by Adam Baker
‘They assume you will provide certain comforts, but don’t worry. I didn’t force myself on the other girls. I won’t force myself on you.’
‘Where am I to sleep?’
‘There are some screens. You can create your own chamber. I will respect your privacy.’
The girl cautiously paced the room examining the shelves. They were loaded with slabs of leather. She reached for one of the objects, glancing at Saracen to check she had his permission to pick it up. She hefted the leather-bound wad of paper, turning the pages to browse indecipherable glyphs.
‘That’s how barbarians bind documents,’ said Saracen.
‘This is your language?’
‘It’s an ancient script.’
‘Are these spells? Magic?’
‘Books of natural philosophy. That book in your hand is a treatise on the uses of mercurial ointments by Muhammad ibn Zakariyā Rāzī. He was a healer.’
‘Is that why they kept you alive? Gave you this library? For your knowledge?’
‘I was shipwrecked. Our vessel was thrown ashore during a storm, in a bay near Matsue. I was the sole survivor. Local fishermen reacted in terror when I staggered into their village seeking aid. They were inclined to burn me as a daemon. The Daimyō thought better of it and sent me to the Emperor as tribute.’
‘You can speak all these languages?’ asked the girl, gesturing to row upon row of books.
‘My life-saving skill. Through me the Emperor or, more accurately, his mother, has access to the wisdom of the barbarian world. Traders bring books from distant shores. I read them. Prepare summaries.’
She examined an elaborate mechanism on a table. A metal frame held a cluster of interlocking wheels cut from brass. A book lay open on the table. The book was filled with sketches of gears and drive shafts.
‘It’s a measuring device,’ explained Saracen, ‘if I can ever get it to work.’
‘What does it measure?’
‘Time. The longer I stay in this room, the more I become preoccupied by the mystery of time. The passage of one moment to another. Cat and dogs live in the present having no real apprehension of the past and future. Only humans experience the now as part of continuum. The way things were. The way things will be. Perhaps time is an illusion. Perhaps it doesn’t exist beyond ourselves.’
‘Have you ever tried to escape this place?’
‘If I ran they would catch me and cut off my feet. Besides, where would I go?’
The girl ran her hand across the pages. ‘If I am to be confined in these rooms with you, perhaps you could teach me to read these languages.’
Saracen smiled. ‘You’ve been here two minutes and already you are plotting to replace me. And why not? I am old. You are young. A destitute girl in the Imperial court. Worthless. Replaceable as a broom. But knowledge is a powerful thing. Knowledge of medicine. Knowledge of poisons. The Imperial court values such skills. Yes. If you study, you can learn.’
‘The other girls?’
‘They showed no interest in books. Would I be right in saying you are of noble birth?’
The girl didn’t reply. She explored the cluttered tables at the centre of the room. ‘What’s this?’ she asked. Strange figurines faced each other over a chequered board. She picked up a knight on a horse, carved in bone.
‘Shatranj. I have no opponent so I play against myself. At least I get to win.’
The Saracen took a lamp from a wall niche and walked over to the Shatranj table. ‘You see, each piece has a different range of movement. Some hop one square to another. Some jump many squares at a time,’ he explained.
Saracen allowed the girl to get a close look at him. She inspected tight curly hair, soot-black skin and a beard turning grey. He let her stare. She looked him straight in the eye to show she was fearless.
‘So what were you? Before the shipwreck? What did you do?’
‘I was a sailor. A navigator.’
‘It must be hard. To be shut away years on end.’
‘I have books.’
‘Thought, but no action. All the learning in the world, but no opportunity to apply it. It must be frustrating.’
‘Not at all. Look at this.’
He led her to a table cluttered with cardboard tubes and saucers of powder. She saw sketches of some kind of strange arrowhead.
