Guards rushed over and seized Sano. “No,” he cried. “I swear I’m telling the truth!”
This was a samurai’s worst nightmare: to toil and sacrifice in loyal service to his lord, yet end his life in disgrace and dishonor. From the depths of Sano’s soul exploded a fireball of anger at his accusers, at Chamberlain Yanagisawa and the entire corrupt bakufu. He kicked and flailed, scattering the white sand of truth. But the guards locked iron shackles around his wrists and ankles.
“Let me go. I’m innocent!”
Then, as the guards dragged him toward the door, it flew open. A running figure burst into the room, followed by a shouting, sword-waving mob. Shocked out of his pain, shame, and anger, Sano recognized the runner. “Hirata?” His heart swelled with joy, then contracted in horror. The soldiers would surely kill Hirata. “No!”
“Sōsakan-sama. Merciful gods, I’m not too late.” Hirata fell to his knees before the dais and the surprised judges. He wore nothing but a loincloth. Dirt and sweat streaked his body. Most startling of all, he’d shaved his head. Bowing to the judges, he spoke in a breathless rush. “Honorable Judges, I’ve come to plead for my master’s life. I beg your permission to prove his innocence.”
As Sano watched helplessly, the mob surrounded Hirata. “This man got past us before we could stop him,” said the commander. “My apologies for the interruption.” To his men: “This is the fugitive traitor and murderer. Take him outside and kill him.”
The soldiers hoisted Hirata’s struggling body over their heads. “No!” Sano leapt to the rescue, but his captors jerked his chains. He fell with a crash. The guards carried Hirata past him.
“Wait.” Supreme Judge Takeda’s voice boomed from the dais, halting the soldiers’ rush. “Bring him back.”
“What? Why?” bleated Judge Segawa.
Takeda ignored him. The soldiers dumped Hirata facedown in front of the dais. Sano, lying on the floor in a tangle of iron, watched in puzzlement as the supreme judge studied Hirata. Takeda’s strange expression offered no clue to his intentions.
“Sit up,” Takeda ordered Hirata, who did. “Are you the man accused of abetting Sōsakan Sano’s treason, breaking into the treasurer’s mansion, and murdering a soldier?”
Hirata bowed. “Yes, but I’m innocent, and so is my master.” His voice cracked; he cleared his throat and continued bravely, “Please forgive my intrusion, Honorable Judge, and please allow me to explain.”
“In a moment.” Supreme Judge Takeda regarded Hirata in apparent fascination. “I understand you’ve been in hiding. How have you occupied yourself during that time?”
Now Hirata’s voice rang with ardent determination. “I’ve been gathering information about the men who have unjustly accused my master.”
Sano closed his eyes briefly in despair. Even while a fugitive, Hirata had not abandoned the investigation, or his campaign to clear his master. For this steadfastness, Sano loved the foolhardy young warrior, his truest friend. But now they would die together, because it was obvious Hirata had brought no material evidence with him.
“Do you know that troops have been hunting you day and night, and that Governor Nagai has already condemned you to death?” asked Takeda.
“Yes, Honorable Judge.” If Hirata felt any fear, Sano couldn’t detect it in the straight line of his naked back, the proud lift of his shaven head.
“And still you risked your life to come here and speak on your master’s behalf?”
“Yes, Honorable Judge.”
A spasm of emotion tightened Supreme Judge Takeda’s stern face. “Inshōteki—impressive,” he murmured. He lifted his sleeve and wiped a tear from his eye. “A truer expression of Bushido than I ever hoped to see in this day and age.”
As a historian, Sano knew how the Way of the Warrior had evolved in response to Japan’s changing political climate. Peacetime lacked the clear-cut allegiances and rigorous austerity of war. Samurai owed conflicting loyalties to various superiors, patrons, and colleagues; myriad pleasures distracted them from duty; self-interest often prevailed over self-sacrifice. During the civil wars that had ended almost a century ago, samurai had gladly died in their lords’ battles. Today there were few opportunities for glory—and fewer who sought them. Many samurai regretted Bushido’s lost purity; evidently Supreme Judge Takeda was one of them.
“Such loyalty must be rewarded,” he announced. After ordering the troops out of the room, he said to Hirata, “You may speak.”
