Shogun

them as their seconds, long swords out and raised, two-handed, all of them now unmolested by Naga and his men. As the samurai who knelt reached out for their knives, they stretched their necks and the three swords flashed down and decapitated them with the single blow. Teeth chattered in the fallen heads, then were still. Flies swarmed.

Then two samurai knelt, the last man standing ready as second. The first of those kneeling was decapitated in the manner of his comrades as he reached for the knife. The other said, “No. I, Hirasaki Kenko, I know how to die—how a samurai should die.”

Kenko was a lithe young man, perfumed and almost pretty, paleskinned, his hair well oiled and very neat. He picked up his knife reverently and partially wrapped the blade with his sash to improve his grip.

“I protest Nebara Jozen-san’s death and those of his men,” he said firmly, bowing to Naga. He took a last look at the sky and gave his second a last reassuring smile. “Sayonara, Tadeo.” Then he slid the knife deep into the left side of his stomach. He ripped it full across with both hands and took it out and plunged it deep again, just above his groin, and jerked it up in silence. His lacerated bowels spilled into his lap and as his hideously contorted, agonized face pitched forward, his second brought the sword down in a single slashing arc.

Naga personally picked up this head by the hair knot and wiped off the dirt and closed the eyes. Then he told his men to see that the head was washed, wrapped, and sent to Ishido with full honors, with a complete report on Hirasaki Kenko’s bravery.

The last samurai knelt. There was no one left to second him. He too was young. His fingers trembled and fear consumed him. Twice he had done his duty to his comrades, twice cut cleanly, honorably, saving them the trial of pain and the shame of fear. And once he had waited for his dearest friend to die as a samurai should die, self- immolated in pride-filled silence, then again cut cleanly with perfect skill. He had never killed before.

His eyes focused on his own knife. He bared his stomach and prayed for his lover’s courage. Tears were gathering but he willed his face into a frozen, smiling mask. He unwound his sash and partially wrapped the blade. Then, because the youth had done his duty well, Naga signaled to his lieutenant.

This samurai came forward and bowed, introducing himself formally. “Osaragi Nampo, Captain of Lord Toranaga’s Ninth Legion. I would be honored to act as your second.”

“Ikomo Tadeo, First Officer, vassal of Lord Ishido,” the youth replied. “Thank you. I would be honored to accept you as my second.”

His death was quick, painless, and honorable.

The heads were collected. Later Jozen shrieked into life again. His frantic hands tried helplessly to remake his belly.

They left him to the dogs that had come up from the village.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

At the Hour of the Horse, eleven o’clock in the morning, ten days after the death of Jozen and all his men, a convoy of three galleys rounded the headland at Anjiro. They were crammed with troops. Toranaga came ashore. Beside him was Buntaro.

“First I wish to see an attack exercise, Yabu-san, with the original five hundred,” Toranaga said. “At once.”

“Could it be tomorrow? That would give me time to prepare,” Yabu said affably, but inwardly he was furious at the suddenness of Toranaga’s arrival and incensed with his spies for not forewarning him. He had had barely enough time to hurry to the shore with a guard of honor. “You must be tired—”

“I’m not tired, thank you,” Toranaga said, intentionally brusque. “I don’t need ‘defenders’ or an elaborate setting or screams or pretended deaths. You forget, old friend, I’ve acted in enough Noh plays and staged enough to be able to use my imagination. I’m not a ronin-peasant! Please order it mounted at once.”

They were on the beach beside the wharf. Toranaga was surrounded by elite guards, and more were pouring off the moored galley. Another thousand heavily armed samurai were crammed into the two galleys that waited just offshore. It was a warm day, the sky cloudless, with a light surf and heat haze on the horizon.

“Igurashi, see to it!” Yabu bottled his rage. Since the first message he had sent concerning Jozen’s arrival eleven days ago, there had been the merest trickle of noncommittal reports from Yedo from his own espionage network, and nothing but sporadic and infuriatingly inconclusive replies from Toranaga to his ever more urgent signals: “Your message received and under serious study.” “Shocked by your news about my son. Please wait for further instructions.” Then, four days ago: “Those responsible for Jozen’s death will be punished. They are to remain at their posts but to continue under arrest until I can consult with Lord Ishido.” And yesterday, the bombshell: “Today I received the new Council of Regents’ formal invitation to the Osaka Flower-Viewing Ceremony. When do you plan to leave? Advise immediately.”

“Surely that doesn’t mean Toranaga’s actually going?” Yabu had asked, baffled.

“He’s forcing you to commit yourself,” Igurashi had replied. “Whatever you say traps you.”

“I agree,” Omi had said.

“Why aren’t we getting news from Yedo? What’s happened to our spies?”

“It’s almost as though Toranaga’s put a blanket over the whole Kwanto,” Omi had told him. “Perhaps he knows who your spies are!”

“Today’s the tenth day, Sire,” Igurashi had reminded Yabu. “Everything’s ready for your departure to Osaka. Do you want to leave or not?”

Now, here on the beach, Yabu blessed his guardian kami who had persuaded him to accept Omi’s advice to stay until the last possible day, three days hence.

“About your final message, Toranaga-sama, the one that arrived yesterday,” he said. “You’re surely not going to Osaka?”

“Are you?”

“I acknowledge you as leader. Of course, I’ve been waiting for your decision.”

“My decision is easy, Yabu-sama. But yours is hard. If you go, the Regents will certainly chop you for destroying Jozen and his men. And Ishido is really very angry—and rightly so. Neh?”

“I didn’t do it, Lord Toranaga. Jozen’s destruction—however merited—was against my orders.”

“It was just as well Naga-san did it, neh? Otherwise you’d certainly have had to do it yourself. I’ll discuss Naga-san later, but come along, we’ll talk as we walk up to the training ground. No need to waste time.” Toranaga set off at his brisk pace, his guards following closely. “Yes, you really are in a dilemma, old friend. If you go, you lose your head, you lose Izu, and of course your whole Kasigi family goes to the execution ground. If you stay, the Council will order the same thing.” He looked across at him. “Perhaps you should do what you suggested I do the last time I was in Anjiro. I’ll be happy to be your second. Perhaps your head will ease Ishido’s ill humor when I meet him.”

“My head’s of no value to Ishido.”

“I don’t agree.”

Buntaro intercepted them. “Excuse me, Sire. Where do you want the men billeted?”

“On the plateau. Make your permanent camp there. Two hundred guards will stay with me at the fortress. When you’ve made the arrangements join me. I’ll want you to see the training exercise.” Buntaro hurried off.

“Permanent camp? You’re staying here?” Yabu asked.

“No, only my men. If the attack’s as good as I hear, we’ll be forming nine assault battalions of five hundred samurai each.”

“What?”

“Yes. I’ve brought another thousand selected samurai for you now. You’ll provide the other thousand.”

“But there aren’t enough guns and the train—”

“So sorry, you’re wrong. I’ve brought a thousand muskets and plenty of powder and shot. The rest will arrive within a week with another thousand men.”

“We’ll have nine assault battalions?”