The moment Koiko saw him she knelt and both women bowed in unison. He noticed that Sumomo bowed perfectly, a pattern of Koiko’s grace, and this pleased him too, no sign that the hard riding had affected Sumomo in any way. He returned the salutation. The beds of down futons were already made up.
As Koiko came smiling into this room and Sumomo closed the shoji behind her, she said, “So, Tora-chan, how are you?” Her voice was sweet as usual, her coiffure perfect as usual, but, as never before, the same kimono as the previous night.
Uneasily he noticed a flicker of discomfort as she settled herself. “The riding is too much for you?”
“Oh, no, the first few days are bound to be a little difficult but soon I will be as tough as …” Her eyes were merry. “As tough as Domu-Gozen.”
He smiled, but knew he had made an error of judgment. Yesterday three way stations were covered, the same today, but on neither day had he made the distance he wanted. The riding was exhausting her. I made a mistake I should not have made. She will never complain and will go beyond her limit, may even do herself harm.
Do I need to hurry? Yes. Will she be safe in a palanquin with a ten-man escort? Yes. Would it be wise to reduce my bodyguard by that many? No. I could send for more men from Yedo tonight but that would cost me five or six days. My instinct tells me to hurry, the gai-jin are unpredictable, so is Anjo, so is Ogama—did he not threaten: “If you don’t deal with them, I will.”
“Koiko-chan. Let us go to bed. Tomorrow is tomorrow.”
In the night Sumomo lay on warm futons and under coverlets in their outer room, one arm under her head, sleepy but not tired, and tranquil. From the inner room she could hear Yoshi’s regular breathing, Koiko’s hardly perceptible. Outside were night sounds. A dog barking somewhere, night insects, wind in the foliage, occasionally a guard muttering to another, pots and pans clattering from the early kitchen detail.
Her first sleep had been fine. The two days of exercise and vigorous massage and freedom had made her feel vibrant. And, too, the compliments from Koiko about the way she had arranged her hair tonight as Teko had taught her—and how to add color to her lips—had also pleased her.
Everything was succeeding better than she had dreamed. Her immediate objective had been achieved. She had been accepted. They were on the way to Yedo. To Hiraga. She was an innermost part of Yoshi’s entourage, poised. Katsumata had said, “Do not be impetuous. Under no circumstance put yourself at risk unless there is a chance of escape. Close to him you are of enormous value, do not ruin that or involve Koiko.”
“She will not know about me?”
“Only what I told her, the same that you know.”
“Then she is already involved, no? So sorry, I mean, because of her Yoshi may accept me.”
“He will make that decision, not her. No, Sumomo, she is not your accomplice. If she was to discover your real connection, particularly about Hiraga, and your possible purpose, she would stop it—she would have to stop it.”
“Possible purpose? Please, what is my prime duty?”
“To be ready. Better a waiting sword than a corpse.”
I have no sword, she thought. Perhaps I could grab one from a guard if I could surprise him. I have three shuriken, poison-tipped, hidden in my bundle beside me, and of course my obi knife always on my person. More than enough, with surprise. Eeee, life is very strange. Strange that I should prefer being on my own with my own mission—so alien to our normal way of life, always being part of a unit, thinking as one, agreeing as one in our culture of consensus. I enjoyed being with the unit of shishi, and yet …
And yet to be honest—“Always be honest to yourself, Sumomochan,” her father had said, over and over, “that is your way to the future, for a leader.” To be honest I found it difficult to curb my urge to lead them, even shishi, and to bend them to the correct path and thinking.
Is that my karma, to lead? Or is it to die unfulfilled because it is truly stupid for a woman to wish to be a leader in the world of Nippon. Strange to want the impossible. Why am I like that, not like other women? Is it because father had no sons and treated us, his daughters, as sons, telling us to be strong and to stand up and never to be afraid, even allowing me, over Mother’s advice, to follow Hiraga and his equally impossible star … ?
She sat up in the futons a moment, tousling her hair to try to clear her head and prevent her mind from so many new and untrammeled thoughts, then lay back again. But sleep would not arrive, only permutations of Hiraga and Koiko and Yoshi and Katsumata, and her.
