‘Anjin-san?’
Blackthorne heard his name in his dream. It came from very far away, echoing forever. ‘Hai?‘ he answered.
Then he heard the name repeated and a hand touched him, his eyes opened and focused in the half-light of dawn, his consciousness flooded back and he sat upright. The doctor was again kneeling beside his bed. Kiritsubo and the Lady Ochiba stood nearby, staring down at him. Grays were all around the large room. Oil lanterns flickered warmly.
The doctor spoke to him again. The ringing was still in his ears and the voice faint, but there was no mistake now. He could hear once more. Involuntarily his hands went to his ears and he pressed them to clear them. At once pain exploded in his head and set off sparks and colored lights and a violent throbbing.
‘Sorry,’ he muttered, waiting for the agony to lessen, willing it to lessen. ‘Sorry, ears hurt, neh? But I hear now—understand, Doctor-san? Hear now—little. Sorry, what say?’ He watched the man’s lips to help himself hear.
‘The Lady Ochiba and Kiritsubo-sama want to know how you are.’
‘Ah!’ Blackthorne looked at them. Now he noticed that they were formally dressed. Kiritsubo wore all white, except for a green head scarf. Ochiba’s kimono was dark green, without pattern or adornment, her long shawl white gossamer. ‘Better, thank you,’ he said, his soul disquieted by the white. ‘Yes, better.’ Then he saw the quality of the light outside and realized that it was near dawn and not twilight. ‘Doctor-san, please I sleep a day and night?’
‘Yes, Anjin-san. A day and a night. Lie back, please.’ The doctor took Blackthorne’s wrist with his long fingers and pressed them against the pulse, listening with his fingertips to the nine pulses, three on the surface, three in the middle, and three deep down, as Chinese medicine taught from time immemorial.
All in the room waited for the diagnosis. Then the doctor nodded, satisfied. ‘Everything seems good, Anjin-san. No bad hurt, understand? Much head pain, neh?‘ He turned and explained in more detail to the Lady Ochiba and Kiritsubo.
‘Anjin-san,’ Ochiba said. ‘Today Mariko-sama’s funeral. You understand ‘funeral’?’
‘Yes, Lady.’
‘Good. Her funeral’s just after dawn. It is your privilege to go if you wish. You understand?’
‘Yes. Think so. Yes, please, I go also.’
‘Very well.’ Ochiba spoke to the doctor, telling him to look after his patient very carefully. Then, with a polite bow to Kiritsubo and a smile at Blackthorne, she left.
Kiri waited till she was gone. ‘All right, Anjin-san?’
‘Head bad, Lady. So sorry.’
‘Please excuse me, I wanted to say thank you. Do you understand?’
‘Duty. Only duty. Fail. Mariko-sama dead, neh?‘
Kiri bowed to him in homage. ‘Not fail. Oh, no, not fail. Thank you, Anjin-san. For her and me and for the others. Say more later. Thank you.’ Then she too went away.
Blackthorne took hold of himself and got to his feet. The pain in his head was monstrous, making him want to cry out. He forced his lips into a tight line, his chest aching badly, his stomach churning. In a moment the nausea passed but left a filthy taste in his mouth. He eased his feet forward and walked over to the window and held on to the sill, fighting not to retch. He waited, then walked up and down, but this did not take away the pain in his head or the nausea.
‘I all right, thank you,’ he said, and sat again gratefully.
‘Here, drink this. Make better. Settle hara.’ The doctor had a benign smile. Blackthorne drank and gagged on the brew that smelled like ancient bird droppings and mildewed kelp mixed with fermenting leaves on a hot summer’s day. The taste was worse.
‘Drink. Better soon, so sorry.’
Blackthorne gagged again but forced it down.
‘Soon better, so sorry.’
Women servants came and combed and dressed his hair. A barber shaved him. Hot towels were brought for his hands and face, and he felt much better. But the pain in his head remained. Other servants helped him to dress in the formal kimono and winged overmantle. There was a new short stabbing sword. ‘Gift, Master. Gift from Kiritsubo-sama,’ a woman servant said.
Blackthorne accepted it and stuck it in his belt with his killing sword, the one Toranaga had given him, its haft chipped and almost broken where he had smashed at the bolt. He remembered Mariko standing with her back against the door, then nothing till he was kneeling over her and watching her die. Then nothing until now.
‘So sorry, this is the donjon, neh?‘ he said to the captain of Grays.
‘Yes, Anjin-san.’ The captain bowed deferentially, squat like an ape and just as dangerous.
‘Why am I here, please?’
The captain smiled and sucked in his breath politely. ‘The Lord General ordered it.’
‘But why here?’
The samurai said, ‘It was the Lord General’s orders. Please excuse me, you understand?’
‘Yes, thank you,’ Blackthorne said wearily.
When he was finally ready he felt dreadful. Some cha helped him for a while, then sickness swept through him and he vomited into the bowl a servant held for him, his chest and head pierced with red hot needles at every spasm.
‘So sorry,’ the doctor said patiently. ‘Here, please drink.’
He drank more of the brew but it did not help him.
By now dawn was spreading across the sky. Servants beckoned him and helped him to walk out of the large room, his guards going in front, the remainder following. They went down the staircase and out into the forecourt. A palanquin was waiting with more guards. He got into it thankfully. At an order from his captain of Grays the porters picked up the shafts and, the guards hovering protectively, they joined the procession of litters and samurai and ladies on foot, winding through the maze, out of the castle. All were dressed in their best. Some of the women wore somber kimonos with white head scarves, others wore all white except for a colored scarf.
Blackthorne was aware that he was being watched. He pretended not to notice and tried to keep his back stiff and his face emotionless, and prayed that the sickness would not return to shame him. His pain increased.
The cortege wound through the castle strongpoints, past thousands of samurai drawn up in silent ranks. No one was challenged, no papers demanded. The mourners went through checkpoint after checkpoint, under portcullises and across the five moats without stopping. Once through the main gate, outside the main fortifications, he noticed his Grays become more wary, their eyes watching everyone nearby, keeping close to him, guarding him very carefully. This lessened his anxiety. He had not forgotten that he was a marked man. The procession curled across a clear space, went over a bridge, then took up station in the square beside the river bank.
This space was three hundred paces by five hundred paces. In the center was a pit fifteen paces square and five deep, filled with wood. Over the pit was a high matted roof dressed with white silk and surrounding it were walls of white linen sheets, hung from bamboos, that pointed exactly East, North, West, and South, a small wooden gate in the middle of each wall.
‘The gates are for the soul to go through, Anjin-san, in its flight to heaven,’ Mariko had told him at Hakoné.
