “Hai!” He laughed with her. “Ah, you’re so wise.”
   “Thank you. I have a suggestion, Anjin-san. During the journey time, let us forget all outside problems. All of them.”
   “Thou,” he said in Latin. “It is good to see thee.”
   “And thee. Extraordinary care in front of both women during our journey is very necessary, neh?”
   “Depend on it, Lady.”
   “I do. In truth I do very much.”
   “Now we are almost alone, neh? Thou and I”
   “Yes. But what was is not and never happened.”
   “True. Yes. Thou art correct again. And beautiful.”
   A samurai strode through the gateway and saluted her. He was middle-aged with graying hair, his face pitted, and he walked with a slight limp. “Please excuse me, Lady Toda, but we’ll leave at dawn, neh?”
   “Yes, Yoshinaka-san. But it doesn’t matter if we’re delayed till noon, if you wish. We’ve plenty of time.”
   “Yes. As you prefer, let us leave at noon. Good evening, Anjin-san. Please allow me to introduce myself. I’m Akira Yoshinaka, captain of your escort.”
   “Good evening, Captain.”
   Yoshinaka turned back to Mariko. “I’m responsible for you and him, Lady, so please tell him I’ve ordered two men to sleep in his room by night as his personal guards. Then there’ll be ten sentries on duty nightly. They’ll be all around you. I’ve a hundred men in all.”
   “Very well, Captain. But, so sorry, it would be better not to station any men in the Anjin-san’s room. It’s a very serious custom of theirs to sleep alone, or alone with one lady. My maid will probably be with him, so he’ll be protected. Please keep the guards around but not too close, then he won’t be unsettled.”
   Yoshinaka scratched his head and frowned. “Very well, Lady. Yes, I’ll agree to that, though my way’s more sensible. Then, so sorry, then please ask him not to go on any of these night walks of his. Until we get to Yedo I’m responsible and when I’m responsible for very important persons I get very nervous.” He bowed stiffly and went away.
   “The Captain asks you not to walk off by yourself during our journey. If you get up at night, always take a samurai with you, Anjin-san. He says this would help him.”
   “All right. Yes, I’ll do that.” Blackthorne was watching him leave. “What else did he say? I caught something about sleeping? I couldn’t understand him very—” He stopped. Kiku came from within. She wore a bathrobe with a towel decorously swathed around her hair. Barefoot, she sauntered toward the hot-spring bath house, half bowed to them, and waved gaily. They returned her salutation.
   Blackthorne took in her long legs and the sinuousness of her walk until she disappeared. He felt Mariko’s eyes watching him closely and looked back at her. “No,” he said blandly and shook his head.
   She laughed. “I thought it might be difficult—might be uncomfortable for you, to have her just as a traveling companion after such a special pillowing.”
   “Uncomfortable, no. On the contrary, very pleasant. I’ve very pleasant memories. I’m glad she belongs to Lord Toranaga now. That makes everything easy, for her and for him. And everyone.” He was going to add, everyone except Omi, but thought better of it. “After all, to me she was only a very special, glorious gift. Nothing more. Neh?”
   “She was a gift, yes.”
   He wanted to touch Mariko. But he did not. Instead he turned and stared up at the pass, not sure what he read behind her eyes. Night obscured the pass now. And the clouds. Water dripped nicely from the roof. “What else did the Captain say?”
   “Nothing of importance, Anjin-san.”

Chapter 45

   Their journey to Mishima took nine days, and every night, for part of the night, they were together. Secretly. Unwittingly Yoshinaka assisted them. At each inn he would naturally choose adjacent rooms for all of them. “I hope you do not object, Lady, but this will make security much easier,” he would always say, and Mariko would agree and take the center room, Kiku and Gyoko to one side, Blackthorne to the other. Then, in the dark of the night she would leave her maid, Chimmoko, and go to him. With adjoining rooms, coupled with the usual chatter and night sounds and singing and carousing of other travelers with their swarms of ever-present, anxious-to-please maids, the alert outward-guarding sentries were none the wiser. Only Chimmoko was privy to the secret.
   Mariko was aware that eventually Gyoko, Kiku, and all the women in their party would know. But this did not worry her. She was samurai and they were not. Her word would carry against theirs, unless she was caught blatantly, and no samurai, not even Yoshinaka, would normally dare to open her door by night, uninvited. As far as everyone was concerned Blackthorne shared his bed with Chimmoko, or one of the maids in the inn. It was no one’s business but his. So only a woman could betray her, and if she was betrayed, her betrayer and all the women of the party would die an even more vulgar and more lingering death than hers for so disgusting a betrayal. Then too, if she wished, before they reached Mishima or Yedo, all knew she could have them put to death at her whim for the slightest indiscretion, real or alleged. Mariko was sure Toranaga would not object to a killing. Certainly he would applaud Gyoko’s and, in her private heart, Mariko was sure he would not object even to Kiku’s. Two and a half thousand koku could buy many a courtesan of the First Rank.
   So she felt safe from the women. But not from Blackthorne, much as she loved him now. He was not Japanese. He had not been trained from birth to build the inner, impenetrable fences behind which to hide. His face or manner or pride would betray them. She was not afraid for herself. Only for him.
   “At long last I know what love means,” she murmured the first night. And because she no longer fought against love’s onslaught but yielded to its irresistibility, her terror for his safety consumed her. “I love thee, so I’m afraid for thee,” she whispered, holding onto him, using Latin, the language of lovers.
