Disclaimers: No copyright infringement is intended. The characters belong to the programme makers and to James Clavell.
Rating R. m/m slash fiction based on 'Shogun'.
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The Eightfold Fence

Two

The hunting-camp, reached at the end of a long day's ride, was located on a small but steep promontory overlooking a wide expanse of silver lake. Trees laden with blossom in varying shades of pink, white and cream clustered along the shore, at the highest point of which had been erected an encampment of half-a-dozen pavilions to serve as living accommodation for the samurai. In a screened off area among the trees a camp kitchen and separate accommodation for the servants had been arranged. Reining his horse to a halt in the centre of the convoy Blackthorne noticed idly that there seemed to be no women servants with the party, although three superbly-draped palanquins had attached themselves to the rear of the convoy which presumably contained ladies of high birth.

Descending from his horse, he held the reins of Alvito's mount while the priest dismounted, and noticed a certain heavy-eyed pallor which indicated that the man's resources of energy were running low. Seeking to divert him with some relatively innocuous remark, he waved a hand in the direction of the palanquins.

"Do you recognise any of the ladies?" he asked, a quizzical eyebrow lifting in the priest's direction. "We were not introduced at the start of the journey."

"Doubtless with reason, pilot," was Alvito's barbed reply. "They are not ladies, they are kosho. Beautiful young men. I suspect their purpose on this expedition is primarily to be an embarrassment to me; you did the same thing yourself when you invited courtesans to travel with us to Yedo."

Blackthorne watched the delicate movements of the kosho as they alighted from their palanquins, and his appreciation of their sensuous elegance surprised him. He was not the only one so struck; many men had stopped what they were doing in order to appreciate the beauty of the pages, Buntaro notable among them.

"They are exquisite," the Englishman acknowledged, amused by the un-looked-for possibilities of discussing this particularly pertinent subject with Alvito.

"Are they? If so, you would do well not to notice," was the priest's waspish response. "These boys are here for your master's personal amusement. If he wishes to honour you, or any of his samurai, he may give you one of them for the night; however they remain his property, just as much as any of his concubines."

"Toranaga ... pillows with boys?" If the suspicion had entered his head before this, Blackthorne had not entertained it for long. Now, however, he accepted it without question.

"So I am told. Our Order is always well informed," Alvito conceded, with a sidelong glance at Blackthorne. "Every effort is being made to discourage such objectionable practices, but the samurai are as tenacious in this as in all other matters. You have been in this country four years, now, pilot; surely you know that some Japanese have a partiality for this vice?"

Blackthorne nodded. "I was aware of it," he conceded, "but I was not aware that this was to be anything but a hunting trip. Can I ... " He paused, phrasing the question carefully. "If he offers me one of the boys, can I decline without giving offence?"

Alvito turned to face him, dark eyes engaging Blackthorne's.

"Certainly, if that is your preference. You can claim to be unwell, or to have taken too much sake. I would advise against denouncing the sin too strongly in Toranaga's hearing, however. He may consider that you are denouncing him for continuing to indulge in it."

"I would not denounce it," Blackthorne informed him, evenly, watching with something between delight and horror the sudden heightening of colour in Alvito's cheeks. Damn you, priest, he thought, I will have you, or die in the attempt! It had become an obsession, a demon he could not exorcise from his mind.

"Ah so desu ka," Alvito told him, with distant politeness, half-bowing as he turned away to conceal his embarrassment. "Then perhaps you should accept."

"No, I don't think so," Blackthorne told him, dangerously. "Boys are not to my taste."

Trapped into an untenable situation, Alvito made no reply. Indeed, he could hardly have spoken at that moment had his life depended on it; his throat had closed and he found breathing virtually impossible. The clear blue of Blackthorne's eyes still burned into him, torching through his resolve like flame through the tallow of a candle. The weakness he had acknowledged to Michael - without identifying it - had stolen across him and taken sense and will together. Desire for Blackthorne raced through him suddenly, and was as suddenly suppressed. Father dell'Aqua's stern words on the subject were never far from the forefront of his mind, and he recollected them now in the face of a greater adversity than he had ever known.

"It is the gravest of sins, the most carnal of all desires; the sword of divine justice will fall on any man who lowers himself thus far. They are more unclean than pigs and less worthy than dogs, those who indulge in these practices. Purge it from your mind, Martin. Be strong and faithful and keep God's commandments. He has sent the English heretic to test our resolve; we must resist him in every way."

Yet that resistance became more and more impossible. Hitherto the knowledge that Blackthorne had pillowed with Mariko had been his only safeguard. Now, however, it was clear not only that Blackthorne did not condemn the practice of sodomy but that there was an undoubted intensity in his gaze when he looked on Alvito that a man would have to be blind not to recognise. The temptations were becoming greater by the hour; Toranaga's invitation, the gift of the kimonos and now the presence of the o-kosho all conspired against him, and his resolve began to waver. It would be so easy to succumb, to give himself to John Blackthorne and not to consider the consequences, but he must fight every step of the way; God sent temptation only so that men could learn to master it, and if he was to continue to serve God as a member of the Jesuit Order he must resist this temptation with every resource at his disposal - even with his life.