‘Let’s go for a swim or talk of other things. Happy things.’
‘Yes, of course, but first please may I finish because this is a very happy thing. Our funeral is most very important to us so you should learn about it, Anjin-san, neh? Please?’
‘All right. But why have four gates? Why not just one?’
‘The soul must have a choice. That’s wise—oh, we are very wise, neh? I tell thee today that I love thee?’ she had said. ‘We are a very wise nation to allow the soul a choice. Most souls choose the south gate, Anjin-san. That’s the important one, where there are tables with dried figs and fresh pomegranates and other fruits, radishes and other vegetables, and the sheaves of rice plantlets if the season is correct. And always a bowl of fresh cooked rice, Anjin-san, that’s most important. You see, the soul might want to eat before leaving.’
‘If it’s me, put a roast pheasant or—’
‘So sorry, no flesh—not even fish. We’re serious about that, Anjin-san. Also on the table there’ll be a small brazier with coals burning nicely with precious woods and oils in it to make everything smell sweet. . . .
Blackthorne felt his eyes fill with tears.
‘I want my funeral to be near dawn,’ she had always said so serenely. ‘I love the dawn most of all. And, if it could also be in the autumn . . .’
My poor darling, he thought. You knew all along there’d never be an autumn.
His litter stopped in a place of honor in the front rank, near the center, and he was close enough to see tears on the water-sprinkled fruits. Everything was there as she had said. Around were hundreds of palanquins and the square was packed with a thousand samurai and their ladies on foot, all silent and motionless. He recognized Ishido and, beside him, Ochiba. Neither looked at him. They sat on their sumptuous litters and stared at the white linen walls that rustled in the gentling breeze. Kiyama was on the other side of Ochiba, Zataki nearby, with Ito. Onoshi’s closed litter was also there. All had echelons of guards. Kiyama’s samurai wore crosses. And Onoshi’s.
Blackthorne looked around, seeking Yabu, but he could find him nowhere, nor were there any Browns or a friendly face. Now Kiyama was gazing at him stonily and when he saw the look in the eyes he was glad for his guards. Nonetheless he bowed slightly. But Kiyama’s gaze never altered, nor was his politeness acknowledged. After a moment, Kiyama looked away and Blackthorne breathed easier.
The sound of drums and bells and metal beating on metal tore the air. Discordant. Piercing. All eyes went to the main gateway to the castle. Then, out of the maw came an ornate roofed palanquin, borne by eight Shinto priests, a high priest sitting on it like a graven Buddha. Other priests beat metal drums before and after this litter, and then came two hundred orange-robed Buddhist priests and more white-clad Shinto priests, and then her bier.
The bier was rich and roofed, all in white, and she was dressed in white and propped sitting, her head slightly forward, her face made up and hair meticulous. Ten Browns were her pallbearers. Before the bier two priestlings strew tiny paper rose petals that the wind took and scattered, signifying that life was as ephemeral as a flower, and after them two priests dragged two spears backwards, indicating that she was samurai and duty strong as the steel blades were strong. After them came four priests with unlit torches. Saruji, her son, followed next, his face as white as his kimono. Then Kiritsubo and the Lady Sazuko, both in white, their hair loosed but draped in gossamer green. The girl’s hair fell below her waist, Kiri’s was longer. Then there was a space, and last was the remainder of the Toranaga garrison. Some of the Browns were wounded and many limped.
Blackthorne saw only her. She seemed to be in prayer and there was not a mark on her. He kept himself rigid, knowing what an honor this public ceremony, with Ishido and Ochiba as chief witnesses, was for her. But that did not lighten his misery.
For more than an hour, the high priest chanted incantations and the drums clamored. Then in a sudden silence, Saruji stepped forward and took an unlit torch and went to each of the four gates, East, North, West, and South, to make sure they were unobstructed.
Blackthorne saw that the boy was trembling, his eyes downcast as he came back to the bier. Then he lifted the white cord attached to it and guided the pallbearers through the south gate. The whole litter was placed carefully on the wood. Another solemn incantation, then Saruji touched the oil-soaked torch to the coals of the brazier. It blazed at once. He hesitated, then went back through the south gate alone and cast the torch into the pyre. The oil-impregnated wood caught. Quickly it became a furnace. Soon the flames were ten feet high. Saruji was forced back by the heat, then he fetched sweet-scented woods and oils and threw them into the fire. The tinder-dry roof exploded. The linen walls caught. Now the whole pit area was a raging, pyrogenic mass—swirling, crackling, unquenchable.
The roof posts collapsed. A sigh went through the onlookers. Priests came forward and put more wood onto the pyre and the flames rose farther, the smoke billowing. Now only the four small gates remained. Blackthorne saw the heat scorching them. Then they too burst into flames.
Then Ishido, the chief witness, got out of his palanquin and walked forward and made the ritual offering of precious wood. He bowed formally and sat again in his litter. At his order, the porters lifted him and he went back to the castle. Ochiba followed him. Others began to leave.
Saruji bowed to the flames a last time. He turned and walked over to Blackthorne. He stood in front of him and bowed. ‘Thank you, Anjin-san,’ he said. Then he went away with Kiri and Lady Sazuko.
‘All finished, Anjin-san,’ the captain of Grays said with a grin. ‘Kami safe now. We go castle.’
‘Wait. Please.’
‘So sorry, orders, neh?‘ the captain said anxiously, the others guarding closely.
‘Please wait.’
Careless of their anxiety, Blackthorne got out of the litter, the pain almost blinding him. The samurai spread out, covering him. He walked to the table and picked up some of the small pieces of camphor wood and threw them into the furnace. He could see nothing through the curtain of flames.
‘In nomine Patris et Filii et Spiritus Sancti, ‘ he muttered in benediction and made a small sign of the cross. Then he turned and left the fire.
When he awoke his head was much better but he felt drained, the dull ache still throbbing behind his temples and across the front of his head.
‘How feel, Anjin-san?’ the doctor said with his toothy smile, the voice still faint. ‘Sleep long time.’
Blackthorne lifted himself on an elbow and gazed sleepily at the sun’s shadows. Must be almost five of the clock in the afternoon now, he thought. I’ve slept better than six hours. ‘Sleep all day, neh?‘
The doctor smiled. ‘All yesterday and night and most of today. Understand?’
‘Understand. Yes.’ Blackthorne lay back, a sheen of sweat on his skin. Good, he thought. The best thing I could have done, no wonder I feel better.
