Shōgun полностью

“Senhor, please excuse me. First . . .” Uraga took off his hat. His hair was a stubble now, his pate shaven in samurai style, but he had no queue yet. “First, I’m shamed my hair is not correct and I have no queue as a samurai should have. But my hair will grow and I am not less samurai for that.” He put his hat back on his head. He told Yabu what he had said, and those ronin who were near and could hear also listened attentively as he continued, “Second, please excuse me greatly but I cannot use swords—or any weapons. I’ve—I’ve never been trained in them. But I will learn, believe me I will learn. Please excuse my shame. I swear absolute allegiance to you and beg you to accept me. . . .” Sweat trickled down his face and back.

Blackthorne said compassionately, “Shigata ga nai, neh? Ukeru anatawa desu, Uraga-san.” What does that matter? I accept you, Uraga-san.

Uraga bowed, then explained to Yabu what he had said. No one laughed. Except Yabu. But his laughter was cut short by the beginning of an altercation between the last two ronin over the selection of the remaining swords. “You two, shut up,” he shouted.

Both men spun around and one snarled, “You’re not my master! Where are your manners? Say please, or shut up yourself!”

Instantly Yabu leaped to his feet and rushed the offending ronin, his sword on high. Men scattered, and the ronin fled. Near the side of the wharf the man jerked out his sword and abruptly turned to the attack with a fiendish battle cry. At once all his friends darted to his rescue, swords ready, and Yabu was trapped. The man charged. Yabu avoided a violent sword thrust, hacked back, and missed as the pack surged forward for the kill. Too late Toranaga samurai rushed forward, knowing Yabu was a dead man.

“Stop!” Blackthorne shouted in Japanese. Everyone froze at the power of his voice. “Go there!” He pointed to where the men had been lined up before. “Now! Order!”

For a moment all the men on the wharf remained motionless. Then they started to move. The spell broke. Yabu darted at the man who had insulted him. The ronin jumped back, sidestepped, his sword held violently above his head, two-handed, waiting fearlessly for the next attack. His friends hesitated.

“Go there! Now! Order!”

Reluctantly but obediently, the rest of the men backed out of the way, sheathed their swords. Yabu and the man circled each other slowly.

“You!” Blackthorne shouted. “Stop! Sword down! I order!”

The man kept his furious eyes on Yabu but he heard the order and wet his lips. He feinted left, then right. Yabu retreated and the man slipped out of his grasp and rushed nearer to Blackthorne and put his sword down in front of him. “I obey, Anjin-san. I didn’t attack him.” As Yabu charged, he leaped out of the way and retreated fearlessly, more fleet than Yabu, younger than Yabu, taunting him.

“Yabu-san,” Blackthorne called out. “So sorry—think mistake, neh? Perhaps—”

But Yabu spouted a flood of Japanese and rushed the man, who fled again without fear.

Alvito was now coldly amused. “Yabu-san said there’s no mistake, Anjin-san. This cabron has to die, he says. No samurai could accept such an insult!”

Blackthorne felt all their eyes on him as he desperately tried to decide what to do. He watched Yabu stalk the man. Just to the left a Toranaga samurai aimed his bow. The only noise was that of the two men panting and running and shouting at one another. The ronin backed, then turned and ran away, around the clearing, sidestepping, weaving, all the time keeping up a guttural hissing flood of invective.

Alvito said, “He’s baiting Yabu, Anjin-san. He says: ‘I’m samurai—I don’t kill unarmed men like you—you’re not a samurai, you’re a manure-stinking peasant—ah, so that’s it, you’re not samurai, you’re eta, neh? Your mother was eta, your father was eta, and—’ ” The Jesuit stopped as Yabu let out a bellow of rage and pointed at one of the men and shouted something. “Yabu says: ‘You! Give him his sword.’ ”

The ronin hesitated and looked at Blackthorne for the order.

Yabu turned to Blackthorne and shouted, “Give him his sword!”

Blackthorne picked up the sword. “Yabu-san, ask not fight,” he said, wishing him dead. “Please ask not fight—”

“Give him the sword!”