Shogun_ A Novel of Japan - James Clavell [488]
“Yes. Poor man, so he’s to be shown off, like a captive whale?”
“Yes.” Kiri added placidly, “With all of us. We’re all captives, Mariko-chan, whether we like it or not.”
Uraga hurried furtively down the alley toward the shore, the night dark, the sky clear and starlit, the air pleasant. He was dressed in the flowing orange robe of a Buddhist priest, his inevitable hat, and cheap straw sandals. Behind him were warehouses and the tall, almost European bulk of the Jesuit Mission. He turned a corner and redoubled his pace. Few people were about. A company of Grays carrying flares patrolled the shore. He slowed as he passed them courteously, though with a priest’s arrogance. The samurai hardly noticed him.
He went unerringly along the foreshore, past beached fishing boats, the smells of the sea and shore heavy on the slight breeze. It was low tide. Scattered over the bay and sanding shelves were night fishermen, like so many fireflies, hunting with spears under their flares. Ahead two hundred paces were the wharves and jetties, barnacle encrusted. Moored to one of them was a Jesuit lorcha, the flags of Portugal and the Company of Jesus fluttering, flares and more Grays near the gangway. He changed direction to skirt the ship, heading back into the city a few blocks, then cut down Nineteenth Street, turned into twisting alleys, and came out on to the road that followed the wharves once more.
“You! Halt!”
The order came out of the darkness. Uraga stopped in sudden panic. Grays came forward into the light and surrounded him. “Where’re you going, priest?”
“To the east of the city,” Uraga said haltingly, his mouth dry. “To our Nichiren shrine.”
“Ah, you’re Nichiren, neh?”
Another samurai said roughly, “I’m not one of those. I’m Zen Buddhist like the Lord General.”
“Zen—ah yes, Zen’s the best,” another said. “Wish I could understand that. It’s too hard for my old head.”
“He’s sweating a lot for a priest, isn’t he? Why are you sweating?”
“You mean priests don’t sweat?”
A few laughed and someone held a flare closer.
“Why should they sweat?” the rough man said. “All they do is sleep all day and pillow all night—nuns, boys, dogs, themselves, anything they can get—and all the time stuff themselves with food they’ve never labored for. Priests are parasites, like fleas.”
“Eh, leave him alone, he’s just—”
“Take off your hat, priest.”
Uraga stiffened. “Why? And why taunt a man who serves Buddha? Buddha’s doing you no—”
The samurai stepped forward pugnaciously. “I said take off your hat!”
Uraga obeyed. His head was newly shaven as a priest’s should be and he blessed whatever kami or spirit or gift from Buddha had prompted him to take that added precaution in case he was caught breaking curfew. All the Anjin-san’s samurai had been ordered confined to the vessel by the port authorities, pending instructions from higher up. “There’s no cause to have foul manners,” he flared with a Jesuit’s unconscious authority. “Serving Buddha’s an honorable life, and becoming a priest is honorable and should be the final part of every samurai’s old age. Or do you know nothing of bushido? Where are your manners?”
“What? You’re samurai?”
“Of course I’m samurai. How else would I dare to talk to samurai about bad manners?” Uraga put on his hat. “It would be better for you to be patrolling than accosting and insulting innocent priests!” He walked off haughtily, his knees weak.
The samurai watched him for a time then one spat. “Priests!”
“He was right,” the senior samurai said sourly. “Where are your manners?”
“So sorry. Please excuse me.”
Uraga walked along the road, very proud of himself. Nearer the galley he became wary again and waited a moment in the lee of a building. Then, gathering himself together, he walked into the flare-lit area.