   “I love thee. Oh, how I love thee.”
   “I’ve destroyed thee, my love, by beginning. We’re doomed now. I’ve destroyed thee—that is the truth.”
   “No, Mariko, somehow something will happen to make everything right.”
   “I should never have begun. The fault is mine.”
   “Do not worry, I beg thee. Karma is karma.”
   At length she pretended to be persuaded and melted into his arms. But she was sure he would be his own nemesis. For herself she was not afraid.
   The nights were joyous. Tender and each one better than before. The days were easy for her, difficult for him. He was constantly on guard, determined for her sake not to make a mistake. “There will be no mistake,” she said while they were riding together, safely apart from the rest, now keeping up a pretense of absolute confidence after her lapse of the first night. “Thou art strong. Thou art samurai and there will be no mistake.”
   “And when we get to Yedo?”
   “Let Yedo take care of Yedo. I love thee.”
   “Yes. I love thee too.”
   “Then why so sad?”
   “Not sad, Lady. Just that silence is painful. I wish to shout my love from the mountaintops.”
   They delighted in their privacy and their certainty they were still safe from prying eyes.
   “What will happen to them, Gyoko-san?” Kiku asked softly in their palanquin on the first day of the journey.
   “Disaster, Kiku-san. There’s no hope for their future. He hides it well, but she …! Her adoration shouts from her face. Look at her! Like a young girl! Oh, how foolish she is!”
   “But oh, how beautiful, neh? How lucky to be so fulfilled, neh?”
   “Yes, but even so I wouldn’t wish their deaths on anyone.”
   “What will Yoshinaka do when he discovers them?” Kiku asked.
   “Perhaps he won’t. I pray he won’t. Men are such fools and so stupid. They can’t see the simplest things about women, thanks be to Buddha, bless his name. Let’s pray they’re not discovered until we’ve gone about our business in Yedo. Let’s pray we’re not held responsible. Oh very yes! And this afternoon when we stop, let’s find the nearest shrine and I’ll light ten incense sticks as a god-favor. By all gods I’ll even endow a temple to all gods with three koku yearly for ten years if we escape and if I get my money.”
   “But they’re so beautiful together, neh? I’ve never seen a woman blossom so.”
   “Yes, but she’ll wither like a broken camellia when she’s accused before Buntaro-san. Their karma is their karma and there’s nothing we can do about them. Or about Lord Toranaga—or even Omi-san. Don’t cry, child.”
   “Poor Omi-san.”
   Omi had overtaken them on the third day. He had stayed at their inn, and after the evening meal he had spoken privately to Kiku, asking her formally to join him for all eternity.
   “Willingly, Omi-san, willingly,” she had answered at once, allowing herself to cry, for she liked him very much. “But my duty to Lord Toranaga who favored me, and to Gyoko-san who formed me, forbids it.”
   “But Lord Toranaga’s forfeited his rights to you. He’s surrendered. He’s finished.”
   “But his contract isn’t, Omi-san, much as I wish it. His contract’s legal and binding. Please excuse me, I must refuse—”
   “Don’t answer now, Kiku-san. Think about it. Please, I beg you. Tomorrow give me your answer,” he said and left her.
   But her tearful answer had been the same. “I can’t be so selfish, Omi-san. Please forgive me. My duty to Lord Toranaga and to Gyoko-san—I can’t, much as I’d wish it. Please forgive me.”
   He had argued. More private tears flowed. They had sworn perpetual, adoration and then she had sent him away with a promise: “If the contract’s broken, or Lord Toranaga dies and I’m freed, then I’ll do whatever you want, I’ll obey whatever you order.” And so he had left the inn and rode on ahead to Mishima filled with foreboding, and she had dried her tears and repaired her makeup. Gyoko complimented her. “You’re so wise, child. Oh, how I wish the Lady Toda had half your wisdom.”
   Yoshinaka led leisurely from inn to inn along the course of the river Kano as it meandered northward to the sea, falling in with the delays that always seemed to happen, not caring about time. Toranaga had told him privately there was no need to hurry, providing he delivered his charges safely to Yedo by the new moon. “I’d prefer them there later than sooner, Yoshinaka-san. You understand?”
   “Yes, Sire,” he had replied. Now he blessed his guarding kami for giving him the respite. At Mishima with Lord Hiro-matsu—or at Yedo with Lord Toranaga—he would have to make his obligatory report, verbally and in writing. Then he would have to decide whether he should tell what he thought, not what he had been so careful not to see. Eeeeee, he told himself appalled, surely I’m mistaken. The Lady Toda? Her and any man, let alone the barbarian!
   Isn’t it your duty to see? he asked himself. To obtain proof. To catch them behind closed doors, bedded together. You’ll be condemned yourself for collusion if you don’t, neh? It’d be so easy, even though they’re very careful.
   Yes, but only a fool would bring such tidings, he thought. Isn’t it better to play the dullard and pray no one betrays them and so betrays you? Her life’s ended, we’re all doomed, so what does it matter? Turn your eyes away. Leave them to their karma. What does it matter?
   With all his soul, the samurai knew it mattered very much.


   “Ah, good morning, Mariko-san. How beautiful the day is,” Father Alvito said, walking up to them. They were outside the inn, ready to start the day’s journey. He made the sign of the cross over her. “May God bless you and keep you in His hands forever.”
