The genuine anger in Father Mateo’s tone left Hiro speechless. The shinobi had lied about Father Mateo’s religion before, on several occasions. The priest had done it too. Hiro had trouble understanding what made this incident different.
“Lies cause no shame,” Hiro said at last. “I tell them every day. You do, too, when you introduce me as ‘translator Matsui Hiro.’ You know that isn’t my real name or function.”
“Your situation is different,” Father Mateo said. “Telling the truth would endanger your mission and, probably, your life. I have exactly the opposite problem. Lying about my faith endangers my soul, my honor, and also my work in Kyoto.
“You fail if you tell the truth. I fail without it.”
“You have lied about your faith before,” Hiro said, “and more than once.”
“I have, perhaps, embellished a few noncritical points of doctrine,” the Jesuit said, “but I have never denied my God or the foundational tenets of my faith. On matters of any significance I always tell the truth.”
Hiro had the uncomfortable feeling that followed mistakes in judgment. Perhaps this Christian god was not so simple after all. Unquestionably, the priest was more complex than he had seemed. Three years into the friendship, Hiro still didn’t know the Jesuit perfectly.
“You’ve said your god despises lies,” the shinobi said. “You’ve never actually claimed he requires the truth.”
“I have said it many times.” Father Mateo paused in the road. “You haven’t heard, because you stop listening when I speak of God.”
Pressure rose in Hiro’s chest at the pain in Father Mateo’s voice—a pain as sudden and as deep as the Jesuit’s previous anger. But now, Hiro understood exactly what he’d done.
Sharing gods and religious customs wasn’t a requisite for friendship, but a friend should not ignore the rules by which companions lived. Father Mateo never ignored Hiro’s lessons on Japanese etiquette. The priest didn’t always agree, but he always listened.
Hiro should have returned that favor.
He had not.
Hiro wished he could disappear, or at least go back in time and correct the error. Unfortunately, neither was an option.
The ryu had ordered Hiro to protect the Jesuit at any cost. Right now, that cost was admitting his own mistake.
Hiro turned to face the priest.
Father Mateo stiffened, expecting an argument.
Hiro bowed as deeply as possible, then straightened and bowed a second time. “I humbly apologize,” he said. “You are correct, and I am wrong. I dishonor myself, and you, by disrespecting beliefs I do not share. Please forgive me for this error. I cannot share your faith, but I won’t disparage it again.”
Father Mateo blinked, surprised. “You truly mean that.”
Hiro straightened. “Yes, I do.”
“Then I accept your apology,” Father Mateo said with a bow.
Once forgiveness was asked and given, samurai considered a matter permanently resolved. Hiro had noticed, however, that Western etiquette differed from Japanese rules on many points. He waited to see if the priest would say anything more.
The two men stared at each other. Neither spoke.
Finally, Father Mateo asked, “Are apologies always this awkward in Japan?”
Hiro raised an eyebrow. “Only when made to a foreigner.”
Father Mateo laughed. “I thought as much.”
* * *
Hiro and Father Mateo returned to the Jesuit’s home on Marutamachi Road. The priest went into his private room, but Hiro changed into trousers and a practice tunic and headed into the yard.
The grassy lawn south of Father Mateo’s beloved koi pond offered a pleasant exercise ground, and the wooden wall surrounding the yard prevented prying eyes. Hiro knelt and meditated, quieting his thoughts and listening to every tiny sound. A bird sang in a nearby tree. Leaves ruffled in the breeze. One of the Jesuit’s koi sucked at the surface of the water.
The door that led to the priest’s room rustled open.
Hiro opened his eyes. Father Mateo stood on the veranda, wearing hakama and a surcoat.
The shinobi stood up, surprised. He often offered to teach the Jesuit self-defense, but the priest had never shown any real interest.
“Have you decided to learn to fight?” Hiro asked.
Father Mateo smiled. “A man who lives by the sword will die by the sword.”
“Perhaps,” Hiro said, “but not as quickly as a man who cannot use one.”
Father Mateo raised his scar-covered hands. The injuries had not yet healed completely.
Hiro considered it lucky they healed at all.
“I couldn’t fight if I wanted to,” Father Mateo said. “Even writing hurts more than I’d like to admit. But physical exercise helps recovery, and I’ve healed enough to try, if you’re willing to teach me defense instead of fighting.”
Hiro decided not to mention that, often, they were the same.
He walked the priest through some basic katas—exercises so familiar that Hiro no longer remembered when he learned them. With time and practice, the forms became ingrained in the muscles. The body performed them essentially without thought.
After a while, Father Mateo straightened and wiped his forehead. “I thought I was in good condition, but you haven’t broken a sweat.”
“I did not suffer a serious injury several weeks ago,” Hiro said.
“You know I can tell when you’re humoring me.” Father Mateo smiled.
Hiro smirked. “Only when I let you.”
After they finished with katas, Hiro went to the bathhouse while the Jesuit prepared for his evening prayers. Despite his interest in Japanese culture, Father Mateo did not bathe as often as native Japanese.
The samurai guarding the bridge gave Hiro a searching look but didn’t demand identification. Either the towel in Hiro’s hand made his business obvious, or some of Hisahide’s guards could exercise discretion after all.
* * *
When Hiro returned to the house, he found the Jesuit reading in the common room. Father Mateo’s leather-bound Bible lay open to a page with a missing corner.
“The letter to the Romans?” Hiro asked.
Father Mateo looked up with a startled smile. “When did you start reading the Bible?”
Hiro smiled awkwardly at the priest’s misplaced delight. “I haven’t. I just recognized the page that Gato chewed.”
Gato, Hiro’s tortoiseshell cat, bounded in from the kitchen at the sound of her master’s voice. Halfway across the room she angled sideways and arched her back. The hair on her tail puffed out on end. She fixed her eyes on Hiro and bounced to the side, inviting play.
The shinobi leaned forward and clapped his hands.
Gato leaped in the air, spun around, and raced from the room, paws pattering the tatami like rain on a rooftop.
Father Mateo laughed but stopped and stared at Hiro’s gray kimono. “You don’t usually dress so formally in the evening. You have plans?”
“Yes.” Hiro nodded. “I’m going to Ginjiro’s.”