In the southern sector of the imperial enclosure stood the Purple Dragon Hall, site of important court events. The austere half-timbered building faced a courtyard bounded with covered corridors supported by vermilion posts. The ground was covered with white sand to reflect the light of the sun and moon onto the hall. A cherry tree and a citrus tree flanked the entrance, representing the guardian archers and horsemen of ancient tradition. Leading up to the door, eighteen steps, framed by red balustrades, symbolized the number of noble ranks in the court hierarchy. Sano and Hoshina approached the bottom of the steps, where a line of courtiers waited. One, a man in his sixties with short, sleek gray hair, stepped forward and bowed.
“Greetings, ssakan-sama,” he said in a strong, resonant voice. He wore a black cap with a vertical flap at the back, a moss green silk court robe, and baggy white trousers. Deep lines creased his forehead and bracketed his mouth, giving character to a long, elegant face. He had shrewd, intelligent eyes, and teeth dyed black in the ancient court style. “It is a singular honor to receive such a great personage as yourself.”
Yoriki Hoshina introduced the courtier to Sano: “Allow me to present the honorable Right Minister Ichijo.”
“Many thanks for consenting to act as intermediary in my dealings with the Imperial Court,” Sano said, although the right minister had no choice but to serve his needs. Ichijo’s aura of refinement commanded respect and disconcerted Sano. From studying history, he knew that the man’s noble lineage went back a millennium, to a time when his own ancestors were peasants and the samurai class hadn’t yet emerged from the ranks of primitive tribal chieftains. Ichijo was a member of the famous Fujiwara clan that had once dominated the Imperial Court. Their era had produced masterpieces of painting and poetry; their name was still synonymous with culture and prestige.
“His Majesty the Emperor awaits you,” Ichijo said.
As Sano mounted the steps, flanked by Ichijo and Hoshina, he experienced a vast sense of awe. He, like all Japanese, revered the emperor as a direct descendant of the Shinto sun goddess Amaterasu. The emperor could invoke her power on behalf of human affairs; he had a special ability to perceive the moral order of the universe and impose it upon society. In the cosmic scheme of Confucian tradition, Japan’s military dictatorship was just an instrument through which the emperor ruled.
They paused in the entranceway to remove their shoes, then proceeded to the audience hall. Sunlight streamed in through latticed windows. A long white mat bridged the polished cypress floor. Ichijo led Sano up this, between rows of kneeling courtiers. More attendants knelt by the imperial throne. This was an elaborate, cushioned lacquer seat inside an octagonal pavilion canopied with silk curtains and elevated upon a railed platform. A huge gold phoenix surmounted the throne’s roof; paintings of Chinese sages decorated the wall behind it. The air smelled of incense.
Right Minister Ichijo knelt before the throne and bowed; Sano and Yoriki Hoshina followed suit. “Your Majesty, I present Sano Ichir, Most Honorable Investigator to His Excellency the Shogun,” Ichijo said, then turned to Sano. “I am privileged to introduce to you Supreme Emperor Tomohito, One Hundred and Thirteenth Imperial Sovereign of Japan.”
As he and his first murder suspect faced each other, Sano hid his surprise. He’d known the emperor was only sixteen and had ascended the throne upon his father’s abdication four years ago; therefore, Tomohito’s extreme youth didn’t shock Sano. However, the emperor seated within the pavilion looked nothing like his elegant formal portraits. Big for his age, Tomohito wore a purple robe stamped with gold imperial chrysanthemum crests and a tall black cap. He had a solid, muscular build, but his face was childishly round, with full, rosy cheeks and mouth, smooth brow, and bright eyes. He regarded Sano with the insolence of a misbehaving youngster who is too big for anyone to punish.
Right Minister Ichijo said, “ssakan Sano is investigating the death of Left Minister Konoe, and he would like to ask you some questions, Your Majesty.”
“Oh?” Tomohito asked truculently. “Well, that’s too bad, because it is I who shall ask questions of him.”
