Fortress of Lost Worlds (28 page)

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

“I can’t understand what’s come over him these past months, but I fear the worst.”

Father Martin de la Cenza wrung his hands as he strode from the reception hall with the new visiting oblate, his voiced concern for the interim Inquisitor stooping his narrow shoulders. But he was cheered withal. For this unexpected guest’s entourage had arrived only minutes before, accompanied by the Papal Nuncio, Archbishop Texeira, and had brought important news from His Holiness regarding the matter of the condemned samurai.

The archbishop had gone to the cathedral briefly but now returned and approached them down the long, carpeted corridor.

Before the Nuncio was in earshot, de la Cenza added quickly, to the new arrival, “I must say, Father Sebastio, that I’m comforted to at last be in the presence of at least
one
other man of God who shares my feelings.”

The papal messenger smiled and laid a bracing hand on Father Martin’s shoulder. Father Jan Sebastio was a hardy man with a round, bearded face and lively hazel eyes. Only the symmetrical white fringe of his beard betrayed his sixty years, and the grip of his short, thick fingers bespoke strength and firmness of purpose.

“Be of good cheer,” Sebastio told him. “God hasn’t guided us through the obstacles we’ve faced to abandon us now.”

Father Martin nodded. “How came you to be named Jan?”

“Mmm—my sainted mother. I’m
Dutch
and Portuguese, you see. Nearly as unlikely a birthing as Gonji’s own in the current state of affairs, no?” He rumbled with good-natured laughter. “You’ve heard, I suppose, that his mother was a shipwrecked Norwegian, a former prisoner of Dutch marauders? Circumstances saw her…how shall I say?—lawfully concubined, after their custom, to one of the most powerful warlords in Japan. Gonji’s father, and my good friend.”

Father de la Cenza displayed no moral censure, to hear of it. “You know him well, then?”

“Gonji?
Si
, we were close companions when he was a lad. Quite an amazing lad. I was one of his teachers. He knew me as
Brother
Jan. I was ordained into the Society of Jesus only after he left Japan. Eight years since my ordination, come next Feast of St. Agnes. Ahh—Your Grace.”

Father Sebastio bent and kissed Archbishop Texeira’s ring as the other rejoined them. “God be with you.”

“And with you,
Padre
,”
the Nuncio replied. “You’ve told Martin here what news you bear from His Holiness?”

“
Si
.”

“Then let us waste no time.”

“He may yet be asleep,” Father de la Cenza apprised them as they walked down the adjoining wing containing the private chambers of Bishop Izquierdo.

“It was a long and eventful night, so I understand,” Texeira said.

“
Si
,
Your Eminence,” Martin intoned gravely. “Father Sebastio, what do you know of the Brotherhood of Holy Arms and its representative here, a
donado
named Anton Balaerik?”

Sebastio locked eyes with Texeira, as he answered Martin.

“Interesting that you should ask. Patience. It seems Gonji-
san
has become the focus of a great deal of attention. The things I hear of him are quite incredible. Those who learn of our friendship are full of endless questions about him. News of his itinerant adventures have even reached Japan, you know. When I was set on his trail, it was for a far different reason than that for which I’ve come now. By God our Father, this simple fellow never dared think he’d one day be about the business of the Pontiff himself! And because of a wayward Japanese, yet! But make no mistake—Gonji’s a unique fellow from a land that is itself difficult to comprehend. And for some reason, heathen though he was when last I tussled with him, the Lord of Heaven seems to want him cared for.” Father Sebastio shook his head slowly, gauging their shocked expressions.

They reached Bishop Izquierdo’s chambers. The young novice who monitored the halls blanched to see the importance of the visitors and went in to inform the interim Grand Inquisitor.

The Papal Nuncio folded his hands behind his back, his brow creasing. “Martin, I want you to know that this disconcerting lack of control by His Grace has been duly noted by the High Office hierarchy. There will have to be changes made. There are some who—now let me finish before you protest—some who favor
your
appointment as Grand Inquisitor. Your papers defending the sacraments have become widely known and respected. Of course, the proper channels would have to be followed. It could take time for the bishopric to be conferred upon you. In the meantime…”

Father de la Cenza cleared his throat and removed his biretta. He mopped his beaded brow before speaking.