The realisation that once again he would be required to share sleeping quarters with Blackthorne did very little to improve Alvito's peace of mind, but a command - delivered with utmost respect by Omi but a command nonetheless - that they prepare themselves to attend a formal banquet in Toranaga's pavilion almost at once served as an effective distraction. Attended by servants the two Europeans changed out of their travelling clothes and into formal kimonos as rapidly as they could, Blackthorne wearing a plain kimono with cream and brown overmantle, Alvito dressing in the dark blue and red formal kimono that had been part of his gift from Toranaga. They were ushered into Toranaga's presence within minutes, and made their formal bows gravely.

"Tomo yo," greeted the Shogun expansively. "Friends, dozo suwatte."

Cushions had been placed for them at Toranaga's side, and as they took their places they bowed in greeting to Omi and Buntaro, who appeared to be their host's only other guests. Blackthorne noted without surprise, however, that the kosho were in attendance. One advanced at a signal from Toranaga to pour sake for all the guests. A small detail of samurai guards remained in the pavilion, their eyes fixed resolutely on the figure of the Shogun, throughout the meal, alert to the possibility of any threat to their master.

When the last morsel had been eaten and the trays cleared away, Toranaga himself poured more sake and handed it round. The food had been only the preliminary to the serious business of the evening, which was to be the drinking and exchanging of stories - of an increasingly bawdy nature as the evening progressed, if previous evenings Blackthorne had spent in Toranaga's company were any guide. Although not a coarse man by any stretch of the imagination, he had the typically earthy Japanese sense of humour, and subjects that would not have been aired in polite European society were the common currency of social evenings to which ladies were not invited.

"Tsukku-san," he began, innocuously enough, "I thought you would be entertained to know how Japanese hunt. In Europe things are done differently, neh?"

"I hardly know, Sire," Alvito acknowledged modestly. "I was brought to your country as a boy; I remember very little about Europe. Anjin-san would be better able to answer your questions."

Toranaga's smile was encouraging as he turned in Blackthorne's direction. "Anjin?"

Blackthorne accepted the challenge calmly. "Well, Sire, hunting is different according to a man's station in life. In Europe a lord as important as yourself would hunt in much the same way - with hawks and falcons, and from horseback. The game would be similar, too; partridges, pheasants, rabbits. When hunting for bigger game - for deer, for example - huntsmen set a pack of dogs on the animal's trail. The dogs chase and corner the animal, which is then killed. Some men kill game with pistols; some use bow and arrow. Lesser men trap and kill game in any way they can."

"And do they build hunting camps the way we do, Anjin-san?" Omi asked,spellbound by the Englishman's description of the traditions of his far country.

"Important people do so, Omi-san, but not with such fine pavilions."

"Do ladies travel with them?"

Prepared for the question, Blackthorne answered smoothly. "Yes, Omi-san. In England, at least, ladies hunt alongside the men. Our Queen, in her younger years, was very fond of hunting and rode as well and as hard as any man."

"Here no lady would hunt, Anjin," Toranaga informed him, mildly. "Women servants are sometimes taken on the journey, or courtesans for amusement, but if a lady of good birth travels with a hunting party it is only for the sake of convenience - because she is under their protection. She would not take any part in the hunting. Personally, I do not consider women necessary on hunting expeditions."

Blackthorne bowed in acknowledgement of what was not said. "So I understand, Toranaga-sama. May I compliment you on the grace of your o-kosho?"

Surprised but gratified by the directness and quite Japanese simplicity of the remark, Toranaga inclined his head in acceptance. "Domo, Anjin. I understood that Europeans - Christian Europeans - could not appreciate male beauty. Is that not so, Tsukku-san?"

Alvito, jolted at suddenly being addressed, fielded the question cautiously. "Sire, beauty is from God," he said, slowly. "Not to appreciate one of His gifts would be unthinkable. Yet, if I understand you correctly, it would be true to say that we are taught that men should not pillow together."

Toranaga gestured for the kosho to pour more sake, and waited until everyone's cup had been filled before speaking again. In the interim, Blackthorne had time to notice the effect the nearness of the boy was having on Buntaro, who looked as if he was on the point of swooning from frustrated desire.

"So that, if I were to offer you one of these o-kosho for the night, Tsukku-san ... ?"

Buntaro almost choked on his sake, inhaling in astonishment at the outlandish offer.

Alvito, scarcely less disconcerted by the suggestion, concealed his confusion with a graceful bow. "I would be honoured, Sire," he said, the words strained but the tone still even and almost serene, "but I would be unable to accept. My vows as a priest do not permit me to pillow with anyone, man or woman."

"So desu ka." The expression on Toranaga's face was unreadable - still pleasant but somewhat fixed, as though he were struggling with some dilemma he did not understand. "It's a strange thing to vow - a life without pillowing. Anjin-san, do you pillow with men? Buntaro does," Toranaga added, although it was scarcely necessary to do so. "Omi does not."

Nothing but complete honesty would serve. Blackthorne summoned up his courage and answered simply.

"No, Sire, I never have. A man tried to force me once - when I was twelve years old. He was the first man I ever killed."

"Your first killing at twelve? That's quite remarkable. Even in Japan that would be a considerable achievement. What do you think, Tsukku-san?"

Blackthorne did not dare spare a sideways glance for the priest, but detected a tension in his body as he made his answer.

"Quite precocious, Sire, I agree."

"But why kill him, Anjin-san?" Buntaro asked, a sharpness in his tone. "Because you share the Christian distaste for pillowing with men?"

"Not at all, Buntaro-san. I killed him because I had no wish to be forced. If ever I pillow with a man, it will be out of desire, not out of fear." He glanced across at Toranaga, reading the effect of his words in the Shogun's expression. What he saw there was a satisfaction that amounted almost to triumph.

