– XLIII –

In which crimes are avenged

Hasekura Tsunenaga took the news of the Shogun’s edict hard. At first he chose not to believe it. But after only a minute’s reflection, instinct told him it was true. It meant the journey had been for nothing. All of his barbarian religious instruction that had culminated in the grand but humiliating baptism ceremony had been for nothing. His pleading at the feet of the Pope, the endless hours of gibberish shared with Luis Sotelo had been an orgy of wasted time. The months and years away from what was left of his family, the thousands of kilometers of open sea, eating foul food, facing daily perils, the almost indescribable tedium of being made to listen to so many people speaking to him in a foreign tongue—all of it a farce.

When his audience with Philip the Third concluded, and weary from travel, he shunned Father Sotelo and sought commiseration with Shiro.

‘I understand how you must feel,’ Shiro said to him. ‘But I refuse to believe the journey has been in vain. For as long as history shall be written, the name of Hasekura Tsunenaga will be recorded as the first Japanese ambassador to visit Spain and Italy, even France. Despite what you may see as failure, your impressions and tales of all that we have lived and seen since leaving Sendai will be demanded by Tokugawa Ieyasu, the Emperor, by all of the most important men in our kingdom. Regardless of the edict, Date Masamune shall be in your debt.’

‘You are kind to say so, Shiro-San. And if it be true, perhaps the stain of my father’s crime shall be forgotten.’

‘Your father is at peace,’ Shiro said. ‘Time shall cover his indiscretions with benevolence, and his memory will reflect the fame of his son. I am sure of it.’

Shiro said these things because he believed them and felt for the man who had once been his enemy. But he also required a favor.

As punishment for the murder Diego Molina, for the maiming he had been subjected to, and for the violation of Guada, the King told Shiro he might choose the manner by which Julian would be executed: decapitation, the garrote, burning at the stake, or disembowelment followed by being drawn and quartered. For a brief moment, Shiro entertained the idea of asking for Julian’s crucifixion, which was how many Christians were executed in Japan. But he thought better of it. Besides, he knew from the moment Julian’s existence in the dungeon was announced to him what he must do.

‘I came to his home that evening to fight him to the death. That is still what I wish.’

‘But what about your condition, your hands?’

‘I’ve no choice,’ Shiro said. ‘Honor demands it.’

‘So be it,’ said the King.

Apart from a compliment of Royal Guards and a priest, the only other Christians to attend the duel were the Duke of Lerma and the King himself. The Monarch and his chief counselor agreed that if the Samurai prevailed, the spectacle of a foreigner killing a young nobleman might be too much for the public or other members of the nobility to witness, no matter how guilty Julian was. The favor Shiro asked of Hasekura Tsunenaga was that he too be present, to claim Shiro’s body should he lose.

The group left the Alcázar before dawn on a cold day at the end of January. They rode west, crossing the Manzanares River and continued for another hour until they came to a clearing in the wilderness. Julian was helped down from his horse and untied. A blessing was conferred upon all present, and food and drink were dispensed as the sun rose.

The nerves and the hour and the business at hand kept conversation to a minimum. When the moment arrived, Shiro asked Hasekura Tsunenaga to pull and fasten the buckles attached to the leather straps he’d brought with him from Rome so that he might take a firm hold of the hilt of his sword.

‘It pains me to admit it, Your Majesty,’ said Julian, all of a sudden, ‘but we all know by now that the foreigner’s blade is superior to ours. If this is his idea, or anyone else’s, of a fair fight, you might as well hand him a musket to shoot me with and be done with it.’

Shiro translated the statement to Hasekura Tsunenaga.

‘Who are you, young man,’ replied the Duke of Lerma, ‘to speak of a fair fight? You who ran a man through after you had him bound to a tree, you who had this man here grabbed by henchmen and held down for torture and maiming?’

‘I was and I remain a Christian, My Lord, loyal to the Church and to my King,’ Julian answered. ‘A Christian who has always endeavored to defend our faith and our way of life from intrusions by heathens like this one, by any means available.’

