To be able under all circumstances to practice five things constitutes perfect virtue—these five things are benevolence, righteousness, filial piety, honesty, and loyalty.

—Confucius

Paulo

When I got to my parent’s quarters, Mother had three children lined up, standing next to Gracia. I stared at them, unsure of what to say.

Estêvão’s children.

If I had been wiser, they could have been mine.

“This is Elisabet,” Gracia said, placing her hand on the girl’s shoulder. “She is the oldest. She is thirteen.”

Elisabet kept her eyes downcast, looking like she wanted to run away. She bowed hastily and then hid behind her mother. “This is Miguel,” Mother said, pushing the older boy forward. “He is eleven.”

The boy looked at me with serious eyes. Eyes that reminded me of his father. He bowed respectfully, but I saw no such respect in his eyes. They were wary, judging.

I wondered what they had heard of me. What had my brother told them of their uncle?

“I’m Mateus,” the youngest boy announced, earning a sharp glance from my mother. He ignored it. “I’m eight.”

The boy looked at me boldly. Excitement danced in his eyes. He had a challenge in his stance. He gave me a bow so brief it bordered on insolence but took his seat as directed.

I squatted down on the tatami mat by the table. Strangers in my home. My niece and nephews. Children whose existence I had only suspected before. I had been gone far too long.

Dinner was somber. Neither Father nor Grandfather was present. The children were quiet and listless—occasionally sneaking peeks at me when they thought I wasn’t looking. Gracia numbly stared at her food. None of them ate much.

I had no such problem and devoured everything I was offered. After coming close to starvation several times during my years of exile, I had learned to eat whenever food was available, and this was far better fare than I was accustomed to.

My mother was in and out of the room checking on funeral preparations. I studied her out of the corner of my eyes. Her hair might be turning gray, but her stature was still proud and strong, her movements quick and sure. I could see the pain of loss in her eyes, but it didn’t stop her from barking orders to the servants.

As I watched her with the eyes of an adult, rather than the eyes of a child, it occurred to me that she had been born a hundred years too late. Like me, she was made for war, not the shogun’s enforced peace. She should have been running a samurai estate while her husband fought at his daimyō’s side. A true samurai woman, she should have been directing everything in a great feudal household, including protecting the estates from attacks by rival daimyō and unscrupulous bandits. Instead, she was imprisoned in her role as a modest wife in charge of a small estate in the middle of the city. However, she had a funeral to plan, and she would accomplish it with all the attention and care that she would have devoted to a military campaign in a different time.

When she finally sat down, she studied me, weighing me like an opponent at a duel. It was enough to ruin even my appetite.

When I finished eating, Mother asked, “You will be attending the Christian memorial service tonight?”

“Yes,” I answered. “I need to meet the man the padre mentioned.”

Gracia looked down, lips compressed.

“You can’t go looking like that,” Mother replied. She led me to the bath. A large wooden tub waited with steaming water inside. I stripped, washed myself down, and climbed inside. While I was luxuriating in the hot water, she came into the room and silently laid out a black kimono and hakama. I dried off and got dressed. The clothes fit me perfectly. I suspected the outfit had been Estêvão’s since the two of us had been close in size, but I didn’t ask.

This would be the first time in many years I attended a Christian service.

When I was a youth, Christians could only gather in Edo at great risk. According to my mother, when she was a child, Christians had gathered to worship several times a month. As time went on and the bakufu cracked down on Christian believers, they were forced to limit their gatherings to weddings, memorial services, and baptisms when a child was born. These were times when it was normal for a family to receive visitors, so a group meeting wouldn’t draw as much suspicion.

Our family retainers had been warned to keep an eye out for any unusual activity in the area, although they hadn’t been told why. Unable to relax, I took two or three turns around the neighborhood looking for signs of police presence or undue attention being paid the estate but saw nothing untoward. I wondered—not for the first time—if any set of beliefs was worth the risk we were taking.

The sun had set, and the memorial would start soon. I returned to the estate and stood in the garden, trying to work up the courage to go into the chapel. It had been nearly seventeen years since I declared I wasn’t a Christian and stopped attending the services. Certainly, most of those inside knew and remembered. How would I be received? Did I even belong there?

I heard gasps behind me.

“God help us!”

“Estêvão?”

