by I. J. Parker
Saburo drew himself up. “I’m aware of your position, sir. As for becoming your servant, I’ll try it. I may stay if I like it. Haven’t been to the capital in a while. It’ll make a change.”
And that was that. No word or gesture of gratitude. No bowing or kneeling or fervent promises of loyal service. Saburo turned on his heel and left.
To be fair, on the journey home, he took on the humblest chores without being told, cleaning their boots, looking after the horses at the post stations, carrying saddlebags. He managed to do a great deal of work, even with a nearly useless arm.
Saburo knew his way around horses and seemed to have other useful skills.
Tora told him about the capital and the routine in the Sugawara hosehold. Akitada did the same for the other family members and his own habits. When Tora asked Saburo about being a spy, he answered briefly and with a nervous glance at Akitada.
It was only when Genba swung the gates wide that Akitada had a moment of panic. What would his family make of the horribly disfigured creature he was about to introduce into their midst?
Genba was glad to see them until he saw Saburo. And when Tora introduced him as a new servant, Genba’s face fell even more, though he nodded politely. More problems?
But Akitada had no time to worry about Genba’s feelings. The main doors flew open, and the children rushed down the stairs, shouting and laughing. Behind them, came Tamako, looking deceptively pale and fragile in her dark robe because they were still in mourning for Seimei. But there was no time for grief either: His daughter Yasuko flung herself into his arms, and Yuki did the same for Tora.
To see his wife again and hold his child was almost more than Akitada could bear. He hugged Yasuko tightly and murmured an endearment into her ear. It was a moment of pure happiness.
Then Yasuko’s eyes fell on Saburo and widened. “Who’s that man, Papa?”
Saburo hung back, holding the horses, and was now drifting off in the direction of the stables. Akitada called after him, “Come and meet my family, Saburo.”
He came, his head bowed until his chin touched his chest. He bowed to Tamako first. “My Lady.”
Akitada said, “Saburo has agreed to stay with us and help out wherever he’s needed. He has had an interesting life.”
He saw that Tamako understood. Her face warmed. “You’re very welcome in our house, Saburo,” she said, giving the ugly man a smile.
Yasuko asked, “What’s the matter with your face, Saburo?”
Her parents tried to speak at the same time, Akitada to explain, and his wife to remind her daughter of her manners. Both broke off, embarrassed.
Saburo raised his good hand to his disfigured cheek. “It got cut, Lady Yasuko. I hope it doesn’t frighten you.”
“No. I’m not frightened.” She studied him with a solemn expression—Saburo bore it patiently—then she smiled at him. “Poor Saburo. I’m sorry you got hurt.”
Saburo’s face worked for a moment. “Thank you, little lady,” he said. “Perhaps, if your honored parents permit it, I’ll tell you some good stories some time. I know lots of stories.”
“Me, too,” cried Yuki, running over. “I like stories, too.”
*
With his household thus adjusting to change, Akitada went early the next morning to present his reports at the Second Minister’s office in the Dajokan-cho, the building housing the offices of the great council of state.
He had spared Munata and Oga as much as he could and stressed Munata’s help in quelling Watamaro’s aspirations. He felt certain they had been dangerous aspirations and urged that the government deal firmly with the fugitive Watamaro and his pirates. Otomo he did not mention at all. He had suffered enough. Oga was another matter because of his involvement in the murder of Akogi, but that crime did not concern the council of state, and Akitada hoped that the loss of his only son was punishment enough for Oga’s ruthless handling of the love affair.
In the Second Minister’s office, he was not asked to make his report in person. He was neither surprised nor offended by this. His rank was far too low for him to be consulted by a man who stood at the top of the government.
From the Dajokan-cho, he walked to the Ministry of Justice. As he entered and walked down the corridor, the familiar surroundings cheered him until he heard boisterous voices coming from the archives. He put his head in and saw Sadenari, perched on a ladder and surrounded by six or eight of the youngest clerks. He seemed to be regaling his spellbound audience with a highly colored account of his exploits among pirates and courtesans. Sadenari was too engrossed to see him right away, and Akitada took a step inside.
“Hard at work, Sadenari?” he asked.
The other youngsters scattered, and Sadenari slid down, flushing crimson. Akitada merely looked at him, then turned and left.
Fujiwara Kaneie was in his office and received him happily. “My dear Akitada, welcome. Sit down. You’ve been missed. All sorts of things are in arrears, and I cannot get any work out of the young clerks. Are you all done with that irritating piracy business?”
Akitada bowed, sat, and indicated he was.
“Well, that’s good. You’re to have some leave, what with the recent death of your old retainer, but if you would just have a peek at a few matters before you take it, I’d be very grateful.”
“Of course, sir. You are well, I trust?”
“Yes, yes. Thank the gods. I’ll be on my way into the country to have a look at my family estate now that you’re back. Getting in a little hunting perhaps. Do you hunt?”
