Part 16 (1/2)

The Duke of Lerma stood and stuffed his hands into the pockets of his brocaded jacket. ”I trust youll take no umbrage, Brothers in Christ, but I must observe that we are in Spain, where Philip is king. And I, too, shall approach my superior for word as to the cases disposition. The Office of Inquisition is supposedly the final authority in matters of faith here in Spain.”

Bishop Izquierdo looked ashen as he watched his power as Grand Inquisitor carved up and devoured by others. He knew he must save face, posture strongly. But deep inside he realized his efforts were too late, too impotent. Inner voices tugged and pushed. Ambition drove him to speak: ”You do not question the power of the Church to advance the cause of the Inquisition, do you, milord Duke?”

The duke eyed him squarely. ”As you holy men have agreed, there can be no separation between Church and State. And yet one must rule. If Spain is threatened in any way, that one must be Philip, grandson of Charles the Fifth, the Holy Roman Emperor-by your leave, Your Eminence. Gentlemen.”

The Duke of Lerma strode out of the chamber. He pa.s.sed the sergeant-at-arms, who led two soldiers pus.h.i.+ng a cart bearing the samurais famed swords, his bow, halberd, and pistols. Among them were other personal effects, including his clothing. Two priests marched at either side of the cart, one carrying a censer, the other a holy water font and sprinkler. Pungent clouds of incense filled the chamber, and beads of holy water repeatedly splashed over the samurais belongings and those who handled them in this effort at purification, for it was feared that evil magic permeated the articles.

Balaerik presided over an item-by-item presentation.

”See his bow. I have seen him use it to launch arrows distances impossible for a man to attain. And these blades-he has continually asked that the smaller one be given back to him so that with it he might take his own life!” Gasps of astonishment. ”That would, of course, free his demonic spirit to possess yet another poor souls body,” the donado explained. ”His deviousness is endless. Look at the longer sword-grooves are notched into its blade so that he might therein collect the blood of those hes slain.”

”So what of that?” an officer contended. ”We know many swords that contain blood channels here in Europe.”

”Indudablemente-no doubt,” Balaerik replied, ”but their wielders dont use them to drink the blood of the victims! And what do you make of this?” He held up the wygylls carven medallion. ”I suggest you consider the central device, which intimates...commerce between a man and a demon. And this article-I shall leave its meaning to your imaginations.”

Here he portentously flourished Gonjis nekode, the spiked ninja glove he had used to scale the cliff to the wygylls aerie.

The interim Grand Inquisitor strolled with the Papal Nuncio through a florid courtyard in early evening. The air was fresh and fragrant, heady with the aromas of late spring. They spoke in guarded tones, hands clasped casually behind them. As they pa.s.sed friars and sentries, who greeted them respectfully, they held their conversation in abeyance and bestowed their blessings, resuming only when the pa.s.sers-by were well out of earshot.

”The worst of it, Ign.a.z.io,” Archbishop Texeira was saying, ”is that youve allowed him to usurp the power of your own office. That is the chief reason for all this turmoil.”

”What else could I have done? He came to me bearing the pontifical edict.”

”Surely you know how rarely papal bulls are directed against individuals. Were not talking about an enemy of the Church as formidable as Martin Luther, or Arius, or-”

”But he bore the papal seal.”

”Si, si, so he did,” the Nuncio agreed, raising a fending hand, ”but did you not consider the possibility of tampering or forgery or even...Ign.a.z.io, we live in troubled times. We must be on our guard against the wiles of evil wherever they exist. You know the terrible rumors. Some of them are true. A bad seed has been sown in the very soil of Holy Mother Church herself. We must prune its outgrowth, contain it. By allowing this radical order such power in the Inquisitions affairs-an order whose very sanction is under question-youve compromised the Inquisitions authority. Now military and political factions have perceived your office as weakened-”

Bishop Izquierdo threw up his hands in confusion. ”Then I should serve up the Oriental for auto-da-fe?”

