The Samurai of Seville

by John Healey

  – XXIII –

  In which time stands still

  Before taking leave of Sevilla to accompany the Japanese Delegation on their journey to Madrid, the Duke of Medina-Sidonia called on Soledad Medina. The Duke was fifty-seven years old that year, Doña Soledad, sixty. Eight years had passed since they had last seen each other at Guada’s first holy communion.

  The Duke first set eyes on Soledad at her wedding when, at seventeen, she married one of their older cousins, a popular but unpleasant fellow who early on had acquired a reputation as a philanderer and a boor. Only his wealth and the force of his personality had persuaded so many to put up with him. It was shortly after the obese and alcoholic brute died attempting to rape his game warden’s daughter that the Duke and Soledad began their affair. He had always admired her beauty and elegance, her breeding and forbearance, and had felt sorry for the unfortunate choice her parents had made choosing her husband.

  The Duke was married during those years, as well, but decorum required de rigueur that he take the occasional mistress. He was not prepared for Soledad Medina, for her erudition, wit, and ardor. The reality of his married life paled in comparison. What began as a dalliance deepened into an affair of the heart.

  Though a widow by then, Soledad was subjected to a constant stream of warnings from friends and family. But for the first and last time in her life, she was deeply in love. The Duke teetered on the brink of leaving his wife. When Philip the Second insisted that the Duke take command of the Armada, some at court believed the sovereign’s motive was mainly to douse the love affair with leagues of seawater in order to preserve noble decorum. True or not, it proved efficacious, for when the Duke returned to Spain, he was gray and sober, and after visiting Soledad one last time, he went back to his family.

  That morning Soledad had spent an extra hour dressing and painting her face in preparation for his arrival. The Duke was moved by the effort and told her repeatedly how splendid and unchanged she looked. Though his limp was more pronounced, his hair thinner, his skin parched here and there, he was still, she thought, a handsome man.

  ‘I’m told you are to be married,’ she said with a smile, kissing him on both cheeks as a footman relieved the Duke of his cloak. She smelled of something citric, and he noted the softness of her cheeks, not the toned softness of yesteryear, but a frailer, powdery sort.

  ‘I see tongues have been loosened,’ he said.

  ‘Inmaculada is my relation, too, and Guada the daughter I always wished for.’

  ‘Well, then you know everything,’ he said.

  ‘Far from it,’ she answered. ‘All I have heard about is their horror, or their excitement disguised as horror. But what I wish to hear from you is how you’ve come to such a decision.’

  “What can I say?”

  They walked by salmon-hued columns under vaulted ceilings painted a lemony yellow that enclosed a large rectangular garden in whose center there murmured a simple, circular fountain. She led him into her breakfast room off the library, where white jasmine blossoms on slender vines twirled about the iron bars covering opened windows.

  ‘I’d forgotten what a splendid house you have here,’ he said, meaning it. ‘This is the Sevilla I remember.’

  ‘Out with it, man.’

  ‘She makes me feel young. Her affections for me seem to be genuine. I wish to protect her.’

  ‘And it humors you to force the rest of us to treat her as an equal.’

  ‘That, too,’ he said, laughing easily.

  ‘Well, you must present me to her, and I shall throw you both a ball so that no one will ever say another word against her.’

  ‘You’re a true aristocrat, my dear. You should have moved to Paris long ago, where such sophistication is rewarded. You’ve been wasted and unappreciated in this narrow-minded alley.’

  ‘Not by all, Alonso.’

  A bottle of Manzanilla produced at one of her estates was brought in along with a plate of tortitas de camarón.

  ‘Guada is upset,’ she continued, wishing to remove a weight from her spirit.

  ‘Upset with me?’ he asked.

  ‘Upset because you are so upset with her,’ she answered.

  ‘She behaved like a little provincial,’ he said, but gently.

  ‘That’s what she is, man,’ Soledad replied. ‘But it is not her fault. This is how one learns. I’d hoped that staying with you might broaden her views some, but you were so harsh with her I’m afraid she’s closed herself up more than ever.’

  ‘Perhaps I was—and I shall apologize to her for it,’ he said, eager to appear magnanimous and retain her regard. ‘But I have to say she has gotten herself into a terrible marriage. The boy is insufferable, proud, sly, and stupid.’

