Then he saw another familiar face, one with eyes fixed upon him, among the men in Nishimuta colors. A man named Sakamoto, chief captain to Lord Jiro. Four years ago, Captain Sakamoto had been the one to lead the escort when Ken’ishi returned Kazuko safely to her father’s castle; the one to offer hospitality while Ken’ishi was still naïve enough to believe that Lord Jiro would accede to Kazuko’s wishes to take Ken’ishi into service; and the one to cast Ken’ishi out at the end of that devastating evening. Sakamoto knew of Ken’ishi’s history with Hakamadare, knew that young Ken’ishi and Kazuko had fallen in love, and knew that Ken’ishi had killed the arrogant constable Takenaga. It had never mattered to the Nishimuta clan that it was a fair and rightful duel.
Ken’ishi met Sakamoto’s gaze. Sakamoto’s face registered recognition, then turned to inscrutable stone. Ken’ishi looked away and continued across the street to rejoin his compatriots.
By tonight, Lord Nishimuta no Jiro would know of Ken’ishi’s presence in Lord Tsunetomo’s retinue.
Uguisu sing in the blossoming trees.
Frogs sing in the green rushes.
Everywhere the same call of being to being.
Somber clouds waver in the void.
Fishing boats waver in the tide.
Their sails carry them out.
But ropes, as of old, woven
With the hair of their women,
Pull them back
Over their reflections on the green depths,
To the ports of love.
—The Love Poems of Marichiko
The new naginata haft was so smooth, lacking the scratches and wear of long use. Kazuko had erected ten fresh tatami targets in her practice yard. It felt good to release the strength of its blade with such wild abandon. Each whirl and slash opened a gleeful crack in her otherwise dark mood.
Since Tsunetomo had gone to Dazaifu with Ken’ishi and the rest of his highest ranked retainers, her mood had soured without clear cause.
That was a lie.
The cause lay plastered to her cheek, concealing the terrible blemish of Hatsumi’s hatred.
The bandage hung there, a constant reminder that she was no longer beautiful.
A reminder of the cost of kindness and mercy betrayed.
The naginata dipped and thrust and slashed. Bits of tatami flew in all directions. Servants replaced the mats behind her as quickly as they could, and struggled to keep up with the savage whirl she became. Her chest burned. Sweat slicked her body, her hands, burned her eyes. Her sodden robes flopped as she moved, spattering sweat behind her.
So unladylike, said Hatsumi’s voice in Kazuko’s head.
“Burn in hell, you horrid witch!” Kazuko muttered, slashing through a three-roll target that mimicked the resistance of a human torso. To her, it felt like one of Hatsumi’s spidery limbs. How many bits had she chopped those limbs into?
With increasing speed, she whirled and slashed until her breath went ragged and fresh blisters formed under the calluses on her palms.
When the mats were gone and she was ankle deep in tatami pieces, chest heaving against her armor, she came to a halt. The servants stood far out of the way, silent, eyes wide at the precision of the massacre they had just witnessed.
Throwing herself into martial pursuit to forget her pain, her failures, was nothing new to her, but this time felt different. It was not sadness and despair in her heart, but anger and regret.
She would kill Hatsumi a thousand times before it might be enough.
This morning, she had refreshed her bandage, but before she allowed her new handmaid, on loan from Lady Yukino, to apply the poultice, she studied the wound in her silver mirror.
An angry, crimson slash, as long as her finger. She touched it gingerly. The lips of the gash felt numb, dead, as did parts of her cheek. This frightened her.
Would she ever smile properly again?
Her loyalty to Hatsumi had cost her more dearly than death.
And with a womb as barren as an empty beach, she would have to maintain her place in the Otomo house by other means.
She would have liked to travel to Dazaifu, where she might greet her father, but Tsunetomo had forbidden her to come. It was a place for only the men, he said. In spite of her growing anger and dissatisfaction at her woman’s role, she still missed her husband, and she missed knowing that Ken’ishi was nearby.