His bed of soft quilts was screened now on three sides with exquisite movable partitions, their panel paintings landscapes and seascapes, and inlaid with ivory. Sunlight came through windows opposite and flies swarmed, the room vast and pleasant and quiet. Outside were castle sounds, now mixed with horses trotting past, bridles jingling, their hoofs unshod. The slight breeze bore the aroma of smoke. Don’t know if I’d want to be burned, he thought. But wait a minute, isn’t that better than being put in a box and buried and then the worms. . . . Stop it, he ordered himself, feeling himself drifting into a downward spiral. There’s nothing to worry about, karma is karma and when you’re dead, you’re dead, and you never know anything then—and anything’s better than drowning, water filling you, your body becoming foul and blotted, the crabs. . . . Stop it!
‘Drink, please.’ The doctor gave him more of the foul brew. He gagged but kept it down.
‘Cha, please.’ The woman servant poured it for him and he thanked her. She was a moon-faced woman of middle age, slits for eyes and a fixed empty smile. After three cups his mouth was bearable.
‘Please, Anjin-san, how ears?’
‘Same. Still distance . . . distance, understand? Very distance.’
‘Understand. Eat, Anjin-san?’
A small tray was set with rice and soup and charcoaled fish. His stomach was queasy but he remembered that he had hardly eaten for two days so he sat up and forced himself to take some rice and he drank the fish soup. This settled his stomach so he ate more and finished it all, using the chopsticks now as extensions of his fingers, without conscious effort. ‘Thank you. Hungry.’
‘Yes,’ the doctor said. He put a linen bag of herbs on the low table beside the bed. ‘Make cha with this, Anjin-san. Once every day until all gone. Understand?’
‘Yes. Thank you.’
‘It has been an honor to serve you.’ The old man motioned to the servant, who took away the empty tray, and after another bow followed her and left by the same inner door. Now Blackthorne was alone. He lay back on the futons feeling much better.
‘I was just hungry,’ he said aloud. He was wearing only a loincloth. His formal clothes were in a careless pile where he had left them and this surprised him, though a clean Brown kimono was beside his swords. He let himself drift, then suddenly he felt an alien presence. Uneasily he sat up and glanced around. Then he got onto his knees and looked over the screens, and before he knew it, he was standing, his head splitting from the sudden panicked movement as he saw the tonsured Japanese Jesuit staring at him, kneeling motionlessly beside the main doorway, a crucifix and rosary in his hand.
‘Who are you?’ he asked through his pain.
‘I’m Brother Michael, senhor.’ The coal-dark eyes never wavered. Blackthorne moved from the screens and stood over his swords. ‘What d’you want with me?’
‘I was sent to ask how you are,’ Michael said quietly in clear though accented Portuguese.
‘By whom?’
‘By the Lord Kiyama.’
Suddenly Blackthorne realized they were totally alone. ‘Where are my guards?’
‘You don’t have any, senhor.’
‘Of course I’ve guards! I’ve twenty Grays. Where are my Grays?’
‘There were none here when I arrived, senhor. So sorry. You were still sleeping then.’ Michael motioned gravely outside the door. ‘Perhaps you should ask those samurai.’
Blackthorne picked up his sword. ‘Please get away from the door.’
‘I’m not armed, Anjin-san.’
‘Even so, don’t come near me. Priests make me nervous.’
Obediently Michael got to his feet and moved away with the same unnerving calm. Outside two Grays lolled against the balustrade of the landing.
‘Afternoon,’ Blackthorne said politely, not recognizing either of them.
Neither bowed. ‘Afternoon, Anjin-san,’ one replied.
‘Please, where my other guards?’
‘All guards taken away Hour of the Hare, this morning. Understand Hour of Hare? We’re not your guards, Anjin-san. This is our ordinary post.’
Blackthorne felt the cold sweat trickling down his back. ‘Guards taken away—who order?’
Both samurai laughed. The tall one said, ‘Here, inside the donjon, Anjin-san, only the Lord General gives orders—or the Lady Ochiba. How do you feel now?’
‘Better, thank you.’
The taller samurai called out down the hall. In a few moments an officer came out of a room with four samurai. He was young and taut. When he saw Blackthorne his eyes lit up. ‘Ah, Anjin-san. How do you feel?’
‘Better, thank you. Please excuse me, but where my guards?’
‘I am ordered to tell you, when you wake up, that you’re to go back to your ship. Here’s your pass.’ The captain took the paper from his sleeve and gave it to him and pointed contemptuously at Michael. ‘This fellow’s to be your guide.’
Blackthorne tried to get his head working, his brain screeching danger. ‘Yes. Thank you. But first, please must see Lord Ishido. Very important.’
‘So sorry. Your orders are to go back to the ship as soon as you wake up. Do you understand?’
‘Yes. Please excuse me, but very important I see Lord Ishido. Please tell your captain. Now. Must see Lord Ishido before leave. Very important, so sorry.’
The samurai scratched at the pockmarks on his chin. ‘I will ask. Please dress.’ He strode off importantly to Blackthorne’s relief. The four samurai remained. Blackthorne went back and dressed quickly. They watched him. The priest waited in the corridor.
Be patient, he told himself. Don’t think and don’t worry. It’s a mistake. Nothing’s changed. You’ve still the power you always had.
He put both swords in his sash and drank the rest of the cha. Then he saw the pass. The paper was stamped and covered with characters. There’s no mistake about that, he thought, the fresh kimono already sticking to him.
‘Hey, Anjin-san,’ one of the samurai said, ‘hear you kill five ninja. Very, very good, neh?‘
‘So sorry, two only. Perhaps three.’ Blackthorne twisted his head from side to side to ease the ache and dizziness.
‘I heard there were fifty-seven ninja dead—one hundred and sixteen Browns. Is that right?’
‘I don’t know. So sorry.’
The captain came back into the room. ‘Your orders are to go to your ship, Anjin-san. This priest is your guide.’
‘Yes. Thank you. But first, so sorry, must see Lady Ochiba. Very, very important. Please ask your—’
The captain spun on Michael and spoke gutturally and very fast. ‘Neh?‘ Michael bowed, unperturbed, and turned to Blackthorne. ‘So sorry, senhor. He says his superior is asking his superior, but meanwhile you are to leave at once and follow me—to the galley.’
‘Ima!‘ the captain added for emphasis.
Blackthorne knew he was a dead man. He heard himself say, ‘Thank you, Captain. Where my guards, please?’
‘You haven’t any guards.’
‘Please send my ship. Please fetch my own vassals from—’
‘Order go ship now! Understand, neh?‘ The words were impolite and very final. ‘Go ship!’ the captain added with a crooked smile, waiting for Blackthorne to bow first.