Strange about Yoshi: “We must kill him and the Shōgun,” Katsumata had said, over the years, so many times, and Hiraga, “not for themselves but because of what they represent. Power will never return to the Emperor while they remain alive. So they must go, chiefly Yoshi—he is the glue that binds the Shōgunate. Sonno-joi is our beacon, any sacrifice must be made to achieve it!”
A pity to kill Lord Toranaga. Another pity that he is a good man and not vile, not vile like Anjo, not that I have ever seen him. Perhaps Anjo is also a kind man and everything said about him merely lies of jealous fools.
In this short time I have seen Yoshi for what he is: Dynamic, kind, strong, wise and impassioned. And Koiko? How wonderful she is, though how sad, so sad to be so doomed.
Remember what she said: “The curse of our World is that as much as you bind and train yourself with all manner of defenses and resolves to treat a client as just a client, from time to time one appears who turns your head into jelly, your resolve into froth and your loins into a fireball. When it happens it is frighteningly, gloriously terrible. You are lost, Sumomo. If the gods favor you, you die together. Or you die when he leaves, or you allow yourself to stay alive but you are dead even so.”
“I’m not going to allow that to happen when I’m grown,” Teko had piped up, overhearing them. “Not me. Have you been turned to jelly, Mistress?”
Koiko had laughed. “Many times, child, and you have forgotten one of your most important lessons: to close your ears when others are talking. Off to bed with you.”
Has Koiko’s head really been turned to jelly? Yes.
As a woman I know she considers Lord Yoshi more than a client, however much she tries to hide it. Where will it end? Sadly, so very sad. He will never make her consort.
And me? Will it be the same with me? Yes, I think so—what I told Lord Yoshi was the truth: I will have no other husband but Hiraga. “It’s the truth …” she muttered aloud, and that brought her out of the downward spiral. “Stop it,” she murmured, following the method of her childhood, of her mother crooning: “Think only good thoughts, little one, for this is the World of Tears soon enough, think bad thoughts and in a blink of the eye you are in the black pit of despair. Think good thoughts …”
She made the effort and turned her mind: only Hiraga makes life worthwhile.
A shiver went through her body as a new concept sprang at her with a shocking strength of reality: Foolish this sonno-joi! It is just a slogan. As if it will change anything. A few leaders will change, that is all. Will the new ones be any better? No, except yes, if Hiraga is one, perhaps yes, if Katsumata is one but, ah, so sorry, they will not live that long.
Then why follow them?
A tear slid down her cheek. Because Hiraga turns my head to jelly, my loins …
* * *
In the dawn Yoshi slid out of bed and padded through to the outer room, his sleeping yukata tucked up, breath visible in the cold air. Koiko stirred, saw that he was all right, and dozed off again. In the outer room Sumomo’s futons and bedclothes were already packed away in the side cupboard, the low table already set for their breakfast, their two cushions neatly in place.
Outside the cold was sharper. He stepped into straw sandals and went along the veranda to the outhouse, nodded to the waiting manservant and chose an unoccupied bucket in the line of buckets and began to relieve himself. His flow was strong and that pleased him. Other men stood beside him. He paid no attention t
o them, or they to him. Idly he directed the stream at the swarming, ever present flies, not expecting to drown one of them.
When he had finished he moved to the other part and squatted over a vacant hole in the bench, men and some women either side, Sumomo one of them. In his mind he was alone, his ears and eyes and nostrils shut tight against their presence as theirs were against everyone else.
This imperative ability was painstakingly cultivated from infancy: “You must work at this like nothing else, little one, you must, or your life will be unbearable” was drummed into him, as it was every child. “Here where we live cheek by cheek, children and parents and grandparents and maids and more in each tiny house, where all walls are made of paper, privacy has to be cultivated in your head and can only exist there, your own and also as the essential politeness to others. Only this way can you be tranquil, only this way can you be civilized, only this way can you remain sane.”
