Kill the Shogun (13 page)

The actor in us.
We play parts throughout the day,
sometimes on purpose.

H
anzo rushed into the theater. He made his way past the half-empty floor and up to the stage, going behind the curtain. “All of Ningyo-cho is blocked off!” he exclaimed to Goro and Kaze. “Soldiers are going from building to building, searching them!”

“What are they looking for?” Goro asked.

“Obviously, me,” Kaze said.

The two peasants looked at the ronin with wide eyes. “If you were going to collect on that reward, now is the time to run to the soldiers and tell them I’m here,” Kaze continued. “If you help conceal me, you will become conspirators with me, and will be putting yourself in as much danger as I’m in.”

The two peasants looked at each other. Peasants were supposed to be masters of guile, and Kaze knew from contact with them that most peasants could be secretive and ruthless. These two seemed incapable of guile, however, and Kaze could see a whole range of emotions stream across their faces: surprise, fear, greed, uncertainty, and, finally, resolve.

“You are the only samurai who has ever treated us like men,” Hanzo said. “All others of your class have treated us as creatures
lower than the beasts in the fields.” Looking at his partner, Hanzo said, “What do you say, Goro? Let’s help Kaze-san.”

“Hai! I agree!”

Hanzo looked around. “Maybe we can cover you with some of those costumes and baskets,” he said. “We can do it in a private corner when the actors are busy putting on their costumes.”

Kaze shook his head. “No. Under a pile of baskets or costumes is the first place they’ll look.” He glanced over at the low chests of makeup used the by actors. “I have a better idea.”

T
he squad of soldiers marched down the street, two or three of them breaking ranks to check each shop and house. Darkness had fallen, and the street was illuminated by the warm glow of torches and lanterns. The soft yellow light clashed with the hard reflections thrown off by spear blades, armor plate, and drawn swords. The curious gathered on the street to gape at the unusual sight. Curious or not, each person, whether on the street or in a building, was looked at by the soldiers. If a man of the right age and build was discovered, he was led to a nearby group with one of the soldiers who had seen Kaze at Inatomi’s house.

A runner approached the leader of a squad marching down the street toward Goro and Hanzo’s theater. “Anything to report, sir?” the runner asked.

The captain shook his head and winced. It was the officer whom Kaze had hit with the stick, and his
atama
, his head, still hurt. “No. Tell Yoshida-sama we haven’t found anyone suspicious yet, except the usual collection of whores and gamblers.” The runner scurried off to report as the squad approached the theater.

“Ka-bu-ki,” the captain read off the cloth banner over the door. “What’s that?”

“This is where the loose women were dancing, sir. Remember? We closed them down two weeks ago. They’ve reopened with new owners. I looked at them, and they seem to be doing some kind of plays, but none of the women are dancing lewdly.”

“Women onstage!” The captain shook his head, uncertain of what was becoming of the world, then regretted it. He held his head steady for a few seconds, until the dizziness and pain subsided. “I’ll take a squad in here myself. I know what the dog looks like, and it will be easy for me to identify him if he’s hiding here.”

The captain entered with a half-dozen spearmen. In the lobby, he met a nervous peasant who apparently was the manager or owner of the theater.

“Your name?” the captain demanded.

“I am called Hanzo, Captain-sama.” Hanzo bobbed up and down so low his head almost hit the ground. As a peasant, Hanzo didn’t have a last name. Only samurai and nobles were afforded the privilege of a last name. Watching the constant bowing of the peasant made the captain’s head hurt more. He aimed a well-placed kick at the peasant, hitting his leg and causing the fool to land with a yelp on the floor. Not bothering to see the result of his kick, the captain led his men into the theater.

The theater was sparsely populated. The floor was covered with a grid of low wooden walls, no higher than a man’s calf, forming box seats. Only a few of the boxes had people in them, sitting on tatami mats. Although the theater was nearly empty, the patrons who were there seemed fascinated by the action on the stage. Most of the boxes had food of some sort, either bought at the theater or carried in by the audience, but not a bite was taken, because all eyes were on the stage.

There a man and woman were center stage, with a shamisen player and
tsuzumi
drum player to the side of the stage, providing
a musical counterpoint to dialogue being declaimed by the two actors.

