Shōgun (The Asian Saga Book 1)

‘The daimyo, Kasigi Yabu, Lord of Izu, wants to know who you are, where you come from, how you got here, and what acts of piracy you have committed,’ Father Sebastio said.

‘I keep telling you we’re not pirates.’  The morning was clear and warm and Blackthorne was kneeling in front of the platform in the village square, his head still aching from the blow.  Keep calm and get your brain working, he told himself.  You’re on trial for your lives.  You’re the spokesman and that’s all there is to it.  The Jesuit’s hostile and the only interpreter available and you’ll have no way of knowing what he’s saying except you can be sure he’ll not help you. . . .  ‘Get your wits about you boy,’ he could almost hear old Alban Caradoc saying.  ‘When the storm’s the worst and the sea the most dreadful, that’s when you need your special wits.  That’s what keeps you alive and your ship alive—if you’re the pilot.  Get your wits about you and take the juice out of every day, however bad–’

The juice of today is bile, Blackthorne thought grimly.  Why do I hear Alban’s voice so clearly?

‘First tell the daimyo that we’re at war, that we’re enemies,’ he said.  ‘Tell him England and the Netherlands are at war with Spain and Portugal.’

‘I caution you again to speak simply and not to twist the facts.  The Netherlands—or Holland, Zeeland, the United Provinces, whatever you filthy Dutch rebels call it—is a small, rebellious province of the Spanish Empire.  You’re leader of traitors who are in a state of insurrection against their lawful king.’

‘England’s at war and the Netherlands have been sepa—’  Blackthorne did not continue because the priest was no longer listening but interpreting.

The daimyo was on the platform, short, squat, and dominating.  He knelt comfortably, his heels tucked neatly under him, flanked by four lieutenants, one of whom was Kasigi Omi, his nephew and vassal.  They all wore silk kimonos and, over them, ornate surcoats with wide belts nipping them in at the waist and huge, starched shoulders.  And the inevitable swords.

Mura knelt in the dirt of the square.  He was the only villager present and the only other onlookers were the fifty samurai who came with the daimyo.  They sat in disciplined, silent rows.  The rabble of the ship’s crew were behind Blackthorne and, like him, were on their knees, guards nearby.  They had had to carry the Captain-General with them when they were sent for, even though he was ailing badly.  He had been allowed to lie down in the dirt, still in semicoma.  Blackthorne had bowed with all of them when they had come in front of the daimyo, but this was not enough.  Samurai had slammed all of them on their knees and pushed their heads into the dust in the manner of peasants.  He had tried to resist and shouted to the priest to explain that it was not their custom, that he was the leader and an emissary of their country and should be treated as such.  But the haft of a spear had sent him reeling.  His men gathered themselves for an impulsive charge, but he shouted at them to stop and to kneel.  Fortunately they obeyed.  The daimyo had uttered something guttural and the priest interpreted this as a caution to him to tell the truth and tell it quickly.  Blackthorne had asked for a chair but the priest said the Japanese did not use chairs and there were none in Japan.

Blackthorne was concentrating on the priest as he spoke to the daimyo, seeking a clue, a way through this reef.

There’s arrogance and cruelty in the daimyo’s face, he thought.  I’ll bet he’s a real bastard.  The priest’s Japanese isn’t fluent.  Ah, see that?  Irritation and impatience.  Did the daimyo ask for another word, a clearer word?  I think so.  Why’s the Jesuit wearing orange robes?  Is the daimyo a Catholic?  Look, the Jesuit’s very deferential and sweating a lot.  I’ll bet the daimyo’s not a Catholic.  Be accurate!  Perhaps he’s not a Catholic.  Either way you’ll get no quarter from him.  How can you use the evil bastard?  How do you talk direct to him?  How’re you going to work the priest?  How discredit him?  What’s the bait?  Come on, think!  You know enough about Jesuits—

‘The daimyo says hurry up and answer his questions.’

‘Yes.  Of course, I’m sorry.  My name’s John Blackthorne.  I’m English, Pilot-Major of a Netherlands fleet.  Our home port’s Amsterdam.’