”No, you havent been listening,” Archbishop Texeira replied patiently. ”There is something strange about this j.a.panese that bears examination, prayerful consideration. Hes aroused interest in too many high places, among so many diverse powers. Ive received testimonial missives, both on his behalf and in his condemnation, from clergy and n.o.bility.... Some would raise your eyebrows. No one man could be responsible for such workings-whether good or evil-as are attributed to this single warrior. And this sinister Balaerik takes too keen an interest in him. This business of exposing him so that his familiar might be drawn to his aid-ridiculous! Has it never occurred to you that a familiar demon needs no physical direction to its master? I want this foreign warriors prosecution stayed, pending direct word from His Holiness-elect.”

The Interim Grand Inquisitor nodded indulgently. ”And until then, que tengo yo que hacer? What am I to do?”

Texeira averted his eyes from the Inquisitors.

”I think youve done all you can.”

Izquierdo watched the Nuncios departing back as his own steps slowed. His words had had the ring of an indictment.

Father Martin de la Cenza emerged from the confessional, his burden lightened, only to find the donado, Anton Balaerik, awaiting him in the chapel vestibule. The prelates heart began to pound, so disturbing was the mans sudden appearance in the dim lamplight. De la Cenzas reserved nod of greeting could have carried no less warmth had he been accosted by a suspected highwayman.

”You dont like me,” Balaerik said without preamble. His tone reflected no disappointment.

”No,” Martin found himself answering truthfully.

”I admire frankness. Its rather refres.h.i.+ng in these times.”

”You seem pleased withal.”

Balaerik smiled. ”We neednt like each other, so long as we fight the good fight of faith.”

”Do we?” the prelate countered. ”I cannot help wondering. Do you know, theres something you said at the council meeting that has stuck fast in my conscience. You said something about settling our 'theocratic struggle without interference. All at once it occurred to me: You might have said in the same tone, 'Kill one another off over our differing beliefs. And then I thought, 'Who would remain, if we did so?”

Father de la Cenza stalked away, a bit shakily, feeling the palpable menace of Balaeriks eyes boring into his back, shriveling the borders of his soul.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN.

Evil spirits came to him in the fearsome dungeon nights.

Gonji would rise from his straw mat to sit facing them, and by sheer force of will he would dissolve them back into the chaos from which theyd emerged.

Sleep would not return at those times. So the samurai would seat himself on the mat and meditate in the darkness amidst foul sub-cellar stenches and the pungency of brimstone. He would stave off the aching of his joints brought on by the slimy dankness with ritualized contortions and stretches, these finally becoming a nightly habit. Regimentation and patterned living became a b.u.t.tress against madness.

And on nights when he could not empty his mind of thought, when his misery leered and mocked like some tangible horror looming at his shoulder, he would give way to self-pity and indulge in maudlin memories.

I am once again, he brooded, the most miserable of men. My karma is an unendurable burden. Honorable giri-duty-is denied me. I have neither home nor kin-for surely old Todo has by now surrendered his life out of shame for his wayward firstborn! I have forsaken my fathers n.o.ble heritage, and in the land of my mother I am shunned as a barbarian, as alien as she was in Dai Nihon. And Reiko-how does she fare? What does she look like, these days? Does she mourn her lost husband, my ign.o.ble half-brother? Or for me? More likely for her lost honor in having failed to kill me. Best for all if I had allowed it to happen. Iye. No. Thats not what I feel. Even honorable impulses escape me now. Yet there must be a reason for my having survived on this strange, endless trek. No. No reason. Karma. That is all. Emeric-good old Emeric, the warrior-poet. Him, with his ever-present sketchbook of scribbled notions and maxims and odd sc.r.a.ps of wisdom. What was it he used to say about evil? About the way it showed its strength only where it was opposed, attacking only where it was threatened? He would probe me for details of my travels, try to make sense of it all-first by astrology, predicting, so he said, my future karma-constructing his lunatic maps of my meandering journey, eliminating events he deemed meaningless-fool! Brilliant, faithful fool! Connecting points on the map, displaying for me the geometric shapes that rule my karma-lunacy! Beware the star, Gonji-san. The star is not a favorable omen. The star. The diamond...diamond-the Archmage Domingos diamond-fortress configuration. Old castles. No one knows whence they came. None could claim their raising. Gibberish. Nonsense... Paille. Alain Paille. King of Nonsense, from Vedun. On whom does he unload the burden of his genius these days? If he still lives. Strange. His grandiose Deathwind of Vedun epic-never had time to read it. All the time I need now. Time. Darkness. Tora... So sorry, old friend, but I could not be with you at the last because I was a fool-such a fool, convinced of his importance and posturing so pridefully; the Conquistador-Conquistador, they call me, the taunting b.a.s.t.a.r.ds!-hai, he was taken so easily, and he allowed you to die like some common beast and that you were not. That you surely were not... My daisho. The Sagami, honored weapon of countless generations of n.o.ble heroes. Gone. Plundered by some filthy Spaniard. Dozo-please, forgive me, fathers of my father. I shall insist that they bring me my ko-dachi, and I shall keep on insisting until they realize that it would indeed be an exotic entertainment for them to witness the seppuku of an honorable samurai. Hai, it shall be so. Death shall follow dishonor. Death. Death with dignity. Death-wind-s.h.i.+-kaze-and Simon... Simon Sardonis. Arigato. Arigato, faithless friend and ally.

