Disclaimers etc in Pt1.

Feedback and comments are very welcome. Email Sue at wood_bee@yahoo.co.uk.   Please note that due to work commitments, replies may be delayed or not possible. Apologies in advance.

The Eightfold Fence

by Sue

Toiling up the incline from the harbour, Rodrigues paused to remove his hat and wipe a hand across his brow. It had been a warm spring day, and even though the heat was not oppressive it had sapped his energy. After a difficult voyage from Manila he had been looking forward to a few quiet days in port, leaving it to his men to supervise the unloading of the cargo, but by the very nature of the journey this was not to be so. His passenger, the Spanish Bishop sent from Manila to take over the running of the Jesuit mission in Osaka and thus also the management of the Black Ship itself and all its business, had shown a disturbing desire to examine his accounts in painstaking detail, with the result that at a time when he should have been relaxing in his cabin over a mug of grog and a meal of gargantuan proportions Rodrigues was dressed in his finest velvet doublet and weighed down by the two heavy ledgers containing all his figuring. Not that His Grace would find anything amiss in the accounting, Rodrigues told himself. He'd had the books scrutinised in Manila before ever he put to sea, knowing the reputation of the man he was to carry, and they told a straight enough story; whether or not they matched with the accounts kept at the mission was another matter, of course.

Osaka had scarcely changed since the day he had sailed from its harbour three years earlier, commanding the Nao del Trato for the first time. He doubted he would ever forget the circumstances under which he'd obtained his command; in a dispute with Father dell'Aqua over the fate of the English pilot, Captain Ferriera had been shot by Christian samurai commanded by a brother of the Jesuit mission. He wondered whether the Ingeles was still alive. The man was a survivor, that was certain, but he'd heard that the Battle of Sekigahara had claimed lives in the tens of thousands and there was no guarantee John Blackthorne had not been among them. If he'd lived through it, though, there was every chance he was in Osaka with his master. He'd make enquiries, the first chance he got.

The Father Visitor had appointed Rodrigues Captain and Governor of Macao before Ferriera's corpse was cold; two very lucrative appointments they'd been, as well. Thanks to Father dell'Aqua's good offices and his own performance in the job he'd been re-appointed for an immediate return journey, with a bigger and better ship - the Virgem Santissima - and a better and less treacherous crew. He had a lot to thank the Father Visitor for, and had been saddened on returning to Manila to hear of the man's recent death.

Cooler now, Rodrigues replaced his hat and started off up the main street once more. It was thronged with the usual motley collection of fish-merchants, sandal-makers, medicine-sellers and other artisans, some doing business and others merely standing around exchanging the time of day and dealing in gossip and rumour. Here and there one he recognised would bow as he passed, although no-one spoke to him. He could well understand that; if the look on his face reflected what he was feeling inside, it would be more than enough to discourage idle conversation.

Reaching an intersection of the ways, he stood aside as a samurai convoy came into view. Half a dozen footsoldiers and three mounted samurai in Toranaga uniforms were escorting a samurai in a buff-coloured kimono in the direction of the Jesuit mission. Some protégé of Toranaga's, no doubt, since that was Toda Buntaro-sama riding with him.

The convoy drew level with him and he glanced up in idle curiosity, the pale face of the buff-clad samurai shocking an exclamation from him.

"Madonna! Father Alvito, is that you?"

The convoy jolted to a halt in unwonted confusion, the priest's head swivelling towards the sound of his voice.

"Vasco Rodrigues!"

"Father Alvito, by all that's holy! I took you for a Japper!" Pushing his way through the melee, Rodrigues found himself at the side of Alvito's horse.

"Matte kudasai, Buntaro-san," Alvito said to the samurai, receiving only a frosty nod of acknowledgement in exchange. The priest swung down from the saddle and gripped Rodrigues by the hand. "I thought you were not due in Osaka for several weeks, Captain Rodrigues," he said, warmly. "Congratulations on your re-appointment."

"Thank you, Father. And my condolences on the death of the Father Visitor. A great loss to us all."

"Indeed."

