‘The barbarians live there, Anjin-san.’ The samurai motioned ahead.
Ill at ease, Blackthorne squinted into the darkness, the air breathless and sultry. ‘Where? That house? There?’
‘Yes. That’s right, so sorry. You see it?’
Another nest of hovels and alleys was a hundred paces ahead, beyond this bare patch of marshy ground, and dominating them was a large house etched vaguely against the jet sky.
Blackthorne looked around for a moment to get his approximate bearings, using his fan against the encroaching bugs. Very soon, once they had left First Bridge, he had become lost in the maze.
Their way had led through innumerable streets and alleys, initially toward the shore, skirting it eastward for a time, over bridges and lesser bridges, then northward again along the bank of another stream which meandered through the outskirts, the land low-lying and moist. The farther from the castle, the meaner were the roads, the poorer the dwellings. The people were more obsequious, and fewer glimmers of light came from the shojis. Yedo was a sprawling mass which seemed to him to be made up of hamlets separated merely by roads or streams.
Here on the southeastern edge of the city it was quite marshy and the road oozed putridly. For some time the stench had been thickening perceptibly, a miasma of seaweed and feces and mud flats, and overlying these an acrid sweet smell he could not place, but that seemed familiar.
‘Stinks like Billingsgate at low tide,’ he muttered, killing another night pest that had landed on his cheek. His whole body was clammy with sweat.
Then he heard the faintest snatch of a rollicking sea shanty in Dutch and all discomfort was forgotten. ‘Is that Vinck?’
Elated, he hurried toward the sound, porters lighting his way carefully, samurai following.
Now, nearer, he saw that the single-story building was part Japanese, part European. It was raised on pilings and surrounded by a high rickety bamboo fence in a plot of its own, and much newer than the hovels that clustered near. There was no gate in the fence, just a hole. The roof was thatch, the front door stout, the walls rough-boarded, and the windows covered with Dutch-style shutters. Here and there were flecks of light from the cracks. The singing and banter increased but he could not recognize any voices yet. Flagstones led straight to the steps of the veranda through an unkempt garden. A short flagpole was roped to the gateway. He stopped and stared up at it. A limp, makeshift Dutch flag hung there listlessly and his pulse quickened at the sight of it.
The front door was thrown open. A shaft of light spilled onto the veranda. Baccus van Nekk stumbled drunkenly to the edge, eyes half shut, pulled his codpiece aside, and urinated in a high, curving jet.
‘Ahhhhh,’ he murmured with a groaning ecstasy. ‘Nothing like a piss.’
‘Isn’t there?’ Blackthorne called out in Dutch from the gateway. ‘Why don’t you use a bucket?’
‘Eh?’ Van Nekk blinked myopically into the darkness at Blackthorne, who stood with the samurai under the flares. ‘JesusGodinheavensamurai!’ He gathered himself with a grunt and bowed awkwardly from the waist. ‘Gomen nasai, samurai-sama. Ichibon gomen nasai to all monkey-samas.’ He straightened, forced a painful smile, and muttered half to himself, ‘I’m drunker’n I thought. Thought the bastard sonofawhore spoke Dutch! Gomen nasai, neh?‘ he called out again, reeling off toward the back of the house, scratching and groping at the codpiece.
‘Hey, Baccus, don’t you know better than to foul your own nest?’
‘What?’ Van Nekk jerked around and stared blindly toward the flares, desperately trying to see clearly. ‘Pilot?’ he choked out. ‘Is that you, Pilot? God damn my eyes, I can’t see. Pilot, for the love of God, is that you?’
Blackthorne laughed. His old friend looked so naked there, so foolish, his penis hanging out. ‘Yes, it’s me!’ Then to the samurai who watched with thinly covered contempt, ‘Matte kurasai.‘ Wait for me, please.
‘Hai, Anjin-san.’