“No, sir. Not lately anyway.”
“I’m going to try falcons. The sport of emperors.” He laughed. “Very clever birds, I’m told. You just toss one into the air and it chases down your duck or rabbit or whatever and brings it back. Imagine that.”
“Very impressive. May I ask what you have decided to do about Sadenari, sir?”
The minister’s face fell. “Ah, yes. Silly boy! Sorry he gave you a hard time. I’ve put him in the archives. Surely that’ll teach him a lesson.”
Akitada sighed inwardly. The young man was a liability, and Akitada had little hope that he would become a useful member of the ministry, but his exploits in Eguchi had mostly been due to youthful foolishness and an excess of libido. He recalled the young man’s humble family and thought it best to leave matters alone, provided he was never saddled with him again.
“By the way,” the minister said, “the governor of Settsu . . . man by the name of Oga. You must’ve met him.”
“Yes, I did. What about him?”
“Resigned his office. Says he decided to take the tonsure. Why is everybody in such a hurry to enter a monastery these days?”
“I have no idea, sir.”
“Exactly. It’s a mystery.” The minister pushed a stack of document boxes toward Akitada. “Here are some of the cases you need to have a look at. Handle them any way you see fit. I have the utmost confidence in you. Well, I think that’s all. I should be back in another week.”
Akitada carried the boxes to his office where his elderly clerk greeted him with a smile and the words, “Oh, dear. More documents? There’s no room. His Excellency has been sending everything here for the past two weeks.”
Akitada looked around his small room. Every surface was covered with boxes and scrolls, some with small tags attached that proclaimed them to be urgent. He put the boxes in his arms on the floor, and went to sit behind his desk, staring at the stacks that rose before him and threatened to topple in his lap. It reminded him of Nakahara’s desk.
The clerk offered, “Shall I clear the desk a little? I can put all those on the floor with the new ones.”
Life was back to normal.
*
The next morning, Akitada rose early and stepped from his wife’s room out onto her veranda. It was dawn of another fine day. Their wisteria was not blooming so late in the year, but it looked particularly healthy and lush, with many seedpods dangling among the leaves. Already the s
mall maple had turned completely red, and Tamako’s chrysanthemums bloomed lavishly white and golden yellow.
He sat down and thought about his marriage. He had felt shame while making love to his wife last night, shame because he had wanted to bed the choja Nakagimi. Even this morning in his peaceful domesticity, his feelings were still ambivalent. He knew he would have taken Nakagimi that night if not for Sadenari’s appearance. He had lacked both the strength of character and the wish to resist. As for Nakagimi, she was very beautiful, but there had been a hardness about her that he found repellent. Had he been angry with her because of his own failure?
He pondered this for a while. A bird began to sing somewhere close by.
He had been unfair, he decided. More than likely, she, like Akogi, had suffered a “presentation” when she was still a very young girl. But she had not fallen in love with a handsome and dashing young nobleman. No doubt she had been taken by an older man who had been both unattractive and inconsiderate. She had learned early to look out for herself because no one else would.
He sighed. He must learn not to judge people too harshly. Even Watamaro had gone into his violent and mercenary business with a wish to improve the lot of poor sailors and fishermen.
A rustling of the bed clothes in the room behind him reminded him of the eager and passionate lovemaking he and Tamako had shared. No courtesan could improve on that. With a smile, he rose to get his flute and play for his wife. He walked quickly from her garden to his and into his study. Taking the flute from its box, he returned.
To his delight, the sun had risen over the trees and struck the top of the maple, making the crimson foliage blaze more brilliantly than the most costly dyed silk robe fit for an empress. He put the flute to his lips and played.
Tamako came out and stood listening. He looked at her in her white undergown with a flowered quilt wrapped around her shoulders against the chill morning air. She was beautiful, and he put his heart into the song. She was his beloved, his luminous pearl beyond compare.
When he finished, she came to him. “How lovely,” she said, touching his cheek and looking at him with moist eyes.
“Thank you, my dear.” He put an arm around her and pointed with the flute. “Look. See how the sun brings out the fire in those maple leaves. I am very happy at this moment.”
“I was very happy last night,” she murmured with a smile. “Oh, Akitada, I wanted to wait to be quite sure, but I’ll tell you now. I think I am with child again.”
He pulled her close, his heart full of joy. “I wish Seimei could be here.”
“Yes. He wished for another boy.”
An heir for the Sugawara name. If they had another son, Akitada hoped he would be a better father to him than he had been to Yori.” His happiness faded as he thought of that other father who had caused his son’s death by wanting the best for him. He felt afraid.
The End
Historical Note
The time of Death on an Autumn River is 1024, nearing the end of the Heian era that predated the period of shoguns and samurai warriors. Though there certainly were wars and warriors, life was more peaceful than in later centuries. The ruler was an emperor and the government was centralized in the capital Heian-Kyo (later Kyoto) but reached across the land via provincial administrations and a well-organized transport system. Most customs and institutions were patterned after those in T’ang China, but contact with foreign countries had been broken off completely in previous centuries, and what foreign trade there was again was still severely controlled.