"It's on account of his passing I'm here, Father. The Black Ship was diverted to Manila to bring Bishop Mendoza. I escorted him to the mission myself this morning, and I'm on my way there now with my account books. He wants to know where every penny has gone, and woe betide me if the books aren't in order. Saving your presence, Father, he's a good man but stricter than Father dell'Aqua, and he's got the eyes of a miser. Madonna, I wouldn't want him for my enemy!"

"So soon?" Distracted, Alvito could barely concentrate on Rodrigues' words. "Well, it's in God's hands. I must make haste back to the mission, Captain; it was very pleasant to meet you again."

"Oh, Father, before you go...there's one thing."

Alvito had already remounted, but he turned back to face his countryman. "Yes, my son?"

"The Ingeles. Pilot-major Blackthorne. Is he alive? Do you know where I can find him?"

All trace of cordiality vanished from Alvito's expression, and his eyes became hard. "He's hunting with Lord Toranaga north of the city. Buntaro-san will be returning there tomorrow. They won't return to Osaka until they are tired of hunting."

"So he survived the battle, eh? Well, I'll be in Osaka until the Bishop orders otherwise. Ask Buntaro-sama to give my greetings to the Ingeles, would you, Father?"

Alvito conveyed the message to Buntaro in a few crisp words, and the samurai turned round and regarded Rodrigues with a stare that cut like a knife. Rodrigues was aware of the man's distaste for him, and uncomfortably convinced he had said something out of place.

"Your message will be relayed to the pilot, Captain Rodrigues," Alvito said, distantly. "Now, you will please excuse me; I must present myself to His Grace."

"Certainly, Father," Rodrigues told him, expansively, watching the convoy draw itself together again and precede him up the hill.

Father Alvito dressed like a Japper! he thought to himself, bewildered. And that God-cursed Englishman still alive - and with a Jap wife and a bunch of Jap children now, I shouldn't wonder! Madonna, this country is enough to steal a man's sanity! Cursing under his breath, he continued his trudge up the hill towards the Jesuit mission.

Alvito had barely descended from his horse in the road outside the mission when Father Soldi appeared in the doorway.

"Martin, in Heaven's name hurry and change your clothes! The Bishop arrived this morning from Manila, and he wants to see you immediately."

Calmly Alvito handed the reins of his horse to one of the Japanese servants and walked over to where Buntaro waited, scowling.

"Domo arigato, Buntaro-san," he said, bowing.

"Do itashimasu, Tsukku-san. Sayonara."

"Sayonara, Buntaro-san." The formalities completed, Alvito turned back to face Father Soldi. "Thank you, Gregory," he said, with a smile. "I met Captain-pilot Rodrigues on my way through the town. He will be here shortly, together with his accounts."

"His Grace is looking at ours at this very minute," Soldi told him, standing aside to allow Alvito to precede him into the mission building. "Brother Michael's with him. It was a good thing you summarised everything so carefully before you went away. Did you think you might not return?"

"It was possible," Alvito acknowledged, "but by God's grace, here I am."

He was about to take his leave of Father Soldi and retreat to the sleeping quarters to change back into his cassock when the shoji slid open. A shiver of dread passed down Alvito's spine as he turned in the direction of the sound, and came face to face with the Father Visitor's successor.

Bishop Mendoza of Samar was sixty years old, olive-skinned and grey-bearded, with a stern countenance and eyes that had the power to sear away falsehood and expose the secrets of a man's heart. The expression on his face was one of the utmost disapproval, even when Alvito automatically dropped to his knees.

"Father Martin Alvito," the Bishop said, and it was not a question.

"Your Grace."

"It is hardly fitting, Father, that a member of this Order - an ordained priest, no less - should be seen in the streets of the city attired in this unseemly fashion. Have the goodness to dress yourself more suitably, and then bring that garment to me. Immediately, if you please."

"Yes, Your Grace."

The Bishop turned away, back into the private room, and for a moment Alvito's glance locked with that of Brother Michael. Michael conveyed sympathy and a warning, then followed the Bishop back into the inner room. Rising from his knees, Alvito hastened to comply with his superior's orders.

Brother Michael and Father Soldi were still with the Bishop when Alvito returned some minutes later to place the neatly-folded kimono on the Bishop's desk. Attired once again in his black cassock, the errant priest looked the very model of respectful submission as he made his bow. The Bishop looked up from the ledger, eyes sharp as swordblades turning towards Alvito.