The woman was dressed in a gaudy red-and-yellow kimono, and her face was covered in white makeup, with high, arched eyebrows painted on her forehead and painted red lips; redder than the brightest red
tsubaki
, camellia. She was kneeling on the stage. Even with the makeup, the captain could see this was no beauty, and he surmised that the women who were dancing lewdly at the theater had moved on to other, and more direct, occupations. Still, even though she wasn’t a beauty, there was something in the way she held her body and tilted her head that gave the captain the impression that she was strangely attractive. The pose of her body made the captain understand that she was playing a well-born young maiden.

The ability to communicate age and station in life with a few subtle gestures was extraordinary, but it was the other man onstage, dressed as a monk, who riveted the audience, and for good reason. The man wore a wig with black hair wildly flying up, and his face was painted pure white, like the maiden’s. On this white face was painted a bold pattern of black lines, intended to show the deep wrinkles of an old man. It was a surprising and flamboyant makeup, unlike anything the captain had seen before.

The monk shuffled across the stage, looking up to the sky and sniffing the air.

“Lo, these many years I have stayed in the mountains,” the monk declaimed. “I was brought to the mountains by my revered Sensei when I was but a child. He taught me the holy sutras and the ways of the ascetic. I have never known the company of others, save for the few men who have visited me on this mountain. I have lived a holy life, pure and chaste, and far from the temptations of the flesh, and I know little of the ways of men. It has been
a lonely life, and one without company, save for a few wandering monks and an occasional woodcutter.”

The soldiers stepped over the low walls that made up the box seats in front of the stage. Surprised patrons looked up as the soldiers methodically went from enclosure to enclosure, looking each patron in the face to make sure none matched the description of Kaze. The performance didn’t stop, and if the actors and musicians were surprised to see the soldiers in the audience, they didn’t show it.

The monk crossed the stage and stumbled across the kneeling woman. Reacting in surprise, the monk looked at the audience and said, “But wait, what kind of man is this? His face is fairer than any other I have seen. His hair is long and thick and silky and it smells of flowers. His kimono is colorful but oddly shaped and soft. He is unlike any other man I have seen in my lonely mountain retreat. Who are you, stranger?”

The maiden made no reply and modestly hid her face. A few members of the audience snickered, and even the captain smiled.

“Now this is a strange fellow!” the monk continued. “I wonder why he is so oddly shaped and lumpy. Could he be concealing something under his robes? I must investigate!”

The audience started giggling as the monk walked up to the maiden and stood behind her. She maintained her silence, demurely looking at the ground.

“Can you tell me why you are here, stranger? Are you fleeing someone, or perhaps you are lost?” the monk asked. The girl remained silent.

“Well, then perhaps you will not object if I search you, to see what you are carrying under those robes. Those objects may give me an idea of who you are and why you have disturbed the solitude of my mountain.”

The monk bent and placed a hand on the maiden’s neck. He
looked up at the audience. “This is interesting. The stranger has skin as smooth and fragrant as the petals of the
botan
. It is not rough and coarse as my own skin or the skin of other men.”

He dipped his hand into the maiden’s kimono, cupping a breast. “Unusual! This man has a large lump growing on his chest!” He shifted his hand as the audience broke into laughter. “There are two lumps on this strange man’s chest! Whatever could they be?”

After fondling the maiden for a moment, the monk said, “More and more puzzling! There are tiny nubs on the tips of these mounds of flesh, hard as pebbles and curiously pleasing to rub!” Even the soldiers searching the audience kept glancing up at the stage, laughing along with the crowd.

“Ah, by the Gods, I must investigate this situation further!” The monk dropped to one knee so he could insert his hand deeper into the maiden’s kimono.

“Yes, this man has a flat stomach with no further lumps, but it is soft as a downy futon and not hard as my own is. Now to investigate further!” The monk pushed his hand even deeper into the kimono of the woman and assumed a look of total shock and befuddlement, the outrageous makeup on his face amplifying his amazed expression. The audience was near tears from laughter.

“Oh terrible fate! Oh calamity! This man must have been the victim of a dreadful accident! Deep in his groin I feel the proper hair of a man, but the poor fellow is missing his
chinchin!”
At the use of childhood slang, the audience burst into a new wave of laughter. The soldiers had stopped even making a show of questioning the audience, and were standing around, looking at the stage and laughing.

