The African Samurai: A Novel

I

The Slave and the Daimyo

Make a delicious bowl of tea; lay the charcoal so that it heats the water: arrange the flowers as they are in the field; in summer suggest coolness, in winter, warmth; do everything ahead of time; prepare for rain; and give those with whom you find yourself every consideration. There is no other secret.

—Sen Rikyu, tea master

1

Home is a lost place, more dream to me than memory.

Even the fragments I held on to felt foreign and distant, like things that had happened in another’s life. The life of someone who had not been taken away, who had not been severed from his own beginnings. And yet sometimes, a memory would come through so clearly it ached.

As a child, my family and a few others from the tribe made the long hike from our village in the shadow of Mount Namuli to the coast. It was late in the year, the time of the laying of eggs. We set our camps on the edge of the beach and watched the turtles come ashore at night, waves of them, with hard, dark shells and soft, speckled underbellies. They seemed to be moving both independently, and in unison. They used their flippers to create indentations in the sand and rested atop them. We committed the spots to memory, and slept.

In the morning, when the turtles had gone, we dug up the eggs, taking only what we needed. We made the trek back to the village with the eggs carried carefully in baskets. About two months later we would make the long hike to the beach again. We set our camps in the same place on the beach’s edge. Under the light of the full moon, the sand began to pucker and shift. One tiny bill poked out from beneath it, then another, then a dozen more, a hundred. A mass of tiny turtles crawling toward the yawning expanse of green froth, drawn there by something we could never understand. I wanted to believe that they were crawling out to sea to find their mothers, to reunite themselves.

The first trip to the sea had been to gather food. The second trip had been to learn why to leave as many as possible, to take only what was needed. I can remember my mother’s voice, but not her face. Nor can I remember my father’s. I have flashes of reading and writing lessons under a mango tree. Of working alongside the other boys inside the mines, stripping the cave walls for ore; playing with them in the fields, using small pebbles for games of mancala in the dirt of the streets. Of festivals with drums and masks and brightly colored robes, the thrill of seeing visitors from other lands and the wares they brought to trade. And I remember the turtles, rising out of the sand and making their way to the sea.

It was the last time I was free.

YOU DON’T NEED TO HOVER over me, there is no one on the boat but our own men.

Father Valignano spoke without looking up from his work. The Jesuit looked aged in the thin rays of sun from the porthole, the shadows highlighting the lines on his cheek and forehead and deepening the hollows around his eyes. His head bobbed in and out of the stream of pale light, showing the short gray hair atop it. His equally gray beard, trim and narrow, hung almost down to the paper he scrawled upon. His hand, though, was steady as he dipped the quill and quickly but carefully drew it across the page, and his voice, as ever, held the steadiness of one used to command.

My job is to protect you from all men. Not just other men, I replied.

Have you so little trust in our fellow travelers?

A bodyguard who relies on trust often fails at his task.

In Japanese, if you will.

Valignano had still not looked up from his desk. I hesitated, searching for the words. I’d spent many months learning Japanese language and history, both leading up to this voyage and during the long days aboard the ship, but I always struggled to make the switch from Portuguese. After a moment, I repeated my statement in Japanese. Valignano nodded approvingly, and made a few small corrections, then continued on in this language that was new to both of us.

Why don’t you go above, get some air? Valignano asked, waving me away.

You know I do not like the sea, I said.

Yes. For such a large man you are afraid of so many things.

A man who lacks fear also lacks caution.

A man who fears too much lacks faith. You must trust in God, my son. He whose faith is strong walks untouched in this world. Unafraid.

I accepted the rebuke silently. I’d learned much from the Jesuits. I could recite large swaths of their Bible in both Portuguese and Latin, and increasing amounts of it in Japanese. I admired the belief of the priests, and I believed it to be genuine, but a small part of me had resisted giving in to it completely. It seemed to me that a man who calls on God to fight his battles quickly forgets how to fight his own. Faith seemed a privilege that could be afforded to the protected, the comfortable, but I would always choose a sword to protect me over a cross.

Though he’d never say it, I suspected Valignano would agree.

