Toranaga watched the tall priest approach across the clearing, the flickering light of the torches making the lean face starker than usual above the blackness of his beard. The priest’s orange Buddhist robe was elegant and a rosary and cross hung at his waist.
Ten paces away Father Alvito stopped, knelt, and bowed deferentially, beginning the customary formalities.
Toranaga was sitting alone on the dais, guards in a semicircle around him, well out of hearing. Only Blackthorne was nearby and he lolled against the platform as he had been ordered, his eyes boring into the priest. Alvito appeared not to notice him.
‘It is good to see you, Sire,’ Father Alvito said when it was polite to do so.
‘And to see you, Tsukku-san.’ Toranaga motioned the priest to make himself comfortable on the cushion that had been placed on a tatami on the ground in front of the platform. ‘It’s a long time since I saw you.’
‘Yes, Sire, there’s much to tell.’ Alvito was deeply conscious that the cushion was on the earth and not on the dais. Also, he was acutely aware of the samurai swords that Blackthorne now wore so near to Toranaga and the way he slouched with such indifference. ‘I bring a confidential message from my superior, the Father-Visitor, who greets you with deference.’
‘Thank you. But first, tell me about you.’
‘Ah, Sire,’ Alvito said, knowing that Toranaga was far too discerning not to have noticed the remorse that beset him, much as he had tried to throw it off. ‘Tonight I’m too aware of my own failings. Tonight I’d like to be allowed to put off my earthly duties and go into a retreat to pray, to beg for God’s favor.’ He was shamed by his own lack of humility. Although Joseph’s sin had been terrible, Alvito had acted with haste and anger and stupidity. It was his fault that a soul had been outcast, to be lost forever. ‘Our Lord once said, ‘Please, Father, let this cup pass from me.’ But even He had to retain the cup. We, in the world, we have to try to follow in His footsteps as best we can. Please excuse me for allowing my problem to show.’
‘What was your ‘cup,’ old friend?’
Alvito told him. He knew there was no reason to hide the facts for, of course, Toranaga would hear them very soon if he did not already know them, and it was much better to hear the truth than a garbled version. ‘It’s so very sad to lose a Brother, terrible to make one an outcast, however terrible the crime. I should have been more patient. It was my fault.’
‘Where is he now?’
‘I don’t know, Sire.’
Toranaga called a guard. ‘Find the renegade Christian and bring him to me at noon tomorrow.’ The samurai hurried away.
‘I beg mercy for him, Sire,’ Alvito said quickly, meaning it. But he knew whatever he said would do little to dissuade Toranaga from a path already chosen. Again he wished the Society had its own secular arm empowered to arrest and punish apostates, like elsewhere in the world. He had repeatedly recommended that this be created but he had always been overruled, here in Japan, and also in Rome by the General of the Order. Yet without our own secular arm, he thought tiredly, we’ll never be able to exercise real discipline over our Brethren and our flock.
‘Why aren’t there ordained priests within your Society, Tsukku-san?’
‘Because, Sire, not one of our acolytes is yet sufficiently well trained. For instance, Latin is an absolute necessity because our Order requires any Brother to travel anywhere in the world at any time, and Latin, unfortunately, is very difficult to learn. Not one is trained yet, or ready.’
Alvito believed this with all his heart. He was also bitterly opposed to a Japanese-ordained Jesuit clergy, in opposition to the Father-Visitor. ‘Eminence,’ he had always said, ‘I beg you, don’t be fooled by their modest and decorous exterior. Underneath they’re all unreliable characters, and their pride and Japaneseness will always dominate in the end. They’ll never be true servants of the Society, or reliable soldiers of His Holiness, the Vicar of Christ on earth, obedient to him alone. Never.’
Alvito glanced momentarily at Blackthorne then back to Toranaga, who said, ‘But two or three of these apprentice priests speak Latin, neh, and Portuguese? It’s true what that man said, neh? Why haven’t they been chosen?’
‘So sorry, but the General of our Society doesn’t consider them sufficiently prepared. Perhaps Joseph’s tragic fall is an example.’
‘Bad to break a solemn oath,’ Toranaga said. He remembered the year the three boys had sailed off from Nagasaki in a Black Ship to be feted in the court of the Spanish king and the court of the High Priest of the Christians, the same year Goroda had been assassinated. Nine years later they had returned but all their time away had been carefully controlled and monitored. They had left as naive, youthful Christian zealots and returned just as narrow-minded and almost as ill-informed as when they had left. Stupid waste, Toranaga thought, waste of an incredible opportunity which Goroda had refused to take advantage of, as much as he had advised it.
‘No, Tora-san, we need the Christians against the Buddhists,’ Goroda had said. ‘Many Buddhist priests and monks are soldiers, neh? Most of them are. The Christians aren’t, neh? Let the Giant Priest have the three youths he wants—they’re only Kyushu stumbleheads, neh? I tell you to encourage Christians. Don’t bother me with a ten-year plan, but burn every Buddhist monastery within reach. Buddhists are like flies on carrion, and Christians nothing but a bag of fart.’
Now they’re not, Toranaga thought with growing irritation. Now they’re hornets.
‘Yes,’ he said aloud. ‘Very bad to break an oath and shout and disturb the harmony of an inn.’
‘Please excuse me, Sire, and forgive me for mentioning my problems. Thank you for listening. As always your concern makes me feel better. May I be permitted to greet the pilot?’
Toranaga assented.
‘I must congratulate you, Pilot,’ Alvito said in Portuguese. ‘Your swords suit you.’
‘Thank you, Father, I’m learning to use them,’ Blackthorne replied. ‘But, sorry to say, I’m not very good with them yet. I’ll stick to pistols or cutlasses or cannon when I have to fight.’
