Shogun

If he stirred in the night a maid would open the door almost instantly to ask if there was anything he wanted. Once he had not understood. He motioned the maid away and went to the garden and sat on the steps, looking at the moon. Within a few minutes Fujiko, tousled and bleary, came and sat silently behind him.

“Can I get you anything, Lord?”

“No, thank you. Please go to bed.”

She had said something he did not understand. Again he had motioned her away so she spoke sharply to the maid, who attended her like a shadow. Soon Mariko came.

“Are you all right, Anjin-san?”

“Yes. I don’t know why you were disturbed. Christ Jesus—I’m just looking at the moon. I couldn’t sleep. I just wanted some air.”

Fujiko spoke to her haltingly, ill at ease, hurt by the irritation in his voice. “She says you told her to go back to sleep. She just wanted you to know that it’s not our custom for a wife or consort to sleep while her master’s awake, that’s all, Anjin-san.”

“Then she’ll have to change her custom. I’m often up at night. By myself. It’s a habit from being at sea—I sleep very lightly ashore.”

“Yes, Anjin-san.”

Mariko had explained and the two women had gone away. But Blackthorne knew that Fujiko had not gone back to sleep and would not, until he slept. She was always up and waiting whatever time he came back to the house. Some nights he walked the shore alone. Even though he insisted on being alone, he knew that he was followed and watched. Not because they were afraid he was trying to escape. Only because it was their custom for important people always to be attended. In Anjiro he was important.

In time he accepted her presence. It was as Mariko had first said, ‘Think of her as a rock or a shoji or a wall. It is her duty to serve you.’

It was different with Mariko.

He was glad that she had stayed. Without her presence he could never have begun the training, let alone explained the intricacies of strategy. He blessed her and Father Domingo and Alban Caradoc and his other teachers.

I never thought the battles would ever be put to good use, he thought again. Once when his ship was carrying a cargo of English wools to Antwerp, a Spanish army had swooped down upon the city and every man had gone to the barricades and to the dikes. The sneak attack had been beaten off and the Spanish infantry outgunned and outmaneuvered. That was the first time he had seen William, Duke of Orange, using regiments like chess pieces. Advancing, retreating in pretended panic to regroup again, charging back again, guns blazing in packed, gut-hurting, ear-pounding salvos, breaking through the Invincibles to leave them dying and screaming, the stench of blood and powder and urine and horses and dung filling you, and a wild frantic joy of killing possessing you and the strength of twenty in your arms.

“Christ Jesus, it’s grand to be victorious,” he said aloud in the tub.

“Master?” Suwo said.

“Nothing,” he replied in Japanese. “I talking—I was just think—just thinking aloud.”

“I understand, Master. Yes. Your pardon.”

Blackthorne let himself drift away.

Mariko. Yes, she’s been invaluable.

After that first night of his almost suicide, nothing had ever been said again. What was there to say?

I’m glad there’s so much to do, he thought. No time to think except here in the bath for these few minutes. Never enough time to do everything. Ordered to concentrate on training and teaching and not on learning, but wanting to learn, trying to learn, needing to learn to fulfill the promise to Yabu. Never enough hours. Always exhausted and drained by bedtime, sleeping instantly, to be up at dawn and riding fast to the plateau. Training all morning, then a sparse meal, never satisfying and never meat. Then every afternoon until nightfall—sometimes till very late at night—with Yabu and Omi and Igurashi and Naga and Zukimoto and a few of the other officers, talking about war, answering questions about war. How to wage war. How barbarians war and how Japanese war. On land and at sea. Scribes always taking notes. Many, many notes.

Sometimes with Yabu alone.

But always Mariko there—part of him—talking for him. And for Yabu. Mariko different now toward him, he no longer a stranger.

Other days the scribes reading back the notes, always checking, being meticulous, revising and checking again until now, after twelve days and a hundred hours or so of detailed exhaustive explanation, a war manual was forming. Exact. And lethal.

Lethal to whom? Not to us English or Hollanders, who will come here peacefully and only as traders. Lethal to Yabu’s enemies and to Toranaga’s enemies, and to our Portuguese and Spanish enemies when they try to conquer Japan. Like they’ve done everywhere else. In every newly discovered territory. First the priests arrive. Then the conquistadores.

But not here, he thought with great contentment. Never here—now. The manual’s lethal and proof against that. No conquest here, given a few years for the knowledge to spread.

“Anjin-san?”

“Hai, Mariko-san?”

She was bowing to him. “Yabu-ko wa kiden no goshusseki o konya wa hitsuyo to senu to oserareru, Anjin-san.”

The words formed slowly in his head: “Lord Yabu does not require to see you tonight.”

“Ichi-ban,” he said blissfully. “Domo.”

“Gomen nasai, Anjin-san. Anatawa—”

“Yes, Mariko-san,” he interrupted her, the heat of the water sapping his energy. “I know I should have said it differently but I don’t want to speak any more Japanese now. Not tonight. Now I feel like a schoolboy who’s been let out of school for the Christmas holiday. Do you realize these’ll be the first free hours I’ve had since I arrived?”

“Yes, yes I do.” She smiled wryly. “And do you realize, Senhor Captain-Pilot B’rack’fon, these will be the first free hours I’ve had since I arrived?”

He laughed. She was wearing a thick cotton bathing robe tied loosely, and a towel around her head to protect her hair. Every evening as soon as his massage began, she would take the bath, sometimes alone, sometimes with Fujiko.

“Here, you have it now,” he said, beginning to get out.

“Oh, please, no, I don’t wish to disturb you.”

“Then share it. It’s wonderful.”

“Thank you. I can hardly wait to soak the sweat and dust away.” She took off her robe and sat on the tiny seat. A servant began to lather her, Suwo waiting patiently near the massage table.

“It is rather like a school holiday,” she said, as happily.

The first time Blackthorne had seen her naked on the day that they swam he had been greatly affected. Now her nakedness, of itself, did not touch him physically. Living closely in Japanese style in a Japanese house where the walls were paper and the rooms multipurpose, he had seen her unclothed and partially clothed many times. He had even seen her relieving herself.

“What’s more normal, Anjin-san? Bodies are normal, and differences between men and women are normal, neh?”

“Yes, but it’s, er, just that we’re trained differently.”

“But now you’re here and our customs are your customs and normal is normal. Neh? ”

Normal was urinating or defecating in the open if there were no latrines or buckets, just lifting your kimono or parting it and squatting or standing, everyone else politely waiting and not watching, rarely screens for privacy. Why should one require privacy? And soon one of the peasants would gather the feces and mix it with water to fertilize crops. Human manure and urine were the only substantial source of fertilizer in the Empire. There were few horses and bullocks, and no other animal sources at all. So every human particle was harbored and sold to the farmers throughout the land.