The Samurai and the Long-Nosed Devils

by Lensey Namioka

  Zenta cleaned the last grain of rice from his bowl and put down his chopsticks. “I’ve heard a lot of talk about Oda Nobunaga recently,” he replied. “It’s possible that he is the man who will finally unify the country and put an end to all these civil wars. I should like to work for him.” Hambei nodded. “I can bring you to him, of course, and give him my recommendation. But that won’t be necessary. He needs good subordinates, and he likes men who show initiative and independence.”

  From Hambei’s expression of satisfaction, Matsuzo suspected that Hambei himself was one such fast-rising subordinate.

  “Nobunaga started as only a minor warlord,” continued Hambei. “While the great warlords were fighting with each other, Nobunaga struck here at the heart of the country with his small but well-trained force and occupied the capital.”

  “I heard that the reason for his success was his novel use of firearms,” said Zenta. “Didn’t that decide the outcome in several crucial battles?”

  “An even more important reason for Nobunaga’s success was that he made good use of men like us that he raised from obscurity,” said Hambei.

  He smiled and added, “If you work for him you will have to watch your tongue, though. He is a bad man to cross.”

  “I’m not in the habit of insulting my superiors,” said Zenta mildly. “I only offer criticism when it’s really deserved.”

  “That’s the kind of criticism that’s hardest to take,” said Hambei. “I’m warning you: Nobunaga has one of the most violent tempers I have ever seen.”

  Zenta did not seem alarmed. “Tell me,” he said, “why is Nobunaga waging a campaign to discredit Buddhist monks?”

  After a slight pause Hambei said, “What makes you think that?”

  “The little performance that we saw by the eel vendor—that was designed to make the monks look ridiculous to the townspeople, wasn’t it?”

  Matsuzo looked at Zenta in bewilderment. “I don’t understand. Those monks were terrorizing that poor girl Chiyo. They tried to kidnap her, perhaps for an immoral purpose.” “Chiyo wasn’t terrorized in the least,” said Zenta. “She easily slipped out of the grasp of that monk. Now, if she had been a normal, frightened girl, she would have taken advantage of the distraction that you provided to escape into the crowd. Instead, she stayed and made things worse by taunting those monks.”

  Hambei was now smiling broadly. “I should have guessed that you would see through us. Chiyo is a clever girl, but she does overact.”

  “And your arrival with your men was a little too timely,” added Zenta. “But what was the reason for the performance? It looked like more than just one of your practical jokes.”

  “Chiyo hates those monks,” explained Hambei. “Her family was from Sakamoto, at the foot of Mt. Hiei. They were forced to go and work for the monks when Chiyo was a child. Fortunately an abbot of one of the temples on Mt. Hiei felt sorry for the little girl. He took her under his protection and even gave her some education. When she grew up and became beautiful, a few of the more lecherous monks began eyeing her. Last year, after her mother had died, Chiyo felt so unsafe that she escaped from the mountain. I came upon her hiding near the Yasaka Shrine and found her a job as a serving girl in a noble household. But she never got over her hatred of the Mt. Hiei monks, and she doesn’t lose any opportunity to help undermine them.”

  “She risked her safety to help with your plan!” said Matsuzo, deeply touched by Hambei’s account of Chiyo’s history.

  Zenta looked unimpressed. “I still don’t see why you and your men should be involved with the girl’s personal feud,” he said.

  “We have orders from Nobunaga to do everything we can to embarrass the monks,” admitted Hambei. “I arranged this particular incident by letting Chiyo walk where she would be sure to be seen by the monks, and they played into our hands by grabbing her.”

  “Is Nobunaga violently anti-Buddhist, then?” asked Zenta.

  “He doesn’t seem more or less religious than the rest of us,” replied Hambei. “So far he hasn’t shown any hostility towards any of the Zen Buddhist temples here in the city. But he regards the warrior monks of Mt. Hiei as a serious menace.”

  Matsuzo found this understandable. For centuries these militant monks had meddled in the political affairs of the country. He remembered a famous remark of Emperor Shirakawa, who said that there were three things he couldn’t control: the fall of dice, the waters of the Kamo River, and the monks of Mt. Hiei.

