Shogun (35 page)

“What’s a kaga-man?”

“Oh, those are the porters, señor, the men that carry the palanquins, or the smaller two-man kaga that’s like a hammock swung on a pole. He told us his partner stole a silken scarf from a customer, poor fellow, and because he himself did not report the theft, his life is forfeit also. The señor may believe me, to try to escape or even to help someone to escape, the man would lose his life and all his family. They are very severe, señor.”

“So everyone goes to execution like sheep then?”

“There is no other choice. It is the will of God.”

Don’t get angry, or panic, Blackthorne warned himself. Be patient. You can think of a way. Not everything the priest says is true. He’s deranged. Who wouldn’t be after so much time?

“These prisons are new to them señor,” the monk was saying. “The Taikō instituted prisons here a few years ago, so they say. Before him there were none. In previous days when a man was caught, he confessed his crime and he was executed.”

“And if he didn’t confess?”

“Everyone confesses—sooner is better, señor. It is the same in our world, if you are caught.”

The monk slept a little, scratching in his sleep and muttering. When he woke up, Blackthorne said, “Please tell me, Father, how the cursed Jesuits put a man of God in this pest hole.”

“There is not much to tell, and everything. After the Taikō’s men
came and took all our bullion and goods, our Captain-General insisted on going to the capital to protest. There was no cause for the confiscation. Were we not servants of His Most Imperial Catholic Majesty, King Philip of Spain, ruler of the greatest and richest empire in the world? The most powerful monarch in the world? Were we not friends? Was not the Taikō asking Spanish Manila to trade direct with Japan, to break the filthy monopoly of the Portuguese? It was all a mistake, the confiscation. It had to be.

“I went with our Captain-General because I could speak a little Japanese—not much in those days. Señor, the
San Felipe
had floundered and come ashore in October of 1597. The Jesuits—one was of the name Father Martin Alvito—they dared to offer to mediate for us, there in Kyoto, the capital. The impertinence! Our Franciscan Father Superior, Friar Braganza, he was in the capital, and he was an ambassador—a real ambassador from Spain to the court of the Taikō! The Blessed Friar Braganza, he had been there in the capital, in Kyoto, for five years, señor. The Taikō himself, personally, had asked our Viceroy in Manila to send Franciscan monks and an ambassador to Japan. So the Blessed Friar Braganza had come. And we, señor, we of the
San Felipe
, we knew that he was to be trusted, not like the Jesuits.

“After many, many days of waiting, we had one interview with the Taikō—he was a tiny, ugly little man, señor—and we asked for our goods back and another ship, or passage on another ship, which our Captain-General offered to pay for handsomely. The interview went well, we thought, and the Taikō dismissed us. We went to our monastery in Kyoto and waited and then, over the next months while we waited for his decision, we continued to bring the word of God to the heathen. We held our services openly, not like thieves in the night as the Jesuits do.” Friar Domingo’s voice was edged with contempt. “We wore our habits and vestments—we didn’t go disguised, like native priests, as they do. We brought the Word to the people, the halt and sick and poor, not like the Jesuits, who consort with princes only. Our congregations increased. We had a hospital for lepers, our own church, and our flock prospered, señor. Greatly. We were about to convert many of their kings and then one day we were betrayed.

“One day in January, we Franciscans, we were all brought before the magistrate and accused under the Taikō’s personal seal, señor, accused as violators of their law, as disturbers of their peace, and
sentenced to death by crucifixion. There were forty-three of us. Our churches throughout the land were to be destroyed, all our congregations to be torn apart—Franciscan—not Jesuit, señor. Just us, señor. We had been falsely accused. The Jesuits had poured poison in the Taikō’s ear that we were conquistadores, that we wanted to invade these shores, when it was Jesuits who begged his Excellency, our Viceroy, to send an army from Manila. I saw the letter myself! From their Father Superior! They’re devils who pretend to serve the Church and Christ, but they serve only themselves. They lust for power, power at any cost. They hide behind a net of poverty and piousness, but underneath, they feed like kings and amass fortunes.
Que va
, señor, the truth is that they were jealous of our congregations, jealous of our church, jealous of our truth and way of life. The
daimyo
of Hizen, Dom Francisco—his Japanese name is Harima Tadao but he has been baptized Dom Francisco—he interceded for us. He is just like a king, all
daimyos
are like kings, and he’s a Franciscan and he interceded for us, but to no avail.