‘Fleet?  What fleet?  You’re lying.  There’s no fleet.  Why is an Englishman pilot of a Dutch ship?’

‘All in good time.  First please translate what I said.’

‘Why are you the pilot of a Dutch privateer?  Hurry up!’

Blackthorne decided to gamble.  His voice abruptly hardened and it cut through the morning warmth.  ‘Que va!  First translate what I said, Spaniard!  Now!’

The priest flushed.  ‘I’m Portuguese.  I’ve told you before.  Answer the question.’

‘I’m here to talk to the daimyo, not to you.  Translate what I said, you motherless offal!’  Blackthorne saw the priest redden even more and felt that this had not gone unnoticed by the daimyo.  Be cautious, he warned himself.  That yellow bastard will carve you into pieces quicker than a school of sharks if you overreach yourself.  ‘Tell the lord daimyo!‘  Blackthorne deliberately bowed low to the platform and felt the chill sweat beginning to pearl as he committed himself irrevocably to his course of action.

Father Sebastio knew that his training should make him impervious to the pirate’s insults and the obvious plan to discredit him in front of the daimyo.  But, for the first time, it did not and he felt lost.  When Mura’s messenger had brought news of the ship to his mission in the neighboring province, he had been rocked by the implications.  It can’t be Dutch or English! he had thought.  There had never been a heretic ship in the Pacific except those of the archdevil corsair Drake, and never one here in Asia.  The routes were secret and guarded.  At once he had prepared to leave and had sent an urgent carrier pigeon message to his superior in Osaka, wishing that he could first have consulted with him, knowing that he was young, almost untried and new to Japan, barely two years here, not yet ordained, and not competent to deal with this emergency.  He had rushed to Anjiro, hoping and praying that the news was untrue.  But the ship was Dutch and the pilot English, and all of his loathing for the satanic heresies of Luther, Calvin, Henry VIII, and the archfiend Elizabeth, his bastard daughter, had overwhelmed him.  And still swamped his judgment.

‘Priest, translate what the pirate said,’ he heard the daimyo say.

O Blessed Mother of God, help me to do thy will.  Help me to be strong in front of the daimyo and give me the gift of tongues, and let me convert him to the True Faith.

Father Sebastio gathered his wits and began to speak more confidently.

Blackthorne listened carefully, trying to pick out the words and meanings.  The Father used ‘England’ and ‘Blackthorne’ and pointed at the ship, which lay nicely at anchor in the harbor.

‘How did you get here?’ Father Sebastio said.

‘By Magellan’s Pass.  This is the one hundred and thirty-sixth day from there.  Tell the daimyo—’

‘You’re lying.  Magellan’s Pass is secret.  You came via Africa and India.  You’ll have to tell the truth eventually.  They use torture here.’

‘The Pass was secret.  A Portuguese sold us a rutter.  One of your own people sold you out for a little Judas gold.  You’re all manure!  Now all English warships—and Dutch warships—know the way through to the Pacific.  There’s a fleet—twenty English ships-of-the-line, sixty-cannon warships attacking Manila right now.  Your empire’s finished.’

‘You’re lying!’

Yes, Blackthorne thought, knowing there was no way to prove the lie except to go to Manila.  ‘That fleet will harry your sea lanes and stamp out your colonies.  There’s another Dutch fleet due here any week now.  The Spanish-Portuguese pig is back in his pigsty and your Jesuit General’s penis is in his anus—where it belongs!’  He turned away and bowed low to the daimyo.

‘God curse you and your filthy mouth!’

‘Ano mono wa nani o moshite oru?‘ the daimyo snapped impatiently.

The priest spoke more quickly, harder, and said ‘Magellan’ and ‘Manila’ but Blackthorne thought that the daimyo and his lieutenants did not seem to understand too clearly.

Yabu was wearying of this trial.  He looked out into the harbor, to the ship that had obsessed him ever since he had received Omi’s secret message, and he wondered again if it was the gift from the gods that he hoped.

