The audience exchanged unreadable glances, and the room’s atmosphere changed. Sano sensed a pressure against his ears and skin, as if from an approaching storm.
“Yes. Well,” Governor Nagai said. “I suggest that in your rush to incriminate your fellow Japanese, you don’t overlook the barbarians on Deshima. Otherwise, you might suffer worse consequences than a superficial arrow wound.”
Sano hadn’t mentioned this. “Who told you about the attack?” he asked.
Nagai smiled briefly. “I have my sources.”
Either Nagasaki’s spy network was very efficient, or Nagai had some other way of knowing. “I haven’t overlooked Deshima,” Sano said, emphasizing the last word to tell them that he didn’t mean only the Dutch. “The attack suggests that something is wrong there. Something that someone doesn’t want me to know about.”
When he explained about chasing the lights, his words dropped into a pool of silence. Then Yoriki Ota said, “You got shot while chasing ghosts? Ha, ha. You probably scared a drunk who thought you were a ghost, and fired at you.”
His laughter sounded artificial, but the others joined in. “Think what you will,” Sano said coldly. “But I mean to get to the truth about Deshima. When I do, I’ll find Jan Spaen’s murderer. And I should think it would be in your interest to support my efforts.”
“Of course it is, sōsakan-sama,” Governor Nagai said placatingly. “We must work together to save the city.”
“I’m glad we agree on something.” Still, Sano wondered whether Nagasaki’s administrators wanted Spaen’s murderer caught, or had reason to sabotage his investigation. Had they staged the attempt on his life? If so, why? Because Chamberlain Yanagisawa had ordered it?
Now Sano hoped that pursuing the murder’s Christian angle would lead him to the truth he must find, in spite of the danger.
Nagasaki jail was a complex of tile-roofed buildings set on multiple levels of a terraced slope near the edge of town. Guard towers rose from the surrounding high stone walls. In the adjacent neighborhoods, tumbledown shacks lined narrow alleys down which ragged peasants toiled and reeking open gutters flowed. Jails were places of death and defilement, where no one went voluntarily. Only the poor, who could afford no better accommodations, would live nearby.
As Sano dismounted outside the jail’s ironclad gate, he surveyed the crowds and saw a familiar figure: the paunchy guard from his mansion. Coincidence might have brought the guard here, but Sano guessed that the man was spying on him.
Or waiting for a chance to kill him?
“I wish to see the official in charge of eliminating Christianity from Nagasaki,” Sano told a gate sentry.
“That would be Chief Persecutor Dannoshin Murashige. I’ll take you to him.”
Sano secured his horse at the gate and followed his escort into a large compound, where more guards patrolled earthen paths between buildings with cracked plaster walls. Screams and groans issued from tiny, barred windows. The guard took Sano through passages, up flights of stone steps, and through other gates to the prison’s uppermost level. Here, neat, freshly plastered barracks with dark woodwork and latticed windows surrounded a small courtyard. Sano’s escort led him to the largest building, into a room where samurai knelt in rows before a dais. Upon it stood a low desk from behind which presided Chief Persecutor Dannoshin.
Stout and middle-aged, Dannoshin had pale, moist-looking skin and the soft flabbiness of a man accustomed to rich food and no physical exercise. Puffs of fat surrounded his narrow eyes; a double chin girded his neck. His mouth was full and red, the corners upturned in a perpetual smirk. Wearing a glossy cream silk kimono printed with mauve irises, he looked like an idle bureaucrat. Yet Dannoshin’s authoritative manner imposed an air of military discipline upon the assembly.
“We must increase our efforts to banish Christianity from Japan.” His voice, a heavy, deep monotone, brooked no resistance. To a group of men seated to his right, he said, “You shall administer the Anti-Christianity Oath to two hundred citizens a day instead of the usual one hundred.”
“Yes, Honorable Chief Persecutor,” the men chorused. They filed out of the room, taking portraits of the Christian deity for the oath takers to trample, and scrolls for them to sign.
Dannoshin addressed his remaining subordinates. “You will search fifty houses for Christian crosses, pictures, and holy writings. Leave no place or person unexamined.”
