Shōgun

“I agree. Yes, it is.” Igurashi waved Mura contemptuously away. And then he added quietly, “You’re responsible. But without offense, I tell you you’ve never seen our Master when something goes wrong. If we’ve forgotten anything, or these dung eaters haven’t done what they’re supposed to, our Master will make your whole fief and those to the north and south into manure heaps before sunset tomorrow.” He strode back to the head of his men.

This morning the final companies of samurai had ridden in from Mishima, Yabu’s capital city to the north. Now they, too, with all the others, were drawn up in packed military formation on the foreshore, in the square, and on the hillside, their banners waving with the slight breeze, upright spears glinting in the sun. Three thousand samurai, the elite of Yabu’s army. Five hundred cavalry.

Omi was not afraid. He had done everything it was possible to do and had personally checked everything that could be checked. If something went wrong, then that was just karma. But nothing is going to go wrong, he thought excitedly. Five hundred koku had been spent or was committed on the preparations—more than his entire year’s income before Yabu had increased his fief. He had been staggered by the amount but Midori, his wife, had said they should spend lavishly, that the cost was minuscule compared to the honor that Lord Yabu was doing him. “And with Lord Toranaga here—who knows what great opportunities you’ll have?” she had whispered.

She’s so right, Omi thought proudly.

He rechecked the shore and the village square. Everything seemed perfect. Midori and his mother were waiting under the awning that had been prepared to receive Yabu and his guest, Toranaga. Omi noticed that his mother’s tongue was wagging and he wished that Midori could be spared its constant lash. He straightened a fold in his already impeccable kimono and adjusted his swords and looked seaward.

“Listen, Mura-san,” Uo, the fisherman, was whispering cautiously. He was one of the five village elders and they were kneeling with Mura in front of the rest. “You know, I’m so frightened, if I pissed I’d piss dust.”

“Then don’t, old friend.” Mura suppressed his smile.

Uo was a broad-shouldered, rocklike man with vast hands and broken nose, and he wore a pained expression. “I won’t. But I think I’m going to fart.” Uo was famous for his humor and for his courage and for the quantity of his wind. Last year when they had had the wind-breaking contest with the village to the north he had been champion of champions and had brought great honor to Anjiro.

“Eeeeee, perhaps you’d better not,” Haru, a short, wizened fisherman, chortled. “One of the shit-heads might get jealous.”

Mura hissed, “You’re ordered not to call samurai that while even one’s near the village.” Oh ko, he was thinking wearily, I hope we’ve not forgotten anything. He glanced up at the mountainside, at the bamboo stockade surrounding the temporary fortress they had constructed with such speed and sweat. Three hundred men, digging and building and carrying. The other new house had been easier. It was on the knoll, just below Omi’s house, and he could see it, smaller than Omi’s but with a tiled roof, a makeshift garden, and a small bath house. I suppose Omi will move there and give Lord Yabu his, Mura thought.

He looked back at the headland where the galley would appear any moment now. Soon Yabu would step ashore and then they were all in the hands of the gods, all kami, God the Father, His Blessed Son, and the Blessed Madonna, oh ko!

Blessed Madonna, protect us! Would it be too much to ask to put Thy great eye on this special village of Anjiro? Just for the next few days? We need special favor to protect us from our Lord and Master, oh yes! I will light fifty candles and my sons will definitely be brought up in the True Faith, Mura promised.

Today Mura was very glad to be a Christian; he could intercede with the One God and that was an added protection for his village. He had become a Christian in his youth because his own liege lord had been converted and had at once ordered all his followers to become Christians. And when, twenty years ago, this lord was killed fighting for Toranaga against the Taikō, Mura had remained Christian to honor his memory. A good soldier has but one master, he thought. One real master.

Ninjin, a round-faced man with very buck teeth, was especially agitated by the presence of so many samurai. “Mura-san, so sorry, but it’s dangerous what you’ve done—terrible, neh? That little earthquake this morning, it was a sign from the gods, an omen. You’ve made a terrible mistake, Mura-san.”

“What is done is done, Ninjin. Forget about it.”

“How can I? It’s in my cellar and—”

“Some of it’s in your cellar. I’ve plenty myself,” Uo said, no longer smiling.