Shogun

“Ah, daimyo. Hai. Daimyo!” Mura shrugged. “Daimyo come when come. Sleep. First clean. Please.”

“What?”

“Clean. Bath, please.”

“I don’t understand.”

Mura came closer and crinkled his nose distastefully.

“Stinku. Bad. Like all Portugeezu. Bath. This clean house.”

“I’ll bathe when I want and I don’t stink!” Blackthorne fumed. “Everyone knows baths are dangerous. You want me to catch the flux? You think I’m God-cursed stupid? You get the hell out of here and let me sleep!”

“Bath!” Mura ordered, shocked at the barbarian’s open anger—the height of bad manners. And it was not just that the barbarian stank, as indeed he did, but he had not bathed correctly for three days to his knowledge, and the courtesan quite rightly would refuse to pillow with him, however much the fee. These awful foreigners, he thought. Astonishing! How astoundingly filthy their habits are! Never mind. I’m responsible for you. You will be taught manners. You will bathe like a human being, and Mother will know that which she wants to know. “Bath!”

“Now get out before I snap you into pieces!” Blackthorne glowered at him, motioning him away.

There was a moment’s pause and the other three Japanese appeared along with three of the women. Mura explained curtly what was the matter, then said with finality to Blackthorne, “Bath. Please.”

“Out!”

Mura came forward alone into the room. Blackthorne shoved out his arm, not wanting to hurt the man, just to push him away. Suddenly Blackthorne let out a bellow of pain. Somehow Mura had chopped his elbow with the side of his hand and now Blackthorne’s arm hung down, momentarily paralyzed. Enraged, he charged. But the room spun and he was flat on his face and there was another stabbing, paralyzing pain in his back and he could not move. “By God?.?.?.”

He tried to get up but his legs buckled under him. Then Mura calmly put out his small but iron-hard finger and touched a nerve center in Blackthorne’s neck. There was a blinding pain.

“Good sweet Jesus?.?.?.”

“Bath? Please?”

“Yes—yes,” Blackthorne gasped through his agony, astounded that he had been overcome so easily by such a tiny man and now lay helpless as any child, ready to have his throat cut.

Years ago Mura had learned the arts of judo and karate as well as how to fight with sword and spear. This was when he was a warrior and fought for Nakamura, the peasant general, the Taiko long before the Taiko had become the Taiko—when peasants could be samurai and samurai could be peasants, or craftsmen or even lowly merchants, and warriors again. Strange, Mura thought absently, looking down at the fallen giant, that almost the first thing the Taiko did when he became all powerful was to order all peasants to cease being soldiers and at once give up all weapons. The Taiko had forbidden them weapons forever and set up the immutable caste system that now controlled all the lives in all the empire: samurai above all, below them the peasants, next craftsmen, then the merchants followed by actors, outcasts, and bandits, and finally at the bottom of the scale, the eta, the nonhumans, those who dealt with dead bodies, the curing of leather and handling of dead animals, who were also the public executioners, branders, and mutilators. Of course, any barbarian was beneath consideration in this scale.

“Please excuse me, Captain-san,” Mura said, bowing low, ashamed for the barbarian’s loss of face as he lay groaning like a baby still at suck. Yes, I’m very sorry, he thought, but it had to be done. You provoked me beyond all reasonableness, even for a barbarian. You shout like a lunatic, upset my mother, interrupt my house’s tranquillity, disturb the servants, and my wife’s already had to replace one shoji door. I could not possibly permit your obvious lack of manners to go unopposed. Or allow you to go against my wishes in my own house. It’s really for your own good. Then, too, it’s not so bad because you barbarians really have no face to lose. Except the priests—they’re different. They still smell horrible, but they’re the anointed of God the Father so they have great face. But you— you’re a liar as well as a pirate. No honor. How astonishing! Claiming to be a Christian! Unfortunately that won’t help you at all. Our daimyo hates the True Faith and barbarians and tolerates them only because he has to. But you’re not a Portuguese or a Christian, therefore not protected by law, neh? So even though you are a dead man—or at least a mutilated one—it is my duty to see that you go to your fate clean. “Bath very good!”

He helped the other men carry the still dazed Blackthorne through the house, out into the garden, along a roofed-in walk of which he was very proud, and into the bath house. The women followed.

It became one of the great experiences of his life. He knew at the time that he would tell and retell the tale to his incredulous friends over barrels of hot sake, as the national wine of Japan was called; to his fellow elders, fishermen, villagers, to his children who also would not at first believe him. But they, in their turn, would regale their children and the name of Mura the fisherman would live forever in the village of Anjiro, which was in the province of Izu on the southeastern coast of the main island of Honshu. All because he, Mura the fisherman, had the good fortune to be headman in the first year after the death of the Taiko and therefore temporarily responsible for the leader of the strange barbarians who came out of the eastern sea.

CHAPTER TWO

“The daimyo, Kasigi Yabu, Lord of Izu, wants to know who you are, where you come from, how you got here, and what acts of piracy you have committed,” Father Sebastio said.

“I keep telling you we’re not pirates.” The morning was clear and warm and Blackthorne was kneeling in front of the platform in the village square, his head still aching from the blow. Keep calm and get your brain working, he told himself. You’re on trial for your lives. You’re the spokesman and that’s all there is to it. The Jesuit’s hostile and the only interpreter available and you’ll have no way of knowing what he’s saying except you can be sure he’ll not help you.?.?.?. ‘Get your wits about you boy,’ he could almost hear old Alban Caradoc saying. ‘When the storm’s the worst and the sea the most dreadful, that’s when you need your special wits. That’s what keeps you alive and your ship alive—if you’re the pilot. Get your wits about you and take the juice out of every day, however bad.?.?.?.’

The juice of today is bile, Blackthorne thought grimly. Why do I hear Alban’s voice so clearly?

“First tell the daimyo that we’re at war, that we’re enemies,” he said. “Tell him England and the Netherlands are at war with Spain and Portugal.”

“I caution you again to speak simply and not to twist the facts. The Netherlands—or Holland, Zeeland, the United Provinces, whatever you filthy Dutch rebels call it—is a small, rebellious province of the Spanish Empire. You’re leader of traitors who are in a state of insurrection against their lawful king.”

“England’s at war and the Netherlands have been sepa—” Blackthorne did not continue because the priest was no longer listening but interpreting.

The daimyo was on the platform, short, squat, and dominating. He knelt comfortably, his heels tucked neatly under him, flanked by four lieutenants, one of whom was Kasigi Omi, his nephew and vassal. They all wore silk kimonos and, over them, ornate surcoats with wide belts nipping them in at the waist and huge, starched shoulders. And the inevitable swords.

Mura knelt in the dirt of the square. He was the only villager present and the only other onlookers were the fifty samurai who came with the daimyo. They sat in disciplined, silent rows. The rabble of the ship’s crew were behind Blackthorne and, like him, were on their knees, guards nearby. They had had to carry the Captain-General with them when they were sent for, even though he was ailing badly. He had been allowed to lie down in the dirt, still in semicoma. Blackthorne had bowed with all of them when they had come in front of the daimyo, but this was not enough. Samurai had slammed all of them on their knees and pushed their heads into the dust in the manner of peasants. He had tried to resist and shouted to the priest to explain that it was not their custom, that he was the leader and an emissary of their country and should be treated as such. But the haft of a spear had sent him reeling. His men gathered themselves for an impulsive charge, but he shouted at them to stop and to kneel. Fortunately they obeyed. The daimyo had uttered something guttural and the priest interpreted this as a caution to him to tell the truth and tell it quickly. Blackthorne