‘Have you inspected the cargo yet, Omi-san?’ he had asked this morning as soon as he had arrived, mud-spattered and very weary.

‘No, Lord.  I thought it best to seal up the ship until you came personally, but the holds are filled with crates and bales.  I hope I did it correctly.  Here are all their keys.  I confiscated them.’

‘Good.’ Yabu had come from Yedo, Toranaga’s capital city, more than a hundred miles away, post haste, furtively and at great personal risk, and it was vital that he return as quickly.  The journey had taken almost two days over foul roads and spring-filled streams, partly on horseback and partly by palanquin.  ‘I’ll go to the ship at once.’

‘You should see the strangers, Lord,’ Omi had said with a laugh.  ‘They’re incredible.  Most of them have blue eyes like Siamese cats—and golden hair.  But the best news of all is that they’re pirates. . . .’

Omi had told him about the priest and what the priest had related about these corsairs and what the pirate had said and what had happened, and his excitement had tripled.  Yabu had conquered his impatience to go aboard the ship and break the seals.  Instead he had bathed and changed and ordered the barbarians brought in front of him.

‘You, priest,’ he said, his voice sharp, hardly able to understand the priest’s bad Japanese.  ‘Why is he so angry with you?’

‘He’s evil.  Pirate.  He worship devil.’

Yabu leaned over to Omi, the man on his left.  ‘Can you understand what he’s saying, nephew?  Is he lying?  What do you think?’

‘I don’t know, Lord.  Who knows what barbarians really believe?  I imagine the priest thinks the pirate is a devil worshiper.  Of course, that’s all nonsense.’

Yabu turned back to the priest, detesting him.  He wished that he could crucify him today and obliterate Christianity from his domain once and for all.  But he could not.  Though he and all other daimyos had total power in their own domains, they were still subject to the overriding authority of the Council of Regents, the military ruling junta to whom the Taikō had legally willed his power during his son’s minority, and subject, too, to edicts the Taikō  had issued in his lifetime, which were all still legally in force.  One of these, promulgated years ago, dealt with the Portuguese barbarians and ordered that they were all protected persons and, within reason, their religion was to be tolerated and their priests allowed, within reason, to proselytize and convert.  ‘You, priest!  What else did the pirate say?  What was he saying to you?  Hurry up!  Have you lost your tongue?’

‘Pirate says bad things.  Bad.  About more pirate war boatings—many.’

‘What do you mean, ‘war boatings’?’

‘Sorry, Lord, I don’t understand.’

”War boatings’ doesn’t make sense, neh?‘

‘Ah!  Pirate says other ships war are in Manila, in Philippines.’

‘Omi-san, do you understand what he’s talking about?’

‘No, Lord.  His accent’s appalling, it’s almost gibberish.  Is he saying that more pirate ships are east of Japan?’

‘You, priest!  Are these pirate ships off our coast?  East?  Eh?’

‘Yes, Lord.  But I think he’s lying.  He says at Manila.’

‘I don’t understand you.  Where’s Manila?’

‘East.  Many days journey.’

‘If any pirate ships come here, we’ll give them a pleasant welcome, wherever Manila is.’

‘Please excuse me, I don’t understand.’

‘Never mind,’ Yabu said, his patience at an end.  He had already decided the strangers were to die and he relished the prospect.  Obviously these men did not come within the Taikō’s edict that specified ‘Portuguese barbarians,’ and anyway they were pirates.  As long as he could remember he had hated barbarians, their stench and filthiness and disgusting meat-eating habits, their stupid religion and arrogance and detestable manners.  More than that, he was shamed, as was every daimyo, by their stranglehold over this Land of the Gods.  A state of war had existed between China and Japan for centuries.  China would allow no trade.  Chinese silk cloth was vital to make the long, hot, humid Japanese summer bearable.  For generations only a minuscule amount of contraband cloth had slipped through the net and was available, at huge cost, in Japan.  Then, sixty-odd years ago, the barbarians had first arrived.  The Chinese Emperor in Peking gave them a tiny permanent base at Macao in southern China and agreed to trade silks for silver.  Japan had silver in abundance.  Soon trade was flourishing.  Both countries prospered.  The middlemen, the Portuguese, grew rich, and their priests—Jesuits mostly—soon became vital to the trade.  Only the priests managed to learn to speak Chinese and Japanese and therefore could act as negotiators and interpreters.  As trade blossomed, the priests became more essential.  Now the yearly trade was huge and touched the life of every samurai.  So the priests had to be tolerated and the spread of their religion tolerated or the barbarians would sail away and trade would cease.

