Shogun_ A Novel of Japan - James Clavell [31]
“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