Blackthorne waited. in the garden. Now he wore the Brown uniform kimono that Toranaga had given him with swords in his sash and a loaded pistol hidden under the sash. From Fujiko’s hurried explanations and subsequently from the servants, he had gathered that he had to receive Buntaro formally, because the samurai was an important general and hatamoto, and was the first guest in the house. So he had bathed and changed quickly and had gone to the place that had been prepared.
He had seen Buntaro briefly yesterday, when he arrived. Buntaro had been busy with Toranaga and Yabu the rest of the day, together with Mariko, and Blackthorne had been left alone to organize the hurried attack demonstration with Omi and Naga. The attack was satisfactory.
Mariko had returned to the house very late. She had told him briefly about Buntaro’s escape, the days of being hunted by Ishido’s men, eluding them, and at last breaking through the hostile provinces to reach the Kwanto. ‘It was very difficult, but perhaps not too difficult, Anjin-san. My husband is very strong and very brave.’
‘What’s going to happen now? Are you leaving?’
‘Lord Toranaga orders that everything’s to remain as it was. Nothing’s to be changed.’
‘You’re changed, Mariko. A spark’s gone out of you.’
‘No. That’s your imagination, Anjin-san. It’s just my relief that he’s alive when I was certain he was dead.’
‘Yes. But it’s made a difference, hasn’t it?’
‘Of course. I thank God my Master wasn’t captured—that he lived to obey Lord Toranaga. Will you excuse me, Anjin-san. I’m tired now. I’m sorry, I’m very very tired.’
‘Is there anything I can do?’
‘What should you do, Anjin-san? Except to be happy for me and for him. Nothing’s changed, really. Nothing is finished because nothing began. Everything’s as it was. My husband’s alive.’
Don’t you wish he were dead? Blackthorne asked himself in the garden. No.
Then why the hidden pistol? Are you filled with guilt?
No. Nothing began.
Didn’t it?
No.
You thought you were taking her. Isn’t that the same as taking her in fact?
He saw Mariko walk into the garden from the house. She looked like a porcelain miniature following half a pace behind Buntaro, his burliness seeming even greater by comparison. Fujiko was with her, and the maids.
He bowed. ‘Yokoso oide kudasareta, Buntaro-san.’ Welcome to my house, Buntaro-san.
They all bowed. Buntaro and Mariko sat on the cushions opposite him. Fujiko seated herself behind him. Nigatsu and the maid, Koi, began to serve tea and saké. Buntaro took saké. So did Blackthorne.
‘Domo, Anjin-san. Ikaga desu ka?‘
‘Ii. Ikaga desu ka?‘
‘Ii. Kowa jozuni shabereru yoni natta na.‘ Good. You’re beginning to speak Japanese very well.
Soon Blackthorne became lost in the conversation, for Buntaro was slurring his words, speaking carelessly and rapidly.
‘Sorry, Mariko-san, I didn’t understand that.’
‘My husband wishes to thank you for trying to save him. With the oar. You remember? When we were escaping from Osaka.’
‘Ah, so desu! Domo. Please tell him I still think we should have put back to shore. There was time enough. The maid drowned unnecessarily.’
‘He says that was karma.‘
‘That was a wasted death,’ Blackthorne replied, and regretted the rudeness. He noticed that she did not translate it.
‘My husband says that the assault strategy is very good, very good indeed.’
‘Domo. Tell him I’m glad he escaped unharmed. And that he’s to command the regiment. And of course, that he’s welcome to stay here.’
‘Domo, Anjin-san. Buntaro-sama says, yes, the assault plan is very good. But for himself he will always carry his bow and swords. He can kill at a much greater range, with great accuracy, and faster than a musket.’
‘Tomorrow I will shoot against him and we will see, if he likes.’
‘You will lose, Anjin-san, so sorry. May I caution you not to attempt that,’ she said.
Blackthorne saw Buntaro’s eyes flick from Mariko to him and back again. ‘Thank you, Mariko-san. Say to him that I would like to see him shoot.’
‘He asks, can you use a bow?’
‘Yes, but not as a proper bowman. Bows are pretty much out of date with us. Except the crossbow. I was trained for the sea. There we use only cannon, musket, or cutlass. Sometimes we use fire arrows but only for enemy sails in close quarters.’
‘He asks, how are they used, how do you make them, these fire arrows? Are they different from ours, like the ones used against the galley at Osaka?’
Blackthorne began to explain and there were the usual tiring interruptions and probing requestionings. By now he was used to their incredibly inquisitive minds about any aspect of war, but found it exhausting to talk through an interpreter. Even though Mariko was excellent, what she actually said was rarely exact. A long reply would always be shortened, some of what was spoken would, of course, be changed slightly, and misunderstandings occurred. So explanations had to be repeated unnecessarily.
But without Mariko, he knew that he could never have become so valuable. It’s only knowledge that keeps me from the pit, he reminded himself. But that’s no problem, because there’s much to tell yet and a battle to win. A real battle to win. You’re safe till then. You’ve a navy to plan. And then home. Safe.
He saw Buntaro’s swords and the guard’s swords and he felt his own and the oiled warmth of his pistol and he knew, truthfully, he would never be safe in this land. Neither he nor anyone was safe, not even Toranaga.
‘Anjin-san, Buntaro-sama asks if he sends you men tomorrow, could you show them how to make these arrows?’
‘Where can we get pitch?’