Sano was shocked by this rudeness, even though he’d been prepared for it. During the ride to the palace, he’d asked Yoriki Hoshina to brief him on the suspects. Regarding the emperor, Hoshina had said, “He’s been overindulged his whole life. A crown prince’s training usually teaches manners and discipline, but it didn’t work on Tomohito. He thinks he can do whatever he likes. Hardly anyone in the palace dares to criticize him because of his temper; he threatens to bring down the wrath of the heavens on the country when he’s in a bad mood.”
Now an uncomfortable silence hung over the Purple Dragon Hall as everyone waited to see how Sano reacted to the emperor’s contrariness. Although Sano feared offending the emperor and straining relations between the bakufu and the Imperial Court, he needed to establish control over the interview.
“I’ll answer your questions on one condition,” Sano said. “You have to answer mine.”
Tomohito scowled, as if ready to refuse. “Oh, all right,” he said grudgingly. Then, with a naughty gleam in his eye, he said, “Is it true that there are places where girls sit in window cages and men can buy them for the night?”
So the great emperor had the same prurient interests as ordinary boys. “Yes,” said Sano, “in the licensed pleasure quarters.”
“Have you ever been there?” An insinuating grin quirked Tomohito’s mouth.
“Your Majesty, I advise you to confine your questions to subjects of a less personal nature,” Right Minister Ichijo said. “You don’t want to insult the ssakan-sama.” Or the shogun by implication, said the warning note in his voice.
“He has to answer,” Tomohito said. “That was the deal.”
“But it’s my turn to question you now,” Sano told him. “What was your opinion of Left Minister Konoe?”
Tomohito’s eyes widened in surprise. Sano deduced that few people ever held him to his word or changed the subject of a conversation without his permission. Then he frowned. “I heard Konoe was murdered. Do you think I had something to do with it?”
Holding up a hand, Sano shook his head. “Remember our agreement.”
The emperor gaped. He looked around for help, but when no one intervened, he said sullenly, “The left minister was my adviser since I was a little boy. He taught me how to perform sacred rituals and court ceremonies. He listened to me recite my lessons and made sure I understood everything.” Tomohito shrugged. “He was a good teacher.”
Sano considered what he knew of the emperor. “There’s only a few people he’ll listen to,” Yoriki Hoshina had said. “His mother, Lady Asagao, and Ichijo. Left Minister Konoe also had influence over him, but now that Konoe is dead, Tomohito is worse than ever—acting as if he owns the world, always trying to see what he can get away with.” Had the emperor resented Konoe for checking his unruly behavior?
“Now it’s my turn to ask something,” Tomohito said. “Is it true that there is a very long road from Miyako to Edo that passes through many cities?”
“There are fifty-three village post stations,” Sano said, “and the trip takes about fifteen days.”
“Fifty-three villages? Fifteen days?” Obviously disconcerted, Tomohito said, “I didn’t know Edo was so far. How long would it take to travel across the whole country?”
“Around three months, depending on the weather.”
Chewing his lip, the emperor brooded on this fact, then said in a chastened voice, “I didn’t know that.”
Tomohito’s ignorance about his nation was understandable, because emperors ventured outside the palace only when natural disasters necessitated the court’s evacuation. Tomohito saw few people from outside his court and remained cloistered for good reasons.
First came physical safety. Japan’s sacred sovereign must be protected from accidents, attacks, and diseases. Second, his spiritual well-being required isolation from impure things, places, people, or ideas that might poll
ute his soul. Therefore his education was limited to court tradition and the arts. However, the most important reason was political. The bakufu feared that dangerous elements of society might persuade an impressionable sovereign to act against the shogun’s regime by establishing a rival government, raising armies, commandeering the loyalty of the populace, and weakening Tokugawa rule. Young Emperor Tomohito was a storm center around which the winds of insurrection could coalesce. Better that he remained secluded and ignorant than be free to realize his inherent power.
“You had lessons and practiced rituals and ceremonies with Left Minister Konoe, and received his advice,” Sano reiterated. “He would have criticized your performance, corrected your mistakes. Perhaps he sometimes shamed you?”