Absently, he waved at the flies. Once when he was young he had lost his temper at two or three that were plaguing him and had tried to smash them to pieces. It had earned him an immediate smack around the face, his cheeks burning with hurt, but more with shame that he had caused his mother grief, and her need to administer the punishment.
“So sorry, my son,” she said softly. “Flies are like sunrise and sunset, inevitable, except they can be a torment—if you allow them to be. You must learn to dismiss them. Every day, for part of each day for as many days as necessary, please, stand there and let them crawl on your face and hands without moving. Until they become nothing. Flies must become nothing-use your will, that is what you are given it for. They must become nothing to you, then they’ll not cause you to ruin your harmony or, worse, ruin the harmony of others …”
Now, sitting there, he felt the odd fly on his back and face. They did not offend him.
Quickly he was done. The rice paper was of good quality. Feeling very alive and well, he held out his hands for the servant to pour water over them. When his hands were clean, he doused water from another container onto his face, shivered, accepted a small towel and dried himself, stepped back onto the veranda and consciously opened his senses.
Around him the Inn was stirring, the few ponies being saddled and groomed, men, women, children, porters already eating and chatting noisily, or leaving for the next stage of their journey, to or from Kyōto. In the common area near the entrance gate, Abeh was checking men and equipment. When he saw Yoshi he joined him.
Because people were about he did not bow, finding that very hard. His uniform was smart and he was refreshed. “Good morning.” He just managed to bite back the “sir.” “We are ready to leave whenever it pleases you.”
“After breakfast. Arrange a palanquin for Lady Koiko.”
“At once. For ponies, or porters?”
“Ponies.” Yoshi strolled back to his quarters and told Koiko she would not be riding today, that he would see how much progress they made and then, tonight, he would decide. Sumomo would ride as usual.
By evening they barely made two stations.
HAMAMATSU
Yoshi chose the Inn of the Cranes for the night, neither the best nor the worst in the village of Hamamatsu—a pleasing collection of houses and Inns straddling the Tokaidō, renowned for its saké, where the road curled down towards the sea.
After eating alone as usual, Yoshi went to join Koiko—if they ate together invariably, by custom, she would take almost nothing, having intentionally eaten beforehand so she could concentrate on his needs. Tonight it was his pleasure to play a game of Go. This was a complex game of strategy, played with counters and similar to draughts.
Both of them were good players, but Koiko was a virtuoso, so much so that she could, almost always, win or lose at whim. This made the game doubly difficult for her. He had ordered her never to lose deliberately, but he himself was a bad loser. If she won on a wrong day he would sulk. A win for him on one of his bad days would get him out of any ill humor.
Tonight he won. Narrowly. “Oh, Sire, you’ve destroyed me!” she said. “And I thought I had you beaten!” They were in her inner room, sitting with their legs in the small pit under the low table with a tiny charcoal brazier in it, and a thick padded cloth over the table tucked around them to keep drafts out and the heat in. “Are you warm enough?”
“Yes, thank you, Koiko. How are your aches and pains?”
“Oh, I have none. The masseuse was very good tonight.” She called out, “Sumomo, saké and tea, please.”
In the outer room Sumomo fetched the flask and teapot from another brazier, opened the shoji, and brought them in. She served both well and Koiko nodded with satisfaction.
He said, “Have you learned the tea ceremony, Sumomo?”
“Yes, Sire,” Sumomo said, “but—but I am afraid I am sadly lacking in skill.”
“Lord Yoshi is a master,” Koiko said, and sipped the saké, glad for it. Her rump and back ached from the day’s jolting in the palanquin, her thighs from the two days of riding, and her head from the effort of losing while appearing to covet victory. All of which she hid, and the fact that her spirits were down over the lack of progress today. Clearly this had disappointed him. But then, she thought, we both knew another forced march was not possible. He must go on and I will follow. It will be good to be without him for a while. This life is wearing, however wonderful he is.
They drank peacefully. Then he said, “Tomorrow, early, I will go on with thirty men, leaving ten with you, Abeh in charge. You will follow me to Yedo leisurely.”