Hirata related an impassioned tale of posing as a police officer, conducting inquiries, and killing in self-defense. “Urabe has connections with gangsters. He has no one trustworthy to confirm his alibis for Spaen’s murder, Peony’s, or the smuggling. Interpreter Iishino spends more money than he earns on gifts for his superiors. How can he afford this, if not by crime?”
As Sano marveled at how much Hirata had accomplished, he watched the judges receive the news. Takeda’s concentration never wavered from Hirata. The others barely hid their disapproval of their superior’s weakness. And weakness it was, Sano knew from personal experience. Bushido, the foundation of a samurai’s strength, was also his greatest vulnerability. Chamberlain Yanagisawa had used Sano’s sense of honor against him, perpetuating schemes he couldn’t thwart without violating its rigid code of conduct. Supreme Judge Takeda was harsh and unjust, but a display of loyalty moved him to bend the rules and open his mind. Sano’s hopes burgeoned while Hirata continued.
“I disguised myself as an itinerant laborer and found work at the Half Moon Pleasure House. From the staff I learned that Iishino, Yoriki Ota, and Governor Nagai all attended a party there the night Peony was murdered. I also found a teahouse proprietor who says Abbot Liu Yun regularly sneaks into the quarter disguised as a Japanese merchant. He was there that night, too.
“Honorable Judge, before you condemn my master, I beg you to conduct your own investigation of these men. Among them you’ll find the real traitors.”
Hirata bowed. Supreme Judge Takeda seemed lost in thought. Sano waited in an agony of suspense as the relentless war drums echoed the thudding of his heart.
Then Takeda said to the guards, “Bring Sōsakan Sano here.”
The guards dragged Sano to the dais. The tight shackles had numbed his hands and feet, but he forgot physical discomfort as he knelt beside Hirata. The supreme judge’s gaze bore into them. A steely vise of fear squeezed Sano’s lungs; he felt Hirata’s anxiety, too. With the discipline of his samurai training, he maintained a stoic facade while they awaited Supreme Judge Takeda’s decision.
“Sōsakan Sano, your retainer’s statement supports your claims, and his devotion speaks well of your character and his. Therefore, I grant you the chance to prove yourselves innocent.”
The shock of reprieve overwhelmed Sano in a tidal wave of sensation: dizziness; ringing in his ears; a sudden loosening of tense muscles and release of trapped breath. He wanted to jump up and shout in joyous relief; he wanted to lie down and weep with gratitude. But honor and protocol required dignity.
“Thank you, Honorable Judge,” Sano said quietly.
Then he turned to Hirata. One wordless glance mended the rift between them, cementing their bond. Sano realized how much he needed Hirata, and that he couldn’t—and shouldn’t—deny a fellow samurai the right to serve honor. Hirata’s evidence had strengthened the case against their accusers, but it was his loyalty that had ultimately swayed Supreme Judge Takeda. To spurn such friendship might mean avoiding future pain, but also doomed Sano to constant loneliness, to losing battles he couldn’t win alone. Then and there, Sano accepted Hirata as his true companion, in glory or disaster, honor or disgrace. This was the Way of the Warrior: absolute, eternal.
The tearful brightness of Hirata’s eyes communicated his joy and understanding. He seemed radiant with an inner light, as if the outcome of the trial and Supreme Judge Takeda’s praise of his loyalty had somehow validated his worth and brought him peace. Solemnly they bowed in mutual respect.
&nb
sp; “This is an abuse of the law,” Judge Segawa protested.
“Chamberlain Yanagisawa will not approve,” Judge Dazai added.
As both men argued in favor of the original verdict and sentence, Sano guessed with a sinking heart that he and Hirata weren’t safe yet.
“Honorable colleagues, do not forget that I command this tribunal,” Supreme Judge Takeda said. “Your objections are duly noted, and dismissed.”
Sano knew, however, that Takeda hadn’t achieved his status by being gullible or ignoring the political realities of life in the bakufu, as his next words proved: “Sōsakan Sano, I shall personally oversee your dealings with the informant Chief Ohira, and accompany you to the smugglers’ rendezvous. If you succeed in producing the criminals, the charges will be dropped.
“If you fail, the death sentence will be enforced—and extended to include not only both your entire families, but all your close associates as well. Keep this in mind while we carry out your scheme, Sōsakan Sano.”