The Lords’ Council had begun four days ago. The fortification project was an immense undertaking, but new edicts had arrived from the bakufu. A series of defense posts were to be constructed across northern Kyushu. These posts were, in effect, small garrisons, to be manned at all times. How their construction was to be paid for, how they were to be manned, who would build them in the midst of other massive undertakings, all were questions to be answered at the Lords’ Council. And samurai lords were often a fractious, willful lot. She knew this well, growing up around her father.
Then a terrible thought occurred to her.
What if Ken’ishi and her father encountered each other?
The façade of secrets she had kept would crumble.
A chill of real danger swept through her.
She ignored the servants’ discomfiture and returned to her chambers, where she called for the ofuro to be filled and heated. She needed a bath to drive away this chill.
* * *
At the close of the day’s council business, the lords repaired to their respective encampments outside Dazaifu.
Ken’ishi had stewed in the summer heat all day about Nishimuta no Sakamoto—until he hatched a plan. Sakamoto would reveal Ken’ishi’s presence to his lord, and Lord Jiro would discuss the matter with his son-in-law, Tsunetomo.
But how could he reveal to his lord this dark, incriminating corner of his past, one that so directly involved Kazuko? How could he do so without besmirching Kazuko’s reputation, or worse, endangering her life? Lord Jiro would not know of Ken’ishi’s tryst with Kazuko that long-ago night. Kazuko would not have revealed that, even to Hatsumi. But apparently everyone in Lord Jiro’s banquet hall that night had seen Ken’ishi’s heart wide open, regardless of how well he thought he had hidden the truth. Could Ken’ishi lie to Lord Tsunetomo? To save Kazuko’s life, he might have to try. Many would say the mere thought was the most dishonorable of paths. Better to cut one’s belly open. But that would raise unpleasant questions for Kazuko, and he could not consign her to death. Would he be able to lie convincingly? Tsunetomo was an astute judge of men. On the other hand, Green Tiger was operating directly under Tsunetomo’s nose. Tsunetomo was either blind to Yasutoki’s deception, which meant Yasutoki was a profoundly skilled liar or Tsunetomo was too willing to believe in the good of his retainers, or else Green Tiger operated with the sanction of Lord Tsunetomo. Would such an upright, stalwart leader of men suffer such a vile canker in his own house?
With all these thoughts twisting him up this afternoon, Ken’ishi had hatched a plan. During what he claimed to the others was a trip to the privy, he had meditated with Silver Crane in the quiet seclusion of a nearby garden. And in that meditation, he had explored the threads of destiny, plucking and weaving and tying. Many of those threads had led to Kazuko’s beheading. Many of them had terminated in Ken’ishi’s torture and crucifixion. In all of those threads, Lord Tsunetomo suffered such a grave loss of face that his retainers and subjects began to desert him, his lands never to recover. Other threads led to less certain outcomes where their deaths were not the inevitable conclusion, moments of conversation that might leave Tsunetomo trustful of Ken’ishi’s confession.
Men’s minds were mercurial. Threads of thought and intention could shift subtly in the tiniest of moments and create vastly different outcomes. The fate of ten thousand could hang upon a single man’s slice of arbitrary decision.
Ken’ishi’s hands vibrated with tension as he followed the palanquins of Lord Tsunetomo and Captain Tsunemori back to their encampment.
The two men were grim and taciturn as they stepped out of t
heir palanquins. The difficulty of the day’s wrangling had tightened their lips and deepened the furrows in their brows.
Ken’ishi seized his opportunity, hoping that Sakamoto had not yet let the fox out of the bag. He spoke up as the two brothers were walking toward their tent. “My lords, I am sure you’re weary. I apologize for asking to delay your rest just a little longer, but... there is a matter I wish to discuss with you. It is most urgent.”
The kami commenced a curious hum around him.
Silver Crane’s voice clashed in his mind. The man seizes destiny. Such fine threads you walk.
Lord Tsunetomo said, “Is something amiss? Has there been trouble?”
“No, Lord,” Ken’ishi said, “this is a private matter.”
Tsunetomo and Tsunemori exchanged glances, then turned to Ken’ishi after an interminable pause. Finally Tsunetomo said, “Come in then, Captain Ken’ishi.”
Ken’ishi bowed low.
The eyes of the all men around him followed him into the tent. Ken’ishi and Tsunemori left their swords on a rack near the tent flap.