"Then, Anjin-san," Toranaga said, slowly, "you should know that if ever you do pillow with a man you will be certain of my protection against the displeasure of the Christian priests. You are Japanese now; no European can judge you. My samurai are answerable only to me. Wakaru ka?"

The question, and the tone in which it was asked, took Blackthorne back to his earliest days in Japan, when people had asked him constantly whether or not he understood them.

"Hai, Toranaga-sama, wakarimasu," he answered, smiling slightly as he acknowledged the promise. "Domo arigato."

"Yoshi, Anjin-san," bowed the daimyo, massively pleased with his little subterfuge. "Very good. This talk of love and pillowing is good for the soul's harmony, neh? Shall we all walk outside and see the moonlight reflected on the lake? At this time of the year the gods live in this place; beauty is not the prerogative only of the Christian God, Tsukku-san - come and see what the Japanese gods have made."

Not caring to become involved in a theological dispute with Toranaga over the identity of the hand that had created the Japanese landscape Alvito got to his feet as indicated and, together with the rest of the party, followed Toranaga outside into the moonlight.

Strolling to the edge of the escarpment, beyond the ring of guards and campfires, Toranaga brought his party to a halt at the top of the slope that dropped away to the water. The Shogun had judged the date and time perfectly; the moon hung suspended low over the water, an icy cold sphere with all the lustre of a pearl, a ladder of silver light rippling across the lake's black surface towards it. Framing the vista was a natural avenue of cherry trees, their branches touched by an errant breeze showering petals into the water.

"Fushigi na desu," Blackthorne breathed, brilliantly aware of the nearness of Alvito and the knowledge of Toranaga's intentions for them. He remembered how much he had desired Mariko before she had given herself to him, and the memory paled by comparison with the frenzy he felt towards the Jesuit. A less civilised man would simply have taken what he wanted; Blackthorne had merely set out to obtain it at all costs.

"Yes, Anjin-san," Omi said, echoing his tone of voice, "It is a marvel. The tree-kami and the water-kami made this night between them as a gift to the moon."

Blackthorne turned and looked at him in wonderment, impressed by the reverence in Omi's words.

"It's a lovers' moon," he said, slowly. "Lovers in this place would be happy indeed."

Omi's normally serious face split into a grin, and he turned knowing eyes in Blackthorne's direction.

Dear God, the Englishman thought, alarmed, does everyone know I desire Alvito? Toranaga knows, certainly; Alvito knows - it's impossible that he would not. Omi seems to know, too. Does Buntaro? Who else?

"Toranaga-sama," Omi said, turning away and addressing the daimyo, "this would be a good place to play the poem game Mariko-san enjoyed so much." He hoped he had not mentioned it too soon or too abruptly; Toranaga had been most particular about the circumstances in which he should introduce the subject.

"The poem game? Yes, that would be appropriate. You start, Omi; I seem to remember you are good at this game."

Glancing around him reflectively, Omi seemed to be considering his response. At length he said;

"Over the mountain ledge

Flights of wild duck

Noisily go;

But I am lonely,

For you are not here."

Toranaga smiled his approval. "Yes, excellent. Umai. But it's an autumn poem, not a spring one. Buntaro?"

Buntaro sighed heavily. He scarcely seemed like a man who would memorise love poetry, but when he quoted a stanza the words seemed to flow from the heart.

"He whom I prize

As moon and sun in heaven -

That day by day

He must grow old!"

Finishing, he looked away as though embarrassed to be caught in poetic reflection on the transient nature of love.

"Ah so desu ka," Toranaga acknowledged, his tone warm with what might have been sympathy. "Very suitable indeed, Buntaro. Anjin?"

"Gomen nasai, Toranaga-sama," the Englishman put in, gruffly. "I must beg to be excused; I'm woefully ignorant of Japanese poetry, and I know nothing in my own language that would meet the case." Any scraps of verse he might possibly have called to mind had been driven from his head completely by the stillness of the sky and the extraordinary nature of the situation.

"A sad omission, Anjin-san, and one you should remedy at the earliest opportunity. A good knowledge of poetry is essential to a samurai if he wishes to be of service to his lord. I will have a book of poems prepared for you; perhaps Tsukku-san would help you with the translations. Tsukku-san," he added, almost affectionately, "do you have a verse?"

To Blackthorne's surprise, Alvito was equal to the challenge. "Only one, Sire;

Our glorious Prince

Has snared the moon

That walks the eternal sky

And makes of it his silken canopy."

Gentle laughter from the darkness told the hearers their lord was well satisfied with the priest's answer. "A very fine choice, Tsukku-san. My own preference however is for this;

If I cannot accept

The real as real

Then how do I accept

A dream as a dream?"

He paused, assessing the reactions of his audience. When no-one spoke, he knew he had made them all understand. It was not necessary for him to explain to them that small chances for happiness must be seized whenever they arrived; it was not necessary for him to issue any further instructions, or to do anything whatever except retire and allow the gods of the pool to work their magic on Tsukku-san's soul.

I have brought him to the time and the place where he can choose as he wishes, Toranaga thought, with some pride. I have given him a choice of paths. Let the Japanese gods and the Christian God help him to make his decision.