  ‘I do not doubt it,’ she said, deferring to him. ‘Perhaps I identify with her because of that, as well.’

  ‘We were getting along beautifully except for when the husband was present, which is why I dispatched him to Sanlúcar as soon as I could. She is very pretty. She takes after you in that, as well.’

  She opened her abanico as if to fan away the blush creeping up her neck, where wrinkles were kept from view by numerous strings of Mallorcan pearls.

  ‘She needs an Alonso to come and rescue her,’ she said, repeating his Christian name, ‘to carry her off and show her true affection.’

  ‘Well, she has a suitor already, and one I wholeheartedly endorse, one for whose gallantry I shall be eternally grateful. If it hadn’t been for him, I wouldn’t be sitting here.’

  ‘Do tell.’

  ‘And who tried,’ he went on, ‘with significant grace and tact, to court her while they were both under my roof. But all it did was tie her into knots.’

  ‘Who?’ she cried out, ‘There must be some disadvantage to him you are keeping from me.’

  ‘Not at all, except for the fact that he comes from a place located, I believe, on the other side of the World. He is even a Prince of sorts and a warrior, a knight if you will, something called a Samurai.’

  She let out a yelp of surprise, leaning off to the side as she did so, a gesture he once knew well and had forgotten, and seeing it again made him smile.

  ‘You cannot be serious,’ she said. ‘Do you mean he is one of those creatures in robes that paraded across the Guadalquivir the other day?’

  ‘The very same,’ he said. ‘But this one is singular, and fine looking. I’ve grown to like him enormously. It’s been an education. And he is mad for the girl, you can see it.’

  ‘You can’t be serious. It’s too much. And Julian after all is one of us—and very handsome.’

  ‘Is he?’ he said, genuinely irritated. ‘I hadn’t noticed.’

  ‘She’s besotted with him. It will take more than the boy’s incestuous infidelity and the attentions of a Samurai to pry her free.’

  ‘I’m not so certain,’ he said. ‘I’ve been with them for almost two weeks and have observed them up close. Anyway,’ he said, gesturing with his hand as if to swat a fly, ‘enough of the young. They can sort it out on their own. They have time. I just wanted to see you and to inquire after you, my dear,’ he said, taking her hand.

  She looked at her hand in his and remembered when those same hands had been young and smooth and how once they had held on to each other possessed with love. Without letting go, they rose from their chairs and sat together on a simple wooden bench, a dark and austere piece of furniture more suited for a chapel, but softened by cushions covered in raw silk.

  ‘I’m so pleased you’ve come to see me,’ she said, her eyes filling with tears. ‘You mustn’t stay away from me for so long again.’

  ‘I won’t,’ he said.

  ‘Though just knowing you are alive,’ she said, ‘that you are still somewhere nearby, is sufficient.’

  She squeezed his hand.

  ‘And I am happy for you, for your new marriage,’ she added.

  – XXIV –

  In which a Samurai strolls by a canal

  T
he Duke and the Delegation set out for Madrid in early January. They rested two nights in Córdoba and then continued north toward Bailén before climbing for three days up through the steep forests of Despeñaperros that separate Andalucia from the meseta of La Mancha. In Almagro they stayed in German manor houses built and owned by associates of the Fugger family who ran the cinnabar mines. Riding past the wetlands of Daimiel, they observed flocks of falcons and purple heron. In Toledo they were put up in the Alcázar. And in Aranjuez, thanks to special permission obtained by the Duke, they were allowed to rest in the Royal Palace, though it was undergoing renovation and much of its exterior was draped in scaffolding.

  In light of Shiro’s relations with the Duke of Medina-Sidonia and Date Masamune, Father Sotelo had begun to treat the young Samurai with deference. Believing the Duke to be a religious man, he also erroneously deduced that the bond between Shiro and the Grandee of Spain included elements enriched by the Church. With this in mind and without wishing to alienate Hasekura Tsunenaga, he made a point of engaging the lad as often as he could throughout the journey north. Shiro saw through it, for subtlety was not part of the cleric’s repertoire, but after he consulted with the Duke, they both agreed there would be no harm in humoring the priest.

  On an afternoon in Aranjuez, Shiro and the Franciscan strolled together through one of the enormous royal gardens. They walked upon a path of flattened earth littered with fallen leaves that followed a canal of the River Tagus.