Blackthorne noticed this and it all became a nightmare, everything slowed and fogged, and he desperately wanted to empty himself and wipe the sweat off his face and bow, but he was sure that the captain would hardly bow back, perhaps not even politely and never as an equal, so he would be shamed before all of them. It was clear that he had been betrayed and sold out to the Christian enemy, that Kiyama and Ishido and the priests were part of the betrayal, and for whatever reason, whatever the price, there was nothing now that he could do except wipe off the sweat and bow and leave and they would be waiting for him.
Then Mariko was with him and he remembered her terror and all that she had meant and all that she had done and all that she had taught him. He forced his hand onto the broken hilt of his sword and set his feet truculently apart, knowing that his fate was decided, his karma fixed, and that if he had to die he preferred to die now with pride than later.
‘I’m John Blackthorne, Anjin-san,’ he said, his absolute commitment lending him a strange power and perfect rudeness. ‘General of Lord Toranaga ship. All ship. Samurai and hatamoto! Who are you?’
The captain flushed. ‘Saigo Masakatsu of Kaga, Captain, of Lord Ishido’s garrison.’
‘I’m hatamoto—are you hatamoto?’ Blackthorne asked, even more rudely, not even acknowledging the name of his opponent, only seeing him with an enormous, unreal clarity—seeing every pore, every stubbled whisker, every fleck of color in the hostile brown eyes, every hair on the back of the man’s hand gripping the sword hilt.
‘No, not hatamoto.’
‘Are you samurai—or ronin?‘ The last word hissed out and Blackthorne felt men behind him but he did not care. He was only watching the captain, waiting for the sudden, death-dealing blow that summoned up all hara-gei, all the innermost source of energy, and he readied to return the blow with equal blinding force in a mutual, honorable death, and so defeat his enemy.
To his astonishment he saw the captain’s eyes change, and the man shriveled and bowed, low and humble. The man held the bow, leaving himself defenseless. ‘Please—please excuse my bad manners. I—I was ronin but—but the Lord General gave me a second chance. Please excuse my bad manners, Anjin-san.’ The voice was laced with shame.
It was all unreal and Blackthorne was still ready to strike, expecting to strike, expecting death and not a conquest. He looked at the other samurai. As one man they bowed and held the bow with their captain, granting him victory.
After a moment Blackthorne bowed stiffly. But not as an equal. They held their bow until he turned and walked along the corridor, Michael following, out onto the main steps, down the steps into the forecourt. He could feel no pain now. He was filled only with an enormous glow. Grays were watching him, and the group of samurai that escorted him and Michael to the first checkpoint kept carefully out of his sword range. One man was hurriedly sent ahead.
At the next checkpoint the new officer bowed politely as an equal and he bowed back. The pass was examined meticulously but correctly. Another escort took them to the next checkpoint where everything was repeated. Thence over the innermost moat, and the next. No one interfered with them. Hardly any samurai paid attention to him.
Gradually he noticed his head was scarcely aching. His sweat had dried. He unknotted his fingers from his sword hilt and flexed them a moment. He stopped at a fountain which was set in a wall and drank and splashed water on his head.
The escorting Grays stopped and waited politely, and all the time he was trying to work out why he had lost favor and the protection of Ishido and Lady Ochiba. Nothing’s changed, he thought frantically. He looked up and saw Michael staring at him. ‘What do you want?’
‘Nothing, senhor,’ Michael said politely. Then a smile spread and it was filled with warmth. ‘Ah, senhor, you did me a great service back there, making that foul-mannered cabron drink his own urine. Oh, that was good to see! Thou,’ he added in Latin. ‘I thank thee.’
‘I did nothing for you,’ Blackthorne said in Portuguese, not wanting to talk Latin.
‘Yes. But peace be upon you, senhor. Know that God moves in mysterious ways. It was a service for all men. That ronin was shamed—and he deserved it. It is a filthy thing to abuse bushido.’
‘You’re samurai too?’
‘Yes, senhor, I have that honor,’ Michael said. ‘My father is cousin to Lord Kiyama and my clan is of Hizen Province in Kyushu. How did you know he was ronin?‘
Blackthorne tried to remember. ‘I’m not sure. Perhaps because he said he was from Kaga and that’s a long way off and Mariko—Lady Toda said Kaga’s far north. I don’t know—I don’t remember really what I said.’
The officer of the escort came back to them. ‘Please excuse me, Anjin-san, but is this fellow bothering you?’
‘No. No, thank you.’ Blackthorne set off again. The pass was checked again, with courtesy, and they went on.
The sun was lowering now, still a few hours to sunset, and dust devils whirled in tiny spirals in the heated air currents. They passed many stables, all horses facing out—lances and spears and saddles ready for instant departure, samurai grooming the horses and cleaning equipment. Blackthorne was astounded by their number.
‘How many horse, Captain?’ he asked.
‘Thousands, Anjin-san. Ten, twenty, thirty thousand here and elsewhere in the castle.’
When they were crossing the next to last moat, Blackthorne beckoned Michael. ‘You’re guiding me to the galley?’
‘Yes. That’s what I was told to do, senhor.’
‘Nowhere else?’
‘No, senhor.’
‘By whom?’
‘Lord Kiyama. And the Father-Visitor, senhor.’
‘Ah, him! I prefer Anjin-san, not senhor—Father.’
‘Please excuse me, Anjin-san, but I’m not a Father. I’m not ordained.’
‘When does that happen?’
‘In God’s time,’ Michael said confidently.
‘Where’s Yabu-san?’
‘I don’t know, so sorry.’
‘You’re just taking me to my ship, nowhere else?’
‘Yes, Anjin-san.’
‘And then I’m free? Free to go where I want?’
‘I was told to ask how you were, then to guide you to the ship, nothing more. I’m just a messenger, a guide.’
‘Before God?’
‘I’m just a guide, Anjin-san.’
‘Where did you learn to speak Portuguese so well? And Latin?’
‘I was one of the four . . . the four acolytes sent by the Father-Visitor to Rome. I was thirteen, Uraga-noh-Tadamasa twelve.’
‘Ah! Now I remember. Uraga-san told me you were one of them. You were his friend. You know he’s dead?’
‘Yes. I was sickened to hear about it.’
‘Christians did that.’
‘Murderers did that, Anjin-san. Assassins. They will be judged, never fear.’
After a moment, Blackthorne said, ‘How did you like Rome?’
‘I detested it. We all did. Everything about it—the food and the filth and ugliness. They’re all eta there—unbelievable! It took us eight years to get there and back and oh how I blessed the Madonna when at last I got back.’
‘And the Church? The Fathers?’