‘I pray that you may never have to fight again, Pilot, and that your eyes will be opened to God’s infinite mercy.’
‘Mine are open. Yours are fogged.’
‘For your own soul’s sake, Pilot, keep your eyes open, and your mind open. Perhaps you may be mistaken. Even so, I must thank you for saving Lord Toranaga’s life.’
‘Who told you that?’
Alvito did not reply. He turned back to Toranaga.
‘What was said?’ Toranaga asked, breaking a silence.
Alvito told him, adding, ‘Though he’s the enemy of my faith and a pirate, I’m glad he saved you, Sire. God moves in mysterious ways. You’ve honored him greatly by making him samurai.’
‘He’s hatamoto also.’ Toranaga was pleasured by the priest’s fleeting amazement. ‘Did you bring a dictionary?’
‘Yes, Sire, with several of the maps you wanted, showing some of the Portuguese bases en route from Goa. The book’s in my luggage. May I send someone for it, or may I give it to him later myself?’
‘Give it to him later. Tonight, or tomorrow. Did you also bring the report?’
‘About the alleged guns that were supposed to be brought from Macao? The Father-Visitor is preparing it, Sire.’
‘And the numbers of Japanese mercenaries employed at each of your new bases?’
‘The Father-Visitor has requested an up-to-date report from all of them, Sire, which he will give you as soon as they’re complete.’
‘Good. Now tell me, how did you know about my rescue?’
‘Hardly a thing that happens to Toranaga-noh-Minowara is not the subject of rumor and legend. Coming from Mishima we heard that you were almost swallowed up in an earthquake, Sire, but that the ‘Golden Barbarian’ had pulled you out. Also, that you’d done the same for him and a lady—I presume the Lady Mariko?’
Toranaga nodded briefly. ‘Yes. She’s here in Yokosé.’ He thought a moment, then said, ‘Tomorrow she would like to be confessed, according to your customs. But only those things that are nonpolitical. I would imagine that excludes everything to do with me, and my various hatamoto, neh? I explained that to her also. ‘
Alvito bowed his understanding. ‘With your permission, could I say Mass for all the Christians here, Sire? It would be very discreet, of course. Tomorrow?’
‘I’ll consider it.’ Toranaga continued to talk about inconsequential matters for a while, then he said, ‘You have a message for me? From your Chief Priest?’
‘With humility, Sire, I beg to say that it was a private message.’
Toranaga pretended to think about that, even though he had determined exactly how the meeting would proceed and had already given the Anjin-san specific instructions how to act and what to say. ‘Very well.’ He turned to Blackthorne, ‘Anjin-san, you can go now and we’ll talk more later.’
‘Yes, Sire,’ Blackthorne replied. ‘So sorry, the Black Ship. Arrive Nagasaki?’
‘Ah, yes. Thank you,’ he replied, pleased that the Anjin-san’s question didn’t sound rehearsed. ‘Well, Tsukku-san, has it docked yet?’
Alvito was startled by Blackthorne’s Japanese and greatly perturbed by the question. ‘Yes, Sire. It docked fourteen days ago.’
‘Ah, fourteen?’ said Toranaga. ‘You understand, Anjin-san?’
‘Yes. Thank you.’
‘Good. Anything else you can ask Tsukku-san later, neh?‘
‘Yes, Sire. Please excuse me.’ Blackthorne got up and bowed and wandered off.
Toranaga watched him go. ‘A most interesting man—for a pirate. Now, first tell me about the Black Ship.’
‘It arrived safely, Sire, with the greatest cargo of silk that has ever been.’ Alvito tried to sound enthusiatic. ‘The arrangement made between the Lords Harima, Kiyama, Onoshi, and yourself is in effect. Your treasury will be richer with tens of thousands of koban by this time next year. The quality of silks is the finest, Sire. I’ve brought a copy of the manifest for your quartermaster. The Captain-General Ferriera sends his respects, hoping to see you in person soon. That was the reason for my delay in coming to see you. The Visitor-General sent me post haste from Osaka to Nagasaki to make certain everything was perfect. Just as I was leaving Nagasaki we heard you’d left Yedo for Izu, so I came here as quickly as I could, by ship to Port Nimazu with one of our fastest cutters, then by road. At Mishima I fell in with Lord Zataki and asked permission to join him.’
‘Your ship’s still at Nimazu?’
‘Yes, Sire. It will wait for me there.’
‘Good.’ For a moment Toranaga wondered whether or not to send Mariko by that ship to Osaka, then decided to deal with that later. ‘Please give the manifest to the quartermaster tonight.’
‘Yes, Sire.’
‘And the arrangement about this year’s cargo is sealed?’
‘Yes. Absolutely.’
‘Good. Now the other part. The important part.’
Alvito’s hands went dry. ‘Neither Lord Kiyama nor Lord Onoshi will agree to forsake General Ishido. I’m sorry. They will not agree to join your banner now in spite of our strongest suggestion.’
Toranaga’s voice became low and cruel. ‘I already pointed out I required more than suggestions!’
‘I’m sorry to bring bad news in this part, Sire, but neither would agree to publicly come over to—’
‘Ah, publicly, you say? What about privately—secretly?’
‘Privately they were both as adamant as pub—’
‘You talked to them separately or together?’
‘Of course together, and separately, most confidentially, but nothing we suggested would—’
‘You only ‘suggested’ a course of action? Why didn’t you order them?’
‘It’s as the Father-Visitor said, Sire, we can’t order any daimyo or any—’
‘Ah, but you can order one of your Brethren? Neh?‘
‘Yes. Sire.’
‘Did you threaten to make them outcast, too?’
‘No, Sire.’
‘Why?’
