Shogun

to spread the word of God. And he banished everyone, except traders, ten, twelve-odd years ago. It was before I came to these waters—I’ve been here seven years, off and on. The Holy Fathers say it was because of the heathen priests—the Buddhists—the stinking, jealous idol worshipers, these heathens, they turned the Taiko against our Holy Fathers, filled him with lies, when they’d almost converted him. Yes, the Great Murderer himself almost had his soul saved. But he missed his chance for salvation. Yes. Anyway, he ordered all of our priests to leave Japan.?.?.?. Did I tell you this was ten-odd years ago?”

Blackthorne nodded, glad to let him ramble and glad to listen, desperate to learn.

“The Taiko had all the Fathers collected at Nagasaki, ready to ship them out to Macao with written orders never to return on pain of death. Then, as suddenly, he left them all alone and did no more. I told you Japmen are upside-downers. Yes, he left them alone and soon it was as before, except that most of the Fathers stayed in Kyushu where we’re welcome. Did I tell you Japan’s made up of three big islands, Kyushu, Shikoku, and Honshu? And thousands of little ones. There’s another island far to the north—some say it’s the mainland—called Hokkaido, but only hairy natives live there.

“Japan’s an upside-down world, Ingeles. Father Alvito told me it became again as though nothing had ever happened. The Taiko was as friendly as before, though he never converted. He hardly shut down a church and only banished two or three of the Christian daimyos—but that was just to get their lands—and never enforced his Expulsion Edicts. Then, three years ago, he went mad again and martyred twenty-six Fathers. He crucified them at Nagasaki. For no reason. He was a maniac, Ingeles. But after murdering the twenty-six he did nothing more. He died soon after. It was the Hand of God, Ingeles. The curse of God was on him and is on his seed. I’m sure of it.”

“Do you have many converts here?”

But Rodrigues did not seem to hear, lost in his own half-consciousness. “They’re animals, the Japaners. Did I tell you about Father Alvito? He’s the interpreter—Tsukku-san they call him, Mr. Interpreter. He was the Taiko’s interpreter, Ingeles, now he’s the official interpreter for the Council of Regents and he speaks Japanese better’n most Japanese and knows more about them than any man alive. He told me there’s a mound of earth fifty feet high in Miyako—that’s the capital, Ingeles. The Taiko had the noses and ears of all the Koreans killed in the war collected and buried there—Korea’s part of the mainland, west of Kyushu. It’s the truth! By the Blessed Virgin, there was never a killer like him—and they’re all as bad.” Rodrigues’ eyes were closed and his forehead flushed.

“Do you have many converts?” Blackthorne carefully asked again, wanting desperately to know how many enemies were here.

To his shock, Rodrigues said, “Hundreds of thousands, and more every year. Since the Taiko’s death we have more than ever before, and those who were secretly Christian now go to the church openly. Most of the island of Kyushu’s Catholic now. Most of the Kyushu daimyos are converts. Nagasaki’s a Catholic city, Jesuits own it and run it and control all trade. All trade goes through Nagasaki. We have a cathedral, a dozen churches, and dozens more spread through Kyushu, but only a few yet here in the main island, Honshu, and?.?.?.” Pain stopped him again. After a moment he continued, “There are three or four million people in Kyushu alone— they’ll all be Catholic soon. There’s another twenty-odd million Japmen in the islands and soon—”

“That’s not possible!” Blackthorne immediately cursed himself for interrupting the flow of information.

“Why should I lie? There was a census ten years ago. Father Alvito said the Taiko ordered it and he should know, he was there. Why should he lie?” Rodrigues’ eyes were feverish and now his mouth was running away with him. “That’s more than the population of all Portugal, all Spain, all France, the Spanish Netherlands, and England added together and you could almost throw in the whole Holy Roman Empire as well to equal it!”

Lord Jesus, Blackthorne thought, the whole of England hasn’t got more than three million people. And that includes Wales as well.

