by Shaun Curry
‘Who is the oldest among you?’ The Daimyo scanned the villagers.
No one spoke.
‘Find me the oldest farmer in this village.’
Shigemasa’s samurai rustled through the villagers. After a few minutes of manhandling the farmers, the samurai pushed two old men to the front of the crowd.
‘Bind their hands behind their backs,’ Shigemasa commanded. He turned to the terrified villagers. ‘If you are slow in the rice fields, it means you do not have the proper motivation.’
The Daimyo faced the samurai detaining the two elders. ‘Put them in straw coats.’
The samurai bound layers of straw over the older men as peasants pleaded for mercy for them.
‘Set them alight.’
The bound men cried out in terror and tried to run, but they were old and hampered, and easily caught. The Daimyo’s samurai held them and poured oil over them. Then a samurai struck a wooden match and lit their straw coats.
The flames roared up in a flash as the oil-soaked straw caught fire. The bound men screamed as their flesh burned, and scampered back and forth, twisting and turning in agony in a grotesque imitation of dancing. As the flames burned brightly the men shrieked in high-pitched tones few had ever heard before.
‘Look! They’re dancing.’ A samurai laughed at the burning men.
‘The mino odori – raincoat dance!’ another warrior mocked, to the entertainment of his companions.
As the stench of burning flesh caused the villagers to cover their noses and some to gag, Shigemasa leaned back in his saddle and said, ‘I have no tolerance for poor productivity.’ He pointed his riding crop at the burning bodies. ‘If you do not meet your next quota, I will find two more victims on my return. I trust this will be sufficient motivation to work harder.’
The Daimyo and his retainers left, leaving the charred bodies and wailing villagers in his wake. His work had just begun.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
31 May 1626
Gaijin Bar, Port of Nagasaki
Mateus da Costa sat with his liqueurs and tobacco pipe in the company of four other Portuguese traders, in the back corner of a dark, smoky gaijin bar along Nagasaki’s harbour front. A Portuguese merchant ran the establishment, which held a dozen tightly packed tables. Most of the patrons were European and wore colourful, oversized European clothes, with large boots, baggy pants, and majestic shirts sporting multiple buttons, with excess cloth hanging from the shoulders. Apart from a hint of Japanese ambience, they could have been in a bar on the Lisbon waterfront.
As the evening wore on and Mateus judged that his friends had consumed enough spirits, he decided it was time. ‘Gentlemen, I need you to look deep into your hearts and then dig deep into your pockets. Father Joaquim Martinez and his village of Catholic converts need five hundred pieces of silver, fast. If he does not get it, the authorities will probably kill him.’ Mateus set down his mug of ale with a thump, as if for emphasis. Liquid spilled out of it. ‘The Daimyo might also kill the villagers too – even the children and a newborn.’
‘Why should we help, Mateus?’ a trader asked, swigging half his beer in one large gulp.
Mateus puffed on his pipe and exhaled. ‘Because it’s the right thing to do.’
‘Mateus . . .’ The man leaned forward and grinned. ‘I’m a businessman. The right thing for me to do is make as much money as I can.’ He leaned back and took another large swig from his mug.
‘He’s right,’ a second trader agreed. ‘It’s almost June, and the July trading season is on our doorstep. We all need as much working capital as possible.’
‘Gentlemen, we need to think beyond trade and working capital. As Catholics, we’ve an obligation to help the Church.’
Mateus tried to make eye contact with his fellow traders. It wasn’t easy. Their eyes were squinty, reddened, and glossy from drink and tobacco smoke. But the shrewdness was still there, though hidden among scruffy beards, bad teeth, and long greasy hair.
‘Five hundred silver coins is a hell of a lot of money, meu amigo,’ a third trader said.
‘Why can’t Rome support the Fathers?’ another asked.
‘Because Rome is halfway around the world, busy fighting Protestant heretics, and near-broke, and we all know it. Father Joaquim needs our help now.’
‘Why this priest? Between you and me, I find most of them tedious when they’re not trying to lecture me, or make me feel guilty about drinking and women.’
