Shogun (The Asian Saga Chronology) (11 page)

The Court of the Son of Heaven was easy to dominate because, though it possessed all the land, it had no revenue.  Only
daimyos
, samurai, possessed revenue and the right to tax.  And so it was that although all members of the Imperial Court were above all samurai in rank, they still existed on a stipend granted the Court at the whim of the Shōgun, the Kwampaku—the civil Chief Adviser—or the ruling military junta of the day.  Few were generous.  Some Emperors had even had to barter their signatures for food.  Many times there was not enough money for a coronation.

At length the Minowara Shōguns lost their power to others, to Takashima or Fujimoto descendants.  And as the civil wars continued unabated over the centuries, the Emperor became more and more the creature of the
daimyo
who was strong enough to obtain physical possession of Kyoto.  The moment the new conqueror of Kyoto had slaughtered the ruling Shōgun and his line, he would—providing he was Minowara, Takashima, or Fujimoto—with humility, swear allegiance to the throne and humbly invite the powerless Emperor to grant him the now vacant rank of Shōgun.  Then, like his predecessors, he would try to extend his rule outward from Kyoto until he in his turn was swallowed by another.  Emperors married, abdicated, or ascended the throne at the whim of the Shōgunate.  But always the, reigning Emperor's bloodline was inviolate and unbroken.

So the Shōgun was all powerful.  Until he was overthrown.

Many were unseated over the centuries as the realm splintered into ever smaller factions.  For the last hundred years no single
daimyo
had ever had enough power to become Shōgun.  Twelve years ago the peasant General Nakamura had had the power and he had obtained the mandate from the present Emperor, Go-Nijo.  But Nakamura could not be granted Shōgun rank however much he desired it, because he was born a peasant.  He had to be content with the much lesser civilian title of Kwampaku, Chief Adviser, and later, when he resigned that title to his infant son, Yaemon—though keeping all power, as was quite customary—he had to be content with Taikō.  By historic custom only the descendants of the sprawling, ancient, semidivine families of the Minowara, Takashima, and Fujimoto were entitled to the rank of Shōgun.

Toranaga was descended from the Minowara.  Yabu could trace his lineage to a vague and minor branch of the Takashima, enough of a connection if ever he could become supreme.

"Eeeee, Lady," Yabu said, "of course Toranaga wants to be Shōgun, but he'll never achieve it.  The other Regents despise and fear him.  They neutralize him, as the Taikō planned."  He leaned forward and studied his wife intently.  "You say Toranaga's going to lose to Ishido?"

"He will be isolated, yes.  But in the end I don't think he'll lose, Sire.  I beg you not to disobey Lord Toranaga, and not to leave Yedo just to examine the barbarian ship, no matter how unusual Omi-san says it is.  Please send Zukimoto to Anjiro."

"What if the ship contains bullion?  Silver or gold?  Would you trust Zukimoto or any of our officers with it?"

"No," his wife had said.

So that night he had slipped out of Yedo secretly, with only fifty men, and now he had wealth and power beyond his dreams and unique captives, one of whom was going to die tonight.  He had arranged for a courtesan and a boy to be ready later.  At dawn tomorrow he would return to Yedo.  By sunset tomorrow the guns and the bullion would begin their secret journey.

Eeeee, the guns! he thought exultantly.  The guns and the plan together will give me the power to make Ishido win, or Toranaga—whomever I chose.  Then I'll become a Regent in the loser's place,
neh?
  Then the most powerful Regent.  Why not even Shōgun?  Yes.  It's all possible
now.

He let himself drift pleasantly.  How to use the twenty thousand pieces of silver?  I can rebuild the castle keep.  And buy special horses for the cannon.  And expand our espionage web.  What about Ikawa Jikkyu?  Would a thousand pieces be enough to bribe Ikawa Jikkyu's cooks to poison him?  More than enough!  Five hundred, even one hundred in the right hands would be plenty.  Whose?

The afternoon sun was slanting through the small window set into the stone walls.  The bath water was very hot and heated by a wood fire built into the outside wall.  This was Omi's house and it stood on a small hill overlooking the village and the harbor.  The garden within its walls was neat and serene and worthy.

The bathroom door opened.  The blind man bowed.  "Kasigi Omi-san sent me, Sire.  I am Suwo, his masseur."  He was tall and very thin and old, his face wrinkled.