Jolted out of his preoccupation with the size of Japan, Tomohito shook his head. “It was for my own good. The left minister wanted me to be the best possible ruler and fulfill my great destiny. I was thankful for his attention.”
“Weren’t there ever times when you would rather have been amusing yourself than working?” Sano suggested gently. “Did you ever get angry at him for disciplining you, when he was a mere subordinate and you his lord?”
The emperor’s face flushed; his eyes turned stormy. “The left minister never made me do anything I didn’t want to do,” he said defiantly. “He never chastised me. He couldn’t even touch me. I obeyed him because I chose to.”
“I see.”
However, Sano knew that cutting remarks from an older man could wound a tender young ego, and Tomohito’s unbidden reference to chastisement suggested that his relationship with Left Minister Konoe had included this element.
“If you think I killed him, you’re crazy!” Emperor Tomohito burst out. He leapt off his seat and stood. Fists clenched, he glared at Sano. His eyes darted, as if looking for something to throw. “How dare you accuse me?”
“Is it really necessary to provoke him, ssakan-sama?” murmured Right Minister Ichijo.
“The forces of the cosmos are mine to command. Insult me, and you’ll be sorry!” the emperor shouted.
“Please accept my apologies,” Sano said hastily, shocked by this sudden fit of temper, which offered disturbing proof of the emperor’s volatile nature. Perhaps Tomohito had argued with Left Minister Konoe in the garden. Did he really have deadly mystical powers, as his threat implied?
“Do you regret the loss of the left minister?” Sano asked Tomohito.
The emperor flung himself stomach-down inside his pavilion, his temper spent and his expression merely sullen now. “I miss him. But I don’t need him anymore.”
“What do you mean?” Sano said, intrigued by this odd remark.
“Nothing.”
Setting his jaw, Emperor Tomohito stared at the floor. Sano waited, but when the emperor didn’t elaborate, Sano changed the subject. “I understand that you discovered the left minister’s body.”
“Yes, that’s right,” Tomohito said, giving Sano a furtive, wary glance. “My cousin was with me.” Then a sly smile brightened his face. “I suppose you want to talk to him, too.”
“Yes, Your Majesty.” Sano needed to verify the emperor’s story, and the cousin might be more cooperative than Tomohito.
Turning to his attendants, the emperor said, “Summon Prince Momozono.”
6
As her palanquin carried her through the labyrinth of the imperial compound, Reiko experienced an odd sense of moving far away from everyday life, into a place that existed outside time. The archaic costumes of the people who passed her in the narrow lanes, and the old-fashioned houses glimpsed through open gates, evoked ancient legends of emperors and empresses, princes and princesses, nobles and ladies. But the dark reality of murder overshadowed the romantic past.
Now the old, white-haired courtier led her into a separate compound within the palace, to a large hall that presided over a quadrangle of connected buildings. The bearers set down the palanquin. Stepping out, Reiko saw curved eaves shading wide verandas and ornately latticed windows. Birds winged over trees visible beyond the horizontal ridge of the roofs.
“What is this place?” Reiko asked the courtier.
“It is the Palace of the Abdicated Emperor.”
Reiko knew that emperors surrendered the throne for various reasons. Some did so because of old age or poor health; some preferred to let a successor take over the wearisome rituals while they managed court affairs from behind the scenes. Others entered monasteries. However, many were forced off the throne. Strife within the imperial family could depose weak emperors; bad omens unseated others. When the reign of Emperor Go-Sai had been plagued by natural disasters, the court had deemed these evidence of his unfitness as a ruler and ordered his abdication. The grandfather of the present emperor had clashed with the bakufu over the establishment of laws that limited his power; he’d resigned in protest. Reiko couldn’t recall why Abdicated Emperor Reigen, father of Tomohito, had retired.
“Lady Jokyden spends most days here,” said the courtier. “She awaits your arrival.”
Mounting the steps, Reiko pictured the emperor’s mother as a frail, shy old woman who was hardly likely to possess the power of kiai. Reiko smiled to herself, recalling Sano’s warnings about danger. At best, she hoped to clear up the mystery of Lady Jokyden’s whereabouts on the night of the murder and cross one suspect off the list.
