The Samurai of Seville

by John Healey

  By dawn he had reached the hamlet of La Señuela, where he hid the raft and ate bits of bread he’d wrapped in a cloth. As the daylight hours went by, he slept or stared at his sorry hands and performed all of the exercises El Camborio had taught him. When Venus appeared, the evening star, he pushed back out into the river, and by the following dawn he arrived in Sanlúcar de Barrameda.

  The water there was no longer fresh, but salty from the sea. It smelled of clean brine and ocean, and it was colder and deeper even as the air he breathed was warm. The shore he set foot on was made from sand rather than mud, and walking toward the town as the sun came up, he reached the dock where their ship had been moored, where he’d spent his first night in Spain. The ship was no longer there, and the dock was empty. Above in the sky that had lightened into a tender blush of pale blue, the moon was still visible and in that light could be seen as a fading sphere.

  – XXX –

  In which a mother is lost and another gained

  On the night she and Shiro were assaulted, Guada fled her house by way of the servant’s entrance and walked the streets alone until she reached the palacete of her parents. Both were in residence and appalled by the bruises about her face and the violent tale she related. Rodrigo, somewhat unconvincingly, for neither woman paid him much mind when he said it, promised to give Julian ‘a thorough thrashing he’ll never forget.’

  But by the following morning their tone had cooled. Rodrigo left the house early to visit an estate, and Doña Inmaculada came to Guada’s bedroom when her daughter was taking breakfast.

  ‘How long do you plan on staying here?’ the mother asked.

  ‘For as long as I have to,’ said Guada. ‘Until we can get Julian to leave my house.’

  ‘It is his house.’

  ‘But you gave it to me.’

  ‘We gave it to the both of you, but it is, of course, registered in his name. It was part of your dowry and the least we could do in exchange for the lands that came to us from his family.’

  ‘What are you telling me, mother?’

  ‘That perhaps you should give him some time to calm down and apologize.’

  Tears came into the girl’s bloodshot eyes.

  ‘He beat me and raped me. Apparently, he has killed a man in cold blood and had another brutally assaulted before my eyes. What are you saying?’

  Guada began to cry. Inmaculada sat on the bed near her daughter but made no move to comfort her.

  ‘Do you remember the conversation we had, in Carmona, before you were married?’ Doña Inmaculada asked.

  ‘What of it?’

  ‘You asked me whether your father had been gentle with me, ever. And I explained to you how we came to no longer share a bed.’

  Inmaculada paused for a moment, taking a fold of Guada’s coverlet between her ring and index fingers, recalling its provenance, from her own mother’s dowry.

  ‘There was a time when my life with your father sometimes resembled what you went through yesterday. Men are beasts, my dear. Look at what was done to our savior. Study the Stations of the Cross. And yet you and your brother were born and prospered. Your father and I still live under the same roof. We have learned, over time, to be civil with each other, even to appreciate each other.’

  Guada dried her tears with a large linen napkin.

  ‘My father and Julian share the same whore.’

  ‘And what does that tell you?’ Inmaculada asked.

  Guada looked away, feeling betrayed and alone, a stranger in her own home. She saw what they were up to. She looked back at Doña Inmaculada, swearing to herself that she would do all in her power to never acquiesce and end up like her mother. But all she said was ‘Very well mother.’

  ‘Very well what?’

  ‘I shall think on what you have said.’

  After breakfast and her toilette, after examining her face in a mirror and reliving once again all that had befallen her, she sent a note to her aunt Soledad, who responded immediately. By early that afternoon, she had moved once again.

  ‘Your mother is a sufferer,’ Doña Soledad said. ‘I am not.’

  They were seated together in the same light-filled chamber where the older woman had received the Duke.

  ‘I withstood a tempest,’ she added. ‘But not for long.’

  ‘What can I do?’ Guada asked.

