Shōgun

Her hand reached out and she pulled a branchlet toward her, breathing the sweet, rich gardenia fragrance.

Put away dreams, Ochiba, she told herself. Be a realist like the Taikō—or Toranaga.

“What are you going to do with the Anjin-san?” she asked.

Ishido laughed. “Hold him safe—let him take the Black Ship perhaps, or use him as a threat against Kiyama and Onoshi if need be. They both hate him, neh? Oh yes, he’s a sword at their throats—and at their filthy Church.”

“In the chess game of the Heir against Toranaga, how would you judge the Anjin-san’s value, Lord General? A pawn? A knight, perhaps?”

“Ah, Lady, in the Great Game barely a pawn,” Ishido said at once. “But in the game of the Heir against the Christians, a castle, easily a castle, perhaps two.”

“You don’t think the games are interlocked?”

“Yes, interlocked, but the Great Game will be settled by daimyo against daimyo, samurai against samurai, and sword against sword. Of course, in both games, you’re the queen.”

“No, Lord General, please excuse me, not a queen,” she said, glad that he realized it. Then, to be safe, she changed the subject. “Rumor has it that the Anjin-san and Mariko-san pillowed together.”

“Yes. Yes, I heard that too. You wish to know the truth about it?”

Ochiba shook her head. “It would be unthinkable that that had happened.”

Ishido was watching her narrowly. “You think there’d be a value in destroying her honor? Now? And along with her, Buntaro-san?”

“I meant nothing, Lord General, nothing like that. I was just wondering—just a woman’s foolishness. But it’s as Lord Kiyama said this morning—dark summer’s tears, sad, so sad, neh?”

“I preferred your poem, Lady. I promise you Toranaga’s side will have the tears.”

“As to Buntaro-san, perhaps neither he nor Lord Hiro-matsu will fight for Lord Toranaga at the battle.”

“That’s fact?”

“No, Lord General, not fact, but possible.”

“But there’s something you can do perhaps?”

“Nothing, except petition their support for the Heir—and all Toranaga’s generals, once the battle is committed.”

“It’s committed now, a north-south pincer movement and the final onslaught at Odawara.”

“Yes, but not actually. Not until army opposes army on the battlefield.” Then she asked, “So sorry, but are you sure it’s wise for the Heir to lead the armies?”

“I will lead the armies, but the Heir must be present. Then Toranaga cannot win. Even Toranaga will never attack the Heir’s standard.”

“Wouldn’t it be safer for the Heir to stay here—because of assassins, the Amidas. . . . We can’t risk his life. Toranaga has a long arm, neh?”

“Yes. But not that long and the Heir’s personal standard makes our side lawful and Toranaga’s unlawful. I know Toranaga. In the end he’ll respect the law. And that alone will put his head on a spike. He’s dead, Lady. Once he’s dead I will stamp out the Christian Church—all of it. Then you and the Heir will be safe.”

Ochiba looked up at him, an unspoken promise in her eyes. “I will pray for success—and your safe return.”

His chest tightened. He had waited so long. “Thank you, Lady, thank you,” he said, understanding her. “I will not fail you.”

She bowed and turned away. What impertinence, she was thinking. As if I’d take a peasant to husband. Now, should I really discard Toranaga?

Dell’Aqua was kneeling at prayer in front of the altar in the ruins of the little chapel. Most of the roof was caved in and part of one wall, but the earthquake had not damaged the chancel and nothing had touched the lovely stained glass window, or the carved Madonna that was his pride.

The afternoon sun was slanting through the broken rafters. Outside, workmen were already shifting rubble from the garden, repairing and talking and, mixed with their chattering, dell’Aqua could hear the cries of the gulls coming ashore and he smelled a tang to the breeze, part salt and part smoke, seaweed and mud flats. The scent bore him home to his estate outside Naples where, mixed with sea smells, would be the perfume of lemons and oranges and warm new breads cooking, and pasta and garlic and abbacchio roasting over the coals, and, in the great villa, the voices of his mother and brothers and sisters and their children, all happy and jolly and alive, basking in golden sunshine.

Oh, Madonna, let me go home soon, he prayed. I’ve been away too long. From home and from the Vatican. Madonna, take Thy burden off me. Forgive me but I’m sick to death of Japanese and Ishido and killing and raw fish and Toranaga and Kiyama and rice Christians and trying to keep Thy Church alive. Give me Thy strength.

And protect us from Spanish bishops. Spaniards do not understand Japan or Japanese. They will destroy what we have begun for Thy glory. And forgive Thy servant, the Lady Maria, and take her into Thy keeping. Watch over . . .

He heard someone come into the nave. When he had finished his prayers, he got up and turned around.