Shogun

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, senor. 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 Taiko’s personal seal, senor, 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, senor. Just us, senor. We had been falsely accused. The Jesuits had poured poison in the Taiko’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, senor, 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, senor, 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, senor, 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, senor, 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, senor, 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, senor, 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, senor?”

“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, senor. 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, senor, 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, senor,” 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, senor, 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 senor 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, senor. 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 senor there’s a Jesuit already at the court of the Emperor of China, in a place called Peking? .?.?. Oh, you should see Manila, senor, 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!”

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

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