  ‘Very little,’ her aunt replied. ‘That is to say, there are some fundamental things you cannot change. As women, we have scant recourse. The house is his. You cannot throw him out, though perhaps he will tire of Sevilla and leave of his own accord. I remained in mine and bolted my suites to my husband, and he continued to carry on in his own part of the house like a drunken fool until he died from it.’

  ‘I cannot go back there,’ Guada said. ‘I cannot be alone with him, anywhere, ever again, nor do I wish to set eyes upon him, ever again.’

  ‘Then you shall stay with me,’ Soledad said, taking her niece’s hand. ‘For as long as you wish. And when I die, this house shall be yours. And he will never be admitted here or to any of my properties that will all be yours someday, as well.’

  Guada began to cry again, this time from gratitude, and she put her arms about her aunt, who in turn held the girl close and kissed the top of her head.

  ‘I hope you can pardon me for what I am about to say,’ her aunt went on, speaking gently but with a tremor of anger in her voice. ‘But it is my view that your parents are greedy, needlessly so because they are extremely wealthy. The estates that have been added to their ledgers thanks to your marriage mean, I fear, as much to them as your own happiness. I do not understand it. It is as if Inmaculada wishes you to have the life she has had.’

  ‘I won’t,’ Guada said.

  Soledad looked at her intently, tears coming into her eyes, as well.

  ‘No, you won’t. I can see that. And, you know, despite their avarice, ours is the better family by many gradations, something those in power appreciate.’

  ‘For whatever good that does me,’ Guada said.

  ‘It means that over time, as word goes around, Julian’s star shall dim, more and more, and when you take a lover, the King shall approve.’

  ‘A lover.’

  ‘Alonso informed me you had a suitor, though I’m afraid he shall never do.’

  ‘A suitor?’

  ‘A young man from Japan, one who speaks Spanish and who, according to the Duke, saved his life.’

  Guada lowered her head and smiled to think the Duke had said such a thing to her aunt, but then the smile turned into a look of distress.

  ‘What is it, Guada?’

  ‘The man you speak of is the one Julian had beaten so badly. They stabbed him and broke his hands and threw him into the street.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Perhaps then it was jealousy on Julian’s part.’

  ‘No. Julian knows nothing, not that there was anything to know. Shiro—for that is how the foreigner is called—came to avenge the death of a friend he accused Julian of murdering.’

  Soledad continued to hold her niece, listening to all she said, and as she listened, she gave silent thanks for her advanced years, for she remembered how painful it was to be young.

  – XXXI –

  In which Hasekura Tsunenaga takes a breath

  Born Hasekura Rokuemon Tsunenaga in the Sendai Domain in 1571, he was baptized by the barbarians Don Francisco Felipe Faxicura, the surname being their best approximation of his real name. Since the day of the ceremony, he attended mass each morning and prayed each afternoon with Father Sotelo along with six other Samurais who’d taken their conversion to heart.

  But on the day that Shiro returned to Sanlúcar by the river raft, Hasekura was standing in his room in the Monasterio de San Francisco, staring out through a narrow window at fertile green plains rolling westward. He was feeling weary and homesick once again. The Christian imagery he had been subjected to day after day had worn him down: the whippings and the fl
ayings, the bleeding victim nailed to a cross. The myriad restrictions insisted upon by his new faith confounded him. And for however intently he mouthed the prayers, shutting his eyes tight, nothing seemed to come of it.

  What was he doing so far from home? In the core of his being he sensed it was time to move on, to get the rest of the journey over with. To be back at sea, even though it meant a voyage to Rome that was farther still from the land of his ancestors, would at least mean he’d be that much closer to completing the mission, that much closer to being able to set sail for Sendai.

  Everything went so slowly in this country, the layers of bureaucracy, the finding and provisioning of a ship, the letters and permissions sent back and forth. And what, he wondered, had become of Shiro? Had the boy gone native? Or perhaps he had gotten himself into trouble, or fallen ill, or worse. And if so, how might Date Masamune react? Might the powerful Daimyo hold him responsible? He determined to make an effort to look for the young Samurai, or at least to seem to.