‘Because they’ve committed no mortal sin.’ Alvito said it firmly, as he and dell’Aqua had agreed, but his heart was fluttering and he hated to be the bearer of terrible tidings, which were even worse now because the Lord Harima, who legally owned Nagasaki, had told them privately that all his immense wealth and influence were going to Ishido. ‘Please excuse me, Sire, but I don’t make divine rules, any more than you made the code of bushido, the Way of the Warrior. We, we have to comply with what—’
‘You make a poor fool outcast for a natural act like pillowing, but when two of your converts behave unnaturally—yes, even treacherously—when I seek your help, urgent help—and I’m your friend—you only make ‘suggestions.’ You understand the seriousness of this, neh?‘
‘I’m sorry, Lord. Please excuse me but—’
‘Perhaps I won’t excuse you, Tsukku-san. It’s been said before: Now everyone has to choose a side,’ Toranaga said.
‘Of course we are on your side, Sire. But we cannot order Lord Kiyama or Lord Onoshi to do anything—’
‘Fortunately I can order my Christian.’
‘Sire?’
‘I can order the Anjin-san freed. With his ship. With his cannon.’
‘Beware of him, Sire. The Pilot’s diabolically clever, but he’s a heretic, a pirate and not to be trust—’
‘Here the Anjin-san’s a samurai and hatamoto. At sea perhaps he’s a pirate. If he’s a pirate, I imagine he’ll attract many other corsairs and wako to him—many of them. What a foreigner does on the open sea’s his own business, neh? That’s always been our policy. Neh?‘
Alvito kept quiet and tried to make his brain function. No one had planned on the Ingeles’ becoming so close to Toranaga.
‘Those two Christian daimyos will make no commitments, not even a secret one?’
‘No, Sire. We tried ev—’
‘No concession, none?’
‘No, Sire.’
‘No barter, no arrangement, no compromise, nothing?’
‘No, Sire. We tried every inducement and persuasion. Please believe me.’ Alvito knew he was in the trap and some of his desperation showed. ‘If it were me, yes, I would threaten them with excommunication, though it would be a false threat because I’d never carry it through, not unless they had committed a mortal sin and wouldn’t confess or be penitent and submit. But even a threat for temporal gain would be very wrong of me, Sire, a mortal sin. I’d risk eternal damnation.’
‘Are you saying if they sinned against your creed, then you’d cast them out?’
‘Yes. But I’m not suggesting that could be used to bring them to your side, Sire. Please excuse me but they . . . they’re totally opposed to you at the moment. I’m sorry but that’s the truth. They both made it very clear, together and in private. Before God I pray they change their minds. We gave you our words to try, before God, the Father-Visitor and I. We fulfilled our promise. Before God we failed.’
‘Then I shall lose,’ Toranaga said. ‘You know that, don’t you? If they stand allied with Ishido, all the Christian daimyos will side with him. Then I have to lose. Twenty samurai against one of mine. Neh?‘
‘Yes.’
‘What’s their plan? When will they attack me?’
‘I don’t know, Sire.’
‘Would you tell me if you did?’
‘Yes—yes I would.’
I doubt it, Toranaga thought, and looked away into the night, the burden of his worry almost crushing him. Is it to be Crimson Sky after all, he asked himself helplessly? The stupid, bound-to-fail lunge at Kyoto?
He hated the shameful cage that he was in. Like the Taikō and Goroda before him, he had to tolerate the Christian priests because the priests were as inseparable from the Portuguese traders as flies from a horse, holding absolute temporal and spiritual power over their unruly flock. Without the priests there was no trade. Their good will as negotiators and middle men in the Black Ship operation was vital because they spoke the language and were trusted by both sides, and, if ever the priests were completely forbidden the Empire, all barbarians would obediently sail away, never to return. He remembered the one time the Taikō had tried to get rid of the priests yet still encourage trade. For two years there was no Black Ship. Spies reported how the giant chief of the priests, sitting like a poisonous black spider in Macao, had ordered no more trade in reprisal for the Taikō’s Expulsion Edicts, knowing that at length the Taikō must humble himself. In the third year he had bowed to the inevitable and invited the priests back, turning a blind eye to his own Edicts and to the treason and rebellion the priests had advocated.
There’s no escape from that reality, Toranaga thought. None. I don’t believe what the Anjin-san says—that trade is as essential to barbarians as it is to us, that their greed will make them trade, no matter what we do to the priests. The risk is too great to experiment and there’s no time and I don’t have the power. We experimented once and failed. Who knows? Perhaps the priests could wait us out ten years; they’re ruthless enough. If the priests order no trade, I believe there will be no trade. We could not wait ten years. Even five years. And if we expel all barbarians it must take twenty years for the English barbarian to fill up the gap, if the Anjin-san is telling the whole truth and if—and it is an immense if—if the Chinese would agree to trade with them against the Southern Barbarians. I don’t believe the Chinese will change their pattern. They never have. Twenty years is too long. Ten years is too long.
There’s no escape from that reality. Or the worst reality of all, the specter that secretly petrified Goroda and the Taikō and is now rearing its foul head again: that the fanatical, fearless Christian priests, if pushed too far, will put all their influence and their trading power and sea power behind one of the great Christian daimyos. Further, they would engineer an invasion force of iron-clad, equally fanatic conquistadores armed with the latest muskets to support this one Christian daimyo—like they almost did the last time. By themselves, any number of invading barbarians and their priests are no threat against our overwhelming joint forces. We smashed the hordes of Kublai Khan and we can deal with any invader. But allied to one of our own, a great Christian daimyo with armies of samurai, and given civil wars throughout the realm, this could, ultimately, give this one daimyo absolute power over all of us.