I turned around to see two old women staring at me in horror.

Recognition dawned on one of them. “Paulo?” She peered at me more closely. “It is Paulo. We thought for a moment you were Estêvão’s spirit.”

The women hobbled up the walk to greet me.

I bowed deeply to them. “Raquel-sama, Rebeca-sama, it is good to see you.”

They were chonin, but the church taught us we were all equal in the eyes of God. We put class aside when we met in religious services. These women were widows who taught the young children their catechism. They had taught me. I owed them much respect. But, there should have been three of them. “Where is Ana-sama?”

Their pleasure dimmed slightly. “She is with God,” Raquel-sama said, wiping a tear from her eye.

Abruptly, she straightened up. “But what are you doing standing out here by yourself? You should come inside.” Each woman took an arm and dragged me towards the chapel.

“How long has it been since you have been to a poetry club meeting?” Rebeca-sama asked.

I blinked. “A what?”

“Oh, that’s right, you haven’t been here. When hobby circles became popular several years ago, we decided to label our group a ‘poetry club.’ It makes it simpler and less dangerous for us. At least in small groups. We are able to meet much more frequently now that we can say we are getting together to write poetry. In fact, many of us have developed a strong interest in haiku and stay to write poems after mass,” Raquel-sama explained.

They slid the door open, and we entered the chapel.

“Look who we found,” the ladies announced.

People turned to look. “Paulo!”

I gazed around. Everyone appeared much older. I shouldn’t have been surprised, but their faces had been frozen in my memory. I didn’t even recognize most of the younger ones. Many weren’t even born the last time I had attended. Everyone expressed happiness at seeing me, but I was a stranger—out of place. I no longer belonged. The realization left me with an unexpected feeling of loss.

At the front of the chapel, a makeshift cross had been fashioned by tying two pieces of wood together. It could be taken apart almost instantly should the need arise. The doors to the adjoining rooms had been opened to make room for people, but there weren’t many there. The congregation had shrunk considerably since my last attendance, even with the younger members born since I left. Many people I expected to see weren’t there. The members of my family were the only samurai in attendance.

I sat down with them. “I don’t see anyone from the Kira or Ishida clans,” I whispered to my mother. “Did something happen to them?”

She made a sour face. “The Ishida men were stopped by the secret police and forced to tread on the cross to prove they weren’t Christians. They confessed to Padre Hachirō and were shriven afterwards, of course, but they all stopped coming after that.”

She looked around sadly. “Before I married your father, my parents and brothers fought and died at Hara castle during the Shimabara rebellion, martyrs to the faith. But people now lack the courage of their convictions, and our group gets smaller with every passing year.”

She brushed away a tear. “Estêvão will be with my family soon. I am sure they are saving a place of honor for him.”

The padre entered the room. He came over. “Tell me, Paulo, do you wish to confess? It has been a very long time. We could meet tomorrow.”

I felt my mother’s and Gracia’s eyes on me.

“It would take much more than just tomorrow to hear my confession,” I joked.

They looked away. I sensed their disappointment.

This is just like it was seventeen years ago. Just introduce me to the man I need to meet and let me go.

The padre sighed and pointed out one of the mourners. “That is young Hitoshi. He and Estêvão spent a lot of time together over the last few months. Estêvão vouched for Hitoshi and asked that we permit him to attend services. If anyone knows what your brother was doing, it would be Hitoshi. I’ll introduce you.”

The padre had not used a Christian name for the young man. That meant he hadn’t been baptized. I studied him curiously. This secretive little group rarely told non-Christians about their beliefs, so they gained very few new converts.

Tattoos on Hitoshi’s arms and neck peeked out from under his kimono, marking him as one of the day laborers that made up a significant portion of the chonin population in Edo. He wore a beautiful silk scarf in open defiance of the laws limiting the quality of what chonin could wear. The wakizashi at his side showed he had some position of authority in one of the city’s workers associations.

The padre took me over to him. “Paulo, this is Hitoshi. He has been investigating our teachings. Estêvão first got him interested and brought him to our services. Hitoshi, this is Paulo, Estêvão’s older brother.”

Hitoshi eyes widened. He bowed respectfully.

The padre walked away to speak with some other mourners. I asked Hitoshi, “Who’s the girl?”