  Rather than attend yet another foul meal with the others, one that would be prefaced by yet more prayers, he decided instead to take a walk. He wished to leave the dark, musty palace for the fresh, clean air blowing down from the nearby mountains. Spring had come and taken over the landscape, permeating the city and the surrounding plains with verdancy and blossoms. Gathering his gear and descending to the front hall, he stated his intentions to the priests and the guards and moved quickly into the narrow streets before someone might hail him, attach themself to him, slow him down.

  In half an hour’s time, striding east, he’d passed the San Jerónimo El Real Church and entered a placid, wooded park where beggars abounded, where couples walked together, chaperones in tow, where families congregated on the grass to take their midday meal. He came to a stream that ran through a glen. The earth, refreshed and invigorated, smelled of pine and rosemary, the air carried a delicate scent of lilac and honeysuckle. Though he was stared and pointed at, the passersby always greeted him with respect. His somber mood lifted, and he was forced to admit that despite their gloomy religion, these Spaniards had something commendable about them—a pride in their gait, a ready smile, a courteousness that rivaled his own.

  He slaked his thirst in the stream and found a sunlit expanse of grass nearby and lay down upon his back. Above he looked at the bluest of skies and at sculpted clusters of the upper branches of three Mediterranean pines. He closed his eyes and felt the sun upon his lids, seeing red through them. He inhaled the air, listening to the stream and to children playing in the distance. His father and older brother would be dead by now, his disgraced mother bitter and inconsolable. Perhaps it was not all that bad to be there in the sunlight on the other side of the Earth.

  – XXXII –

  In which the Admiral bids the world adieu

  Rosario was in her first trimester and showing. ‘He fell ill on the evening the annulment arrived from Rome. We were in bed after celebrating. He had had too much to drink. Suddenly the blood drained from his face, and he began to moan and vomit. Eventually he calmed down and fell asleep. I cleaned him and cleaned the floor and let him be. In the morning I found him in tears, half of his body, his left side, paralyzed, half of his face drooping. He was unable to speak. The doctors came and bled him and prepared all manner of herbs and potions. But nothing helped. After a week or so he improved and insisted we marry immediately in case he suffered a relapse. The priest came to the bedroom along with the mayor who served as our witness. For the next few days he seemed to get better still, but then he had another attack.”

  ‘May I see him?’ Shiro asked.

  ‘Of course,’ she said. ‘He’ll be so pleased you’ve returned.’

  ‘Might there be some garments I could borrow?’

  ‘Certainly.’

  ‘Does his son know? Does the King know?’

  ‘Juan Manuel was here last week and left distraught. As for the King, I have no idea.’

  ‘Was he kind to you?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Juan Manuel.’

  ‘He was civil. Though when he saw I was carrying his father’s child he seemed irritated.’

  ‘How could he leave his father’s side?’

  The Duke’s bedroom in Sanlúcar commanded an impressive view of the beach and the swirling tides of the delta. The water was green that morning where the river met the sea, and there was a sandbar showing and the sun sparkled on the surface of the water all the way across to the wetlands. A suit of armor stood in a corner next to the model of a Spanish galleon. The bed was high and canopied and enclosed with heavy velvet curtains dyed a deep burgundy.

  Shiro came in behind Rosario. The Samurai had changed from what remained of his ragged robe and trousers into Christian garb. He kept his hands behind him. The Duke was awake, and when he recognized the Samurai he made a grunting noise laced with satisfaction. Shiro smiled and tried to conceal his alarm, for his friend looked much older and frail. The Duke motioned for Rosario to hand him a pen and paper. He wrote something and handed it to Shiro. It read—where are your clothes?

  The Samurai smiled and said, ‘I’ve had an adventure and lost them along the way.’