   “Thank you, Father.”
   “Good morning, Pilot. How are you today?”
   “Good, thank you. And you?”
   Their party and the Jesuits had leapfrogged each other on the march. Sometimes they had stayed at the same inn. Sometimes they journeyed together.
   “Would you like me to ride with you this morning, Pilot? I’d be happy to continue the Japanese lessons, if you’ve a mind.”
   “Thank you. Yes, I’d like that.”
   On the first day, Alvito had offered to try to teach Blackthorne the language.
   “In return for what?” Blackthorne had asked warily.
   “Nothing. It would help me pass the time, and to tell you the truth, at the moment I’m saddened by life and feel old. Also perhaps to apologize for my harsh words.”
   “I expect no apology from you. You’ve your way, I’ve mine. We can never meet.”
   “Perhaps—but on our journey we could share things, neh? We’re travelers on the same road. I’d like to help you.”
   “Why?”
   “Knowledge belongs to God. Not to man. I’d like to help you as a gift—nothing in return.”
   “Thanks, but I don’t trust you.”
   “Then, if you insist, in return tell me about your world, what you’ve seen and where you’ve been. Anything you like, but only what you like. The real truth. Truly, it would fascinate me and it would be a fair exchange. I came to Japan when I was thirteen or fourteen, and I’ve seen nothing of the world. We could even agree to a truce for the journey, if you wish.”
   “But no religion or politics and no Papist doctrines?”
   “I am what I am, Pilot, but I will try.”
   So they began to exchange knowledge cautiously. For Blackthorne it seemed an unfair trade. Alvito’s erudition was enormous, he was a masterly teacher, whereas Blackthorne thought he related only things that any pilot would know. “But that’s not true,” Alvito had said. “You’re a unique pilot, you’ve done incredible things. One of half a dozen on earth, neh?”
   Gradually a truce did happen between them and this pleased Mariko.
   “This is friendship, Anjin-san, or the beginning of it,” Mariko said.
   “No. Not friendship. I distrust him as much as ever, as he does me. We’re perpetual enemies. I’ve forgotten nothing, nor has he. This is a respite, temporary, probably for a special purpose he’d never tell if I were to ask. I understand him and there’s no harm, so long as I don’t drop my guard.”
   While he spent time with Alvito, she would ride lazily with Kiku and Gyoko and talk about pillowing and about ways to please men and about the Willow World. In return she told them about her world, sharing what she had witnessed or been part of or learned, about the Dictator Goroda, the Taikō, and even Lord Toranaga, judicious stories about the majestic ones that no commoner would ever know.
   A few leagues south of Mishima the river curled away to the west, to fall placidly to the coast and the large port of Numazu, and they left the ravinelike country and pushed across the flat rice paddy plains along the wide busy road that headed northward. There were many streams and tributaries to ford. Some were shallow. Some were deep and very wide and they had to be poled across in flat barges. Very few were spanned. Usually they were all carried across on the shoulders of porters from the plenty that were always stationed nearby for this special purpose, chattering and bidding for that privilege.
   This was the seventh day from Yokosé. The road forked and here Father Alvito said he had to leave them. He would take the west path, to return to his ship for a day or so, but he would catch them up and join them again on the road from Mishima to Yedo, if that was permitted. “Of course, you’re both welcome to come with me if you wish.”
   “Thank you but, so sorry, there are things I must do in Mishima,” Mariko said.
   “Anjin-san? If Lady Mariko’s going to be busy, you’d be welcome by yourself. Our cook’s very good, the wine’s fair. As God is my judge, you’d be safe, and free to come and go as you wish. Rodrigues is aboard.”
   Mariko saw that Blackthorne wanted to leave her. How can he? she asked herself with a great sadness. How can he want to leave me when time is so short? “Please go, Anjin-san,” she said. “It would be nice for you—and good to see the Rodrigues, neh?”
   But Blackthorne did not go, much as he wanted to. He didn’t trust the priest. Not even for Rodrigues would he put his head in that trap. He thanked Alvito and they watched him ride away.
   “Let’s stop now, Anjin-san,” Mariko said, even though it was barely noon. “There’s no hurry, neh?”
   “Excellent. Yes, I’d like that.”
   “The Father’s a good man but I’m glad he’s gone.”
   “So am I. But he’s not a good man. He’s a priest.”
   She was taken aback by his vehemence. “Oh, so sorry, Anjin-san, please excuse me for say–”
   “It’s not important, Mariko-chan. I told you—nothing’s forgotten. He’ll always be after my hide.” Blackthorne went to find Captain Yoshinaka.
   Troubled, she looked down the western fork.
   The horses of Father Alvito’s party moved through the other travelers unhurriedly. Some passersby bowed to the small cortege, some knelt in humility, many were curious many hard-faced. But all moved politely out of the way. Except even the lowest samurai. When Father Alvito met a samurai he moved to the left or to the right and his acolytes followed him.
   He was glad to be leaving Mariko and Blackthorne, glad of the break. He had urgent dispatches to send to the Father-Visitor that he had been unable to send because his carrier pigeons had been destroyed in Yokosé. There were so many problems to solve: Toranaga, Uo the fisherman, Mariko, and the pirate. And Joseph, who continued to dog his footsteps.