"Ah yes," he said, setting aside his pen and reaching out to touch the folded silk cautiously. "The gift from Lord Toranaga. I have heard much of this nobleman and his gifts since I arrived here; in a small community, armed warriors bearing expensive gifts are not likely to go unnoticed. I have heard of a present of silk robes delivered here to you by a heathen named Kasigi Omi. I have heard also of an escort of soldiers which included in its number one John Blackthorne, by repute an English heretic. You were seen to speak to this man. Do you deny it?"

Michael, watching Alvito's face, noticed the momentary flicker of something he could not identify deep in the man's brown eyes. He had known Martin Alvito long enough to understand that something connected with the name of Blackthorne had caused his friend pain. Without conscious understanding of the connection of ideas he brought to mind the whippings Alvito had ordered as penance for a crime he had not specified, and the thought made him shiver. If Blackthorne had been the reason for the penance - if Blackthorne had been the crime - Silently he put up an extempore prayer in his own language.

"No, Your Grace, I do not deny it." The tone was calm, the words controlled, but there was a fire in Alvito's eyes that Michael was beginning to think he recognised. The Bishop, fortunately, appeared to see only a disobedient priest who had allowed vanity to tempt him into error. Michael prayed that he would never see more.

Bishop Mendoza's scrutiny seemed to take a long time. At the end of it, he leaned back in his chair and met Alvito's assumed meekness with an autocratic glare. "There is much about your conduct I consider unsatisfactory, Father Alvito. I have been told my late predecessor reposed great trust in your abilities, but from what I have seen of you so far I am constrained to doubt the wisdom of his judgement. I will enquire into these matters further at chapter tomorrow morning, and until that time you will consider yourself under censure. You will neither eat nor sleep, and you will drink only water. You will spend the night in prayer. You would do well to ask for God's assistance in bringing to light the truth of your dealings with heathens and heretics."

Michael noticed the slight shudder that passed through Alvito's slender frame - the first hint of any misgiving to taint his otherwise perfect composure. Nevertheless the man bowed with respectful humility.

"Yes, Your Grace," he said, accepting his dismissal without question. He left the room obediently, giving no indication whatsoever of the distress Michael was now certain seethed within him.

Ah, Martin my friend, he thought, they don't know you as well as I do. Even when you were a child you controlled your emotions wonderfully; very Japanese of you. These men are Europeans all through, they can't see that you can be European on the outside but Japanese within. It's God's joke on us, and it's a good one. And you've become more Japanese than you know, or what is it about this English samurai that gives you so much pain? Have you pillowed with him? Or do you want to, and fear God will cast you out for it?

Struggling to deal with the myriad of conflicting thoughts jostling for priority, Michael made a superhuman effort to return his attention to the ledgers open on the desk before them, and to the Bishop's detailed questions about their contents. Within minutes he was lost in a tangle of financial complications regarding the Black Ship, and the more pressing question of Martin Alvito's fate had been temporarily banished from his mind.

It was late that night before Michael saw his friend and mentor again. The duties of the day concluded he was at liberty to pass his time as he chose, and after most of the brothers were asleep he made his way to the mission's small chapel. It was lit only by the candles on the altar, and in the darkness it was not easy at first to make out the figure of Father Alvito but at length Michael saw him. He was precisely where he should have been, on his knees in front of the altar, hands folded in prayer. Silently Michael made his way to the front of the chapel, certain that Alvito was aware of him from the silken rustle of his cassock and the small sounds of his sandals against the wooden floor. Coming close to where his friend knelt, Michael too dropped to his knees and folded his hands. Alvito did not turn in his direction.

"Heavenly Father," Michael said, softly, "help me to let my friend Martin know that I will always pray for him and always remain his friend."

A quiet gasp in the darkness was the only acknowledgement his words received and Michael lapsed into silence again, framing his prayers in words only to be understood by He to whom they were addressed.

Michael! Alvito thought, calming his racing brain only with difficulty. Would you be so quick to offer me your prayers if you knew how I had spent last night?