The searchers left, carrying spears for threatening citizens and poking into small spaces. The chief persecutor bowed to Sano. “Greetings, sōsakan-sama. Have you come to inspect Nagasaki’s anti-Christian operations? You’ll find that we’ve been very successful in controlling the spread of Christianity. However, the rabble cling tenaciously to their faith. Total eradication will take time.”
Dannoshin’s sly smile hinted at his pleasure in harassing citizens. Sano immediately distrusted him, but he needed the chief persecutor’s help. Approaching the dais, he opened his cloth pouch, took out the crucifix, and explained that it had been found on Director Spaen’s corpse.
“I’m trying to track down the owner, who may be a member of Nagasaki’s Christian community, and involved in the murder.”
The chief persecutor took the crucifix from Sano. Their hands touched; Dannoshin’s was repulsively warm and moist. As he examined the intricate carving, his pale, thick tongue slid over his lips, coating them with glistening saliva.
“A fine example of Spanish work,” he said. “We don’t see these often; most have been destroyed. The last time one turned up was in a raid on a secret Christian church ten years ago. I personally supervised the melting of all the gold and silver artifacts. So I must conclude that this crucifix belonged to a Dutch barbarian, who brought it with him to Japan and placed it on Director Spaen’s corpse after killing him.” He smiled, and his eyes creased into puffy slits.
“But it’s my understanding that all Christian artifacts are confiscated from the Dutch before they enter Japan,” Sano said, “and not returned to them until the ship leaves.”
Dannoshin shrugged. “The barbarians are clever. They probably hid this crucifix so well that it wasn’t discovered during the search. Nothing like it has survived the vigorous persecution that has reduced Japan’s Christian population from over three hundred thousand to a few hundred.” He handed the crucifix back to Sano with an air of finality.
Sano imagined searchers turning the city inside out, day after day, year after year. He understood the difficulty of locating every hiding place in the Dutch ship. However, he knew that the Japanese, too, were clever—and determined. Families who had preserved their traditions and treasures during wars, famines, and natural disasters could retain their religious faith and artifacts despite persecution.
“Are there any individuals whom you suspect of practicing Christianity?” Sano persisted.
The chief persecutor compressed his lips in irritation. “You shan’t find the barbarian’s killer among them. When a Christian cell is discovered, the members are jailed. Their associates are relocated in order to disperse any remaining evil influence. There are several people under surveillance now, and if any tried to approach Deshima, they would have been arrested. We exert great effort to prevent contact between Japanese Christians and foreigners. And the effort has been very successful. Come. I’ll show you.”
Rising, he led Sano outside and through a guarded gate. “Welcome to Nagasaki Jail’s Christian compound.”
Sano knew that Nagasaki, where Christianity had first taken root in Japan, had always harbored the largest concentration of converts and thus seen the most severe persecution in the country. During the Great Martyrdom some seventy years ago, churches had been destroyed and one hundred twenty Christians beheaded or burned to death. Subsequent regimes had carried out over five hundred more executions. Sano had heard that Nagasaki’s current administration continued the relentless, brutal campaign against the few remaining Christians. But his first sight of the Christian compound didn’t co
nfirm this.
Within the fenced yard stood ten neat, thatched huts. Through the windows, Sano saw men and women placidly spinning yarn and sewing clothes; mothers nursing babies; families eating meals together; a doctor lighting herbal healing cones on a patient’s chest.
“This is most of what remains of Nagasaki’s Christian community,” Dannoshin announced with a proud sweep of his pale, fat hand. “Sixty people, including children. Locked away so they can cause no harm.”
In a larger building, residents bathed in wooden tubs or strolled around the room, watched by guards. More guards patrolled the yard; otherwise, the compound was a far cry from the jail’s grim dungeons and torture chambers.
“The rabble are allowed to sell the things they sew, and keep the money,” Dannoshin said. “Men and women have separate quarters, but families can visit freely. They can wash and take walks in the common house, and if they get sick, we cure them.”
Sano was about to commend the chief persecutor for his humane treatment of the prisoners, and to ask if he might question them about fellow Christians outside the prison. Then Dannoshin added, “You might think we’re too easy on them, but harsh punishment only makes them cleave more stubbornly to their faith. It creates martyrs, who attract more converts. We treat them well so they’ll behave.”
