Jozen shrieked, “I’m protected by the Regents! You’ll gain nothing by killing me.”

“I regain my honor, neh?” Naga said. “I repay your sneers at my father and your insults to me. But you would have had to die anyway. Neh? I could not have been more clear last night. Now you’ve seen an attack. I cannot risk Ishido learning all this”—his hand waved at the battlefield—“this horror!”

“He already knows!” Jozen blurted out, blessing his foresight of the previous evening. “He knows already! I sent a message by pigeon secretly at dawn! You gain nothing by killing me, Naga-san!”

Naga motioned to one of his men, an old samurai, who came forward and threw the strangled pigeon at Jozen’s feet. Then a man’s severed head was also cast upon the ground—the head of the samurai, Masumoto, sent yesterday by Jozen with the scroll. The eyes were still open, the lips drawn back in a hate-filled grimace. The head began to roll. It tumbled through the ranks until it came to rest against a rock.

A moan broke from Jozen’s lips. Naga and all his men laughed. Even Yabu smiled. Another of Jozen’s samurai leaped for Naga. Twenty muskets blasted him, and the man next to him, who had not moved, also fell in agony, mortally wounded.

The laughter ceased.

Omi said, “Shall I order my men to attack, Sire?” It had been so easy to maneuver Naga.

Yabu wiped the rain off his face. “No, that would achieve nothing. Jozen-san and his men are already dead, whatever I do. That’s his karma, as Naga-san has his. Naga-san!” he called out. “For the last time, I order you to let them all go!”

“Please excuse me but I must refuse.”

“Very well. When it is finished, report to me.”

“Yes. There should be an official witness, Yabu-sama. For Lord Toranaga and for Lord Ishido.”

“Omi-san, you will stay. You will sign the death certification and make out the dispatch. Naga-san and I will countersign it.”

Naga pointed at Blackthorne. “Let him stay too. Also as witness. He’s responsible for their deaths. He should witness them.”

“Anjin-san, go up there! To Naga-san! Do you understand?”

“Yes, Yabu-san. I understand, but why, please?”

“To be a witness.”

“Sorry, don’t understand.”

“Mariko-san, explain ‘witness’ to him, that he’s to witness what’s going to happen—then you follow me.” Hiding his vast satisfaction, Yabu turned and left.

Jozen shrieked, “Yabu-sama! Please! Yabuuuuu-samaaaa!”

Blackthorne watched. When it was finished he went home. There was silence in his house and a pall over the village. A bath did not make him feel clean. Saké did not take away the foulness from his mouth. Incense did not unclog the stench from his nostrils.

Later Yabu sent for him. The attack was dissected, moment by moment. Omi and Naga were there with Mariko—Naga as always cold, listening, rarely commenting, still second-in-command. None of them seemed touched by what had happened.

They worked till after sunset. Yabu ordered the tempo of training stepped up. A second five hundred was to be formed at once. In one week another.

Blackthorne walked home alone, and ate alone, beset by his ghastly discovery: that they had no sense of sin, they were all conscienceless—even Mariko.

That night he couldn’t sleep. He left the house, the wind tugging at him. Gusts were frothing the waves. A stronger squall sent debris clattering against a village hovel. Dogs howled at the sky and foraged. The rice-thatched roofs moved like living things. Shutters were banging and men and women, silent wraiths, fought them closed and barred them. The tide came in heavily. All the fishing boats had been hauled to safety much farther up the beach than usual. Everything was battened down.

He walked the shore then returned to his house, leaning against the press of the wind. He had met no one. Rain squalled and he was soon drenched.

Fujiko waited for him on the veranda, the wind ripping at her, guttering the shielded oil lamp. Everyone was awake. Servants carried valuables to the squat adobe and stone storage building in the back of the garden.

The gale was not menacing yet.

A roof tile twisted loose as the wind squeezed under an eave and the whole roof shuddered. The tile fell and shattered loudly. Servants hurried about, some readying buckets of water, others trying to repair the roof. The old gardener, Ueki-ya, helped by children, was lashing the tender bushes and trees to bamboo stakes.

Another gust rocked the house.

“It’s going to blow down, Mariko-san.”

She said nothing, the wind clawing at her and Fujiko, wind tears in the corners of their eyes. He looked at the village. Now debris was blowing everywhere. Then the wind poured through a rip in the paper shoji of one dwelling and the whole wall vanished, leaving only a latticed skeleton. The opposite wall crumbled and the roof collapsed.