Kiyama or Onoshi? It’s obvious now, that has to be the priest’s scheme. The timing’s perfect. But which daimyo?
Both, initially, helped by Harima of Nagasaki. But who’ll carry the final banner? Kiyama—because Onoshi the leper’s not long for this earth and Onoshi’s obvious reward for supporting his hated enemy and rival, Kiyama, would be a guaranteed, painless, everlasting life in the Christian heaven with a permanent seat at the right hand of the Christian God.
They’ve four hundred thousand samurai between them now. Their base is Kyushu and that island’s safe from my grasp. Together those two could easily subjugate the whole island, then they have limitless troops, limitless food, all the ships necessary for an invasion, all the silk, and Nagasaki. Throughout the land there are perhaps another five or six hundred thousand Christians. Of these, more than half—the Jesuit Christian converts—are samurai, all salted nicely among the forces of all daimyos, a vast pool of potential traitors, spies, or assassins—should the priests order it. And why shouldn’t they? They’d get what they want above life itself: absolute power over all our souls, thus over the soul of this Land of the Gods—to inherit our earth and all that it contains—just as the Anjin-san has explained has already happened fifty times in this New World of theirs. . . . They convert a king, then use him against his own kind, until all the land is swallowed up.
It’s so easy for them to conquer us, this tiny band of barbarian priests. How many are there in all Japan? Fifty or sixty? But they’ve the power. And they believe. They’re prepared to die gladly for their beliefs, with pride and with bravery, with the name of their God on their lips. We saw that at Nagasaki when the Taikō’s experiment proved a disastrous mistake. Not one of the priests recanted, tens of thousands witnessed the burnings, tens of thousands were converted, and this ‘martyrdom’ gave the Christian religion immense prestige that Christian priests have fed on ever since.
For me, the priests have failed, but that won’t deter them from their relentless course. That’s reality, too.
So, it’s Kiyama.
Is the plan already settled, with Ishido a dupe and the Lady Ochiba and Yaemon also? Has Harima already thrown in with them secretly? Should I launch the Anjin-san at the Black Ship and Nagasaki immediately?
What shall I do?
Nothing more than usual. Be patient, seek harmony, put aside all worries about I or Thou, Life or Death, Oblivion or Afterlife, Now or Then, and set a new plan into motion. What plan, he wanted to shout in desperation. There isn’t one!
‘It saddens me that those two stay with the real enemy.’
‘I swear we tried, Sire.’ Alvito watched him compassionately, seeing the heaviness of his spirit.
‘Yes. I believe that. I believe you and the Father-Visitor kept your solemn promise, so I will keep mine. You may begin to build your temple at Yedo at once. The land has been set aside. I cannot forbid the priests, the other Hairies, entrance to the Empire, but at least I can make them unwelcome in my domain. The new barbarians will be equally unwelcome, if they ever arrive. As to the Anjin-san . . .’ Toranaga shrugged. ‘But how long all this . . . well, that’s karma, neh?‘
Alvito was thanking God fervently for His mercy and favor at the unexpected reprieve. ‘Thank you, Sire,’ he said, hardly able to talk. ‘I know you’ll not regret it. I pray that your enemies will be scattered like chaff and that you may reap the rewards of Heaven.’
‘I’m sorry for my harsh words. They were spoken in anger. There’s so much . . .’ Toranaga got up ponderously. ‘You have my permission to say your service tomorrow, old friend.’
‘Thank you, Sire,’ Alvito said, bowing low, pitying the normally majestic man. ‘Thank you with all my heart. May the Divinity bless you and take you into His keeping.’
Toranaga trudged into the inn, his guards following. ‘Naga-san!’
‘Yes, Father,’ the youth said, hurrying up.
‘Where’s the Lady Mariko?’
‘There, Sire, with Buntaro-san.’ Naga pointed to the small, lantern-lit cha house inside its enclosure in the garden, the shadowed figures within. ‘Shall I interrupt the cha-no-yu?‘ A cha-no-yu was a formal, extremely ritualized Tea Ceremony.
‘No. That must never be interfered with. Where are Omi and Yabu-san?’
‘They’re at their inn, Sire.’ Naga indicated the sprawling low building on the other side of the river, near the far bank.
‘Who chose that one?’
‘I did, Sire. Please excuse me, you asked me to find them an inn on the other side of the bridge. Did I misunderstand you?’
‘The Anjin-san?’
‘He’s in his room, Sire. He’s waiting in case you want him.’
Again Toranaga shook his head. ‘I’ll see him tomorrow.’ After a pause, he said in the same faraway voice, ‘I’m going to take a bath now. Then I don’t wish to be disturbed till dawn except—’
Naga waited uneasily, watching his father stare sightlessly into space, greatly disconcerted by his manner. ‘Are you all right, Father?’
‘What? Oh, yes—yes, I’m all right. Why?’
‘Nothing—please excuse me. Do you still want to hunt at dawn?’
‘Hunt? Ah yes, that’s a good idea. Thank you for suggesting it, yes, that would be very good. See to it. Well, good night . . . Oh yes, the Tsukku-san has my permission to give a private service tomorrow. All Christians may go. You go also.’
‘Sire?’
‘On the first day of the New Year you will become a Christian.’
‘Me!’
‘Yes. Of your own free will. Tell Tsukku-san privately.’
‘Sire?’
Toranaga wheeled on him. ‘Are you deaf? Don’t you understand the simplest thing anymore?’
‘Please excuse me. Yes, Father. I understand.’
‘Good.’ Toranaga fell back into his distracted attitude, then wandered off, his personal bodyguard in tow. All samurai bowed stiffly, but he took no notice of them.
An officer came up to Naga, equally apprehensive. ‘What’s the matter with our Lord?’