He licked his lips and smiled, a salacious leer. “I prefer to concentrate my efforts on a few favored individuals whom I believe will make good informants. As you will see.”
Dannoshin ushered Sano into a small fenced enclosure. From a pulley attached to a pole, a man hung by a rope tied around his ankles. His head and torso dangled into a pit dug in the ground. His entire body was swathed in dirty hemp sacking, except for the right arm, which dangled free. Two guards awaited his confession. Sano stared, aghast.
“This torture method was devised by the governor who ruled Nagasaki seventy years ago,” Dannoshin said. “He convinced a Jesuit priest to renounce his faith this way. He also forced Christian women to crawl naked through the streets, where they were violated by ruffians. Then he had them thrown into tubs full of snakes.” Saliva welled at the corners of Dannoshin’s smile. “When the snakes entered their bodies, the women were more than willing to give up.”
Seizing the rope, he hauled the prisoner out of the pit. The man’s face was purple and bloated, his eyes swollen shut. Blood oozed from his mouth, nose, and ears. His shaved crown and knotted hair marked him as a samurai; his lips moved in a cracked whisper: “God have mercy on my soul …”
“He’s been here four days,” Dannoshin said. He peered into the prisoner’s face. “Tozō. Are you ready to renounce your faith and tell me the names of other Christians you know? If you are, then just raise your hand, and I’ll free you.”
The prisoner’s arm remained limp. “God … Gesu … Maria …” he whispered.
Though conditioned to despise Christians and accept the bakufu’s authority, Sano admired the prisoner’s courage. He deplored torture, and the perversion that made Dannoshin enjoy such awful work. Sano remembered that Christianity was a tool of war, used by the barbarians to command loyalty and foment internal strife. Had it not been suppressed and its foreign proponents expelled, the Japanese might now be subjects of the Spanish crown. Sano had sworn a blood oath against Christianity, but he couldn’t allow such terrible abuse of a helpless fellow samurai. All his anger toward the cruel, oppressive Tokugawa regime rose up in him.
“Take him down!” Sano ordered.
Dannoshin gaped. “But he hasn’t cooperated yet.”
“I don’t care. Take him down. Now!”
“All right. If you say so.” Shrugging, the chief persecutor let his minions lay the prisoner on the ground. He shot Sano a glance full of resentful insinuation. “Four days’ work, wasted. One might think that even a naïve, thoughtless newcomer would know better than to sympathize with Christian rabble. There is such a thing as guilt by inference and association.”
Sano didn’t lower himself to answer the chief persecutor’s insults or threats. He couldn’t stand the sight of Dannoshin or the smirking guards. “Leave us,” he said.
Once alone with the prisoner, he knelt by the man’s side and loosened the tight sacking. Tozō’s chest rose and fell in slow, barely perceptible breaths. His lips formed the names of his Christian deities.
“Tozō,” Sano said. “Can you hear me?”
The swollen eyes cracked open. Blood filmed the whites. “God have mercy,” Tozō whispered through the blood that burbled from his lips.
Sano grasped the man’s free hand. “Your ordeal is over,” he said. “You can die in peace now.”
“Die … yes.” Tozō smiled. “Enter … the holy Kingdom … of Heaven.” He stared beatifically at the sky. “For God is the glory …”
A deep, wracking cough convulsed his body. Blood gushed from his mouth. He began to tremble uncontrollably. The death throes seemed to rob him of courage and faith, and the painful reality of dying to banish dreams of divine paradise. His gaze cleared, sharpening with terror.
“No! I don’t want to die. I’m afraid!” His hand gripped Sano’s with desperate strength. “Please, save me!”
Sano tried to quiet him; Tozō was beyond help. But the Christian refused to accept the inevitable. “Please, Honorable Chief Persecutor,” he begged, mistaking Sano for Dannoshin. “I’ll do anything you ask.” Another cough produced a fresh outpouring of blood. “I renounce … the Christian religion. I spit on God … I swear eternal allegiance … to the shogun.” He thrashed and shuddered.
“Quiet,” Sano urged, hating to see a fellow warrior—even a Christian criminal—admit defeat. “Rest.”
