CHAPTER 3 : Part 1 – Shogun
CHAPTER 3 : Part 1 – Shogun
Yabu lay in the hot bath, more content, more confident than he had ever been in his life. The ship had revealed its wealth and this wealth gave him a power that he had never dreamed possible.
“I want everything taken ashore tomorrow,” he had said. “Repack the muskets in their crates. Camouflage everything with nets or sacking.”
Five hundred muskets, he thought exultantly. With more gunpowder and shot than Toranaga has in all the Eight Provinces. And twenty cannon, five thousand cannon balls with an abundance of ammunition. Fire arrows by the crate. All of the best European quality. “Mura, you will provide porters. Igurashi-san, I want all this armament, including the cannon, in my castle at Mishima forthwith, in secret. You will be responsible.”
“Yes, Lord.” They had been in the main hold of the ship and everyone had gaped at him: Igurashi, a tall, lithe, one-eyed man, his chief retainer, Zukimoto his quartermaster, together with ten sweat-stained villagers who had opened the crates under Mura’s supervision, and his personal bodyguard of four samurai. He knew they did not understand his exhilaration or the need to be clandestine. Good, he thought.
When the Portuguese had first discovered Japan in 1542, they had introduced muskets and gunpowder. Within eighteen months the Japanese were manufacturing them. The quality was not nearly as good as the European equivalent but that did not matter because guns were considered merely a novelty and, for a long time, used only for hunting—and even for that bows were far more accurate. Also, more important, Japanese warfare was almost ritual; hand-to-hand individual combat, the sword being the most honorable weapon. The use of guns was considered cowardly and dishonorable and completely against the samurai code, bushido, the Way of the Warrior, which bound samurai to fight with honor, to live with honor, and to die with honor; to have undying, unquestioning loyalty to one’s feudal lord; to be fearless of death—even to seek it in his service; and to be proud of one’s own name and keep it unsullied.
For years Yabu had had a secret theory. At long last, he thought exultantly, you can expand it and put it into effect: Five hundred chosen samurai, armed with muskets but trained as a unit, spearheading your twelve thousand conventional troops, supported by twenty cannon used in a special way by special men, also trained as a unit. A new strategy for a new era! In the coming war, guns could be decisive!
What about bushido? the ghosts of his ancestors had always asked him.
What about bushido? he had always asked them back.
They had never answered.
Never in his wildest dreams had he thought he’d ever be able to afford five hundred guns. But now he had them for nothing and he alone knew how to use them. But whose side to use them for? Toranaga’s or Ishido’s? Or should he wait—and perhaps be the eventual victor?
“Igurashi-san. You’ll travel by night and maintain strict security.”
“Yes, Lord.”
“This is to remain secret, Mura, or the village will be obliterated.”
“Nothing will be said, Lord. I can speak for my village. I cannot speak for the journey, or for other villages. Who knows where there are spies? But nothing will be said by us.”
Next Yabu had gone to the strong room. It contained what he presumed to be pirate plunder: silver and gold plate, cups, candelabra and ornaments, some religious paintings in ornate frames. A chest contained women’s clothes, elaborately embroidered with gold thread and colored stones.
“I’ll have the silver and gold melted into ingots and put in the treasury,” Zukimoto had said. He was a neat, pedantic man in his forties who was not a samurai. Years ago he had been a Buddhist warrior-priest, but the Taikō, the Lord Protector, had stamped out his monastery in a campaign to purge the land of certain Buddhist militant warrior monasteries and sects that would not acknowledge his absolute suzerainty. Zukimoto had bribed his way out of that early death and become a peddler, at length a minor merchant in rice. Ten years ago he had joined Yabu’s commissariat and now he was indispensable. “As to the clothes, perhaps the gold thread and gems have value. With your permission, I’ll have them packed and sent to Nagasaki with anything else I can salvage.” The port of Nagasaki, on the southernmost coast of the south island of Kyushu, was the legal entrepôt and trading market of the Portuguese. “The barbarians might pay well for these odds and ends.”
“Good. What about the bales in the other hold?”
“They all contain a heavy cloth. Quite useless to us, Sire, with no market value at all. But this should please you.” Zukimoto had opened the strongbox.
The box contained twenty thousand minted silver pieces. Spanish doubloons. The best quality.