“In the end, twenty-six were martyred. Six Spaniards, seventeen of our Japanese neophytes, and three others. The Blessed Braganza was one, and there were three boys among the neophytes. Oh, señor, the faithful were there in their thousands that day. Fifty, a hundred thousand people watched the Blessed Martyrdom at Nagasaki, so I was told. It was a bitter cold February day and a bitter year. That was the year of the earthquakes and typhoons and flood and storm and fire, when the Hand of God lay heavy on the Great Murderer and even smashed down his great castle, Fushimi, when He shuddered the earth. It was terrifying but marvelous to behold, the Finger of God, punishing the heathen and the sinners.

“So they were martyred, señor, six good Spaniards. Our flock and our church were laid waste and the hospital closed up.” The old man’s face drained. “I—I was one of those chosen for martyrdom, but—but it was not to be my honor. They set us marching from Kyoto and when we came to Osaka they put some of us in one of our missions here and the rest—the rest had one of their ears cut off, then they were paraded like common criminals in the streets. Then the Blessed Brethren were set walking westward. For a month. Their blessed journey ended at the hill called Nishizaki, overlooking the great harbor of Nagasaki. I begged the samurai to let me go with them but, señor, he ordered me back to the mission here in Osaka. For no reason. And then, months later, we were put in this cell. There were three of us—
I think it was three, but I was the only Spaniard. The others were neophytes, our lay brothers, Japaners. A few days later the guards called out their names. But they never called out mine. Perhaps it is the will of God, señor, or perhaps those filthy Jesuits leave me alive just to torture me—they who took away my chance at martyrdom among my own. It’s hard, señor, to be patient. So very hard …”

The old monk closed his eyes, prayed, and cried himself to sleep.

Much as he wished it, Blackthorne could not sleep though night had come. His flesh crawled from the lice bites. His head swarmed with terror.

He knew, with terrible clarity, there was no way to break out. He was overwhelmed with futility and sensed he was on the brink of death. In the darkest part of the night terror swamped him, and, for the first time in his life, he gave up and wept.

“Yes, my son?” the monk murmured. “What is it?”

“Nothing, nothing,” Blackthorne said, his heart thundering. “Go back to sleep.”

“There’s no need to fear. We are all in God’s hands,” the monk said and slept again.

The great terror left Blackthorne. In its place was a terror that could be lived with. I’ll get out of here somehow, he told himself, trying to believe the lie.

At dawn came food and water. Blackthorne was stronger now. Stupid to let go like that, he cautioned himself. Stupid and weak and dangerous. Don’t do that again or you’ll break and go mad and surely die. They’ll put you in the third row and you’ll die. Be careful and be patient and guard yourself.

“How are you today, señor?”

“Fine, thank you, Father. And you?”

“Quite well, thank you.”

“How do I say that in Japanese?”

“Domo, genki desu.”

“Domo, genki desu
. You were saying yesterday, Father, about the Portuguese Black Ships—what are they like? Have you seen one?” “Oh, yes, señor. They’re the greatest ships in the world, almost two thousand tons. As many as two hundred men and boys are necessary to sail one, señor, and with crew and passengers her complement would be almost a thousand souls. I’m told these carracks sail well before the wind but lumber when the wind’s abeam.”

“How many guns do they carry?”

“Sometimes twenty or thirty on three decks.”

Father Domingo was glad to answer questions and talk and teach, and Blackthorne was equally glad to listen and learn. The monk’s rambling knowledge was priceless and far reaching.

“No, señor,” he was saying now.
“Domo
is thank you and
dozo
is please. Water is
mizu
. Always remember that Japaners put a great price on manners and courtesy. Once when I was in Nagasaki—Oh, if I only had ink and a quill and paper! Ah, I know—here, trace the words in the dirt, that will help you to remember them …”

“Domo,”
Blackthorne said. Then, after memorizing a few more words, he asked, “How long’ve Portuguese been here?”

“Oh, the land was discovered in 1542, señor, the year I was born. There were three men, da Mota, Peixoto, and I can’t remember the other name. They were all Portuguese traders, trading the China coasts in a China junk from a port in Siam. Has the señor been to Siam?”