By now there were a number of very important Christian daimyos and many hundreds of thousands of converts, most of whom were in Kyushu, the southern island that was nearest to China and contained the Portuguese port of Nagasaki.  Yes, Yabu thought, we must tolerate the priests and the Portuguese, but not these barbarians, the new ones, the unbelievable golden-haired, blue-eyed ones.  His excitement filled him.  Now at last he could satisfy his curiosity as to how well a barbarian would die when put to torment.  And he had eleven men, eleven different tests, to experiment with.  He never questioned why the agony of others pleasured him.  He only knew that it did and therefore it was something to be sought and enjoyed.

Yabu said, ‘This ship, alien, non-Portuguese, and pirate, is confiscated with all it contains.  All pirates are sentenced to immediate—’  His mouth dropped open as he saw the pirate leader suddenly leap at the priest and rip the wooden crucifix from his belt, snap it into pieces and hurl the pieces on the ground, then shout something very loudly.  The pirate immediately knelt and bowed low to him as the guards jumped forward, swords raised.

‘Stop!  Don’t kill him!’  Yabu was astounded that anyone could have the impertinence to act with such lack of manners in front of him.  ‘These barbarians are beyond belief!’

‘Yes,’ Omi said, his mind flooding with the questions that such an action implied.

The priest was still kneeling, staring fixedly at the pieces of the cross.  They watched as his hand reached out shakily and picked up the violated wood.  He said something to the pirate, his voice low, almost gentle.  His eyes closed, he steepled his fingers, and his lips began to move slowly.  The pirate leader was looking up at them motionlessly, pale blue eyes unblinking, catlike, in front of his rabble crew.

Yabu said, ‘Omi-san.  First I want to go on the ship.  Then we’ll begin.’  His voice thickened as he contemplated the pleasure he had promised himself.  ‘I want to begin with that red-haired one on the end of the line, the small man.’

Omi leaned closer and lowered his excited voice.  ‘Please excuse me, but this has never happened before, Sire.  Not since the Portuguese barbarians came here.  Isn’t the crucifix their sacred symbol?  Aren’t they always deferential to their priests?  Don’t they always kneel to them openly?  Just like our Christians?  Haven’t the priests absolute control over them?’

‘Come to your point.’

‘We all detest the Portuguese, Sire.  Except the Christians among us, neh?  Perhaps these barbarians are worth more to you alive than dead.’

‘How?’

‘Because they’re unique.  They’re anti-Christian!  Perhaps a wise man could find a way to use their hatred—or irreligiousness—to our advantage.  They’re your property, to do with as you wish.  Neh?‘

Yes.  And I want them in torment, Yabu thought.  Yes, but you can enjoy that at any time.  Listen to Omi.  He’s a good counselor.  But is he to be trusted now?  Does he have a secret reason for saying this?  Think.

‘Ikawa Jikkyu is Christian,’ he heard his nephew say, naming his hated enemy—one of Ishido’s kinsmen and allies—who sat on his western borders.  ‘Doesn’t this filthy priest have his home there?  Perhaps these barbarians could give you the key to unlock Ikawa’s whole province.  Perhaps Ishido’s.  Perhaps even Lord Toranaga’s,’ Omi added delicately.

Yabu studied Omi’s face, trying to reach what was behind it.  Then his eyes went to the ship.  He had no doubt now that it had been sent by the gods.  Yes.  But was it as a gift or a plague?