‘I don’t know.’ Mariko cross-questioned him on where it was usually found and what it looked like or smelled like, and on possible alternatives. Then she spoke to Buntaro at length. Fujiko had been silent all the while, her eyes and ears trained, missing nothing. The maids, well commanded by a slight motion of Fujiko’s fan to an empty cup, constantly replenished the saké flasks.
‘My husband says he will discuss this with Lord Toranaga. Perhaps pitch exists somewhere in the Kwanto. We’ve never heard of it before. If not pitch, we have thick oils—whale oils—which might substitute. He asks do you sometimes use war rockets, like the Chinese?’
‘Yes. But they’re not considered of much value except in siege. The Turks used them when they came against the Knights of St. John in Malta. Rockets are used mostly to cause fire and panic.’
‘He asks please give him details about this battle.’
‘It was forty years ago, in the greatest—’ Blackthorne stopped, his mind racing. This had been the most vital siege in Europe. Sixty thousand Islamic Turks, the cream of the Ottoman Empire, had come against six hundred Christian knights supported by a few thousand Maltese auxiliaries, at bay in their vast castle complex at St. Elmo on the tiny island of Malta in the Mediterranean. The knights had successfully withstood the six-month siege and, incredibly, had forced the enemy to retreat in shame. This victory had saved the whole Mediterranean seaboard, and thus Christendom, from being ravaged at whim by the infidel hordes.
Blackthorne had suddenly realized that this battle gave him one of the keys to Osaka Castle: how to invest it, how to harry it, how to break through the gates, and how to conquer it.
‘You were saying, senhor?’
‘It was forty years ago, in the greatest inland sea we have in Europe, Mariko-san. The Mediterranean. It was just a siege, like any siege, not worth talking about,’ he lied. Such knowledge was priceless, certainly not to be given away lightly and absolutely not now. Mariko had explained many times that Osaka Castle stood inexorably between Toranaga and victory. Blackthorne was certain that the solution to Osaka might well be his passport out of the Empire, with all the riches he would need in this life.
He noticed that Mariko seemed troubled. ‘Senhora?’
‘Nothing, senhor.’ She began to translate what he had said. But he knew that she knew he was hiding something. The smell of the stew distracted him.
‘Fujiko-san!’
‘Hai, Anjin-san?’
‘Shokuji wa madaka? Kyaku wa . . . sazo kufuku de oro, neh?‘ When’s dinner? The guests may be hungry.
‘Ah, gomen nasai, hi ga kurete kara ni itashimasu.‘
Blackthorne saw her point at the sun and realized that she had said ‘after sunset.’ He nodded and grunted, which passed in Japan for a polite ‘thank you, I understand.’
Mariko turned again to Blackthorne. ‘My husband would like you to tell him about a battle you’ve been in.’
‘They’re all in the War Manual, Mariko-san.’
‘He says he’s read it with great interest, but it contains only brief details. Over the next days he wishes to learn everything about all your battles. One now, if it pleases you.’
‘They’re all in the War Manual. Perhaps tomorrow, Mariko-san.’ He wanted time to examine his blinding new thought about Osaka Castle and that battle, and he was tired of talking, tired of being cross-questioned, but most of all he wanted to eat.
‘Please, Anjin-san, would you tell it again, just once, for my husband?’
He heard the careful pleading under her voice so he relented. ‘Of course. Which do you think he’d like?’
‘The one in the Netherlands. Near ‘Zeeland’—is that how you pronounce it?’
‘Yes,’ he said.
So he began to tell the story of this battle which was like almost every other battle in which men died, most of the time because of the mistakes and stupidity of the officers in command.
‘My husband says it’s not so here, Anjin-san. Here the commanding officers have to be very good or they die very quickly.’
‘Of course, my criticisms applied to European leaders only.’
‘Buntaro-sama says he will tell you about our wars and our leaders, particularly the Lord Taikō, over the days. A fair exchange for your information,’ she said noncommittally.
‘Domo.‘ Blackthorne bowed slightly, feeling Buntaro’s eyes grind into him.
What do you really want from me, you son of a bitch?
Dinner was a disaster. For everyone.
Even before they had left the garden to go to the veranda to eat, the day had become ill-omened.
‘Excuse me, Anjin-san, but what’s that?’ Mariko pointed. ‘Over there. My husband asks, what’s that?’
‘Where? Oh, there! That’s a pheasant,’ Blackthorne said. ‘Lord Toranaga sent it to me, along with a hare. We’re having that for dinner, English-style—at least I am, though there’d be enough for everyone.’
‘Thank you, but . . . we, my husband and I, we don’t eat meat. But why is the pheasant hanging there? In this heat, shouldn’t it be put away and prepared?’
‘That’s the way you prepare pheasant. You hang it to mature the meat.’
‘What? Just like that? Excuse me, Anjin-san,’ she said, flustered, ‘so sorry. But it’ll go rotten quickly. It still has its feathers and it’s not been . . . cleaned.’
‘Pheasant meat’s dry, Mariko-san, so you hang it for a few days, perhaps a couple of weeks, depending on the weather. Then you pluck it, clean it, and cook it.’
‘You—you leave it in the air? To rot? Just like—’
‘Nan ja?‘ Buntaro asked impatiently.
She spoke to him apologetically and he sucked in his breath, then got up and peered at it and prodded it. A few flies buzzed, then settled back again. Hesitantly Fujiko spoke to Buntaro and he flushed.
‘Your consort said you ordered that no one was to touch it but you?’ Mariko asked.
‘Yes. Don’t you hang game here? Not everyone’s Buddhist.’
‘No, Anjin-san. I don’t think so.’