‘I don’t know, Yoshinaka-san.’ Naga looked back at the clearing. Alvito was just leaving, heading toward the bridge, a single samurai escorting him. ‘Must be something to do with him.‘
‘I’ve never seen Lord Toranaga walk so heavily. Never. They say—they say that barbarian priest’s a magician, a wizard. He must be to speak our tongue so well, neh? Could he have put a spell on our Lord?’
‘No. Never. Not my father.’
‘Barbarians make my spine shake too, Naga-san. Did you hear about the row—Tsukku-san and his band shouting and quarreling like ill-mannered eta?‘
‘Yes. Disgusting. I’m sure that man must have destroyed my father’s harmony.’
‘If you ask me, an arrow in that priest’s throat would save our Master a lot of trouble.’
‘Yes.’
‘Perhaps we should tell Buntaro-san about Lord Toranaga? He’s our senior officer.’
‘I agree—but later. My father said clearly I was not to interrupt the cha-no-yu. I’ll wait till he’s finished.’
In the peace and quiet of the little house, Buntaro fastidiously opened the small earthenware tea caddy of the T’ang Dynasty and, with equal care, took up the bamboo spoon, beginning the final part of the ceremony. Deftly he spooned up exactly the right amount of green powder and put it into the handleless porcelain cup. An ancient cast-iron kettle was singing over the charcoal. With the same tranquil grace Buntaro poured the bubbling water into the cup, replaced the kettle on its tripod, then gently beat the powder and water with the bamboo whisk to blend it perfectly.
He added a spoonful of cool water, bowed to Mariko, who knelt opposite him, and offered the cup. She bowed and took it with equal refinement, admiring the green liquid, and sipped three times, rested, then sipped again, finishing it. She offered the cup back. He repeated the symmetry of the formal cha-making and again offered it. She begged him to taste the cha himself, as was expected of her. He sipped, and then again, and finished it. Then he made a third cup and a fourth. More was politely refused.
With great care, ritually he washed and dried the cup, using the peerless cotton cloth, and laid both in their places. He bowed to her and she to him. The cha-no-yu was finished.
Buntaro was content that he had done his best and that now, at least for the moment, there was peace between them. This afternoon there had been none.
He had met her palanquin. At once, as always, he had felt coarse and uncouth in contrast to her fragile perfection—like one of the wild, despised, barbaric Hairy Ainu tribesmen that once inhabited the land but were now driven to the far north, across the straits, to the unexplored island of Hokkaido. All of his well-thought-out words, had left him and he clumsily invited her to the cha-no-yu, adding, ‘It’s years since we . . . I’ve never given one for you but tonight will be convenient.’ Then he had blurted out, never meaning to say it, knowing that it was stupid, inelegant, and a vast mistake, ‘Lord Toranaga said it was time for us to talk.’
‘But you do not, Sire?’
In spite of his resolve he flushed and his voice rasped, ‘I’d like harmony between us, yes, and more. I’ve never changed, neh?‘
‘Of course, Sire, and why should you? If there’s any fault it’s not your place to change but mine. If any fault exists, it’s because of me, please excuse me.’
‘I’ll excuse you,’ he said, towering over her there beside the palanquin, deeply conscious that others were watching, the Anjin-san and Omi among them. She was so lovely and tiny and unique, her hair piled high, her lowered eyes seemingly so demure, yet for him filled now with that same black ice that always sent him into a blind, impotent frenzy, making him want to kill and shout and mutilate and smash and behave the way a samurai never should behave.
‘I’ve reserved the cha house for tonight,’ he told her. ‘For tonight, after the evening meal. We’re ordered to eat the evening meal with Lord Toranaga. I would be honored if you would be my guest afterwards.’
‘It’s I who am honored.’ She bowed and waited with the same lowered eyes and he wanted to smash her to death into the ground, then go off and plunge his knife crisscross into his belly and let the eternal pain cleanse the torment from his soul.
He saw her look up at him discerningly.
‘Was there anything else, Sire?’ she asked, so softly.
The sweat was running down his back and thighs, staining his kimono, his chest hurting like his head. ‘You’re—you’re staying at the inn tonight.’ Then he had left her and made careful dispositions for the whole baggage train. As soon as he could, he had handed his duties over to Naga and strode off with a pretended truculence down the river bank, and when he was alone, he had plunged naked into the torrent, careless of his safety, and fought the river until his head had cleared and the pounding ache had gone.
He had lain on the bank collecting himself. Now that she had accepted he had to begin. There was little time. He summoned his strength and walked back to the rough garden gate that was within the mother garden and stood there for a moment rethinking his plan. Tonight he wanted everything to be perfect. Obviously the hut was imperfect, like its garden—an uncouth provincial attempt at a real cha house. Never mind, he thought, now completely absorbed in his task, it will have to do. Night will hide many faults and lights will have to create the form it lacks.
Servants had already brought the things he had ordered earlier—tatamis, pottery oil lamps, and cleaning utensils—the very best in Yokosé, everything brand-new but modest, discreet and unpretentious.
He stripped off his kimono, laid down his swords, and began to clean. First the tiny reception room and kitchen and veranda. Then the winding path and the flagstones that were let into the moss, and finally the rocks and skirting garden. He scrubbed and broomed and brushed until everything was spotless, letting himself swoop into the humility of manual labor that was the beginning of the cha-no-yu, where the host alone was required to make everything faultless. The first perfection was absolute cleanliness.
