Masa ran across to the other window, but that way was really bad – there was just the black yawning abyss.
So where did that leave them? A precipice on one side and guns on the other. The sky up above and down below… In the far corner of the attic there was a yellow square of light in the floor – the hatch discovered by the Monk in the third room on the left. There were Black Jackets in there with naked daggers. So they couldn’t go down there either.
But what about all the way down, into the basement?
Masa ran over to the lifting device and opened the hatch slightly – the one he had clambered out of only a couple of minutes earlier.
Down below he could hear the tramping of feet and a buzz of voices – the enemy was already getting up to his tricks in the basement.
That meant they would soon reach the attic too.
It was all over. It was impossible to save the master.
Well then, it was a vassal’s duty to die with him. But first to render his master a final service: help him leave this life with dignity. In a hopeless situation, when a man was surrounded on all sides by enemies, the only thing left was to deprive the enemies of the pleasure of seeing your death agony. Let them have nothing but the indifferent corpse, and your dead face gazing at them with superior contempt.
What method could he suggest to his master? If he was Japanese, it would be quite clear. He had a dagger, and there was more than enough time for a decent seppuku. Tanshin had a short, straight sword hanging at his side, so the master would not be left writhing in agony. As soon as he touched his stomach with the dagger, faithful Masa would cut his head off.
But gaijins didn’t commit seppuku. They liked to die from gunpowder.
So that would be it.
Wasting no time, Masa went over to the jonin, who was whispering about something with his daughter, while at the same time doing something quite incomprehensible: inserting sticks of bamboo one into the other.
After apologising politely for interrupting the family conversation, Masa said:
‘Sensei, it is time for my master to leave this life. I wish to help him. I have been told that for some reason the Christian religion forbids suicide. Please translate for my master that I would consider it an honour to shoot him in the heart or the side of the head, whichever he desires.’
Then the master himself came across to him. He waved his revolver and said something. The master’s face was sombre and resolute. He must have had the same idea.
‘Explain to him that he shouldn’t open fire,’ Tamba told his daughter, speaking rapidly in Japanese. ‘He has only seven cartridges. Even if he doesn’t miss once and shoots seven Black Jackets, it won’t change anything. They’ll take fright, stop the search and fire the house. They haven’t done that so far because they want to present the Don with my body and they’re hoping to find some secret caches. But if they’re badly scared, they’ll set the house on fire. Tell him I asked you to translate because my English is too slow. Take him to one side, distract him. I need another minute. Then act according to our agreement.’
What agreement was that? What did Tamba need a minute for?
While Midori-san was translating what Tamba had said to the master, Masa kept his eyes fixed on the jonin, who finished fiddling with the bamboo sticks and starting shoving them into a narrow kind of case with a large piece of black cloth attached to it.
What weird sort of device was this?
A flag, it’s a flag, Masa guessed, and suddenly everything was clear.
The leader of the shinobi wanted to leave this life in beautiful style, with the flag of his clan unfurled. That was why he was spinning things out.
‘Is that the Momochi banner?’ Masa whispered to Tanshin, who was standing close by.
Tanshin shook his head.
‘Then what is it?’
The rude shinobi left the question unanswered.
Tamba picked up the cloth with the bamboo sticks inserted in it, threw it across his shoulders and belted it on, and it became clear that it wasn’t a flag at all, but something like a wide cloak.
Then the jonin held out his hand without speaking and Tanshin put the naked sword in it.
‘Farewell,’ said the jonin.
The shinobi answered with a word that Masa had heard once before that night.
‘Kongojyo.’ And he bowed solemnly.
Then Tamba walked out into the middle of the attic, pulled a string on his neckband, and the strange cloak folded up, fitting close around his body.
‘What does the sensei intend to do?’ Masa asked Tanshin.
‘Look down there,’ Tanshin muttered gruffly, then went down on all fours and pressed his face to the floor.
So Masa had to do the same.
The floor turned out to have observation slits in it, through which it was possible to observe the corridor and all the rooms.
There were Black Jackets scurrying about everywhere, and the Monk’s head was gleaming in the centre of the corridor.
‘Haven’t you found anything?’ he roared, leaning down towards a hole in the floor. ‘Sound out every siaku! [xxiii]
There must be hiding places!’
Lifting his head up from the slit, Masa glanced at Tamba – and just in time.
The jonin pressed some kind of lever with his foot and yet another hatch opened, located above the corridor. The old man jumped down, as straight as a spear.
Masa stuck his nose against the floor again, in order not to miss anything.
Ah, what a sight it was!
The jonin landed between the Monk and two Black Jackets. They just gaped open-mouthed, but the tricky man with the shaved head jerked to one side and pulled his revolver out of his belt. Ah, but what could he do against Tamba! A short, easy stroke of the sword and the glittering head went tumbling across the floor, and blood spurted out of the severed neck. Without turning round, the old shinobi flung his left hand out backwards and gently touched the nose of one of the soldiers: the soldier fell woodenly, without bending, and crashed to the floor. The second man squatted down and covered his head with his hands, and Tamba didn’t touch him.
He leaned forward slightly and then ran, slowly at first, but picking up speed all the time, towards the wide-open door with the precipice beyond it. A whole crowd of pursuers dashed after him, shouting and yelling.
Masa was in ecstasy. What a fine idea! To take a final stand on the little bridge above that abyss. First, no one would attack from behind and, secondly, it was so beautiful! And then these Black Jackets didn’t have any guns, they had been left outside. Oh, old Tamba would really pulverise them right at the end!
He heard a rustling sound beside him. It was Tanshin jumping to his feet and dashing to the window. He wants to see his master’s final battle, Masa realised, and dashed after him as fast as he could.
The little bridge was clearly visible through the wooden grille. The moon peeped out, and the wooden planking turned silver against the black precipice.
There was the jonin, running out on to the little bridge at a furious pace, the sides of his cloak jutting out like the wings of a bat. Still running, Tamba pushed off hard with his foot and jumped into the precipice.
But what about the final battle? Masa almost cried out.
He could have killed a dozen or two enemies and then dropped over the edge of the abyss like a stone.
But Tamba didn’t fall like a stone!
The Black Jackets crowding on the little bridge howled in horror, and fine drops of cold sweat stood out on Masa’s forehead too. And for good reason…