  ‘Do you remember when first we met?’ asked the priest.

  There was something in the man’s tone that irked the Samurai, a falseness, an unctuous flirtatiousness.

  ‘I do,’ Shiro said. He said it in Japanese, hoping to push the topic away.

  ‘You were just a boy,’ continued the priest in Spanish. ‘And it is thanks to that and thanks to me that you speak my language so well and have thus managed to ingratiate yourself so successfully with a very powerful countryman of mine.’

  ‘I had not put all of that together in my own mind,’ Shiro said, returning to Spanish, as well, ‘but I cannot deny the logic.’

  ‘It’s not, of course, that I am asking you to be grateful, as such, only …’

  And here the priest faltered, as he realized it was in fact what he had intended. Shiro opted to help him out, finishing the sentence for him, ‘…only to point out, I’m sure, the unexpected turns with which life presents us.’

  ‘Precisely.’

  Shiro felt the man fidgeting and remembered how it had been to have him as a teacher, and he recalled how often the friar had preferred to hold his classes at the bathhouse within the Sendai Castle.

  ‘Have you had, I wonder,’ continued the priest, eager for a change of topic, ‘an occasion to attend Mass with His Excellency during your sojourn in Medina-Sidonia?’

  ‘I have,’ Shiro replied, lying on instinct.

  ‘And what was the village church like? I must confess I have never known the pleasure of visiting his ancestral town.’

  ‘The interior of the church in the village, a fine specimen from without, with a bell tower that must command a splendid view, and located across the way from a convent from which the nuns never emerge, is unknown to me. For the Duke celebrates Mass, along with his family and guests, in his own chapel that is contiguous with his home.’

  Shiro was doing his best to mimic the overly formal language the priest reveled in, that the man of humble origins employed believing it marked him as a well-educated gentleman of taste.

  ‘Imagine that,’ Sotelo said. ‘I should, of course, have assumed as much. I only ask because I am hoping to build my own church, quite a large one, in Sendai.’

  The concept bothered Shiro profoundly, but he did not let on.

  ‘And I am hoping,’ the priest continued, ‘that once we reach Rome and have our audience with the Holy Father, I might prevail upon him to approve the idea.’

  Shiro said nothing.

  ‘I’m told the Pope is a good friend to the Duke of Medina-Sidonia.’

  Amazed by the cleric’s tactlessness, Shiro simply said, ‘I understand. I shall do what I can.’

  Upon hearing this, the priest halted with what he hoped was a dramatic flourish and put himself in front of Shiro as if to block his way. He took the Samurai’s hands.

  ‘I knew I could count upon you,’ he said, his eyes widening with fervor. ‘And I for my part shall do all I can to try and mend the tear between you and Hasekura Tsunenaga.’

  ‘I am grateful for your offer,’ Shiro replied, ‘though I am not optimistic. If I were Hasekura Tsunenaga, I too would resent the presence of someone like myself, so much younger and, from his point of view, of lower birth. But I encourage you to assure him on my behalf, when you deem it appropriate, that we both desire the same thing, success, and that the barbarian Kings we meet will come to respect the names of Tokugawa Ieyasu and Date Masamune.’

  ‘It will be my great pleasure,’ the priest replied. And then he added, ‘Do you miss Japan?’

  ‘I do,’ Shiro answered.

  ‘You seem so at home here in my country, that I am almost surprised to hear it.’

  ‘I am open to experience Father Sotelo, but let there be no mistake, I follow the Warrior’s Way.’

  The priest then took far too long to excuse himself, begging Shiro’s pardon when he finally did, explaining that he had a meeting to attend with Hasekura Tsunenaga in order to review the final details of the ambassador’s baptism that would soon take place in the presence of the King of Spain. Shiro noted the ecstasy with which the priest pronounced everyone’s title and then watched as the Franciscan swayed like a duck, moving at last away from him back toward the royal household. The stained brown cassock was in need of laundering, and the man’s sandals and dirty toes swished through the fallen leaves. He wondered if Lord Masamune knew of the scheming friar’s plan for a church in Sendai, hoping and assuming he did not, hoping and assuming his Lord was prepared to go only so far in order to obtain treaties of trade with the barbarians.