He put away his own pleasure for the security of his clan.  ‘I agree.  But first break these pirates.  Teach them manners.  Particularly him.‘

‘Good sweet Jesus’ death!’ Vinck muttered.

‘We should say a prayer,’ van Nekk said.

‘We’ve just said one.’

‘Perhaps we’d better say another.  Lord God in Heaven, I could use a pint of brandy.’

They were crammed into a deep cellar, one of the many that the fishermen used to store sun-dried fish.  Samurai had herded them across the square, down a ladder, and now they were locked underground.  The cellar was five paces long and five wide and four deep, with an earthen floor and walls.  The ceiling was made of planks with a foot of earth above and a single trapdoor set into it.

‘Get off my foot, you God-cursed ape!’

‘Shut your face, shit picker!’ Pieterzoon said genially.  ‘Hey!  Vinck, move up a little, you toothless old fart, you’ve got more room than anyone!  By God, I could use a cold beer!  Move up.’

‘I can’t, Pieterzoon.  We’re tighter than a virgin’s arse here.’

‘It’s the Captain-General.  He’s got all the space.  Give him a shove.  Wake him up!’ Maetsukker said.

‘Eh?  What’s the matter?  Leave me alone.  What’s going on?  I’m sick.  I’ve got to lie down.  Where are we?’

‘Leave him alone.  He’s sick.  Come on, Maetsukker, get up, for the love of God.’  Vinck angrily pulled Maetsukker up and shoved him against the wall.  There was not room enough for them all to lie down, or even to sit comfortably, at the same time.  The Captain-General, Paulus Spillbergen, was lying full length under the trapdoor where there was the best air, his head propped on his bundled cloak.  Blackthorne was leaning against a corner, staring up at the trapdoor.  The crew had left him alone and stayed clear of him uneasily, as best they could, recognizing from long experience his mood, and the brooding, explosive violence that always lurked just below his quiet exterior.

Maetsukker lost his temper and smashed his fist into Vinck’s groin.  ‘Leave me alone or I’ll kill you, you bastard.’

Vinck flew at him, but Blackthorne grabbed both of them and rammed their heads against the wall.

‘Shut up, all of you, ‘ he said softly.  They did as they were ordered.  ‘We’ll split into watches.  One watch sleeps, one sits, and one stands.  Spillbergen lies down until he’s fit.  That corner’s the latrine.’  He divided them up.  When they had rearranged themselves it was more bearable.

We’ll have to break out of here within a day or we’ll be too weak, Blackthorne thought. When they bring the ladder back to give us food or water.  It will have to be tonight or tomorrow night.  Why did they put us here?  We’re no threat.  We could help the daimyo.  Will he understand?  It was my only way to show him that the priest’s our real enemy.  Will he understand?  The priest had.

‘Perhaps God may forgive your sacrilege but I won’t,’  Father Sebastio had said, very quietly.  ‘I will never rest until you and your evil are obliterated.’

The sweat was dribbling down his cheeks and chin.  He wiped it away absently, ears tuned to the cellar as they would be when he was aboard and sleeping, or off watch and drifting; just enough to try to hear the danger before it happened.

We’ll have to break out and take the ship.  I wonder what Felicity’s doing.  And the children.  Let’s see, Tudor’s seven years old now and Lisbeth is. . . . We’re one year and eleven months and six days from Amsterdam, add thirty-seven days provisioning and coming from Chatham to there, add lastly, the eleven days that she was alive before the embarkation at Chatham.  That’s her age exactly—if all’s well.  All should be well.  Felicity will be cooking and guarding and cleaning and chattering as the kids grow up, as strong and fearless as their mother.  It will be fine to be home again, to walk together along the shore and in the forests and glades and beauty that is England.

Over the years he had trained himself to think about them as characters in a play, people that you loved and bled for, the play never-ending.  Otherwise the hurt of being away would be too much.  He could almost count his days at home in the eleven years of marriage.  They’re few, he thought, too few.  ‘It’s a hard life for a woman, Felicity,’ he had said before.  And she had said, ‘Any life is hard for a woman.’  She was seventeen then and tall and her hair was long and sensu—

His ears told him to beware.