  “Nobunaga believes that he cannot count himself as master of Miyako unless he breaks the power of Mt. Hiei,” said Hambei. “Of course, by their own licentious behavior, some of the monks are making it easy for us. . . .”

  Hambei’s remarks were interrupted by a commotion outside of their window, and the three men leaned out to see the cause of the uproar.

  Sauntering by the river right under their window were two very strange-looking men. The color of their faces was pale, not the creamy white of aristocratic ladies, but pinkly pale, like the color of certain raw fish.

  A crowd was gathering behind the two strangers, and someone muttered, “Longnosed devils!”

  One of the two men wore a long dark gown shaped like a tube, with an opening on top for the head and two sleeves for the arms. It didn’t part in front like a sensible garment, and Matsuzo smiled to himself as he pictured the awkward struggle while getting into this gown. One had to put the whole thing over one’s head and poke around for the right openings!

  The second man wore clothes that were even more outlandish. On the top half of his body he wore what was obviously armor, but instead of the flexible pieces sewn together in Japanese armor, it consisted of large flat pieces of welded metal. Below the waist his pants puffed out in a grotesque fashion. What was inside the pants boggled the imagination.

  It was the color of the man’s legs that caused Matsuzo’s eyes to start. “Look at that! His legs are blue!”

  Hambei laughed. “No, no, that’s not the color of his skin! The man is wearing closefitting hose that’s colored blue.”

  The blue legs, so long that they looked like the legs of a heron, terminated in clumsy boots made of leather. Altogether, thought Matsuzo, it was the most bizarre ensemble that he had ever seen on a human being.

  But the two ronin were more interested in the man’s weapons. Dangling from his waist was a sword, long and straight, which looked as if it could be used only for frontal thrusts. It was the weapon that he carried over his shoulder, however, which aroused their greatest interest.

  “A gun!” said Zenta. “I’ve seen a few of these weapons, but they were clumsy ones made by our ironworkers. This one looks like a sleek new model!”

  He turned to Hambei and asked, “Are these the men that some people call the Southern Barbarians?”

  “Yes,” said Hambei. “But they call themselves Portuguese. Their country Portugal is not really in the south. It’s to the northwest and it’s so far away that their ships take two or three years to get here.”

  “What are they doing in our country?” asked Zenta. “Are they eager for trade? Many warlords I know would be very anxious to buy their guns.” “Some of the Portuguese here are merchants, but the one in the long gown is a priest trying to spread his religion, which he calls Christianity.”

  “He won’t be very successful if his religion is as barbaric as his clothes,” said Matsuzo.

  “I’m no authority on Christianity,” said Hambei, “but I’ve heard that a number of people, including several lords of high rank, have been converted. Nobunaga has received the foreigners several times and is very favorably impressed by them.”

  “Not everyone feels so cordial towards the Portuguese,” said Matsuzo, noticing some of the crowd below fearfully backing away from the two foreigners.

  “That’s true,” said Hambei. “And it’s not just the superstitious common people. Lord Fujikawa, Chiyo’s employer, lives next door to the Portuguese, and he hates them so much that he has hired some bully swor
dsmen to harass the foreigners whenever they get a chance.”

  “Why does Lord Fujikawa hate the Portuguese?” asked Zenta. “Is he against the foreign religion?”

  “That’s one of the reasons. Another one is that a member of his household was converted to Christianity, and she left to work for the Portuguese.”

  Suddenly Hambei turned and stared at Zenta. “I have an idea!” he cried. “You have always liked unusual jobs. How would you like to be bodyguards for these Portuguese?”

  Chapter 3

  “What?” cried Matsuzo. “But we came to Miyako especially to enlist with Nobunaga!”

  He was insulted by the suggestion that they become mere bodyguards, and bodyguards to some long-nosed devils at that. He glanced at Zenta to see how he reacted to Hambei’s proposal, and he was surprised that Zenta did not look at all outraged, only interested.

  “Give me a good reason why we should take the job,” Zenta said to Hambei.