"Good."  Yabu had always had a terror of being blinded.  As long as he could remember he had had dreams of waking in blackness, knowing it was sunlight, feeling the warmth but not seeing, opening his mouth to scream, knowing that it was dishonorable to scream, but screaming even so: Then the real awakening and the sweat streaming.

But this horror of blindness seemed to increase his pleasure at being massaged by the sightless.

He could see the jagged scar on the man's right temple and the deep cleft in the skull below it.  That's a sword cut, he told himself.  Did that cause his blindness?  Was he a samurai once?  For whom?  Is he a spy?

Yabu knew that the man would have been searched very carefully by his guards before being allowed to enter, so he had no fear of a concealed weapon.  His own prized long sword was within reach, an ancient blade made by the master swordsmith Murasama.  He watched the old man take off his cotton kimono and hang it up without seeking the peg.  There were more sword scars on his chest.  His loincloth was very clean.  He knelt, waiting patiently.

Yabu got out of the bath when he was ready and lay on the stone bench.  The old man dried Yabu carefully, put fragrant oil on his hands, and began to knead the muscles in the
daimyo's
neck and back.

Tension began to vanish as the very strong fingers moved over Yabu, probing deeply with surprising skill.  "That's good.  Very good," he said after a while.

"Thank you, Yabu-sama," Suwo said. 
Sama,
meaning "Lord," was an obligatory politeness when addressing a superior.

"Have you served Omi-san long?"

"Three years, Sire.  He is very kind to an old man."

"And before that?"

"I wandered from village to village.  A few days here, half a year there, like a butterfly on the summer's breath."  Suwo's voice was as soothing as his hands.  He had decided that the
daimyo
wanted him to talk and he waited patiently for the next question and then he would begin.  Part of his art was to know what was required and when.  Sometimes his ears told him this, but mostly it was his fingers that seemed to unlock the secret of the man or woman's mind.  His fingers were telling him to beware of this man, that he was dangerous and volatile, his age about forty, a good horseman and excellent sword fighter.  Also that his liver was bad and that he would die within two years.  Saké, and probably aphrodisiacs, would kill him.  "You are strong for your age, Yabu-sama."

"So are you.  How old are you, Suwo?"

The old man laughed but his fingers never ceased.  "I'm the oldest man in the world—my world.  Everyone I've ever known is dead long since.  It must be more than eighty years—I'm not sure.  I served Lord Yoshi Chikitada, Lord Toranaga's grandfather, when the clan's fief was no bigger than this village.  I was even at the camp the day he was assassinated."

Yabu deliberately kept his body relaxed with an effort of will but his mind sharpened and he began to listen intently.

"That was a grim day, Yabu-sama.  I don't know how old I was—but my voice hadn't broken yet.  The assassin was Obata Hiro, a son of his most powerful ally.  Perhaps you know the story, how the youth struck Lord Chikitada's head off with a single blow of his sword.  It was a Murasama blade and that's what started the superstition that all Murasama blades are filled with unluck for the Yoshi clan."

Is he telling me that because of my own Murasama sword? Yabu asked himself.  Many people know I possess one.  Or is he just an old man who remembers a special day in a long life?  "What was Toranaga's grandfather like?" he asked, feigning lack of interest, testing Suwo.

"Tall, Yabu-sama.  Taller than you and much thinner when I knew him.  He was twenty-five the day he died."  Suwo's voice warmed.  "Eeeee, Yabu-sama, he was a warrior at twelve and our liege lord at fifteen when his own father was killed in a skirmish.  At that time, Lord Chikitada was married and had already sired a son.  It was a pity that he had to die.  Obata Hiro was his friend as well as vassal, seventeen then, but someone had poisoned young Obata's mind, saying that Chikitada had planned to kill his father treacherously.  Of course it was all lies but that didn't bring Chikitada back to lead us.  Young Obata knelt in front of the body and bowed three times.  He said that he had done the deed out of filial respect for his father and now wished to atone for his insult to us and our clan by committing seppuku.  He was given permission.  First he washed Chikitada's head with his own hands and set it in a place of reverence.  Then he cut himself open and died manfully, with great ceremony, one of our men acting as his second and removing his head with a single stroke.  Later his father came to collect his son's head and the Murasama sword.  Things became bad for us.  Lord Chikitada's only son was taken hostage somewhere and our part of the clan fell on evil times.  That was—"

"You're lying, old man.  You were never there."  Yabu had turned around and he was staring up at the man, who had frozen instantly.  "The sword was broken and destroyed after Obata's death."

