They strolled awhile. “Have they left yet? Kiritsubo-san and the Lady Sazuko and her son?” Ochiba asked.
“No. They’ll leave tomorrow. After Lady Toda’s funeral. Many will leave tomorrow, which is bad.”
“So sorry, but does it matter? Now that we all agree Toranaga-sama’s not coming here?”
“I think so. But it’s not important, not while we hold Osaka Castle. No, Lady, we have to be patient as Kiyama suggested. We wait until the day. Then we march.”
“Why wait? Can’t you march now?”
“It will take time to gather our hosts.”
“How many will oppose Toranaga?”
“Three hundred thousand men. At least three times Toranaga’s number.”
“And my garrison?”
“I’ll leave eighty thousand elite within the walls, another fifty at the passes.”
“And Zataki?”
“He’ll betray Toranaga. In the end he’ll betray him.”
“You don’t find it curious that Lord Sudara, my sister, and all her children are visiting Takato?”
“No. Of course Zataki’s pretended to make some secret arrangement with his half brother. But it’s only a trick, nothing more. He will betray him.”
“He should—he has the same rotten bloodline,” she said with distaste. “But I would be most upset if anything happened to my sister and her children.”
“Nothing will, Lady. I’m sure.”
“If Zataki was prepared to assassinate his own mother . . . neh? You’re certain he won’t betray you?”
“No. Not in the end. Because he hates Toranaga more than he does me, Lady, and he honors you and desires the Kwanto above all else.” Ishido smiled at the floors soaring above them. “As long as the castle’s ours and the Kwanto exists to give away, there’s nothing to fear.”
“This morning I was afraid,” she said, holding a flower to her nose, enjoying the perfume, wanting it to erase the aftertaste of fear that still lingered. “I wanted to rush away but then I remembered the soothsayer.”
“Eh? Oh, him. I’d forgotten about him,” Ishido said with grim amusement. This was the soothsayer, the Chinese envoy, who had foretold that the Taikō would die in his bed leaving a healthy son after him, that Toranaga would die by the sword in middle age, that Ishido would die in old age, the most famous general in the realm, his feet firm in the earth. And that the Lady Ochiba would end her days at Osaka Castle, surrounded by the greatest nobles in the Empire.
“Yes,” Ishido said again, “I’d forgotten about him. Toranaga’s middle-aged, neh?”
“Yes.” Again Ochiba felt the depth of his look and her loins melted at the thought of a real man on her, in her, surrounding her, taking her, giving her a new life within. This time an honorable birthing, not like the last one, when she had wondered in horror what the child would be like and look like.
How foolish you are, Ochiba, she told herself, as they walked the shaded, fragrant paths. Put away those silly nightmares—that’s all they ever were. You were thinking about a man.
Suddenly Ochiba wished that Toranaga was here beside her and not Ishido, that Toranaga was master of Osaka Castle and master of the Taikō’s treasure, Protector of the Heir and Chief General of the Armies of the West, and not Ishido. Then there would be no problems. Together they would possess the realm, all of it, and now, today, at this moment, she would beckon him to bed or to an inviting glade and tomorrow or the next day they would marry, and whatever happened in the future, today she would possess and be possessed and be at peace.
Her hand reached out and she pulled a branchlet toward her, breathing the sweet, rich gardenia fragrance.
Put away dreams, Ochiba, she told herself. Be a realist like the Taikō—or Toranaga.
“What are you going to do with the Anjin-san?” she asked.
Ishido laughed. “Hold him safe—let him take the Black Ship perhaps, or use him as a threat against Kiyama and Onoshi if need be. They both hate him, neh? Oh yes, he’s a sword at their throats—and at their filthy Church.”
“In the chess game of the Heir against Toranaga, how would you judge the Anjin-san’s value, Lord General? A pawn? A knight, perhaps?”
“Ah, Lady, in the Great Game barely a pawn,” Ishido said at once. “But in the game of the Heir against the Christians, a castle, easily a castle, perhaps two.”
“You don’t think the games are interlocked?”
“Yes, interlocked, but the Great Game will be settled by daimyo against daimyo, samurai against samurai, and sword against sword. Of course, in both games, you’re the queen.”
“No, Lord General, please excuse me, not a queen,” she said, glad that he realized it. Then, to be safe, she changed the subject. “Rumor has it that the Anjin-san and Mariko-san pillowed together.”
“Yes. Yes, I heard that too. You wish to know the truth about it?”
Ochiba shook her head. “It would be unthinkable that that had happened.”
Ishido was watching her narrowly. “You think there’d be a value in destroying her honor? Now? And along with her, Buntaro-san?”
“I meant nothing, Lord General, nothing like that. I was just wondering—just a woman’s foolishness. But it’s as Lord Kiyama said this morning—dark summer’s tears, sad, so sad, neh?”
“I preferred your poem, Lady. I promise you Toranaga’s side will have the tears.”
“As to Buntaro-san, perhaps neither he nor Lord Hiro-matsu will fight for Lord Toranaga at the battle.”
“That’s fact?”
“No, Lord General, not fact, but possible.”
“But there’s something you can do perhaps?”
“Nothing, except petition their support for the Heir—and all Toranaga’s generals, once the battle is committed.”
“It’s committed now, a north-south pincer movement and the final onslaught at Odawara.”
“Yes, but not actually. Not until army opposes army on the battlefield.” Then she asked, “So sorry, but are you sure it’s wise for the Heir to lead the armies?”
“I will lead the armies, but the Heir must be present. Then Toranaga cannot win. Even Toranaga will never attack the Heir’s standard.”
“Wouldn’t it be safer for the Heir to stay here—because of assassins, the Amidas. . . . We can’t risk his life. Toranaga has a long arm, neh?”
“Yes. But not that long and the Heir’s personal standard makes our side lawful and Toranaga’s unlawful. I know Toranaga. In the end he’ll respect the law. And that alone will put his head on a spike. He’s dead, Lady. Once he’s dead I will stamp out the Christian Church—all of it. Then you and the Heir will be safe.”
Ochiba looked up at him, an unspoken promise in her eyes. “I will pray for success—and your safe return.”
His chest tightened. He had waited so long. “Thank you, Lady, thank you,” he said, understanding her. “I will not fail you.”
She bowed and turned away. What impertinence, she was thinking. As if I’d take a peasant to husband. Now, should I really discard Toranaga?
Dell’Aqua was kneeling at prayer in front of the altar in the ruins of the little chapel. Most of the roof was caved in and part of one wall, but the earthquake had not damaged the chancel and nothing had touched the lovely stained glass window, or the carved Madonna that was his pride.
The afternoon sun was slanting through the broken rafters. Outside, workmen were already shifting rubble from the garden, repairing and talking and, mixed with their chattering, dell’Aqua could hear the cries of the gulls coming ashore and he smelled a tang to the breeze, part salt and part smoke, seaweed and mud flats. The scent bore him home to his estate outside Naples where, mixed with sea smells, would be the perfume of lemons and oranges and warm new breads cooking, and pasta and garlic and abbacchio roasting over the coals, and, in the great villa, the voices of his mother and brothers and sisters and their children, all happy and jolly and alive, basking in golden sunshine.