The images of the night before had refused to leave him. Over and over again he saw himself being drawn down into John Blackthorne's embrace, caressed and held close with a tenderness he had never in his life experienced. The touch of Blackthorne's fingers on his lips - a chaste enough touch, but for the emotion behind it - had nearly destroyed his resolve not to give himself to the man. It would have been so easy, and he knew now that it would have been most pleasant, too. Blackthorne's actions had proved he was not merely seeking one night of perverse pleasure. If he had wanted that, he could have taken advantage of one of the kosho; merely admitting that he wished to do so would have been enough to induce Toranaga to make the offer. But Toranaga had other plans; plans which required Blackthorne and Alvito to pillow together. It was as if the man had learned every secret Alvito had ever shielded and was determined to bring it into the light. Uncomfortable reminiscences of his recent interview with Toranaga flooded to the surface; the Shogun had seemed vastly disappointed by his defection, and yet had readily given him permission to leave the camp.

"Anjin ga hoshii ka?" he had asked, pointedly. Do you want the Anjin?

"Sire, it is not a question of whether I want or do not want Anjin-san," he had responded, hearing the frailty in his own words as he fought with his conscience. "As you know, I do want him. Very much. More than is safe for either of us. My Christian faith teaches me that if I give way to the promptings of lust I will not only condemn myself for all eternity but condemn him, also. He may be an Englishman and not a Catholic, but he is an honest man with a true heart; I could never bring him hurt of any kind. If you insist on keeping us together, Toranaga-sama, we will both suffer greatly. Therefore, for the Anjin's sake if not for my own, I must beg you to let me go."

Toranaga had snorted his derision, but his expression had been kind. "European ways are very strange," he had observed, thoughtfully. "You would do better to be guided by Japanese customs in matters of the heart, Tsukku-san. Nevertheless, you have my permission to leave whenever you wish. I will send Buntaro-san with you as escort."

Alvito remembered bowing his thanks and leaving Toranaga's presence without engaging in further smalltalk, still bewildered by the daimyo's motives in engineering this extraordinary situation.

Whatever your intentions, Toranaga-sama, you have made one thing clear, he acknowledged, silently. That John Blackthorne... He lingered over the name, caressing it with his mind, picturing its owner as he had last seen him. ...That John Blackthorne loves me and that I love him. That if I had not already pledged my life to God's service I could have found that life with the English pilot. You are right to say that Japanese ways are more sensible than European ways, and it's my unhappy karma that I'm not truly Japanese at all. Perhaps in the next life I'll have that privilege. Perhaps in the next life I'll know how it feels to taste a lover's kiss and to surrender my body to him. I believe I'd give up my chance of Heaven for that even now, if it were possible. If that means that the Devil owns me then I suppose I am damned; men have been damned for less. And yet with the love of a man as noble in spirit as Anjin-san and the support of a friend as Christian and generous as Michael, how can I be truly evil? Would they care for me at all, if I were as corrupt as I believe myself to be?

The arguments went spinning through his mind like dervishes, stealing sense and peace from him and leaving in their empty aftermath a kind of awful tranquillity, a knowledge that there was no demon worse than the one he had set loose himself; that the world's opinion was of little account to him when set against John Blackthorne's. There followed a determination to be worthy of that opinion.

By the time the new day dawned, Martin Alvito had already arrived at his decision.

Morning sun slanted into the room from a point somewhere to the right of where the Bishop was sitting. Michael had managed to place himself halfway down the room on the left, as though poised for some kind of action.

He's samurai, Alvito thought. He never forgets it, no matter how hard I try with him. He's full of obligations and duties that exist for no-one else but him.

He stood, quite still, in the centre of the room, still clad in black, hands folded decorously in front of him. Around him most of the brothers, Michael included, were in their outdoor wear of cassocks coloured to mimic the familiar orange of Buddhist robes, a colour that even the simplest Japanese peasant would understand as being the mark of a priest or holy man. Bishop Mendoza wore black, with a purple sash, the gold cross around his neck flaming to incandescence in the sunlight. Everything in the room was at once utterly familiar and bizarrely strange, the known and safe world of home become a menacing arena where his life would be won or lost. Alvito's dark eyes encompassed it all calmly, then returned to settle on the face of his superior.

"I am told you used the night profitably in prayer," the Bishop said, without preamble.

"Yes, Your Grace."

