Now Sano realized that all the complications of the murder case—Spaen’s relationships with the other barbarians; Abbot Liu Yun’s history; the intricacies of Dutch-Japanese foreign affairs; even the smuggling—had been peripheral to the crime. Director Spaen had died because of one man’s basic human need for friendship, a motive that transcended cultural, political, and financial concerns. Sano pitied Iishino, with whom he felt a poignant kinship. His own background and nature had made him as much an outsider in the bakufu as Iishino. Had he cared more about the approval of others, he might have someday found himself in the same position: killing in revenge for one slight too many.
But hurt feelings didn’t justify murder; pity must not obstruct justice. Sano eased nearer to Iishino. “What happened next?”
“Spaen fell. Commander Nirin shouted. I dropped the gun and bent over Spaen.” As Iishino’s gaze turned inward, Sano could almost see the scene reflected in his eyes. “There was so much blood. He didn’t move, or answer when I called his name. I began to weep. I didn’t mean to kill him, only to hurt him as he’d hurt me!
“Then Abbot Liu Yun was there. He said, ‘Dump Spaen in the ocean and say he escaped from Deshima.’ But Commander Nirin said, ‘If his body washes ashore, everyone will see he was shot. The murder of a barbarian will bring Edo officials to investigate. The Deshima staff will be the obvious suspects, and Governor Nagai will sacrifice us to protect himself.’
“Abbot Liu Yun undressed Spaen and cut up the bullet wound with his knife. Then he began cursing and stabbing the body. He said he’d agreed to help with the smuggling so he could kill Spaen, and he was angry that someone else had beaten him to it. Commander Nirin pulled Liu Yun away and lifted Spaen into the boat. I took a crucifix that I’d planned to sell to the Christians and put it around Spaen’s neck.”
“So that if he was found, the authorities would think a Christian had killed him?” Sano asked quietly.
“No. So that my friend’s spirit would have the blessing of his god.” A sob caught in Iishino’s throat; the gun now pointed at the floor.
Soon, Sano thought. “And Peony? Why did you kill her?”
“One night when I was at the Half Moon Pleasure House, she stole my account book. Later she tried to blackmail me. Spaen had told her the book was a record of all the goods smuggled and everyone involved. She knew I dealt in Christian contraband, and when you told her about the crucifix on Spaen’s body, she guessed that I had killed him. The night he disappeared, she saw me come to his room and lead him away. If I didn’t pay, she would send the book to Edo, and I would be executed. She misled you by lying about Urabe being on Deshima because she didn’t want you to find out about me before I paid. But I didn’t have the money. So I killed her. I had no choice.”
A weary desolation saturated Iishino’s voice. He sank to his knees, letting the gun dangle. “I never meant to hurt anyone. Things just … happened.”
“Such as when you burned my house?” Sano said, fitting the last crime into the scheme of events.
Sadly Iishino nodded. “I wanted to make sure you would never expose my crimes to the Edo authorities. I had no choice, no choice.”
Sano took one cautious step forward, then another, until he stood within touching distance of Iishino. He noticed that Hirata and Supreme Judge Takeda had reduced the opposition down to Nirin and one guard. Their swords clashed with increasing ferocity as they circled and darted some twenty paces away. With luck, the battle could end in victory for Sano’s side. One grab, and the gun was his—
“Stop! Don’t go in there!”
The cry from the door shattered Sano’s concentration. Iishino’s head swiveled. They both stared as Chief Ohira walked into the hall. Judges Segawa and Dazai followed, panting and flustered.
“He got away from us,” Segawa whined.
Fearing that Ohira had come to aid the smugglers, Sano was puzzled yet relieved when the chief merely knelt by the door. But the interruption jarred Iishino out of his lethargy. He leapt to his feet and poked the gun at Sano’s face. “Get away!”
Sano sprang backward, heart in his throat. “Iishino,” he began.
Iishino’s eyes shone with renewed defiance. “You think you can trick me. But I’m too smart, too smart. You won’t capture me, because I’m going to kill you!” His shaking finger touched the trigger.
Even as Sano stared at his own death, a terrible premonition wafted over him like a bad odor, taking his attention from Iishino. He looked toward the door and saw Chief Ohira draw his short sword. Judges Segawa and Dazai hovered behind him; the battle raged on.