Yabu stirred in his bath. He wiped the sweat from his face and neck with the small white towel and sank deeper into the hot scented water. If, three days ago, he told himself, a soothsayer had forecast that all this would happen, you would have fed him his tongue for telling impossible lies.
Three days ago he had been in Yedo, Toranaga’s capital. Omi’s message had arrived at dusk. Obviously the ship had to be investigated at once but Toranaga was still away in Osaka for the final confrontation with General Lord Ishido and, in his absence, had invited Yabu and all friendly neighboring daimyos to wait until his return. Such an invitation could not be refused without dire results. Yabu knew that he and the other independent daimyos and their families were merely added protection for Toranaga’s safety and, though of course the word would never be used, they were hostages against Toranaga’s safe return from the impregnable enemy fortress at Osaka where the meeting was being held. Toranaga was President of the Council of Regents which the Taikō had appointed on his deathbed to rule the empire during the minority of his son Yaemon, now seven years old. There were five Regents, all eminent daimyos, but only Toranaga and Ishido had real power.
Yabu had carefully considered all the reasons for going to Anjiro, the risks involved, and the reasons for staying. Then he had sent for his wife and his favorite consort. A consort was a formal, legal mistress. A man could have as many consorts as he wished, but only one wife at one time.
“My nephew Omi has just sent secret word that a barbarian ship came ashore at Anjiro.”
“One of the Black Ships?” his wife had asked excitedly. These were the huge, incredibly rich trading ships that plied annually with the monsoon winds between Nagasaki and the Portuguese colony of Macao that lay almost a thousand miles south on the China mainland.
“No. But it might be rich. I’m leaving immediately. You’re to say that I’ve been taken sick and cannot be disturbed for any reason. I’ll be back in five days.”
“That’s incredibly dangerous,” his wife warned. “Lord Toranaga gave specific orders for us to stay. I’m sure he’ll make another compromise with Ishido and he’s too powerful to offend. Sire, we could never guarantee that someone won’t suspect the truth—there are spies everywhere. If Toranaga returned and found you’d gone, your absence would be misinterpreted. Your enemies would poison his mind against you.”
“Yes,” his consort added. “Please excuse me, but you must listen to the Lady, your wife. She’s right. Lord Toranaga would never believe that you’d disobeyed just to look at a barbarian ship. Please send someone else.”
“But this isn’t an ordinary barbarian ship. It’s not Portuguese. Listen to me. Omi says it’s from a different country. These men talk a different-sounding language among themselves and they have blue eyes and golden hair.”
“Omi-san’s gone mad. Or he’s drunk too much saké,” his wife said.
“This is much too important to joke about, for him and for you.”
His wife had bowed and apologized and said that he was quite right to correct her, but that the remark was not meant in jest. She was a small, thin woman, ten years older than he, who had given him a child a year for eight years until her womb had dried up, and of these, five had been sons. Three had become warriors and died bravely in the war against China. Another had become a Buddhist priest and the last, now nineteen, he despised.
His wife, the Lady Yuriko, was the only woman he had ever been afraid of, the only woman he had ever valued—except his mother, now dead—and she ruled his house with a silken lash.
“Again, please excuse me,” she said. “Does Omi-san detail the cargo?”
“No. He didn’t examine it, Yuriko-san. He says he sealed the ship at once because it was so unusual. There’s never been a non-Portuguese ship before, neh? He says also it’s a fighting ship. With twenty cannon on its decks.”
“Ah! Then someone must go immediately.”
“I’m going myself.”
“Please reconsider. Send Mizuno. Your brother’s clever and wise. I implore you not to go.”
“Mizuno’s weak and not to be trusted.”
“Then order him to commit seppuku and have done with him,” she said harshly. Seppuku, sometimes called hara-kiri, the ritual suicide by disembowelment, was the only way a samurai could expiate a shame, a sin, or a fault with honor, and was the sole prerogative of the samurai caste. All samurai—women as well as men—were prepared from infancy, either for the act itself or to take part in the ceremony as a second. Women committed seppuku only with a knife in the throat.
“Later, not now,” Yabu told his wife.
“Then send Zukimoto. He’s certainly to be trusted.”
“If Toranaga hadn’t ordered all wives and consorts to stay here too, I’d send you. But that would be too risky. I have to go. I have no option. Yuriko-san, you tell me my treasury’s empty. You say I’ve no more credit with the filthy moneylenders. Zukimoto says we’re getting the maximum tax out of my peasants. I have to have more horses, armaments, weapons, and more samurai. Perhaps the ship will supply the means.”