Japanese officialdom dominated every aspect of the people’s lives, but it was no longer in the hands of the best and brightest as in China. It had passed into the control of a single family of the Fujiwara clan. Through marriage politics, senior Fujiwara officials held all the highest positions. They became the fathers-in-law, uncles, grandfathers, and cousins of ruling emperors. By the eleventh century, they encouraged the early abdication of emperors in order to place another, easily controlled, child on the throne. Perhaps the most powerful man of the time was Chancellor Fujiwara Michinaga, who had ruled for many years, either as chancellor or as the father or grandfather of chancellors, empresses, and emperors. By 1024, he lived retired in the Byodo-in, his palace on the Uji River.
The capital was connected to the provinces via a system of roads with post stations and barriers. All travel could be checked on the highways and along river and sea routes. The most important of these rivers was the Yodo because it connected the capital to the Inland Sea, which in turn linked the Western Provinces and Kyushu with the central government. The Yodo also connected with the Uji River, a tributary that came from Biwa Lake and the North-Eastern provinces. Both boats and sea-going vessels carried people and goods to and from the capital. People traveled the Yodo to engage in business, make pilgrimages, and pursue pleasure, sometimes combining them. Famous shrines and temples were on the route, as were port cities and the pleasure quarters of river villages.
Ocean-going vessels of the period resembled the deep-bottomed Chinese junks. They had huge square sails as well as oars and carried goods from the provinces and from foreign countries to the port of Naniwa. This former capital and major port at the mouth of the Yodo River had silted up by the eleventh century, and several other ports developed along the coastline, but the Yodo River continued to play its role.
Because of storms, sea travel was uncertain and wrecks were common. In addition, pirates roamed the Inland Sea. In the tenth century, Fujiwara Sumitomo, a local nobleman with aspirations and a fleet of several hundred ships, raided commercial ships and those carrying tax tribute. Subduing Sumitomo was costly for the government, and in later years, it tended to close its eyes to more modest depredations.
A number of the river towns specialized in the sex trade. Eguchi, the town in this novel, lay near the mouth of the river and was one of the most important of these. According to Janet R. Goodwin’s Selling Songs and Smiles: The Sex Trade in Heian and Kamakura Japan, attitudes toward prostitution were on the whole tolerant during this time. Distinctions were made between asobi, entertainers who also engaged in sexual relations, and yahochi, who seem to have been ordinary streetwalkers. No doubt, both types flourished in the river towns. Accounts in the diaries of noblemen of the time speak frequently of pleasure cruises from the capital to Eguchi and other towns. They mention local courtesans and reigning beauties (choja) by name.
Little is known about the administration of Settsu province during this time. It would have had a provincial capital and a governor, as well as prefects in the various districts. All provinces had police forces by this time. Military protection for the officials and their headquarters also existed, but the ranks of the guard were filled with local warriors. The central government appointed governors and assistant governors from among the ranking nobility. District officials came from among the local landowners and frequently served a lifetime, a fact that greatly contributed to the rising power of the provincial warrior class. In addition, there were hundreds of irregular appointees with or without noble rank. Their numbers and ranks were carefully fixed by the intricate bureaucratic system. All officials were annually evaluated. Their primary duties involved collection of taxes, keeping the peace, and enforcing laws. Judges worked in conjunction with the provincial administration. Possibly, sentences were harsher the farther crimes occurred from the capital, but executions were still uncommon. The most serious crimes were punishable by exile.
In the centuries before Japan closed its borders to foreigners, both Chinese and Korean immigrants had been made welcome and settled in the country. Their knowledge of the Chinese language and literature, of Buddhist practices, and of the arts made them respected members of Japanese society. Professor Otomo is such a descendant of earlier immigrants, and like many of them, an academic.
By the beginning of the eleventh century, trade with China and Korea began again on a small scale with special permits being extended to certain merchants only. The court noble
s controlled all imports. The taste of the highest-ranking nobles for foreign art and the craving of the powerful temples for Buddhist religious objects made them the prime consumers of such goods, and permits were issued frequently.
The two religions practiced in Japan at the time, Buddhism and Shinto, coexisted amicably, sometimes within the same temple or sacred place. This collaboration was especially useful in the case of death, because Shinto abhorred contact with the dead and required elaborate purification rites before worshipping at a shrine. Hence the taboo tags worn by Akitada after Seimei’s death. The funeral rites for Seimei were carried out by Buddhist priests.
Finally, the figure of the ninja-like spy Saburo may seem an anachronism this early in Japanese history, but toward the end of the Heian period, temples and monasteries began military training for monks and lay soldiers in order to protect their lands and defend themselves against rival monasteries. It was in this context that the first “spy” stories appeared.
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