‘I have been ordered to design a special weapon. To my knowledge no one has built such a device before. If I succeed in perfecting this projectile it might win a battle. And that battle might win a war. You see? My work could have consequences which echo down the centuries. My ideas, my learning, will travel beyond these prison walls and affect the world far more profoundly than if I rode into battle myself waving a sword.’
‘Who is it for? This weapon?’
‘I have dedicated my life to the acquisition of knowledge,’ said Saracen with a smile. ‘But not all knowledge is beneficial. This is the Imperial palace. Some questions are better left unasked.’
The samurai was brought to the palace yard at dawn. They brought him a horse chosen to suit a one-armed rider. It was a placid animal that wouldn’t shy or bolt. He hauled himself onto the back of the horse one-handed. The missing arm put his body off-balance. He had to lean right to stop himself sliding out of the wooden saddle before he had a chance to settle his feet in the stirrup leathers. He pulled a fur over his shoulders and fumbled the neck clasp.
‘Ready?’ asked the captain. The samurai nodded.
The captain flicked the reins and the company pulled out. The captain, the samurai and four outriders set off from the Palace passing through a series of courtyards before leaving the Imperial grounds. They joined the Suzaku Ōji and headed out of town.
* * *
They left the city and followed a dirt track, the gentle gradient turning to a steep climb. The road wound up the side of a hill. Autumn wind washed over tall grass.
They headed down the other side of the hill and approached a stockade. The compound was surrounded by trench-works and soil banked against a palisade wall. A couple of crooked watchtowers flanked the gate and bored soldiers manned the entrance. The guards snapped to attention when they saw the captain and his company approach. They puffed their chests, straightened their helmets and held their naginatas upright.
The company rode through the gateway and dismounted. A cluster of crude huts surrounded a mud quadrangle defined by logs. The presence of the captain sent the camp overseer into a panic. He rushed to the barracks and mustered troops lazing on cots. The garrison soldiers, in turn, ran hut to hut and roused prisoners.
The prisoners were lined up in the quadrangle, kicked, punched and struck on the legs with a bamboo switch until they formed five rows of ten.
‘More prisoners than guards,’ observed the samurai. ‘Surprised they haven’t broken out.’
‘They’re far too disorganised to present a threat. They are a rabble, not an army.’
The captain and the samurai paced the rows and surveyed the filthy, resentful men. The ranked convicts were hollow-eyed and malnourished from a diet of millet gruel. Some of the men were sick and tried to suppress spluttering, bronchial coughs.
‘I hand-picked these prisoners,’ explained the captain. ‘Thieves, murders, rapists. All of them are ex-soldiers. Capable men. None of them have been branded. None of them have been tattooed. Choose four of them to accompany you on your journey. You may use any method of selection you see fit.’
‘They’re worthless,’ said the samurai. ‘They’ll flee the moment they are released.’
‘These men have dependents. We hold their wives and children hostage. If they desert, we will execute their families.’
‘Four.’
‘That’s right.’
‘And the others?’
The captain glanced at the samurai. The man looked at the rows of prisoners with a mix of exhaustion and pity like he had fought one battle too many and was sick of killing.
‘These men have been sentenced to de
ath. They’d be dead already if they hadn’t been brought here for selection. You will pick four of them to accompany you on your mission, and the rejects will be executed. But they would have been killed anyway so don’t let it weigh on your mind. When you make your choice don’t think of it as sending forty-six men to their deaths. Think of it as an opportunity to save four men from the executioner’s blade.’
The captain clapped his hands. His men unstrapped packs from their saddles and erected a canopy to keep off the rain. The captain knelt on a cushion and unrolled a paper, laying his sword across the top to hold it open. A list of names, a list of crimes.
‘Rapists?’ said the samurai, pointing at a handful of the names.
‘Good soldiers, for the most part,’ said the captain. ‘Victims of drink. This man, I trained alongside him. He shouldn’t be here. He’s worth more than this.’
The samurai shook his head. ‘I have no use for men who cannot control themselves.’
The captain nodded, sighed and called the names of nine men. They stepped forward and approached the table.
