Shōgun

“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.

“Iyé!” 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.”