“Lord Toranaga’s orders were quite clear, Sire. If he comes back and finds—”
“Yes. If he comes back, Lady. I still think he’s put himself into a trap. The Lord Ishido has eighty thousand samurai in and around Osaka Castle alone. For Toranaga to go there with a few hundred men was the act of a madman.”
“He’s much too shrewd to risk himself unnecessarily,” she said confidently.
“If I were Ishido and I had him in my grasp I would kill him at once.”
“Yes,” Yuriko said. “But the mother of the Heir is still hostage in Yedo until Toranaga returns. General Lord Ishido dare not touch Toranaga until she’s safely back at Osaka.”
“I’d kill him. If the Lady Ochiba lives or dies, it doesn’t matter. The Heir’s safe in Osaka. With Toranaga dead, the succession is certain. Toranaga’s the only real threat to the Heir, the only one with a chance at using the Council of Regents, usurping the Taikō’s power, and killing the boy.”
“Please excuse me, Sire, but perhaps General Lord Ishido can carry the other three Regents with him and impeach Toranaga, and that’s the end of Toranaga, neh?” his consort said.
“Yes, Lady, if Ishido could he would, but I don’t think he can—yet—nor can Toranaga. The Taikō picked the five Regents too cleverly. They despise each other so much it’s almost impossible for them to agree on anything.” Before taking power, the five great daimyos had publicly sworn eternal allegiance to the dying Taikō and to his son and his line forever. And they had taken public, sacred oaths agreeing to unanimous rule in the Council, and vowed to pass over the realm intact to Yaemon when he came of age on his fifteenth birthday. “Unanimous rule means nothing really can be changed until Yaemon inherits.”
“But some day, Sire, four Regents will join against one—through jealousy, fear or ambition—neh? The four will bend the Taikō’s orders just enough for war, neh?”
“Yes. But it will be a small war, Lady, and the one will always be smashed and his lands divided up by the victors, who will then have to appoint a fifth Regent and, in time, it will be four against one and again the one will be smashed and his lands forfeit—all as the Taikō planned. My only problem is to decide who will be the one this time—Ishido or Toranaga.”
“Toranaga will be the one isolated.”
“Why?”
“The others fear him too much because they all know he secretly wants to be Shōgun, however much he protests he doesn’t.”
Shōgun was the ultimate rank a mortal could achieve in Japan. Shōgun meant Supreme Military Dictator. Only one daimyo at a time could possess the title. And only His Imperial Highness, the reigning Emperor, the Divine Son of Heaven, who lived in seclusion with the Imperial Families at Kyoto, could grant the title.
With the appointment of Shōgun went absolute power: the Emperor’s seal and mandate. The Shōgun ruled in the Emperor’s name. All power was derived from the Emperor because he was directly descended from the gods. Therefore any daimyo who opposed the Shōgun was automatically in rebellion against the throne, and at once outcast and all his lands forfeit.
The reigning Emperor was worshiped as a divinity because he was descended in an unbroken line from the Sun Goddess, Amaterasu Omikami, one of the children of the gods Izanagi and Izanami, who had formed the islands of Japan from the firmament. By divine right the ruling Emperor owned all the land and ruled and was obeyed without question. But in practice, for more than six centuries real power had rested behind the throne.
Six centuries ago there had been a schism when two of the three great rival, semiregal samurai families, the Minowara, Fujimoto and Takashima, backed rival claimants to the throne and plunged the realm into civil war. After sixty years the Minowara prevailed over the Takashima, and the Fujimoto, the family that had stayed neutral, bided its time.
From then on, jealously guarding their rule, the Minowara Shōguns dominated the realm, decreed their Shōgunate hereditary and began to intermarry some of their daughters with the Imperial line. The Emperor and the entire Imperial Court were kept completely isolated in walled palaces and gardens in the small enclave at Kyoto, most times in penury, and their activities perpetually confined to observing the rituals of Shinto, the ancient animistic religion of Japan, and to intellectual pursuits such as calligraphy, painting, philosophy, and poetry.