‘Some people believe you should hang a pheasant by the tail feathers until it drops off, but that’s an old wives’ tale,’ Blackthorne said. ‘By the neck’s the right way, then the juices stay where they belong. Some people let it hang until it drops off the neck but personally, I don’t like meat that gamy. We used to—’ He stopped for she had gone a slight shade of green.
‘Nan desu ka, Mariko-san?’ Fujiko asked quickly.
Mariko explained. They all laughed nervously and Mariko got up, weakly patting the sheen off her forehead. ‘I’m sorry, Anjin-san, would you excuse me a moment . . .’
Your food’s just as strange, he wanted to say. What about yesterday, the raw squid—white, slimy, almost tasteless chewy meat with nothing but soya sauce to wash it down? Or the chopped octopus tentacles, again raw, with cold rice and seaweed? How about fresh jellyfish with yellow-brown, souped torfu—fermented bean curds—that looked like a bowl of dog puke? Oh yes, served beautifully in a fragile, attractive bowl, but still looking like puke! Yes, by God, enough to make any man sick!
Eventually they went to the veranda room and, after the usual interminable bowings and small talk and cha and saké, the food began to arrive. Small trays of clear fish soup and rice and raw fish, as always. And then his stew.
He lifted the lid of the pot. The steam rose and golden globules of fat danced on the shimmering surface. The rich, mouth-watering gravysoup was heavy with meat juices and tender chunks of flesh. Proudly he offered it but they all shook their heads and begged him to eat.
‘Domo,‘ he said.
It was good manners to drink soup directly from the small lacquered bowls and to eat anything solid in the soup with chopsticks. A ladle was on the tray. Hard put to stop his hunger, he filled the bowl and began to eat. Then he saw their eyes.
They were watching with nauseated fascination which they unsuccessfully tried to hide. His appetite began to slip away. He tried to dismiss them but could not, his stomach growling. Hiding his irritation, he put down the bowl and replaced the lid and told them gruffly it was not to his taste. He ordered Nigatsu to take it away.
‘Should it be thrown away then, Fujiko asks,’ Mariko said hopefully.
‘Yes.’
Fujiko and Buntaro relaxed.
‘Would you like more rice?’ Fujiko asked.
‘No, thank you.’
Mariko waved her fan, smiled encouragingly, and refilled his saké cup. But Blackthorne was not soothed and he resolved in the future to cook in the hills in private, to eat in private, and to hunt openly.
To hell with them, he thought. If Toranaga can hunt, so can I. When am I going to see him? How long do I have to wait?
‘The pox on waiting and the pox on Toranaga!’ he said aloud in English and felt better.
‘What, Anjin-san?’ Mariko asked in Portuguese.
‘Nothing,’ he replied. ‘I was just wondering when I’d see Lord Toranaga.’
‘He didn’t tell me. Very soon, I imagine.’
Buntaro was slurping his saké and soup loudly as was custom. This began to annoy Blackthorne. Mariko talked cheerfully with her husband, who grunted, hardly acknowledging her. She was not eating, and it further irked him that both she and Fujiko were almost fawning on Buntaro and also that he himself had to put up with this unwanted guest.
‘Tell Buntaro-sama that in my country a host toasts the honored guest.’ He lifted his cup with a grim smile. ‘Long life and happiness!’ He drank.
Buntaro listened to Mariko’s explanation. He nodded in agreement, lifted his cup in return, smiled through his teeth, and drained it.
‘Health!’ Blackthorne toasted again.
And again.
And again.
‘Health!’
This time Buntaro did not drink. He put down the full cup and looked at Blackthorne out of his small eyes. Then Buntaro called to someone outside. The shoji slid open at once. His guard, ever present, bowed and handed him the immense bow and quiver. Buntaro took it and spoke vehemently and rapidly to Blackthorne.
‘My husband—my husband says you wanted to see him shoot, Anjin-san. He thinks tomorrow is too far away. Now is a good time. The gateway of your house, Anjin-san. He asks which post do you choose?’
‘I don’t understand;’ Blackthorne said. The main gate would be forty paces away, somewhere across the garden, but now completely masked by the closed shoji wall to his right.
‘The left or the right post? Please choose.’ Her manner was urgent.
Warned, he looked at Buntaro. The man seemed detached, oblivious of them, a squat ugly troll who sat gazing into the distance.
‘Left,’ he said, fascinated.
‘Hidari!‘ she said.
At once Buntaro slid an arrow from the quiver and, still sitting, set up the bow, raised it, drew back the bowstring to eye level and released the shaft with savage, almost poetic liquidity. The arrow slashed toward Mariko’s face, touched a strand of her hair in passing, and disappeared through the shoji paper wall. Another arrow was launched almost before the first had vanished, and then another, each one coming within an inch of impaling Mariko. She remained calm and motionless, kneeling as she had always been.
A fourth arrow and then a last. The silence was filled with the echo of the twanging bowstring. Buntaro sighed and came back slowly. He put the bow across his knees. Mariko and Fujiko sucked in their breaths and smiled and bowed and complimented Buntaro and he nodded and bowed slightly. They looked at Blackthorne. He knew that what he had witnessed was almost magical. All the arrows had gone through the same hole in the shoji.
Buntaro handed the bow back to his guard and picked up his tiny cup. He stared at it a moment, then raised it to Blackthorne, drained it and spoke harshly, his brutish self again.
‘He—my husband asks, politely, please go and look.’
Blackthorne thought a moment, trying to still his heart. ‘There’s no need. Of course he hit the target.’