Abruptly he turned away. "Omi. Buntaro." His commands were little more than whispers, but they left no-one in any doubt that he and his two samurai were withdrawing so that the two Europeans could share the moon's gift. As he passed Anjin-san, he was delighted to notice the look of rapt attention on the man's face, the eyes that never wavered from the slender, upright form of the barbarian priest. He had seen that look in Blackthorne's eyes long ago when the pilot looked on Mariko-san, and he knew they were the eyes of a man who had lost his heart.

This time it will be different, Anjin-san, he promised silently. This time it will not be fire and death but life and peace, at least for a time. Japan needs you both, my friends, and it needs you together.

Well satisfied with his evening's work, Toranaga took his leave of the two spellbound Europeans, and returned with his samurai to his pavilion.

Buntaro was the last to turn away, his gaze in the dark raking across Blackthorne's face and conveying emotions that dragged the pilot back through time to an uncomfortable evening in the company of Buntaro and Mariko; he had attempted to get the samurai drunk, and had learned the hard way that Buntaro had a head like a stone and that even after an amount of sake that would have brought any ordinary man to the verge of incompetence the man was still capable of astonishingly accurate feats of bowmanship which made him an enemy to be respected. Buntaro, who had married again very soon after Mariko's death, would never be his friend, but he had long since ceased to be a bitter rival and remained merely a vassal of Toranaga's as he was himself. Nonetheless there was truth between them; Blackthorne's parting bow acknowledged it.

Alvito had walked to the edge of the escarpment and stood looking down over the water. The moonlight had caught the streaks of silver in his hair and the whites of his eyes and made a broad gash of his white obi, but he turned away before Blackthorne could make careful inventory of the expression on his face. There seemed little doubt, however, about the subject of his thoughts; Toranaga had made it obvious that his comments applied to them, and that if they should ever find themselves becoming lovers he and his samurai would protect them to the last drop of blood. The conversation had left Blackthorne shivering inside, afraid to catch the priest's measuring glance. Whatever his own most private fantasies about the man may have been, even in the more relaxed moral climate that prevailed in Japan, Alvito was still a Jesuit father - remote and inviolable and beyond the reach even of dreams.

There would be a price to pay for this evening's indiscretions, he could guarantee it; sake and good company often placed men in situations where they said and did unwise things. This time, however, Toranaga had deliberately provoked the indiscretion, for reasons of his own. Could he seriously imagine that Blackthorne and Alvito would pillow together merely to suit his convenience?

"Toranaga-sama is merry tonight," Alvito observed, addressing his remarks to the vista of lake and sky.

Blackthorne merely grunted agreement. It was in his mind to apologise for his master's excesses, but that would close the subject between them and he was not altogether certain he wanted it closed. He wanted to probe the wound, to examine his feelings regarding this Jesuit once and for all.

"Buntaro makes a surprisingly genial companion," the priest went on. "I always considered him a sour individual, but this evening he was very pleasant. I have grown fond of Omi-san," he added, reflectively.

"He's a good man," Blackthorne conceded, anxious to contribute something to the conversation as the sound of Alvito's voice reaching him from the silvered darkness was recalling only too plainly the night in the tea house - and other nights since - when thoughts of this man had brought Blackthorne to a pitch of quiet desperation.

"He has great respect for you," Alvito went on, dropping into his own language without noticing he did so. Blackthorne made the transition without surprise; they no longer paused to consider in which language they spoke. "And by extension, I suppose, for me. It seem as I am now considered a part of your establishment, Anjin, although I have never been aware how this transformation was effected. Have you noticed how reference is always made to 'Anjin-san and Tsukku-san' in the same breath, as though we were one? Answer me honestly; did you request Lord Toranaga to bring me on this journey?"

Blackthorne let the pause lengthen before replying. "No, I did not. If I wished to see you, I would do so whether or not Toranaga commanded it."

"Then you did not wish to see me? You are displeased that I am here?"

The possibility offered itself, and Alvito clutched at it blindly.

"No, I am not displeased."

The priest let out a long, melancholy sigh. "Do you fear me, pilot, as much as I fear you?" he asked, unable to turn and ask the question to Blackthorne's face.

"No, priest, I don't fear you." The assurance was doubly disturbing for the rapidity with which it was given. "I never have, not since the first moment I set eyes on you. Why should you fear me?"

"You're everything my life has taught me to distrust!" Alvito told him, on a sudden rush of agitation. His clenched fists lifted in an impotent gesture. "I've prayed night and day since I met you that God would remove you from my life. I tried to get you away from Japan at the first opportunity; I wanted you to leave me in peace. You should have known it was not I who set fire to your ship as you thought, nor I who ordered the ninja attack on you. I have never threatened your life; I always wanted you out of Japan - alive, but away from me."

"Why? Why so very particularly away from you?"

For a moment Alvito did not answer, but when he did his words were a revelation. "Because I'm weak, Anjin; weaker than Urano-san and less worthy of your respect. He merely shamed himself with a woman of the town - he could have repented and accepted his punishment and he would have been welcomed back into our Order without a qualm. For myself ... it could never be so."

"Why not?"

A sudden, swift and unidentifiable movement in the darkness stopped Blackthorne's question, a threat that loomed ominously in the black shape of a man who stood behind Alvito, hands reaching out of the dark for the rosary at his waist. Alvito struck out blindly, aware in the same moment of a rushing sound behind him, a sword or stave cutting through the air and directed at Blackthorne. He sidestepped, feet tangling in rocks and vegetation, and felt pummelling fists lash into his body. He had no defence, and his assailant had the advantage of surprise; Alvito went down under the assault, feet crashing viciously into his chest and belly as he fell groaning.