  The Duke attempted to smile back, but with his good eye he studied the young man carefully, taking in his rough-hewn countenance. Then he reached out with his right hand, forcing Shiro to reveal his own. He hoped the Duke would not notice the damage done to it, but the hope was in vain. The grandee examined the mangled fingers that, though recovered with some movement, still bore scars and presented an appendage difficult to contemplate. He then motioned to see the other hand, and Shiro showed it to him. Rosario left them alone.

  For a long time afterwards, Shiro would torture himself with the thought that the anger his tale elicited from the Duke had been the cause of the nobleman’s final stroke. Later that night, after Shiro and Rosario finished the evening meal, they went to the master bedroom to say goodnight and found the Grandee alive but unresponsive. Three days later he was dead.

  Often during the last five years, the Duke had wondered how it might be, how it might come. It came during the night and woke him up. It was as if something inside had given out, opened, and loosened, and his life was suddenly flowing away. It did not hurt. But as he realized the gravity of it, the absolute finality of it, his fragile heart fluttered with fear. He tried to hold on at first, to keep his eye on the moon out the window, as if to grab onto a branch or some exposed root protruding from the riverbank. But his vision darkened, and the branch broke. The root proved too slippery. He was too frightened to pray. As his spirit dimmed and the world went on oblivious to his drama, he searched out memories in the hope one might assuage him. But instead, the memories that came at him seemingly did so of their own accord, rose up from god knows where within his dimming brain.

  His mother’s hand holding his as they walked along the beach on a sunlit morning and the sound of her voice. The horses being driven off his ship into the Irish Sea, but now he was in the water with them and the ship moved on. A day as a lad when he’d gotten lost in the Sierra Morena and fallen asleep under a tree and then woke at dawn on damp earth hearing birds, new to the world.

  – XXXIII –

  In which a verdugo raises welts and Guada writes a letter

  Shiro was not prepared to face some of those who would come for the funeral, and he was concerned that Julian might be among them. He decided to leave. Rosario offered him the palace in Medina-Sidonia and he accepted.

  On his last night in Sanlúcar, he heard sounds of flagellation coming from Rosario’s chamber. Pushing past a maid guarding her mistress’s door, he knocked and then entered. Rosario was naked from the waist up and whipping herself with a stay, a verdugo she’d removed from her hoopskirt. Her back was a crisscross of welts. Tears streamed down her cheeks and breasts. He bade her to cease, but she ignored him until he came up to her and grabbed as best he could the wrist of the hand holding the verdugo. She stared at his hand and renewed her
sobs. He gave her a cloak with which to cover herself and held her during that night until the sobbing stopped and she fell asleep. He was gone the following morning.

  Guada, Doña Inmaculada, and Soledad Medina attended the funeral. At Guada’s insistence, Julian did not. When the burial concluded, Rosario told Guada that Shiro had been there only days before. Guada walked out alone on the terrace overlooking the estuary. She sat on a stone bench and wrote to the Samurai. Doña Soledad, who had wandered up to the master bedroom, looked down at her niece from the window and contemplated the girl’s youth and the clean beach beyond still there even though the Duke was gone. He had taken her into the bed behind her, the bed he had died in. They had lain there together still young and content, at least for a while, when the thought of a day like this had been the furthest thing from their minds.

  – XXXIII –

  In which words are exchanged

  Shiro,

  Rosario has told me of your state and whereabouts and why it was you came back to Sevilla. She has treated my mother and me more graciously than we deserve. Her untimely widowhood weighs upon us.

  I have no words to describe the shock and pain, the anger and despair I felt and feel for what happened to you. But I rejoice to learn you have survived and that you have made some recovery.

  If you decide to tear this letter into pieces, I will understand. But if you find room in your heart to answer me, by all means send word in care of my aunt, in Sevilla, Doña Soledad Pérez Medina de la Cerda, in whose home I now reside. Since that horrible evening, I have refused to see my husband, and I shall never do so again.

  Yours in Christ, Guada

  Doña Guada,

  This is the first letter I have ever written in any language. Since my hands have yet to heal properly, a gentleman here still in the late Duke’s employ has kindly offered to transcribe it for me.