‘He says he would like you to be sure.’
‘I’m sure.’
‘Please, Anjin-san. You would honor him.’
‘I don’t need to honor him.’
‘Yes. But may I please quietly add my request.’
Again the plea was in her eyes.
‘How do I say, ‘That was marvelous to watch’?’
She told him. He said the words and bowed. Buntaro bowed perfunctorily in return.
‘Ask him please to come with me to see the arrows.’
‘He says that he would like you to go by yourself. He does not wish to go, Anjin-san.’
‘Why?’
‘If he has been accurate, senhor, you should see that by yourself. If not, you should see that alone too. Then neither you nor he can be embarrassed.’
‘And if he’s missed?’
‘He hasn’t. But by our custom accuracy under such impossible circumstances is unimportant compared to the grace that the archer shows, the nobility of movement, his strength to shoot sitting, or the detachment about the winning or losing.’
The arrows were within an inch of each other in the middle of the left post. Blackthorne looked back at the house and he could see, forty-odd paces away, the small neat hole in the paper wall that was a spark of light in the darkness.
It’s almost impossible to be so accurate, he thought. From where Buntaro was sitting he couldn’t see the garden or the gate, and it was black night outside. Blackthorne turned back to the post and raised the lantern higher. With one hand he tried to pull out an arrow. The steel head was buried too deep. He could have snapped the wooden shaft but he did not wish to.
The guard was watching.
Blackthorne hesitated. The guard came forward to help but he shook his head, ‘Iyé, domo,‘ and went back inside.
‘Mariko-san, please tell my consort that I would like the arrows left in the post forever. All of them. To remind me of a master archer. I’ve never seen such shooting.’ He bowed to Buntaro.
‘Thank you, Anjin-san.’ She translated and Buntaro bowed and thanked him for the compliment.
‘Saké!’ Blackthorne ordered.
They drank more. Much more. Buntaro quaffed his carelessly now, the wine taking him. Blackthorne watched him covertly then let his attention wander away as he wondered how the man had managed to line up and fire the arrows with such incredible accuracy. It’s impossible, he thought, yet I saw him do it. Wonder what Vinck and Baccus and the rest are doing right now. Toranaga had told him the crew were now settled in Yedo, near Erasmus. Christ Jesus, I’d like to see them and get back aboard.
He glanced across at Mariko, who was saying something to her husband. Buntaro listened, then to Blackthorne’s surprise, he saw the samurai’s face become contorted with loathing. Before he could avert his eyes Buntaro had looked at him.
‘Nan desu ka?‘ Buntaro’s words sounded almost like an accusation.
‘Nani-mo, Buntaro-san.’ Nothing. Blackthorne offered everyone saké, hoping to cover his lapse. Again the women accepted, but just sipped their wine sparingly. Buntaro finished his cup at once, his mood ugly. Then he harangued Mariko lengthily.
In spite of himself, Blackthorne spoke out. ‘What’s the matter with him? What’s he saying?’
‘Oh, I’m sorry, Anjin-san. My husband was asking about you, about your wife and consorts. And about your children. And about what happened since we left Osaka. He—’ She stopped, changing her mind, and added in a different voice, ‘He’s most interested in you and your views.’
‘I’m interested in him and his views, Mariko-san. How did you meet, you and he? When were you married? Did—’ Buntaro overrode him with a flurry of impatient Japanese.
At once Mariko translated what had been said. Buntaro reached over and sloshed two teacups full of saké, offered one to Blackthorne and waved at the women to take the others.
‘He—my husband says sometimes saké cups are too small.’ Mariko poured the other teacups full. She sipped one, Fujiko the other. There was another, more bellicose harangue and Mariko’s smile froze on her face, Fujiko’s also.
‘Iyé, dozo gomen nasai, Buntaro-sama,’ Mariko began.
‘Ima!‘ Buntaro ordered.
Nervously Fujiko started to talk but Buntaro shut her up with one look.
‘Gomen nasai,‘ Fujiko whispered in apology. ‘Dozo, gomen nasai.‘
‘What did he say, Mariko-san?’
She appeared not to hear Blackthorne. ‘Dozo gomen nasai, Buntaro-sama, watashi—’
Her husband’s face reddened. ‘IMA!‘
‘So sorry, Anjin-san, but my husband orders me to tell—to answer your questions—to tell you about myself. I told him that I did not think that family matters should be discussed so late at night, but he orders it. Please be patient.’ She took a large sip of the saké. Then another. The strands of hair that were loose over her ears waved in the slight current made by Fujiko’s fan. She drained the cup and put it down. ‘My maiden name is Akechi. I am the daughter of General Lord Akechi Jinsai, the assassin. My father treacherously assassinated his liege lord, the Dictator Lord Goroda.’
‘God in heaven! Why’d he do that?’
‘Whatever the reason, Anjin-san, it is insufficient. My father committed the worst crime in our world. My blood’s tainted, as is the blood of my son.’
‘Then why—’ He stopped.
‘Yes, Anjin-san?’
‘I was only going to say that I understand what that means . . . to kill a liege lord. I’m surprised that you were left alive.’
‘My husband honored me—’
Again Buntaro viciously interrupted her and she apologized and explained what Blackthorne had asked. Contemptuously Buntaro waved her on.