“Of course. With your permission, may I follow as quickly as possible?”
He smiled. “That would please me, but only as long as you arrive not aching, either in body or in spirit.”
“Even if I was, your smile would instantly cure me. Another game?”
“Yes, but not Go!”
She laughed. “Then I must make some preparations.” She got up and went to the outer room, closing the shoji after her. He heard her talking to Sumomo but paid them no attention, his mind occupied with tomorrow, Yedo and gai-jin.
Their voices died away as they went out. He finished his saké, enjoying it, then walked into the innermost room where the futons and padded coverlets were spread over impeccable tatami. Winter landscapes and colors were the dominant decorations. He took off his padded yukata, shivered, and slipped under the eiderdown.
When Koiko returned he heard her pottering in the outer room, then she came in and she went straight to the bathroom where there were containers for the night, should they be needed, jugs of water to drink, and others for washing. “I sent Sumomo to sleep in another room tonight,” she called out to him, “and asked Abeh to post a guard outside with orders not to disturb you till dawn.”
“Why did you do that?”
She came back into the room. “This is our last night for a time—I mentioned to him I would not be travelling with you tomorrow—and I wanted you totally to myself.” Leisurely she stepped out of her kimono and snuggled beside him.
Though he had seen her naked many times, and felt her touch many times, and slept with her many times, tonight was many times better than it had ever been.
KYŌTO
In the palace in Kyōto, one of the Lord Chancellor’s spies knocked on his bedroom door, waking him, and handed him the carrier pigeon message container. “This has just been intercepted, Lord.”
The tiny cylinder was addressed to Chief Bakufu Palace Advisor, Saito, and bore the personal seal of Tairō Nori Anjo. He hesitated, then broke the seal with a manicured nail.
Anjo had sent the message at dawn:
The gai-jin leader has insolently rejected the Imperial command to leave Yokohama and they are preparing to invade us. Draft the Order for National Mobilization for the Emperor’s signature which, with this document, I formally request the Emperor to sign at once. Then send copies urgently to all daimyos. Make arrangements for Shōgun Nobusada to return to Yedo at once to head our forces, the Princess Yazu can,
preferably should, stay in Kyōto. Lord Yoshi is formally required to return at once.
The Lord Chancellor thought a while, smugly decided Saito would be overruled and the Emperor advised never to sign a mobilization order. With great care he replaced the message and resealed the tube with his secret duplicate seal.
“Put it back, make sure it is delivered,” he said, and when alone, he chuckled. War! Good. Anjo was the perfect choice for tairō. They will all drown in their own urine, along with all gai-jin, and Yoshi, all of them.
Except the Princess. She will stay, to become a widow—the sooner the better.
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
HAMAMATSU VILLAGE
MONDAY, 8TH DECEMBER:
Sumomo awoke well before first light. Her dreams had been bad. She was no longer on the Tokaidō with Koiko and Lord Yoshi but back in Kyōto, chased by Bakufu soldiers led by Abeh into the trap of the burning shishi house, screams everywhere, blood everywhere, guns firing, in panic squeezing down into the narrow tunnel after Takeda and Katsumata, the hole barely big enough, crawling after them, the sides encroaching, scraping her and becoming narrower. Not enough air to breathe, filled with dust. Takeda’s feet ahead as he wriggled onward, gasping, someone or something just behind her, then Takeda becoming Yoshi, kicking at her, stopping her then vanishing—with nothing up ahead but an earth coffin.
When her heart slowed and eyes could focus in the shaded light of the oil flame, she saw one of the guards watching her from his futons next to hers. Last night she had accompanied Koiko to talk to Abeh and he had told her to sleep in this communal room, plenty of space for her to one side—a perfectly satisfactory arrangement. Four guards were using it, two sleeping and two on duty. There she had made a bed, not easily to sleep, her mind in turmoil for she had overheard Yoshi telling Koiko they would not travel onward with him, and overheard Koiko saying to Abeh, “Lord Yoshi has decided from tomorrow I, and my party, will follow leisurely.”