Midnight. From a high bluff beyond the edge of town, Sano looked down at Nagasaki. Darkness covered the city like a quilt upon a restless sleeper. The moon, a translucent white bubble caught in a net of cloud, illuminated warships, barges, and the Dutch vessel in the harbor. Torch flames streaked the waterfront and streets, where troops continued to patrol. Bonfires burned at clifftop fortresses. The war drums beat with increasing urgency. A palpable menace vibrated the warm night, deepening Sano’s unease as he turned away from the view and faced his companions.
In a sheltering circle of pines, Hirata squatted motionless, alert for any approaching sound. Supreme Judge Takeda sat on a rock, arms folded, his face in shadow beneath his hat. Judges Segawa and Dazai huddled together, exuding impatience and disapproval.
“We’ve waited at least two hours, and still your informant has not arrived,” Segawa complained. “You may as well give up, Sōsakan Sano.”
“He’ll come,” Sano said with more conviction than he felt. Nervously he eyed Supreme Judge Takeda’s four retainers, who surrounded the clearing. They were here to either help arrest the smugglers, or to take Sano and Hirata to jail if the plan failed. “Maybe he’s having trouble getting out of town. But he’ll be here soon.”
When summoned to the courtroom—on the pretext of verifying his testimony—Chief Ohira had revealed where the smugglers planned to meet and agreed to take the tribunal there, but his manner had disturbed Sano. Kneeling before the dais, he’d seemed a shadow that might drift away at any moment. His eyes looked straight through everyone, betraying no recognition or emotion. Yet Sano had no choice but to trust Ohira. His life and Hirata’s depended on catching the smugglers, to whom Ohira was the only link. To avoid arousing the suspicion of corrupt authorities, Chief Ohira had left the courtroom to go about his usual business until night came. He’d promised to send a servant who would lead them along a secret route to a hidden shelter from which he would take them to the smugglers’ meeting place.
For the rest of the day, Sano, Hirata, and the tribunal had remained sequestered in the mansion, under the pretense of conducting a lengthy trial. For secrecy’s sake, no one was allowed in or out. Upstairs, Takeda’s retainers had guarded Sano and Hirata in case they tried to escape. Servants had bathed them and supplied food, clean clothes, and bedding. Hirata had slept, but Sano had been too tense to rest. He could hear Judges Segawa and Dazai arguing with Takeda. At the front gate, Governor Nagai’s envoys frequently inquired about the progress of the trial. Sano watched through the window as Takeda’s retainers sent them away with the message that the tribunal had not yet reached a decision. Time dragged; the day waned. Sano asked for news of the Dutch ship, and was unhappy to learn that it remained in the harbor, ready to attack. The long wait filled him with worry. Would his enemies guess the plan? Would Ohira renege on his promise?
Then, long after nightfall, Takeda’s manservant entered, bearing two plain, dark cloaks and two sets of swords. “Master says to put these on. It’s time.”
Sano woke Hirata. They donned the garments and weapons. Takeda’s retainers escorted them to the back door, where they found all three judges and Chief Ohira’s elderly manservant.
“This is foolish,” Judge Segawa said. He and Dazai glared at Sano. “Takeda-san, these criminals mean to kill us and escape.”
Supreme Judge Takeda’s eyes shone with a youthful adventurousness that had probably affected his decision. “My men will make sure they behave. Come.”
Sano followed the servant out into the night, with Hirata behind him, the judges and four retainers trailing. Nagasaki, former haven of pirates, rebel conspiracies, and underground Christians, had not yielded all its secrets to Tokugawa law and order. The servant led Sano’s party on foot along a circuitous route that only a longtime resident would know, down crooked alleys and through subterranean tunnels, over roofs and under bridges, along the river. They slipped right by patrolling troops. Moving steadily uphill, they left the city and entered the forest. Sano’s trepidation gave way to heady excitement while he recalled the successful hunt for the body thieves.
But now, as the night wore on and Ohira still didn’t come, Sano’s worries revived. Judges Segawa and Dazai muttered angrily. The retainers edged closer to Sano and Hirata. Sano sensed Takeda’s impatience; he saw his own doubt reflected in Hirata’s eyes. Ghastly images flashed through his mind: a death march to the execution ground; himself and Hirata kneeling before the executioner’s sword; troops herding their relatives and friends to the same fate.