‘My husband honored me by sending me away,’ she continued in the same gentle way. ‘I begged to be allowed to commit seppuku but he denied me that privilege. It was . . . I must explain, seppuku is his privilege to give, or Lord Toranaga’s. I still humbly ask it once a year on the anniversary of the day of the treachery. But in his wisdom, my husband has always refused me.’ Her smile was lovely. ‘My husband honors me every day, every moment, Anjin-san. If I were he I would not be able to even talk to such a . . . befouled person.’
‘That’s why—that’s why you’re the last of your line?’ he asked, remembering what she had said about a catastrophe on the march from Osaka Castle.
Mariko translated the question for Buntaro and then turned back again. ‘Hai, Anjin-san. But it wasn’t a catastrophe, not for them. They were caught in the hills, my father and his family, by Nakamura, the general who became the Taikō. It was Nakamura who led the armies of vengeance and slaughtered all my father’s forces, twenty thousand men, every one. My father and his family were trapped, but my father had time to help them all, my four brothers and three sisters, my—my mother and his two consorts. Then he committed seppuku. In that he was samurai and they were samurai,’ she said. ‘They knelt bravely before him, one by one, and he slew them one by one. They died honorably. And he died honorably. My father’s two brothers and one uncle had sided with him in his treachery against their liege lord. They were also trapped. And they died with equal honor. Not one Akechi was left alive to face the hate and derision of the enemy except me—no, please forgive me, Anjin-san, I’m wrong—my father and his brothers and uncle, they were the real enemy. Of the enemy, only I am left alive, a living witness to filthy treachery. I, Akechi Mariko, was left alive because I was married and so belonged to my husband’s family. We lived at Kyoto then. I was at Kyoto when my father died. His treachery and rebellion lasted only thirteen days, Anjin-san. But as long as men live in these islands, the name Akechi will be foul.’
‘How long had you been married when that happened?’
‘Two months and three days, Anjin-san.’
‘And you were fifteen then?’
‘Yes. My husband honored me by not divorcing me or casting me out as he should have done. I was sent away. To a village in the north. It was cold there, Anjin-san, in Shonai Province. So cold.’
‘How long were you there?’
‘Eight years. The Lord Goroda was forty-nine when he committed seppuku to prevent capture. That was almost sixteen years ago, Anjin-san, and most of his descen—’
Buntaro interrupted again, his tongue a whip.
‘Please excuse me, Anjin-san,’ Mariko said. ‘My husband correctly points out it should have been enough for me to say that I am the daughter of a traitor, that long explanations are unnecessary. Of course some explanations are necessary,’ she added carefully. ‘Please excuse my husband’s bad manners and I beg you to remember what I said about ears to hear with and the Eightfold Fence. Forgive me, Anjin-san, I am ordered away. You may not leave until he leaves, or passes out with drink. Do not interfere.’ She bowed to Fujiko. ‘Dozo gomen nasai.‘
‘Do itashimashite.‘
Mariko bowed her head to Buntaro and left. Her perfume lingered. ‘Saké!’ Buntaro said and smiled evilly.
Fujiko filled the teacup.
‘Health,’ Blackthorne said, in turmoil.
For more than an hour he toasted Buntaro until he felt his own head swimming. Then Buntaro passed out and lay in the shattered mess of the teacups. The shoji opened instantly. The guard came in with Mariko. They lifted Buntaro, helped by servants who seemed to appear out of nowhere, and carried him to the room opposite. Mariko’s room. Assisted by the maid, Koi, she began to undress him. The guard slid the shoji closed and sat outside it, his hand on the haft of his loosened sword.
Fujiko waited, watching Blackthorne. Maids came and tidied up the disorder. Wearily Blackthorne ran his hands through his long hair and retied the ribbon of his queue. Then he lurched up and went out onto the veranda his consort following.
The air smelled good and cleansed him. But not enough. He sat ponderously on the stoop and drank in the night.
Fujiko knelt behind him and leaned forward. ‘Gomen nasai, Anjin-san,’ she whispered, nodding back at the house. ‘Wakarimasu ka?‘ Do you understand?
‘Wakarimasu, shigata ga nai.‘ Then, seeing her untoward fear, he stroked her hair.
‘Arigato, arigato, Anjin-sama.’
‘Anatawa suimin ima, Fujiko-san,’ he said, finding the words with difficulty. You sleep now.
‘Dozo gomen nasai, Anjin-sama, suimin, neh?‘ she said, motioning him toward his own room, her eyes pleading.
‘Iyé. Watashi oyogu ima.‘ No, I’m going for a swim.
‘Hai, Anjin-sama.’ Obediently she turned and called out. Two of the servants came running. Both were young men from the village, strong and known to be good swimmers.
Blackthorne did not object. Tonight he knew his objections would be meaningless.
‘Well, anyway,’ he said aloud as he lurched down the hill, the men following, his brain dulled with drink, ‘anyway, I’ve put him to sleep. He can’t hurt her now.’
Blackthorne swam for an hour and felt better. When he came back Fujiko was waiting on the veranda with a pot of fresh cha. He accepted some, then went to bed and was instantly asleep.
The sound of Buntaro’s voice, teeming with malice, awoke him. His right hand was already grasping the hilt of the loaded pistol he always kept under the futon, and his heart was thundering in his chest from the suddenness of his waking.
Buntaro’s voice stopped. Mariko began to talk. Blackthorne could only catch a few words but he could feel the reasonableness and the pleading, not abject or whining or even near tears, just her usual firm serenity. Again Buntaro erupted.
Blackthorne tried not to listen.
‘Don’t interfere,’ she had told him and she was wise. He had no rights, but Buntaro had many. ‘I beg you to be careful, Anjin-san. Remember what I told you about ears to hear with and the Eightfold Fence.’