He shot a guilty glance at a pretty young chonin woman in the corner, then replied in an unnaturally high voice, “What girl?”

Patiently, I told him, “Hitoshi, the only reason a young man like you is investigating the padre’s teachings is because he has fallen for a Christian girl.”

Hitoshi looked back at her with a sappy smile. “Emiko. You Christians call her Magdalena. She is a beauty, isn’t she? A really nice girl, too. And smart.”

I looked at the young woman more closely. “Her father is Greengrocer Makoto, isn’t he? She’s as beautiful as her mother was twenty years ago.”

The last Christian meeting I attended as a boy had been Emiko’s baptism. Now she was being courted by this tattooed troublemaker. I suddenly felt very old.

“Why does everyone have two names?” Hitoshi asked.

“When a Christian is baptized, he takes a new name from the Bible. But, since Christianity is illegal, no one can use those names outside the group. They are Portuguese in origin and would give the owner away.”

From the blank look on his face, he had no idea what I was talking about. I sighed. “The padre will explain about the Bible and being baptized.”

With an effort, I stopped feeling sorry for myself. I had more important things to think about. “I would like to talk to you about my brother.”

He frowned. “Of course. I heard he was murdered. He was one of the finest men I have ever met. I will do anything I can to help find whoever did it.”

I nodded my thanks. “We have the Buddhist funeral in the morning, but perhaps we can meet after that?”

The Buddhist service was required by law. The shogun had declared we were all Buddhists, and so we were—at least on the surface. Even Padre Hachirō pretended to be an itinerant Buddhist priest. It was suicide for believing Christians to show any lack of dedication to the official state religion. It was just an empty ritual. However, family friends and the people Estêvão worked with would be there. I wanted to talk to them as well.

Hitoshi nodded. “Your brother was important to all of us. If you could come to the Confucius Academy tomorrow evening, we are having a memorial to him. We would love to have you attend, and the two of us can speak privately afterwards.” He gave me a location in the Nihonbashi district of the city.

“I will go, but don’t tell anyone I am Estêvão’s brother. I want to be able to look around quietly.”

The padre stood in front of Estêvão’s corpse lying on the bier and cleared his throat. I rejoined my family and the service began.

“Requiem aeternam dona eis, Domine—”

*****

“The funeral will be at the Asakusa temple at sunrise, perhaps we will see you there,” my mother had said after the memorial service. Her comment was a reminder I could not attend as a member of the family. She might be grateful for my help with the priest, but I was still disowned. Until my father accepted me back in the family, I had no right to claim kinship.

After a night plagued by vague nightmares, I stood in the back of the crowd outside the Asakusa temple for Estêvão’s funeral. The bright red shrine to the Kannon with the early morning sunlight glinting off its cedar walls made a beautiful background to the service. There was at least ten monks and acolytes gathered behind the wood stacked for the pyre, their saffron robes billowing in the early morning breezes. Someone has spared no expense on this funeral.

Estêvão's co-workers from the Rice Office and the chonin guests surrounded me. While I might have wished to join my family, this was a better location for my purposes. It permitted me to listen to the other mourners gossip. The news he’d been murdered caused a great deal of astonished comment, but none of it was useful. It was quickly apparent none of these people knew Estêvão well. As a secret Christian, he didn’t encourage intimacy, and our grandfather had taught us a true follower of bushidō should be polite to everyone, but avoid familiarity. Estêvão kept most people at a distance.

Hitoshi was one of a group of seven chonin. He and five other tattooed young men carried wakizashi in their obi. In the center of the group of armed men was a very well-dressed middle-aged man. It was Tomio, the oyabun of the Edo Workers Association. He controlled more than two-thirds of the day laborers in Edo. He arranged for their employment and welfare, and they gave him a portion of their wages. His position as oyabun had helped him to become one of the richest men in the city and gave him the right to have a small group of guards. Gracia had told me the night before that Tomio had donated space for the Confucius Academy in the same compound as the headquarters of the Association, so he must have known Estêvão, but I was surprised to see he cared enough to attend the funeral.