"No, Yabu-sama.  That is the legend.  I saw the father come and collect the head and the sword.  Who would want to destroy such a piece of art?  That would have been sacrilege.  His father collected it."

"What did he do with it?"

"No one knows.  Some said he threw it into the sea because he liked and honored our Lord Chikitada as a brother.  Others said that he buried it and that it lurks in wait for the grandson, Yoshi Toranaga."

"What do
you
think he did with it?"

"Threw it into the sea."

"Did you see him?"

"No."

Yabu lay back again and the fingers began their work.  The thought that someone else knew that the sword had not been broken thrilled him strangely.  You should kill Suwo, he told himself.  Why?  How could a blind man recognize the blade?  It is like any Murasama blade and the handle and scabbard have been changed many times over the years.  No one can know that your sword is
the
sword that has gone from hand to hand with increasing secrecy as the power of Toranaga increased.  Why kill Suwo?  The fact that he's alive has added a zest.  You're stimulated.  Leave him alive—you can kill him at any time.  With the sword.

That thought pleased Yabu as he let himself drift once more, greatly at ease.  One day soon, he promised himself, I will be powerful enough to wear my Murasama blade in Toranaga's presence.  One day, perhaps, I will tell him the story of my sword.

"What happened next?" he asked, wishing to be lulled by the old man's voice.

"We just fell on evil times.  That was the year of the great famine, and, now that my master was dead, I became
ronin
." 
Ronin
were landless or masterless peasant-soldiers or samurai who, through dishonor or the loss of their masters, were forced to wander the land until some other lord would accept their services.  It was difficult for
ronin
to find new employment.  Food was scarce, almost every man was a soldier, and strangers were rarely trusted.  Most of the robber bands and corsairs who infested the land and the coast were
ronin
.  "That year was very bad and the next.  I fought for anyone—a battle here, a skirmish there.  Food was my pay.  Then I heard that there was food in plenty in Kyushu so I started to make my way west.  That winter I found a sanctuary.  I managed to become hired by a Buddhist monastery as a guard.  I fought for them for half a year, protecting the monastery and their rice fields from bandits.  The monastery was near Osaka and, at that time—long before the Taikō obliterated most of them—the bandits were as plentiful as swamp mosquitoes.  One day, we were ambushed and I was left for dead.  Some monks found me and healed my wound.  But they could not give me back my sight."

His fingers probed deeper and ever deeper.  "They put me with a blind monk who taught me how to massage and to see again with my fingers.  Now my fingers tell me more than my eyes used to, I think.

"The last thing I can remember seeing with my eyes was the bandit's widespread mouth and rotting teeth, the sword a glittering arc and beyond, after the blow, the scent of flowers.  I saw perfume in all its colors, Yabu-sama.  That was all long ago, long before the barbarians came to our land—fifty, sixty years ago—but I saw the perfume's colors.  I saw nirvana, I think, and for the merest moment, the face of Buddha.  Blindness is a small price to pay for such a gift,
neh?
"

There was no answer.  Suwo had expected none.  Yabu was sleeping, as was planned.  Did you like my story, Yabusama?  Suwo asked silently, amused as an old man would be.  It was all true but for one thing.  The monastery was not near Osaka but across your western border.  The name of the monk?  Su, uncle of your enemy, Ikawa Jikkyu.

I could snap your neck so easily, he thought.  It would be a favor to Omi-san.  It would be a blessing to the village.  And it would repay, in tiny measure, my patron's gift.  Should I do it now?  Or later?

Spillbergen held up the bundled stalks of rice straw, his face stretched.  "Who wants to pick first?"

No one answered.  Blackthorne seemed to be dozing, leaning against the corner from which he had not moved.  It was near sunset.

"Someone's got to pick first," Spillbergen rasped.  "Come on, there's not much time."

They had been given food and a barrel of water and another barrel as a latrine.  But nothing with which to wash away the stinking offal or to clean themselves.  And the flies had come.  The air was fetid, the earth mud-mucous.  Most of the men were stripped to the waist, sweating from the heat.  And from fear.