Fortress of Lost Worlds (25 page)

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

The brutish new warden of the day shift, Sergeant Padilla, quickly established his loathing for Gonji.

He cut the samurai’s daily water ration such that his dogged efforts at cleanliness were severely curtailed again. The first time they came to grips in their battle of wills, Padilla surrendered in frustration, sending Gonji to a session under the lash. And each time a clergyman or political official was scheduled to come to the dungeons to ogle the controversial prisoner, Gonji was again treated to a brief ordeal on the rack or with the flagellum so as to “knock some of the vinegar out of him,” as Padilla was inclined to put it.

As the summer dragged itself out, an increasing number of hostile dignitaries came to stare or level their unanswered accusations. Only later would Gonji learn the identities of some, and only out of Padilla’s boorish efforts at intimidating him. For he cared not a whit that the holy man with the pinched nose and haughty brow was the Papal Nuncio; or that the arrogant and insulting Duke of Lerma, who stormed away after Gonji matched the man’s pomposity with his own silent scorn, was the chief power behind the Inquisition itself.

It wasn’t until Duke Alonzo Cervera surprisingly appeared in the dungeons one day that Gonji showed interest in speaking with one of his august visitors. Ironically, Cervera was disinclined to speak with
him
.

When Gonji saw the man, who was the object of his most recent quest, peering through the grating with evident pain, the samurai’s eyes widened. Abandoning his laconic stoicism for the moment, he rose and went to the aperture, unsure of the words he would speak. For here was his former beloved master, father of the murdered woman who had carried Gonji’s
unborn child
, who had been set against him by the vicious acts of a malevolent being who was very much responsible for Gonji’s being cast in his present cold light of condemnation.

It was to clear the air between them that the samurai had undertaken this deadly journey back to Spain.

“Milord,” Gonji intoned reverently, bowing. “Cervera-
sama—
”

“Don’t,” the duke replied, lines of anguish etching his countenance. “I don’t know why I came here. It was a mistake.” He turned to go.

“
Dozo—
please, milord. It was not a mistake. You must hear me out. It’s because I sought
you
that I came to be in this living hell.”

“As well you deserve,” Cervera replied over his quaking shoulder. “Go back to your pit.”

“
Iye
! It was not me who destroyed Theresa! It was that
thing
that corrupted my duty, that
deceived
me. The monster did the deed, laid the trail of horror you followed. By all that’s holy, do you think I would destroy
my own child and the woman who loved me
?!”

Cervera began to sob. “I—I don’t know
what
you’re capable of. You don’t think as we do. You never did.”

The duke rushed away down the corridor, his disappearance like the abrupt reversal of a near victory.

“By Iasu himself,” Gonji shouted after him, “I swear to you that I’m innocent of those crimes! You must believe me!”

“Shut up, you slant-eyed devil!” Padilla bellowed, raking the grating with a poniard. “Get back in there with the rats and lice.”

Gonji sat on his mat, teeth grinding in bitterness. He heard the soft call of Valentina, a note of tenderness in her voice that seemed out of place.

“Gonji
-chan
?”

“Leave me alone, Valentina,” he said, trembling with volcanic emotion. “Just leave me be.”

* * * *

Father de la Cenza was deeply disturbed by the tenor of the recent debates of the interminable council deciding the fate of the increasingly infamous samurai prisoner. He visited the dungeons with the intention of discussing certain pertinent matters, the first time he had gone to see Gonji in weeks.

The samurai seemed unaccountably hostile, spurning him in that adamant fashion the prelate had come to know so well.

Surrendering in frustration, de la Cenza was surprised to find the harlot across the corridor in an unusually agreeable mood. He received her confession, though he was forced to withhold absolution until she would admit to the witchcraft she’d been accused of. Nor could she be granted communion. This news she received somberly, withdrawing into her cell without her normal exhibition of rancor.

As he moved away, he was treated to a second surprise: Gonji called him back, quite an uncharacteristic display of changed heart for this strange warrior.

De la Cenza greeted and blessed him.

“Why is it,” the samurai asked with a wry frown, “that out of all the clergymen who come to gawk at me, you’re the only one who ever confers his blessing?”