‘Father Joaquim and I travelled to Japan on the same ship. He and I have known each other for a long time, and he would do anything to help me – or any one of you. Defying the Shogun’s laws for as long as he has, he is one of the bravest men I know. Please, gentlemen, divided five ways it is just one hundred silver coins each.’
‘Just one hundred!’ the third trader scoffed. ‘Do you know how many nights with Japanese yūjo one hundred silver coins could buy?’
‘Oh, he knows,’ the first trader quipped. He turned to face Mateus. ‘How do we know the Father will pay us back? If what you say is true, he’ll likely be dead in a week.’
‘Agreed,’ the second trader added. ‘All the priests are becoming extinct out here.’
‘Then lend me the money, and I will pay you back. I will help the Father.’
‘So we lend you the money, Mateus, not the priest?’ the first trader asked.
‘Yes. I will take responsibility for repayment.’
‘When will we get our money back?’ the second trader asked, slurring his words.
‘Before the new year,’ Mateus said.
He poured shots of sake for all at the table.
The traders shot back their drinks and then puffed on their pipes as they considered the matter. Mateus poured more shots.
‘Ten per cent interest,’ the third trader said.
‘No interest,’ Mateus said. ‘This isn’t a commercial transaction, it’s for the Church.’
The traders puffed on their pipes and cigars again.
‘Fine,’ said the first trader. ‘I will lend you the money on your creditworthiness.’
‘Agreed,’ the other traders echoed.
‘So, we are agreed.’ Mateus smiled and held up his sake cup. ‘Tomorrow afternoon, I will visit each of your quarters to collect.’ He tossed back the rice wine in one shot. ‘Saúde!’ he said, and stepped away from the table, holding his hat in an exaggerated bow to the group, and exiting the smoky bar.
Outside, Mateus took a deep breath. That had been easier than he had imagined it would be. He pinched tobacco into his pipe, lit it, and meandered down the street. He ambled towards his home, feeling tipsy. Before he realized what had happened, he felt himself falling to the ground, his head throbbing and feeling wet. He touched his fingers to his scalp and then, as he examined the blood, heard the distinct sounds of Dutch voices. Dazed and trembling, he glanced up and saw his two attackers. One was medium height with brown hair, blue eyes, with a scar on his face. The other was tall, heavy-set, and powerful-looking.
‘Look what we have here,’ the big Dutchman said, glaring down.
‘A bleeding Roman Portuguese pig,’ the smaller one added.
Mateus moaned as he lay in the street, blood streaming from the gash the bottle had made when the big man had slammed it against his head. He felt nauseous and his vision was becoming blurry as he tried to focus on his dimly lit surroundings.
‘Look, the pig’s squirming in the dirt,’ the smaller Dutchman said, breaking into a hearty laugh. ‘We see too much of you, little pig. Every time we trade, we see you.’
‘We have grown tired of your smell.’ The larger man kicked Mateus in his chest to reinforce his point.
‘Time to start eliminating the competition,’ the smaller man added. He walked over to Mateus, knelt and punched him in the face.
Blood spurted from his nose in a large gush and his head snapped back onto the street. Dizziness threatened to overcome him. Was this his end? He glanced around him looking for help.
But there was none, not even if he could gather his wits enough to cry out for help.
Spitting blood, Mateus gasped for breath, feeling the pain in his side sharpen with each breath. ‘Nagasaki is Portuguese and always will be, especially to heretics like you.’
‘Think again, Roman,’ the larger man said. He kicked Mateus in his side, and felt the cracking of several ribs. Mateus’s breathing became laboured and shallow. The world fluttered and images in the dark became less distinct. Only a stabbing pain in his side provided any clarity.
Mateus cried out, ‘Go back to Holland, you Protestant scum!’ Holding his ribs, he lay curled up in the street, feeling the blood streaming across his face.
‘Sit him up,’ the small Dutchman directed his companion.
The large Dutchman gripped Mateus by his collar and pulled him forward while Mateus gripped his arms ineffectually in a futile effort to stop him.