Blackthorne fared better; despite the hands of another assailant gripping round his neck he was able to draw his sword and pull forward, almost shrugging the man off. Alvito's attacker had snatched the rosary and stuffed it inside his kimono, and now drew a knife to approach Blackthorne.

The bared blade of the sword slashed uncontrollably as the second attacker held on grimly to Blackthorne's throat, the knifeman edging around cautiously out of reach of the sharp steel. Then, with a lunge and a scream, the man ducked inside the sword's arc and thrust his knife hilt-deep into Blackthorne's arm, the blade biting through nerves and muscles and sending the sword falling to the earth. The attacker immediately turned away from Blackthorne and picked up the sword as the other man pushed the samurai down onto his knees.

Blackthorne's left hand reached up and extracted the knife from his arm, flourishing it uselessly at the man who held him, but the swordsman kicked at his wrist and sent the blade flying. It fell close to Alvito's face, lifting a small shower of dust and stones. He raised his head cautiously just as the two attackers wrestled Blackthorne into position to behead him with his own sword; as the sword lifted and caught the moonlight Alvito moved sharply, the responses of his long-buried childhood among the stews of the Lisbon waterfront surfacing to aid him. Everyone carried a knife then; everyone knew how to use it. Catholic priest or no, he was a fighter first and last. He grabbed for the knife and swung upwards, running it through the swordsman's throat. The sword dropped abruptly; Alvito slammed at the man and he fell like a stone, dying. Blackthorne lunged back, his elbow shocking the breath from his momentarily distracted attacker who fell sprawling, and wrenching himself around with a supreme effort Blackthorne kicked the man under the chin and broke his neck.

The sudden silence was filled with the crowing pain of harsh breathing and the last painful gasps of the dying men. Blackthorne stumbled across the distance between himself and the priest, his left hand gripped tight around the wound in his upper right arm. Alvito had not moved; he remained standing straight-backed over the body of the man he had killed, his foot almost on the man's face, blood staining his kimono from wrist to shoulder. Blackthorne bent down, ignoring the thundering in his head, and retrieved the rosary from the fallen man's tunic. Straightening, he attempted to press it into Alvito's hand and found that the fingers would not close around it. The thing remained in his own grip as Omi and Buntaro came running across from the camp, Buntaro carrying a burning torch.

"Tsukku-san!" Buntaro's tone was urgent. "Are you injured?"

Alvito shook his head slowly. His eyes were distant and lost in the darkness. Omi, concerned for Blackthorne, offered him an arm to lean on and Blackthorne accepted gratefully.

"Dare desu ka, Omi-san?" he demanded, as the Japanese glanced down at the two bodies. "Who are they?"

"Bandits, Anjin-san. There are many more. Toranaga-sama himself killed two, and Buntaro and I one each, but we have captured some alive. Most of our samurai were drunk - we were caught off guard. So near home, who could expect an attack?"

"Is Lord Toranaga hurt?"

"Only a little. It's embarrassing, neh? These eta had no idea who we were - they thought they had found a rich nobleman to rob. We have too few samurai, Anjin-san, and we were all occupied with other business - we let them take us by surprise."

"Have we lost any men?"

"I don't think so. Not this time." Abruptly recalling Toranaga's purpose in bringing Anjin-san and Tsukku-san on this excursion, Omi glanced over at the barbarian priest, remote behind his unemotional shield. Did they speak of pillowing? he wondered. Did the eta attack before they could declare themselves? Toranaga-sama's right, it's only a matter of time before they realise our way is better. Foolish barbarians, why do you make it so painful for yourselves? "Come, Anjin-san," he said, compassionately, "inside the pavilion; Toranaga-sama is anxious about you and the Tsukku-san."

Blackthorne's eyes swivelled towards the priest. "Tsukku-san?" he said, cautiously.

Alvito did not respond. He merely stood quite still, the bandit's blood drying on his sleeve, lost in another world. Blackthorne looked down at the rosary he still held, and with careful, painful movements tucked it into his own kimono.

"Omi-san, Buntaro-san, please go on ahead," he said, shakily. "We'll follow you shortly."

Buntaro looked down at the two bodies in contempt. "We'll dispose of the carcasses, Tsukku-san, you need not concern yourself with such offal." Blackthorne looked back from Buntaro to Alvito and was stunned to see the priest kneeling beside the body of the man he had killed, forcing himself to pray for the bandit's soul.

"Please, Buntaro-san, leave us," Blackthorne begged, aware of the husky sound of fear in his own tone. "I'll ... I'll escort Tsukku-san," he added, pulling the words out of the swirling of his own consciousness. He dropped to his knees beside the priest as the samurai turned away to obey him. "You claim to have no courage," he said, in Portuguese. "I see courage in everything you do."

Slowly Alvito turned to look at him. "Courage?" he echoed. "What is courage if it does not prevent me destroying a man's life? I killed this bandit, heretic, so that he would not kill you. If that was God's will, then I confess I do not understand it."

"Have you never killed before?" It was an absurd question, he knew, but Blackthorne had killed a man when he was twelve years old; Alvito, raised in the gutters of Lisbon, might well have done so at an earlier age.

"I have never transgressed any of God's commandments," was the subdued reply. "Until today."

"Are you still afraid of me?" The question intruded suddenly, cutting the cold night air between them like a sword blade.

"Yes."

