I stared.
Held by the men in Tanaka Saburo’s colours, Fludd yelled out “Traitor!” and then himself shrieked high as a sea-bird, although I could not see how they hurt him.
Saburo raised himself up on his elbows.
Sweat ran down his forehead. His clothes were soaked red from chest to thigh, blood pooling and running into the sand under him, and around him, blackening the silver. He looked down at himself.
“A seppuku cut.” Despite the glassy skin and sweat, he smiled. “Thank you, Dari-ko.”
Her weight slid out of my hand. She dropped to her knees, and crawled forward the three or four feet between herself and the samurai.
I came out of my stupor and got her under the arms again, lifting her, helping her across to him. She sank on her knees before Saburo’s body.
The hashagar officer scuttled forward to kneel behind Saburo, supporting him.
Dariole, collapsed down, echoed, “‘Thank you?’ How can you say thank you!”
“It’s an honourable cut. Honourable death.” Saburo made a movement with his head, as if he would have bowed. I saw his fingers dug nails into his palms.
“Gabriel, do we have any drink?”
Gabriel stood; looked about for the strayed horses.
The samurai shook his head. “I need nothing.”
“Why don’t you help him!” Dariole stared over Saburo’s head at his officer. “Why don’t you get a surgeon?”
“Because he’s dying and there isn’t time,” I said.
“There’s time,” Saburo contradicted.
I looked at him, aghast and hopeful. “Do you mean we can get help?”
Saburo gave a curt shake of his head. “The yamabushi Katarii-na. She told me, I can live ten hours, after the death-stroke. I’ll ask you to give me the second’s cut, when I’ve finished. Gut wound is a bad death.”
The details of the custom of seppuku have come to my attention. I cannot disagree with him.
Silent tears poured down Dariole’s face. She knelt with her right hand pressed over her mouth, her left hand hanging limp, blood slowly dripping from her fingertips.
The samurai’s skin crinkled around his eyes. “I didn’t know it would be you until now, kitsune, little White Fox. I didn’t think you would be good enough, Dari-ko. That was samurai! Remember, no man can be stopped if he isn’t afraid of death.”
The wind blew cold across my chest. I considered sacrificing my shitage undershirt to mop the blood from his belly. Already a man could see the pink of intestines squeezed out into his lap. No need to hurt him uselessly.
“I also would ask for the mercy-stroke under these circumstances.” I knelt down beside Dariole, put my arm around her shoulders, and held her up. “Mademoiselle, let the man speak.”
Saburo gave me a nod.
Dariole screamed hard enough to wreck her throat. “Why?”
I felt it shudder through her, and tightened my grip. Blood loss and grief conspired towards her collapse; only sheer determination kept her up and staring at the samurai.
“Understand, all of this, my plan.” Saburo stopped, momentarily. His hesitation was the only sign of what must be agony.
The officer unstoppered a bamboo water container and held it to his lips. Saburo drank.
“I asked more things of Katarii-na than I told you. Now you and Rosh’fu’ will be the only others to know that—I’ve lied to Furada.”
He paused to smile at the noises coming from Robert Fludd, where the European was held by the soldiers, their hands gagging him.
“And I lie to Shogun Hidetada, when I write to him,” Saburo said. “But it was necessary.”
“Why did you do this!” Dariole gasped.
His smile was more gentle than any expression I’d seen on his face before. “I spoke with Katarii-na. Then, I lied to Furada—he thinks I have brought him here to be advisor to Hidetada Shogun. Like the Anjin-sama, to Ieyass. To build an empire of Nihon.”
“And you haven’t?”
I realised, too late, that sarcasm is perhaps not a proper tone to adopt to a dying man.
Saburo chuckled, reached up with one bloody hand, and patted me on the shoulder. “I knew every man would believe that!”
I took his hand, and let him take out some of his pain in his grip of mine. It felt as though my bones crushed. God He knows what the belly-cut felt like.