By dusk he had finished most of the preparations. Then he had bathed meticulously, endured the evening meal, and the singing. As soon as he could he had changed again into more somber clothes and hurried back to the garden. He latched the gate. First he put the taper to the oil lamps. Then, carefully, he sprinkled water on the flagstones and the trees that were now splashed here and there with flickering light, until the tiny garden was a fairyland of dewdrops dancing in the warmth of the summer’s breeze. He repositioned some of the lanterns. Finally satisfied, he unlatched the gate and went to the vestibule. The carefully selected pieces of charcoal that had been placed punctiliously in a pyramid on white sand were burning correctly. The flowers seemed correct in the takonama. Once more he cleaned the already impeccable utensils. The kettle began to sing and he was pleased with the sound that was enriched by the little pieces of iron he had placed so diligently in the bottom.
All was ready. The first perfection of the cha-no-yu was cleanliness, the second, complete simplicity. The last and greatest, suitability to the particular guest or guests.
He heard her footsteps on the flagstones, the sound of her dipping her hands ritually in the cistern of fresh river water and drying them. Three soft steps up to the veranda. Two more to the curtained doorway. Even she had to bend to come through the tiny door that was made deliberately small to humble everyone. At a cha-no-yu all were equal, host and guest, the most high daimyo and merest samurai. Even a peasant if he was invited.
First she studied her husband’s flower arrangement. He had chosen the blossom of a single white wild rose and put a single pearl of water on the green leaf, and set it on red stones. Autumn is coming, he was suggesting with the flower, talking through the flower, do not weep for the time of fall, the time of dying when the earth begins to sleep; enjoy the time of beginning again and experience the glorious cool of the autumn air on this summer evening . . . soon the tear will vanish and the rose, only the stones will remain—soon you and I will vanish and only the stones will remain.
He watched her, apart from himself, now deep in the near trance that a cha-master sometimes was fortunate enough to experience, completely in harmony with his surroundings. She bowed to the flower in homage and came and knelt opposite him. Her kimono was dark brown, a thread of burnt gold at the seams enhancing the white column of her throat and face; her obi the darkest of greens that matched the underkimono; her hair simple and upswept and unadorned.
‘You are welcome,’ he said with a bow, beginning the ritual.
‘It is my honor,’ she replied, accepting her role.
He served the tiny repast on a blemishless lacquered tray, the chopsticks placed just so, the slivers of fish on rice that he had prepared a part of the pattern, and to complete the effect, a few wild flowers that he had found near the river bank scattered in perfect disarray. When she had finished eating and he, in his turn, had finished eating, he lifted the tray, every movement formalized—to be observed and judged and recorded—and took it through the low doorway into the kitchen.
Then alone, at rest, Mariko watched the fire critically, the coals a glowing mountain on a sea of stark white sand below the tripod, her ears listening to the hissing sound of the fire melding with the sighing of the barely simmering kettle above, and, from the unseen kitchen, the sibilance of cloth on porcelain and water cleaning the already clean. In time her eyes wandered to the raw twisted rafters and to the bamboos and the reeds that formed the thatch. The shadows cast by the few lamps he had placed seemingly at random made the small large and the insignificant rare, and the whole a perfect harmony. After she had seen everything and measured her soul against it, she went again into the garden, to the shallow basin that, over eons, nature had formed in the rock. Once more she purified her hands and mouth with the cool, fresh water, drying them on a new towel.
When she had settled back into her place he said, ‘Perhaps now you would take cha?’
‘It would be my honor. But please do not put yourself to so much trouble on my account.’
‘It is my honor. You are my guest.’
So he had served her. And now there was the ending.
In the silence, Mariko did not move for a moment, but stayed in her tranquillity, not wishing yet to acknowledge the ending or disturb the peace surrounding her. But she felt the growing strength of his eyes. The cha-no-yu was ended. Now life must begin again.
‘You did it perfectly,’ she whispered, her sadness overwhelming her. A tear slid from her eyes and the falling ripped the heart from his chest.
‘No—no. Please excuse me . . . you are perfect . . . it was ordinary,’ he said, startled by such unexpected praise.
‘It was the best I’ve ever seen,’ she said, moved by the stark honesty in his voice.
‘No. No, please excuse me, if it was fair it was because of you, Mariko-san. It was only fair—you made it better.’
‘For me it was flawless. Everything. How sad that others, more worthy than I, couldn’t have witnessed it also!’ Her eyes glistened in the flickering light.
‘You witnessed it. That is everything. It was only for you. Others wouldn’t have understood.’
She felt the hot tears now on her cheeks. Normally she would have been ashamed of them but now they did not trouble her. ‘Thank you, how can I thank you?’
He picked up a sprig of wild thyme and, his fingers trembling leaned over and gently caught one of her tears. Silently he looked down at the tear and the branchlet dwarfed by his huge fist. ‘My work—any work—is inadequate against the beauty of this. Thank you.’
He watched the tear on the leaf. A piece of charcoal fell down the mountain and, without thinking, he picked up the tongs and replaced it. A few sparks danced into the air from the mountaintop and it became an erupting volcano.
Both drifted into a sweet melancholia, joined by the simplicity of the single tear, content together in the quiet, joined in humility, knowing that what had been given had been returned in purity.
Later he said, ‘If our duty did not forbid it, I would ask you to join me in death. Now.’
‘I would go with you. Gladly,’ she answered at once. ‘Let us go to death. Now.’
‘We can’t. Our duty is to Lord Toranaga.’
She took out the stiletto that was in her obi and reverently placed it on the tatami. ‘Then please allow me to prepare the way.’
‘No. That would be failing in our duty.’
‘What is to be, will be. You and I cannot turn the scale.’
‘Yes. But we may not go before our Master. Neither you nor I. He needs every trustworthy vassal for a little longer. Please excuse me, I must forbid it.’
‘I would be pleased to go tonight. I’m prepared. More than that, I totally desire to go beyond. Yes. My soul is brimming with joy.’ A hesitant smile. ‘Please excuse me for being selfish. You’re perfectly right about our duty.’