‘Kiss the Pope for me, Portugee!’ the smaller whispered into his ear from behind. He pulled a knife from his jacket. Mateus struggled as he saw the metal glint of the blade in the moonlight. He thought to scream for help but only a dull gurgle emerged as the knife sliced open his throat from left to right. They let him go and he sank like a collapsing bag of air into the gutter.
‘Quick, find his bag. Get the money!’ the smaller Dutchman said.
His companion opened Mateus’s bag, replacing the few coins he had left with several articles, including a Bible and a large crucifix.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
1 June 1626
Gaijin Residential Quarters, Nagasaki City
Father Joaquim knelt against Mateus’s bed murmuring a prayer in the early morning light, his knees sore on the cold ground. He was reaching for his Bible when the front door of the house crashed open.
Joaquim rose to his feet and stashed his Bible under the bed-covers. He went to the front room with a terror gripping his chest that the authorities had come for him. The Jesuit immediately saw four stern-looking officers, who had smashed in Mateus’s door. They wore official navy-blue uniforms, along with matching hats.
‘Halt where you are!’ the first official shouted as Joaquim entered the room. The officers spread out, doing their best to encircle the priest.
‘What are you doing here?’ another demanded. ‘Are you Christian? Are you praying?’
‘Who are you?’ the first official asked. ‘Stand still!’
Joaquim faced the officials, unaware that he had adopted a sideways defensive posture and was balancing on the balls of his feet. He noted that each had his hand on the hilt of his sword.
‘You’re under arrest,’ an official said forcefully.
‘Please, calm down,’ Father Joaquim replied. ‘I’m a trader, a colleague of Mateus da Costa, the man who lives here. He will straighten out all of this upon his return.’
‘Mateus da Costa is dead!’ the lead official declared. ‘You are a Christian priest!’
‘What?’ Joaquim exclaimed, wondering how they could possibly know. It dawned on him that it didn’t matter whether they thought it true or not. He was a foreigner – that was enough these days.
His shoulders tightened and his hands began to sweat. He found his breath becoming rapid and shallow. Blinking, he forced himself to ignore the news of his friend’s death and deal with the immediate situation. With an instinct born of years of practice facing martial arts opponents, Joaquim forced himself to deepen and slow his breathing and relax his body.
‘Someone murdered him in the port area last night. And now you are under arrest.’
‘We will crucify you, Padre,’ another official declared with an intense stare. ‘Come with us!’
‘I don’t want to hurt anyone, but I cannot go with you today,’ Joaquim answered.
‘Don’t be stupid, Padre. We will kill you if you resist.’ In a show of force, the officials unsheathed their swords and advanced. The leading official raised his katana for a swiping downward blow, so Joaquim stepped towards him and inside his raised arms. Taking advantage of a momentary surprise on the official’s face he grabbed one sword arm and delivered an open-handed blow to his chest, forcing him backwards into the other three officials. They became a jumbled mass of arms and legs in the confined space. In the confusion, Joaquim stabbed his thumb into the back of the wrist nearest him, causing a sharp, involuntary spasm of pain through the man’s hand. His fingers flew open, releasing his sword, leaving him disarmed. One of the officers at the back of the group who was still standing took a threatening step towards the priest, and with the skill of a seasoned master Joaquim delivered precise, savage throat slashes to the leading men. Two of his attackers collapsed, as fountains of arterial blood sprayed from their wounds.
‘Put down your sword,’ one of the two remaining officials shouted nervously.
‘You first.’
‘Kill him!’ The lead official charged at Joaquim, swiping his sword from left to right. The second official hesitated. With a deft strike, Joaquim knocked the sword from the first attacker’s hand and kicked him in the chest, sending him flying into his colleague. Each lost his balance and stumbled sideways. As they tried to stand, Joaquim cut them down with precise slashes to their necks.
Surveying the carnage, sword still in hand, Joaquim prayed, ‘Lord, forgive me, for I have sinned.’ He stared at his gore-drenched hands and dropped the sword. Then he grabbed his bag and recovered the hidden Bible.