“Every man believes in building empires.” Saburo actually smiled. “Not all lies—I told Furada half of what Katarii-na tell me. That there is a terrible weapon that will be used against Nihon in three, four hundred years’ time, before comet. Fire raining from the sky kills all of Nihon. All Nihon, all our enemy; all other lands too…. I tell Furada, to stop it, we mustbuild empire—Furada come to be advisor with Hidetada, Ieyasu’s son. Then, Furada advisor with Iemitsu, Ieyasu’s grandson. That is where I lied.”
His hand fell away from mine. The ground all around him was soaked the black red of clotting blood. The smell caught in my throat, and I felt my gorge rise.
Saburo spoke evenly. “The rest of what Katarii-na truly tells me is this. That fire-rain will come if we have empire. No other way to stop this, but to close our country to the namban. Not conquer. No empire. To exist for ourselves, pure, alone….”
In the corner of my vision, I saw Fludd slumping in the soldiers’ grip.
“Fludd didn’t prophesy this,” I muttered.
Saburo gave a weak amused grunt. “Almost. Furada, that eta, wants to be another who’ll steer the country from behind the Shogun. This is what he say to me, when he came to me at Whitehall.”
Dariole’s shoulders quivered in my grip. She said something so weak I couldn’t catch it. Her face showed white and tanned together; shock and bloodlessness making her look sick. I noted with relief that the second cloth on her arm was not yet soaked through.
“Does Furada think I’m a fool?” Saburo said amiably. “He plans, he would be our secret master…steer us to conquer Korea, and Chin…and then on. Sow the seeds of hatred against us. The powerful are always hated. But this is not for Nihon’s good. Furada doesn’t care who has way to defeat his comet, so long as some land does. If way to defeat his comet comes through same weapons as fire-rain…who cares for us, ne? Not like Katarii-na—Fludd thinks there are other countries left, after Nihon is gone.”
Saburo switched his gaze back to Dariole and, with much effort, reached out; touching her wet fingers with his own.
She burst into noisy tears.
“Shh! Htt!” He shook his head in remonstration. “You are not boy, now. Listen.”
She dragged her sleeve across her face. “I’m listening.”
Her voice was not in her control, but the effort she put into trying made me ache.
“Furada say to me, he cannot make England-empire after Wō-ki, with King-Emperor James alive. The time has passed. I think he calculate, when he foresees I come to England-land, where to go if all things go wrong. Another island. Another sea-empire….”
Saburo gripped Dariole’s good hand hard enough to make her wince. I tightened my grip about her shoulders. There are no surgeons. Selfish as it might be, I could not help the desire in my mind: She will live. She must.
He looked at Dariole from tar black eyes. “Katarii-na prophesied for me. I saw her in the great caverns. She knew I would ask. I think she wanted so bad to get rid of Furada, she look out for me…. She told me that I might save us from most, maybe all, the fire-rain, if the land is shut off from foreigners. Told me how I do that, how I should take Furada here, to Nihon…. Now, I myself will die at a gaijin’s hand—and this will discredit Furada, and all he says, and shift the balance, for Nihon to be closed.”
His smile was all satisfaction, all peace.
“She said, I would know the gaijin who kills me, when I saw. When I see you, Darioru, I think it will be Rosh’-fu’ kills me, after I kill you. Because I kill you. I didn’t think that you’re good enough to kill me. Now, I’m glad I’m wrong.”
Dariole only stared at him. “I don’t understand.”
Saburo reached up and touched her cheek with his blood-wet fingers. “You’re all three gaijin. So, how it will look to Hidetada? There’s been a murder of a samurai, who has not long come back from Europe—and three gaijin have run away. Obvious, they are all guilty. Conspirators. How can we trust these foreigners? They must be plotting against Nihon! Lord Hidetada will support every effort to declare gaijin and Kirishitans and Jesuits forbidden from Nihon, perhaps for always. And in three, four hundred years, the fire-rain will touch us only a little, if at all.”
I knew that later I would think of what he said. Now, I could do no more than listen, stunned, and hold Dariole’s shaking body.
“I killed you!” she said.
“Yes. Thank you,” Saburo repeated. “Now Lord Hidetada and Lord Ieyas’ close the country, like Lord Ieyas’ wanted. I wanted to tell true, why I lie to Hidetada Shogun—true is that, Ieyas’ is always my master.”
