Shogun (164 page)

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

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

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

“You’re samurai too?”

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

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

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

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

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

“How many horse, Captain?” he asked.

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

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

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

“Nowhere else?”

“No, senhor.”

“By whom?”

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

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

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

“When does that happen?”

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

“Where’s Yabu-san?”

“I don’t know, so sorry.”

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

“Yes, Anjin-san.”

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

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

“Before God?”

“I’m just a guide, Anjin-san.”

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

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

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

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

“Christians did that.”

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

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

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

“And the Church? The Fathers?”

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

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

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

“Maybe,” Blackthorne replied, liking him.

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

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

“What happens at the galley, Brother?”

“I don’t know, Anjin-san.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“
Dozo
, Anjin-sama!”

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

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

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

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

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

“What is it?” Michael asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“This way is quicker, Anjin-san.”

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

“I was told to go this way.”

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

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

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

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

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

“It’s a fine time of the day,
neh?”

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

“Why?”

“I’d like to spirit you away, you and your strange ship at Yokohama, to Hizen, to our great harbor of Sasebo. Then I would ask you to barter with me—I’d ask you to show me and our sea captains the ways of your ship and your ways of the sea. In return I’d offer you the best teachers in the realm, teachers of
bushido, cha-no-yu, hara-gei, ki, zazen
meditation, flower arranging, and all the special unique knowledges that we possess.”

“I’d like that. Why don’t we do it now?”

“It’s not possible today. But you already know so much and in such a short time,
neh?
Mariko-sama was a great teacher. You are a worthy samurai. And you have a quality that’s rare here: unpredictability.
The Taikō had it, Toranaga-sama has it too. You see, usually we’re a very predictable people.”

“Are you?”

“Yes.”

“Then predict a way I can escape the trap I’m in.”

“So sorry, there isn’t one, Anjin-san,” Michael said.

“I don’t believe that. How did you know my ship is at Yokohama?”

“That’s common knowledge.”

“Is it?”

“Almost everything about you—and your defense of Lord Toranaga, and the Lady Maria, Lady Toda—is well known. And honored.”

“I don’t believe that either.” Blackthorne picked up another flat stone and sent it skimming over the waves. They went on, Blackthorne humming a sea shanty, liking Michael very much. Soon their way was blocked by a breakwater. They skirted it and came up onto the road once more. The Jesuit warehouse and Mission were tall and brooding now under the reddening sky. He saw the orange-robed Lay Brothers guarding the arched stone gateway and sensed their hostility. But it did not touch him. His head began to ache again.

As he had expected, Michael headed for the Mission gates. He readied himself, resolved that they would have to beat him into unconsciousness before he went inside and they forced him to give up his weapons.

“You’re just guiding me to my galley, eh?”

“Yes, Anjin-san.” To his astonishment Michael motioned him to stop outside the gateway. “Nothing’s changed. I was told to inform the Father-Visitor as we passed. So sorry, but you’ll have to wait a moment.”

Thrown off guard, Blackthorne watched him enter the gates alone. He had expected that the Mission was to be the end of his journey. First an Inquisition and trial, with torture, then handed over to the Captain-General. He looked at the lorcha a hundred paces away. Ferriera and Rodrigues were on the poop and armed seamen crowded the main deck. Past the ship, the wharf road curled slightly and he could just see his galley. Men were watching from the gunwales and he thought he recognized Yabu and Vinck among them but could not be sure. There seemed to be a few women aboard also but who they were he did not know. Surrounding the galley were Grays. Many Grays.

His eyes returned to Ferriera and Rodrigues. Both were heavily armed. So were the seamen. Gun crews lounged near the two small shore-side cannon, but in reality they were manning them. He recognized the great bulk of Pesaro, the bosun, moving down the companionway with a group of men. His eyes followed them, then his blood chilled. A tall stake was driven into the packed earth on the farside wharf. Wood was piled around the base.