Shogun_ A Novel of Japan - James Clavell [97]
Yoshi Toranaga, Lord of the Kwanto—the Eight Provinces—head of the clan Yoshi, Chief General of the Armies of the East, President of the Council of Regents, was a short man with a big belly and large nose. His eyebrows were thick and dark and his mustache and beard gray-flecked and sparse. Eyes dominated his face. He was fifty-eight and strong for his age. His kimono was simple, an ordinary Brown uniform, his sash belt cotton. But his swords were the best in the world.
“There, my beauty,” he said with a lover’s tenderness. “Now you are whole again.” He caressed the bird with a feather as she sat hooded on the handler’s gauntleted fist. She shivered and preened herself contentedly. “We’ll fly her within the week.”
The handler bowed and left.
Toranaga turned his eyes on the two men at the door. “Welcome, Iron Fist, I’m pleased to see you,” he said. “So this is your famous barbarian?”
“Yes, Lord.” Hiro-matsu came closer, leaving his swords at the doorway as was custom, but Toranaga insisted he bring them with him.
“I would feel uncomfortable if you didn’t have them in your hands,” he said.
Hiro-matsu thanked him. Even so, he sat five paces away. By custom, no one armed could safely come closer to Toranaga. In the front rank of the guards was Usagi, Hiro-matsu’s favorite grandson-in-law, and he nodded to him briefly. The youth bowed deeply, honored and pleased to be noticed. Perhaps I should adopt him formally, Hiro-matsu told himself happily, warmed by the thought of his favorite granddaughter and his first great-grandson that they had presented him with last year.
“How is your back?” Toranaga asked solicitously.
“All right, thank you, Lord. But I must tell you I’m glad to be off that ship and on land again.”
“I hear you’ve a new toy here to idle away the hours with, neh?”
The old man guffawed. “I can only tell you, Lord, the hours weren’t idle. I haven’t been so hard in years.”
Toranaga laughed with him. “Then we should reward her. Your health is important to me. May I send her a token of my thanks?”
“Ah, Toranaga-sama, you’re so kind.” Hiro-matsu became serious. “You could reward all of us, Sire, by leaving this hornet’s nest at once, and going back to your castle at Yedo where your vassals can protect you. Here we’re naked. Any moment Ishido could—”
“I will. As soon as the Council of Regents meeting is concluded.” Toranaga turned and beckoned the lean-faced Portuguese who was sitting patiently in his shadow. “Will you interpret for me now, my friend?”
“Certainly, Sire.” The tonsured priest came forward, with practiced grace kneeled in Japanese style close to the dais, his body as spare as his face, his eyes dark and liquid, an air of serene concentration about him. He wore tabi socks and a flowing kimono that seemed, on him, to belong. A rosary and a carved golden cross hung at his belt. He greeted Hiro-matsu as an equal, then glanced pleasantly at Blackthorne.
“My name is Martin Alvito of the Society of Jesus, Captain-Pilot. Lord Toranaga has asked me to interpret for him.”
“First tell him that we’re enemies and that—”
“All in good time,” Father Alvito interrupted smoothly. Then he added, “We can speak Portuguese, Spanish, or, of course, Latin—whichever you prefer.”
Blackthorne had not seen the priest until the man came forward. The dais had hidden him, and the other samurai. But he had been expecting him, forewarned by Rodrigues, and loathed what he saw: the easy elegance, the aura of strength and natural power of the Jesuits. He had assumed the priest would be much older, considering his influential position and the way Rodrigues had talked about him. But they were practically of an age, he and the Jesuit. Perhaps the priest was