Blackthorne came forward and now in the shaft of light he could see the litter of garbage everywhere in the garden. Distastefully he stepped out of the clogs and ran up the steps. ‘Hello, Baccus, you’re fatter than when we left Rotterdam, neh?‘ He clapped him warmly on the shoulders.
‘Lord Jesus Christ, is that truly you?’
‘Yes, of course it’s me.’
‘We’d given you up for dead, long ago.’ Van Nekk reached out and touched Blackthorne to make sure he was not dreaming. ‘Lord Jesus, my prayers are answered. Pilot, what happened to you, where’ve you come from? It’s a miracle! Is it truly you?’
‘Yes. Now please put your cod in place and let’s go inside,’ Blackthorne told him, conscious of his samurai.
‘What? Oh! Oh sorry, I . . .’ Van Nekk hastily complied and tears began to run down his cheeks. ‘Oh Jesus, Pilot . . . I thought the gin devils were playing me tricks again. Come on, but let me announce you, hey?’
He led the way back, weaving a little, much of his drunkenness evaporated with his joy. Blackthorne followed. Van Nekk held the door open for him, then shouted over the raucous singing, ‘Lads! Look what Father Christmas’s brought us!’ He slammed the door shut after Blackthorne for added effect.
Silence was instantaneous.
It took a moment for Blackthorne’s eyes to adjust to the light. The fetid air was almost choking him. He saw them all gaping at him as though he were a devil-wraith. Then the spell broke and there were shouts of welcome and joy and everyone was squeezing and punching him on the back, all talking at the same time. ‘Pilot, where’ve you come from—Have a drink—Christ, is it possible—Piss in my hat, it’s great to see you—We’d given you up for dead—No, we’re all right at least mostly all right—Get out of the chair, you whore, the Pilot-sama’s to sit in the best sodding chair—Hey, grog, neh, quick—Godcursed quick! Goddamn my eyes get out of the way I want to shake his hand. . . .’
Finally Vinck hollered, ‘One at a time, lads! Give him a chance! Give the Pilot the chair and a drink, for God’s sake! Yes, I thought he was samurai too. . . .
Someone shoved a wooden goblet into Blackthorne’s hand. He sat in the rickety chair and they all raised their cups and the flood of questions began again.
Blackthorne looked around. The room was furnished with benches and a few crude chairs and tables and illuminated by candles and oil lamps. A huge saké keg stood on the filthy floor. One of the tables was covered with dirty plates and a haunch of half-roasted meat, crusted with flies.
Six bedraggled women cowered on their knees, bowing to him, backed against a wall.
His men, all beaming, waited for him to start: Sonk the cook, Johann Vinck bosun’s mate and chief gunner, Salamon the mute, Croocq the boy, Ginsel sailmaker, Baccus van Nekk chief merchant and treasurer, and last Jan Roper, the other merchant, who sat apart as always, with the same sour smile on his thin, taut face.
‘Where’s the Captain-General?’ Blackthorne asked.
‘Dead, Pilot, he’s dead. . . .’ Six voices answered and overrode each other, jumbling the tale until Blackthorne held up his hand. ‘Baccus?’
‘He’s dead, Pilot. He never came out of the pit. Remember he was sick, eh? After they took you away, well, that night we heard him choking in the darkness. Isn’t that right, lads?’
A chorus of yesses, and van Nekk added, ‘I was sitting beside him, Pilot. He was trying to get the water but there wasn’t any and he was choking and moaning. I’m not too clear about the time—we were all frightened to death—but eventually he choked and then, well, the death rattle. It was bad, Pilot.’
Jan Roper added, ‘It was terrible, yes. But it was God’s punishment.’
Blackthorne looked from face to face. ‘Anybody hit him? To quieten him?’
‘No—no, oh no,’ van Nekk answered. ‘He just croaked. He was left in the pit with the other one—the Japper, you remember him, the one who tried to drown himself in the bucket of piss? Then the Lord Omi had them bring Spillbergen’s body out and they burned it. But that other poor bugger got left below. Lord Omi just gave him a knife and he slit his own God-cursed belly and they filled in the pit. You remember him, Pilot?’