You, more than myself, are responsible for my self-loathing.

The days pa.s.sed and dragged into weeks. Each day that he languished in the dungeons of the Inquisition, Gonji added a new ritual to his regimen. However slight-the addition of a new movement to a martial-arts kata; or laborious-the painstaking chipping, into the stone wall of his cell, of a kana ideogram that mocked some tormentor, each new days addition lent fresh meaning to the new life he was forced to adapt to, breaking the spell of the tedium, helping steel his senses against the endless round of mockery and torture and s.a.d.i.s.tic treatment, helping fortify his concentration, blocking the constant wail of prisoners in pain and the scratching of the rats within the walls.

He would ponder things as newly amazing-if commonplace-as the symmetry of his hands and things as eternally sublime as the anger of the storm kami. New thoughts occurred to him, new a.s.sociations of apparently disparate ideas. To his morning ritual of asking permission to commit seppuku he later added a daily request for writing materials. Both were always denied. The former with revulsion, the latter with mundane annoyance or a jest belittling his considerable education that he found increasingly irritating, though he maintained his dignity through it all.

When he began to notice how his poor-and occasionally rancid-diet had begun to attenuate his physique, he attempted to work still harder at the exercise the confines of his cell would permit. He improved himself to a noticeable degree, then seemed to reach a plateau he could not raise.

One day as he worked through the vigorous kata whose daily extension had become his dungeon calendar, two burly guards burst into his cell out of frustrated hostility-for he had refused to acknowledge their presence, though they taunted him incessantly and pelted him with stones and fecal matter.

After a ferocious battle in the tight s.p.a.ce of the cell, Gonji left his attackers writhing in pain. Other guards on the scene fired two warning shots to which he paid no heed, quitting the cell to take them on empty-handed. In his weakened state-his nose was broken for the second time-he was soon overpowered and thrown back into the cell.

Pain-maddened fellow prisoners cheered and screamed from their own cells-on whose behalf Gonji could not tell-when he was later led to the torture chambers for a session under the lash.

He was unable to lie on his back for a week afterwards; yet he agonizingly pushed himself through his daily regimen. But his battered condition forced him to abbreviate it. His discipline now necessarily became less vigorous. And he marked the pa.s.sage of time from the Day of the Lash with compositions of waka poetry.

His requests for writing materials were still refused daily, and he committed each new days waka to memory, repeating it silently until it duly took its place beside its brothers.

There were three s.h.i.+fts of guards on duty in the dungeons.

Those who came late in the afternoon and stayed till midnight were the worst. These were the brutes who had beaten and flayed him, and it was only by supreme exercise of concentration that he was enabled to blockade their presence from his daily struggle for dignified existence. They would occasionally wrestle him out of his cell to lead him on tours of the torture chambers, elaborately demonstrating the rack, or the iron maiden, or some other such fiendish device, on an unfortunate prisoner.