‘Detestable. Many of them,’ Michael said calmly. ‘I was shocked with their morals and mistresses and greed and pomp and hypocrisy and lack of manners—and their two standards, one for the flock and one for the shepherds. It was all hateful . . . and yet I found God among some of them, Anjin-san. So strange. I found the Truth, in the cathedrals and cloisters and among the Fathers.’ Michael looked at him guilelessly, a tenderness permeating him. ‘It was rare, Anjin-san, very rarely that I found a glimmer—that’s true. But I did find the Truth and God and know that Christianity is the only path to life everlasting . . . please excuse me, Catholic Christianity.’
‘Did you see the auto-da-fé—or Inquisition—or jails—witch trials?’
‘I saw many terrible things. Very few men are wise—most are sinners and great evil happens on earth in God’s name. But not of God. This world is a vale of tears and only a preparation for Everlasting Peace.’ He prayed silently for a moment, then, refreshed, he looked up. ‘Even some heretics can be good, neh?‘
‘Maybe,’ Blackthorne replied, liking him.
The last moat and last gate, the main south gate. The last checkpoint, and his paper was taken away. Michael walked under the last portcullis. Blackthorne followed. Outside the castle a hundred samurai were waiting. Kiyama’s men. He saw their crucifixes and their hostility and he stopped. Michael did not. The officer motioned Blackthorne onward. He obeyed. The samurai closed up behind him and around him, locking him in their midst. Porters and tradesmen on this main road scattered and bowed and groveled until they were passed. A few held up pathetic crosses and Michael blessed them, leading the way down the slight slope, past the burial ground where the pit no longer smoked, across a bridge and into the city, heading for the sea. Grays and other samurai were coming up from the city among the pedestrians. When they saw Michael they scowled and would have forced him onto the side if it hadn’t been for the mass of Kiyama samurai.
Blackthorne followed Michael. He was beyond fear, though not beyond wishing to escape. But there was no place to run, or to hide. On land. His only safety was aboard Erasmus, beating out to sea, a full crew with him, provisioned and armed.
‘What happens at the galley, Brother?’
‘I don’t know, Anjin-san.’
Now they were in the city streets, nearing the sea. Michael turned a corner and came into an open fish market. Pretty maids and fat maids and old ladies and youths and men and buyers and sellers and children all gaped at him, then began bowing hastily. Blackthorne followed the samurai through the stalls and panniers and bamboo trays of all kinds of fish, sea-sparkling fresh, laid out so cleanly—many swimming in tanks, prawns and shrimps, lobster and crabs and crayfish. Never so clean in London, he thought absently, neither the fish nor those who sold them. Then he saw a row of food stalls to one side, each with a small charcoal brazier, and he caught the full perfume of broiling crayfish.
‘Jesus!’ Without thinking, he changed direction. Immediately the samurai barred his way. ‘Gomen nasai, kinjiru,’ one of them said.
‘Iye!‘ Blackthorne replied as roughly. ‘Watashi tabetai desu, neh? Watashi Anjin-san, neh?‘ I’m hungry. I’m the Anjin-san!
Blackthorne began to push through them. The senior officer hurried to intercept. Quickly Michael stepped back and talked placatingly, though with authority, and asked permission and, reluctantly, it was granted.
‘Please, Anjin-san,’ he said, ‘the officer says eat if you wish. What would you like?’
‘Some of those, please.’ Blackthorne pointed at the giant prawns that were headless and split down their length, all pink and white fleshed, the shells crisped to perfection. ‘Some of those.’ He could not tear his eyes off them. ‘Please tell the officer I haven’t eaten for almost two days and I’m suddenly famished. So sorry.’
The fish seller was an old man with three teeth and leathery skin and he wore only a loincloth. He was puffed with pride that his stall had been chosen and he picked out the five best prawns with nimble chopsticks and laid them neatly on a bamboo tray and set others to sizzle.
‘Dozo, Anjin-sama!’
‘Domo.’ Blackthorne felt his stomach growling. He wanted to gorge. Instead he picked one up with the fresh wooden chopsticks, dipped it in the sauce, and ate with relish. It was delicious.
‘Brother Michael?’ he asked, offering the plate. Michael took one, but only for good manners. The officer refused, though he thanked him.
Blackthorne finished that plate and had two more. He could have eaten another two but decided not to for good manners and also because he didn’t want to strain his stomach.
‘Domo,’ he said, setting down the plate with a polite obligatory belch. ‘Bimi desu!‘ Delicious.
The man beamed and bowed and the stallkeepers nearby bowed and then Blackthorne realized to his horror that he had no money. He reddened.
‘What is it?’ Michael asked.
‘I, er, I haven’t any money with me—or, er, anything to give the man. I’ve—could you lend me some please?’
‘I haven’t any money, Anjin-san. We don’t carry money.’
There was an embarrassed silence. The seller grinned, waiting patiently. Then, with equal embarrassment, Michael turned to the officer and quietly asked him for money. The officer was coldly furious with Blackthorne. He spoke brusquely to one of his men who came forward and paid the stallkeeper handsomely, to be thanked profusely, as, pink and sweating, Michael turned and led again. Blackthorne caught up with him. ‘Sorry about that but it . . . it never occurred to me! That’s the first time I’ve bought anything here. I’ve never had money, as crazy as it sounds, and I never thought . . . I’ve never used money. . . .’
‘Please, forget it, Anjin-san. It was nothing.’
‘Please tell the officer I’ll pay him when I get to the ship.’
Michael did as he was asked. They walked in silence for a while, Blackthorne getting his bearings. At the end of this street was the beach, the sea calm and dullish under the sunset light. Then he saw where they were and pointed left, to a wide street that ran east-west. ‘Let’s go that way.’
‘This way is quicker, Anjin-san.’
‘Yes, but your way we’ve got to pass the Jesuit Mission and the Portuguese lorcha. I’d rather make a detour and go the long way round.’
‘I was told to go this way.’
‘Let’s go the other way.’ Blackthorne stopped. The officer asked what was the matter and Michael explained. The officer waved them onward—Michael’s way.
Blackthorne weighed the results of refusing. He would be forced, or bound and carried, or dragged. None of these suited him, so he shrugged and strode on.
They came out onto the wide road that skirted the beach. Half a ri ahead were the Jesuit wharves and warehouses and a hundred paces farther he could see the Portuguese ship. Beyond that, another two hundred paces, was his galley. It was too far away to see men aboard yet.
Blackthorne picked up a stone and sent it whistling out to sea. ‘Let’s walk along the beach for a while.’