Estêvão’s coffin arrived on an ornate palanquin carried by four men. They set it down on the wood stacked for the pyre and the service started. Buddhist priests chanted portions of the Lotus Sutra. I stared at his funeral portrait, seeing my brother as an adult for the first time. I studied his features, I noted the resemblance to my father, despite having the height I associated with my mother's family. As my attention wandered, I noticed a stir among the samurai seated across from my family. They were close associates of my family—some of them my boyhood friends. Some of them had noticed me and were staring. I bowed my head in acknowledgement, but they hastily looked away.

They are much too important to acknowledge a ronin, I thought bitterly.

The service ended, and the pyre was lit. I watched the flames as they devoured what was left of my brother and the black smoke trailed up into the sky.

I swung my bokuto at the practice dummy, intent on striking the vulnerable area between the chin and the shoulder. My entire being was focused on the blow—mind and body moving as one. Moments like these were when I felt most alive.

Shouting “Yah!” I stepped forward and thrust the bokuto at the dummy, striking the tiny target area dead center. I straightened up and lowered my weapon…

“Why don’t you attend mass anymore?” Estêvão’s voice sounded from behind me.

Irritated at the interruption, I whirled and swung at his midsection.

Though I probably would have missed him, he jumped back.

I laughed at the expression on his face. “Did Mother tell you to talk me into going back to church? Well, you are wasting your time.”

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“No … well, yes, but I came because I don’t understand. I am worried about you.”

Only a couple years younger than me, he had started to grow rapidly and looked like a walking skeleton, but his face was still as smooth as a girl’s, no sign of any beard yet. He watched me with a troubled expression.

“Did you see the official announcement the bakufu posted yesterday?”

Estêvão looked away. “Yes.”

I gave the dummy a vicious whack. “They equate Christians with murderers, arsonists, and thieves.” Another whack. “They are offering one thousand gold koban to anyone who turns in a believing Christian, and five thousand gold koban for a priest like Padre Hachirō. The persecution will never end.”

I turned to Estêvão. “They have killed tens of thousands of Christians, and what have we done in response? Nothing. We cower in our secret places like mice waiting to be found by the cat.”

“What would you have us do, Paulo? Another revolt like Shimabara? Thirty-seven thousand people died then, men, women, and children. All of Mother’s family was killed. As she would have been if she hadn’t been sent to her uncle in Kyushu. Yet, what did they accomplish? Nothing. All that death for nothing. You cannot defy the shogun.”

I turned back to the dummy. “I wish the Portuguese priests had never come to Japan. They taught us Christianity, but now they are gone, and we suffer for having heard their teachings. They brought nothing but trouble.”

“They brought us God and Christ,” Estêvão said softly.

“What good are they?”

“I don’t have to tell you this, Paulo. You have been taught the same things I have. Christ died that we might all live in paradise after we die. He taught us how to live so we may be like Him.”

“The shogun’s code of bushidō teaches the samurai how to live. It is a life of strength and honor, not cringing cowardice and hiding.”

Estêvão’s eyes widened. “Paulo, you can’t mean that. Christ can give us heaven. What does the shogun have that can compete?”

I laughed. Wild and reckless, glorying in my defiance. “Women. You can find a bit of heaven in their arms and between their legs. Saké. I am tired of making excuses when my friends want me to go to the saké houses with them. I can’t tell them God forbids me to lie with prostitutes. So I lie. But wait—“ I cocked my head and put my finger against my temple. “God says I must not lie. I can’t tell the truth, and I can’t lie. I can’t touch women. I can’t get drunk. What kind of life is that?”

I whirled around and slammed my bokuto into the practice dummy.

“Prostitutes?” Estêvão gasped, “but what about Gracia?”

“I will always take care of Gracia,” I assured him. “But she isn’t going to rule my life like Mother does Father. I am a samurai, not a mouse.”

Estêvão stared at me in dismay. “You are my older brother, and I have always respected you. But I don’t know you now.” He turned and walked away.

Guilt thrust into my gut like a knife. I was such a fool. I gasped, stifling a sob. A samurai does not cry before others. I struggled to breathe evenly. To focus my chi.

Estêvão, I am so sorry.

I desperately wanted to talk to him again, tell him he was right, show him I was not the fool I had once been. Mother would say he knew, he could see me from heaven. But I wasn't sure I believed that.

Anger took the place of my grief. Whoever did this would pay. I would see to that. If my grandfather couldn’t catch him, I would.