   “What’s he doing there, Captain Yoshinaka?” he had blurted out the first day, when he noticed Joseph among the guards, wearing a military kimono and, awkwardly, swords.
   “Lord Toranaga ordered me to take him to Mishima, Tsukku-san. There I’m to turn him over to Lord Hiro-matsu. Oh, so sorry, does the sight of him offend you?”
   “No—no,” he had said unconvincingly.
   “Ah, you’re looking at his swords? There’s no need to worry. They’re only hilts, they’ve no blades. It’s Lord Toranaga’s orders. Seems as the man was ordered into your Order so young it’s not clear if he should have real swords or not, much as he’s entitled to wear them, much as he wants them. Seems he joined your Order as a child, Tsukku-san. Even so, of course we can’t have a samurai without swords, neh? Uraga-noh-Tadamasa’s certainly samurai though he’s been a barbarian priest for twenty years. Our Master’s wisely made this compromise.”
   “What’s going to happen to him?”
   “I’m to hand him over to Lord Hiro-matsu. Maybe he’ll be sent back to his uncle for judgment, maybe he’ll stay with us. I only obey orders, Tsukku-san.”
   Father Alvito went to speak with Joseph but Yoshinaka had stopped him politely. “So sorry, but my Master also ordered him kept to himself. Away from everyone. Particularly Christians. Until Lord Harima gives a judgment, my Master said. Uraga-san’s Lord Harima’s vassal, neh? Lord Harima’s Christian too. Neh? Lord Toranaga says a Christian daimyo should deal with the Christian renegade. After all, Lord Harima’s his uncle and leader of the house and it was he who ordered him into your keeping in the first place.”
   Though it was forbidden, Alvito had tried again that night to talk to Joseph privately, to beg him to withdraw his sacrilege and kneel in penance to the Father-Visitor, but the youth had coldly walked away, without listening, and after that, Joseph was always sent far ahead.
   Somehow, Holy Madonna, we’ve got to bring him back to the mercy of God, Alvito thought in anguish. What can I do? Perhaps the Father-Visitor will know how to handle Joseph. Yes, and he’ll know what to do about Toranaga’s incredible decision to submit, which in their secret conferences they had discarded as an impossibility. “No—that’s totally against Toranaga’s character,” dell’Aqua had said. “He’ll go to war. When the rains cease, perhaps before, if he can get Zataki to recant and betray Ishido. My forecast is he’ll wait as long as he can and try to force Ishido to make the first move—his usual waiting game. Whatever happens, so long as Kiyama and Onoshi support Ishido and Osaka, the Kwanto will be overrun and Toranaga destroyed.”

   “And Kiyama and Onoshi? They’ll keep their enmity buried, for the common good?”
   “Yes. They’re totally convinced a Toranaga victory would be the Holy Church’s death knell. Now that Harima will side with Ishido, I’m afraid Toranaga’s a broken dream.”
   Civil war again, Alvito thought. Brother against brother, father against son, village against village. Anjiro ready to revolt, armed with stolen muskets, so Uo the fisherman had whispered. And the other frightening news: a secret Musket Regiment almost ready! A modern, European-style cavalry unit of more than two thousand muskets, adapted to Japanese warfare. Oh, Madonna, protect the faithful and curse that heretic…
   Such a pity Blackthorne is twisted and mind-deformed. He could be such a valuable ally. I never would have thought that but it’s true. He’s incredibly wise in the ways of the sea and the world. Brave and cunning, honest within his heresy, straight and guileless. Never needs to be told something twice, his memory astonishing. He’s taught me so much about the world. And about himself. Is that wrong, Alvito wondered sadly as he turned to wave at Mariko a last time. Is it wrong to learn about your enemy, and in return, to teach? No. Is it wrong to turn a blind eye to mortal sin?
   Three days out from Yokosé, Brother Michael’s observation had shattered him.
   “You believe they’re lovers?”
   “What is God but love? Isn’t that the Lord Jesus’ word?” Michael had replied. “I only mentioned I saw their eyes touching each other and that it was so beautiful to see. About their bodies I don’t know, Father, and in truth I don’t care. Their souls touch and I seem to be more aware of God because of it.”
   “You must be mistaken about them. She’d never do that! It’s against her whole heritage, against her law and the law of God. She’s a devout Christian. She knows adultery’s a hideous sin.”
   “Yes, that is what we teach. But her marriage was Shinto, not consecrated before the Lord our God, so is it adultery?”
   “Do you also question the Word? Are you infected by Joseph’s heresy?”
   “No, Father, please excuse me, never the Word. Only what man has made of it.”
   From then on he had watched more closely. Clearly the man and woman liked each other greatly. Why shouldn’t they? Nothing wrong in that! Constantly thrown together, each learning from the other, the woman ordered to put away her religion, the man having none, or only a patina of the Lutheran heresy as dell’Aqua had said was true of all Englishmen. Both strong, vital people, however ill-matched.
   At confession she said nothing. He did not press her. Her eyes told him nothing and everything, but never was there anything real to judge. He could hear himself explaining to dell’Aqua, ‘Michael must have been mistaken, Eminence.’
   ‘But did she commit adultery? Was there any proof?’
   ‘Thankfully, no proof.’