Obediently he lay back, his skin chilled with sweat, and forced himself to think about what she had said.
‘You see, Anjin-san,’ she had told him that very special evening when they were finishing the last of many last flasks of saké and he had been joking about the lack of privacy everywhere—people always around and paper walls, ears and eyes always prying, ‘here you have to learn to create your own privacy. We’re taught from childhood to disappear within ourselves, to grow impenetrable walls behind which we live. If we couldn’t, we’d all certainly go mad and kill each other and ourselves.’
‘What walls?’
‘Oh, we’ve a limitless maze to hide in, Anjin-san. Rituals and customs, taboos of all kinds, oh yes. Even our language has nuances you don’t have which allow us to avoid, politely, any question if we don’t want to answer it.’
‘But how do you close your ears, Mariko-san? That’s impossible.’
‘Oh, very easy, with training. Of course, training begins as soon as a child can talk, so very soon it’s second nature to us—how else could we survive? First you begin by cleansing your mind of people, to put yourself on a different plane. Sunset watching is a great help or listening to the rain—Anjin-san, have you noticed the different sounds of rain? If you really listen, then the present vanishes, neh? Listening to blossoms falling and to rocks growing are exceptionally good exercises. Of course, you’re not supposed to see the things, they’re only signs, messages to your hara, your center, to remind you of the transcience of life, to help you gain wa, harmony, Anjin-san, perfect harmony, which is the most sought-after quality in all Japanese life, all art, all . . .’ She had laughed. ‘There, you see what so much saké does to me.’ The tip of her tongue touched her lips so enticingly. ‘I will whisper a secret to you: Don’t be fooled by our smiles and gentleness, our ceremonial and our bowing and sweetnesses and attentions. Beneath them all we can be a million ri away, safe and alone. For that’s what we seek—oblivion. One of our first poems ever written—it’s in the Kojiko, our first history book that was written down about a thousand years ago—perhaps that will explain what I’m saying:
‘Eight cumulus arise
For the lovers to hide within.
The Eightfold Fence of Izumo Province
Enclose those Eightfold clouds
Oh how marvelous, that Eightfold Fence!’
We would certainly go mad if we didn’t have an Eightfold Fence, oh very yes!’
Remember the Eightfold Fence, he told himself, as the hissing fury of Buntaro continued. I don’t know anything about her. Or him, really. Think about the Musket Regiment or home or Felicity or, how to get the ship or about Baccus or Toranaga or Omi-san. What about Omi? Do I need revenge? He wants to be my friend and he’s been good and kind since the pistols and . . .
The sound of the blow tore into his head. Then Mariko’s voice began again, and there was a second blow and Blackthorne was on his feet in an instant, the shoji open. The guard stood facing him balefully in the corridor outside Mariko’s door, sword ready.
Blackthorne was preparing to launch himself at the samurai when the door at the far end of the corridor opened. Fujiko, her hair loose and flowing over the sleeping kimono, approached, the sound of ripping cloth and another clout seemingly not touching her at all. She bowed politely to the guard and stood between them, then bowed meekly to Blackthorne and took his arm, motioning him back into the room. He saw the taut readiness of the samurai. He had only one pistol and one bullet at the moment so he retreated. Fujiko followed and shut the shoji behind her. Then, very afraid, she shook her head warningly, and touched a finger to her lips and shook her head again, her eyes pleading with him.
‘Gomen nasai, wakarimasu ka?‘ she breathed.
But he was concentrating on the wall of the adjoining room that he could smash in so easily.
She looked at the wall also, then put herself between him and the wall, and sat, motioning him to do the same.
But he could not. He stood readying himself for the charge that would destroy them all, goaded by a whimper that followed another blow.
‘Iyé!‘ Fujiko shook in terror.
He waved her out of the way.
‘Iyé, iyé,‘ she begged again.
‘IMA!‘
At once Fujiko got up and motioned him to wait as she rushed noiselessly for the swords that lay in front of the takonama, the little alcove of honor. She picked up the long sword, her hands shaking, drew it out of the scabbard, and prepared to follow him through the wall. At that instant there was a final blow and a rising torrent of rage. The other shoji slammed open, and unseen, Buntaro stamped away, followed by the guard. There was silence in the house for a moment, then the sound of the garden gate crashing closed.
Blackthorne went for his door. Fujiko darted in the way but he shoved her aside and pulled it open.
Mariko was still on her knees in one corner of the next room, a livid welt on her cheek, her hair disheveled, her kimono in tatters, bad bruises on her thighs and lower back.
He rushed over to pick her up but she cried out, ‘Go away, please go away, Anjin-san!’
He saw the trickle of blood from the corner of her mouth. ‘Jesus, how bad are you—’
‘I told you not to interfere. Please go away,’ she said in the same calm voice that belied the violence in her eyes. Then she saw Fujiko, who had stayed at the doorway. She spoke to her. Fujiko obediently took Blackthorne’s arm to lead him away but he tore out of her grasp. ‘Don’t! Iyé!‘
Mariko said, ‘Your presence here takes away my face and gives me no peace or comfort and shames me. Go away!’
‘I want to help. Don’t you understand?’
‘Don’t you understand? You have no rights in this. This is a private quarrel between husband and wife.’
‘That’s no excuse for hitting—’
‘Why don’t you listen, Anjin-san? He can beat me to death if he wishes. He has the right and I wish he would— even that! Then I wouldn’t have to endure the shame. You think it’s easy to live with my shame? Didn’t you hear what I told you? I’m Akechi Jinsai’s daughter!‘
‘That’s not your fault. You did nothing!’