I watched the fire for a long time.

My family remained in their pavilion. They would gather the ashes once the pyre cooled, and then secretly bury them in a Christian grave that night.

Most of the attendees had already left before I turned to go. Honda Mitsuru, one of my closest companions in the wild days of my youth, walked up to me. “Yujirō,” he said with a smile, “we were surprised to see you still alive.”

“On many days, I am more than a bit surprised myself to be alive,” I said, smiling.

He seemed uncomfortable. “I wanted to express my condolences. Your brother Eiji was a fine man.” He looked around nervously, then turned and quickly walked away. Even my purported friends deserted me.

Feeling tired and sick at heart, I walked back to my room at the saké house pausing only to scatter salt behind me. Funerals attracted spirits of the dead and I didn’t want them following me home.

*****

As the sun dipped toward the horizon, I stood outside a gate off one of the main roads of the Nihonbashi district, the headquarters of the Edo Workers Association and home to the Confucius Academy. It was a large property surrounded by a high wall.

Inside the gate, I looked around the courtyard. There was a large two-story-building to my right. The elaborate, tiled roof flared upward into peaks at the corners like a temple. The building was covered in white plaster with the exposed beams. No doubt the oyabun's private residence and place of business. A long, low structure, probably a barracks framed the back of the courtyard. On my right was a small building that looked like a tea house. Large sections of wall were nothing but sliding panels that had been opened up. A big group of people were seated inside, overflowing onto the veranda. A small sign near the door said “Confucius Academy.”

A couple dozen heavily tattooed men lounged about idly in the courtyard under a large tree. When they saw me enter, several sat up, a sudden tension in their stance. Others gave me a hostile stare, clearly unhappy at the intrusion of someone of the samurai class on their territory. The men relaxed when they saw me head towards the Academy building. A samurai approaching the school was not an encroachment on their domain.

When I went inside, I saw it consisted of a single large room with a lectern at the front. Two or three dozen people were seated around the floor on the tatami mats talking quietly. They too were all chonin, and I got some startled glances as I looked around. Almost all of them were young men, but I was surprised to see Magdalena sitting in a group with Hitoshi. She looked briefly at me, then let her eyes wander away.

Hitoshi must have warned her to pretend not to know me.

She leaned over and whispered to Hitoshi. He stood up and walked over to greet me. “Thank you for coming.”

Hitoshi led me to a corner where I seated myself on the floor. His welcome was sufficient to convert unfriendly looks to ones of curiosity. Hitoshi walked up to the lectern and cleared his throat. The conversations buzzing around me stopped.

Once he had everyone’s attention, he began. “As you all know, our teacher and mentor, Maeda Eiji-sensei, is dead. He helped found this Academy and spent much of his spare time teaching here. We owe him a debt of gratitude we are unable to repay and we are gathered here to honor his memory. Anyone who wants to say anything is welcome to come forward and speak.”

Many did. People spoke of my brother and his impact on their lives. Through the tapestry they wove of his more-than-human kindness, knowledge, restraint, and skills, I caught occasional flashes of the person I had grown up with. Even discounting their tendency to exaggerate his better qualities, it was clear my brother had grown up to be an exceptional man and he had exerted a profound effect on the people here.

I sat silently. What could I say? It was clear to me I no longer knew Estêvão. He was a serious, studious boy of sixteen years when I was exiled. I never had the chance to meet the remarkable man he became. Time had slipped by and with it, many opportunities. Now, I would never know my brother this side of eternity.

If someone killed me, would anyone notice? I imagined Grandfather would find out eventually, but would he bother to tell anyone? Doubtful. Had I ever improved anyone’s life the way Estêvão did? Well, there were probably some parts of Edo that were better off than they had been the previous day with those six thugs dead, but I wasn’t sure that counted. Would Estêvão have killed them? Or would he have found a different way to deal with them?

A strange melancholy fell over me. Estêvão had always been the good son. He stayed with the church after I stopped going. He remained at home after I was disowned. Yet, never before had I felt the gulf between us as keenly as I did there in the Confucius Academy.

My morbid introspection was interrupted by the sound of the people around me rising to their feet. The gathering was over. Hitoshi approached me as I stood. “There is a small saké house not far from here where we can talk,” he said. “I need to make sure Emiko has an escort home and then we can go.” He looked over at Magdalena, who was talking to some of the other attendees.