   Alvito reined in and turned back momentarily. He saw her standing on the slight rise, the Pilot talking to Yoshinaka, the old madam and her painted whore lying in their palanquin. He was tormented by the fanatic zeal welling up inside him. For the first time he dared to ask, Have you whored with the Pilot, Mariko-san? Has the heretic damned your soul for all eternity? You, who were chosen in life to be a nun and probably our first native abbess? Are you living in foul sin, unconfessed, desecrated, hiding your sacrilege from your confessor, and thus are you too befouled before God?
   He saw her wave. This time he did not acknowledge it but turned his back, jabbed his spurs into his horse’s flanks, and hurried away.


   That night their sleep was disturbed.
   “What is it, my love?”
   “Nothing, Mariko-chan. Go back to sleep.”
   But she did not. Nor did he. Long before she had to, she slipped back into her own room, and he got up and sat in the courtyard studying the dictionary under candlelight until dawn. When the sun came and the day warmed, their night cares vanished and they continued their journey peacefully. Soon they reached the great trunk road, the Tokaidō, just east of Mishima, and travelers became more numerous. The vast majority were, as always, on foot, their belongings on their backs. There were a few pack horses on the road and no carriages at all.
   “Oh, carriage—that’s something with wheels, neh? They’re of no use in Japan, Anjin-san. Our roads are too steep and always crisscrossed with rivers and streams. Wheels would also ruin the surface of the roads, so they are forbidden to everyone except the Emperor, and he travels only a few cermonial ri in Kyoto on a special road. We don’t need wheels. How can you carry vehicles over a river or stream—and there are too many, far too many to bridge. There are perhaps sixty streams to cross between here and Yedo, Anjin-san. How many have we already had to cross? Dozens, neh? No, we all walk or ride horseback. Of course horses and palanquins particularly are allowed only for important persons, daimyos and samurai, and not even all samurai.”
   “What? Even if you can afford one you can’t hire one?”
   “Not unless you’ve the correct rank, Anjin-san. That’s very wise, don’t you think? Doctors and the very old can travel by horse or palanquin, or the very sick, if they get permission in writing from their liege lord. Palanquins or horses wouldn’t be right for peasants and commoners, Anjin-san. That could teach them lazy habits, neh? It’s much more healthy for them to walk.”
   “Also it keeps them in their place. Neh?”
   “Oh, yes. But that all makes for peace and orderliness and wa. Only merchants have money to waste, and what are they but parasites who create nothing, grow nothing, make nothing but feed off another’s labor? Definitely they should all walk, neh? In this we are very wise.”
   “I’ve never seen so many people on the move,” Blackthorne said.
   “Oh, this is nothing. Wait till we get nearer Yedo. We adore to travel, Anjin-san, but rarely alone. We like to travel in groups.”
   But the crowds did not inhibit their progress. The Toranaga cipher that their standards carried, Toda Mariko’s personal rank, and the brusque efficiency of Akira Yoshinaka and the runners he sent ahead to proclaim who followed, ensured the best private rooms every night at the best inn, and an uninterrupted passage. All other travelers and samurai quickly stood aside and bowed very low, waiting until they had passed.
   “Do they all have to stop and kneel like that to everyone?”
   “Oh, no, Anjin-san. Only to daimyos and important persons. And to most samurai—yes, that would be a very wise practice for any commoner. It’s polite to do so, Anjin-san, and necessary, neh? Unless the common people respect the samurai and themselves, how can the law be upheld and the realm be governed? Then too, it’s the same for everyone. We stopped and bowed and allowed the Imperial messenger to pass, didn’t we? Everyone must be polite, neh? Lesser daimyos have to dismount and bow to more important ones. Ritual governs our lives, but the realm is obedient.”
   “Say two daimyos are equal and they meet?”
   “Then both would dismount and bow equally and go their separate ways.”
   “Say Lord Toranaga and General Ishido met?”
   Mariko turned smoothly to Latin. “Who are they, Anjin-san? Those names I know not, not today, not between thee and me.”
   “Thou art correct. Please excuse me.”
   “Listen, my love, let us make a promise that if the Madonna smiles on us and we escape from Mishima, only at Yedo, at First Bridge, only when it is completely forced upon us let us leave our private world. Please?”
   “What special danger’s in Mishima?”
   “There our Captain must submit a report to the Lord Hiro-matsu. There I must see him also. He is a wise man, very vigilant. It would be easy for us to be betrayed.”
   “We have been cautious. Let us petition God that thy fears are without merit.”
   “For myself I am not concerned—only for thee.”
   “And I for thee.”
   “Then do we promise, one to another, to stay within our private world?”
   “Yes. Let us pretend it is the real world—our only world.”


   “There’s Mishima, Anjin-san.” Mariko pointed across the last stream.
   The sprawling castle city which housed nearly sixty thousand people was mostly obscured by morning’s low-lying mist. Only a few house tops and the stone castle were discernible. Beyond were mountains that ran down to the western sea. Far to the northwest was the glory of Mount Fuji. North and east the mountain range encroached on the sky. “What now?”
   “Now Yoshinaka’s been asked to find the liveliest inn within ten ri. We’ll stay there two days. It will take me at least that to complete my business. Gyoko and Kiku-san will be leaving us for that time.”
   “Then?”
   “Then we go on. What does your weather sense tell you about Mishima?”
   “That it’s friendly and safe,” he replied. “After Mishima, what then?”