Blackthorne turned helplessly as the shoji of his room blew out. That wall vanished and so did the opposite one. Soon all the walls were in shreds. He could see throughout the house. But the roof supports held and the tiled roof did not shift. Bedding and lanterns and mats skittered away, servants chasing them.

The storm demolished the walls of all the houses in the village. And some dwellings were obliterated completely. No one was badly hurt. At dawn the wind subsided and men and women began to rebuild their homes.

By noon the walls of Blackthorne’s house were remade and half the village was back to normal. The light lattice walls required little work to put up once more, only wooden pegs and lashings for joints that were always morticed and carpentered with great skill. Tiled and thatched roofs were more difficult but he saw that people helped each other, smiling and quick and very practiced. Mura hurried through the village, advising, guiding, chivying, and supervising. He came up the hill to inspect progress.

“Mura, you made . . .” Blackthorne sought the words. “You make it look easy.”

“Ah, thank you, Anjin-san. Yes, thank you, but we were fortunate there were no fires.”

“You fires oftens?”

“So sorry, ‘Do you have fires often?’ ”

“Do you have fires often?” Blackthorne repeated.

“Yes. But I’d ordered the village prepared. Prepared, you understand?”

“Yes.”

“When these storms come—” Mura stiffened and glanced over Blackthorne’s shoulder. His bow was low.

Omi was approaching in his bouncing easy stride, his friendly eyes only on Blackthorne, as though Mura did not exist. “Morning, Anjin-san,” he said.

“Morning, Omi-san. Your house is good?”

“All right. Thank you.” Omi looked at Mura and said brusquely, “The men should be fishing, or working the fields. The women too. Yabu-sama wants his taxes. Are you trying to shame me in front of him with laziness?”

“No, Omi-sama. Please excuse me. I will see to it at once.”

“It shouldn’t be necessary to tell you. I won’t tell you next time.”

“I apologize for my stupidity.” Mura hurried away.

“You’re all right today,” Omi said to Blackthorne. “No troubles in the night?”

“Good today, thank you. And you?”

Omi spoke at length. Blackthorne did not catch all of it, as he had not understood all of what Omi had said to Mura, only a few words here, a few there.

“So sorry. I don’t understand.”

“Enjoy? How did you like yesterday? The attack? The ‘pretend’ battle?”

“Ah, I understand. Yes, I think good.”

“And the witnessing?”

“Please?”

“Witnessing! The ronin Nebara Jozen and his men?” Omi imitated the bayonet lunge with a laugh. “You witnessed their deaths. Deaths! You understand?”

“Ah, yes. The truth, Omi-san, not like killings.”

“Karma, Anjin-san.”

“Karma. Today trainings?”

“Yes. But Yabu-sama wants to talk only. Later. Understand, Anjin-san? Talk only, later,” Omi repeatedly patiently.

“Talk only. Understand.”

“You’re beginning to speak our language very well. Yes. Very well.”

“Thank you. Difficult. Small time.”

“Yes. But you’re a good man and you try very hard. That’s important. We’ll get you time, Anjin-san, don’t worry—I’ll help you.” Omi could see that most of what he was saying was lost, but he didn’t mind, so long as the Anjin-san got the gist. “I want to be your friend,” he said, then repeated it very clearly. “Do you understand?”

“Friend? I understand ‘friend.’ ”

Omi pointed at himself then at Blackthorne. “I want to be your friend.”

“Ah! Thank you. Honored.”

Omi smiled again and bowed, equal to equal, and walked away.

“Friends with him?” Blackthorne muttered. “Has he forgotten? I haven’t.”

“Ah, Anjin-san,” Fujiko said, hurrying up to him. “Would you like to eat? Yabu-sama is going to send for you soon.”

“Yes, thank you. Many breakings?” he asked, pointing at the house.

“Excuse me, so sorry, but you should say, ‘Was there much breakage?’ ”

“Was there much breakage?”

“No real damage, Anjin-san.”

“Good. No hurtings?”

“Excuse me, so sorry, you should say, ‘No one was hurt?’ ”

“Thank you. No one was hurt?”

“No, Anjin-san. No one was hurt.”

Suddenly Blackthorne was sick of being continually corrected, so he terminated the conversation with an order. “I’m hunger. Food!”

“Yes, immediately. So sorry, but you should say, ‘I’m hungry.’ A person has hunger, but is hungry.” She waited until he had said it correctly, then went away.