Blackthorne reached into his kimono and brought out the rosary, pressing it now into Alvito's hand and watching with satisfaction as the slender fingers curled around it and caressed it. "Thank you for my life, Tsukku-san," he said, in Japanese. "Arigato gozaimashita."

"Your life is my destruction, pilot. God wills it so." Reaching across the body of the bandit, Alvito retrieved Blackthorne's fallen sword. Turning, he handed it to the samurai in the proper, formal manner. Blackthorne returned it to its scabbard with care, then made an attempt to rise. The loss of blood from the wound in his arm sent his senses spinning, and he sank down again on his haunches.

"Priest ... " he said, weakly, asking for help without shaping the words.

Alvito rose, and dragged Blackthorne to his feet. "Lean on me, my son," he said, making the words a bitter irony.

"Courage," Blackthorne reiterated. "You fear me, my Samaritan friend, but you risk your life for mine."

Alvito's arm wrapped itself tightly around his waist. "You're my karma, Anjin-san," he said simply, as though it precluded any further discussion of the matter.

Blackthorne made no answer, but allowed his weary head to rest on the priest's shoulder; it was more than merely convenient and at the right height for him to do so - it felt appropriate, somehow, and the tightening of Alvito's arm around his waist as if in reassurance only served to reinforce that feeling.

Returning to the pavilion they shared, the two Europeans discovered Toranaga awaiting them.

"Tomo yo," he said, startled out of his usual calm formality by their war-torn appearance. "What are your injuries?"

"Anjin-san has suffered a stab wound," Alvito supplied, easing Blackthorne down onto one of the floor cushions in obedience to Toranaga's gesture, and settling beside him. "I can tend it myself if you have bandages. I am not hurt at all."

Blackthorne's expression accused him of a falsehood, but was brought under control rapidly.

"Ah so desu ka. Buntaro, please have bandages and salves placed at Tsukku-san's disposal."

Buntaro bowed and departed to obey. Blackthorne glanced up and noticed that Toranaga seemed flushed from the fight and had sustained a small cut under one eye, but otherwise appeared unhurt.

"Itai desu ka, Toranaga-sama?" he asked, concernedly.

"No, my friend Anjin. These were starving bandits, not fighting men. Eleven are dead."

Automatically Alvito crossed himself, lips moving in prayer.

"They were eta, Tuskku-san," Toranaga explained carefully. "Dogs. Less than dogs. Sword-stealers. It would be a mistake to grieve for such people."

"They are God's creation, Toranaga-sama, the same as you or I." Defiantly, Alvito met the warlord's stare.

"Hmph. Your Christian faith is an astonishing mess of contradictions, Arubito-san." As a particular compliment, Toranaga spilled out the syllables of Alvito's name as best he could. "However you saved the Anjin's life, and for that I owe you my gratitude. Now, I think that wound should be tended - and you, Tsukku-san, need a clean kimono. Please burn that one; it can never be cleansed of eta blood."

Mildly surprised at the instruction when he had understood the kimono to be a valuable one, Alvito bowed his compliance. He had already noticed a tray of sake, a bowl of water and two clean kimonos set out on the floor; Toranaga's servants were always excellent in anticipating the wishes of their master's guests.

When Alvito looked up again Toranaga had gone and Buntaro's servant was standing in the entrance with a small basketwork container which obviously held the promised bandages and medicaments. This he brought in and set down before Alvito, with much ceremony, and then retreated without speaking a word. Scarcely glancing at Blackthorne, the priest poured two measures of sake and handed one to the Englishman who sipped it gratefully, letting the bite of the alcohol dim the pain in his arm. He shrugged out of one sleeve of his kimono, Japanese-style, as Alvito kneeled beside him, careful fingers peeling the bloodied silk away from the edges of his wound. Blackthorne winced as the last threads dragged free, and immediately a wet cloth was applied to his skin to wash away the blood and dirt from the damaged skin. Cleaning the area meticulously Alvito applied a pad and bandage of rough cotton, and rapidly had the injured arm bound up tightly.

"You should rest your sword-arm, samurai," the priest murmured, aware of the irony of his words. "In a few days it will be strong again; meanwhile you should change this dressing regularly. I will do so for you while I am here; after I leave, perhaps Omi-san would help you."

"You're leaving?" Even through the haze of the sake the words had a sharp significance.

"I think it would be wise."

Blackthorne's troubled eyes followed the priest as he packed away the remaining dressings and bandages. Then Alvito sat himself on a cushion and reached for the sake.

"You should change your kimono, Tsukku-san," Blackthorne reminded him, pointing to the blood on his sleeve.

"So should you. Let me assist you."

"No. Let me rest a moment. Here." Reaching out, Blackthorne handed the priest the neatly-folded garment. Alvito had relinquished the grey-green kimono as soon as his own clothes were clean, and had never given it a thought in the interim. "This is yours," Blackthorne said. "I bought it from the mama-san."

Alvito took the garment and set it on the floor, untying his obi. "I assumed you would," he said, distractedly. "You showed great sensitivity to her low station in life."

"Who is high and who is low?" Blackthorne asked him, idly. "I'm only a farmer's son."

"In England you were a farmer's son. Here you're samurai. You're hatamoto, the Shogun's friend. In Japan, you're very important indeed. I don't know if you realise fully the lengths Toranaga would go to, to keep you here."

Hesitating only briefly he opened the blood-soaked kimono and removed it in one swift, almost defiant movement, revealing a slender pale torso criss-crossed with scars, some of them of very recent origin.