“Excuse me, Your Eminence, but I have prayerfully considered what I am about to say. I—I cannot accept further responsibility in—in the High Office—” He swallowed hard and averted his eyes from Texeira’s. “It seems I’ve developed certain scruples of conscience that render me of questionable value here. I feel the call to a redefinement and rededication of my service to God.”

Texeira pondered this awhile before smiling crookedly. “As you wish, Martin. It will be taken under advisement.”

The novice returned, relating that Bishop Izquierdo wished not to be disturbed until the evening’s autos-da-fe.

“I think, young novitiate,” Archbishop Texeira said petulantly, “that he’ll change his mind for this.” He took the haversack from Sebastio, opened it, and displayed the packet bearing the papal seal.

* * * *

“You don’t seem to understand,” Bishop Izquierdo said forcefully, his eyes reflecting the flames from the hearth as he nervously stoked the blaze with a poker. “The order came from King Philip himself.”

“By way of the Duke of Lerma,” Father Martin added.

“
Si
,
by way of the duke,” Izquierdo agreed, turning on him. “And what do you presume to make of that, Martin? Rojas
is
the Inquisition’s liaison to the king.”

“More than that, it seems,” de la Cenza dug in, folding his arms as he sat on the edge of a table.

Father Sebastio cleared his throat. “I fail to see the need for having consulted the king about a theological matter, Your Eminence.”

“It was not my doing, Father Sebastio. It was Rojas who consulted King Philip. His order was explicit: Prosecute the infidel’s case at the earliest possible opportunity, and the Throne would support any decision of the auto-da-fe.”

“Ah,” Father Martin broke in, “then this was not a coincidental crossing of orders. You’ve had the order from the king for…how long?”

Izquierdo looked stung. “For two months now.”

“Two months?” de la Cenza said in surprise.

“So,” Archbishop Texeira cut in, eyebrows raised, “I might have known the decision to proceed did not originate with you. Yet you made it appear as though it did.”

The interim Grand Inquisitor was turning back and forth now, as if parrying successive attacks. His breathing was rapid and labored.

“Two months,” de la Cenza repeated again. “Then why did you wait so long—though God be praised that you did?” An ominous understanding passed over Father Martin’s countenance. He stood slowly. “It was Balaerik who held you up. You waited until
he
said it was time to bring the samurai to trial.”

“No! I waited until all evidence could be gathered. What do you want from me, Martin? I thought you wanted your heathen friend spared for as long as possible.”

“I do. That’s not what concerns me. It’s your constant obeisance to this questionable
donado
.”

“He came bearing instructions under the papal seal,” the besieged Izquierdo railed. “You’ll recall you resisted obeying those instructions.
Now
you bring me Father Sebastio and
his
orders from the Holy Father, and these you expect me to implement without question. What is becoming of hierarchical authority in the Church?”

He slammed a fist against the mantel. The three officials peered at one another uncomfortably.

“Well, that’s precisely what troubles us all in these wicked times, Your Eminence.” Father Sebastio watched him carefully as he chose his words. “We’ve just been through the darkest of days involving the Seat of the Vicar of Christ. We’ve all had to exercise prayerful consideration of our actions. The terrifying fact is that, for a brief time, it seems that Evil occupied the pontifical dais.”

“Sacrilege,” Izquierdo accused harshly.

“No—truth,” Sebastio countered. “The Holy Father-elect has taken great pains to examine the chaotic manipulations of his unlamented successor. Acts were set into motion which are even now being reconsidered, abolished. These include Anton Balaerik’s sinister Brotherhood of Holy Arms. When I learned of Gonji’s fate I was, by divine fortune, in Roma. There were others there at the time privy to knowledge of Gonji’s encounters with Evil in Europe. In working closely with the Office of the Faith, I was able to discern that he’s even regarded as a holy warrior in some quarters. His Holiness became sufficiently intrigued with the case that he ordered it brought to the attention of the High Office’s headquarters in Roma. And he selected me and my party to convey Gonji there immediately. Not as a prisoner but under protected status.”