If there are that many Japanese, how can we deal with them? If there’s twenty million, that’d mean they could easily press an army of more men than we’ve got in our entire population if they wanted. And if they’re all as ferocious as the ones I’ve seen—and why shouldn’t they be—by God’s wounds, they’d be unbeatable. And if they’re already partially Catholic, and if the Jesuits are here in strength, their numbers will increase, and there’s no fanatic like a converted fanatic, so what chance have we and the Dutch got in Asia?

None at all.

“If you think that’s a lot,” Rodrigues was saying, “wait till you go to China. They’re all yellow men there, all with black hair and eyes. Oh, Ingeles, I tell you you’ve so much new to learn. I was in Canton last year, at the silk sales. Canton’s a walled city in south China, on the Pearl River, north of our City of the Name of God at Macao. There’s a million of the heathen dog-eaters within those walls alone. China’s got more people than all the rest of the world put together. Must have. Think of that!” A spasm of pain went through Rodrigues and his good hand held on to his stomach. “Was there any blood seeping out of me? Anywhere?”

“No. I made sure. It’s just your leg and shoulder. You’re not hurt inside, Rodrigues—at least, I don’t think so.”

“How bad is the leg?”

“It was washed by the sea and cleaned by the sea. The break was clean and the skin’s clean, at the moment.”

“Did you pour brandy over it and fire it?”

“No. They wouldn’t let me—they ordered me off. But the doctor seemed to know what he’s doing. Will your own people come aboard quickly?”

“Yes. Soon as we dock. That’s more than likely.”

“Good. You were saying? About China and Canton?”

“I was saying too much, perhaps. Time enough to talk about them.”

Blackthorne watched the Portuguese’s good hand toy with the sealed package and he wondered again what significance it had. “Your leg will be all right. You’ll know within the week.”

“Yes, Ingeles.”

“I don’t think it’ll rot—there’s no pus—you’re thinking clearly so your brain’s all right. You’ll be fine, Rodrigues.”

“I still owe you a life.” A shiver ran through the Portuguese. “When I was drowning, all I could think of was the crabs climbing in through my eyes. I could feel them churning inside me, Ingeles. That’s the third time I’ve been overboard and each time it’s worse.”

“I’ve been sunk at sea four times. Three times by Spaniards.”

The cabin door opened and the captain bowed and beckoned Blackthorne aloft.

“Hai!” Blackthorne got up. “You owe me nothing, Rodrigues,” he said kindly. “You gave me life and succor when I was desperate, and I thank you for that. We’re even.”

“Perhaps, but listen, Ingeles, here’s some truth for you, in part payment: Never forget Japmen’re six-faced and have three hearts. It’s a saying they have, that a man has a false heart in his mouth for all the world to see, another in his breast to show his very special friends and his family, and the real one, the true one, the secret one, which is never known to anyone except himself alone, hidden only God knows where. They’re treacherous beyond belief, vice-ridden beyond redemption.”

“Why does Toranaga want to see me?”

“I don’t know. By the Blessed Virgin! I don’t know. Come back to see me, if you can.”

“Yes. Good luck, Spaniard!”

“Thy sperm! Even so, go with God.”

Blackthorne smiled back, unguarded, and then he was on deck and his mind whirled from the impact of Osaka, its immensity, the teeming anthills of people, and the enormous castle that dominated the city. From within the castle’s vastness came the soaring beauty of the donjon—the central keep—seven or eight stories high, pointed gables with curved roofs at each level, the tiles all gilded and the walls blue.

That’s where Toranaga will be, he thought, an ice barb suddenly in his bowels.

A closed palanquin took him to a large house. There he was bathed and he ate, inevitably, fish soup, raw and steamed fish, a few pickled vegetables, and the hot herbed water. Instead of wheat gruel, this house provided him with a bowl of rice. He had seen rice once in Naples. It was white and wholesome, but to him tasteless. His stomach cried for meat and bread, new-baked crusty bread heavy with butter, and a haunch of beef and pies and chickens and beer and eggs.

The next day a maid came for him. The clothes that Rodrigues had given him were laundered. She watched