‘Yes. What about Maetsukker?’
‘Best you tell that, Vinck.’
‘Little Rat Face rotted, Pilot,’ Vinck began, and the others started shouting details and telling the tale until Vinck bellowed, ‘Baccus asked me, for Chrissake! You’ll all get your turn!’
The voices died down and Sonk said helpfully, ‘You tell it, Johann.’
‘Pilot, it was his arm started rotting. He got nicked in the fight—you remember the fight when you got knocked out? Christ Jesus, that seems so long ago! Anyway, his arm festered. I bled him the next day and the next, then it started going black. I told him I’d better lance it or the whole arm’d have to come off—told him a dozen times, we all did, but he wouldn’t. On the fifth day the wound was stinking. We held him down and I sliced off most of the rot but it weren’t no good. I knew it wasn’t no good but some of us thought it worth a try. The yellow bastard doctor came a few times but he couldn’t do nothing either. Rat Face lasted a day or two, but the rot was too deep and he raved a lot. We had to tie him up toward the end.’
‘That’s right, Pilot,’ Sonk said, scratching comfortably. ‘We had to tie him up.’
‘What happened to his body?’ Blackthorne asked.
‘They took it up the hill and burned it, too. We wanted to give him and the Captain-General a proper Christian burial but they wouldn’t let us. They just burned them.’
A silence gathered. ‘You haven’t touched your drink, Pilot!’
Blackthorne raised it to his lips and tasted. The cup was filthy and he almost retched. The raw spirit seared his throat. The stench of unbathed bodies and rancid, unwashed clothing almost overpowered him.
‘How’s the grog, Pilot?’ van Nekk asked.
‘Fine, fine.’
‘Tell him about it, Baccus, go on!’
‘Hey! I made a still, Pilot.’ Van Nekk was very proud and the others were beaming too. ‘We make it by the barrel now. Rice and fruit and water and let it ferment, wait a week or so and then, with the help of a little magic. . . .’ The rotund man laughed and scratched happily. ”Course it’d be better to keep it a year or so to mellow, but we drink it faster than . . .’ His words trailed off. ‘You don’t like it?’
‘Oh, sorry, it’s fine—fine.’ Blackthorne saw lice in van Nekk’s sparse hair.
Jan Roper said challengingly, ‘And you, Pilot? You’re fine, aren’t you? What about you?’
Another flood of questions which died as Vinck shouted, ‘Give him a chance!’ Then the leathery-faced man burst out happily, ‘Christ, when I saw you standing at the door I thought you was one of the monkeys, honest—honest!’
Another chorus of agreement and van Nekk broke in, ‘That’s right. Damned silly kimonos—you look like a woman, Pilot—or one of those half-men! God-cursed fags, eh! Lot of Jappers are fags, by God! One was after Croocq. . . .’ There was much shouting and obscene banter, then van Nekk continued, ‘You’ll want your proper clothes, Pilot. Listen, we’ve got yours here. We came to Yedo with Erasmus. They towed her here and we were allowed to bring our clothes ashore with us, nothing else. We brought yours—they allowed us to do that, to keep for you. We brought a kit bag—all your sea clothes. Sonk, fetch ’em, hey?’
‘Sure I’ll fetch them, but later, eh, Baccus? I don’t want to miss nothing.’
‘All right.’
Jan Roper’s thin smile was taunting. ‘Swords and kimonos—like a real heathen! Perhaps you prefer heathen ways now, Pilot?’
‘The clothes are cool, better than ours,’ Blackthorne replied uneasily. ‘I’d forgotten I was dressed differently. So much has happened. These were all I had so I got used to wearing them. I never thought much about it. They’re certainly more comfortable.’
‘Are those real swords?’
‘Yes, of course, why?’