The monk stayed frozen, a look of complete befuddlement on his face. After the laughter died down, the maiden finally broke her silence.

“Ah, gentle hermit, I can see you are not familiar with the ways of the world! I am an
onna
, a woman, and what you are feeling is my
bobo
.” The country vulgarity set the audience to howling again.

When the laughter subsided, the monk stood and said, “This is a most wondrous thing, this woman! But why would the Gods make woman so different from man?”

The maiden turned her head to look at the monk. From her kneeling position, when she turned she was staring pointedly at the monk’s crotch, her nose just inches away. She waited for the audience’s laughter to build at her close inspection. Finally, when the laughter subsided, she cleared her throat and said, “I may be missing a chinchin, but I see your
futomara
is large enough for both of us.” At the use of a colloquialism for a large penis, the wave of laughter from the audience, which had subsided temporarily, suddenly reached a new crescendo. When the audience had quieted enough for her to be heard, the maiden said, “With such a futomara, the jade gates of the bobo may provide one with a new and pleasurable way to find enlightenment. It can be a new way to heaven.”

“Can that be true? Can finding enlightenment be as simple as the difference between man and woman? How can that be done?”

“Show me to your hermit’s hut and I will demonstrate the process,” the maiden said. “I have been fleeing from an unhappy love affair, but I see now that the Gods have guided me to this remote spot so I can do charity work! It will be a blessing to enlighten this innocent monk in the ways of men and women.”

The monk helped the maiden up. Taking his hand, the maiden led the befuddled monk off, stopping to give the audience a sly and knowing look before continuing offstage. The laughing audience gave the performers a hearty round of applause.

Despite his headache, the captain was laughing as hard as the rest of the audience. Pulling himself together, he gruffly shouted to his men, “Come on! We don’t have time for this foolishness!” He turned and stomped out of the theater. Reluctantly, the men followed.

Five silent shadows
cross the flat gray, nighttime street.
Death blends with blackness.

M
omoko looked at Kaze with bright eyes.

Kaze was removing the outlandish makeup he had put on to disguise his face. He had decided that the best place to hide was in plain sight, and the best way to do that was to call attention to himself in a way that actually hid his identity. Like many warriors, Kaze had been trained in the classical Noh drama, often taking part in Noh performances. It was the mark of a civilized man. Before he became Shogun, Ieyasu had often danced Noh, even taking roles where his paunch had been put to good use for comic effect, inviting the assembled audience to laugh at him. Of course, this buffoonery had another purpose. By acting the clown on the Noh platform, Ieyasu had put more than one potential enemy at ease, diffusing suspicion and causing foes to underestimate the shrewd man scampering and clowning on the stage.

He had done this for the Hojos, the clan that Ieyasu and Hideyoshi eventually deposed from Edo and the rich Kanto plain, and he had also done this for Hideyoshi, whose house he eventually defeated. When Ieyasu acted the clown, it sometimes preceded serious business.

Kaze had acted a scene from the Noh play
Dojoji
, although the risqué actions and words had been added extemporaneously. Momoko had picked up on Kaze’s intent immediately, playing the scene to great effect. She had been surprised that the ronin had wanted to act in the Kabuki, and even more surprised at his talent for it. She did not know Kaze’s desire to act in Kabuki was motivated by the need to elude the searchers, and that his comic flare came from the same core of icy intelligence he had when he was under pressure.

As Kaze finished removing his makeup, he looked over at Momoko, who had been looking at him the entire time. “Well?” he said.

Momoko still had her white makeup on. It emphasized her pug nose and plain face, but Kaze thought her lack of physical beauty was reduced by the force of her sparkling personality. Momoko meant peach and, filled with happiness tonight, she certainly was as sweet and luscious as her namesake.

“Saburo, this is the best night of my life,” she said.

Kaze raised an eyebrow, a bit nonplussed by her declaration, especially since she used the false name he had given her. Seeing his surprise, Momoko explained.