Izquierdo stared at him as though espying some corrupting mass. “You’ve all been driven mad by this pagan’s evil magic. I cannot believe
any
of this.
You
,
Roderigo—the Papal Nuncio! I can understand Martin’s twisted thinking and crumbling faith. He’s entertained the heathen’s fulsome notions since he was brought here—and don’t think it hasn’t been duly noted, Martin! But the Nuncio—and the papal seat itself? It is well that the Inquisition’s strength is concentrated here in Spain, where the good fight of faith has always been fought most fervently. Where the reigning monarch recognizes the need for the Church to exercise its power without interference!”

“He
usurps
that power—can’t you see what you’re saying?” Father Martin’s face contorted with bewilderment.

“
Si
,
I know what I’m saying, and I know what you’re all about. You wish to wrest my position from me!” He stormed on, heedless of their looks of grim realization. “You don’t understand, do you? I am Grand Inquisitor. And by order of the Inquisition, the heathen shall burn tonight!”

“Who is your master?” Father Sebastio bellowed at him, suddenly losing his composure.

Bishop Izquierdo pointed skyward. “The Lord God of Heaven. And who is yours, Father?”

Sebastio ignored him. “And who is His representative on earth?”

Izquierdo stiffened. His eyes shone with inner light. “You can’t entrap me with your childish ploys. You yourself have admitted of the aberration in the papal succession. You say prayerful consideration is necessary. And I
have
considered. In Spain, the Inquisition upholds the banner of faith. And in Spain, King Philip reigns.”

The Grand Inquisitor’s jaw jutted, his posture one of smug defiance. The others began to shift uncomfortably. Father Sebastio’s burly frame edged closer to him and met his eyes searchingly.

“Will you release Gonji Sabatake to me?” he asked forcefully, freighting each word.

“I shall release to you his ashes in the morning.”

“Will you permit me to see him, speak with him? I bear him news of his father and his homeland.”

Izquierdo snorted. “And subject you to his spells? You are here under my protection, Father. No one is to go near him until tonight. The army has moved him into the high prison tower. He is out of my hands now.”

Father Sebastio shook with barely contained anger. “Your Eminence, your piety turns to venom even as you solemnify your inhuman office. I suppose this will solidify your position, politically, if what I’ve heard of the Duke of Lerma is true. Machiavelli, I think, would have approved.”

The bishop’s lips trembled. “Leave me alone with my God. And may He forgive you—even as I shall.”

“
Mil gracias
,”
Sebastio said. “A thousand thanks.”

* * * *

“I fear we’re all in terrible danger,” Archbishop Texeira told them in the hall.

“How so?” Father de la Cenza asked gravely.

Texeira eyed Sebastio, and Gonji’s former confidant engaged Martin in a low voice. “How long have you worked with him?”

Father Martin shrugged. “Seven, eight years—long before he became the Inquisition’s Grandee. Why?”

“Then you might have become inured to it,” the Nuncio noted. “I suggest that your consideration of a new ministry might have come just in time.”

“Why? What are you getting at?” Martin asked in confusion.

“I believe, Martin, that Bishop Izquierdo is quite mad.”

CHAPTER NINETEEN

The intense heat of the Burning Court’s flaming pillars rolled up the face of the high tower, warming Gonji’s face even in the autumn chill, the inky smoke stinging his eyes.

Night had seemed as though it would never come. And then when it did, it felt as if the passing day had been but a momentary glimmer. The samurai could not remember anything he had done since the previous night.

He could not come to terms with this night. Could not reconcile himself to the fact that his present life was fated to end in so ignoble a death.

He heard the changing of the guard without the chamber, distantly, recording it duly as was his wont, but caring nothing about it. Not bothering to watch them through the wrought-iron window slit in the massive door. All the changing of the guard meant was that someone had been spared the killing blow he had decided to unleash on the first person through the door when they came for him.

They had unshackled his feet, and he intended to use them.

Gonji kept peering through the gunloops at the ghoulish ceremony below, as a procession of cowled monks bearing censers and upraising tall cruciforms ushered the condemned to their stakes. The throng beneath the tower heated up with the Inquisition’s surrogate hellfires, anticipating the events to come with macabre delight. The prisoners, in various attitudes of surrender and horror, mounted the platforms to their waiting stakes. They were the preliminary event, whetting the crowd’s appetite for Gonji, the main attraction.

And among them was Valentina, barely perceptible through the smoke and glare and press of shuffling forms.