"Good. Brothers," he continued, in a louder tone, "in the short time I have been among you I have already found cause to enquire into the actions of a member of this house. Matters have been brought to my notice that are so serious they can only be resolved here in chapter, and by us all. The discipline of this Order is clear and simple and known to all; if one of us acts in contempt of this discipline it is our duty to expose his error." As he paused, an almost imperceptible murmur of shock sped around the room, unsettling even the most serene of the brothers. Father Alvito, the Father Visitor's own protege, the strongest and best among them; what hideous crime could he have committed to be so arraigned?

On the desk still lay the buff-coloured travelling kimono Alvito had worn on his return from Toranaga's hunting-camp. The Bishop picked it up, let it fall open to the light, dropped it neglectfully on the floor. Alvito watched these actions without emotion, and thought of John Blackthorne.

"You were seen in the streets of the city yesterday wearing this garment," the Bishop began, mildly enough. "I understand you received a gift of clothing from a nobleman by the name of Toranaga. Is this so?"

"Yes, Your Grace, it is so."

"This was a personal gift and not intended for distribution among the brothers or to the poor, yet in direct contravention of the rules of this Order you accepted it. Why?"

"Your Grace, our house here owes its very existence to Lord Toranaga's continued goodwill. Although he is not a Christian he has protected us and enabled us to continue our work when elsewhere in Japan priests were received only with threats and violence. It is necessary to humour such a man, to flatter him in small ways so that he will continue to regard this house with favour."

"Father Alvito, the only favour a Christian house needs, the only protection it should seek, is that of God. Flattering some local lord who is counted among the heathen is not the business of a Jesuit."

Alvito bowed his head, accepting the rebuke with undiminished serenity. "No, Your Grace."

"These were valuable garments, as I am informed. You left with four, but have returned with only one. I require you to account for those garments which are missing."

"As you say, Your Grace, there were four. Two have remained behind in the hands of Lord Toranaga's servants, the third you have before you. The fourth kimono Lord Toranaga directed to be burned."

"Why would he direct you to burn his gift?"

Alvito straightened, shoulders squaring. "It was stained with the blood of a peasant. Japanese tradition has it that such blood is impossible to remove; anything contaminated with it must therefore be destroyed."

There was pallor beneath the olive of Bishop Mendoza's complexion, and his eyes seemed sunken. He seemed wearied already by his enquiries, but determined to see them through to their bitter conclusion. The matter of the destroyed kimono must undoubtedly be followed up.

"How did it come about that the... kimono... was soiled with the blood of this unfortunate peasant?" he asked, coldly.

Expecting the question, and this turn in the interrogation, Alvito was prepared with nothing less than the truth.

Oh, Michael, he thought, if your loyalty has taught me anything it is this; that truth has to be faced, however uncomfortable it may be.

"Your Grace," he said, calmly, "the man was a bandit, one of a number who attacked the hunting-camp. It was necessary for me to defend my own life and that of another person. In doing so, I regret to say, I killed the bandit."

His revelation caused another, more perceptible sensation among the silent brothers. Alvito scarcely noticed it, concentrating all his attention on the unwavering gaze of the Bishop. The man was looking for sin, looking for any stain on his character. Alvito would be obedient, repentant, but he would not be ashamed. Shame would negate Michael's devotion and John Blackthorne's love, gifts he had not deserved but was determined somehow not to disgrace.

"You...a priest of this Order...admit to the killing of a man?"

"Yes, Your Grace. In a battle for my own life and that of another."

"Which other? Who was this person for whose sake you killed?"

The black-clad priest accorded his adversary increased respect. It was obvious that the Bishop had a quick intelligence, as well as the services of those who made most cautious use of the truth.

"The English pilot," he said, without a tremor. "John Blackthorne."

"You killed...to save the life of a heretic? An Englishman?"

"Yes, Your Grace."

Bishop Mendoza flinched as if he had been struck. "This heretic has been much mentioned to me. I understand he is a favoured vassal of Lord Toranaga and has adopted Japanese ways. He scarcely seems to me to be fitting company for a priest of this Order." The Bishop halted, drew breath, seemed to compose his mind before continuing. "It is suggested to me that there were ladies present on this hunting expedition," he said, raising one eyebrow in interrogation. Close by his side, Father Soldi appeared to be wishing the earth would open and swallow him.

