Shogun_ A Novel of Japan - James Clavell [116]
The iron door of the cell cage had swung open.
Guards began to call names from the list. Bulldog, the man who had befriended Blackthorne, was one of those called. He walked out and did not look back. One of the men in the circle also was chosen. Akabo. Akabo knelt to the monk, who blessed him and made the sign of the cross over him and quickly gave him the Last Sacrament. The man kissed the cross and walked away.
The door closed again.
“They’re going to execute him?” Blackthorne asked.
“Yes, his Calvary is outside the door. May the Holy Madonna take his soul swiftly and give him his everlasting reward.”
“What did that man do?”
“He broke the law—their law, señor. The Japanese are a simple people. And very severe. They truly have only one punishment—death. By the cross, by strangulation, or by decapitation. For the crime of arson, it is death by burning. They have almost no other punishment—banishment sometimes, cutting the hair from women sometimes. But”—the old man sighed—“but most always it is death.”
“You forgot imprisonment.”
The monk’s nails picked absently at the scabs on his arm. “It’s not one of their punishments, my son. To them, prison is just a temporary place to keep the man until they decide his sentence. Only the guilty come here. For just a little while.”
“That’s nonsense. What about you? You’ve been here a year, almost two years.”
“One day they will come for me, like all the others. This is but a resting place between the hell of earth and the glory of Everlasting Life.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“Have no fear, my son. It is the will of God. I am here and can hear the señor’s confession and give him absolution and make him perfect—the glory of Everlasting Life is barely a hundred steps and moments away from that door. Would the señor like me to hear his confession now?”
“No—no, thank you. Not now.” Blackthorne looked at the iron door. “Has anyone ever tried to break out of here?”
“Why should they do that? There is nowhere to run—nowhere to hide. The authorities are very strict. Anyone helping an escaped convict or even a man who commits a crime—” He pointed vaguely at the door of the hut. “Gonzalez—Akabo—the man who has—has left us. He’s a kaga-man. He told me—”
“What’s a kaga-man?”
“Oh, those are the porters, señor, the men that carry the palanquins, or the smaller two-man kaga that’s like a hammock swung on a pole. He told us his partner stole a silken scarf from a customer, poor fellow, and because he himself did not report the theft, his life is forfeit also. The señor may believe me, to try to escape or even to help someone to escape, the man would lose his life and all his family. They are very severe, señor.”
“So everyone goes to execution like sheep then?”
“There is no other choice. It is the will of God.”
Don’t get angry, or panic, Blackthorne warned himself. Be patient. You can think of a way. Not everything the priest says is true. He’s deranged. Who wouldn’t be after so much time?
“These prisons are new to them señor,” the monk was saying. “The Taikō instituted prisons here a few years ago, so they say. Before him there were none. In previous days when a man was caught, he confessed his crime and he was executed.”
“And if he didn’t confess?”
“Everyone confesses—sooner is better, señor. It is the same in our world, if you are caught.”
The monk slept a little, scratching in his sleep and muttering. When he woke up, Blackthorne said, “Please tell me, Father, how the cursed Jesuits put a man of God in this pest hole.”
“There is not much to tell, and everything. After the Taikō’s men came and took all our bullion and goods, our Captain-General insisted on going to the capital to protest. There was no cause for the confiscation. Were we not servants of His Most Imperial Catholic