“No.”

“Ah, there is much to see in Asia. These three men were trading but they were caught in a great storm, a typhoon, and blown off their course to land safely at Tanegashima at Kyushu. That was the first time a European set foot on Japan’s soil, and at once trade began. A few years later, Francis Xavier, one of the founding members of the Jesuits, arrived here. That was in 1549 … a bad year for Japan, señor. One of our Brethren should have been first, then we would have inherited this realm, not the Portuguese. Francis Xavier died three years later in China, alone and forsaken…. Did I tell the señor there’s a Jesuit already at the court of the Emperor of China, in a place called Peking? … Oh, you should see Manila, señor, and the Philippines! We have four cathedrals and almost three thousand conquistadores and nearly six thousand Japaner soldiers spread through the islands and three hundred Brethren….”

Blackthorne’s mind filled with facts and Japanese words and phrases. He asked about life in Japan and
daimyos
and samurai and trade and Nagasaki and war and peace and Jesuits and Franciscans and Portuguese in Asia and about Spanish Manila, and always more about the Black Ship that plied annually from Macao. For three days and three nights Blackthorne sat with Father Domingo and questioned and listened and learned and slept in nightmare, to awaken and ask more questions and gain more knowledge.

Then, on the fourth day, they called out his name.

“Anjin-san!”

In the utter silence, Blackthorne got to his feet.

“Thy confession, my son, say it quickly.”

“I—I don’t think—I—” Blackthorne realized through his dulled mind that he was speaking English, so he pressed his lips together and began to walk away. The monk scrambled up, presuming his words to be Dutch or German, and grabbed his wrist and hobbled with him.

“Quickly, señor. I will give the absolution. Be quick, for thine immortal soul. Say it quickly, just that the señor confesses before God all things past and present—”

They were nearing the iron gate now, the monk holding on to Blackthorne with surprising strength.

“Say it now! The Blessed Virgin will watch over you!”

Blackthorne tore his arm away, and said hoarsely in Spanish, “Go with God, Father.”

The door slammed behind him.

The day was incredibly cool and sweet, the clouds meandering before a fine southeasterly wind.

He inhaled deep draughts of the clean, glorious air and blood surged through his veins. The joy of life possessed him.

Several naked prisoners were in the courtyard along with an official, jailers with spears,
eta
, and a group of samurai. The official was dressed in a somber kimono and an overmantle with starched, winglike shoulders and he wore a small dark hat. This man stood in front of the first prisoner and read from a delicate scroll and as he finished, each man began to plod after his party of jailers toward the great doors of the courtyard. Blackthorne was last. Unlike the others he was given a loin cloth, cotton kimono, and thonged clogs for his feet. And his guards were samurai.

He had decided to run for it the moment he had passed the gate, but as he approached the threshold, the samurai surrounded him more closely and locked him in. They reached the gateway together. A large crowd looked on, clean and spruce, with crimson and yellow and golden sunshades. One man was already roped to his cross and
the cross was lifted into the sky. And beside each cross two
eta
waited, their long lances sparkling in the sun.

Blackthorne’s pace slowed. The samurai jostled closer, hurrying him. He thought numbly that it would be the better to die now, quickly, so he steadied his hand to lunge for the nearest sword. But he never took the opportunity because the samurai turned away from the arena and walked toward the perimeter, heading for the streets that led to the city and toward the castle.

Blackthorne waited, scarcely breathing, wanting to be sure. They walked through the crowd, who backed away and bowed, and then they were in a street and now there was no mistake.

Blackthorne felt reborn.

When he could speak, he said, “Where are we going?” not caring that the words would not be understood or that they were in English. Blackthorne was quite light-headed. His step hardly touched the ground, the thongs of his clogs were not uncomfortable, the untoward touch of the kimono was not unpleasing. Actually, it feels quite good, he thought. A little draughty perhaps, but on a fine day like this—just the sort of thing to wear on the quarterdeck!

“By God, it’s wonderful to speak English again,” he said to the samurai. “Christ Jesus, I thought I was a dead man. That’s my eighth life gone. Do you know that, old friends? Now I’ve only one to go. Well, never mind! Pilots have ten lives, at least, that’s what Alban Caradoc used to say.” The samurai seemed to be growing irritated by his incomprehensible talk.