‘We’re not allowed weapons. Any weapons!’ Jan Roper scowled. ‘Why do they allow you to have ’em? Just like any heathen samurai?’
Blackthorne laughed shortly. ‘You haven’t changed, Jan Roper, have you? Still holier than thou? Well, all in good time about my swords, but first the best news of all. Listen, in a month or so we’ll be on the high seas again.’
‘Jesus God, you mean it, Pilot?’ Vinck said.
‘Yes.’
There was a great roaring cheer and another welter of questions and answers. ‘I told you we’d get away—I told you God was on our side! Let him talk—let the Pilot talk . . .’ Finally Blackthorne held up his hand.
He motioned at the women, who still knelt motionless, more abject now under his attention. ‘Who’re they?’
Sonk laughed. ‘Them’s our doxies, Pilot. Our whores, and cheap, Christ Jesus, they hardly cost a button a week. We got a whole house of ’em next door—and there’s plenty more in the village—’
‘They rattle like stoats,’ Croocq butted in, and Sonk said, ‘That’s right, Pilot. ‘Course they’re squat and bandy but they’ve lots of vigor and no pox. You want one, Pilot? We’ve our own bunks, we’re not like the monkeys, we’ve all our own bunks and rooms—’
‘You try Big-Arse Mary, Pilot, she’s the one for you,’ Croocq said.
Jan Roper’s voice overrode them. ‘The Pilot doesn’t want one of our harlots. He’s got his own. Eh, Pilot?’
Their faces glowed. ‘Is that true, Pilot? You got women? Hey, tell us, eh? These monkeys’re the best that’s ever been, eh?’
‘Tell us about your doxies, Pilot!’ Sonk scratched at his lice again.
‘There’s a lot to tell,’ Blackthorne said. ‘But it should be private. Less ears the better, neh? Send the women away, then we can talk privately.’
Vinck jerked a thumb at them. ‘Piss off, hai?‘
The women bowed and mumbled thanks and apologies and fled, closing the door quietly.
‘First about the ship. It’s unbelievable. I want to thank you and congratulate you—all the work. When we get home I’m going to insist you get triple shares of all the prize money for all that work and there’s going to be a prize beyond . . .’ He saw the men look at each other, embarrassed. ‘What’s the matter?’
Van Nekk said uncomfortably, ‘It wasn’t us, Pilot. It was King Toranaga’s men. They did it. Vinck showed ’em how, but we didn’t do anything.’
‘What?’
‘We weren’t allowed back aboard after the first time. None of us has been aboard except Vinck, and he goes once every ten days or so. We did nothing.’
‘He’s the only one,’ Sonk said. ‘Johann showed ’em.’
‘But how’d you talk to them, Johann?’
‘There’s one of the samurai who talks Portuguese and we talk in that—enough to understand each other. This samurai, his name’s Sato-sama, he was put in charge when we came here. He asked who were officers or seamen among us. We said that’d be Ginsel, but he’s a gunner mostly, me and Sonk who—’
‘Who’s the worst pissing cook that—’
‘Shut your God-cursed mouth, Croocq!’
‘Shit, you can’t cook ashore let alone afloat, by God!’
‘Please be quiet, you two!’ Blackthorne said. ‘Go on, Johann.’
Vinck continued. ‘Sato-sama asked me what was wrong with the ship and I told him she had to be careened and scraped and repaired all over. Well, I told him all I knew and they got on with it. They careened her good and cleaned the bilges, scrubbed them like a prince’s shit house—at least, samurai were bosses and other monkeys worked like demons, hundreds of the buggers. Shit, Pilot, you’ve never seen workers like ’em!’
‘That’s true,’ Sonk said. ‘Like demons!’
‘I did everything the best I could against the day. . . . Jesus, Pilot, you really think we can get away?’
‘Yes, if we’re patient and if we—’
‘If God wills it, Pilot. Only then.’