‘It is my fault and I am my father’s daughter.’ Mariko would have stopped there. But, looking up and seeing his compassion, his concern, and his love, and knowing how he so honored truth, she allowed some of her veils to fall.
‘Tonight was my fault, Anjin-san,’ she said. ‘If I would weep as he wants, beg forgiveness as he wants, cringe and be petrified and fawn as he wants, open my legs in pretended terror as he desires, do all these womanly things that my duty demands, then he’d be like a child in my hand. But I will not.’
‘Why?’
‘Because that’s my revenge. To repay him for leaving me alive after the treachery. To repay him for sending me away for eight years and leaving me alive all that time. And to repay him for ordering me back into life and leaving me alive.’ She sat back painfully and arranged her tattered kimono closer around her. ‘I’ll never give myself to him again. Once I did, freely, even though I detested him from the first moment I saw him.’
‘Then why did you marry him? You’ve said women here have rights of refusal, that they don’t have to marry against their wishes.’
‘I married him to please Lord Goroda, and to please my father. I was so young I didn’t know about Goroda then, but if you want the truth, Goroda was the cruelest, most loathsome man that was ever born. He drove my father to treachery. That’s the real truth! Goroda!’ She spat the name. ‘But for him we’d all be alive and honored. I pray God that Goroda’s committed to hell for all eternity.’ She moved carefully, trying to ease the agony in her side. ‘There’s only hatred between my husband and me, that’s our karma. It would be so easy for him to allow me to climb into the small place of death.’
‘Why doesn’t he let you go? Divorce you? Even grant you what you want?’
‘Because he’s a man.’ A ripple of pain went through her and she grimaced. Blackthorne was on his knees beside her, cradling her. She pushed him away, fought for control. Fujiko, at the doorway, watched stoically.
‘I’m all right, Anjin-san. Please leave me alone. You mustn’t. You must be careful.’
‘I’m not afraid of him.’
Wearily she pushed the hair out of her eyes and stared up searchingly. Why not let the Anjin-san go to meet his karma, Mariko asked herself. He’s not of our world. Buntaro will kill him so easily. Only Toranaga’s personal protection has shielded him so far. Yabu, Omi, Naga, Buntaro—any one of them could be provoked so easily into killing him.
He’s caused nothing but trouble since he arrived, neh? So has his knowledge. Naga’s right: the Anjin-san can destroy our world unless he’s bottled up.
What if Buntaro knew the truth? Or Toranaga? About the pillowing. . . .
‘Are you insane?’ Fujiko had said that first night.
‘No.’
‘Then why are you going to take the maid’s place?’
‘Because of the saké and for amusement, Fujiko-chan, and for curiosity,’ she had lied, hiding the real reason: because he excited her, she wanted him, she had never had a lover. If it was not tonight it would never be, and it had to be the Anjin-san and only the Anjin-san.
So she had gone to him and had been transported and then, yesterday, when the galley arrived, Fujiko had said privately, ‘Would you have gone if you’d known your husband was alive?’
‘No. Of course not,’ she had lied.
‘But now you’re going to tell Buntaro-sama, neh? About pillowing with the Anjin-san?’
‘Why should I do that?’
‘I thought that might be your plan. If you tell Buntaro-sama at the right time his rage will burst over you and you’ll be gratefully dead before he knows what he’s done.’
‘No, Fujiko-san, he’ll never kill me. Unfortunately. He’ll send me to the eta if he has excuse enough—if he could get Lord Toranaga’s approval—but he’ll never kill me.’
‘Adultery with the Anjin-san—would that be enough?’
‘Oh yes.’
‘What would happen to your son?’
‘He would inherit my disgrace, if I am disgraced, neh?‘
‘Please tell me if you ever think Buntaro-sama suspects what happened. While I’m consort, it’s my duty to protect the Anjin-san.’
Yes, it is, Fujiko, Mariko had thought then. And that would give you the excuse to take open vengeance on your father’s accuser that you are desperate for. But your father was a coward, so sorry, poor Fujiko. Hiro-matsu was there, otherwise your father would be alive now and Buntaro dead, for Buntaro is hated far more than they ever despised your father. Even the swords you prize so much, they were never given as a battle honor, they were bought from a wounded samurai. So sorry, but I’ll never be the one to tell you, even though that also is the truth.
‘I’m not afraid of him,’ Blackthorne was saying again.
‘I know,’ she said, the pain taking her. ‘But please, I beg you, be afraid of him for me.’
Blackthorne went for the door.
Buntaro was waiting for him a hundred paces away in the center of the path that led down to the village—squat, immense, and deadly. The guard stood beside him. It was an overcast dawn. Fishing boats were already working the shoals, the sea calm.
Blackthorne saw the bow loose in Buntaro’s hands, and the swords, and the guard’s swords. Buntaro was swaying slightly and this gave him hope that the man’s aim would be off, which might give him time to get close enough. There was no cover beside the path. Beyond caring, he cocked both pistols and bore down on the two men.
To hell with cover, he thought through the haze of his blood lust, knowing at the same time that what he was doing was insane, that he had no chance against the two samurai or the long-range bow, that he had no rights whatsoever to interfere. And then, while he was still out of pistol range, Buntaro bowed low, and so did the guard. Blackthorne stopped, sensing a trap. He looked all around but there was no one near. As though in a dream, he saw Buntaro sink heavily onto his knees, put his bow aside, his hands flat on the ground, and bow to him as a peasant would bow to his lord. The guard did likewise.