“I’ve always wanted to be someone special; that’s why I wanted to try this Kabuki,” she said. “I know I’m not a beauty, and I don’t have any special skills with musical instruments or the brush. My poetry is embarrassingly bad.” She looked down. With her white makeup on, Kaze couldn’t tell for sure, but he thought she might even be blushing. “Even my cooking and my, ah, my other, ah, womanly skills, aren’t very good. I’ve never even really had a boyfriend. But tonight I did feel special. It was glorious. When I heard those people laughing so loud at you, I decided to see if I could make them laugh, too. And I can! Each of those laughs was like a shower of sakè. It made me drunk with happiness. It was all because of you.” She bowed a deep, formal bow. “Thank you!”

Kaze was about to say it was nothing, in true Japanese fashion, but he realized that if he said that, it might diminish the importance of the moment for Momoko. So, instead of saying anything, he simply returned the bow, just as deep, and just as formally.

T
he ninja was surprised. He thought the search of Ningyo-cho by Yoshida’s men would end the possibility of completing his contract that night. Not that he thought Yoshida’s men would catch the target, of course. He knew Yoshida’s men and he had a good idea of the capabilities of the target, and he was confident that in any game of cat and mouse, it was the target who would be the
neko
and Yoshida’s men who would be playing the part of the
nezumi
. It did not surprise him when his spies reported that Yoshida’s search of Ningyo-cho had been a failure.

Now that Yoshida’s men had gone, the target, this Matsuyama Kaze, had left the theater and was walking about the streets of Ningyo-cho. What surprised the ninja was that Matsuyama was being followed by a young woman. She left the theater moments after Matsuyama and was making a clandestine effort to track him. The ninja signaled to his partner, who was hiding down the street, to gather the rest. The partner, like all of them, was dressed in the black pants, shirt, and hood that allowed him to blend into the night. Then the ninja started following the target and the girl.

As he followed, he decided that this unusual development could be an advantage. The girl trailing the target would act as an effective shield. The ninja was confident of his ability to follow someone unnoticed, but when there were five of them, it would be impossible for that many men, even ninja, to follow a man of Matsuyama’s capabilities without drawing attention to themselves. With the woman between them, he was sure Matsuyama’s attention would be drawn to her clumsy attempts to stay hidden, and he would not notice the gathering of death forming behind him.

Matsuyama seemed to be wandering the streets, seeing if the woman would get tired of following him. A hand was placed on his arm, and the ninja knew his four companions had arrived. He placed his fingers into the palm of one of them, and used his fingers in a silent code, instructing his companion to take two others and get ahead of Matsuyama, so they could trap him in a side street. With a scratch and tap of his finger in the palm of the other, he also instructed him to make the call of the
tsugumi
, the thrush, as a signal they were ready.

The other ninja touched two of his companions on the arm, and the three of them ran off down a side street to circle around and get ahead of the target.

He and the other ninja continued following a short distance more, when the target stopped and looked pointedly behind him. Perhaps he was tired of being followed and decided to confront the girl. Regardless, the ninja froze and blended into a shadow, just in case the target realized there were others on his trail. The ninja’s companion, who was relatively young and unseasoned, continued moving forward, much to the ninja’s annoyance. His young companion was too distant to touch, and he didn’t dare make a sound, so all he could do was watch his young charge continue to creep forward.

Suddenly, there was the call of the thrush from ahead. Instantly, the target drew his sword and stood sideways in the street, so he could see both before and behind him, his weapon at the ready. The ninja cursed at the bad position he found himself in, with his companion too far ahead, but at the same time he had to admire the alertness of the target, sensing that the bird’s call in the midst of a city like Edo might be the harbinger of something dangerous.

All semblance of stealth abandoned, the ninja and his companion drew the short, Chinese-style swords they had strapped to their backs, and started running toward the target. As he reached the woman, she half turned in surprise at the sound of running feet,
and the young companion, who was several paces ahead of the ninja, struck her at the base of her neck with his open hand, Okinawan style. The woman immediately collapsed to the street.

The ninja was about to yell to his companion to slow down, because he wanted the men in front and behind the target to arrive at exactly the same time, but he saw it was too late to curb the impetuousness of youth. He would arrive a split second before the others.

The target used this timing error to his advantage.

He parried the young ninja’s blow with his sword. Then, instead of going on the offensive with the young ninja, he pivoted around and caught the lead ninja on the other side of him. This man thought he would have an easy kill while the target was engaged with the young one, but instead he was caught by surprise by the pivoting movement and the target’s sword slashed across his midriff.