‘Yes. Perhaps you’re right,’ Blackthorne replied, thinking, what’s it matter that Roper’s a fanatic? I need him—all of them. And the help of God. ‘Yes. We need the help of God,’ he said and turned back to Vinck. ‘How’s her keel?’
‘Clean and sound, Pilot. They’ve done her better’n I’d’ve thought possible. Those bastards are as clever as any carpenters, shipwrights, and ropemakers in all Holland. Rigging’s perfect—everything.’
‘Sails?’
‘They made a set out of silk—tough as canvas. With a spare set. They took ours down and copied ’em exact, Pilot. Cannon are perfect as possible—all back aboard and there’s powder and shot a-plenty. She’s ready to sail on the tide, tonight if need be. ‘Course she hasn’t been to sea so we won’t know about the sails till we’re in a gale, but I’ll bet my life her seams’re as tight as when she was first slipped into the Zuider Zee—better ’cause the timbers’re seasoned now, thanks be to God!’ Vinck paused for breath. ‘When are we off?’
‘A month. About.’
They nudged each other, brimming with elation, and loudly toasted the Pilot and the ship.
‘How about enemy shipping? There any hereabouts? What about prizes, Pilot?’ Ginsel asked.
‘Plenty—beyond your dreams. We’re all rich.’
Another shout of glee. ‘It’s about time.’
‘Rich, eh? I’ll buy me a castle.’
‘Lord God Almighty, when I get home . . .’
‘Rich! Hurrah for the Pilot!’
‘Plenty of Papists to kill? Good,’ Jan Roper said softly. ‘Very good.’
‘What’s the plan, Pilot?’ van Nekk asked, and they all stopped talking.
‘I’ll come to that in a minute. Do you have guards? Can you move around freely, when you want? How often—’
Vinck said quickly, ‘We can move anywheres in the village area, perhaps as much as half a league around here. But we’re not allowed in Yedo and not—’
‘Not across the bridge,’ Sonk broke in happily. ‘Tell him about the bridge, Johann!’
‘Oh, for the love of God, I was coming to the bridge, Sonk. For God’s sake, don’t keep interrupting. Pilot, there’s a bridge about half a mile southwest. There’re a lot of signs on it. That’s as far as we’re allowed. We’re not to go over that. ‘Kinjiru,‘ by God, the samurai say. You understand kinjiru, Pilot?’
Blackthorne nodded and said nothing.
‘Apart from that we can go where we like. But only up to the barriers. There’s barriers all around about half a league away. Lord God . . . can you believe it, home soon!’
‘Tell him about the doc, eh, and about the—’
‘The samurai send a doctor once in a while, Pilot, and we have to take our clothes off and he looks at us. . . .’
‘Yes. Enough to make a man shit to have a bastard heathen monkey look at you naked like that.’
‘Apart from that, Pilot, they don’t bother us except—’
‘Hey, don’t forget the doc gives us some God-rotting filthy powdered ‘char’ herbs we’re supposed to steep in hot water but we toss ’em out. When we’re sick, good old Johann bleeds us and we’re fit.’
‘Yes,’ Sonk said. ‘We throw the char out.”
‘Apart from that, except for—’
‘We’re lucky here, Pilot, not like at first.’
‘That’s right. At first—’
‘Tell him about the inspection, Baccus!’
‘I was coming to that—for God’s sake, be patient—give a fellow a chance. How can I tell him anything with you all gabbing. Pour me a drink!’ van Nekk said thirstily and continued. ‘Every ten days a few samurai come here and we line up outside and he counts us. Then they give us sacks of rice and cash, copper cash. It’s plenty for everything, Pilot. We swap rice for meat and stuff—fruit or whatever. There’s plenty of everything—and the women do whatever we want. At first we—’
‘But it wasn’t like that at first. Tell him about that, Baccus!’
Van Nekk sat on the floor. ‘God give me strength!’