Then, all at once, it
did
begin to matter that the guard shifts had changed. Gonji heard behind him the infuriating voice of Sergeant Padilla.

“So,
Senor
Witch—the moment of truth at last. Will Satan wrest you from the flames, only to tickle you with his own?” He laughed coarsely.

Gonji sighed, beyond exasperation. So he thought.

“Who do you watch down there? The slut? They should have stuck the two of you together on the same stake, no? Would you like that, barbarian swine? You could screw yourselves right into Hell.”

Gonji gritted his teeth. His belly churned, and blood thrummed in his ears.
Control. You pride yourself on control.

Padilla bore onward: “No, I don’t think they’re doing it right. I’d have done it better—is she screaming yet? You know what I think I would have done? The first burning fagot would go right up her filthy hole.” He made a vulgar grunting sound for emphasis. Then ugly laughter.

Gonji’s dry mouth clucked. “
Cholera
,” he
whispered, fighting back a furious sob.

In the back of his mind he thought he registered a haunting voice calling his name from some dim recess of memory, but it never broke through his roiling emotion.

The first explosion on the walls of the Zocodover came just after Padilla’s vile laughter strangled off with a thin squeak.

A second blast followed it, amid screams and the rush of the rolling waves of bodies that strove to escape the shards of rock that showered down.

Gonji gasped and strained at the gunloop.

Another explosion—and the clawing at the door.

He rushed to the grating, eyes narrowing as he focused on the struggle against the door. A mighty forearm had caught Padilla about the throat, seeking to crush his windpipe. Gonji could not see their heads from his angle, but the assailant was about the size of the big sergeant.

Simon?
His mind galloped gleefully.

No, not Simon. Burly, thick-chested, a bear of a man—an ox.

Buey.

The lancer was dressed in the uniform of the Inquisition’s elite guard. Padilla’s face turned purple as Buey squeezed, twisting an arm behind the man’s back. He spoke softly to him, grated through clenched teeth, as he strangled the life from the taunting trooper.

Another explosion below. Gonji cast about wildly for a way to vent his pent-up emotion. He moved to the gunloop again, remembering Valentina. He could not make her out below. Some of the stakes had flared to life, roasting stooped victims; others had not yet been ignited. The troops and clergymen scurried about in confusion. Shots rang out in the promenade. Blades gleamed in the light of the flaming pillars.

“Gonji—
vamos
!”
Sergeant Orozco, dressed in the same uniform and half-armor as Buey, appeared in the doorway. “Come on,
hombre.
It’s great to see you,
mi amigo,
but we’ll have to save all that for later. It won’t be long before they think to send reinforcements here. They’re sure to think about you.”

Another shattering explosion, farther along the promenade.

“One more left, I think—let’s hurry!”

“Is Salguero with you?” Gonji asked, inching back from the smoky view afforded by the gunloop.

“
Si—
hurry now.”

As if in response, Captain Salguero himself now appeared outside the doorway dressed in officer’s garb. He rushed in and clasped Gonji by the shoulders, eyes shining with restrained tears of joy.

“Thank God you’re whole,
mi amigo
!”

Gonji swallowed and bowed to him. “
Domo arigato, senchoo
. I had given up all hope.”

“Here, put this on
pronto
,”
Salguero ordered, as Buey tossed in the uniform and half-armor of a dead guard. “We hold only this tower. I don’t think we’ve been discovered yet, but we’ve got to get out of this keep. Your shoulders seem bony, but they left you all your parts, no?”

“
Hai
,”
Gonji answered as he stripped quickly and wrestled on a pair of breeches and boots. “I trust you have a good plan for getting away from the square.”

“A sort of plan,” the captain responded, eyeing his companions. His infiltrators now lined the corridor, breathing heavily and awaiting their next movement. “We blend in with the troops restoring order, mostly. They’re fighting the diversion fires outside the walls. They’re all on the south side. We make our way against the flow, to the north.”

“The river?” Gonji queried, perplexed.

“
Si.
We take a barge down the Tajo to Aranjuez. Then we dash—as though all Satan’s devils pursued us, and so it will seem—making our way to the sea. We take ship near Valencia.”

“Valencia?” Gonji cocked an eyebrow. “Nothing but rocky shoals.”