The Court of the Son of Heaven was easy to dominate because, though it possessed all the land, it had no revenue. Only daimyos, samurai, possessed revenue and the right to tax. And so it was that although all members of the Imperial Court were above all samurai in rank, they still existed on a stipend granted the Court at the whim of the Shōgun, the Kwampaku—the civil Chief Adviser—or the ruling military junta of the day. Few were generous. Some Emperors had even had to barter their signatures for food. Many times there was not enough money for a coronation.
At length the Minowara Shōguns lost their power to others, to Takashima or Fujimoto descendants. And as the civil wars continued unabated over the centuries, the Emperor became more and more the creature of the daimyo who was strong enough to obtain physical possession of Kyoto. The moment the new conqueror of Kyoto had slaughtered the ruling Shōgun and his line, he would—providing he was Minowara, Takashima, or Fujimoto—with humility, swear allegiance to the throne and humbly invite the powerless Emperor to grant him the now vacant rank of Shōgun. Then, like his predecessors, he would try to extend his rule outward from Kyoto until he in his turn was swallowed by another. Emperors married, abdicated, or ascended the throne at the whim of the Shōgunate. But always the reigning Emperor’s bloodline was inviolate and unbroken.
So the Shōgun was all powerful. Until he was overthrown.
Many were unseated over the centuries as the realm splintered into ever smaller factions. For the last hundred years no single daimyo had ever had enough power to become Shōgun. Twelve years ago the peasant General Nakamura had had the power and he had obtained the mandate from the present Emperor, Go-Nijo. But Nakamura could not be granted Shōgun rank however much he desired it, because he was born a peasant. He had to be content with the much lesser civilian title of Kwampaku, Chief Adviser, and later, when he resigned that title to his infant son, Yaemon—though keeping all power, as was quite customary—he had to be content with Taikō. By historic custom only the descendants of the sprawling, ancient, semidivine families of the Minowara, Takashima, and Fujimoto were entitled to the rank of Shōgun.
Toranaga was descended from the Minowara. Yabu could trace his lineage to a vague and minor branch of the Takashima, enough of a connection if ever he could become supreme.
“Eeeee, Lady,” Yabu said, “of course Toranaga wants to be Shōgun, but he’ll never achieve it. The other Regents despise and fear him. They neutralize him, as the Taikō planned.” He leaned forward and studied his wife intently. “You say Toranaga’s going to lose to Ishido?”
“He will be isolated, yes. But in the end I don’t think he’ll lose, Sire. I beg you not to disobey Lord Toranaga, and not to leave Yedo just to examine
the barbarian ship, no matter how unusual Omi-san says it is. Please send Zukimoto to Anjiro.”
“What if the ship contains bullion? Silver or gold? Would you trust Zukimoto or any of our officers with it?”
“No,” his wife had said.
So that night he had slipped out of Yedo secretly, with only fifty men, and now he had wealth and power beyond his dreams and unique captives, one of whom was going to die tonight. He had arranged for a courtesan and a boy to be ready later. At dawn tomorrow he would return to Yedo. By sunset tomorrow the guns and the bullion would begin their secret journey.
Eeeee, the guns! he thought exultantly. The guns and the plan together will give me the power to make Ishido win, or Toranaga—whomever I chose. Then I’ll become a Regent in the loser’s place, neh? Then the most powerful Regent. Why not even Shōgun? Yes. It’s all possible now.
He let himself drift pleasantly. How to use the twenty thousand pieces of silver? I can rebuild the castle keep. And buy special horses for the cannon. And expand our espionage web. What about Ikawa Jikkyu? Would a thousand pieces be enough to bribe Ikawa Jikkyu’s cooks to poison him? More than enough! Five hundred, even one hundred in the right hands would be plenty. Whose?
The afternoon sun was slanting through the small window set into the stone walls. The bath water was very hot and heated by a wood fire built into the outside wall. This was Omi’s house and it stood on a small hill overlooking the village and the harbor. The garden within its walls was neat and serene and worthy.
The bathroom door opened. The blind man bowed. “Kasigi Omi-san sent me, Sire. I am Suwo, his masseur.” He was tall and very thin and old, his face wrinkled.
“Good.” Yabu had always had a terror of being blinded. As long as he could remember he had had dreams of waking in blackness, knowing it was sunlight, feeling the warmth but not seeing, opening his mouth to scream, knowing that it was dishonorable to scream, but screaming even so. Then the real awakening and the sweat streaming.
But this horror of blindness seemed to increase his pleasure at being massaged by the sightless.