I need look no further for the source of this information, Alvito thought, a leaden sensation of disappointment filling him. There are always those who will wilfully misinterpret what they see and hear. I should have more charity towards you, Gregory, but you make it difficult.

"No, Your Grace, there were no ladies present."

"There were three palanquins in the convoy," the Bishop reminded him, firmly.

"They contained pages in Lord Toranaga's retinue," Alvito supplied. An intake of breath from Michael's direction told him that he had damned himself with the truth, and yet the Bishop could have confirmed from a hundred different sources that Toranaga had taken three o-kosho hunting with him. It would not have seemed remarkable to any Japanese he had questioned; the use Toranaga made of his pages was purely a private matter, and the Christian astonishment at such actions would merely have seemed ridiculous.

"Father Alvito, must I force the truth from you? Tell me whether or not this Lord Toranaga is a sodomite, and whether or not these unfortunate boys were there for his pleasure and that of his guests."

Eyes widening only the merest fraction, Alvito supplied the required answer. "It is as you say, Your Grace. Lord Toranaga pillows with young men, and the pages were taken on the journey for his pleasure."

"Then, Father, we find you in the company of heretics and sodomites - and not unwillingly."

Rising from his seat, the Bishop moved around to the front of the desk and approached the middle of the room where Alvito stood, back straight, hands folded, head erect. Walking slowly around him as though to inspect from every angle the noxious creature that had found its way into his presence, Bishop Mendoza seemed to be gathering his strength for another onslaught.

"The man Blackthorne," he said, almost softly, close to Alvito's ear. Alvito caught himself flinching away from the sound of the name. "Is he also a sodomite?"

"No, Your Grace, he is not." The firm denial rang in the air.

"You know this?"

"I know it."

"Then you and he have had some discussion on the matter?"

"It was mentioned, Your Grace. He asked whether he could decline if Lord Toranaga offered him one of the pages for the night, and I advised him."

The Bishop had turned away. "And was such an offer made?"

"No, Your Grace. Lord Toranaga made no such offer to Captain Blackthorne."

The evasion in the words would have been obvious even to the meanest intellect. The Bishop swung round, a shocked gleam in his dark gaze. "Then to whom was the offer made? To you?"

The silence in the room was positively animated now, a living creature coiled like a snake. The sensibilities of the brothers had been trampled mercilessly, the exposure of Alvito's conduct bringing pain and fear to them all. To the Japanese converts there was only great favour in such an offer; a man could reject it if his tastes did not turn in that direction, but that did not reduce the magnitude of the honour. That Alvito had been so distinguished by a great lord like Toranaga could never be a cause for disapproval, and yet the very thought seemed to have driven the Bishop to the verge of apoplexy.

"Yes," Alvito answered, calmly. "I also declined."

"You declined? Yes, yes, of course you did. But you did not leave the camp immediately. You waited until the following morning. Why was that?"

"The bandits attacked, Your Grace. It would not have been safe to leave the camp in the darkness, and Captain Blackthorne was injured. I tended his wounds, and made preparations to leave in the morning."

Slowly the Bishop moved around behind the desk and resumed his seat, glancing up at Father Soldi with eyes that in a less holy man would have held hate.

"Then in whose company did you pass the night? That of the sodomite Toranaga or the heretic Blackthorne?"

"In the company of Captain Blackthorne," Alvito told him, noting almost with admiration that the Bishop's question did not admit of any possibility but a guilty one.

"And did you 'pillow' with him?"

The suddenness of the question shocked the breath from both Alvito and Michael on the instant, leaving the bearded priest open-mouthed and rigid with astonishment as his heart thudded loudly and painfully beneath his ribs. An abrupt flame of violent fear flashed in his eyes, his distress momentarily visible to all before the mask of firm control returned to his features.

"I have said, Your Grace," he began, voice tortured by the want of breath, "that the Englishman is no sodomite."

"But the thought is the deed," was the steel-cold response. "I ask you again; have you sinned with this man?"

The pause before Alvito made answer was perhaps the longest of Michael's life, and yet knowing his friend as he did he knew also that now there could be only one answer - and when it came, his soul rejoiced in Martin's strength.