The steel-eyed priest looked up from his work, his famously thin patience worn through.

We will be to port soon, and there will be plenty of opportunities for you to tower behind me and scowl.

I scowled at the comment, then smiled when I realized I was doing it. I bowed and ducked my head beneath the doorframe as I exited.

I had marked my twenty-fourth birthday on this boat, sailing toward Japan. It had been twelve years since I had last seen my village, and I had long since given up hope of seeing it again. I’d been away now for the same length I had lived there. Twelve years free, in Africa; twelve years enslaved, in India, Portugal, China, sold to mercenaries, to an army, to a church. Half my life amongst family, half my life amongst strangers. Half my life a child, half my life a soldier.

I loathed the deck, but I climbed up to it regardless. I had observed the captain carefully and had picked up the basic working of his tools and calculations, but I still could not fathom how men could navigate when there was nothing but water to be seen in all directions. I had tried to read the stars the way I had seen the captain sometimes do, but it was something I had little aptitude for. It frustrated me. In all other things I had proven a fast learner, whether the weapons and strategies of the mercenaries or the books and languages of the priests, but the ways of the sea remained a mystery to me.

I stood at the rail on the leeward side and avoided looking at the sea by watching the ruffle of the sails instead. A handful of men wrestled with ropes and knots while others scrubbed the accumulated salt from the ship’s forward deckboards. The decks, the masts, and the entire ship had been blackened with pitch, and the glittering white stain from the seawater showed the evidence of how far aboard the previous day’s waves had reached.

Most of the men were belowdecks, and while they had invited me to join them on a few occasions, they trusted me even less than I did them. I had sat alongside them while they told stories, and I had wagered a few coins against them while they threw lots, but it was my duty to remain vigilant at all times, so I did not drink with them, and that made them suspicious of me. Besides that, we had reached the point in the voyage where violence was just below the surface, ready to emerge over the slightest squabble, or the most innocent of slights. Valignano’s route to Japan had included stops in India and China, and though we had switched boats and crews at points along the way, this crew had still been close to a month at sea. I had no desire to play peacemaker, and had no patience to listen to the complaints of the men. Their cramped quarters and stale rations were luxuries compared to my own experience on ships.

One crewman, heavily bearded and probably heavily drunk, was berating another while standing over a crate that had been dropped and cracked. At their feet, vibrantly colored silks from China spilled out from the breach onto the salt-scrubbed deck.

In the cargo holds below us, an impossible number of crates held Bibles and crosses and European weaving, jewelry, and other fine items. But mostly guns. Crate after crate of matchlock pistols and long rifles and, Valignano’s prize, three powerful new cannons capable of tearing down a fortress wall, or laying waste to a row of cavalry.

The weapons would be offered to the Japanese if they proved pious enough. If they let the Jesuits build their churches. If they let them teach their religion to their Japanese sons and daughters. If they converted, and ordered their clans to convert as well, then they would have powerful European weapons to use against their rivals, and Valignano would have his foothold in Asia. Guns in exchange for souls.

There were parts of the Jesuits’ religion that still remained unclear to me, but trade was something I understood all too well. I had been given to Jesuits. In their schools I learned to read and write, was taught the white man’s history, the white man’s religion.

The stern-looking Jesuit priest who received me clucked his tongue in disgust upon hearing my name and gave me a Christian one instead. They named me after the son of Abraham. They told me the story of God asking Abraham to prove his belief by killing his only son. How Abraham built an altar and tied his son upon it and sharpened his blade, but God told him to hold fast. That he was pleased.

The Portuguese had named me well. Isaac. A man to be sacrificed. A thing to be offered.

2

My first glimpse of Japan was disappointing. We were to dock at Nagasaki, in Hizen Province, where the Portuguese traders had established a lucrative outpost. I was expecting a bustling port town, but a thick fog remained over the bay, leaving anything beyond the curving wooden dock too obscured to report on reliably. The dock itself was busy, but not overly so—mostly canoes carrying sacks of rice or bundles of pears and apples. Men in loose, dark clothing balanced gracefully on the edge of the tiny boats and tossed their cargo up to the deck, or steered the long poles on the aft of the boats to bring their stuff closer to shore.