  “There are many anti-Portuguese elements in the city, people who don’t hesitate at violence,” replied Hambei. “Nobunaga has a very high regard for the Portuguese, and if you take the job of protecting them, you will be already entering his service.”

  “Why doesn’t Nobunaga order some of his own men to protect the Portuguese?” asked Zenta.

  “Some of the worst Portuguese haters are influential men,” explained Hambei. “Lord Fujikawa is one of them, and he is a favorite of the shogun. At the moment Nobunaga’s relation with the shogun is rather delicate, and he wants to avoid unnecessary friction.”

  “But there hasn’t been a shogun with any power for generations,” objected Matsuzo.

  “The present shogun is no more than a figurehead. How can he be a threat to Nobunaga?”

  “Many people still regard the shogun as the symbolic military head of the country,” said Hambei. “Very soon Nobunaga’s position will be strong enough so that he can challenge the shogun openly. But until then, he is afraid that many of the uncommitted warlords may unite and rally to the shogun’s support.”

  Zenta smiled. “If I understand you correctly, Nobunaga doesn’t want his own men to risk a fight with Lord Fujikawa’s bullies, but if we become involved, it will just look like a fight between some ronin.”

  Hambei smiled back. “I didn’t say that being bodyguards to the Portuguese would be an easy job.”

  From the window of the restaurant the three men could see the two Portuguese cross the Gojo Bridge. The man in half armor stopped and wiped the perspiration from his face.

  “They suffer from the heat just like normal people!” said Matsuzo, surprised.

  “Nobunaga personally ordered me to find bodyguards for the Portuguese,” said Hambei. “If you accept this position, you will attract his notice more than if you were one of hundreds of samurai with routine duties.”

  Hambei’s last argument had been unnecessary. To Matsuzo’s alarm, Zenta nodded agreement, his decision apparently made. When Hambei left to pay for the meal, Matsuzo whispered fiercely, “Are you seriously thinking of taking Hambei’s suggestion?”

  “Yes,” replied Zenta. “Why not?”

  “But being henchmen to some long-nosed devils is so degrading! Do we really have to sink so low?”

  Zenta’s face went rigid. After a moment he said, “You are not a hereditary vassal of my family, and there is no reason for you to follow me. We have been more like teacher and student. I know that I haven’t been able to provide decent food and shelter for you recently, not even a bath. If you find life too degrading, you are free to leave.”

  Matsuzo, not having realized that his remarks could be interpreted as a complaint, was overcome with shame. “You’ve misunderstood me completely,” he said. “I wasn’t criticizing you. I merely had the impression that Hambei didn’t want you to work for Nobunaga, and the bodyguard job was to get you out of the way. He also tried to discourage you by describing Nobunaga’s violent temper.”

  The anger left Zenta’s face and was replaced by surprise. “Hambei knew perfectly well that Nobunaga’s violent temper wouldn’t frighten me away. And why do you think he wants to stop me from working for Nobunaga?”

  “I thought he might be a little jealous of you,” said Matsuzo in a low voice. “Perhaps he didn’t want you to surpass him in Nobunaga’s favor.”

  Zenta looked even more astonished. “There is absolutely no reason for Hambei to be jealous of me. During all the times that we worked together, we have never been rivals. How can he possibly be jealous? Look at how successful he is and then look at me!”

  He paused and examined Matsuzo. “But speaking of jealousy makes me wonder if you might be a little jealous of him. You’re attracted to Chiyo, aren’t you? And he is obviously her close friend.”

  Matsuzo felt his face burning. But he was that rare being, a totally honest person, and he examined his feelings carefully before replying. “I do like Chiyo, but I don’t think that was the reason why I suspected Hambei’s motives.”

  Zenta seemed to regret his harshness. “You must not be misled by Hambei’s insulting way of speaking to me. It’s just his manner. As for accepting the job, I suppose you deserve an explanation at least. I think this is an excellent opportunity to learn more about the foreigners. I might even get some expert instruction on how to use a gun.”

  “Please forget what I said,” muttered Matsuzo. “Of course I shall join you as bodyguard to the Portuguese.”