He smiled at me. And looked back at her.
“You kill me, Dari-ko; that wipes out my debt to you. I have owed you my life, since the other beach.”
She stared at him, outraged. “No.”
Tanaka Saburo laughed. Weakly, and with pain harsh in it, but nonetheless a laugh. I sweated at the knowledge of what it must cost him.
Dariole looked at him, speechless.
“Is funny, little White Fox,” Saburo said. His body lay still, all except his hands and feet. They now began to shift in very small movements, constantly. Pain.
“Funny,” Saburo repeated. “On the ships as we come here, I watch Furada at his mathematics. He tells me all where you are. He tells me to fight. He tells me we can fight this day, here and now—because his calculating tells him I win.”
He gave Fludd a look of scathing contempt.
“You skilled,” he said, turning back to Dariole. “I am a humble captain of ashigaru, but not bad swordsman. How can Furada calculate every cut, in swordfight? Would need more than three parts of a year!”
“It needs ten years,” I said. “Or so it did, the last time.”
“Eh?”
“No matter.” I shook my head. “Fludd has reason to want to be rid of Dariole and I.”
“I let him send a messenger to you. I knew he’d fail in all his plans.” Saburo made a motion that would have been a shrug, and fat, clear beads of sweat appeared on his forehead. He stared, for a moment, and then spoke, his voice unwavering.
“None of these my men speak any namban language. They have their orders to witness what they see—a quarrel between Furada and other gaijin, then their captain murdered. They will not tell they have ship offshore, sailing to Goa—my orders.” He gave a sudden violent grin. “I owe you half horse, Rosh’-fu’! Ship will have to do.”
I thought of the Normandy beach. “Indeed it will.”
He added, “You go, Darioru-ko. Need gaijin discredited and gone, not dead. If they interrogate, they find no namban plot. Also, I don’t want you and tall samurai here crucified, common criminals.”
Dariole’s body shuddered against mine. Pain and shock, yes; but most of it grief. Tears sheeted down her face in silence.
Saburo’s eyes shifted; I thought that he took in the dark blue of the waters, and the winds in the pines of the promontory. His gaze met mine.
“I understand, now, why I didn’t die when my lord Kobayakawa Hideaki did. I was left behind, to perform this one great task. Now I can die peacefully, and hope always to find a Nihon in which to be re-incarnated. Perhaps with Lord Hideaki’s spirit. One must be loyal to one’s lord, Rosh’-fu’.”
“I know.”
His tone altered, becoming harsh and practical. “I don’t want Furada dead here. Will just confuse matters. Take him away with you. Darioru, kill him when you’re far from Nihon. Go! Take him!”
The urgency in his tone got her up onto her feet. Swaying, and hunched over her bleeding arm, but up. She bobbed her head, as if the bow of the samurai had become automatic to her. Her voice bewildered, she said, “Good-bye, Saburo.”
The young woman hobbled across to the hashagar. I heard Saburo say something quietly to his officer. At the officer’s signal, the soldiers gathered around Dariole and Robert Fludd, shielding her from seeing the dying man beside me.
“Rosh’-fu’, you have good blade.” Saburo seized my wrist. “You know what duty of a second is?”
“I know enough to know I’m not worthy.” I took a deep breath. “And I know my blade isn’t sharp enough. If you desire this, give me yours.”
A smile broke out over his face, and he for one moment looked young, carefree, joyous.
“Better and better. Samurai beheaded by gaijin with own sword! Lord Tokugawa Hidetada shit.”
He held his hand out from his side.
I picked up his cattan-blade, heavy and beautiful in its balance and brightness. I saw him scent the grass and pines; listen to the voices, the wind, the waves.
His hand cut sharply down through the air.
Rochefort, Memoirs
44
B lue sky and blue sea set together disorient the world.
I wondered, on the deck of the Santa Theodora, whether the sea rose far above my head, or the sky continued down under the ship. A week out of Chikuzen province and I stood watching the wet, blue backs of dolphins shining as they leaped, and could not tell whether or not they danced in the sky.
By the end of this first week, I accepted M. Saburo’s word for what he had done—accepted that this ship was not a trap.