At the call of land from the captain, the men had come above board and the deck was teeming with sailors. The sour moods of the last week turned to smiles and cheers. Beside me, Father Valignano made an almost inaudible grunt. I followed his gaze. One of the canoes was pushing off from the dock, aboard it a man dressed in a familiar black frock. Valignano did not miss much.

Drop anchor here, Captain, he ordered quietly. And prepare to assist a visitor aboard.

The captain barked orders. A collective rumble went through the men, followed by a flurry of activity.

Valignano watched the canoe approach as if his doing so was all that drew it toward us. The priest it carried was helped aboard and presented. He clasped his hands in front of him and lowered his head.

Brother Ambrosius.

Father Valignano, it is a blessing to see your voyage successful. We are honored to receive such an esteemed visitor from Rome.

So honored that you receive me here, rather than ashore.

The priest’s shoulders tensed as if he’d been physically struck, but he remained silent, kept his head low. Valignano sighed. He closed his eyes and briefly pinched the bridge of his nose. He made no attempt to hide his impatience when he spoke.

Very well, then. Captain, we’ll need your quarters.

ONCE INSIDE THE CAPTAIN’S QUARTERS, Brother Ambrosius allowed himself a moment to stare at me. I was used to it. My skin was a deeper black even than most Africans, dark enough to appear to shine. My hair, once shaved but now grown again on the voyage, twisted in knotty braids down almost to my collar. I stood a head taller than most Europeans, and my training had made my shoulders broad, my body muscular, enough to be apparent despite the billowing pantaloons and loose cotton blouse I wore. The crab sword at my hip would add to what was intended to be an intimidating image, the sword’s blade and hilt painted black to resist rusting from the saltwater spray of a long ocean voyage, and to avoid the telltale glint of metal if it had to be drawn in the dark.

This new priest stood unsteadily, his legs unused to even the slight sway of these shallow waters, but he hid his discomfort well. His brown hair curled below his ears but was neatly kept, and his stubbly beard failed to hide a suspicious-looking scar along the left side of his jaw.

Most priests I’d seen fell in one of two categories—the pink, soft-skinned scholars with round faces who had prepared themselves for their task with years of study; and the wiry, bronzed-skin men with sharp eyes who had been hardened by life before finding an ambition within the church. This man was one of the latter. Valignano was as well. There were rumors that Valignano had stabbed a man to death in a street fight in Venice in his youth, and though such things were impossible to learn the truth of, I had not dismissed them. Some men were born to the faith. Others were reformed to it from less savory backgrounds.

Rather than the customary stance of crossing one’s hands in front and tucking them into the sleeve of the opposite arm, this priest stood with his arms down and wide, hands clearly visible. Valignano had offered neither food nor drink once we were inside the captain’s quarters, and this priest was wise enough to see the warning in that.

Your voyage has been a long one, Father. I’ll not delay you with the customary pleasantries. I’ve come to ask that you extend your voyage one day further.

There is trouble at the settlement?

No, Father. Not of any serious sort.

Valignano turned toward the lattice of portholes behind the captain’s desk and looked out upon the softly lapping waves. Brother Ambrosius continued.

The lord of this region is a man named Ōmura Sumitada. He has not opposed us here, but we feel he could be… friendlier to the church. Our mission in Kuchinotsu tells us the lord there is willing to be more cooperative.

I watched Father Valignano for any sign, but he gave none. His was the first visit to Japanese shores from one of the higher-ranking priests in the Jesuit church. His title as Visitor to the Indies gave him full authority over all church matters in India and Asia. Given that it would take over a year to get a message to Rome and another year to get a response back, he was for all intents and purposes the pope of the region. It would be difficult to underestimate the value and prestige granted to any lord who hosted him. The priest was smart not to attempt to play on Valignano’s ego by spelling the matter out for him. Valignano did indeed possess a prodigious ego, but in the months I had grown to know him, I had never once seen him put his own interests ahead of the church. His devotion to his mission was single-minded. I knew him well enough to know what his questions would be.