“Well, they feel it’s a useless gesture, I suppose.”

“So it is,” Gonji agreed perversely. Then, more sincerely: “But yours conveys a certain warmth. I don’t mind it at all.”

“
Gracias.
I’m sure God will be relieved to hear that.” The priest’s eyes smiled a moment. Then he waxed serious. “You’ve become quite a thorn to them. They don’t know what to do about you. Do you know, they’re appealing to the Pope himself for guidance as to your disposition? The new Innocent—he’s not at all like the one who authorized torture in the interest of obtaining confessions of guilt. No, not from what we can gather. Nor is he much like his immediate predecessor. That’s a very sore point with Holy Mother Church right now, Gonji
-san.
Very bad things are whispered about the last Holy Father, whose tenure was short-lived.” He found his mouth going dry as he discussed the sensitive subject. “There’s been a climate of extreme oppression, a great upheaval both religiously and politically, since the time of that last Pontiff’s election. It’s rumored among the hierarchy that there’s a movement afoot to
eradicate
all record of his tenure and work. To treat him as if he never existed! That’s unprecedented, you realize. And it’s of more interest to you than you might imagine. They may never have told you, but you, and the movement you’ve generated in Europe, and this being called Simon, are
all
the subject of a specific papal bull issued by the late Holy Father! And if his work is abolished, you can understand the possible interest to you.”

Gonji listened with keen interest as de la Cenza continued:

“You—and your work—seem to have evoked much consternation in high places. You have both supporters and detractors in lofty positions, in more than one country.
Very
lofty, I suppose one could say, considering that both the vicar
and
the reigning monarch of Spain have been consulted about your prosecution. It would, I think, be in your best interests if you would address certain issues more candidly than you’ve shown a willingness to in the past.”

Gonji seemed to mull this over. When he spoke, he did so reticently. “Such as, Martin-
san
?”

“What exactly do you know of this
Wunderknechten
movement?”

“The Knights of Wonder?” Gonji seemed smugly amused. “I can’t believe this thing is of such concern. I don’t even know who started it. It seems it’s a sort of universal tolerance movement. It doesn’t surprise me that you oppose it, in your stiff-necked insistence that you’re threatened by those who refuse to accept your heel. As for my part in it, I can only guess. I’ve fought in many parts of
Yoroppa
…taught precepts of what I myself was taught, to men under my command…to our camp-followers.” He shrugged. “Some of them…may have borrowed principles of the warrior code of
bushido
… of the Shinto religion of my youth.”

“Shinto?” de la Cenza queried.

“Surely the Jesuits must have conveyed something of its substance back to Europe. Though it is rather difficult to explain on your terms.”

And Father Martin listened as Gonji attempted to do so, recognizing the dangers in its obscurities, its devotion to ancestors over God, or so it seemed, though the Oriental was vague or evasive in this regard. Troubled by it all, the prelate began to realize that Gonji enjoyed the juggling of their apparently irreconcilable theological differences, finding no contradiction in nodding to the merits of each in turn. Despite the rigidity of his
bushido
code of ethics, the man’s cosmic view seemed an insoluble maze that he was nonetheless comfortable with.

Father Martin abandoned the subject for a more unsettling one.

“What do you know of the
donado
Anton Balaerik? What crossing have you had with him?”

But the samurai seemed genuinely ignorant of the sinister monk and his order, though de la Cenza was sure Balaerik had been to the dungeons more than once. Further, it had been Balaerik who had ordered the samurai’s full-moon exposures on the battlements above the prison fortress.

What was the source of the mysterious
donado
’s single-minded fanaticism?

The prelate described Balaerik, and Gonji seemed to flash a look of recognition, but he had nothing more to say on the subject. Father Martin told Gonji his fear, voicing it for the first time to anyone apart from his God.

“Something deeply troubles me about Balaerik, Gonji-
san
. He said something in council one day. Something about our divine right to settle our theological differences without pagan interference. No one else seemed disturbed by his words, but it suddenly struck me that he might have said ‘our right to slaughter each other in the name of Christ.’ And then
you
said something similar the first time I came down to you here. So you can see how the two of you are inseparably linked in my mind.

