Shōgun полностью

I never thought the battles would ever be put to good use, he thought again. Once when his ship was carrying a cargo of English wools to Antwerp, a Spanish army had swooped down upon the city and every man had gone to the barricades and to the dikes. The sneak attack had been beaten off and the Spanish infantry outgunned and outmaneuvered. That was the first time he had seen William, Duke of Orange, using regiments like chess pieces. Advancing, retreating in pretended panic to regroup again, charging back again, guns blazing in packed, gut-hurting, ear-pounding salvos, breaking through the Invincibles to leave them dying and screaming, the stench of blood and powder and urine and horses and dung filling you, and a wild frantic joy of killing possessing you and the strength of twenty in your arms.

“Christ Jesus, it’s grand to be victorious,” he said aloud in the tub.

“Master?” Suwo said.

“Nothing,” he replied in Japanese. “I talking—I was just think—just thinking aloud.”

“I understand, Master. Yes. Your pardon.”

Blackthorne let himself drift away.

Mariko. Yes, she’s been invaluable.

After that first night of his almost suicide, nothing had ever been said again. What was there to say?

I’m glad there’s so much to do, he thought. No time to think except here in the bath for these few minutes. Never enough time to do everything. Ordered to concentrate on training and teaching and not on learning, but wanting to learn, trying to learn, needing to learn to fulfill the promise to Yabu. Never enough hours. Always exhausted and drained by bedtime, sleeping instantly, to be up at dawn and riding fast to the plateau. Training all morning, then a sparse meal, never satisfying and never meat. Then every afternoon until nightfall—sometimes till very late at night—with Yabu and Omi and Igurashi and Naga and Zukimoto and a few of the other officers, talking about war, answering questions about war. How to wage war. How barbarians war and how Japanese war. On land and at sea. Scribes always taking notes. Many, many notes.

Sometimes with Yabu alone.

But always Mariko there—part of him—talking for him. And for Yabu. Mariko different now toward him, he no longer a stranger.

Other days the scribes reading back the notes, always checking, being meticulous, revising and checking again until now, after twelve days and a hundred hours or so of detailed exhaustive explanation, a war manual was forming. Exact. And lethal.

Lethal to whom? Not to us English or Hollanders, who will come here peacefully and only as traders. Lethal to Yabu’s enemies and to Toranaga’s enemies, and to our Portuguese and Spanish enemies when they try to conquer Japan. Like they’ve done everywhere else. In every newly discovered territory. First the priests arrive. Then the conquistadores.

But not here, he thought with great contentment. Never here—now. The manual’s lethal and proof against that. No conquest here, given a few years for the knowledge to spread.

“Anjin-san?”

“Hai, Mariko-san?”

She was bowing to him. “Yabu-ko wa kiden no goshusseki o konya wa hitsuyo to senu to oserareru, Anjin-san.”

The words formed slowly in his head: “Lord Yabu does not require to see you tonight.”

“Ichi-ban,” he said blissfully. “Domo.”

“Gomen nasai, Anjin-san. Anatawa—”

“Yes, Mariko-san,” he interrupted her, the heat of the water sapping his energy. “I know I should have said it differently but I don’t want to speak any more Japanese now. Not tonight. Now I feel like a schoolboy who’s been let out of school for the Christmas holiday. Do you realize these’ll be the first free hours I’ve had since I arrived?”

“Yes, yes I do.” She smiled wryly. “And do you realize, Senhor Captain-Pilot B’rack’fon, these will be the first free hours I’ve had since I arrived?”

He laughed. She was wearing a thick cotton bathing robe tied loosely, and a towel around her head to protect her hair. Every evening as soon as his massage began, she would take the bath, sometimes alone, sometimes with Fujiko.

“Here, you have it now,” he said, beginning to get out.

“Oh, please, no, I don’t wish to disturb you.”

“Then share it. It’s wonderful.”

“Thank you. I can hardly wait to soak the sweat and dust away.” She took off her robe and sat on the tiny seat. A servant began to lather her, Suwo waiting patiently near the massage table.

“It is rather like a school holiday,” she said, as happily.

The first time Blackthorne had seen her naked on the day that they swam he had been greatly affected. Now her nakedness, of itself, did not touch him physically. Living closely in Japanese style in a Japanese house where the walls were paper and the rooms multipurpose, he had seen her unclothed and partially clothed many times. He had even seen her relieving herself.

“What’s more normal, Anjin-san? Bodies are normal, and differences between men and women are normal, neh?”

“Yes, but it’s, er, just that we’re trained differently.”