Supreme Judge Takeda said, “We shall wait just a few moments more.”
The war drums boomed. Smoke from the bonfires embittered the wind. Then Sano’s extra sense roused to a faint disturbance of the atmosphere. His companions stirred, feeling the unseen presence, too. Without a sound, Chief Ohira appeared in the clearing. The moonlight emphasized his waxen pallor. His eyes were blank, sunken pools of darkness, as if filled with the night.
“Come,” he said.
He turned and drifted through the forest. Sano, hurrying to keep the almost invisible figure in sight, felt as though he were following a ghost to some netherworld hell. A primitive fear awakened within him. Envisioning demons and monsters, he was glad of Hirata’s solid presence beside him. Ohira alternately vanished in the shadows and reappeared, leading the way along forest trails so narrow and crooked they barely existed, up steep paths, and behind a waterfall’s silvery curtain. Watchtowers loomed above them. The bonfires flared nearer, brighter. The air grew thinner and colder with increasing altitude, the wind sharper. Fatigue strained Sano’s burned legs; his shoulder ached; he gasped for breath. On and up through the darkness they labored.
“A journey to nowhere, led by an idiot,” Judge Segawa muttered. “Wait until Chamberlain Yanagisawa hears of this.”
Suddenly they emerged onto open road. A high stone wall loomed up out of the night. Fierce dragons arched above the carved portals of a gate. Ohira led the party through this and into another world.
The forest had been razed and the ground leveled to create a large plaza open to the sky. Ornamental trees lined gravel paths. Flower beds surrounded rock gardens; frogs sang in a gleaming pond. Arrayed before Sano in imposing grandeur stood worship halls, pavilions, tall stone lanterns, a huge bell in an ornate wooden cage. On roofs, walls, and pillars, carved demons leered, their colors reduced to shades of gray by the moonlight. The pagoda rose like a sculptured shadow above Nagasaki’s Chinese Temple: once the sacred domain of a thousand priests, now the lair of Abbot Liu Yun and the smuggling ring.
“I see no lights,” Judge Segawa said. “The place looks deserted. Takeda-san, may we abandon this nonsense now?”
But Chief Ohira was moving down a path across the temple precinct. “Quiet,” Sano warned. He and Hirata hurried after Ohira. The others trailed. When Ohira abruptly took cover behind a tree, Sano followed suit, motioning for the others to do the same.
Ahead stood the main worship hall, crowned with a snarling lion, t
he eaves of its massive tile roof upturned like demon wings, huge double doors shadowed by a deep veranda. In front paced a samurai, the silhouette of his swords clearly outlined against the white gravel path. From somewhere beyond him came thumps, scraping sounds, and muffled voices. Excitement sped Sano’s pulse. He couldn’t make out any words, but he recognized the now-familiar cadence of Dutch, mixed with Japanese. The smugglers must be bringing the goods now. Which barbarian had come with them?”
Sano gestured for his companions to accompany him to the back of the worship hall, where the activity seemed centered. He’d taken several steps before noticing that Ohira hadn’t moved. The other men, led by Hirata, ran across the garden and hid behind the bell cage. Casting an uneasy glance at the lookout, Sano signaled his party to wait. Then he ran back to Ohira.
“What’s the matter?” he whispered.
“You don’t need me anymore.” Ohira turned his face away. “Go, and leave me in peace.”
Sano couldn’t let the chief stay here alone. Ohira was behaving so strangely; what if he warned the smugglers? “Come on,” Sano said, dragging Ohira toward the others.
Moving from tree to rock, rock to statue, and skirting the pagoda, they circled the worship hall. Sano hung on to Ohira, who stumbled and lagged. The noises grew louder, and Sano heard snatches of talk: “Careful, now … don’t drop it …” When they reached the back of the hall, they hid behind a pavilion with a thatched roof and lattice walls. Stone lanterns flared outside the hall’s rear entrance. Two samurai, carrying between them a large wooden crate, staggered up the steps. Another stood on the veranda.
“Hurry up,” he said. “We haven’t got all night.”
“Nirin,” Hirata whispered.
The men carried the crate through the open doors and into the hall’s brightly lit interior.
The Way of the Traitor Page 29