‘You feeling sick, poor old lad?’ Sonk asked solicitously. ‘Best not drink any more or you’ll get the devils back, hey? He gets the devils, Pilot, once a week. We all do.’
‘Are you going to keep quiet while I tell the Pilot?’
‘Who, me? I haven’t said a thing. I’m not stopping you. Here, here’s your drink!’
‘Thanks, Sonk. Well, Pilot, first they put us in a house to the west of the city—’
‘Down near the fields it was.’
‘Damnit, then you tell the story, Johann!’
‘All right. Christ, Pilot, it was terrible. No grub or liquor and those God-cursed paper houses’re like living in a field—a man can’t take a piss or pick his nose; nothing without someone watching, eh? Yes, and the slightest noise’d bring the neighbors down on us, and samurai’d be at the stoop and who wants those bastards around, eh? They’d be shaking their God-cursed swords at us, shouting and hollering, telling us to keep quiet. Well, one night someone knocked over a candle and the monkeys were all pissed off to hell with us! Jesus God, you should’ve heard them! They came swarming out of the woodwork with buckets of water, God-cursed mad, hissing and bowing and cursing. . . . It was only one poxy wall that got burned down. . . . Hundreds of ’em swarmed over the house like cockroaches. Bastards! You’ve—’
‘Get on with it!’
‘You want to tell it?’
‘Go on, Johann, don’t pay any attention to him. He’s only a shit-filled cook.’
‘What!’
‘Oh, shut up! For God’s sake!’ Van Nekk hurriedly took up the tale once more. ‘The next day, Pilot, they marched us out of there and put us into another house in the wharf area. That was just as bad. Then some weeks later, Johann stumbled onto this place. He was the only one of us allowed out, because of the ship, at that time. They’d collect him daily and bring him back at sunset. He was out fishing—we’re only a few hundred yards upstream from the sea. . . . Best you tell it, Johann.’
Blackthorne felt an itch on his bare leg and he rubbed it without thinking. The irritation got worse. Then he saw the mottled lump of a flea bite as Vinck continued proudly, ‘It’s like Baccus said, Pilot. I asked Sato-sama if we could move and he said, yes, why not. They’d usually let me fish from one of their little skiffs to pass the time. It was my nose that led me here, Pilot. The old nose led me: blood!’
Blackthorne said, ‘A slaughterhouse! A slaughterhouse and tanning! That’s . . .’ He stopped and blanched.
‘What’s up? What is it?’
‘This is an eta village? Jesus Christ, these people’re eta?‘
‘What’s wrong with eters?’ van Nekk asked. ‘Of course they’re eters.’
Blackthorne waved at the mosquitoes that infested the air, his skin crawling. ‘Damn bugs. They’re— they’re rotten, aren’t they? There’s a tannery here, isn’t there?’
‘Yes. A few streets up, why?’
‘Nothing. I didn’t recognize the smell, that’s all.’
‘What about eters?’
‘I . . . I didn’t realize, stupid of me. If I’d seen one of the men I’d’ve known from their short hairstyle. With the women you’d never know. Sorry. Go on with the story, Vinck.’
‘Well, then they said—’
Jan Roper interrupted, ‘Wait a minute, Vinck! What’s wrong, Pilot? What about eters?’
‘It’s just that Japanese think of them as different. They’re the executioners, and work the hides and handle corpses.’ He felt their eyes, Jan Roper’s particularly. ‘Eta work hides,’ he said, trying to keep his voice careless, ‘and kill all the old horses and oxen and handle dead bodies.’
‘But what’s wrong with that, Pilot? You’ve buried a dozen yourself, put ’em in shrouds, washed ’em—we all have, eh? We butcher our own meat, always have. Ginsel here’s been hangman. . . . What’s wrong with all that?’
‘Nothing,’ Blackthorne said, knowing it to be true yet feeling befouled even so.
Vinck snorted. ‘Eters’re the best heathen we’ve seen here. More like us than the other bastards. We’re God-cursed lucky to be here, Pilot, fresh meat’s no problem, or tallow—they give us no trouble.’