"Yes, Your Grace," Father Alvito said, softly. "I have."

For a long, long moment the Bishop watched him in silence, watching the perfect composure return to his features and the air of serenity wrap itself around him like a cloak. It was obvious Alvito was afraid neither of him, nor of punishment. There was only one possible explanation for such indifference.

"It is clear to me that Satan has taken possession of your soul," he said, bitterly. "You stand among us confessed of the most repulsive of sins, yet I see no remorse in you. It is my duty to obliterate any threat to the good conduct of this house, and you with your shamelessness and your sins are a threat of the worst possible kind. You have broken your vow of poverty, your vow of obedience, and your vow of chastity; you have killed. In addition, you have confessed before us all that wickedly, devilishly, feloniously and against the Order of Nature you have committed the detestable, abominable and heretical sin called sodomy, to the great displeasure of Almighty God and the disgrace of all mankind. You are sentenced to die a heretic's death. Your body will be burned and your ashes buried in the latrine pit. The brothers of this house will expunge you from their memory as though you had never existed. You will suffer one week from today; until that time you will be confined without food or light. You are forbidden to speak to anyone. You are cast out, but if you repent it is possible God will receive you with mercy. It is your disgusting Portuguese pride that has brought you to this; you would do well to reflect on that in the time you have left. Father Soldi, remove this man from my sight."

Soldi's eyes were huge and terrified as they turned towards the Bishop, for he was aware even as he did so that his own weakness and jealousy had been exposed; he had expected nothing so extreme from Alvito as a confession to sodomy - women, perhaps, an indiscreet flirtation punishable with lashes and fasting. This was worse, far worse, than he could ever have dreamed - worse, and in its own obscene way better. He hadn't sought Alvito's death, but then a heretic sodomite deserved nothing other than burning.

He waited a moment while Alvito made one last, utterly correct formal bow to the Bishop, then grasped his arm roughly and turned him away from the chapter, part of his mind already revelling in the awesome power he had wielded over Father dell'Aqua's heir-apparent. To bring a man to death at the stake with so few careful words was power indeed; it would make him feared and respected throughout Osaka when it became known. No man would dare to cross him again; he, Gregory Soldi, would stand at the new Bishop's side and direct the business of the Jesuit mission as Martin Alvito had stood by the Father Visitor. To that end, the death of one disgraced priest seemed a small matter indeed.

Dragging Alvito away from the chapter, he owned himself well content with his day's work.

Entering the mission's chapel, hat in hand, the following morning, Rodrigues found himself ushered forward to a bench placed close to the front. He didn't recognise the brother who had guided him there, and when he glanced around he realised there were a great many brothers in attendance he had not seen before. Everything had been different in the Father Visitor's day, he thought morosely. You knew exactly where you were with Father dell'Aqua; a devious man, in his way, but utterly fair. Hadn't he saved the life of the Ingeles by standing between him and Ferriera's gun? Old Weasel-face had been the sourest Captain he'd ever had the misfortune to serve under, the meanest man he'd encountered in his life - until he'd met the new Bishop.

The Bishop was the occasion for the fullness of the chapel, he realised. All the Christians in Osaka were curious to get their first look at the Spaniard who was to take charge of their spiritual welfare from now on. A handful of European traders such as himself had found their way to the mission; a healthy representation of his own crew stood at the back, and a couple of dozen Japanese converts in addition to the brothers of the mission filled the benches. Rodrigues took it all in, bowed respectfully to a couple of Japanese he recognised, and sought for other familiar faces in the crush. Father Soldi he knew, and did not much like. Some of the brothers he had seen before. It was curious that there was no sign of Father Alvito, but undoubtedly he would be somewhere close at hand. The Bishop had yet to enter the chapel, and he would certainly not do so alone. A Bishop preaching for the first time in his new cure would undoubtedly take the opportunity of impressing the local populace with every trapping and gewgaw at his command; processions and jewels and plate and prayers that went on for ever and ever amen could be expected, and Rodrigues cursed himself silently for being so devout - or so afraid of hellfire - that he had never considered not attending.