For years, he had studied the craft of war from Master Yamaguchi, but it had always been an exercise to develop a mastery of self-control. Now he finally understood what he had been studying, what ‘self-defence’ really meant.
The priest dropped his head and said a prayer for the men he had just murdered, knowing that they had left him no choice but to kill them before they killed him. It still felt like it was not a good enough reason. He struggled to reconcile his actions with his faith. He forced himself to change quickly out of his bloody clothes into simple clean ones, then stepping through the blood-soaked door, fled Mateus da Costa’s home as though the archangel Michael was hot on his heels.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
1 June 1626
Arima
Master Yamaguchi carried a large old pot and paced among the villagers, pouring water into wooden cups for the exhausted villagers working the rice paddies.
He finished pouring and stood up straight. ‘Listen,’ he said, ‘let’s play a game.’
The children cheered as they leaped from the ground and rushed towards him.
‘What game shall we play, Master Yamaguchi?’ a girl asked, tugging at the old man’s worn-out garments.
‘I propose a competition: adults versus children. The winners get to take the rest of the day off.’ Master Yamaguchi smiled down at the children.
‘What’s the game? What’s the game?’ the children squealed as they bounced from foot to foot.
‘The game is simple,’ Master Yamaguchi replied. ‘It’s called rocks in the pot.’
‘What’s that?’
‘Let me explain.’ Master Yamaguchi held out his hands, beckoning the children to settle down and listen.
‘Here is the pot, and there are the rocks.’ Master Yamaguchi pointed at a small pile of rocks near the edge of the rice field.
‘From a distance of ten feet, you will throw rocks into the pot. The group with the most rocks in the pot takes the rest of the day off.’
‘Competition accepted!’ a parent shouted as he leaped from his feet and ran towards the rocks. ‘We will not let these measly children beat us.’
‘You’re right,’ a mother laughed. ‘I think the adults deserve a day off, not these cheeky children.’
For a moment at least, the mood changed, and the villagers were living, not just working to avoid death.
‘There are twelve children, so we need twelve adults!’ Master Yamaguchi shouted as he set the rules. ‘Two rocks per player.’
The children cheered as they ran to the front of the group, pushing
to be the first to throw.
Master Yamaguchi intervened, settling the matter. At the front, young Shiro fended off the other children.
‘Well, it looks like Shiro-kun will be the first to throw,’ Master Yamaguchi declared.
Master Yamaguchi knew the village recognized Shiro as a talented boy. Not only was he strong in the flesh, but the villagers regarded him as intelligent and spiritual. By the age of four, when he wasn’t working in the fields, Shiro could already read and write. Regarded as a child prodigy, he spent much of his time with Catechist Tonia, becoming proficient in Latin and Portuguese, and memorizing hundreds of verses from the Bible. By the age of six, he had already developed a strong faith in God and become a leader and role model for the other village children. It was thus no surprise that Shiro would be the first child to throw.
‘Let us start,’ Master Yamaguchi instructed.
Shiro focused on the task and closed his eyes for a few seconds, taking a moment to pray. When he opened them, the other children cheered as they wished him well in his throw. With no hesitation, young Shiro threw his stone ten feet into the air, landing it dead centre in Master Yamaguchi’s pot.
The children cheered again, this time in delight. Master Yamaguchi and the parents in the village applauded.
‘I will be the next to throw,’ Shiro’s uncle stated as he paraded to the front, edging his nephew out of the way with a smile. ‘I think you will find the adults just as capable.’
With his shoulders back and chin high, Shiro’s uncle threw his stone high in the air, and it also landed in Master Yamaguchi’s pot. Most of the adults gave him a clap of congratulation while the children looked on in anticipation.
The throwing continued until almost all the stones were tossed, the adults keeping the score equal until the final lobs of the game. The score was seven to seven, with one child and one adult left to throw.
The last child walked up to the line: a young girl of nine, with long dark hair and a cheery smile. The crowd chanted with enthusiasm, aware this would be the children’s last throw.