“I understand,” I said.

After what seemed to be a long time just to find someone to walk a girl home, Hitoshi returned.

He took me to a saké house dimly lit by several flickering oil lanterns. The customers seated on benches at the tables were mostly moderately well-to-do chonin. Hitoshi apologized. “This is no doubt beneath you, but it is the best place close to the Academy.”

I gave my first real laugh in quite a while, genuinely amused at his overblown impression of my lifestyle. “Actually, this is a cut above the places I usually drink. I am not exactly a rich, powerful samurai, Hitoshi. I am a ronin in my brother’s borrowed clothes.”

I ordered a flask of saké and continued. “So, obviously, my brother was deeply involved in the Confucius Academy. Tell me about it. What precisely did my brother do there?”

His face lit up. “The Confucius Academy is dedicated to improving the lives of the citizens of Edo. They give classes on reading and writing and teach the principles of Confucianism so we can all be better people. Maeda-sensei was one of the first backers of the Academy, acted as its headmaster, and taught most of the classes on Confucian thought.”

Hitoshi waxed rhapsodic about Confucianism and how it changed the way he looked at things. He also told me how Estêvão was such an inspiration to him. After quite a while of this and a couple more bowls of saké, I finally interrupted him.

“How did the authorities react to the Confucius Academy? I have heard there has been trouble with the bakufu in other provinces when the local townsfolk have been taught Confucianism.”

He scowled at his empty bowl and poured more saké for both of us. “They didn’t like it. They don’t think chonin can understand anything but basic reading and math. Maeda-sensei was given ‘friendly’ advice to stop trying to better the chonin. ‘Like teaching Buddhism to a monkey,’ they told him.”

Hitoshi continued. “It was mostly just talk, but about a month ago, Maeda-sensei was arrested.”

I sat up. This was what I needed to know. “Arrested? For what? And by whom?”

He shook his head. “He wouldn’t tell me. All I know is when he came back, he was angry. Very angry. I told him if the secret police were giving him trouble maybe we should close down for a while.” Hitoshi looked baffled. “He said the shogun, Tokugawa Tsunayoshi himself, sponsored these academies and once his accession as shogun became official early next year, no one would bother us. Then he said something I don’t understand. ‘Even if someone else becomes shogun, the secret police won’t hurt me, so don’t worry about me.’ How could he not be afraid of the secret police?”

Apparently, Estêvão was counting on the reputation of the “Tiger in the Shadows” to protect him. I wonder if Grandfather knew Estêvão had run afoul of the law.

Hitoshi stared at his saké bowl. “Maeda-sensei was wrong.” He tried to refill it, but the flask was empty. He signaled for more. We waited while the serving-girl brought over another flask. I picked up the warm ceramic container and tried to fill our bowls. My hands shook slightly.

I hadn’t drunk this much in a long while.

Hitoshi looked around and lowered his voice. “Forgive me my presumption, but I wanted to ask you a personal question, if I may.”

“Go ahead.” I could barely hear him over the noise of the other patrons.

“Recently, I have been thinking of becoming a Christian. But they tell me you quit. Why?”

I gulped down my bowl of saké. “I couldn’t do it. Following God’s laws was more than I could manage. It takes an enormous commitment to live as a Christian. Not to mention being extremely dangerous. It is not something you should do for a pretty face. You must believe in your heart what you are doing is right.”

Hitoshi poured us both another drink. “I thought it would make Emiko look at me more favorably. I know it would help with her father,” he said with a grimace. “Perhaps, I thought becoming a Christian would make me more like your brother, but you are saying I have to be more like him to be a Christian.”

I laughed harshly. “Being a Christian certainly didn’t make me anything like him. I was always in trouble.”

We sipped our drinks in silence for a moment, then I continued, “Gracia recognized that. You know Gracia? She was my brother’s wife.”

He nodded his head. “Yes, I have seen her. Pretty woman for her age.”

A sudden burst of anger coursed through me. I slammed my saké bowl down on the table, rattling the crockery and tipping over the flask. “For her age?” I shouted. Conversation stopped as everyone in the saké house turned to look at me. “For her age? She is the most beautiful woman I have ever seen. Beautiful, cultured, smart…”

My voice trailed off as I finally became aware of everyone’s attention. I looked around in shame and said, “I may have had a bit too much to drink.”