He sat on the veranda and watched Ueki-ya, the old gardener, tidying up the damage and the scattered leaves. He could see women and children repairing the village, and boats going to sea through the chop. Other villagers trudged off to the fields, the wind abating now. I wonder what taxes they have to pay, he asked himself. I’d hate to be a peasant here. Not only here—anywhere.

At first light he had been distressed by the apparent devastation of the village. “That storm’d hardly touch an English house,” he had said to Mariko. “Oh, it was a gale all right, but not a bad one. Why don’t you build out of stone or bricks?”

“Because of the earthquakes, Anjin-san. Any stone building would, of course, split and collapse and probably hurt or kill the inhabitants. With our style of building there’s little damage. You’ll see how quickly everything’s put back together.”

“Yes, but you’ve fire hazards. And what happens when the Great Winds come? The tai-funs?”

“It is very bad then.”

She had explained about the tai-funs and their seasons—from June until September, sometimes earlier, sometimes later. And about the other natural catastrophes.

A few days ago there had been another tremor. It was slight. A kettle had fallen off the brazier and overturned it. Fortunately the coals had been smothered. One house in the village had caught fire but the fire did not spread. Blackthorne had never seen such efficient fire fighting. Apart from that, no one in the village had paid much attention. They had merely laughed and gone on with their lives.

“Why do people laugh?”

“We consider it very shameful and impolite to show strong feelings, particularly fear, so we hide them with a laugh or a smile. Of course we’re all afraid, though we must never show it.”

Some of you show it, Blackthorne thought.

Nebara Jozen had shown it. He had died badly, weeping with fear, begging for mercy, the killing slow and cruel. He had been allowed to run, then bayoneted carefully amidst laughter, then forced to run again, and hamstrung. Then he had been allowed to crawl away, then gutted slowly while he screamed, his blood dribbling with the phlegm, then left to die.

Next Naga had turned his attention to the other samurai. At once three of Jozen’s men knelt and bared their bellies and put their short knives in front of them to commit ritual seppuku. Three of their comrades stood behind them as their seconds, long swords out and raised, two-handed, all of them now unmolested by Naga and his men. As the samurai who knelt reached out for their knives, they stretched their necks and the three swords flashed down and decapitated them with the single blow. Teeth chattered in the fallen heads, then were still. Flies swarmed.

Then two samurai knelt, the last man standing ready as second. The first of those kneeling was decapitated in the manner of his comrades as he reached for the knife. The other said, “No. I, Hirasaki Kenko, I know how to die—how a samurai should die.”

Kenko was a lithe young man, perfumed and almost pretty, paleskinned, his hair well oiled and very neat. He picked up his knife reverently and partially wrapped the blade with his sash to improve his grip.

“I protest Nebara Jozen-san’s death and those of his men,” he said firmly, bowing to Naga. He took a last look at the sky and gave his second a last reassuring smile. “Sayonara, Tadeo.” Then he slid the knife deep into the left side of his stomach. He ripped it full across with both hands and took it out and plunged it deep again, just above his groin, and jerked it up in silence. His lacerated bowels spilled into his lap and as his hideously contorted, agonized face pitched forward, his second brought the sword down in a single slashing arc.

Naga personally picked up this head by the hair knot and wiped off the dirt and closed the eyes. Then he told his men to see that the head was washed, wrapped, and sent to Ishido with full honors, with a complete report on Hirasaki Kenko’s bravery.

The last samurai knelt. There was no one left to second him. He too was young. His fingers trembled and fear consumed him. Twice he had done his duty to his comrades, twice cut cleanly, honorably, saving them the trial of pain and the shame of fear. And once he had waited for his dearest friend to die as a samurai should die, self-immolated in pride-filled silence, then again cut cleanly with perfect skill. He had never killed before.

His eyes focused on his own knife. He bared his stomach and prayed for his lover’s courage. Tears were gathering but he willed his face into a frozen, smiling mask. He unwound his sash and partially wrapped the blade. Then, because the youth had done his duty well, Naga signaled to his lieutenant.

This samurai came forward and bowed, introducing himself formally. “Osaragi Nampo, Captain of Lord Toranaga’s Ninth Legion. I would be honored to act as your second.”

“Ikomo Tadeo, First Officer, vassal of Lord Ishido,” the youth replied. “Thank you. I would be honored to accept you as my second.”

His death was quick, painless, and honorable.

The heads were collected. Later Jozen shrieked into life again. His frantic hands tried helplessly to remake his belly.

They left him to the dogs that had come up from the village.