‘Kneel.’
The men complied, some of them sobbing with fear while others stared at the ground aware the rain-spattered mud at their feet would be the last thing they would see before they died. One of the prisoners stared at the captain like he knew him and hoped to be shown mercy.
The captain gave the nod to one of his troops, a burly man with a mean face – evidently the designated executioner. He unsheathed his sword and worked his way along the line of kneeling men, severing each head with an efficient stroke. He took his time adjusting his grip before each strike as if he wanted to prolong the moment and savour each man’s mortal terror.
For some of the convicts decapitation was not instant death. Their heads rolled in the mud then lay blinking for a few moments before life left their eyes.
The samurai had seen awful sights on the battlefield. He had watched dying warriors sob for their mother and watched shamed soldiers impale themselves on their swords. He had watched soldiers crawl across the bodies of comrades in search of their own legs. He closed his eyes. He could hear ghost-screams.
The dead convicts were hauled aside, their heads lifted by the hair and thrown onto the body pile. The forty-one remaining convicts shifted foot-to-foot, white with shock. They looked at the gaps in their ranks, the heaped bodies.
The samurai stood and addressed the prisoners.
‘Today, each of you will face a series of tests. Trials of strength, agility and guile. Four of you will be chosen, the rest will die. So decide, all of you. Decide how badly you want to live.’
The convicts shuffled in agitation, sizing up the men next to them, trying to gauge strengths and weaknesses. The convicts had been corralled in the camp for weeks. They had swapped life-stories and forged friendships but now each man was a deadly rival. Some of the men knelt and prayed. Some sobbed, rocked back and forth, said goodbye to daylight and prepared for the world after death, certain they couldn’t prevail in whatever contest was to follow. They were defeated before they began.
Tameyo stood in the second row of prisoners. He was a thief. A burly man dressed in prison rags belted with rope. He was giddy with fear. Rainwater dripped from unkempt hair and his clothes hung wet and heavy. He listened hard trying to hear what the captain and the samurai were saying as they sat together at the table.
The captain dipped his brush and struck through the names of the executed rapists.
‘We have some thieves and pickpockets, is that right?’ asked the samurai.
‘Eight men,’ confirmed the captain.
‘Have them step forward.’
The captain consulted the list and barked names. Tameyo was the third name called. He shouldered his way through the ranks and stood in front of the table along with seven other convicts. He could hear the men beside him pant with fear.
The samurai addressed the camp overseer. ‘There’s an old box in the barracks, neh? I saw it through the doorway.’
‘Nothing of value. Apples.’
‘It’s locked?’
The overseer nodded. ‘People kept stealing apples.’
‘Have it brought here.’
Two soldiers brought a large wooden box from the barracks and set it on the ground in front of the convicts.
‘Step forward,’ said the samurai, gesturing to the first in line. The prisoner approached the table. The samurai held up a rusted iron nail.
‘There are apples in this box. I want you to pick the lock and give me an apple.’
The thief took the nail and turned it between his fingers.
The samurai took a sandglass from his pack. ‘You have until the sand runs dry. Use the time well.’
‘I’m a cut-purse,’ protested the man. ‘That is my skill. I can steal anything from your person. Brush past you in the street, lift from your belt, your sleeve, lighter than the wind.’
‘But can you open this box?’
‘I don’t know locks.’
‘Then fate hasn’t smiled on you today.’
The samurai turned the glass. Sand began to stream through the timer. ‘Begin.’
The thief froze in shock, then leapt forward and knelt in front of the box. He jammed the nail into the simple warded lock and artlessly tried to trip the internal latch. His hands shook. He blinked rainwater from his eyes and glanced from the lock to the sand pouring through the glass. His time was already one-third gone. His movements became frantic. He punched the box in frustration. He put the nail aside as his final moments trickled away and tried to prise the lid open with his hands. He emitted a low moan which slow rose to a scream as the last few grains of sand fell through the narrow neck of the timer. He was dragged away by the executioner, his sobs abruptly terminated by the sweep of a sword.