And this Sumitada, how will he respond to such a slight?

Poorly, I’m certain. But he’ll take no action against us. The moratorium on trade between China and Japan remains intact, which continues to be lucrative for us. Every second month, one of our ships arrives with goods from China and loads itself up with Japanese goods bound for Macau, and from there, the Chinese markets. Lord Sumitada will not risk that trade with retaliation.

And the balance between Nagasaki and Kuchinotsu?

It will not be affected greatly. Certainly not enough to cause any further… instability.

So, Japan remains divided.

Yes, but less so than it was when you last received word.

Tell me.

With the change in topic, the decision had been made. The men would not be happy with the thought of even one more day’s sail, nor was I, but Valignano was not one to consult with others prior to making a decision, nor to be swayed from one once it was made. The men were already dreaming of dry land, comfortable beds, and fresh food, but those wishes meant little to Valignano.

He turned back from gazing out of the porthole and gestured toward the rudimentary map of Japan laid out on the captain’s desk. Ambrosius cleared his throat and stepped around to the side of the desk.

Oda Nobunaga continues to be the most prominent of the daimyos, and has consolidated power over central Japan. He defeated the Takeda cavalry at Nagashino, and though Takeda Katsuyori withdrew rather than submit, the clan is too weakened to be a major power in the region. Lord Nobunaga’s siege at Ishiyama Hongan-ji continues, but the warrior monks cannot hold out much longer…

Brother Ambrosius pointed out locations on the map as he spoke, and I yearned to ask of tactics, numbers, weaponry, but knew Valignano would not tolerate my speaking out of turn. I was familiar with Nobunaga’s name, the leader of the Oda clan who had overthrown the shogunate some twenty years prior, signaling to the daimyos—the warlords of Japan’s shattered territories—that he meant to rule them all. After over one hundred years of a fractured Japan, with each local lord battling anew each spring with their neighbors to either secure territory or extend it, Nobunaga meant to reunite Japan under a single leader once more, regardless of what force was required to do so. Ages-old alliances were broken and new ones were formed, as minor lords sought the protection of an alliance with more powerful ones, and the powerful lords eyed a reunification of Japan under their own banner. I swallowed my questions and listened, absorbing as much as I could.

There is resistance in the Iga Province. The old ones say that Iga has never been conquered and never will, but Nobunaga will turn his attention there soon enough. His son, Nobutada, was defeated there despite having superior numbers, and Nobunaga will not allow that humiliation to go unaddressed, Brother Ambrosius explained. The Takeda, while severely weakened, do still hold the region around Mount Fuji, and Nobunaga cannot allow Fuji to remain outside of his control either, if he means to rule Japan.

Valignano stabbed a finger toward me, shocking Ambrosius into silence.

Speak, Valignano ordered.

I’ve said nothing, I protested mildly.

Precisely. We’ve traveled together long enough that I know when your tongue is restless. It’s a tiring thing to try to ignore. Speak.

Brother Ambrosius, I began, ignoring the slight sneer across his face and the clear disgust he felt that Valignano was allowing me to address him. What value does Mount Fuji have? It doesn’t look to be strategically placed.

Ambrosius clenched his jaw, but answered.

Mount Fuji holds no strategic value, but it has immense cultural significance. It is important to the people as a symbol.

Then he doesn’t just seek to conquer, I mused out loud, he wants the people to accept his rule willingly.

Brother Ambrosius brushed off the comment and continued.

Nobunaga is close to his goal of unifying Japan. He already holds the key cities of Kyoto and Sakai. He will likely march against Iga within months, and, if successful there, would move to finish off the Takeda clan.

He paused to look up from the map. He waved a hand at it as if it were pointless to study because of how often it had changed.

The only real resistance remaining is the Mori clan in the west. No one else is strong enough, organized enough, and well-funded enough to mount a viable defense. War between the Oda and the Mori is inevitable. A victory there, and nothing stands between Nobunaga and a unified Japan.

Father Valignano looked coolly at the map, listened without reaction, but I knew he was absorbing all of this as well, evaluating the landscape, calculating opportunities for the church.