“Ohira!” Sano shouted. “No!”
With an unearthly howl, Chief Ohira plunged the sword deep into his abdomen. Sano’s samurai spirit applauded Ohira’s decision, which precluded the disgrace of public execution and restored honor, but his conscience sickened over causing another death. He realized he’d thought he could somehow save the chief. But Sano couldn’t succumb to guilt now; penance must wait. Iishino was watching Ohira’s death agonies. Sano lunged. He locked one hand over the interpreter’s, the other around the gun barrel.
“Let go, let go!” Iishino screamed.
As they struggled for control of the weapon, it wavered wildly in their joined grip, describing haphazard arcs in the air. The scrawny Iishino was stronger than Sano had expected—a bundle of wiry sinew and frenetic energy. He stomped and kicked with his wooden-soled shoes. Pain hobbled Sano’s legs. Shrieking like a child throwing a tantrum, Iishino rammed his head into Sano’s chest. Sano stumbled, trying to keep hold of the gun. Iishino spat in his eyes. Hot saliva blinded him. They whirled in a bizarre dance. Sano forced the gun upward, aiming at the ceiling. If he could discharge the bullet harmlessly …
But Iishino’s fingers covered the trigger guard. When Sano tried to push them away, the interpreter ducked his head and bit him on the forearm. Sano involuntarily relaxed his pressure on the gun. Iishino yanked it between them so that the barrel was directly in front of Sano’s eyes.
“I’m going to kill you!” The interpreter spoke through teeth red with Sano’s blood. “I hate you and everyone else. You made me a criminal!”
Straining and gasping, Sano tried to push the gun away, to wrench it from Iishino’s hands. He slammed Iishino against a pillar. Still the interpreter didn’t let go. The cold steel barrel grazed Sano’s cheek. The gun held more terror for him than any blade, no matter how expertly wielded. Panic flooded his body and mind, banishing trained discipline as he fought. Iishino’s hot, sweaty fingers clawed his hands, seeking the trigger. In desperation, Sano pulled the interpreter clear of the pillar. He locked his leg around Iishino’s and yanked.
Iishino emitted a surprised yip and toppled backward. They crashed to the floor, Sano landing on top. The impact drove a bolt of pain into his injured shoulder. Now the gun was trapped between their chests, with Sano’s weight immobilizing their locked hands and pinning Iishino down. Sano tried to shake the weapon and dislodge the flint. The interpreter jabbed bony knees against Sano, who lurched sideways to protect his groin. Over and over they rolled, their faces almost touching, the gun barrel separating their chins. Now Sano forgot his wish to see this murderer, traitor, and enemy formally tried and executed. To survive, he must kill Iishino.
A pillar halted their motion with a crash. Using all his strength, Sano heaved on the gun. Iishino’s body came up with it. Sano shoved him down again, banging his head on the stone floor. Iishino’s grip on the gun slackened. Sano jammed the barrel under his chin. Now Sano’s finger was on the curved metal trigger. He squeezed.
The world exploded. The gun recoiled against Sano’s chest with a stunning blow. His ears rang; acrid gunpowder smoke filled his lungs. Warm, wet blood covered his face, reddening his vision. He’d shot himself instead of Iishino!
Moaning, Sano scrambled off the interpreter. As his hands frantically probed his body for a wound, dizziness weakened him. He was dying … Then he felt hands on his shoulders, heard Hira
ta saying, “Sōsakan-sama, it’s all right. Iishino is dead; so are Nirin and the guards. You’re fine. It’s over.”
The news turned Sano’s moans into the giddy laughter of relief. He wasn’t shot; he would live. He’d won. Then he looked at Iishino. Laughter shriveled in his throat.
The interpreter lay motionless on his back, hands still clutching the gun. Below the left side of his jaw, a hole in his neck marked the bullet’s entrance. The blood had soaked his clothes, the gun, his hands, the floor—and Sano. His toothy mouth gaped in a rictus of surprise; his eyes bulged with shock. The bullet had exited through his scalp in a spray of white bone fragments, pulpy, grayish brain tissue, and still more blood.
Supreme Judge Takeda stood beside Sano. “I’ll send a report of today’s events to Edo, stating that the tribunal declares you and your retainer innocent on all counts.” The other judges murmured in grudging accord. “And you shall receive a reward for your heroic crusade against traitors who have undermined the shogun’s authority.”
