“Yes.”
“He wants you to answer direct to him.”
There was a wailing cry from the boy. It went on and on and then the boy fainted. One of the samurai held his head out of the water.
Blackthorne looked up at Omi. Remember, he ordered himself, remember that the boy is in your hands alone, the lives of all your crew are in your hands. Yes, the devil half of him began, but there’s no guarantee that the bastard’ll honor a bargain.
“Do you understand?”
“Hai.”
He saw Omi hitch up his kimono and ease his penis out of his loincloth. He had expected the man to piss in his face. But Omi did not. He pissed on his back. By the Lord God, Blackthorne swore to himself, I will remember this day and somehow, somewhere, Omi will pay.
“Omi-san says, it is bad manners to say that you will piss on anyone. Very bad. It is bad manners and very stupid to say you will piss on anyone when you are unarmed. It is very bad manners and even more stupid to say you will piss on anyone when you are unarmed, powerless, and not prepared to allow your friends or family or whomever to perish first.”
Blackthorne said nothing. He did not take his eyes off Omi.
“Wakarimasu ka?” Omi said.
“He says, do you understand?”
“Hai.”
“Okiro.”
“He says you will get up.”
Blackthorne got up, pain hammering in his head. His eyes were on Omi and Omi stared back at him.
“You will go with Mura and obey his orders.”
Blackthorne made no reply.
“Wakarimasu ka?” Omi said sharply.
“Hai.” Blackthorne was measuring the distance between himself and Omi. He could feel his fingers on the man’s neck and face already, and he prayed he could be quick and strong enough to take Omi’s eyes out before they tore him off the man. “What about the boy?” he said.
The priest spoke to Omi haltingly.
Omi glanced at the cauldron. The water was hardly tepid yet. The boy had fainted but was unharmed. “Take him out of there,” he ordered. “Get a doctor if he needs one.”
His men obeyed. He saw Blackthorne go over to the boy and listen to his heart.
Omi motioned to the priest. “Tell the leader that the youth can also stay out of the pit today. If the leader behaves and the youth behaves, another of the barbarians may come out of the pit tomorrow. Then another. Perhaps. Or more than one. Perhaps. It depends on how the ones above behave. But you—” he looked directly at Blackthorne—“you are responsible for the smallest infraction of any rule or order. Do you understand?”
After the priest had translated this, Omi heard the barbarian say, “Yes,” and saw part of the blood-chilling anger go out of his eyes. But the hatred remained. How foolish, Omi thought, and how naïve to be so open. I wonder what he would have done if I had played with him further—pretended to go back on what I had promised, or implied that I had promised.
“Priest, what’s his name again? Say it slowly.”
He heard the priest say the name several times but it still sounded like gibberish.
“Can you say it?” he asked one of his men.
“No, Omi-san.”
“Priest, tell him from now on his name is Anjin—Pilot—neh? When he merits it, he will be called Anjin-san. Explain to him that there are no sounds in our tongue for us to say his real name as it is.” Omi added dryly, “Impress upon him that this is not meant to be insulting. Good-by, Anjin, for the moment.”
They all bowed to him. He returned the salutation politely and walked away. When he was well clear of the square and certain that no one was watching, he allowed himself to smile broadly. To have tamed the chief of the barbarians so quickly! To have discerned at once how to dominate him, and them!
How extraordinary those barbarians are, he thought. Eeee, the sooner the Anjin speaks our language the better. Then we’ll know how to smash the Christian barbarians once and for all!
“Why didn’t you piss in his face?” Yabu asked.
“At first I’d intended to, Lord. But the Pilot’s still an untamed animal, totally dangerous. To do it in his face—well, with us, to touch a man’s face is the worst of insults, neh? So I reasoned that I might have insulted him so deeply he would lose control. So I pissed on his back—which I think will be sufficient.”
They were seated on the veranda of his house, on silk cushions. Omi’s mother was serving them cha—tea—with all the ceremony she could command, and she had been well trained in her youth. She offered the cup with a bow to Yabu. He bowed and politely offered it to Omi, who of course refused with a deeper bow; then he accepted it and sipped with enjoyment, feeling complete.
“I’m very impressed with you, Omi-san,” he said. “Your reasoning is exceptional. Your planning and handling of this whole business has been splendid.”
“You are too kind, Sire. My efforts could have been much better, much better.”
“Where did you learn so much about the barbarian mind?”
“When I was fourteen, for a year I had a teacher who was the monk called Jiro. Once he’d been a Christian priest, at least he was an apprentice priest, but fortunately he learned the errors of his stupidity. I’ve always remembered one thing he told me. He said that the Christian religion was vulnerable because they taught that their chief deity, Jesu, said that all people should ‘love’ one another—he taught nothing about honor or duty, only love. And also that life was sacred—‘Thou shalt not kill,’ neh? And other stupidities. These new barbarians claim to be Christian also, even though the priest denies it, so I reasoned that perhaps they’re just a different sect, and that’s the cause of their enmity, just as some of the Buddhist sects hate each other. I thought if they ‘love one another,’ perhaps we could control the leader by taking the life or even threatening to take the life of one of his men.” Omi knew that this conversation was dangerous because of the torture death, the befouled death. He felt his mother’s unspoken warning crossing the space between them.
“Will you have more cha, Yabu-sama?” his mother asked.
“Thank you,” Yabu said. “It’s very, very good.”
“Thank you, Sire. But Omi-san, is the barbarian broken for good?” his mother asked, twisting the conversation. “Perhaps you should tell our Lord if you think it’s temporary or permanent.”
Omi hesitated. “Temporary. But I think he should learn our language as fast as possible. That’s very important to you, Sire. You will probably have to destroy one or two of them to keep him and the rest in control, but by that time he will have learned how to behave. Once you can talk directly to him, Yabu-sama, you can use his knowledge. If what the priest said is true—that he piloted the ship ten thousand ri—he must be more than just a little clever.”
“You’re more than just a little clever.” Yabu laughed. “You’re put in charge of the animals. Omi-san, trainer of men!”
Omi laughed with him. “I’ll try, Lord.”
“Your fief is increased from five hundred koku to three thousand. You will have control within twenty ri.” A ri was a measure of distance that approximated one mile. “As a further token of my affection, when I return to Yedo I will send you two horses, twenty silk kimonos, one suit of armor, two swords, and enough arms to equip a further hundred samurai which you will recruit. When war comes you will immediately join my personal staff as a hatamoto.” Yabu was feeling expansive: A hatamoto was a special personal retainer of a daimyo who had the right of access to his lord and could wear swords in the presence of his lord. He was delighted with Omi and felt rested, even reborn. He had slept exquisitely. When he had awoken he was alone, which was to be expected, because he had not asked either the girl or the boy to stay. He had drunk a little tea and eaten sparingly of rice gruel. Then a bath and Suwo’s massage.