Shōgun

“Yes. Japan. Nippon,” the priest said impatiently. He turned to one of the men, older than the rest, small and lean with strong arms and calloused hands, his pate shaved and his hair drawn into a thin queue as gray as his eyebrows. The priest spoke haltingly to him in Japanese, pointing at Blackthorne. All of them were shocked and one made the sign of the cross protectively.

“Dutchmen are heretics, rebels, and pirates. What’s your name?”

“Is this a Portuguese settlement?”

The priest’s eyes were hard and bloodshot. “The village headman says he’s told the authorities about you. Your sins have caught up with you. Where’s the rest of your crew?”

“We were blown off course. We just need food and water and time to repair our ship. Then we’ll be off. We can pay for every—”

“Where’s the rest of your crew?”

“I don’t know. Aboard. I suppose they’re aboard.”

Again the priest questioned the headman, who replied and motioned to the other end of the village, explaining at length. The priest turned back to Blackthorne. “They crucify criminals here, Pilot. You’re going to die. The daimyo’s coming with his samurai. God have mercy on you.”

“What’s a daimyo?”

“A feudal lord. He owns this whole province. How did you get here?”

“And samurai

?”

“Warriors—soldiers—members of the warrior caste,” the priest said with growing irritation. “Where did you come from and who are you?”

“I don’t recognize your accent,” Blackthorne said, to throw him off balance. “You’re a Spaniard?”

“I’m Portuguese,” the priest flared, taking the bait. “I told you, I’m Father Sebastio from Portugal. Where did you learn such good Portuguese. Eh?”

“But Portugal and Spain are the same country now,” Blackthorne said, taunting. “You’ve the same king.”

“We’re a separate country. We’re a different people. We have been forever. We fly our own flag. Our overseas possessions are separate, yes, separate. King Philip agreed when he stole my country.” Father Sebastio controlled his temper with an effort, his fingers trembling. “He took my country by force of arms twenty years ago! His soldiers and that devil-spawned Spaniard tyrant, the Duke of Alva, they crushed our real king. Que va! Now Philip’s son rules but he’s not our real king either. Soon we’ll have our own king back again.” Then he added with venom, “You know it’s the truth. What devil Alva did to your country he did to mine.”

“That’s a lie. Alva was a plague in the Netherlands, but he never conquered them. They’re still free. Always will be. But in Portugal he smashed one small army and the whole country gave in. No courage. You could throw the Spaniard out if you wanted to, but you’ll never do it. No honor. No cojones. Except to burn innocents in the name of God.”

“May God burn you in hellfire for all eternity,” the priest flared. “Satan walks abroad and will be stamped out. Heretics will be stamped out. You’re cursed before God!”

In spite of himself Blackthorne felt the religious terror begin to rise within him. “Priests don’t have the ear of God, or speak with His voice. We’re free of your stinking yoke and we’re going to stay free!”

It was only forty years ago that Bloody Mary Tudor was Queen of England and the Spaniard Philip II, Philip the Cruel, her husband. This deeply religious daughter of Henry VIII had brought back Catholic priests and inquisitors and heresy trials and the dominance of the foreign Pope again to England and had reversed her father’s curbs and historic changes to the Church of Rome in England, against the will of the majority. She had ruled for five years and the realm was torn asunder with hatred and fear and bloodshed. But she had died and Elizabeth became queen at twenty-four.

Blackthorne was filled with wonder, and deep filial love, when he thought of Elizabeth. For forty years she’s battled with the world. She’s outfoxed and outfought Popes, the Holy Roman Empire, France and Spain combined. Excommunicated, spat on, reviled abroad, she’s led us into harbor—safe, strong, separate.

“We’re free,” Blackthorne said to the priest. “You’re broken. We’ve our own schools now, our own books, our own Bible, our own Church. You Spaniards are all the same. Offal! You monks are all the same. Idol worshipers!”

The priest lifted his crucifix and held it between Blackthorne and himself as a shield. “Oh, God, protect us from this evil! I’m not Spanish, I tell you! I’m Portuguese. And I’m not a monk. I’m a brother of the Society of Jesus!”

“Ah, one of them. A Jesuit!”

“Yes. May God have mercy on your soul!” Father Sebastio snapped something in Japanese and the men surged toward Blackthorne. He backed against the wall and hit one man hard but the others swarmed over him and he felt himself choking.

“Nanigoto da?”

Abruptly the melee ceased.