Tsunetomo’s steward prepared a pot of soothing tea. While they waited for the tea to steep, Tsunetomo related results of the day’s deliberations. One of his responsibilities would be to provide men for building the fortification from Hakozaki east to the Shiga spit. He would also have to provide troops to be rotated through the defense garrisons to be built across northern Kyushu. The entire effort would put great pressure on peasants and farmers to not only pay higher taxes, but be removed from their livelihoods for long periods to work on the fortifications. “The alternative, I suppose, is to leave our bellies exposed to the barbarians. Many will not be able to see the cost of inaction, I fear.”
The steward poured them tea, and they relaxed onto cushions.
“Captain Ken’ishi,” Lord Tsunetomo said, “you look as if you have an unpleasant tale to tell.”
Ken’ishi bowed. All day he had turned his words over and over in his mind. “My lord, I must confess something that might have escaped your awareness. There are those here who might not look favorably upon my presence. I have no wish to reflect poorly on you.”
Tsunetomo’s eyes narrowed. Tsunemori leaned forward, elbow on his knee.
“Four years ago, I was a wandering ronin. I came from the far north. I was newly come to Kyushu. I was passing through a village. I accepted the hospitality of the village headman. The village constable, however, found it necessary to abuse me, to impugn my honor, to insult me. Perhaps it was wrong of me, but I could not let the insults stand. I challenged him to a duel, and he accepted. I offered him the chance to decide by first blood. He declined that offer.”
Tsunemori said, “By your side of the tale, it was a rightful challenge. The constable behaved poorly. We all have pasts. Few among us manage to go through life without mistakes. Even the Buddha was a human being.”
Ken’ishi bowed again. “Later that day, I came upon a noble maiden and her retinue beset by bandits. I helped her yojimbo defeat the bandits. And then I saw the gang’s leader. You’ve doubtless heard the rest of the tale...from Lady Otomo.”
Tsunetomo stiffened. “You’re that ronin.”
Ken’ishi bowed. “I brought Kazuko safely home to her father. Lord Nishimuta banished me from his domain for the death of the constable. Had I not saved Kazuko’s life, there is no question my life would have been forfeit, even though the duel was a rightful one. I have no wish to cause trouble between you and your father-in-law. No doubt he still sees me as little more than a criminal.”
Tsunetomo crossed his arms and looked at Ken’ishi long enough to make him squirm. The songs of the kami waxed and waned in Ken’ishi’s awareness, like the rise and fall of cicadas. “You and Kazuko were acquainted before you came into my service.”
“For those brief days, yes.”
“No doubt she wanted you to help her hunt down Hatsumi. Her lottery was a sham, at least in part.”
Ken’ishi nodded. “I knew it immediately. I felt somewhat responsible for Hatsumi, Lord. I have long regretted not being able to spare both of them from Hakamadare’s attack. But my actions brought me to Kazuko’s aid that day. Hatsumi always blamed me for this. Had I chosen differently, I might have saved Hatsumi from Hakamadare, and Kazuko would have been attacked instead. Last year, I found myself in Ishitaka’s unit during the invasion.”
Tsunemori stiffened at the mention of his son.
Ken’ishi continued, “I did not know he was your nephew, Lord. A strange chain of fortune has brought me here. Encountering Captain Tsunemori there in the ruins of Hakozaki. Finding myself in your service, and immensely grateful for it. Both Lady Otomo and I were surprised to encounter one another after all this time. I do not know why fortune has brought me here. But I do know that I am your loyal servant. I swore my life to your service. My life is yours to use as you wish.” He bowed low again.
If Tsunetomo took offense at the omission of information, if he saw it as deceit, he could order Ken’ishi’s demotion, banishment, even seppuku. The outcomes Ken’ishi had tried to weave with Silver Crane’s power were all uncertain.
“What do you fear, Ken’ishi?” Tsunetomo asked. “In this moment.”
“Finding service with you has been the granting of my fondest wish. I fear that events from my past will tarnish your trust in me. I do not fear to die in your service. I fear to die having served poorly. I fear to die an unworthy death.”
Tsunetomo studied him again for another long, tense moment, calculations and emotions flickering behind a stone mask.
