But the governor’s voice drowned out his plea. “Yoshidō Ganzaemon has cravenly denounced the lord to whom he owes his ultimate duty and loyalty. He has called His Excellency the Shōgun Tokugawa Tsunayoshi a weak, stupid fool.”

The witness knew that Yoshidō had insulted the shōgun during a party in the pleasure quarter, where the courtesans flattered and the sake flowed freely, removing men’s inhibitions and loosening their tongues. Nagasaki boasted more spies than anywhere else in Japan, all alert to the slightest transgressions. They’d overheard Yoshidō’s careless words and brought him to this sorry fate as they had many others.

“I didn’t mean it,” Yoshidō protested. “I was drunk; I didn’t know what I was saying. A thousand apologies!” He tried to bow, but the two eta held him firmly. “Please, you can’t kill me for one little mistake!”

No one spoke in his defense, not even the witness, who knew of the man’s exemplary record and character. To take a traitor’s side would mean sharing his guilt, and punishment.

“For his dishonor, Yoshidō Ganzaemon is hereby sentenced to death.” The governor nodded to the executioners.

Now the prisoner’s fear turned to rage. “So you condemn me as a traitor?” he shouted at the silent, watchful assembly. “When there are much, much worse criminals in Nagasaki than I?” Harsh, bitter laughter exploded from him. “Just take a look around Deshima, and you’ll see!”

The crowd stirred; murmurs swept the plateau like a troubled wind. The witness gasped at the accusation, for Yoshidō spoke the truth. By unfortunate accident, the witness had discovered shocking activity on Deshima, the Dutch trade colony. He’d observed clandestine comings and goings, illegal transactions, forbidden collusion between foreigners and Japanese. Even worse, he believed he knew who bore the primary responsibility for the crimes. Now his bowels loosened; he swayed dizzily. If an underling like Yoshidō knew about the crimes, then who else did, or would eventually find out?

The governor held up a hand, arresting all sound and motion. “Proceed!” he ordered.

The eta seized the looped knot of hair at Yoshidō’s nape and yanked, forcing his head high, holding it immobile. The witness’s heart thudded; his limbs went numb and cold in horrible empathy. He saw himself in Yoshidō’s place, ready to die not in glorious battle, or honorably by his own hand in ritual suicide as befitting a samurai, but in disgrace, a convicted traitor.

Then he pictured the person he suspected of the Deshima crime, kneeling beside the executioner whose sword now rose in a high, deadly arc. A person to whose fate his own was inextricably bound. Would they die together like this, someday? The penalty for a crime of such magnitude was death not just for the criminal, but also for his whole family and all close associates. Please, the witness prayed in mute terror, let it not happen!