The men were sitting or leaning or trying to sleep.  Vinck and Pieterzoon, good friends, were talking quietly.  Van Nekk was staring into space with the others.  Spillbergen was half awake, and Blackthorne thought the man was stronger than he let everyone believe.

There was a sudden silence as they heard the footsteps overhead.  The footsteps stopped.  Muted voices in the harsh, strange-sounding language.  Blackthorne thought he recognized the samurai’s voice Omi-san?  Yes, that was his name but he could not be certain.  In a moment the voices stopped and the footsteps went away.

‘You think they’ll feed us, Pilot?’ Sonk said.

‘Yes.’

‘I could use a drink.  Cold beer, by God,’ Pieterzoon said.

‘Shut up,’ Vinck said.  ‘You’re enough to make a man sweat.’

Blackthorne was conscious of his soaking shirt.  And the stench.  By the Lord God I could use a bath, he thought and abruptly he smiled, remembering.

Mura and the others had carried him into the warm room that day and laid him on a stone bench, his limbs still numb and slow moving.  The three women, led by the old crone, had begun to undress him and he had tried to stop them but every time he moved, one of the men would stab a nerve and hold him powerless, and however much he raved and cursed they continued to undress him until he was naked.  It was not that he was ashamed of being naked in front of a woman, it was just that undressing was always done in private and that was the custom.  And he did not like being undressed by anyone, let alone these uncivilized natives.  But to be undressed publicly like a helpless baby and to be washed everywhere like a baby with warm, soapy, scented water while they chattered and smiled as he lay on his back was too much.  Then he had become erect and as much as he tried to stop it from happening, the worse it became—at least he thought so, but the women did not.  Their eyes became bigger and he began to blush.  Jesus Lord God the One and Only, I can’t be blushing, but he was and this seemed to increase his size and the old woman clapped her hands in wonder and said something to which they all nodded and she shook her head awed and said something else to which they nodded even more.

Mura had said with enormous gravity, ‘Captain-san, Mother-san thank you, the best her life, now die happy!’ and he and they had all bowed as one and then he, Blackthorne, had seen how funny it was and he had begun to laugh.  They were startled, then they were laughing too, and his laughter took his strength away and the crone was a little sad and said so and this made him laugh more and them also.  Then they had laid him gently into the vast heat of the deep water and soon he could bear it no longer, and they laid him gasping on the bench once more.  The women had dried him and then an old blind man had come.  Blackthorne had never known massage.  At first he had tried to resist the probing fingers but then their magic seduced him and soon he was almost purring like a cat as the fingers found the knots and unlocked the blood or elixir that lurked beneath skin and muscle and sinew.

Then he had been helped to bed, strangely weak, half in dream, and the girl was there.  She was patient with him, and after sleeping, when he had strength, he took her with care even though it had been so long.

He had not asked her name, and in the morning when Mura, tense and very frightened, had pulled him out of sleep, she was gone.

Blackthorne sighed. Life is marvelous, he thought.

In the cellar, Spillbergen was querulous again, Maetsukker was nursing his head and moaning, not from pain but from fear, the boy Croocq near breaking, and Jan Roper said, ‘What’s there to smile about, Pilot?’

‘Go to hell.’

‘With respect, Pilot,’ van Nekk said carefully, bringing into the open what was foremost in their minds, ‘you were most unwise to attack the priest in front of the rotten yellow bastard.’

There was general though carefully expressed agreement.

‘If you hadn’t, I don’t think we’d be in this filthy mess.’

Van Nekk did not go near Blackthorne.  ‘All you’ve got to do is put your head in the dust when the Lord Bastard’s around and they’re as meek as lambs.’

He waited for a reply but Blackthorne made none, just turned back to the trapdoor.  It was as though nothing had been said.  Their unease increased.