The roar of laughter that greeted this comment dispelled the tension in the shop.

“She is beautiful. Very beautiful.” Hitoshi assured me hastily. He looked at me cautiously. “I could see where there might have been problems between you and your brother.”

I sighed. Lowering my voice, I said, “No, there weren’t problems. She came to live with us when I was twelve years old to escape problems in her home province. It was assumed we would marry when we were old enough. I loved her. But I quit the church when I was fifteen, and Gracia and Estêvão continued to be faithful. When I was seventeen, Gracia told me she loved both my brother and me, but she was going to marry Estêvão. That Mother and Father had agreed to it. It was the right choice, but I was hurt, angry.”

I drank another bowl of saké and then stared at the bowl after I put it on the table. “I went out on a three-day drinking binge with a group of my friends. It ended when my best friend and I got into an argument about katana techniques. We took our dispute out into the street and started giving demonstrations. I could barely walk, but somehow, I ran him through the chest. I don’t even remember how.” I poured my bowl full and gulped down the saké in a single swallow. It burned on the way down. I put the bowl down and hoped for numbness.

Hitoshi looked at me with wide eyes.

“He was the shogun’s great-nephew, and I was immediately arrested. I would have been executed, but he lived long enough to take all the blame for the fight and beg his great-uncle I be pardoned. The court took his wishes into account. Instead of being crucified, I was exiled to the provinces for five years. My father disowned me and threw me out of the house. I hadn’t been home until I heard about my brother’s death yesterday.” I picked up the empty saké flask and waved for the serving-girl. “No, there were no problems with my brother. Gracia made the correct decision, but my brother and I never spoke again.”

The serving-girl came over and cleaned up the spilled saké on the table. “Would you like more?” she asked.

“I’ve had enough.” I looked at Hitoshi. If I was shouting at people in saké houses, I’d had more than enough. “My temper gets the best of me sometimes when I’ve been drinking.”

“I understand. I sometimes lose my temper, too.” He stared at his cup, brooding. “My father got into debt. After he died, we couldn’t pay it, so my sister and I were sold. She was sold to a brothel. She was a sweet little girl. How can that be right?”

He took another quick drink, emptying his bowl. He slammed his fist on the table and said, loudly, “Does this happen to samurai? Do they sell little samurai girls to brothels?”

Talk like that leads to people disappearing.

I spoke to him in a quiet voice. “Hitoshi, calm down. You can’t say things like that. There are ears on the walls and eyes in the doors. The secret police are everywhere.”

I took a deep breath. “The Tokugawa haven’t forgotten they rule because they led a successful rebellion and slaughtered all their enemies. They take any hint of disloyalty or rebellion very seriously. It is fine to have opinions, just be very careful where you speak them. You never know where there is a secret police spy.”

He looked uneasily around at the other people in the saké house. “It doesn’t really matter. Without a samurai to lead the Academy, it is going to have to close. Your brother was the one keeping it going, and now he is gone, it is finished.” His eyes widened, and his mouth fell open.

“I have it,” he said, excitedly. “You can take over for your brother! Even a ronin is a samurai. With you running things, we can save it!”

I stared at him for a moment in astonishment. “I can’t do that,” I finally answered. “My brother was a thinker and a trained scholar. I am nothing but a killer. There is no possible way I could replace him as some sort of Confucian expert, which is what you need to run the Academy.”

“No, you are wrong,” he insisted. “We can find a Confucian expert eventually. What we need now is a samurai to act as a figurehead to keep the government from suspecting us of being a subversive organization. You would do fine for that. As long as the director of the Academy is a samurai, we can keep it open. Please, won’t you do it for the memory of your brother?”

I thought about all the work my brother must have done to get the Academy up and running, and all the lives his work had touched. It seemed a terrible waste it should come to nothing because of his untimely death.

I still had some objections. “I haven’t looked at a Confucian scroll in twenty years. How do you expect me to lecture on the subject?”

Hitoshi leaned forward intently. “Isn’t there someone you can get to help you?”