The razor-sharp blade glistened in the candlelight. They watched it, lost in contemplation. Then he broke the spell.
‘Why Osaka, Mariko-san?’
‘There are things to be done there which only I can do.’
His frown deepened as he watched the light from a guttering wick catch the tear and become refracted into a billion colors.
‘What things?’
‘Things that concern the future of our house which must be done by me.’
‘In that case you must go.’ He looked at her searchingly. ‘But you alone?’
‘Yes. I wish to make sure all family arrangements are perfect between us and Lord Kiyama for Saruji’s marriage. Money and dowry and lands and so on. There’s his increased fief to formalize. Lord Hiro-matsu and Lord Toranaga require it done. I am responsible for the house.’
‘Yes,’ he said slowly, ‘that’s your duty.’ His eyes held hers. ‘If Lord Toranaga says you can go, then go, but it’s not likely you’ll be permitted there. Even so . . . you must return quickly. Very quickly. It would be unwise to stay in Osaka a moment longer than necessary.’
‘Yes.’
‘By sea would be quicker than by road. But you’ve always hated the sea.’
‘I still hate the sea.’
‘Do you have to be there quickly?’
‘I don’t think half a month or a month would matter. Perhaps, I don’t know. I just feel I should go at once.’
‘Then we will leave the time and the matter of the going to Lord Toranaga—if he permits you to go at all. With Lord Zataki here, and the two scrolls, that can only mean war. It will be too dangerous to go.’
‘Yes. Thank you.’
Glad that that was now finished, he looked around the little room contentedly, unconcerned now that his ugly bulk dominated the space, each of his thighs broader than her waist, his arms thicker than her neck. ‘This has been a fine room, better than I’d dared to hope. I’ve enjoyed being here. I’m reminded again that a body’s nothing but a hut in the wilderness. Thank you for being here. I’m so glad you came to Yokosé, Mariko-san. If it hadn’t been for you I would never have given a cha-no-yu here and never felt so one with eternity.’
She hesitated, then shyly picked up the T’ang cha caddy. It was a simple, covered jar without adornment. The orange-brown glaze had run just short, leaving an uneven rim of bare porcelain at the bottom, dramatizing the spontaneity of the potter and his unwillingness to disguise the simplicity of his materials. Buntaro had bought it from Sen-Nakada, the most famous cha-master who had ever lived, for twenty thousand koku. ‘It’s so beautiful,’ she murmured, enjoying the touch of it. ‘So perfect for the ceremony.’
‘Yes.’
‘You were truly a master tonight, Buntaro-san. You gave me so much happiness.’ Her voice was low and intent and she leaned forward a little. ‘Everything was perfect for me, the garden and how you used artistry to overcome the flaws with light and shadow. And this’—again she touched the cha caddy. ‘Everything perfect, even the character you’d written on the towel, ai—affection. For me tonight, affection was the perfect word.’ Again tears spilled down her cheeks. ‘Please excuse me,’ she said, brushing them away.
He bowed, embarrassed by such praise. To hide it he began to wrap the caddy in its silken sheaths. When he had finished, he set it into its box and placed it carefully in front of her. ‘Mariko-san, if our house has money problems, take this. Sell it.’
‘Never!’ It was the only possession, apart from his swords and longbow, that he prized in life. ‘That would be the last thing I would ever sell.’
‘Please excuse me, but if pay for my vassals is a problem, take it.’
‘There’s enough for all of them, with care. And the best weapons and the best horses. In that, our house is strong. No, Buntaro-san, the T’ang is yours.’
‘We’ve not much time left to us. Who should I will it to? Saruji?’
She looked at the coals and the fire consuming the volcano, humbling it. ‘No. Not until he’s a worthy cha-master, equaling his father. I counsel you to leave the T’ang to Lord Toranaga, who’s worthy of it, and ask him before he dies to judge if our son will ever merit receiving it.’
‘And if Lord Toranaga loses and dies before winter, as I’m certain he’ll lose?’
‘What?’
‘Here in this privacy I can tell you quietly that truth, without pretense. Isn’t an important part of the cha-no-yu to be without pretense? Yes, he will lose, unless he gets Kiyama and Onoshi—and Zataki.’
‘In that case, set down in your will that the T’ang should be sent with a cortege to His Imperial Highness, petition him to accept it. Certainly the T’ang merits divinity.’
‘Yes. That would be the perfect choice.’ He studied the knife then added gloomily, ‘Ah, Mariko-san, there’s nothing to be done for Lord Toranaga. His karma’s written. He wins or he loses. And if he wins or loses there’ll be a great killing.’
‘Yes.’
Brooding, he took his eyes off her knife and contemplated the wild thyme sprig, the tear still pure. Later he said, ‘If he loses, before I die—or if I’m dead—I or one of my men will kill the Anjin-san.’
Her face was ethereal against the darkness. The soft breeze moved threads of her hair, making her seem even more statuelike. ‘Please excuse me, may I ask why?’
‘He’s too dangerous to leave alive. His knowledge, his ideas that I’ve heard even fifth hand . . . he’ll infect the realm, even Lord Yaemon. Lord Toranaga’s already under his spell, neh?‘
‘Lord Toranaga enjoys his knowledge,’ Mariko said.
‘The moment Lord Toranaga dies, that also is the Anjin-san’s death order. But I hope our Lord’s eyes are opened before that time.’ The guttering lamp spluttered and went out. He glanced up at her. ‘Are you under his spell?’
‘He’s a fascinating man. But his mind’s so different from ours . . . his values . . . yes, so different in so many ways that it’s almost impossible to understand him at times. Once I tried to explain a cha-no-yu to him, but it was beyond him.’