  There was no time to say more, for they heard Hambei’s step on the stairs. “If you’ve finished stuffing yourselves, let’s go and find the Portuguese,” he said to the two ronin.

  When they emerged from the restaurant, however, the foreigners were out of sight. “We can go directly to their residence,” suggested Hambei. “It’s slightly south of here, and I know the way. I’ve gone there on business several times.”

  Now that the sun was setting, the air was cooler and Matsuzo found the walk very pleasant after the heavy meal. His interest was soon caught by some of the famous Miyako landmarks that they were passing. His family was from a remote northern province, and he had visited only castle towns with their narrow, crooked streets. The broad, straight avenues of the capital were unlike anything he had seen before.

  As they walked Matsuzo tried hard to prevent himself from staring openmouthed like a country boy on his first visit to the city. But Hambei, whatever his manner towards Zenta, showed not a hint of condescension towards the younger man. Matsuzo soon lost his shyness and eagerly poured out his questions about the capital city. He learned that the major avenues of Miyako were laid out in a rectangular pattern, and that the big east-to-west avenues were numbered, from First Avenue to Ninth Avenue. They were now walking along Gojo, Fifth Avenue.

  Eventually they left the broad avenue and turned into a narrow street. Ahead of them they saw two Portuguese. “There they are,” said Hambei. “That’s their residence down the street.”

  At that moment, the front gate of a nearby house opened and a file of samurai emerged, escorting a sedan chair enclosed by bamboo blinds.

  “I don’t like the looks of this,” said Hambei. “Those are Lord Fujikawa’s men, and there may be trouble.”

  His prediction was fulfilled immediately. The Portuguese who was in half armor swung aside to make way for the sedan chair, but he had little room in the narrow street and his sword struck against the bamboo blind.

  The leader of the samurai turned his head and glared. “Clumsy foreign devil!” he snarled. “You have just insulted our lady!”

  His men added their voices to his. One of them made remarks about the foreigner’s blue legs, while another said something obscene about the puffed pants and what they concealed.

  The priest in the long gown walked serenely on, probably unable to understand the remarks, but the armed Portuguese evidently understood Japanese well, for his face turned dusky red and his hands clenched around his gun.

  “Come on,” said Zenta and began to run forward.

&nb
sp; Matsuzo looked around, surprised to find Hambei walking rapidly away in the opposite direction.

  “Hambei can’t afford to get involved in this,” explained Zenta quickly. “He is known to be Nobunaga’s henchman. He is confident that he can leave the matter to us.”

  Things were reaching a critical stage. One of the samurai drew a sword, and immediately the Portuguese raised his gun into firing position. The samurai shrank back. He had obviously heard about the gun’s terrifying power.

  “I will fire upon the first man who tries to attack me,” declared the Portuguese. His Japanese was perfectly understandable, for the consonants and vowels were very accurately produced. The intonation was somewhat strange, however, and to Matsuzo’s ear the speech sounded like a familiar song sung to the wrong tune. What ruined the foreigner’s speech most disastrously was that he used verb forms that were spoken only by women.

  As soon as he spoke, the awe produced by his weapon vanished, and the leader of the samurai laughed with contempt. “Let’s get rid of this foreigner once and for all. He won’t have time to kill us if we all rush him at once.”

  “Wait!” called Zenta as the men drew their swords. He came up to the leader of the samurai and said, “I saw the whole incident. The Portuguese meant no insult. He was trying to move aside and make room, and his sword struck the sedan chair entirely by accident. I’m sure that he will be glad to apologize.”

  The leader of the samurai stared at the dusty and unshaven ronin. “How dare you meddle here? Who are you, anyway?”

  Zenta placed himself in front of the foreigner who held the gun. “We are the new bodyguards for the Portuguese,” he replied.

  The leader laughed. “Then you are exactly what they deserve!” Turning to his men he said, “Come on. We’ll get rid of these vagabonds first and then finish off the Portuguese.” Zenta beckoned to Matsuzo. “It seems that we shall have to teach these men a lesson,” he said. “Now remember, don’t kill anyone. Use the back of your sword whenever possible.”