In the hall’s spacious, bare audience chamber, raised wall panels framed a view of a park outside, where maple and cherry trees created cool oases around a miniature mountain from which the former emperor could view the city. Brightly dressed figures strolled; their laughter blended with the tinkle of wind chimes. On the veranda overlooking the park, a man and woman knelt side by side, their backs to the room. A line of seated nobles faced them; servants waited to one side.
“As you will note from these figures, the imperial budget for this year exceeds the funds provided by the bakufu,” said a noble. “Since we can’t reduce expenses without degrading the emperor’s manner of living, we recommend selling some more of his poems to the public. Do you approve, Your Highness?”
“He approves,” said the woman. “Draft an order for all court poets to write verses for the emperor to copy and sign.”
A secretary wrote busily. The courtier led Reiko over to the group and said, “Honorable Abdicated Emperor and Imperial High Council, please excuse the interruption.” Conversation ceased as Reiko knelt on the veranda and bowed. “The wife of the shogun’s ssakan-sama has come to see Lady Jokyden.”
Abdicated Emperor Reigen gave a weary sigh. In his late thirties, he had a pudgy, placid face; his stout body sagged against cushions that propped him up. He regarded Reiko with calm indifference. “Greetings,” he said in a lethargic voice.
Reiko murmured a polite reply, her attention riveted upon the woman.
“How good of you to come, Honorable Lady Sano.” In sharp contrast to her husband, Lady Jokyden sat upright and alert; her cultured voice was brisk. Some years older than the abdicated emperor, she had a smooth, youthful complexion and long, blue-black hair upswept with combs. She was a classic Miyako beauty: slender, long-limbed, with thin, delicate nose and mouth, her eyes narrow ovals beneath high, painted brows. But Reiko detected strength in the body beneath the ivory and mauve silk layers of Jokyden’s garments. There was intelligence in those lovely eyes, and confident self-possession in the way her pale, tapered hands rested, fingertips together, on top of the ebony desk before her. “Your attention is an undeserved honor for this humble woman.”
Reiko’s preconceptions about the emperor’s mother shattered like the reflection in a pond when a stone drops on the surface. Flustered, she said, “Many thanks for receiving me.”
“Please allow me a moment to conclude my business,” said Lady Jokyden. It was less a request than an order, given by a woman accustomed to commanding obedience. Lady Jokyden turned to the abdicated emperor. “My lord, you will please sign the directive to the court poets?”
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sp; Reigen sighed again. “Well, if I must, I must.”
The secretary handed over a scroll. Jokyden inked Reigen’s jade seal. Lifting his hand, she molded it around the seal, stamped the document, and gave it back to the secretary. Then she dismissed the nobles, who bowed and Reiko stared in awe. She’d thought herself daring and clever for helping Sano with his work, but here was a woman who did her husband’s thinking for him and gave the orders.
Lady Jokyden performed the customary welcoming ritual of serving tea. In her curiosity about her hostess, Reiko forgot manners. “How is it that you can conduct business that is usually the province of men?” she blurted.
Filling Reiko’s tea bowl, Jokyden looked momentarily startled. Then she eyed Reiko with heightened interest. The atmosphere between them altered subtly, lifting the social constraints that allowed only superficial talk during formal visits. Jokyden answered with equal frankness: “My husband has always been disinclined toward physical and mental exertion. He married me because he knew I could act in his stead. Abdicating relieved him of certain duties, but I continue to manage the household for him until our son is ready to do so. The court accepts the situation out of respect for my husband.”
“Forgive my impertinence in asking,” Reiko said, noting the parallel between Lady Jokyden’s situation and her own: Marriage had brought both of them the chance to exercise their particular talents. “It’s just so rare to see a woman in charge.”
“It is also rare for the wife of an Edo official to travel to Miyako,” said Jokyden. “May I ask how that came about?”
Reiko experienced a stab of trepidation. Surely Jokyden knew that Sano was investigating the death of Left Minister Konoe. Would she guess that Reiko was here on Sano’s business? Now his warning didn’t seem so groundless.
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