‘Certainly, Anjin-san.’ Michael went down the sand. Blackthorne walked in the shallows, enjoying the cool of the sea, the soughing of the slight surf.
‘It’s a fine time of the day, neh?‘
‘Ah, Anjin-san,’ Michael said with sudden, open friendliness, ‘there are many times, Madonna forgive me, I wish I wasn’t a priest but just the son of my father, and this is one of them.’
‘Why?’
‘I’d like to spirit you away, you and your strange ship at Yokohama, to Hizen, to our great harbor of Sasebo. Then I would ask you to barter with me—I’d ask you to show me and our sea captains the ways of your ship and your ways of the sea. In return I’d offer you the best teachers in the realm, teachers of bushido, cha-no-yu, hara-gei, ki, zazen meditation, flower arranging, and all the special unique knowledges that we possess.’
‘I’d like that. Why don’t we do it now?’
‘It’s not possible today. But you already know so much and in such a short time, neh? Mariko-sama was a great teacher. You are a worthy samurai. And you have a quality that’s rare here: unpredictability. The Taikō had it, Toranaga-sama has it too. You see, usually we’re a very predictable people.’
‘Are you?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then predict a way I can escape the trap I’m in.’
‘So sorry, there isn’t one, Anjin-san,’ Michael said.
‘I don’t believe that. How did you know my ship is at Yokohama?’
‘That’s common knowledge.’
‘Is it?’
‘Almost everything about you—and your defense of Lord Toranaga, and the Lady Maria, Lady Toda—is well known. And honored.’
‘I don’t believe that either.’ Blackthorne picked up another flat stone and sent it skimming over the waves. They went on, Blackthorne humming a sea shanty, liking Michael very much. Soon their way was blocked by a breakwater. They skirted it and came up onto the road once more. The Jesuit warehouse and Mission were tall and brooding now under the reddening sky. He saw the orange-robed Lay Brothers guarding the arched stone gateway and sensed their hostility. But it did not touch him. His head began to ache again.
As he had expected, Michael headed for the Mission gates. He readied himself, resolved that they would have to beat him into unconsciousness before he went inside and they forced him to give up his weapons.
‘You’re just guiding me to my galley, eh?’
‘Yes, Anjin-san.’ To his astonishment Michael motioned him to stop outside the gateway. ‘Nothing’s changed. I was told to inform the Father-Visitor as we passed. So sorry, but you’ll have to wait a moment.’
Thrown off guard, Blackthorne watched him enter the gates alone. He had expected that the Mission was to be the end of his journey. First an Inquisition and trial, with torture, then handed over to the Captain-General. He looked at the lorcha a hundred paces away. Ferriera and Rodrigues were on the poop and armed seamen crowded the main deck. Past the ship, the wharf road curled slightly and he could just see his galley. Men were watching from the gunwales and he thought he recognized Yabu and Vinck among them but could not be sure. There seemed to be a few women aboard also but who they were he did not know. Surrounding the galley were Grays. Many Grays.
His eyes returned to Ferriera and Rodrigues. Both were heavily armed. So were the seamen. Gun crews lounged near the two small shore-side cannon but in reality they were manning them. He recognized the great bulk of Pesaro, the bosun, moving down the companionway with a group of men. His eyes followed them, then his blood chilled. A tall stake was driven into the packed earth on the farside wharf. Wood was piled around the base.
‘Ah, Captain-Pilot, how are you?’
Dell’Aqua was coming through the gates, dwarfing Michael beside him. Today the Father-Visitor was wearing a Jesuit robe, his great height and luxuriant gray-white beard giving him the ominous regality of a biblical patriarch, every inch an Inquisitor, outwardly benign, Blackthorne thought. He stared up into the brown eyes, finding it strange to look up at any man, and even stranger to see compassion in the eyes. But he knew there would be no pity behind the eyes and he expected none. ‘Ah, Father-Visitor, how are you?’ he replied, the prawns now leaden in his stomach, sickening him.
‘Shall we go on?’
‘Why not?’
So the Inquisition’s to be aboard, Blackthorne thought, desperately afraid, wishing he had pistols in his belt. You’d be the first to die, Eminence.
‘You stay here, Michael,’ dell’Aqua said. Then he glanced toward the Portuguese frigate. His face hardened and he set off.
Blackthorne hesitated. Michael and the surrounding samurai were watching him oddly.
‘Sayonara, Anjin-san,’ Michael said. ‘Go with God.’
Blackthorne nodded briefly and started to walk through the samurai, waiting for them to fall on him to take away his swords. But they let him through unmolested. He stopped and looked back, his heart racing.
For a moment he was tempted to draw his sword and charge. But there was no escape that way. They wouldn’t fight him. Many had spears so they would catch him and disarm him, and bind him and hand him on. I won’t go bound, he promised himself. His only path was forward and there his swords were helpless against guns. He would charge the guns but they would just maim him in the knees and bind him. . . .
‘Captain Blackthorne, come along,’ dell’Aqua called out.
‘Yes, just a moment please.’ Blackthorne beckoned Michael. ‘Listen, Brother, down by the beach you said I was a worthy samurai. Did you mean it?’
‘Yes, Anjin-san. That and everything.’
‘Then I beg a favor, as a samurai,’ he said quietly but urgently.
‘What favor?’
‘To die as a samurai.’
‘Your death isn’t in my hands. It’s in the Hand of God, Anjin-san.’
‘Yes. But I ask that favor of you.’ Blackthorne waved at the distant stake. ‘That’s no way. That’s filthy.’
Perplexed, Michael peered toward the lorcha. Then he saw the stake for the first time. ‘Blessed Mother of God . . .’
‘Captain Blackthorne, please come along,’ dell’Aqua called again.
Blackthorne said, more urgently, ‘Explain to the officer. He’s got enough samurai here to insist, neh? Explain to him. You’ve been to Europe. You know how it is there. It’s not much to ask, neh? Please, I’m samurai. One of them could be my second.’
‘I . . . I will ask.’ Michael went back to the officer and began to talk softly and urgently.
Blackthorne turned and centered his attention on the ship. He walked forward. Dell’Aqua waited till he was alongside and set off again.
Ahead, Blackthorne saw Ferriera strut off the poop, down along the main deck, pistols in his belt, rapier at his side. Rodrigues was watching him, right hand on the butt of a long-barreled dueling piece. Pesaro and ten seamen were already on the jetty, leaning on bayoneted muskets. And the long shadow of the stake reached out toward him.
Oh, God, for a brace of pistols and ten jolly Jack Tars and one cannon, he thought, as the gap closed inexorably. Oh, God, let me not be shamed. . . .