How is his disposition toward our mission?

The priest glanced at me briefly to see if I would be dismissed.

Perhaps church matters should be discussed—

Matters of the church will be discussed where and when I have questions regarding them, Valignano said coolly, never lifting his head to look at Ambrosius.

I fought the urge to smile. The priest became even more cautious.

I would say he is… tolerant. He has refused to convert or be baptized, but we wrote to you of the Shinto priest, Nichijo?

Yes. Has he continued to be troublesome?

No more. He had convinced the emperor to ban Christianity, but Nobunaga intervened. He ordered Nichijo to debate our own Father Frois on the matter of religion. I was sadly unable to attend, but Father Frois, by all accounts, conducted himself splendidly. Nobunaga overturned the emperor’s decree and Nichijo was… punished. It should also be noted that Nobunaga has been particularly harsh to the Buddhist monks who have opposed him in the regions. He burned their temple at Mount Hiei and slaughtered everyone there without exception.

I shall not weep over the lost lives of the unfaithful.

The priest cleared his throat. Of course, Father. I do not know Nobunaga’s feelings for the church, but he does have a strong appreciation of foreign delicacies and ornaments, as well as some of our other offerings.

This time the priest did not glance at me, and didn’t need to. I thought of the crates of guns beneath my feet, and the cannons. Enough to make a warring man embrace whatever religion he was asked to.

The priest leaned over the map once more. He looked unsteady in the gentle bob and sway. His face had turned slightly paler, and he clenched the sides of the table too tightly.

Are you comfortable, Brother Ambrosius? I asked.

He glared at me, and I hid my smirk. Valignano tilted his head, gave me a look that I understood meant I’ll allow this, but nothing further. I took one step backward to show Valignano I had received his message, and he continued his questioning.

The emperor no longer opposes us, then?

Not officially, no. The emperor prefers the old ways—

As discarded leaders are wont to do, no doubt.

Ambrosius paused at the interruption. I had no idea how long the priest had been in Japan, but no doubt he had grown accustomed to hearing the emperor spoken of with careful reverence. With a simple remark, Valignano had made clear that he would pay homage to no man, and I was certain the remark was made precisely for that effect.

Ambrosius gathered himself and stumbled on.

The emperor still sides with the Shinto and the Buddhists, but if Nobunaga accepts us, the emperor will comply with his wishes.

And with his army. What contact do we have with this Nobunaga?

Father Frois has met with him several times, and Brother Organtino is well placed with him. The church in Kyoto has appealed to him regularly. Nobunaga is currently in the capital. He is soon to be at Honno-ji temple, just outside of Kyoto. He has organized a festival in the emperor’s honor, as a show of gratitude for the emperor’s intervention with the Ikko-ikki.

These so-called warrior monks? Valignano asked derisively. So they will no longer stand in Nobunaga’s way?

These things are not certain. But there are strong signs that the imperial court will advise the Ikko-ikki to lay down their arms, and that they will comply. The emperor has little choice, really, and Nobunaga’s visit to the capital will all but assure that the emperor issues this favorable edict. After that, Nobunaga will likely return to his new castle at Azuchi to begin planning his spring campaigns.

Then it seems, as in all things, the Lord has blessed the timing of my arrival. How far is Kyoto?

Ambrosius rubbed his scarred jaw and studied the map.

That depends on how much you are willing to risk. If you can secure safe passage, the fastest route is along the Seto Inland Sea, then overland to Kyoto. That would take about two weeks from Kuchinotsu. Safe passage can be hard to come by, though. The water there is controlled by pirates. Even our own ships we’ve not dared send through.

Valignano rolled up the map, indicating with little subtlety that the conversation was finished. He smiled, a rare thing that generally inspired more fear than comfort.

I’ll inform the captain of our new destination. We’ll dock in Kuchinotsu tomorrow, and once our affairs are concluded there, I will personally carry on to Kyoto. Nothing must stand in the way of our mission. We will bring the word of Christ to every corner. I will not be deterred by pirates. Besides, I have protection.

He patted me on the arm, then turned toward the door. He called