   She pointed northeast, unconvinced. “Then we’ll go that way. There’s a pass that curls up through the mountains toward Hakoné. It’s the most grueling part of the whole Tokaidō Road. After that the road falls away to the city of Odawara, which is much bigger than Mishima, Anjin-san. It’s on the coast. From there to Yedo is only a matter of time.”
   “How much time?”
   “Not enough.”
   “You’re wrong, my love, so sorry,” he said. “There’s all the time in the world.”

Chapter 46

   General Toda Hiro-matsu accepted the private dispatch that Mariko offered. He broke Toranaga’s seals. The scroll told briefly what had happened at Yokosé, confirmed Toranaga’s decision to submit, ordered Hiro-matsu to hold the frontier and the passes to the Kwanto against any intruder until he arrived (but to expedite any messenger from Ishido or from the east) and gave instructions about the renegade Christian and about the Anjin-san. Wearily the old soldier read the message a second time. “Now tell me everything you saw at Yokosé, or heard, affecting Lord Toranaga.” Mariko obeyed.
   “Now tell me what you think happened.”
   Again she obeyed.
   “What occurred at the cha-no-yu between you and my son?”
   She told him everything, exactly as it happened.
   “My son said our Master would lose? Before the second meeting with Lord Zataki?”
   “Yes, Sire.”
   “You’re sure?”
   “Oh, yes, Sire.”
   There was a long silence in the room high up in the castle donjon that dominated the city. Hiro-matsu got to his feet and went to the arrow embrasure in the thick stone wall, his back and joints aching, his sword loose in his hands. “I don’t understand.”
   “Sire?”
   “Neither my son, nor our Master. We can smash through any armies Ishido puts into the field. And as to the decision to submit…”
   She toyed with her fan, watching the evening sky, star-filled and pleasing.
   Hiro-matsu studied her. “You’re looking very well, Mariko-san, younger than ever. What’s your secret?”
   “I haven’t one, Sire,” she replied, her throat suddenly dry. She waited for her world to shatter but the moment passed and the old man turned his shrewd eyes back to the city below.
   “Now tell me what happened since you left Osaka. Everything you saw or heard or were part of,” he said.
   It was far into the night by the time she had finished. She related everything clearly, except the extent of her intimacy with the Anjin-san. Even here she was careful not to hide her liking for him, her respect for his intelligence and bravery. Or Toranaga’s admiration for his value.
   For a while Hiro-matsu continued to wander up and down, the movement easing his pain. Everything dovetailed with Yoshinaka’s report and Omi’s report—and even Zataki’s tirade before that daimyo had stormed off to Shinano. Now he understood many things that had been unclear and had enough information to make a calculated decision. Some of what she related disgusted him. Some made him hate his son even more; he could understand his son’s motives, but that made no difference. The rest of what she said forced him to resent the barbarian and sometimes to admire him. “You saw him pull our Lord to safety?”
   “Yes. Lord Toranaga would be dead now, Sire, but for him. I’m quite certain. Three times he has saved our Master: escaping from Osaka Castle, aboard the galley in Osaka harbor, and absolutely at the earthquake. I saw the swords Omi-san had dug up. They were twisted like noodle dough and just as useless.”
   “You think the Anjin-san really meant to commit seppuku?”
   “Yes. By the Lord God of the Christians, I believe he made that commitment. Only Omi-san prevented it. And, Sire, I believe totally he’s worthy to be samurai, worthy to be hatamoto.”
   “I didn’t ask for that opinion.”
   “Please excuse me, Sire, truly you didn’t. But that question was still in the front of your mind.”
   “You’ve become a thought reader as well as barbarian trainer?”
   “Oh, no, please excuse me, Sire, of course not,” she said in her nicest voice. “I merely answer the leader of my clan to the best of my very poor ability. Our Master’s interests are first in my mind. Your interests are second only to his.”
   “Are they?”
   “Please excuse me, but that shouldn’t be necessary to ask. Command me, Sire. I’ll do your bidding.”
   “Why so proud, Mariko-san?” he asked testily. “And so right? Eh?”
   “Please excuse me, Sire. I was rude. I don’t deserve such—”
   “I know! No woman does!” Hiro-matsu laughed. “But even so, there are times when we need a woman’s cold, cruel, vicious, cunning, practical wisdom. They’re so much cleverer than we are, neh?”
   “Oh, no, Sire,” she said, wondering what was really in his mind.
   “It’s just as well we’re alone. If that was repeated in public they’d say old Iron Fist’s overripe, that it’s time for him to put down his sword, shave his head, and begin to say prayers to Buddha for the souls of the men he’s sent into the Void. And they’d be right.”
   “No, Sire. It’s as the Lord, your son, said. Until our Master’s fate is set, you may not retreat. Neither you, nor the Lord my husband. Nor I.”
   “Yes. Even so, I’d be very pleased to lay down my sword and seek the peace of Buddha for myself and those I have killed.”
   He stared at the night for a time, feeling his age, then looked at her. She was pleasing to see, more than any woman he had ever known.
   “Sire?”
   “Nothing, Mariko-san. I was remembering the first time I saw you.”
   That was when Hiro-matsu had secretly mortgaged his soul to Goroda to obtain this slip of a girl for his own son, the same son who had slaughtered his own mother, the one woman Hiro-matsu had ever really adored. Why did I get Mariko for him? Because I wanted to spite the Taikō, who desired her also. To spite a rival, nothing more.
