Shōgun

The cortege clattered through the tall iron gates set in the high stone walls and into the paved central courtyard and stopped near the main door. Servants were already waiting to help Father Alvito dismount. He slid out of the saddle and threw them the reins. His spurs jingled on the stone as he strode up the cloistered walk of the main building, turned the corner, passed the small chapel, and went through some arches into the innermost courtyard, which contained a fountain and a peaceful garden. The antechamber door was open. He threw off his anxiety, composed himself, and walked in.

“Is he alone?” he asked.

“No, no, he isn’t, Martin,” Father Soldi said. He was a small, benign, pockmarked man from Naples who had been the Father-Visitor’s secretary for almost thirty years, twenty-five of them in Asia. “Captain-General Ferriera’s with his Eminence. Yes, the peacock’s with him. But his Eminence said you were to go in at once. What’s gone wrong, Martin?”

“Nothing.”

Soldi grunted and went back to sharpening his quill. “ ‘Nothing,’ the wise Father said. Well, I’ll know soon enough.”

“Yes,” Alvito said, liking the older man. He walked for the far door. A wood fire was burning in a grate, illuminating the fine heavy furniture, dark with age and rich with polish and care. A small Tintoretto of a Madonna and Child that the Father-Visitor had brought with him from Rome, which always pleased Alvito, hung over the fireplace.

“You saw the Ingeles again?” Father Soldi called after him.

Alvito did not answer. He knocked at the door.

“Come in.”

Carlo dell’Aqua, Father-Visitor of Asia, personal representative of the General of the Jesuits, the most senior Jesuit and thus the most powerful man in Asia, was also the tallest. He stood six feet three inches, with a physique to match. His robe was orange, his cross exquisite. He was tonsured, white-haired, sixty-one years old, and by birth a Neapolitan.

“Ah, Martin, come in, come in. Some wine?” he said, speaking Portuguese with a marvelous Italian liquidity. “You saw the Ingeles?”

“No, your Eminence. Just Toranaga.”

“Bad?”

“Yes.”

“Some wine?”

“Thank you.”

“How bad?” Ferriera asked. The soldier sat beside the fire in the high-backed leather chair as proudly as a falcon and as colorful—the fidaglio, the Captain-General of the Nao del Trato, this year’s Black Ship. He was in his middle thirties, lean, slight, and formidable.

“I think very bad, Captain-General. For instance, Toranaga said the matter of this year’s trade could wait.”

“Obviously trade can’t wait, nor can I,” Ferriera said. “I’m sailing on the tide.”

“You don’t have your port clearances. I’m afraid you’ll have to wait.”

“I thought everything was arranged months ago.” Again Ferriera cursed the Japanese regulations that required all shipping, even their own, to have incoming and outgoing licenses. “We shouldn’t be bound by stupid native regulations. You said this meeting was just a formality—to collect the documents.”

“It should have been, but I was wrong. Perhaps I’d better explain—”

“I must return to Macao immediately to prepare the Black Ship. We’ve already purchased a million ducats’ worth of the best silks at February’s Canton Fair and we’ll be carrying at least a hundred thousand ounces of Chinese gold. I thought I’d made it clear that every penny of cash in Macao, Malacca, and Goa, and every penny the Macao traders and city fathers can borrow is invested in this year’s venture. And every penny of yours.”

“We’re just as aware as you are of its importance,” dell’Aqua said pointedly.

“I’m sorry, Captain-General, but Toranaga’s President of the Regents and it’s the custom to go to him,” Alvito said. “He wouldn’t discuss this year’s trade or your clearances. He said, initially, he did not approve of assassination.”

“Who does, Father?” Ferriera said.

“What’s Toranaga talking about, Martin?” dell’Aqua asked. “Is this some sort of ruse? Assassination? What has that to do with us?”

“He said: ‘Why would you Christians want to assassinate my prisoner, the pilot?’ ”

“What?”

“Toranaga believes the attempt last night was on the Ingeles, not him. Also he says there was another attempt in prison.” Alvito kept his eyes fixed on the soldier.

“What do you accuse me of, Father?” Ferriera said. “An assassination attempt? Me? In Osaka Castle? This is the first time I’ve ever been in Japan!”

“You deny any knowledge of it?”

“I do not deny that the sooner the heretic’s dead the better,” Ferriera said coldly. “If the Dutch and English start spreading their filth in Asia we’re in for trouble. All of us.”