“Then what do you suggest—Barcelona? We wouldn’t be exactly welcomed there,” Salguero said.

“Mmm,” Gonji agreed pensively. “Then?”

Salguero shrugged. “On to Genoa, then up to the empire. You have friends based in Austria, near Vienna. That will be sanctuary until we see what we’re about.”

Gonji considered it as he finished dressing, clamping on a pikeman’s pot helmet. Something vaguely bothered him about this itinerary, but he dismissed it. “This is a crazy commitment for you, Hernando. What of your family? Those of the other married men in your rebel command?”

“They join us in Valencia.”

They locked eyes, and Gonji reached out in unaccustomed fashion and clasped his old friend’s hand.

“Someone coming!” came a rasp from down the corridor.

Weapons were brandished anxiously. The dead guards were dragged into Gonji’s prison chamber. Two loaded pistols were passed along to Gonji. Then Buey unstrapped the blanketed burden from his back.

“Almost forgot.” He grinned broadly.

“
Yoi
!” Gonji exclaimed to feel the comforting heft of his
daisho
again. He belted the swords and at once extracted his
katana
from its scabbard, eyes gleaming to see the heavenly wave pattern of the blade. It felt heavy in his battered hands. He’d lost strength despite his close-quarter training in the dungeons.

Hisses urging silence—

Gonji’s cell door was slammed in his face. Three troopers rushed up from below. They were not with Salguero. Approaching to speak with the captain, they were suddenly alarmed by something or someone out of place. They produced their weapons but were overcome in a brief, quiet scuffle.

“No pistols unless absolutely necessary,” Salguero warned. “Let’s go, Gonji.”

“Wait,” the samurai said, freezing them in place. “That woman down there at the stake. If she’s alive, I want her brought along.”

“
Que
?
That trollop?”

“What for?” Orozco argued. “We have enough trouble—”

“Just get her and bring her,
por favor
.”

The pleading in the samurai’s voice won an exasperated nod from Salguero. He sent three men to comply.

“And one more thing,” Gonji added. “I’ve got to go down into the dungeons after something.”

“What?! God damn it! Are you
crazy
?”
the captain railed. “What in hell
for
?”

“There’s something I must retrieve, if it’s still down there.”

“
I’m
not going down there,” Orozco grumbled. “Shit! The dungeons of the Inquisition—
he
wants to go back to them!”

“No one’s asking you to go along, Carlos,” Gonji noted, checking the priming of his pistols.

The final explosion rocked the Zocodover. A babble of frenzied voices rolled up the walls from the streets below.

“
Capitan—
that’s
it
,”
a lancer called from the hall.

Salguero hawked and spat when he saw the familiar adamant set on Gonji’s face. “All right, we go, then.”

“Not you,
senchoo
. They’ll need your leadership outside. Just give me someone you trust.”

“I’ll go, I’ll go,” Orozco grumbled.

“Forget it, Carlos.”

“Why?” the sergeant contested. “Suddenly I’m not good enough to fight at your side?”

“Gentlemen—
por favor
!
More troopers coming!”

“The fewer of my countrymen I have to kill, the better I’ll sleep,” Buey noted by way of grim reminder.

“All right—Carlos and you two men,” Salguero ordered, “go with Gonji.
Vaya con Dios
,
all of you. Gonji—”

The captain moved close and licked dry lips as he spoke.

“I’ve
seen
him, Gonji. He’s here.”

Gonji peered into the man’s madly flicking eyes. “Simon,” he said flatly.

Salguero nodded, a look of awe alighting his gaze. “He’s promised to be about when we—”

The door at the end of the corridor blasted open, and pandemonium ensued. In the violent clash of weapons and the sharp report of pistols, Gonji felt a renewal of the old thrill of battle.

* * * *

They moved surreptitiously through the halls of the High Office, seeking cover amidst the rushing bodies of clergymen and soldiers, as they moved toward the prison wing. Gonji’s three companions huddled about him to better conceal him from discovery, though he wore the same uniform.

The samurai kept his face angled toward the floor, glancing up sporadically. He held a pistol low at his side, and he had removed the infamous Sagami from his belt and now carried it wrapped inside a soldier’s jack.

They reached the dungeon wing without incident, most of the scurrying men they encountered heading out to the streets.