Paulus Spillbergen lifted himself on one elbow with difficulty.  ‘What are you talking about, Baccus?’

Van Nekk went over to him and explained about the priest and the cross and what had happened and why they were here, his eyes hurting today worse than ever.

‘Yes, that was dangerous, Pilot-Major,’ Spillbergen said.  ‘Yes, I’d say quite wrong—pass me some water.  Now the Jesuits’ll give us no peace at all.’

‘You should have broken his neck, Pilot.  Jesuits’ll give us no peace anyway,’ Jan Roper said.  ‘They’re filthy lice and we’re here in this stink hole as God’s punishment.’

‘That’s nonsense, Roper,’ Spillbergen said.  ‘We’re here becau—’

‘It is God’s punishment!  We should have burned all the churches in Santa Magdellana—not just two.  We should have.  Cesspits of Satan!’

Spillbergen slapped weakly at a fly.  ‘The Spanish troops were regrouping and we were outnumbered fifteen to one.  Give me some water!  We’d sacked the town and got the plunder and rubbed their noses in the dust.  If we’d stayed we would have been killed.  For God’s sake, give me some water, someone.  We’d’ve all been killed if we hadn’t retrea—’

‘What does it matter if you’re doing the work of God?  We failed Him.’

‘Perhaps we’re here to do God’s work,’ van Nekk said, placatingly, for Roper was a good though zealous man, a clever merchant and his partner’s son.  ‘Perhaps we can show the natives here the error of their Papist ways.  Perhaps we could convert them to the True Faith.’

‘Quite right,’ Spillbergen said.  He still felt weak, but his strength was returning.  ‘I think you should have consulted Baccus, Pilot-Major.  After all, he’s chief merchant.  He’s very good at parleying with savages.  Pass the water, I said!’

‘There isn’t any, Paulus.’  Van Nekk’s gloom increased.  ‘They’ve given us no food or water.  We haven’t even got a pot to piss in.’

‘Well, ask for one!  And some water!  God in heaven, I’m thirsty.  Ask for water!  You!’

‘Me?’ Vinck asked.

‘Yes.  You!’

Vinck looked at Blackthorne but Blackthorne just watched the trapdoor obliviously, so Vinck stood under the opening and shouted, ‘Hey!  You up there!  Give us God-cursed water!  We want food and water!’

There was no answer.  He shouted again.  No answer.  The others gradually took up the shouts.  All except Blackthorne.  Soon their panic and the nausea of their close confinement crept into their voices and they were howling like wolves.

The trapdoor opened.  Omi looked down at them.  Beside him was Mura.  And the priest.

‘Water!  And food, by God!  Let us out of here!’  Soon they were all screaming again.

Omi motioned to Mura, who nodded and left.  A moment later Mura returned with another fisherman, carrying a large barrel between them.  They emptied the contents, rotting fish offal and seawater, onto the heads of the prisoners.

The men in the cellar scattered and tried to escape, but all of them could not.  Spillbergen was choking, almost drowned.  Some of the men slipped and were trampled on.  Blackthorne had not moved from the corner.  He just stared up at Omi, hating him.

Then Omi began talking.  There was a cowed silence now, broken only by coughing and Spillbergen’s retching.  When Omi had finished, the priest nervously came to the opening.

‘These are Kasigi Omi’s orders: You will begin to act like decent human beings.  You will make no more noise.  If you do, next time five barrels will be poured into the cellar.  Then ten, then twenty.  You will be given food and water twice a day.  When you have learned to behave, you will be allowed up into the world of men.  Lord Yabu has graciously spared all your lives, providing you serve him loyally.  All except one.  One of you is to die.  At dusk.  You are to choose who it will be.  But you’—he pointed at Blackthorne—’you are not to be the one chosen.’  Ill at ease, the priest took a deep breath, half bowed to the samurai, and stepped back.

Omi peered down into the pit.  He could see Blackthorne’s eyes and he felt the hatred.  It will take much to break that man’s spirit, he thought.  No matter.  There’s time enough.

The trapdoor slammed into place.