Because I have seen him die for his belief.
Translucent and blue, the waters made it always worthwhile the crew dropping a line or two overboard while they sailed, pulling up brightly coloured fish which Gabriel, if not I, took much pleasure in eating. On occasion, through air-clear water, I saw rocks the colour of rubies and sulphur growing up towards the surface.
Messire Saburo had confidence enough to give his life because of what Caterina said will happen in three or four hundred years—so far away as to be unthinkable!
Leaning on the ship’s rail, looking down into the unpredictable water, I reflected on Robert Fludd and his calculations. Which are the same as Suor Caterina’s, in their origin.
Fludd, also, predicts the future of the world; half a millennium from today….
I have a decision to make.
Dariole stayed shut in the tiny cabin I had bribed the first mate into vacating for her; a wooden box barely bigger than the Earl of Salisbury’s coach on land. She said she slept. Certainly she spent her time curled in the box-bed built into the side of the hull. She pulled the doors closed; I could not tell how she stood the humidity and the dark.
More than one decision.
Steady winds moved us west. Salt stiffened hair and clothes. Damp heat made European ruffs (no matter how much starch put into them) droop and lose shape. The officers of the Portuguese ship continued to dress as if due at some diplomatic embassy; I kept to the clothing of the Japans, grateful in that it played a further part in isolating us.
Robert Fludd I did not shackle nor bind. Where might he go, in the infinite wastes of sea?
Prompt on that thought, I made certain that either Gabriel or I should be watching over him. There is always one escape for any man. And perhaps more than one, when a man truly sees what the future will be.
“You will pardon me my suspicions,” I remarked to Fludd, where he lay in the corner below-decks that stored our meagre belongings. “I had thought you defeated before, in London, and…well. You see the result of that.”
He did not move. Dim light showed me his shattered expression. His gaunt face seemed ten years older than it had on Hako Promontory. He had not spoken two words together since he saw Tanaka Saburo’s severed head on the once-white sand.
Ten years of mathematical work, all put at nought….
I watched the skies of the South China Sea and prayed to avoid the yellow-bruise clouds that
presage storm. The Portuguese officers spoke of tuffoon, the non-European crew-members of taaîfung: a great wind of Heaven sudden and swift enough to leave not even oak-wood fragments on the surface if it should pass over the Santa Theodora; death coming for us as precipitously as ever it had been invited by Saburo.
Dariole did not speak.
Gabriel Santon, joining me in the middle parts of the ship on our fifteenth day from Nihon, said bluntly, “What do we do now, Raoul? Take this tame monkey back to the English King, like you said? You don’t think we’d get a better price in Paris—Rome, maybe?”
His sideways glance allowed me to know how much more there was to his question than the surface of it.
I said, “Fludd has predicted correctly. Where he didn’t, it was because of Caterina—and she did. You and I have no way to know about the far future.”
Gabriel grunted.
“But,” I said, “a man might extrapolate from the one to the other. Say that, because what is predicted close at hand is true, then—well, then, Saburo was no fool to die as he did for something afar off.”
Gabriel grunted again. “It’s not like we can do anything about it, Raoul. We’ll be lucky to get to Goa without being drowned like rats in a sewer.”
My first impulse, I realised with surprise, was to go and beat out of M. Fludd how safe our journey might be.
If I have come so far as to trust his knowledge—
“Leave me to think,” I said to Gabriel, and he walked away with a satisfied nod.
Knowledge is power, often. A spy knows that. Who better?
But knowledge is a killing matter, too, and a spy also knows that.
I cast my gaze up, looking at the cloth-slung masts where they diminished up into the infinite sky. So far, clear weather. But if a man could know what the ship would meet on the voyage….
“Would he not have an accountability?” I said softly, to hear the words spoken making the reality come home to me. “A responsibility, to his fellow passengers, to warn them of storms—or smooth the waters, if that was in his power?”
I am not, of late years, accustomed to think in these ways. I wished I might speak again with Tanaka Saburo. We could profitably discuss together that word of his, giri, and how he describes duty as “burden.”
Mary Gentle Page 67