Shogun

This is my fief and my responsibility.”

“I agree. Yes, it is.” Igurashi waved Mura contemptuously away. And then he added quietly, “You’re responsible. But without offense, I tell you you’ve never seen our Master when something goes wrong. If we’ve forgotten anything, or these dung eaters haven’t done what they’re supposed to, our Master will make your whole fief and those to the north and south into manure heaps before sunset tomorrow.” He strode back to the head of his men.

This morning the final companies of samurai had ridden in from Mishima, Yabu’s capital city to the north. Now they, too, with all the others, were drawn up in packed military formation on the foreshore, in the square, and on the hillside, their banners waving with the slight breeze, upright spears glinting in the sun. Three thousand samurai, the elite of Yabu’s army. Five hundred cavalry.

Omi was not afraid. He had done everything it was possible to do and had personally checked everything that could be checked. If something went wrong, then that was just karma. But nothing is going to go wrong, he thought excitedly. Five hundred koku had been spent or was committed on the preparations —more than his entire year’s income before Yabu had increased his fief. He had been staggered by the amount but Midori, his wife, had said they should spend lavishly, that the cost was minuscule compared to the honor that Lord Yabu was doing him. “And with Lord Toranaga here—who knows what great opportunities you’ll have?” she had whispered.

She’s so right, Omi thought proudly.

He rechecked the shore and the village square. Everything seemed perfect. Midori and his mother were waiting under the awning that had been prepared to receive Yabu and his guest, Toranaga. Omi noticed that his mother’s tongue was wagging and he wished that Midori could be spared its constant lash. He straightened a fold in his already impeccable kimono and adjusted his swords and looked seaward.

“Listen, Mura-san,” Uo, the fisherman, was whispering cautiously. He was one of the five village elders and they were kneeling with Mura in front of the rest. “You know, I’m so frightened, if I pissed I’d piss dust.”

“Then don’t, old friend.” Mura suppressed his smile.

Uo was a broad-shouldered, rocklike man with vast hands and broken nose, and he wore a pained expression. “I won’t. But I think I’m going to fart.” Uo was famous for his humor and for his courage and for the quantity of his wind. Last year when they had had the wind-breaking contest with the village to the north he had been champion of champions and had brought great honor to Anjiro.

“Eeeeee, perhaps you’d better not,” Haru, a short, wizened fisherman, chortled. “One of the shit-heads might get jealous.”

Mura hissed, “You’re ordered not to call samurai that while even one’s near the village.” Oh ko, he was thinking wearily, I hope we’ve not forgotten anything. He glanced up at the mountainside, at the bamboo stockade surrounding the temporary fortress they had constructed with such speed and sweat. Three hundred men, digging and building and carrying. The other new house had been easier. It was on the knoll, just below Omi’s house, and he could see it, smaller than Omi’s but with a tiled roof, a makeshift garden, and a small bath house. I suppose Omi will move there and give Lord Yabu his, Mura thought.

He looked back at the headland where the galley would appear any moment now. Soon Yabu would step ashore and then they were all in the hands of the gods, all kami, God the Father, His Blessed Son, and the Blessed Madonna, oh ko!

Blessed Madonna, protect us! Would it be too much to ask to put Thy great eye on this special village of Anjiro? Just for the next few days? We need special favor to protect us from our Lord and Master, oh yes! I will light fifty candles and my sons will definitely be brought up in the True Faith, Mura promised.

Today Mura was very glad to be a Christian; he could intercede with the One God and that was an added protection for his village. He had become a Christian in his youth because his own liege lord had been converted and had at once ordered all his followers to become Christians. And when, twenty years ago, this lord was killed fighting for Toranaga against the Taiko, Mura had remained Christian to honor his memory. A good soldier has but one master, he thought. One real master.

Ninjin, a round-faced man with very buck teeth, was especially agitated by the presence of so many samurai. “Mura-san, so sorry, but it’s dangerous what you’ve done—terrible, neh? That little earthquake this morning, it was a sign from the gods, an omen. You’ve made a terrible mistake, Mura-san.”

“What is done is done, Ninjin. Forget about it.”

“How can I? It’s in my cellar and—”

“Some of it’s in your cellar. I’ve plenty myself,” Uo said, no longer smiling.

“Nothing’s anywhere. Nothing, old friends,” Mura said cautiously. “Nothing exists.” On his orders, thirty koku of rice had been stolen over the last few days from the samurai commissariat and was now secreted around the village, along with other stores and equipment—and weapons.

“Not weapons,” Uo had protested. “Rice yes, but not weapons!”

“War is coming.”

“It’s against the law to have weapons,” Ninjin had wailed.

Mura snorted. “That’s a new law, barely twelve years old. Before that we could have any weapons we wanted and we weren’t tied to the village. We could go where we wanted, be what we wanted. We could be peasant-soldier, fisherman, merchant, even samurai—some could, you know it’s the truth.”

“Yes, but now it’s different, Mura-san, different. The Taiko ordered it to be different!”

“Soon it’ll be as it’s always been. We’ll be soldiering again.”

“Then let’s wait,” Ninjin had pleaded. “Please. Now it’s against the law. If the law changes that’s karma. The Taiko made the law: no weapons. None. On pain of instant death.”

“Open your eyes, all of you! The Taiko’s dead! And I tell you, soon Omi-san’ll need trained men and most of us have warred, neh? We’ve fished and warred, all in their season. Isn’t that true?”

“Yes, Mura-san,” Uo had agreed through his fear. “Before the Taiko we weren’t tied.”

“They’ll catch us, they have to catch us,” Ninjin had wept. “They’ll have no mercy. They’ll boil us like they boiled the barbarian.”

“Shut up about the barbarian!”

“Listen, friends,” Mura had said. “We’ll never get such a chance again. It’s sent by God. Or by the gods. We must take every knife, arrow, spear, sword, musket, shield, bow we can. The samurai’ll think other samurai’ve stolen them—haven’t the shit-heads come from all over Izu? And what samurai really trusts another? We must take back our right to war, neh? My father was killed in battle—so was his and his! Ninjin, how many battles have you been in—dozens, neh? Uo—what about you? Twenty? Thirty?”

“More. Didn’t I serve with the Taiko, curse his memory? Ah, before he became Taiko, he was a man. That’s the truth! Then something changed him, neh? Ninjin, don’t forget that Mura-san is headman! And we shouldn’t forget his father was headman too! If the headman says weapons, then weapons it has to be.”

Now, kneeling in the sun, Mura was convinced that he had done correctly, that this new war would last forever and their world would be again as it had always been. The village would be here, and the boats and some villagers. Because all men—peasant, daimyo, samurai, even the eta—all men had to eat and the fish were waiting in the sea. So the soldier-villagers would take time out from war from time to time, as always, and they would launch their boats.?.?.?.

“Look!” Uo said and pointed involuntarily in the sudden hush.

The galley was rounding the headland.

Fujiko was kneeling abjectly in front of Toranaga in the main cabin that he had used during the voyage, and they were alone.

“I beg you, Sire,” she pleaded. “Take this sentence off my head.”

“It’s not a sentence, it’s an order.”

“I will obey, of course. But I cannot do—”

“Cannot?” Toranaga flared. “How dare you argue! I tell you you’re to be the pilot’s consort and you have the impertinence to argue?”

“I apologize, Sire, with all my heart,” Fujiko said quickly, the words gushing. “That was not meant as an