‘That’s right. If you’ve lived with eters, Pilot . . .’
‘Jesus Christ, the Pilot’s had to live with the other bastards all the time! He doesn’t know any better. How about fetching Big-Arse Mary, Sonk?’
‘Or Twicklebum?’
‘Shit, not her, not that old whore. The Pilot’ll want a special. Let’s ask mama-san. . . .’
‘I bet he’s starving for real grub! Hey, Sonk, cut him a slice of meat.’
‘Have some more grog . . .’
‘Three cheers for the Pilot . . .’ In the happy uproar van Nekk clapped Blackthorne on the shoulders. ‘You’re home, old friend. Now you’re back, our prayers ‘re answered and all’s well in the world. You’re home, old friend. Listen, take my bunk. I insist. . . .’
Cheerily Blackthorne waved a last time. There was an answering shout from the darkness the far side of the little bridge. Then he turned away, his forced heartiness evaporated, and he walked around the corner, the samurai guard of ten men surrounding him.
On the way back to the castle his mind was locked in confusion. Nothing was wrong with eta and everything was wrong with eta, those are my crew there, my own people, and these are heathen and foreign and enemy. . . .
Streets and alleys and bridges passed in a blur. Then he noticed that his own hand was inside his kimono and he was scratching and he stopped in his tracks.
‘Those goddamned filthy . . .’ He undid his sash and ripped off his sopping kimono and, as though it were defiled, hurled it in a ditch.
‘Dozo, nan desu ka, Anjin-san?’ one of the samurai asked.
‘Nani mo!‘ Nothing, by God! Blackthorne walked on, carrying his swords.
‘Ah! Eta! Wakarimasu! Gomen nasai!‘ The samurai chatted among themselves but he paid them no attention.
That’s better, he was thinking with utter relief, not noticing that he was almost naked, only that his skin had stopped crawling now that the flea-infested kimono was off.
Jesus God, I’d love a bath right now!
He had told the crew about his adventures, but not that he was samurai and hatamoto, or that he was one of Toranaga’s protégés, or about Fujiko. Or Mariko. And he had not told them that they were going to land in force at Nagasaki and take the Black Ship by storm, or that he would be at the head of the samurai. That can come later, he thought wearily. And all the rest.
Could I ever tell them about Mariko-san?
His wooden clogs clattered on the wooden slats of First Bridge. Samurai sentries, also half-naked, lolled until they saw him, then they bowed politely as he passed, watching him intently, because this was the incredible barbarian who was astonishingly favored by Lord Toranaga, to whom Toranaga had, unbelievably, granted the never-given-before-to-a-barbarian honor of hatamoto and samurai.
At the main south gate of the castle another guide waited for him. He was escorted to his quarters within the inner ring. He had been allocated a room in one of the fortified though attractive guest houses, but he politely refused to go back there at once. ‘First bath please,’ he told the samurai.
‘Ah, I understand. That’s very considerate of you. The bath house is this way, Anjin-san. Yes, it’s a hot night, neh? And I hear you’ve been down to the Filthy Ones. The other guests in the house will appreciate your thoughtfulness. I thank you on their behalf.’
Blackthorne did not understand all the words but he gathered the meaning. ‘Filthy Ones.’ That describes my people and me—us, not them, poor people.
‘Good evening, Anjin-san,’ the chief bath attendant said. He was a vast, middle-aged man with immense belly and biceps. A maid had just awakened him to announce another late customer was arriving. He clapped his hands. Bath maids arrived. Blackthorne followed them into the scrubbing room and they cleansed him and shampooed him and he made them do it a second time. Then he walked through to the sunken bath, stepped into the piping-hot water and fought the heat, then gave himself to its mind-consuming embrace.