‘Good evening, Eminence,’ Ferriera said, his eyes seeing only Blackthorne. ‘So, Inge—’
‘Good evening, Captain-General.’ Dell’Aqua pointed angrily at the stake. ‘Is this your idea?’
‘Yes, Eminence.’
‘Go back aboard your ship!’
‘This is a military decision.’
‘Go aboard your ship!‘
‘No! Pesaro!’ At once the bosun and the bayoneted shore party came on guard and advanced toward Blackthorne. Ferriera slid out the pistol. ‘So, Ingeles, we meet again.’
‘That’s something that pleases me not at all.’ Blackthorne’s sword came out of its scabbard. He held it awkwardly with two hands, the broken haft hurting him.
‘Tonight you will be pleased in hell,’ Ferriera said thickly.
‘If you had any courage you’d fight—man to man. But you’re not a man, you’re a coward, a Spanish coward without balls.’
‘Disarm him!’ Ferriera ordered.
At once the ten men went forward, bayonets leveled. Blackthorne backed away but he was surrounded. Bayonets stabbed for his legs and he slashed at an assailant, but as the man retreated another attacked from behind. Then dell’Aqua came to his senses and shouted, ‘Put down your guns! Before God, I order you to stop!’
The seamen were flustered. All muskets were zeroed in on Blackthorne, who stood helplessly at bay, sword high.
‘Get back, all of you,’ dell’Aqua called out. ‘Get back! Before God, get back! Are you animals?’
Ferriera said, ‘I want that man!’
‘I know, and I’ve already told you you can’t have him! Yesterday and today! Are you deaf? God give me patience! Order your men aboard!’
‘I order you to turn around and go away!’
‘You order me?‘
‘Yes, I order you! I’m Captain-General, Governor of Macao, Chief Officer of Portugal in Asia, and that man’s a threat to the State, the Church, the Black Ship, and Macao!’
‘Before God, I’ll excommunicate you and all your crew if this man’s harmed. You hear?’ Dell’Aqua spun on the musketeers, who backed off, frightened. Except Pesaro. Pesaro stood his ground defiantly, his pistol loose in his hand, waiting for Ferriera’s order. ‘Get on that ship and out of the way!’
‘You’re making a mistake,’ Ferriera stormed. ‘He’s a threat! I’m Military Commander in Asia and I say—’
‘This is a Church matter, not a military de—’
Blackthorne was dazed, hardly able to think or to see, his head once more exploding with pain. Everything had happened so fast, one moment guarded, the next not, one moment betrayed to the Inquisition, the next escaped, then to be betrayed again and now defended by the Chief Inquisitor. Nothing made sense.
Ferriera was shouting, ‘I caution you again! As God’s my judge, you’re making a mistake and I’ll inform Lisbon!’
‘Meanwhile order your men aboard or I’ll remove you as Captain-General of the Black Ship!’
‘You don’t have that power!’
‘Unless you order your men aboard and order the Ingeles unharmed at once, I declare you excommunicated—and any man who serves under you, in any command, excommunicated, and curse you and all who serve you, in the Name of God!’
‘By the Madonna—’ Ferriera stopped. He was not afraid for himself but now his Black Ship was jeopardized and he knew most of his crew would desert him unless he obeyed. For a moment he contemplated shooting the priest, but that would not take away the curse. So he conceded. ‘Very well—back aboard, everyone! Stand down!’
Obediently the men scattered, glad to be away from the priest’s wrath. Blackthorne was still bewildered, half wondering if his head was tricking him. Then, in the melee, Pesaro’s hatred burst. He aimed. Dell’Aqua saw the covert movement and leaped forward to protect Blackthorne with his own bulk. Pesaro pulled the trigger but at that moment arrows impaled him, the pistol fired harmlessly, and he collapsed screaming.
Blackthorne spun around and saw six Kiyama archers, fresh arrows already in their bows. Standing near them was Michael. The officer spoke harshly. Pesaro gave a last shriek, his limbs contorted, and he died.
Michael trembled as he broke the silence. ‘The officer says, so sorry, but he was afraid for the Father-Visitor’s life.’ Michael was begging God to forgive him for giving the signal to fire. But Pesaro had been warned, he reasoned. And it is my duty to see the Father-Visitor’s orders are obeyed, that his life is protected, that assassins are stamped out and no one excommunicated.
Dell’Aqua was on his knees beside the corpse of Pesaro. He made the sign of the cross and said the sacred words. The Portuguese around him were watching the samurai, craving the order to kill the murderers. The rest of Kiyama’s men were hastening from the Mission gate where they had remained, and a number of Grays were streaming back from the galley area to investigate. Through his almost blinding rage Ferriera knew he could not afford a fight here and now. ‘Everyone back aboard! Bring Pesaro’s body!’ Sullenly the shore party began to obey.
Blackthorne lowered his sword but did not sheathe it. He waited stupefied, expecting a trick, expecting to be captured and dragged aboard.
On the quarterdeck Rodrigues said quietly, ‘Stand by to repel boarders, but carefully, by God!’ Instantly men slipped to action stations. ‘Cover the Captain-General! Prepare the longboat. . . .’
Dell’Aqua got up and turned on Ferriera, who stood arrogantly at the companionway, prepared to defend his ship. ‘You’re responsible for that man’s death!’ the Father-Visitor hissed. ‘Your fanatic, vengeful lust and unho—’
‘Before you say something publicly you may regret, Eminence, you’d better think carefully,’ Ferriera interrupted. ‘I bowed to your order even though I knew, before God, you were making a terrible mistake. You heard me order my men back! Pesaro disobeyed you, not me, and the truth is you’re responsible if anyone is. You prevented him and us from doing our duty. That Ingeles is the enemy! It was a military decision, by God! I’ll inform Lisbon.’ His eyes checked the battle readiness of his ship and the approaching samurai.
Rodrigues had moved to the main deck gangway. ‘Captain-General, I can’t get out to sea with this wind and this tide.’
‘Get a longboat ready to haul us out if need be.’
‘It’s being done.’
Ferriera shouted at the seamen carrying Pesaro, telling them to hurry. Quickly all were back aboard. The cannon were manned, though discreetly, and everyone had two muskets nearby. Left and right, samurai were massing on the wharf but they made no overt move to interfere.
Still on the dock Ferriera said peremptorily to Michael, ‘Tell them all to disperse! There’s no trouble here—nothing for them to do. There was a mistake, a bad one, but they were right to shoot the bosun. Tell them to disperse.’ He hated to say it and wanted to kill them all but he could almost smell the peril on the wharf and he had no option now but to retreat.
Michael did as he was ordered. The officers did not move.