The words impinged on Sano like discordant music. Slowly he rose and surveyed the twenty-one dead. Was it justice that had been served tonight—or his self-interest? Japan and the shogun’s regime—both of which he’d grown to hate—or his own personal code of honor? Instead of triumph, Sano felt Iishino’s blood on his skin, tasted its metallic salinity. Had he sought only justice, or revenge on his enemies? Had he selfishly sacrificed Peony, Ohira, and Old Carp to his own principles—to satisfy a craven need for adventure and moral superiority—as he had Aoi, the woman he couldn’t stop loving? How could he go on without knowing the truth about himself?
“Come on, sōsakan-sama.” Hirata took his arm. “Let’s get out of here.”
The eighth month had arrived, bringing chill nights and clear, invigorating days. Through a sunny hilltop meadow of waving golden grasses, Sano strolled with Dr. Huygens. The autumn wind breathed a scent of frost and wood fires. Birds soared in the crystalline blue sky, lamenting summer’s end with plaintive cries. Patches of scarlet, ocher, and brown wove through the green tapestry of the forests. The barbarian wore his black hat and cloak; he carried a large round basket. Nearby hovered the ten guards designated to escort the doctor on his official twice-yearly search for medicinal plants.
Stooping, Huygens picked a vine and whispered so the guards wouldn’t hear him speak Japanese: “Good for burns.” He smiled at Sano, putting the plant in his basket.
Sano tossed in a handful of the mint often prescribed by Japanese doctors. “Good for stomachache,” he told Huygens.
In quiet harmony, they combed the meadow for remedies, exchanging medical lore. Fifteen days had passed since the raid on the Chinese temple. The morning after, Sano had gone to Deshima to inform the surviving Dutchmen of deGraeff’s death and to apologize to Dr. Huygens for wrongly suspecting him of murder. Later he and Supreme Judge Takeda had replaced the entire Deshima security staff with trustworthy men culled through intensive interviewing and evaluation of service records and character references. While Sano regretted the inevitable loss of crucial links in the Dutch-Japanese information network, he guessed that it would soon flourish again, though hopefully without violence. When his work was done, Sano, leery of more treason charges, had refrained from meeting Dr. Huygens again—until today.
Far below them lay the city, tranquil in the bright sunlight. The troops had left the streets; the war drums had ceased their call of doom. On the harbor’s sparkling water floated a stately ship whose sail bore the Tokugawa crest. It had arrived yesterday, bearing a message from Edo: When the shogun had discovered Sano’s absence, he’d overruled Chamberlain Yanagisawa’s orders, commanding Sano to return home at once. Newly secure in Tokugawa Tsunayoshi’s favor, knowing he would leave Nagasaki today, Sano had risked a last visit with his barbarian friend.
Dr. Huygens picked a mantis off a blade of grass and put it in a glass vial. “Take back to Amsterdam; show other doctors,” he said.
He pantomimed viewing the creature through the magnifying device, and they laughed at the memory of Sano’s encounter with barbarian science. As they hunted more specimens, Sano’s gaze wandered down the harbor channel, where he saw the Dutch ship anchored beside the rocky outcrop of Takayama. Sails furled, dwarfed by the distance, it now seemed as harmless as a child’s toy.
After the raid, Sano had brought Captain Oss the bodies of Interpreter Iishino and Abbot Liu Yun, who had killed Jan Spaen and Maarten deGraeff. Oss had retreated from the harbor. A few of the crew remained on board while the rest had accompanied the cargo to Deshima. The Dutch merchants had sold their goods. The new East India Company staff had taken up residence on the island. Now the ship awaited favorable winds for departure.
“Soon we go,” Dr. Huygens said. “Home.”
Home, to rebuild the life Jan Spaen had destroyed; to resume his medical practice and continuing effort to atone for his youthful crime. As Sano contemplated Huygens’s long ocean journey, he thought how small his country was compared to the vast world beyond its shores. He realized that Japan couldn’t hold the world at bay forever. The bakufu’s policies provided a flimsy barrier. More foreigners would come—not just from the Netherlands, but also from many barbarian kingdoms—with superior ships and weapons, hungry for new trade and territory. Now Sano could see the shogun and the bakufu not as omnipotent tyrants, but as small men afraid of a future they couldn’t control. Japan must eventually surrender its isolation, and what then?