Orozco engaged the pair of sentries at the first gate with a fabricated tale of urgent business for the warden on duty below. They opened the gate before thinking to ask for written orders, and the four pushed inside the gatehouse and overwhelmed them in seconds, though the din was heard below.

Gonji hurtled down the familiar loathsome stairwell to the dungeons, taking the first inquisitive guard with a pistol shot before throwing the piece at the next man through the sub-level portal and unleashing the Sagami. The second guard ducked the wheel-lock and brought up his own pistol. Gonji’s slash relieved him of his arm before he could fire, then the samurai burst into the next guardhouse with Orozco on his heels.

The
katana
’s
heft felt strange, and Gonji found that he was unconsciously altering his favorite two-handed grip to slightly favor the hand on which the knuckle had been broken months earlier. He’d lost speed, and his control was imprecise, but he swept aside the first rapier that darted at his chest, the return slash ripping open the soldier’s belly.

A sharp scream—the falling of the body that he leapt over—and he was between two more swordsmen.

Orozco was shouting something he didn’t hear clearly. He dropped to a knee and high-blocked a skewering blade-point, his arcing return slicing through the attacker’s jack and ribs in a fanning spray of blood. The second man’s lunge whizzed past his ear as he spun and batted the blade aside with a tinny clang and slashed down and in, falling short of his mark.

A pistol barked behind Gonji, smoke belching into his vision, another guard falling in the doorway. Then the two men with Orozco were running past Gonji’s scuffle and down to the second level, where the samurai had been imprisoned. A shot rang out below. A cry. A body tumbling down the stairwell amid the sound of heavy scraping and slapping footfalls.

Now Gonji recognized the man he crossed blades with: a former tormentor from the evening shift who had been party to more than one beating the samurai had suffered.

Gonji cocked the Sagami high overhead, but he had allowed his hostility too much time to frame itself. The soldier caught up a pistol from a weapon rack and aimed it at him.

Orozco yelled at him as he passed, heading for the carven stretch of stairs. The sergeant drew a bead with his own pistol. Gonji’s opponent turned in reply. Both guns cracked, the reports echoing through the dungeons. The guard was knocked back into the wall, his face split open. Sergeant Orozco jerked downward and grabbed his thigh, grimacing in pain.

Gonji ran to him, but Orozco grunted and pushed him toward the stair. The samurai started down, saw one of their men splayed on the floor of the sub-cellar. A pistol shot rang out—the second man fell heavily at the gatehouse.

The samurai sprinted down, heading for the gatehouse, though he could not tell how many guards yet remained. The complement had always seemed to vary. He hoped Morales would not be among them.

He paused at the gatehouse, steeled himself, then darted in and out quickly, his ploy drawing a wasted lead ball and revealing that only two guards were left alive in the wing.

But how many would soon descend on them from above?

He rushed in,
katana
trailing behind him for a strike, roaring a mighty
kiyai
,
his charge directed at the nearer man. Both frantically reloaded their pistols. The first guard, who had once treated Gonji to the lash, recognized him at once and flung away the half-loaded wheel-lock. Grasping the handle of an axe, he bellowed for Gonji to come on. The second man rapidly spannered his pistol, eyes bulging.

Prisoners in the cells screamed and howled with delight to see their torturers embattled.

Gonji ran straight into the teeth of the axe’s tight, wrathful swing, jerking back just out of range at the last instant. The dim corridor wall exploded in a showering of stone and dust. Gonji’s vertical slash tore open the man’s face and severed his right wrist. The samurai plunged past him and straight at the last guard, who raised and hammered his pistol. The soldier emitted a short yelp that was drowned out by the pistol’s cracking, fuming shot. The ball
whanged
off the samurai’s pot helmet as he dropped low, stunned momentarily. The soldier dropped the piece and reached for his belted rapier. But before he could draw, Gonji surged at him, growling in fury, his
katana
cocked beside his ear in both hands, point angling for the kill.

There was a long wailing peal of a scream, smothered by an eruption of blood in the man’s throat as Gonji withdrew his darkly gleaming sword-point from his opponent’s upper chest.

He breathed a ragged sigh and snapped the blood droplets from his blade, bringing his shuddering thews under control. Blood thrummed in his ears, and adrenaline momentarily caused double-vision. He shook it off.