‘It must be terrible to be born barbarian—terrible,’ Buntaro said.
‘Yes.’
His eyes dropped to the blade of her stiletto. ‘Some people think the Anjin-san was Japanese in a previous life. He’s not like other barbarians and he . . . he tries hard to speak and act like one of us though he fails, neh?‘
‘I wish you’d seen him almost commit seppuku Buntaro-san. I . . . it was extraordinary. I saw death visit him, to be turned away by Omi’s hand. If he was Japanese previously, I think that would explain many things. Lord Toranaga thinks he’s very valuable to us now.’
‘It’s time you stopped training him and became Japanese again.’
‘Sire?’
‘I think Lord Toranaga’s under his spell. And you.’
‘Please excuse me, but I don’t think I am.’
‘That other night in Anjiro, the one that went bad, on that night I felt you were with him, against me. Of course it was an evil thought, but I felt it.’
Her gaze left the blade. She looked at him steadily and did not reply. Another lamp spluttered briefly and went out. Now only one light remained in the room.
‘Yes, I hated him that night,’ Buntaro continued in the same calm voice, ‘and wanted him dead—and you and Fujiko-san. My bow whispered to me, like it does sometimes, asking for a killing. And when, the next dawn, I saw him coming down the hill with those cowardly little pistols in his hands, my arrows begged to drink his blood. But I put his killing off and humbled myself, hating my bad manners more than him, shamed by my bad manners and the saké.’ His tiredness showed now. ‘So many shames to bear, you and I. Neh?‘
‘Yes.’
‘You don’t want me to kill him?’
‘You must do what you know to be your duty,’ she said. ‘As I will always do mine.’
‘We stay at the inn tonight,’ he said.
‘Yes.’
And then, because she had been a perfect guest and the cha-no-yu the best he had ever achieved, he changed his mind and gave her back time and peace in equal measure that he had received from her. ‘Go to the inn. Sleep,’ he said. His hand picked up the stiletto and offered it. ‘When the maples are bare of leaves—or when you return from Osaka—we will begin again. As husband and wife.’
‘Yes. Thank you.’
‘Do you agree freely, Mariko-san?’
‘Yes. Thank you.’
‘Before your God?’
‘Yes. Before God.’
Mariko bowed and accepted the knife, replaced it in its hiding place, bowed again and left.
Her footsteps died away. Buntaro looked down at the branchlet still in his fist, the tear still trapped in a tiny leaf. His fingers trembled as they gently laid the sprig on the last of the coals. The pure green leaves began to twist and char. The tear vanished with a hiss.
Then, in silence, he began to weep with rage, suddenly sure in his innermost being that she had betrayed him with the Anjin-san.
Blackthorne saw her come out of the garden and walk across the well-lit courtyard. He caught his breath at the whiteness of her beauty. Dawn was creeping into the eastern sky.
‘Hello, Mariko-san.’
‘Oh—hello, Anjin-san! You—so sorry, you startled me—I didn’t see you there. You’re up late.’
‘No. Gomen nasai, I’m on time.’ He smiled and motioned to the morning that was not far off. ‘It’s a habit I picked up at sea, to wake just before dawn, in good time to go aloft to get ready to shoot the sun.’ His smile deepened. ‘It’s you who’re up late!’
‘I didn’t realize that it was . . . that night was gone.’ Samurai were posted at the gates and all doorways, watching curiously, Naga among them. Her voice became almost imperceptible as she switched to Latin. ‘Guard thine eyes, I beg thee. Even the darkness of night contains harbingers of doom.’
‘I beg forgiveness.’
They glanced away as horses clattered up to the main gate. Falconers and the hunting party and guards. Dispiritedly Toranaga came from within.
‘Everything’s ready, Sire,’ Naga said. ‘May I come with you?’
‘No, no, thank you. You get some rest. Mariko-san, how was the cha-no-yu?‘
‘Most beautiful, Sire. Most very beautiful.’
‘Buntaro-san’s a master. You’re fortunate.’
‘Yes, Sire.’
‘Anjin-san! Would you like to go hunting? I’d like to learn how you fly a falcon.’
‘Sire?’
Mariko translated at once.
‘Yes, thank you,’ Blackthorne said.
‘Good.’ Toranaga waved him to a horse. ‘You come with me.’
‘Yes, Sire.’
Mariko watched them leave. When they had trotted up the path, she went to her room. Her maid helped her undress, remove her makeup, and take down her hair. Then she told the maid to stay in the room, that she was not to be disturbed until noon.
‘Yes, mistress.’
Mariko lay down and closed her eyes and allowed her body to fall into the exquisite softness of the down quilts. She was exhausted and elated. The cha-no-yu had pushed her to a strange height of peacefulness, cleansing her, and from there, the sublime, joy-filled decision to go into death had sent her to a further pinnacle never attained before. Returning from the summit into life once more had left her with an eerie, unbelievable awareness of the beauty of being alive. She had seemed to be outside herself as she answered Buntaro patiently, sure her answers and her performance had been equally perfect. She curled up in the bed, so glad that peace existed now—until the leaves fell.
Oh, Madonna, she prayed fervently, I thank thee for thy mercy in granting me my glorious reprieve. I thank thee and worship thee with all my heart and with all my soul and for all eternity.
She repeated an Ave Maria in humility and then, asking forgiveness, in accordance to her custom and in obedience to her liege lord, for another day she put her God into a compartment of her mind.
What would I have done, she mused just before sleep took her, if Buntaro had asked to share my bed?
I would have refused.
And then, if he had insisted, as is his right?
I would have kept my promise to him. Oh, yes. Nothing’s changed.