“Gonji-
san
,” he went on, spilling his inmost terrors, “I suffer from grave misgivings these days. I fear our own zealousness—indeed, our viciousness!—briefly allowed evil to sit
on the papal dais itself
!
God forgive me.”

He felt Gonji’s piercing gaze. “You have your problems. I have mine.”

De la Cenza was stung. He had somehow oddly fostered the hope of a kinship between them in this grim business. He sadly called for the warden to see him out of the dungeon block.

“Wait,” Gonji said. “I’ll tell you anything else that occurs to me that might help you. I know you’re doing what you can to aid my cause. I do have a pressing need, though, Martin-
san
. Can you send me more paper?”

“I’ll see what I can do,” the prelate replied, holding back before finishing his thought.

He had not told the samurai of the council’s resolve of that very day. There seemed no sense in disturbing his sleep any further with the gravity of his situation. But they had decided to prosecute him for witchcraft without waiting any longer for the expected counsel of Rome or Madrid.

His trial was set for the day after the harvest moon. Two nights hence.

* * * *

Gonji was stripped of his breechcloth, his
hachi-maki
and shortened robe were taken away to be burned, and he was made to don a new unrepentant’s
sanbenito.
He gave no resistance, for he was loath to lose his chance at the once monthly enjoyment of the sensations of the real world, the world of the living.

He was led to the battlements of the Alcazar and lashed between his familiar embrasures. The usual crowd of full-moon taunters began to gather in the streets outside the walls. But tonight there were far more bloodthirsty gawkers in the great square of the Zocodover. The sprawling promenade was the site of a popular event Gonji would be witnessing for the first time—an auto-da-fe, the public burning of condemned criminals.

The crimes of the three were read by cowled monks: usury, murder, and witchcraft, respectively. Gonji watched in rapt fascination as the throng fell silent and the Inquisitors pursued a benediction, shot through with the frenzied cursing of the one prisoner who still wore the black
sanbenito
of the unrepentant—he who had been convicted of witchcraft. The other two, bedecked in the yellow garment of submission, merely hung their heads and sobbed.

Gonji found the dishonorable posturings of the three ignoble and distasteful, and he gave thought to how he would comport himself should he be served up to the same fate.

The prisoners were led to the stakes, fixed high on raised platforms, and the army now took over the execution of their sentences.

Gonji experienced a wild sensation of wrath and defiance as the three madly struggling forms flared alight, the crowd cheering and proffering drinks and foodstuffs to one another. Bright-colored clothing gamboled in the streets below, as courtly gentlemen and ladies in mantillas danced the
seguidilla
out of rhythm to the musical cacophony that rose to Gonji’s ears.

He tried to make the antic merriment, the lively sights and sounds, the scent of burning wood, exotic perfume, and rich food and drink fit the memories he cherished of years gone by. But it all seemed alien to him now.

Spain had lost its zest for him. It was merely decadent, as was most of Europe.

And then instinct told him he was in danger. When he peered over his shoulder to see who stood there, leering with unholy delight, he knew that the meaning of the event had all come together. It was complete now.

The Burning Court was a foretaste of the Hell these Europeans feared.

“Balaerik,” Gonji ground out as if purging his tongue of a foul taste.

“You know my name,” the evil
donado
replied. “I’m flattered.”

“And I know your meaning, evil priest.”

“Evil?” Balaerik said in mocking confusion, eyebrows arching. “But what
is
evil? Surely from your standpoint all who represent the Church can be regarded as evil.”

“They’re merely misguided,” Gonji said, feeling the sweat trickle down from his brow in the rising heat waves. “You can’t cloud my thinking the way you can with zealots.”

Balaerik strode with hands clasped behind him, a figure exuding smug confidence and self-satisfaction.

“So you think you stand outside the moral universe,” he said. “Larger, more important, capable of judging others as you see fit?”

“Do I?” Gonji parried.

“Oh, yes indeed—and you’re right. You do. As do I, and others like us. Power over the weak is all that matters in the cosmic scheme. You know that. That’s why you’ve become a concern for us. Even in your youth in
Dai Nihon
.”