   Was my consort truly unfaithful? the old man asked himself, reopening the perpetual sore. Oh gods, when I look you in the face I’ll demand an answer to that question. I want a yes or no! I demand the truth! I think it’s a lie, but Buntaro said she was alone with that man in the room, disheveled, her kimono loose, and it was months before I returned. It could be a lie, neh? Or the truth, neh? It must be the truth—surely no son would behead his own mother without being sure?
   Mariko was observing the lines of Hiro-matsu’s face, his skin stretched and scaled with age, and the ancient muscular strength of his arms and shoulders. What are you thinking? she wondered, liking him. Have you seen through me yet? Do you know about me and the Anjin-san now? Do you know I quiver with love for him? That when I have to choose between him and thee and Toranaga, I will choose him?
   Hiro-matsu stood near the embrasure looking down at the city below, his fingers kneading the scabbard and the haft of his sword, oblivious of her. He was brooding about Toranaga and what Zataki had said a few days ago in bitter disgust, disgust that he had shared.
   “Yes, of course I want to conquer the Kwanto and plant my standard on the walls of Yedo Castle now and make it my own. I never did before but now I do,” Zataki had told him. “But this way? There’s no honor in it! No honor for my brother or you or me! Or anyone! Except Ishido, and that peasant doesn’t know any better.”
   “Then support Lord Toranaga! With your help Tora—”
   “For what? So my brother can become Shōgun and stamp out the Heir?”
   “He’s said a hundred times he supports the Heir. I believe he does. And we’d have a Minowara to lead us, not an upstart peasant and the hellcat Ochiba, neh? Those incompetents will have eight years of rule before Yaemon’s of age if Lord Toranaga dies. Why not give Lord Toranaga the eight years—he’s Minowara! He’s said a thousand times he’ll hand over power to Yaemon. Is your brain in your arse? Toranaga’s not Yaemon’s enemy or yours!”
   “No Minowara would kneel to that peasant! He’s pissed on his honor and all of ours. Yours and mine!”
   They had argued, and cursed each other, and in privacy, had almost come to blows. “Go on,” he had taunted Zataki, “draw your sword, traitor! You’re traitor to your brother who’s head of your clan!”
   “I’m head of my own clan. We share the same mother, but not father. Toranaga’s father sent my mother away in disgrace. I’ll not help Toranaga—but if he abdicates and slits his belly I’ll support Sudara…”
   There’s no need to do that, Hiro-matsu told the night, still enraged. There’s no need to do that while I’m alive, or meekly to submit. I’m General-in-Chief. It’s my duty to protect my Master’s honor and house, even from himself. So now I decide:
   Listen, Sire, please excuse me, but this time I disobey. With pride. This time I betray you. Now I’m going to co-opt your son and heir, the Lord Sudara, and his wife, the Lady Genjiko, and together we’ll order Crimson Sky when the rains cease, and then war begins. And until the last man in the Kwanto dies, facing the enemy, I’ll hold you safe in Yedo Castle, whatever you say, whatever the cost.


   Gyoko was delighted to be home again in Mishima among her girls and ledgers and bills of lading, her debts receivable, mortgage deeds, and promissory notes.
   “You’ve done quite well,” she told her chief accountant.
   The wizened little man bobbed a thank you and hobbled away. Balefully she turned to her chief cook. “Thirteen silver chogin, two hundred copper momne for one week’s food?”
   “Oh, please excuse me, Mistress, but rumors of war have sent prices soaring to the sky,” the fat man said truculently. “Everything. Fish and rice and vegetables—even soya sauce has doubled since last month and saké’s worse. Work work work in that hot, airless kitchen that must certainly be improved. Expensive! Ha! In one week I’ve served one hundred and seventy-two guests, fed ten courtesans, eleven hungry apprentice courtesans, four cooks, sixteen maids, and fourteen men servants! Please excuse me, Mistress, so sorry, but my grandmother’s very sick so I must ask for ten days’ leave to …”
   Gyoko rent her hair just enough to make her point but not enough to mar her appearance and sent him away saying she was ruined, ruined, that she’d have to close the most famous Tea House in Mishima without such a perfect head cook and that it would all be his fault—his fault that she’d have to cast all her devoted girls and faithful but unfortunate retainers into the snow. “Don’t forget winter’s coming,” she wailed as a parting shot.
   Then contentedly alone, she added up the profits against the losses and the profits were twice what she expected. Her saké tasted better than ever and if food prices were up, so was the cost of saké. At once she wrote to her son in Odawara, the site of their saké factory, telling him to double their output. Then she sorted out the inevitable quarrels of the maids, sacked three, hired four more, sent for her courtesan broker, and bid heavily for the contracts of seven more courtesans she admired.
   “And when would you like the honored ladies to arrive, Gyoko-san?” the old woman simpered, her own commission considerable.
   “At once. At once. Go on, run along.”
   Next she summoned her carpenter and settled plans for the extension of this tea house, for the extra rooms for the extra ladies.
   “At long last the site on Sixth Street’s up for sale, Mistress. Do you want me to close on that now?”
   For months she had been waiting for that particular corner location. But now she shook her head and sent him away with instructions to option four hectares of wasteland on the hill, north of the city. “But don’t do it all yourself. Use intermediaries. Don’t be greedy. And I don’t want it aired that you’re buying for me.”