“I’ll tell you anything you want to know. Just don’t let me die!”
Sano was appalled. He badly needed information about Nagasaki’s Christian underground, but how could he take advantage of this cruel torture? Tasting shame and anticipation, he held the crucifix in front of Tozō’s eyes and said, “Where did this come from? Who owns it?”
“… Barbarians … Deshima … secret network. Christian contraband … passed along a chain of couriers from the Dutch to my people …” Tozō coughed and gasped.
“Who leads the network?” Sano asked urgently.
“Uh … uh …” A massive convulsion spasmed Tozō’s body. Blood gurgled in his throat. Then he became still. Disappointed, Sano bowed his head and offered a silent prayer for the man’s spirit. Christian or Buddhist, everyone died eventually; everyone deserved a ritual to mark the end of life. Then Sano gently laid aside Tozō’s limp hand and walked back to Dannoshin’s office.
The chief Persecutor looked up from the dais. “Tozō is dead, then?” he asked, reading Sano’s expression.
Sano nodded.
“Did he renounce his faith, or tell you anything before he died?” Dannoshin asked hopefully.
Without hesitation, Sano said, “No. Nothing.”
However, Tozō’s statement had given Sano an idea of what activities on Deshima might have led to Spaen’s murder. And he could think of one way to prove it, tonight.
Then, after he’d left Nagasaki Jail and mounted his horse outside the gate, two soldiers approached him. “We have an urgent message from Yoriki Ota,” said the spokesman, and Sano guessed that the paunchy guard he’d seen earlier had told the soldiers where to find him. “The courtesan Peony is dead. Please come with us.”
Arriving at the Half Moon Pleasure House with his escorts, Sano noted the brothel’s grim transformation since his last visit. Bamboo shades covered the window cages, although it was early evening and almost time for the festivities to begin. The crowds, evidently aware that a death had occurred, gave the Half Moon a wide berth. As Sano dismounted, he saw courtesans peering fearfully from the upstairs windows. A doshin and three civilian assistants guarded the doorway, where the proprietor Minami stood, his scowling temple-dog face livid with anger.
“I can’t run my business with the house full of police,” he raged. “And n
o one wants to come inside while she’s still here. I want you to leave. Now!”
The doshin merely folded his arms with an air of weary tolerance. Minami jumped aside and glared as Yoriki Ota pushed past him out the doorway. “I’m losing money,” Minami huffed. “I demand that you take your men and go, so I can clean up the mess and resume my business!”
“Be quiet, or I’ll arrest you,” Ota told him, then greeted Sano with a perfunctory bow. “So here you are. Come. I’ll take you to Peony.”
They entered the house. More doshin and assistants lounged in the lamp-lit reception room, smoking and talking. In the dim corridors, frightened servants shrank against the walls to let Sano and Ota pass.
“How did she die?” Sano asked.
“Suicide. You’ll see.”
Yoriki Ota led Sano upstairs to the courtesans’ living quarters, a series of tiny chambers behind paper-paned walls. From somewhere came the sound of a woman’s hysterical weeping.
“She’s in there,” Ota said, stopping outside a door where another doshin stood guard.
Gingerly Sano slid back the door. The fetid, metallic smell of blood and death poured out, polluting his skin, his lungs. Fighting nausea, he entered the room. The guard brought a lantern and hung it on the wall. Sano saw that the window had been opened to let in fresh air, but the cramped chamber was still hot and stuffy. Peony lay sprawled against the wall, knees bent, in the tangle of her blood-soaked garments. Flies alit on the thickly clotted gash that slanted down the left side of her neck and across her throat. More blood had dribbled from her mouth, caked her long hair into sticky strands, and fanned across the tatami. Her clouded eyes bore an expression of terrified shock. Her left hand gripped the plain wooden handle of a knife that protruded from the fatal wound.
Sano shook his head pityingly. “Who found her, and when?” he asked Ota, who stood in the doorway behind him.
“One of the maids. Around noon,” Ota said.
Sano turned. “No one missed her until then?” Now he understood Minami’s impatience to remove Peony, before the stench permanently tainted the house.
The Way of the Traitor Page 16