In time strong hands helped him out and molded fragrant oil into his skin and untwisted his muscles and his neck, then led him to a resting room, and gave him a laundered, sun-fresh cotton kimono. With a long-drawn-out sigh of pleasure, he lay down.
‘Dozo gomen nasai—cha, Anjin-san?’
‘Hai. Domo.‘
The cha arrived. He told the maid he would stay here tonight and not trouble to go to his own quarters. Then, alone and at peace, he sipped the cha, feeling it purify him; ‘. . . filthy-looking char herbs . . .’ he thought disgustedly.
‘Be patient, don’t let it disturb your harmony,’ he said aloud. ‘They’re just poor ignorant fools who don’t know any better. You were the same once. Never mind, now you can show them, neh?‘
He put them out of his mind and reached for his dictionary. But tonight, for the first night since he had possessed the book, he laid it carefully aside and blew out the candle. I’m too tired, he told himself.
But not too tired to answer a simple question, his mind said: Are they really ignorant fools, or is it you who are fooling yourself?
I’ll answer that later, when it’s time. Now the answer’s unimportant. Now I only know I don’t want them near me.
He turned over and put that problem into a compartment and went to sleep.
He awoke refreshed. A clean kimono and loincloth and tabi were laid out. The scabbards of his swords had been polished. He dressed quickly. Outside the house samurai were waiting. They got off their haunches and bowed.
‘We’re your guard today, Anjin-san.’
‘Thank you. Go ship now?’
‘Yes. Here’s your pass.’
‘Good. Thank you. May I ask your name please?’
‘Musashi Mitsutoki.’
‘Thank you, Musashi-san. Go now?’
They went down to the wharves. Erasmus was moored tightly in three fathoms over a sanding bottom. The bilges were sweet. He dived over the side and swam under the keel. Seaweed was minimal and there were only a few barnacles. The rudder was sound. In the magazine, which was dry and spotless, he found a flint and struck a spark to a tiny test mound of gunpowder. It burned instantly, in perfect condition.
Aloft at the foremast peak he looked for telltale cracks. None there or on the climb up, or around any of the spars that he could see. Many of the ropes and halyards and shrouds were joined incorrectly, but that would only take half a watch to change.
Once more on the quarterdeck he allowed himself a great smile. ‘You’re sound as a . . . as a what?’ He could not think of a sufficiently great ‘what’ so he just laughed and went below again. In his cabin he felt alien. And very alone. His swords were on the bunk. He touched them, then slid Oil Seller out of its scabbard. The workmanship was marvelous and the edge perfect. Looking at the sword gave him pleasure, for it was truly a work of art. But a deadly one, he thought as always, twisting it in the light.
How many deaths have you caused in your life of two hundred years? How many more before you die yourself? Do some swords have a life of their own as Mariko says? Mariko. What about her. . . .
Then he caught sight of his sea chest reflected in the steel and this took him out of his sudden melancholy.
He sheathed Oil Seller, careful to avoid fingering the blade, for custom said that even a single touch might mar such perfection.
As he leaned against the bunk, his eyes went to his empty sea chest.
‘What about rutters? And navigation instruments?’ he asked his image in the copper sea lamp that had been scrupulously polished like everything else. He saw himself answer, ‘You buy them at Nagasaki, along with your crew. And you snatch Rodrigues. Yes. You snatch him before the attack. Neh?‘
He watched his smile grow. ‘You’re very sure Toranaga will let you go, aren’t you?’
‘Yes,’ he answered with complete confidence. ‘If he goes to Osaka or not, I’ll get what I want. And I’ll get Mariko too.’
Satisfied, he stuck his swords in his sash and walked up on deck and waited until the doors were resealed.
When he got back to the castle it was not yet noon so he went to his own quarters to eat. He had rice and two helpings of fish that had been broiled over charcoal with soya by his own cook as he had taught the man. A small flask of saké, then cha.
‘Anjin-san?’
‘Hai?‘
The shoji opened. Fujiko smiled shyly and bowed.