The target didn’t stop his pivoting movement with the success of his attack, however. He spun completely around in time to have his blade parry a second cut from the young one.

Again, instead of going on the attack, he turned his attention to the other side of him and swung his blade at the other attackers, catching a ninja jumping over the body of his slain companion. Not waiting to see the success of his attack as the mortally wounded ninja fell to the ground, he turned his attention back to the young one in time to parry a third blow.

“Get back!” the ninja ordered. The young one obeyed orders and the remaining ninja on the other side did, too.

The ninja took out his knife. Ninja were known to be experts in all types of throwing weapons, and the ninja expected a fighter as good as this samurai to react. The samurai did react, but in an unexpected fashion.

Normally a samurai fought facing an enemy with both hands on his sword. At the sight of the knife, this samurai simply turned
his body to the side, holding his sword in only one hand and presenting the smallest target possible. The ninja smiled. He was an expert and could hit something as small as a plum with a thrown knife. Simply turning to present a smaller target was not a good defense. It was the first mistake this target made in the fight.

With a quick motion, the ninja brought the knife back and threw it. The samurai stepped back quickly as the knife was thrown, and although it cut the kimono of the samurai, it did not strike home.

Surprised, the ninja realized that the samurai’s movement was not a mistake, but a brilliant defense. The human body was only as wide as a hand span. An expert knife thrower will aim for the center of the target, so one only has to move a small distance to have the knife miss a vital spot.

“Give me your knife!” the ninja called to his young companion. The other ninja tossed over his knife.

The ninja now had to guess which direction the samurai would move, forward or backward. If he guessed wrong, the knife would miss completely. If he guessed right, the samurai would be wounded or dead. The samurai stepped back the last time, so the ninja guessed he would step back again, because that might be the direction he found most comfortable for moving quickly. The ninja brought back the knife and threw it.

The knife grazed the back of the samurai’s kimono, but didn’t strike flesh. The samurai had not moved. The ninja realized that the samurai perceived that he would understand why his first throw had missed, and that he would compensate with his second. With the thrower expecting a moving target, the samurai had simply stood firm and let the throw’s compensation cause it to miss him.

It was as if the samurai could read his mind, anticipating his
moves. For the first time in his life, the ninja became fearful of another man’s fighting ability.

Suppressing his emerging doubts, the ninja shouted, “At my signal!” The others knew what he meant, but so, apparently, did the samurai. He stepped back slightly, still standing sideways in the street, so his back was protected by the wall of the building behind him. This meant that the three of them would be approaching him from the front, instead of from both sides.

The ninja hesitated, to assess this new development, but before the ninja could shout his signal to attack, the samurai abandoned the defensive posture he had just adopted and moved to the offense. He stepped forward quickly to the younger one, using the young one’s body to block the ninja from taking a cut. The younger one took another slice at the samurai. The samurai blocked it, but this time he followed through, and after the parry he twisted his blade to one side and slashed the younger one across the neck.

Without wasting a moment, the samurai turned and blocked a blow from the ninja behind him. The samurai took a cut at the ninja, then a second and third. The third found its mark, and the man fell to the ground, mortally wounded.

As if he were moving to the choreographed sweeps of a dance, the samurai spun around and parried the last ninja’s cut, which an instant before had been aimed at the back of the samurai.

The ninja stood on guard, watching the samurai, waiting for an opportunity. The samurai did the same, his sword at the aimed-at-the-knee position, as if he was inviting an attack from the remaining ninja.

Suddenly, from behind him, the ninja heard a female voice calling, “Saburo!” The target’s name was Matsuyama Kaze, and the ninja was momentarily confused by the strange name being shouted by the woman, who had obviously recovered from the
blow given her. He risked a quick turn of his head to see if this Saburo was coming up behind him. Convinced his back was clear, he turned to the samurai just as the samurai’s sword cut into his flesh. The ninja staggered backward, then fell to his knees as he felt his strength draining from the cut across his side and stomach. Even in his dying state, the ninja couldn’t help but admire his target, who had shown no hesitation between thought and action, between opportunity and conclusion. “Superb!” the ninja managed to gasp before dying.