Finally Tsunetomo said, “It was...astute of you to discuss this with me before Lord Nishimuta brought it to my attention. I would not have liked to hear from him that I have a criminal in my employ.”
Ken’ishi pressed his forehead to the floor. “I deeply regret the timing of my confession. Please forgive me.”
Tsunemori eased into the space between words. “No man walks the earth as a ronin without questionable deeds. If we dug into the pasts of all the new recruits, who among them would escape flogging? We cannot afford to squander what good swords we have.”
Tsunetomo raised a hand, and Tsunemori fell silent.
“Men do not become powerful without making enemies,” Tsunetomo said, his voice even. “Thus far, you have proven yourself a worthy retainer. You saved Lady Kazuko’s life for a second time. Tales are spreading of your prowess with sword and bow, and increasingly, horsemanship. Yamazaki-sensei tells me you have a sharp mind, with leadership potential. All of those together are the reasons you are now a captain, and not just a spearman. I cannot very well turn my back on such a capable retainer, regardless of my father-in-law’s wishes. One of the tenets of lordship is responsibility to those beneath. You owe me your service, your life, your loyalty. I, too, owe loyalty in return. If Lord Nishimuta objects to your presence, I will deal with him.”
Ken’ishi pressed his forehead to the floor again. “My deepest thanks, Lord.”
Tsunetomo said, “I trust that you have no more secrets. Go.” The tone of his voice, as if he were still deep in thought, still considering possibilities, gave Ken’ishi pause. Then he bowed his way out of the tent.
Yes: the young sparrows
If you treat them tenderly...
Thank you with droppings.
—Issa
As Yasutoki familiarized himself with Kamakura and its environs, he was struck by how new everything was. Until Minamoto no Yoritomo had declared it to be the seat of the shogun’s authority, it had been little more than a highly defensible fishing town. Mountains on three sides and Sagami Bay on the fourth made Kamakura difficult to reach, even in peacetime. The seven mountain roads into the city were narrow; in many places wide enough for only one man. Kamakura’s defensibility made it very attractive to a general who had just come through a long, bloody war, and its distance from Kyoto mirrored the distance Yoritomo had wanted from the imperial court.
Nowadays, Kamakura was a thriving g
overnment town, the home of the ten-year-old shogun Minamoto no Koreyasu and the Hojo clan regents who “guided” him, a hive of offices and ministers, a city teeming with Yasutoki’s most hated enemies. The entire city had an austere, utilitarian feel that echoed the tenets of the warrior code. Frivolity had no place here, only serious business. Let the decadent imperial court embrace useless frivolities, and let the warriors see to the business of running the country. In any case, the samurai behaved as such. Much of the Emperor’s power had been stripped away during the war between the Taira and the Minamoto, but the imperial court’s centuries of prestige and wealth could not be discounted. Powerful families maintained their loyalty to the emperor. The Taira clan had been destroyed protecting the true emperor, Antoku. When the Mongol hordes wiped away the Minamoto and Hojo clans, perhaps the prestige of the emperor might be renewed, the royal bloodline purified and strengthened. The Taira were, after all, the blood of emperors.
The arrogance of Yoritomo rippled down through history. He had built this city as a monument to his own ambition. Young Prince Avenue formed an arrow-straight thoroughfare half a ri long, almost forty paces wide, lined by beautifully manicured pine trees, and passing through three torii gates, running straight north from the sea to the Shrine of Hachiman. Commoners were not allowed to use the avenue except during festivals. Yoritomo had had the avenue constructed as a prayer for the health and prosperity of his first son, Yoriie. Yasutoki could only smile at the irony. Named shogun at seventeen, Yoriie had held the post for only two years before he was assassinated by his uncle, Hojo no Tokimasa.
“May they all die in lakes of fire and blood,” Yasutoki murmured inside his palanquin. He peered through the bamboo slats at the walled compound, surveying the walls, the gates, the number of guards. His bearers maintained an officious pace. The guards would not tolerate idle curiosity.
The barbarian emissaries were sequestered here near the shogun’s residence. No one saw the emissaries, and as yet, no one in the bakufu had debriefed them either. They were pampered prisoners.
Spirit of the Ronin Page 24