  There was something about the direction of the path he was on, with the canal flowing beside it, that reminded him of Date Masamune’s private garden. He recalled his encounter with Yokiko and wondered how she might be faring. He wondered if he would ever see her again. Across the way there was a small wooded isle reachable by a narrow wooden bridge. On the isle, by a stand of chestnut trees, there stood a simple structure made of brick, with two windows and a slanting roof covered with slate tiles. There was no one else about. In his mind, Shiro transformed the elegant little shed that was probably a place to keep tools used by the royal gardeners into a Spanish version of the bungalow where Yokiko had waited for him after his bath. He imagined himself emerging from the canal, naked and refreshed, and entering the shed where a fire and Guada would be. How she would dry him off as Yokiko had.

  He stopped short of the bridge, reluctant to continue. He decided not to cross it and thus destroy his dream. Instead, he leaned upon the stone parapet and looked across the way, listening to the water’s movement and to the breeze moving the dead leaves about him.

  ***

  Just as the sun began to set the following afternoon, the column of horses came to a halt. They were on a dusty road flanked by beige plains of rolling wheat stalks. Ahead of them in the distance, the land rose from the plains, becoming low hills that were dotted with trees pruned back for winter. At the top of the hills sat a massive castle where the city began.

  The Duke pointed and spoke to Shiro and Hasekura Tsunenaga mounted on their horses beside him, ‘There is Madrid. And there, upon the rise, its Alcázar, the King’s palace.’

  One week later on the same spot, Diego Molina’s widow, Rocío Sánchez and her baker paused to take in the very same view.

  – PART THREE –

  – XXV –

  In which we meet a King and a note is intercepted

  30TH OF JANUARY 1615, MADRID

  It was snowing in the Sierra de Guadarrama just n
orth of Madrid, where it had been raining for days. Water streamed down the gutters along the Calle del Arenal from the Royal Palace through the Puerta del Sol and raced down the steep incline of the Calle de Segovia toward the River Manzanares. Filth and sewage went with it, lending the capital, however temporarily, a patina of cleanliness.

  It was the day Hasekura Tsunenaga and his Samurai were granted their first audience with the King of Spain. The Monarch was thirty-seven years old, a widow, and known as Philip the Third, or, to some, as Philip the Pious. On this occasion, announced by a herald as all who were present bowed down before him, he was called: ‘His Majesty Philip the Third, by the grace of God, King of Castile, Leon, Aragon and the Two Sicilies, of Jerusalem and Portugal, of Navarre, Granada, Toledo, Valencia and Galicia, of the Mallorcas, of Seville, Cordoba, Corsica and Murcia, of Guinea and the Algarve, of Gibraltar and the Canary Islands, of the Eastern and Western Indies, the Islands of Terra Firma of the Ocean Sea, Archduke of Austria, Duke of Burgundy and Milan, Count of Habsburg, Barcelona, and Biscay, and Lord of Molina.’

  The room in which the audience took place was enormous. The throne was elevated. Towering stained glass windows depicting religious themes cast a sullen palette of rainbow hues upon the cold floor stones. The only other light came from torches stuck into iron sconces.

  The King was fair of complexion, not tall, and sported an orange-tinged mustache. In his left hand he held a pair of gloves. His right hand rested upon the hilt of a highly polished sword. Shiro counted as many priests in attendance as soldiers. There were no women. A cloud of incense hung thick in the air, and its scent clung to the high vaulted walls, as if to cover the odors of so many ill-washed men.

  Shiro gazed upon the King, one of the two powerful men they had crossed the great oceans to meet with, and he wondered how many of his fellow Samurai, including Hasekura Tsunenaga, knew that the man had never raised a sword against anyone. Philip the Third’s power and wealth, the almost unimaginable size of his domains, were incontrovertible. But he was not a warrior. Even the dour gentleman at his side, the First Duke of Lerma, whom Shiro’s own Duke had told him about, a man who was feared and groveled to by most in the realm, was not a warrior, either. To Shiro, the idea that men not scarred by battle might order others into it was a novelty. He found it unmanly. The Tokugawa Shoguns, all of them, had earned their supremacy leading men into battle at the front of the line. His own Lord, Date Masamune, had lost an eye, a brother-in-law, and countless colleagues in hand-to-hand combat.