Authors: James Clavell
“Before God, I won’t! But this is the last time I’ll come here. If you want me in future, come to our Holy Mission, come and minister to the poor and the sick and the unwanted, like Christ did. Wash their feet like Christ did, and save your own soul before it’s too late.”
“You are commanded on pain of excommunication to leave Japan at once.”
“Come now, Eminence, I’m not excommunicated and never will be. Of course I accept the document, unless it’s out of date. This is dated September 16, 1598, almost two years ago. It must be checked, it’s far too important to accept at once—and that will take four years at least.”
“Of course it’s not out of date!”
“You’re wrong. As God is my judge, I believe it is. In a few weeks, at the most a few months, we’ll have an Archbishop of Japan at long last. A Spanish Bishop! The letters I have from Manila report the Royal Warrant’s expected by every mail.”
“Impossible! This is Portuguese territory and
our
province!”
“It was Portuguese. It was Jesuit. But that’s all changed now. With the help of our Brothers and Divine Guidance, the King of Spain has overthrown your General in Rome.”
“That’s nonsense. Lies and rumors. On your immortal soul, obey the commands of the Vicar of Christ.”
“I will. I will write to him today, I promise you. Meanwhile, expect a Spanish Bishop, a Spanish Viceroy, and a new Captain of the Black Ship—also a Spaniard! That’s also to be part of the Royal Warrant. We have friends in high places too and, at long last, they have vanquished the Jesuits, once and for all! Go with God, Eminence.” Friar Perez got up, opened the door, and went away.
In the outer office Soldi watched him leave, then hastily came back into the room. Frightened by dell’Aqua’s color, he hurried to the decanter and poured some brandy. “Eminence?”
Dell’Aqua shook his head and continued to stare sightlessly into the distance. For the past year there there had been disquieting news from their delegates to the Court of Philip of Spain at Madrid about the growing influence of the enemies of the Society.
“It’s not true, Eminence. Spaniards can’t come here. It can’t be true.”
“It can be true, easily. Too easily.” Dell’Aqua touched the Papal Order. “This Pope may be dead, our General dead … even the King of Spain. Meanwhile …” He got to his feet and stood at his full height. “Meanwhile we’ll prepare for the worst and pray for help and do the best we can. Send Brother Michael to fetch Kiyama here at once.”
“Yes, Eminence. But Kiyama’s never been here before. Surely it’s unlikely he would come now?”
“Tell Michael to use any words necessary, but he’s to bring Kiyama here before sunset. Next, send the war news to Martin at once, to be passed to Toranaga at once. You write the details but I want to send a private cipher with it. Next, send someone to fetch Ferriera here.”
“Yes, Eminence. But about Kiyama, surely Michael won’t be able—”
“Tell Michael to order him here, in God’s name if necessary! We’re Soldiers of Christ, we’re going to war—to God’s war! Hurry up!”
“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?
Did 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.