Involuntarily, my mind went back to when we were children, and Gracia and Estêvão had their heads together, studying a Confucian scroll while I practiced my iaijutsu kata. Maybe Gracia could help me put together some simple lectures. Also, it would give me an excuse to spend time with her. If the Confucian Academy was the reason my brother was killed, the only way to discover what happened to him would be to spend time there.

Hitoshi clearly read the thoughts in my face, because he broke into a huge grin and said, “You won’t be sorry, you’ll see. Now, all we have to do is to go tell the oyabun.”

“Why?”

“Since the Academy is associated with the Edo Workers Association, he is the one who must appoint a new head. He thought very highly of Maeda-sensei.”

I got clumsily to my feet. It occurred to me I might want to wait until I was more sober, but decided I would be fine. “All right, let’s go talk to him.”

As we walked, I straightened my garments. My borrowed kimono and hakama were far better than my usual wear. At least I looked like a respectable samurai for once.

We went back to the association headquarters, but instead of going into the Confucius Academy annex, we entered the main headquarters building. Hitoshi took me up a flight of stairs to a private room at the back of the second floor. The lamp burning in the room cast the silhouette of the occupant onto the paper door.

Two tattooed chonin with wakizashi stood outside the door, one on either side. Hitoshi said, “We need to speak to the oyabun. I have someone who might be able to help up with the Confucius Academy.”

A voice came from the inside of the room. “Come in, Hitoshi.”

Hitoshi knelt before the door and slid it back. He motioned me ahead of him into the room. Inside, the oyabun was sitting at a portable desk with some papers spread out in front of him. He was a man of considerable importance among the chonin. I gave him a deeper bow than I would have offered most chonin.

He nodded acknowledgement and indicated I should sit on the floor across from him. Hitoshi sat beside me.

The oyabun studied me for a few moments, then asked Hitoshi, “Who is this and how can he help us with the Confucius Academy?”

“I am Maeda no Yujirō, and I understand you need a samurai to head the Academy to keep it open.”

“That is right, but why you?”

I glanced sideways at Hitoshi. He seemed to be avoiding my gaze.

I gritted my teeth in frustration. I had hoped I wouldn’t have to tell him everything, but there seemed little choice. “I am Maeda Eiji-sensei’s older brother. I don’t want to see his efforts here wasted, and I am also hoping to find out why he was killed.”

The oyabun looked surprised. “You think his connection to the Academy might have gotten him killed?”

“My grandfather has been investigating his death and has found nothing. But I don’t think he knew about my brother’s work here. This is the most likely possibility.”

He frowned. “There is nothing going on here that would lead to Maeda-sensei’s death. At least nothing I am aware of, but I will not deny you.”

He stared at me thoughtfully. “Maeda Yujirō … I seem to remember that name from somewhere. Didn’t you kill the shogun’s nephew or something? We don’t need trouble here.”

I sighed.

Will I never live that down?

“I assure you I haven’t harmed any of the shogun’s family in fifteen years. I have learned to control my drinking. You have no need for concern.” I focused on not swaying.

“And you think you can perform the duties of the Academy head? Maeda-sensei taught classes on Confucianism. How much do you know about Confucius’ teachings?”

“I believe I can get by,” I said, hoping he would accept my assertion at face value.

“Tell me, what are the Five Virtues?”

“Ummm…”

Shimatta, I don’t remember.

“Honesty, loyalty, courage, justice, and umm … respect?”

He sighed. “Those are the virtues of bushidō. Do you have someone who can help you prepare lessons for the classes on Confucianism?”

I should have waited until I was sober before seeing him, I realized. “Yes, I think so. My sister-in-law, Maeda-sensei’s wife. She studied Confucianism with him and is quite knowledgeable.”

He seemed dubious. “I don’t know…”

Hitoshi broke in. “Sir, we need someone to run the Academy. He may not be the best scholar, but I think we can trust him, and it only has to be for a short time, until we can find someone better. Surely he will do until then.”

The oyabun sighed again. “Very well. I don’t see we have much choice if we want to keep the Academy open.”

I cleared my throat. “Oyabun, there is one more thing. I don’t want people to know I am Maeda-sensei’s brother, so I will be introduced as Matsura-sensei.”

He nodded his head. “Yes, that seems wise, under the circumstances. I wish you good fortune in your hunt for your brother’s killer. But remember, do not bring trouble here.”