Sano envisioned a day when barbarians would freely walk the streets of Japan’s cities and his descendants travel to distant lands. Japanese and barbarians would speak one another’s languages, share ideas. His adventurous spirit thrilled to the possibilities. But Sano could also imagine foreign warships attacking Japan; the boom of gunfire rocking sea and land; cities burning; the death of his people in wars more destructive than any before. Sano didn’t know which vision would come to pass, but he realized how vulnerable Japan was, how fragile the culture that dominated and nurtured him. Even Bushido might not survive the onslaught of foreign influence.
Now Sano experienced a powerful surge of love for his imperiled country. Like a pure, clean spring, it washed away the bitter hatred with which his past ordeals had infected him. Perceiving the danger renewed his samurai will to defend to the death his lord—and, by extension, his homeland, his people, his way of life. He felt strong and exhilarated, as if he’d recovered from a long illness. The future seemed alive with promise, his purpose clear.
Soon Huygens’s basket was full; in the harbor, Sano’s ship waited. Shepherded by the guards, they walked downhill, through the city. Outside the Deshima gatehouse, they made their farewells.
“I wish you a safe journey and a happy, prosperous life,” Sano said, bowing.
“You safe journey. Good luck, friend.” The doctor extended his hands. At first Sano didn’t understand the unfamiliar gesture. Then he clasped Huygens’s hands in his own, pledging eternal friendship barbarian-style. And it seemed to Sano that by parting thus, they also wished both their nations a mutually beneficial journey into the future.
Sano walked down the promenade to the docks. Hirata and the crew were already on the ship with all the baggage and provisions for the journey. A ferryboat waited to convey Sano aboard; a crowd had gathered to watch the ship sail. From among the fishermen and samurai, an odd trio emerged and approached Sano: Junko, radiant in a red-and-white kimono, with her father and Kiyoshi.
The day after the raid, Sano had personally released the young samurai from Nagasaki Jail and taken him home. Kiyoshi had been unresponsive and incoherent then, but now Sano saw with relief that while he was still thin and pale, he seemed his normal self again.
“We want to pay our respects and wish you a good journey,” Kiyoshi said gravely. He and his companions bowed.
The polite greeting worsened Sano’s guilt. “Kiyoshi, about your father. I don’t expect you to forgive me, but I offer my deepest apologies. If there’s anything I can do—
”
The youth’s eyes darkened with pain, though not anger. “My father made his destiny before you even came to Nagasaki. What he did was wrong.” Kiyoshi swallowed hard, then recovered control. “He restored our family’s honor by taking his own life. His death wasn’t your fault.” Then Kiyoshi said in a happier tone, “We have good news: Junko and I are to be married. Our families have consented to the match.”
The girl beamed. Urabe shrugged and said grumpily, “Oh well, filial loyalty is more important in a son-in-law than business talent—I guess. And he has good connections.”
“Yes, he does.” With concealed aversion, Sano recalled the reason for this. “My congratulations.”
“A thousand thanks for making our marriage possible.” Kiyoshi bowed again.
In an effort to compensate the Ohira family for their loss, Sano had excused Kiyoshi for shooting him and had also settled a large sum of money on the boy. Now he was glad to see that some good had come out of tragedy. As he watched Kiyoshi, Junko, and Urabe walk back toward town, Sano felt oddly at peace. By bringing the young couple together, he’d somehow laid to rest his futile love for Aoi. He was free, and ready for his own long-postponed marriage.
However, when Sano continued down the dock toward the waiting ferryboat, he met an immediate challenge to his new equilibrium. Governor Nagai, flanked by troops and officials, smiled and said, “Ah, sōsakan-sama. What a pity you must leave so soon. I regret that your stay in Nagasaki was less than pleasant. Perhaps you can someday visit again, under more favorable circumstances.”
Anger heated Sano’s blood. Such hypocrisy from the man who had engineered his troubles! He bared his teeth in a smile just as false as the governor’s. “It pains me to leave,” he said, imitating Nagai’s bland tone. “The fact that the city remains in your capable hands is little consolation.”
The Way of the Traitor Page 31