The next convict decided to go down fighting. He made a desultory attempt to open the box then jumped the table and lunged for the captain, the nail protruding from his bunched fist. The captain threw himself backward and snatched the tantō from his belt sheath as he fell. It was over in an instant: the thief impaled on the blade, tip protruding from his back. He lay eye to eye with the captain, spitting fury. Then rage drained from his face and he died. The captain rolled the dead man aside and got to his feet. He pulled the knife from the convict’s belly, wiped it clean on the dead man’s arm then re-sheathed. He resumed his position at the table and composed himself. He addressed the next prisoner in line.
‘Step forward.’
The convict feverishly worked the lock as sand streamed through the glass. He was still twisting the nail and trying trip the latch as time ran out. The executioner lopped off the man’s head. The decapitated body was left kneeling in front of the box, hands on the lock. Soldiers dragged the corpse away.
A convict bolted from the line before his name was called and made a run from the gate. He was killed by an arrow to the back.
The next man sat in front of the box with a nail held in limp hands and wept as time trickled away. He soiled himself and gave a last despairing howl as he sensed movement behind him. In the periphery of his vision he saw the executioner raise his sword. He screwed his eyes tight shut and tensed for the blow.
It was Tameyo’s turn. He stepped forward and knelt in front of the box, convinced weathered wood and corroded iron would be the very last thing he saw. He cracked his knuckles. The captain put the nail in his hand as the samurai turned the sandglass and set it down.
‘Begin.’
Tameyo took a deep breath and tried to steady his trembling hands. He slotted the nail into the keyhole and twisted it around, probing the interior to see if he could get some feel for the mechanism. He heard an abrupt click. He froze in surprise. He slowly opened the lid and found himself looking at jumbled apples. He was overcome by a wave of relief so strong he could barely hold himself upright. He picked up an apple with a shaking hand and offered it to the samurai.
‘Keep it,’ said the samurai. He turned to the capta
in. ‘It seems we have found our man.’
‘An accident,’ said the captain. ‘Look at his face. He was shocked when the lock tripped. One of the previous men must have loosened the mechanism.’
‘A thief blessed with good luck. So much the better.’
The captain turned to the executioner and gave a nod. The remaining thieves were forced to their knees and decapitated.
Tameyo sat beside the table caressing the apple before taking a bite. It was the sweetest, juiciest apple he had ever eaten.
Jinkorou was a butcher. He strangled his wife following an argument. He stood shivering among the remaining thirty-three convicts. He was reluctant to volunteer for any kind of challenge. If he remained still and avoided the samurai’s eye he might live a little longer than his companions, maybe eek a few precious minutes. But he was getting cold. His limbs were stiff and his hands were growing numb. If he were to stand any chance of winning a physical challenge he ought to step forward soon and volunteer.
He listened as the one-armed samurai and captain talked among themselves.
‘Agility,’ said the samurai. ‘I need someone nimble.’
‘What test do you propose?’ asked the captain.
The samurai looked around. He could see construction materials stacked next to a partially built hut. He got to his feet and inspected the pile of lumber. He found long wooden poles and some coils of rope.
‘We should use these.’
Infantrymen erected four poles at the edge of the courtyard. They guyed them with ropes to hold them upright. The poles were three times the height of a man. They each had a scrap of red cloth nailed to the top.
‘Agility,’ declared the samurai, pacing back and forwards in front of the convicts. ‘Who among you wishes to take part in a contest of agility?’
No one moved.
‘All of you will be tested,’ reminded the samurai, looking at each man in turn. ‘No point trying to hide in the crowd. All of you will have to engage in some kind of contest with your fellow inmates. You can’t escape. If you don’t accept this challenge, you may face a trial less suited to your talents. So if you pride yourself on your strength, your poise, then step forward.’