‘You’d better go on, Eminence,’ Ferriera said bitterly. ‘But this is not the last of it—you’ll regret saving him!’
Dell’Aqua too felt the explosiveness surrounding them. But it did not touch him. He made the sign of the cross and said a small benediction, then he turned away. ‘Come along, Pilot.’
‘Why are you letting me go?’ Blackthorne asked, the pain in his head agonizing, still not daring to believe it.
‘Come along, Pilot!’
‘But why are you letting me go? I don’t understand.’
‘Nor do I,’ Ferriera said. ‘I’d like to know the real reason too, Eminence. Isn’t he still a threat to us and the Church?’
Dell’Aqua stared at him. ‘Yes,’ he wanted to say, to wipe the arrogance off the popinjay’s face in front of him. ‘But the bigger threat is the immediate war and how to buy time for you and fifty years of Black Ships, and whom to choose: Toranaga or Ishido. You understand nothing of our problems, Ferriera, or the stakes involved, or the delicacy of our position here or the dangers.’
‘Please Lord Kiyama, reconsider. I suggest you should choose Lord Toranaga,’ he had told the daimyo yesterday, through Michael as interpreter, not trusting his own Japanese, which was only fair.
‘This is unwarranted interference in Japanese affairs and outside your jurisdiction. And, too, the barbarian must die.’
Dell’Aqua had used all his diplomatic skill but Kiyama had been adamant and had refused to commit himself or change his position. Then, this morning, when he had gone to Kiyama to tell him that, through God’s will, the Ingeles was neutralized, there had been a glimmer of hope.
‘I’ve considered what you said,’ Kiyama had told him. ‘I will not ally myself with Toranaga. Between now and the battle I will watch both contenders very carefully. At the correct time I will choose. And now I consent to let the barbarian go . . . not because of what you’ve told me but because of the Lady Mariko, to honor her . . . and because the Anjin-san is samurai . . .’
Ferriera was still staring back at him. ‘Isn’t the Ingeles still a threat?’
‘Have a safe journey, Captain-General, and Godspeed. Pilot, I’m taking you to your galley—Are you all right?’
‘It’s . . . my head it’s . . . I think the explosion. . . . You’re really letting me go? Why?’
‘Because the Lady Maria, the Lady Mariko, asked us to protect you.’ Dell’Aqua started off again.
‘But that’s no reason! You wouldn’t do that just because she asked you.’
‘I agree,’ Ferriera said. Then he called out, ‘Eminence, why not tell him the whole truth?’
Dell’Aqua did not stop. Blackthorne began to follow but he did not turn his back to the ship, still expecting treachery. ‘Doesn’t make sense. You know I’m going to destroy you. I’ll take your Black Ship.’
Ferriera laughed scornfully. ‘With what, Ingeles? You have no ship!‘
‘What do you mean?’
‘You have no ship. She’s dead. If she wasn’t, I’d never let you go, whatever his Eminence threatened.’
‘It’s not true . . .’
Through the fog in his head Blackthorne heard Ferriera say it again and laugh louder, and add something about an accident and the Hand of God and your ship’s burned to her spine, so you’ll never harm my ship now, though you’re still heretic and enemy, and still a threat to the Faith. Then he saw Rodrigues clearly, pity on his face, and the lips spelled out, Yes, it’s true, Ingeles.
‘It’s not true, can’t be true.’
Then the Inquisitor priest was saying from a million leagues away, ‘I received a message this morning from Father Alvito. It seems an earthquake caused a tidal wave, the wave . . .’
But Blackthorne was not listening. His mind was crying out, Your ship’s dead, you’ve let her down, your ship’s dead, you’ve no ship no ship no ship. . . .
‘It’s not true! You’re lying, my ship’s in a safe harbor and guarded by four thousand men. She’s safe!’
Someone said, ‘But not from God,’ and then the Inquisitor was talking again, ‘The tidal wave heeled your ship. They say that oil lamps on deck were upset and the fire spread. Your ship’s gutted. . . . ‘
‘Lies! What about the deck watch? There’s always a deck watch! It’s impossible,’ he shouted, but he knew that somehow the price for his life had been his ship.
‘You’re beached, Ingeles,’ Ferriera was goading him. ‘You’re marooned. You’re here forever, you’ll never get passage on one of our ships. You’re beached forever. . . .’
It went on and on and he was drowning. Then his eyes cleared. He heard the cry of the gulls and smelled the stink of the shore and saw Ferriera, he saw his enemy and knew it was all a lie to drive him mad. He knew it absolutely and that the priests were part of the plot. ‘God take you to hell!’ he shouted and rushed at Ferriera, his sword raised high. But only in his dream was it a rush. Hands caught him easily and took his swords away and set him walking between two Grays, through all the others, until he was at the companionway of the galley and they gave him back his swords and let him go.
It was difficult for him to see or to hear, his brain hardly working now in the pain, but he was certain it was all a trick to drive him mad and that it would succeed if he did not make a great effort. Help me, he prayed, someone help me, then Yabu was beside him and Vinck and his vassals and he could not distinguish the languages. They guided him aboard, Kiri there somewhere and Sazuko, a child crying in a maid’s arms, the remnants of the Browns’ garrison crowding the deck, rowers and seamen.
Smell of sweat, fear sweat. Yabu was talking at him. And Vinck. It took a long time to concentrate. ‘Pilot, why in Christ’s name did they let you go?’
‘I . . . they . . .’ He could not say the words.
Then somehow he found himself on the quarterdeck and Yabu was ordering the Captain-san to put to sea before Ishido changed his mind about letting them all leave, and before the Grays on the dock changed their minds about permitting the galley to go, telling the captain full speed for Nagasaki . . . Kiri saying, so sorry, Yabu-sama, please first Yedo, we must go to Yedo. . . .
The oars of the shallow draft vessel eased off the wharf, against the tide and against the wind, and went out into the stream, gulls crying in the wake, and Blackthorne pulled himself out of his daze enough to say coherently, ‘No. So sorry. Go Yokohama. Must Yokohama.’
‘First get men at Nagasaki, Anjin-san, understand? Important. First men! Have plan,’ Yabu said.
‘No. Go Yokohama. My ship . . . my ship danger.’
‘What danger?’ Yabu demanded.
‘Christians say . . . say fire!’
‘What!!’
‘For the love of Christ, Pilot, what’s amiss?’ Vinck cried out.
Blackthorne pointed shakily toward the lorcha. ‘They told me . . . they told me Erasmus is lost, Johann. Our ship’s lost . . . fired.’ Then he burst out, ‘Oh, God, let it all be a lie!’