He finished the last part of his reply looking at the guards and at the priest, hoping to inspire their sympathy. They averted their gaze and looked toward the ground. But Shiro saw what Julian was up to and wished to remove all obstacles to his revenge.

‘I shall trade you then,’ the Samurai said. ‘My sword for yours.’

A murmur went round the circle of men. Julian had not expected this. The nobility of the gesture irritated him, but not wishing to be sliced in two, he accepted.

It proved impossible to strap both of Shiro’s hands about the much shorter hilt of the Christian sword. It was a modified, double-bladed espada ropera, a weapon he had no experience with. It weighed twice as much as a Katana and to Shiro’s eye looked dull and uncouthly smithed. He was only able to use one hand, and the sword’s finger ring was useless to him. The King was perturbed. He feared the worst might happen. But he remained silent, having sworn to himself that he would not speak a word that day until the duel was over.

It started badly for the Samurai. Julian pursued him with frenzied energy, swinging the Katana back and forth. At one point it seemed Shiro was running for his life. But as he ran, he lifted the awkward Christian weapon in different directions, getting the feel of it. Just as Julian, waxing triumphant, began to laugh at his rival’s retreat, Shiro stopped short and turned, and it caught Julian by surprise.

He lifted his arms and began a slicing motion aimed at Shiro’s neck. The Samurai deflected it, using the thickest part of the Christian sword close to the hilt. For half a minute, Julian attacked as Shiro stood his ground protecting himself, parrying the Katana’s swift motions, one after the other, looking to wear his aggressor out. From where the other men watched, it appeared as if it would only be a matter of time before the foreigner would err and provide an entry for the ceaselessly moving blade. But Shiro held on. The more frantic Julian’s attack became, the more his frustration grew. It was the frustration Shiro was counting on. He did not retreat. He remained erect and poised, well planted on his feet, meeting each deadly swipe with practiced precision.

Then, when the opportunity he’d been waiting for arrived, as Julian drew the Katana back in order to initiate yet another blow, Shiro, in a short but powerful motion, using all the strength in his arm, brought the Christian blade down and across, hitting Julian mid-calf, cutting into flesh and breaking the shin bone.

Julian cried out and fell to the ground, shocked by the unexpectedness of it, enraged by the pain. Suddenly drained of strength, his heart filled with terror as he watched his blood seep into the earth.

‘I beg of you,’ he cried out. ‘I do not deserve to die like this.’

There he was surrounded by men, one of them his own King, who were there to see him murdered. The bitterness and cruelty of it were overwhelming. He wished to be back in Marta Vélez’s bed falling asleep, back in Guada’s arms when the marriage seemed possible. He wanted warm morning air wafting through a window smelling of azahar orange blossoms. Instead, he was freezing and encircled like a dog, his leg smashed to bits.

‘I beg of you sir,’ he called out again.

The men were uncomfortable and embarrassed for him, but his cries grabbed their hearts like talons. Shiro looked down at him, at Diego Molina’s murderer, the man who had ruined his hands and stabbed him with his own Tanto, the man who had called him a mongrel, cut off his finger, and had his way with Guada. He looked to the King for guidance, like a gladiator directing his gaze at Caesar.

When Julian saw the Samurai look away, he came up onto his good knee and swept out at him one final time with the Katana, using all of his remaining strength. Shiro sensed it and pivoted away, pivoted around in a circle as he was trained to do, but the Katana’s blade was long, and the tip of it caught his shoulder, removing a lump of flesh. As he made a full turn, he stepped on the Christian’s hands that were still outstretched, as if they were venomous serpents. Then he leaned down to find an angle and thrust the dull metal Spanish sword into Julian’s chest. When he saw the blade emerge from Julian’s back he yanked it upwards with all his might, shattering ribs and severing arteries. Then he pulled it free. He released his foot as Julian fell dead upon the ground.