“How did the magistrate learn about your problems with Chikao?” Father Mateo asked.
“Kaoru told him,” the brewer said, though Hiro had already guessed the answer.
“You there!” A man emerged from the prison house and hurried toward them. The hooked jitte in his hand identified him as a dōshin, and he wore a vibrant, patterned surcoat over dark hakama.
“What do you think you’re doing?” the dōshin demanded as he reached them. “You cannot speak with the prisoner now.”
Hiro gestured to Father Mateo. “This man is a priest.”
“The brewer worships the foreign god?” The dōshin frowned at Ginjiro. “Is this true?”
Ginjiro bowed his head. “I worship the foreigners’ god, and Amida Buddha, and also follow the Shinto way.”
The answer, though contrary to the truth and Father Mateo’s theology, didn’t sound abnormal. Many Japanese hedged their bets by worshipping all available deities. Hiro was glad the brewer had the presence of mind to go along with the lie.
The dōshin scratched his head. “I don’t remember the magistrate granting permission for a priest…”
He trailed off, unable to reconcile his respect for religious practices with his duty to follow orders.
Just when Hiro thought the ruse might work, the dōshin said, “I can’t allow it. The yoriki could have me whipped for letting you interrupt an interrogation.”
“This man has had enough for one day,” Father Mateo said. “God restricts the maximum number of lashes a man can receive at once.”
“Truly?” Curiosity overcame concern. “How many does your god allow?”
“Forty,” Father Mateo said. “No more, regardless of his crime.”
The dōshin looked at Ginjiro. “Then he still has a few to go.”
“It is a maximum, not a goal.” The Jesuit frowned, displeased his plan had failed.
Hiro wondered whether the rule existed or whether the priest had made it up to reduce Ginjiro’s punishment.
“Do you intend to beat this man again?” Father Mateo demanded.
“That depends,” the dōshin said, “on whether he confesses.”
“What if he isn’t guilty?” Father Mateo asked. “Surely you wouldn’t expect an innocent man to confess a crime.”
“The Kyoto police do not arrest innocent men,” the dōshin said. “If he doesn’t confess before his trial, or during it, the yoriki will bring him here and press him until he does.”
Father Mateo looked at Hiro and switched to Portuguese. “Does he mean they intend to place him beneath a stone? They do this in my country, too. It’s almost always fatal.”
Hiro took a moment to parse the question. The lack of proper names helped keep the conversation secret but made the Jesuit harder to understand.
“Yes,” he replied in the Jesuit’s tongue, “and they will increase the weight of the stones until he confesses or dies.”
Hiro switched to Japanese and told the dōshin, “The foreigner does not speak our language well.”
The dōshin nodded, neither surprised nor offended.
“May I speak with you privately?” Hiro asked the dōshin.
They walked a few steps away. As Hiro hoped, Father Mateo remained at Ginjiro’s side.
The shinobi lowered his voice as if to keep the priest from overhearing. “Will the magistrate hear this case tomorrow? And press him immediately afterward?”
“That’s what I heard,” the dōshin said, “assuming the brewer doesn’t confess to the magistrate during the hearing. Why do you care? You can’t observe the pressing.”
“On the contrary,” Hiro said, “we must. The foreign god has different rules than Japanese kami do. If one of his worshippers dies with a lie on his soul, the foreign god will send that man to the hell of everburning flames. The priest must witness the brewer’s confession and confirm he died an honest death.”
“How can a priest ensure a man is honest?” the dōshin asked.
“How would I know?” Hiro said. “I’m a translator and scribe. I know his rituals. I don’t share his faith.”
“I don’t think the yoriki will allow it,” the dōshin said. “You’ll have to get the magistrate’s permission.”
“We will obtain permission.” Hiro nodded, the gesture just shy of a bow. “Thank you. Now we will leave, to save you trouble.”
The dōshin bowed.
Hiro returned to Ginjiro and whispered, “If you’re guilty, confess at once.”
“I’m innocent.” The brewer spoke so quietly that Hiro had to strain to hear the words. “I swear I am.”
* * *
After returning home with Father Mateo, Hiro retrieved a towel and headed out for a soak at the bathhouse.
An unfamiliar samurai stood guard at the eastern end of the Kamo River bridge. His lamellar armor bore the Matsunaga crest. His swords hung sheathed at his waist, and he carried an arquebus in his arms. He gripped the firearm like a sword, with the muzzle held much higher than the stock.
As Hiro approached, the samurai stepped forward with the arrogance of a man promoted far above his talents.
“Who are you?” he demanded. “Identify yourself and show your pass.”
Hiro stopped and bowed. “I am Matsui Hiro, interpreter for the foreign priest who lives up the road, past Okazaki Shrine. We passed this way, coming home, a few minutes ago.”
“I didn’t see you.” The samurai gripped his firearm more tightly. “I came on duty ten minutes ago, when the temple bells rang the hour. Show me your travel pass and identification.”
“I don’t need identification.” Hiro smiled with a politeness he didn’t feel. “I haven’t passed any barricades. I don’t want to cross the river. I’m going north, to the bathhouse, for a soak.”
The samurai scowled. “Okazaki Shrine marks the eastern boundary of Kyoto. If you enter the city from past the shrine, you have to present a pass.”
“I left it at home,” Hiro said.
“Go back and get it.”
Hiro bristled. His desire to avoid attention warred with loathing for this petty bully flexing his authority without cause.
“Fetch your pass,” the guard repeated, “or you can explain yourself to the magistrate.”
“You’re going to arrest me?” Hiro couldn’t believe it. “On what charge?”