"What in God's name ... ?" The words were in English, forced from Blackthorne by shock. Whatever he had expected, it was not the marks of a series of whippings.

"In ... God's name ... " Alvito repeated, also in English. Then he reverted to Portuguese. "What surprises you, heretic? Do you think we never need punishment? Do you think we don't correct ourselves - or one another - when we fall into error? No man is sinless, least of all myself."

He was washing the drying blood from his skin as he spoke, not meeting Blackthorne's gaze. He could feel the burning incredulity of the Englishman's eyes on him like a caress, and a chill fire coursed through his veins bringing with it a return of all his most shameful feelings towards the pilot - those feelings even the devoted Michael and his scourgings had been unable to exorcise.

"But what sin could you possibly commit, locked away inside that God-cursed mission of yours? Who hurt you like this?"

The priest reached for the fresh kimono, but Blackthorne caught his wrist and held it, demanding an answer.

"Michael," Alvito said. "Brother Michael did this, at my instruction - because he is obedient and faithful and understands that men are weak."

"What weakness, priest? What weakness?"

Alvito would not look at him. He tried to turn away, but Blackthorne's grip on his wrist would not permit it. "Pride," he said, at length.

"Lust."

"Lust for what? Lust for whom? For one of the brothers?"

Alvito's eyes were cold obsidian. "How could you ask it?" The mere suggestion that he might have harboured impure feelings towards a member of his own Order sickened him.

Blackthorne released the wrist and sat back suddenly, a glitter of triumph in his gaze. "Then it's me," he concluded simply. "Me you want. Toranaga-sama knows it, and now I know it too."

"You're everything I despise," Alvito told him, wearily. "Heretic, English, sodomite..."

"Not that," Blackthorne corrected. "Not yet, at least, although I have been sorely tempted. Never so much as at this moment. Damn you, I'm drowning in desire for you and still I hate everything you are!"

"You ... desire me?" The alien thought penetrated Alvito's senses only slowly, but he did not alter his expression by so much as a fraction. He unfolded the clean kimono and wrapped it around himself, his gaze remaining level on Blackthorne's face, his eyes still remote and guarded.

"Tell me you feel nothing for me and I'll go away from you now, finally and forever." Blackthorne's tone was urgent, the need to touch Alvito growing and twisting within him. Would it be tonight - or would it would never be?

Alvito's gaze faltered slightly, then regained its former intensity.

"If I told you that, it would not be the truth," he confessed.

"So we agree at last! We admit we lust for one another. Is this where it happens, here and now? Or will you take yourself away from me again?"

"You expect me to pillow with you?" The words were stark and unyielding. "I thought you said you did not pillow with men - and you denied a taste for boys."

Calmly Blackthorne rebutted the insinuation. "Neither a man nor a boy, ever. Women, both in England and Japan. But I've pillowed alone and thought of you - at the tea house, when you were beside me, and since then. I'm not ashamed of it. But I won't take you if you're unwilling; I've never forced myself on a lover and I don't intend to start with you."

"If you intended that, you would have done it before now," Alvito told him, with icy assurance. "You asked if I'd ever killed, and I told you I had not - but what happened to you happened also to me. I was younger, less able to fight - starving and weak; a man lured me with the promise of food and shelter, and made use of me several times. It was from him that Father dell'Aqua rescued me."

"And the man? Was he punished?" Blackthorne poured more sake and pushed the tiny cup towards Alvito, Japanese etiquette forgotten.

"He was a filthy sodomite," the priest repeated dully. "He was sentenced to burn, of course. I know I've failed in my vocation, pilot, but try as I may I cannot see that man in you ... or in myself. I know how sinful sodomy is, and how sodomites and heretics are destined for the same Hell, and yet despite all the prayers and penances I still find myself wanting you - and it was so from the very beginning." Having embarked on his confession, Alvito found he could not now stop. He drew a shaky breath, swallowed back the cup of sake, and continued. "I own I was jealous of Mariko-san," he said, "but she was a good woman, and if Toranaga had given her to you she would have taken you away from me and given me a chance to forget you. You'll never know how hard I pleaded your case, pilot - far more than you ever asked of me - but he was adamant. Japanese will not mate with European anywhere in Toranaga's domain; barbarian blood will not be mixed with Japanese. It's why he wishes us to pillow together; he'll never grant you a Japanese wife."

"I know."

"Naturally, I confessed it; Father dell'Aqua knew it all. I begged him to take me away from you, but he would not. He ordered me to remain in your company and subdue my desire. It was a terrible thing to ask; I could not. I burned for you every time I saw you. I begged for some other punishment, but it was not until after he died that I could attempt to control my feelings. Michael was reluctant to do as I wanted, but he is of course under a vow of obedience. It hardly matters; by then it was already too late. You should have let me die in the mudslide."

"That was not God's will, priest."

"I'm no priest!" The words were torn from Alvito in anguish. "I've lied ... and lusted ... and killed."

"You're a man," the pilot told him, almost casually. "Not a saint. These are the things ordinary men do. We kill when we must, lie when we have to ... and sometimes we lust for people and things we should not have. Did you ever imagine that I wanted you?"

"Never."

"But I do. It pleases me to be in your company, and despite Toranaga and all his legions it would please me to pillow with you."

"I would die sooner than allow you to touch me." The words were icy, defeated, their source far away.