Blackthorne stared at them, dazed. When he was sure his eyes were not tricking him, he came forward slowly, pistols ready but not leveled, expecting treachery. Within easy range he stopped. Buntaro had not moved. Custom dictated that he should kneel and return the salutation because they were equals or near equals but he could not understand why there should be such unbelievable deferential ceremony in a situation like this where blood was going to flow.
‘Get up, you son of a bitch!’ Blackthorne readied to pull both triggers.
Buntaro said nothing, did nothing, but kept his head bowed, his hands flat. The back of his kimono was soaked with sweat.
‘Nan ja?‘ Blackthorne deliberately used the most insulting way of asking ‘What is it?’ wanting to bait Buntaro into getting up, into beginning, knowing that he could not shoot him like this, with his head down and almost in the dust.
Then, conscious that it was rude to stand while they were kneeling and that the ‘nan ja‘ was an almost intolerable and certainly unnecessary insult, Blackthorne knelt and, holding onto the pistols, put both hands on the ground and bowed in return.
He sat back on his heels. ‘Hai?‘ he asked with forced politeness.
At once Buntaro began mumbling. Abjectly. Apologizing. For what and exactly why, Blackthorne did not know. He could only catch a word here and another there and saké many times, but clearly it was an apology and a humble plea for forgiveness. Buntaro went on and on. Then he ceased and put his head down into the dust again.
Blackthorne’s blinding rage had vanished by now. ‘Shigata ga nai,‘ he said huskily, which meant, ‘it can’t be helped,’ or ‘there’s nothing to be done,’ or ‘what could you do?’ not knowing yet if the apology was merely ritual, prior to attack. ‘Shigata ga nai. Hakkiri wakaranu ga shinpai surukotowanai.‘ It can’t be helped. I don’t understand exactly—but don’t worry.
Buntaro looked up and sat back. ‘Arigato—arigato, Anjin-sama. Domo gomen nasai.‘
‘Shigata ga nai,‘ Blackthorne repeated and, now that it was clear the apology was genuine, he thanked God for giving him the miraculous opportunity to call off the duel. He knew that he had no rights, he had acted like a madman, and that the only way to resolve the crisis with Buntaro was according to rules. And that meant Toranaga.
But why the apology, he was asking himself frantically. Think! You’ve got to learn to think like them.
Then the solution rushed into his brain. It must be because I’m hatamoto, and Buntaro, the guest, disturbed the wa, the harmony of my house. By having a violent open quarrel with his wife in my house, he insulted me, therefore he’s totally in the wrong and he has to apologize whether he means it or not. An apology’s obligatory from one samurai to another, from a guest to a host. . . .
Wait! And don’t forget that by their custom, all men are allowed to get drunk, are expected to get drunk sometimes, and when drunk they are not, within reason, responsible for their actions. Don’t forget there’s no loss of face if you get stinking drunk. Remember how unconcerned Mariko and Toranaga were on the ship when I was stupefied. They were amused and not disgusted, as we’d be.
And aren’t you really to blame? Didn’t you start the drinking bout? Wasn’t it your challenge?
‘Yes,’ he said aloud.
‘Nan desu ka, Anjin-san?’ Buntaro asked, his eyes bloodshot.
‘Nani mo. Watashi no kashitsu desu.‘ Nothing. It was my fault.
Buntaro shook his head and said that no, it was only his fault and he bowed and apologized again.
‘Saké,’ Blackthorne said with finality and shrugged. ‘Shigata ga nai. Saké!‘
Buntaro bowed and thanked him again. Blackthorne returned it and got up. Buntaro followed, and the guard. Both bowed once more. Again it was returned.
At length Buntaro turned and reeled away. Blackthorne waited until he was out of arrow range, wondering if the man was as drunk as he appeared to be. Then he went back to his own house.
Fujiko was on the veranda, once more within her polite, smiling shell. What are you really thinking, he asked himself as he greeted her, and was welcomed back.
Mariko’s door was closed. Her maid stood beside it.
‘Mariko-san?’
‘Yes, Anjin-san?’
He waited but the door stayed closed. ‘Are you all right?’
‘Yes, thank you.’ He heard her clear her throat, then the weak voice continued. ‘Fujiko has sent word to Yabu-san and to Lord Toranaga that I’m indisposed today and won’t be able to interpret.’
‘You’d better see a doctor.’
‘Oh, thank you, but Suwo will be very good. I’ve sent for him. I’ve . . . I’ve just twisted my side. Truly I’m all right, there’s no need for you to worry.’
‘Look, I know a little about doctoring. You’re not coughing up blood, are you?’
‘Oh, no. When I slipped I just knocked my cheek. Really, I’m quite all right.’
After a pause, he said, ‘Buntaro apologized.’
‘Yes. Fujiko watched from the gate. I thank you humbly for accepting his apology. Thank you. And Anjin-san, I’m so sorry that you were disturbed . . . it’s unforgivable that your harmony . . . please accept my apologies too. I should never have let my mouth run away with me. It was very impolite— please forgive me also. The quarrel was my fault. Please accept my apology.’
‘For being beaten?’
‘For failing to obey my husband, for failing to help him to sleep contentedly, for failing him, and my host. Also for what I said.’
‘You’re sure there’s nothing I can do?’
‘No—no, thank you, Anjin-san. It’s just for today.’
But Blackthorne did not see her for eight days.
