A few days later a mounted samurai arrived with a letter announcing Masamoto’s return to Toba. He would be here within the week.

The household became a flurry of activity. Hiroko personally visited the market, ensuring Masamoto’s specialities would be in the house, and hired additional help for the cook to prepare a celebratory meal. Chiro scrubbed all the floors, washed bedding and kimonos, and prepared Masamoto’s room. Uekiya swept the paths and somehow made the garden appear beautiful, even in its stark winter state.

The night before Masamoto was due to arrive, the whole household went to bed early, eager to be fresh and alert for the following day. Jiro was almost bouncing off the paper walls with excitement and it took Hiroko several attempts to settle him.

Yamato’s mood, on the other hand, had darkened with his father’s imminent arrival and he practised his kata late into the night, aware that he would have to impress his father greatly to gain favour.

Jack’s mind whirled as he lay down on his futon, staring at the muted glow of the night lamp through the shoji. He had no idea what was expected of him during his audience with Masamoto. Would he have to prove himself like Yamato? Did he have to fight? Was it to be a test of his Japanese language ability? Or was it all three? Worst of all, what if he caused serious offence through a simple lapse in etiquette?

Masamoto was clearly a man who did not expect to be questioned and had a killing streak that ran deep in his veins. He was austere and brusque, and his severe scarring put Jack on edge. He wondered what had happened in the man’s life to disfigure the samurai so badly.

Yet all those around Masamoto honoured him and Akiko thought him to be ‘one of the greatest samurai to have lived’. He had re-set Jack’s broken arm, a skill beyond that of even the most experienced English surgeons. Jack realized there was so much more to Masamoto than a scarred face and a swift sword.

A shadow passed across the night lamp, briefly blacking out Jack’s room. Jack instinctively tensed, but there appeared to be no one there. Not even the sound of a footstep.

Possibly it had been Yamato returning to his quarters or else a breeze dipping the flame, surmised Jack. He turned over to settle down to sleep.

He closed his eyes and imagined himself, as he often did at night, standing on the prow of the Alexandria, returning home to England, triumphant, with his father piloting the ship, the hold crammed with gold, silk and exotic eastern spices, Jess waving to them from the harbour…

Another shadow passed across the room.

Jack opened his eyes, having sensed the room darken. Behind him, he heard the shoji slide softly back.