He noticed one of the brothers glancing at him anxiously; a handsome man, tall for a Japanese, with his shining dark hair caught up behind in a topknot. There seemed to be something like anguish in the man's expression, and Rodrigues was at a loss to identify what it might be. His puzzling was cut short, however, by a shuffling of feet and a sudden hush at the back of the chapel and the sonorous, doom-laden voice of Bishop Mendoza tolling on the air like a bell and recalling them all to their duty.

Some hours later - or so it seemed to Rodrigues - when he was finally free to step out into the chilled sunlight again, he foregathered with his crew in the square outside the mission.

"God in Heaven, boys, we've earned our grog this morning!" he said, cheerfully, enjoying the light-hearted way they all agreed with him. They were all good Christians, made their observances regularly - even aboard ship - but not one of them was so bowed down by the weight of his faith that he couldn't appreciate a joke at the church's expense.

"Captain Rodrigues?"

Rodrigues spun round, the sun in his eyes, momentarily startled to be brought face to face with the brother whose anxious expression had distracted his attention in the chapel.

"Yes, Brother," he said, returning the man's bow. "How can I be of service to you?"

"In confidence, Captain," the brother said, seriously.

Rodrigues looked around briefly at the crew, all of whom were quite obviously intrigued to know what would be said.

"Of course," he acknowledged, taking a few steps away from his men. The brother moved across with him, and stood close enough for his voice to be little more than a whisper.

"Time is short, Rodrigo-san," the Brother said, quickly. "My name is Michael; you must mention me to the Anjin-san when you see him."

"Aha, if I see him, you mean!" Rodrigues laughed. "He's a slippery man to get hold of these days, now that he's Toranaga-sama's ichi-ban friend!"

"No, Rodrigo-san, you must see him. Go to the castle and ask for a guide to take you to the hunting-camp. You must take a message urgently to Anjin-san."

The importance of the matter began to seep through to Rodrigues and his expression changed. "Why, what is it, Brother?" he asked, sharply. "What's amiss?"

"Martin Alvito is condemned to die at the stake six days from now," Michael said, quietly. "It's not a necessary death, Captain-san, and he must be saved. Anjin-san will know what to do. Please, Captain, I beg you."

"Hush, Brother, that's enough, I'll go; but what am I to tell the Ingeles? I knew the Father was in trouble for wearing a kimono - Madonna, the place was alive with it when I was here with my accounts on Friday evening - but that's not enough to get him burned, surely?"

"No. Tell the Anjin-san that Martin is condemned as a heretic; that he has confessed to the sin of sodomy. Tell the Anjin...tell him I'll do all I can, but that if he cares for Martin at all he must help him. Tell him that, Captain, in those words."

"If he..." repeating the words in mystification, Rodrigues could not stop his mouth dropping open as his becalmed mind spun in useless circles. "Are you telling me that Father Alvito and the Ingeles...? It's impossible!"

"I would scarcely believe it myself, Captain-san, but I heard the words from his own lips. He's imprisoned here and just waiting to die, Rodrigo-san; he's more than half samurai himself now, and his sense of honour will kill him. You must get him away from here - away from the mission, away from Osaka, away from Japan if you can."

"Enough, enough. I understand." He had faults in plenty, that he knew, but mental slowness was not normally among them. "Damn and blast that Spanish Bishop, I knew he was trouble! I should have thrown him overboard when I had the chance."

"May God forgive you, Captain; His Grace is not at fault. He simply does not understand that a samurai is not like ordinary men."

"Then he's not fit to take the Father Visitor's place, is he?" fumed Rodrigues. "Oh, Holy Mother, you've given me enough to think about, Brother Michael! How will I get word to you?"

"Come to the mission at any time and ask to make your confession. If you ask for me by name I will be able to speak to you in private. The Bishop may suspect what I have told you, but unless he wishes to burn me as well he will never prove it."

Aghast, Rodrigues could do nothing but nod. "Consider it done, Brother," he said, briskly. "I'll away to the castle this moment. God damn me, give me the words to say to Naga-sama to make myself understood!"

Michael spoke a few rapid syllables of Japanese. Rodrigues, who had learned a smattering of the language some years before, repeated them to him imperfectly but coherently.

"God go with you, Rodrigo-san," Michael added, his face a mask of anxiety.

"And with you, Brother. And with Father Alvito."

"Amen to that," Michael said, as he turned away.

To Part 4

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