"But suicide is a sin, isn't it? Is it a worse sin than sodomy?"

Alvito's tired eyes met Blackthorne's taunting gaze. "You know it is. Far worse. Suicide is the rejection of God's mercy."

"Don't you think He'll have mercy on you if you give yourself to me?"

"I couldn't ask for it," was the dispirited response. "Not if I had sinned deliberately."

"And would you? Sin deliberately? Give yourself to me?"

"No. Certainly not. You are more temptation than I have ever had to endure - I admit it freely - but I cannot and will not pillow with you."

"Now I understand why you called me your own personal purgatory,"

Blackthorne told him, ruefully, sipping at the sake. "You must know I would never willingly cause you harm."

"I know it. Nevertheless you are unquestionably my karma - my life, and most probably my death. I pray God will grant me the grace to accept that."

Blackthorne looked away. "Then I am never to have you," he concluded, miserably, the ache in his arm reasserting itself viciously.

"Never." Not without pity, Alvito softened his tone. "I will petition Lord Toranaga to allow me to leave the camp tomorrow morning," he said, gently. "There is no reason why you and I should continue to torture one another in this singularly unpleasant way. I have no greater wish to hurt you than you have to hurt me, John Blackthorne."

The careful use of his name caused Blackthorne to turn again suddenly. Alvito's chin had lifted and for a moment he looked the personification of pride, controlled and passionate.

You love me, Blackthorne realised, watching the man's face. This is not about desire - at least, not that only. This is about love. You love me, but your pride and your Church between them keep you silent.

"Arigato," he said, absently. "Nemurimasu ka?"

Alvito's shoulders relaxed, and a half-smile crossed his face.

"Yes, I could sleep," he admitted, wearily. "Today has been too long and too ... "

"Painful," Blackthorne supplied.

"Yes. But after tomorrow we will not meet again ... "

"Not meet again?" Startled, the Englishman interrupted his words.

"Pilot, we agree that being together gives us both pain - because of what we cannot have. It would be safest, therefore, if after tonight we never again strayed into the path of temptation. You have your world and I have mine, and Lord Toranaga is our only meeting-point. Now that he has you, he no longer needs my services - therefore I can return to the mission and my work there."

"And to your Brother Michael and his scourge?"

"In time, perhaps, the need for that will diminish." It was a brave assertion, but both men heard its hollowness.

"Perhaps."

Raising his voice, Blackthorne called for the manservant to make up the futons for the night. As the man entered, Alvito got to his feet and moved away to the far end of the pavilion, ignoring the preparations. When he turned back the servant had gone and the two futons were arm's length apart on the floor. As soon as he was sure of Alvito's attention, Blackthorne moved over and drew one futon across until it was touching the other. The priest merely watched him with raised eyebrows and an expression of mild enquiry.

"I will never break any promise I have made you," the pilot said, standing and facing him across the width of the pavilion, the one small oil-lamp in the darkness throwing fantastical shadows around them. "I will never ask you for what you cannot give. From tomorrow I will never seek you out, nor see you unless you send for me."

A slight inclination of Alvito's head was all the acknowledgement this pledge received.

"But," Blackthorne continued, almost ruthlessly, "sleep beside me. Please."

"I cannot ... "

"Neru dake," Blackthorne reiterated. "Only that. Baku ni shinjimasu ka?"

"Shinjimasu." It was perhaps the most astonishing of all Alvito's admissions; trusting the English heretic had scarcely seemed a possibility before, whatever the promptings of his heart.

"Nemurimasho ka?"

The pause lengthened while Alvito weighed temptation against foreboding, but after what seemed a lifetime he sighed softly.

"Hai. Nemurimasu. Domo, Anjin-san."

"Domo arigato gozaimashita, Tsukku-san."

Blackthorne held out his hand and Alvito stepped closer, allowing his fingers to twine with Blackthorne's and be held fast in a grip that clutched almost with desperation. He could scarcely bear the look of mingled grief and triumph in Blackthorne's eyes, any more than he could bear the courtly way the samurai drew him closer and down towards the futons, maintaining always a modest distance between them. Sinking down he slipped, still fully dressed, between the quilts, relinquishing Blackthorne's hand only when it was strictly necessary.

Extinguishing the lamp Blackthorne slid into place beside Alvito and pulled the man towards him, catching his breath sharply as the muscles in his wounded arm were stretched. Unexpectedly Alvito's fingers in the darkness found the bandage and rested there a moment in what was almost a caress.

"Is there much pain?" he breathed, barely loud enough to be heard.

"Not too much."

Blackthorne's hand lifted, stroked lightly through the other man's hair. Despite the distance that remained between them, he felt the thrill of the touch course through Alvito's body. It would be so easy to betray his promise, to seduce the priest with honeyed words and silken caresses, to lull him into the momentary belief that his principles were unimportant and that pleasure was the only thing that mattered; Alvito was at his most vulnerable, his formidable defences lowered, resting in Blackthorne's embrace as if he belonged nowhere else in the world. It was an illusion of perfection, but an illusion nonetheless.

Ah, Toranaga-sama, he thought, fingertips merely brushing across Alvito's lips, I know when a dream is a dream.

Aloud, he said; "Tomari masen ka?" Please, will you stay?

The answer was compassionate, regretful, but firm. "Asa made take." I will leave in the morning.

He pulled Alvito closer, burying his face in the man's hair.

"Hai," he sighed, hearing the despair in his own voice. "Wakarimasu."

* * *

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