   “But four hectares? That’s—”
   “At least four, perhaps five, over the next five months. But options only—understand? They’re all to be put in these names.”
   She handed him the list of safe appointees and hurried him off, in her mind’s eye seeing the walled city within a city already thriving. She chortled with glee.
   Next every courtesan was sent for and complimented or chided or howled at or wept with. Some were promoted, some degraded, pillow prices increased or decreased. Then, in the midst of everything, Omi was announced.
   “So sorry, but Kiku-san’s not well,” she told him. “Nothing serious! It’s just the change of weather, poor child.”
   “I insist on seeing her.”
   “So sorry, Omi-san, but surely you don’t insist? Kiku-san belongs to your liege Lord, neh?”
   “I know whom she belongs to,” Omi shouted. “I want to see her, that’s all.”
   “Oh, so sorry, of course, you have every right to shout and curse, so sorry, please excuse me. But, so sorry, she’s not well. This evening—or perhaps later—or tomorrow—what can I do, Omi-san? If she becomes well enough perhaps I could send word if you’ll tell me where you’re staying.”
   He told her, knowing that there was nothing he could do, and stormed off wanting to hack all Mishima to pieces.
   Gyoko thought about Omi. Then she sent for Kiku and told her the program she’d arranged for her two nights in Mishima. “Perhaps we can persuade our Lady Toda to delay four or five nights, child. I know half a dozen here who’ll pay a father’s ransom to have you entertain them at private parties. Ha! Now that the great daimyo’s bought you, none can touch you, not ever again, so you can sing and dance and mime and be our first gei-sha!”
   “And poor Omi-san, Mistress? I’ve never heard him so cross before, so sorry he shouted, at you.”
   “Ha! What’s a shout or two when we consort with daimyos and the richest of the rich rice and silk brokers at long last. Tonight I’ll tell Omi-san where you’ll be the last time you sing, but much too soon so he’ll have to wait. I’ll arrange a nearby room. Meanwhile he’ll have lots of saké … and Akiko to serve him. It won’t hurt to sing a sad song or two to him afterwards—we’re still not sure about Toranaga-sama, neh? We still haven’t had a down payment, let alone the balance.”
   “Please excuse me, wouldn’t Choko be a better choice? She’s prettier and younger and sweeter. I’m sure he would enjoy her more.”
   “Yes, child. But Akiko’s strong and very experienced. When this sort of madness is on men they’re inclined to be rough. Rougher than you’d imagine. Even Omi-san. I don’t want Choko damaged. Akiko likes danger and needs some violence to perform well. She’ll take the sting out of his Beauteous Barb. Run along now, your prettiest kimono and best perfumes…”
   Gyoko shooed Kiku away to get ready and once more hurled herself into finishing the management of her house. Then, everything completed—even the formal cha invitation tomorrow to the eight most influential Mama-sans in Mishima to discuss a matter of great import—she sank gratefully into a perfect bath, “Ahhhhhhhhh!”
   At the perfect time, a perfect massage. Perfume and powder and makeup and coiffure. New loose kimono of rare frothy silk. Then, at the perfect moment, her favorite arrived. He was eighteen, a student, son of an impoverished samurai, his name Inari.
   “Oh, how lovely you are—I rushed here the moment your poem arrived,” he said breathlessly. “Did you have a pleasant journey? I’m so happy to welcome you back! Thank you, thank you for the presents—the sword is perfect and the kimono! Oh, how good you are to me!”
   Yes, I am, she told herself, though she stoutly denied it to his face. Soon she was lying beside him, sweaty and languorous. Ah, Inari, she thought bemused, your Pellucid Pestle’s not built like the Anjin-san’s but what you lack in size you surely make up with cataclysmic vigor!
   “Why do you laugh?” he asked sleepily.
   “Because you make me happy,” she sighed, delighted that she’d had the great good fortune to be educated. She chatted easily, complimented him extravagantly, and petted him to sleep, her hands and voice out of long habit smoothly achieving all that was necessary of their own volition. Her mind was far away. She was wondering about Mariko and her paramour, rethinking the alternatives. How far dare she press Mariko? Or whom should she give them away to, or threaten her with, subtly of course—Toranaga, Buntaro, or whom? The Christian priest? Would there be any profit in that? Or Lord Kiyama—certainly any scandal connecting the great Lady Toda with the barbarian would ruin her son’s chance of marrying Kiyama’s granddaughter. Would that threat bend her to my will? Or should I do nothing—is there more profit in that somehow?
   Pity about Mariko. Such a lovely lady! My, but she’d make a sensational courtesan! Pity about the Anjin-san. My, but he’s a clever one—I could make a fortune out of him too.
   How can I best use this secret, most profitably, before it’s no longer a secret and those two are destroyed?
   Be careful, Gyoko, she admonished herself. There’s not much time left to decide about this, or about the other new secrets: about the guns and arms hidden by the peasants in Anjiro for instance, or about the new Musket Regiment—its numbers, officers, organization, and number of guns. Or about Toranaga, who, the last night in Yokosé, pillowed Kiku pleasantly, using a classic “six shallow and five deep” rhythm for the hundred thrusts with the strength of a thirty year-old and slept till dawn like a babe. That’s not the pattern of a man distraught with worry, neh?