“Turn around,” he commanded. As Shichisaburō pivoted, Yanagisawa savored the heady rush of arousal in his groin. He sighed again.
As he’d matured, Yanagisawa had learned that the exploitation of boys was common in other daimyo households besides Lord Takei’s. Yanagisawa, though, had suffered more than his peers seemed to; he never recovered as they did. When his sexuality bloomed, some compulsion drove him to reenact that first encounter with Lord Takei. Promiscuous in his youthful lust, he’d experimented with men and women, singly and in combinations, in countless situations. But nothing else satisfied him as much as following this script, which had become ritual.
“I invited you here because I’ve heard reports that you are the most brilliant of all my pages,” he said to the boy, “and I wanted to meet you.”
Shichisaburō’s response was prompt and sincere. “Your attention does me great honor, master!” He flashed his lovely smile, his fear overcome by happiness at being singled out by his lord. How amazing that he could blush at will.
Yanagisawa’s heartbeat quickened; his manhood hardened. “Now that I’ve seen you, I have decided that you will be my personal assistant. You’ll serve me well. And I …” He paused to enjoy his burgeoning erection “… have so much to teach you.”
“It would be an honor to learn from you, master.” Shichisaburō recited his line with convincing ardor.
“Then we will begin your first lesson now.” Yanagisawa towered over the boy, reveling in his own masculinity, his superiority. As Lord Takei must have.
“An understanding of the human body is essential to mastery of the martial arts.” Slowly Yanagisawa loosened his sash. “I will use my own as an example for your education.” His garments parted to reveal the body he perfected every day with strenuous martial arts training: sculpted chest; strong legs; and the bulge beneath the tight wrappings of his white silk loincloth.
With ceremonial dignity, Yanagisawa unwound the loincloth and let it drop. He took his erection in his hand, offering it for Shichisaburō’s scrutiny. “See how large it is, how potent,” he murmured, caressing himself.
As if mesmerized, Shichisaburō gazed upon the organ, eyes blank with uncomprehending fascination.
Lord Takei had made sure that none of his men had already used the young page Yanagisawa—although they would later. He’d reserved the first turn for himself. Yanagisawa had reacted to Lord Takei’s self-exposure just as Shichisaburō was doing now.
“This,” Yanagisawa intoned, “is manhood in its most beautiful form.”
Wounded and disillusioned by his encounter with Lord Takei, the young Yanagisawa had wept every night when the other pages couldn’t see him. With the stoicism of his samurai upbringing, he’d suffered the humiliation and pain of subsequent abuse. But gradually he’d begun to see how he could use Lord Takei’s obsession with him. Soon he’d risen to the post of chief page. His precocious intelligence had enabled him to assume duties normally entrusted to the daimyo’s adult retainers. As a young man he’d quickly advanced through the ranks of these. So when, at age twenty-two, word of his beauty and talent reached Tsunayoshi, the young shogun-to-be, Yanagisawa was ready for greater opportunities.
“This is the glory and the power you must aspire to.” Yanagisawa moved closer to Shichisaburō. “Touch me.”
He shuddered with pleasure as the boy’s delicate hands stroked his shaft, fondled his scrotum. Shichisaburō was better than he, in his inexperienced awkwardness, must have been with Lord Takei.
But not as good as he’d been with the shogun.
Tokugawa Tsunayoshi—weak, trusting, sensual—had quickly fallen under Yanagisawa’s control. As he enjoyed Yanagisawa’s company in the bedchamber, so did he depend on his counsel. With Tsunayoshi’s ascension to the position of shogun, Yanagisawa became chamberlain. He exacted tribute from the daimyo, the Tokugawa vassals and retainers, and anyone else who sought the shogun’s favor. His fortune grew. But money wasn’t enough. Always he craved greater wealth, higher status. He wanted to be a daimyo—a landowning lord—himself. He wanted to rise above those who had once been his superiors. He yearned to be rid of the fear that the capricious shogun might suddenly transfer his favor to Sano. And he would do anything to achieve the absolute power and freedom to fulfill all desires that the past had instilled in him.
“Take me in your mouth,” he gasped now.
Shichisaburō knelt and lowered his head. His warm, wet lips closed over Yanagisawa’s organ, sucking and licking. Yanagisawa forced himself to keep his eyes from closing in rapture. Watching someone else submit, as he once had, was the best part of the ritual. Knowing that now it was not he but his victim who suffered humiliation.
To Yanagisawa, humiliation was an integral component of sexual gratification. In his youth it had aroused him even as it withered his self-respect. Now he craved the cruel joy of abasing his partners. Especially the shogun. Oh, he felt a certain condescending affection for Tokugawa Tsunayoshi. They shared many interests—religion, theater, Confucian studies. The shogun doted on him, showered him with gifts and compliments. Sex between them was still pleasurable—although they both preferred boys—and allowed Yanagisawa to maintain his hold on the shogun. But in his deepest soul, Yanagisawa hated Tsunayoshi as an authority figure who dominated him as Lord Takei had.
And how he hated Sōsakan Sano, who had not only garnered the shogun’s attention, but was also free from the demons of compulsion, and as honorable, well-intentioned, and as full of integrity as he himself should have been.
Yanagisawa banished the thought of Sano. He moaned, giving himself over to pleasure. At the brink of climax, he withdrew from Shichisaburō’s mouth. It was time for the next step in the ritual.
“Rise, Shichisaburō,” he ordered hoarsely. “Turn.”
His hands on his docile victim’s shoulders, Yanagisawa walked Shichisaburō to a low table against the wall. He smiled at the terrified, bewildered glances that Shichisaburō threw over his shoulder. Such perfect acting.
“Now I will initiate you into the rites of manhood.”
He lifted Shichisaburō onto the table. He raised the boy’s kimono, and gasped at the sight and feel of the soft, naked buttocks. He moved his hands around to caress the boy’s small organ, which stiffened at his touch.
Like his own had, under Lord Takei’s hands.
Then, with a groan like that of a wounded animal—his imitation of Lord Takei’s—he drove his organ into the hot, tight mouth of Shichisaburō’s anus.
Shichisaburō screamed in simulated fear and pain. “No, master! No!” His hands clawed the wall, leaving scratches among the others already there.
“How dare you defy me?” Yanagisawa demanded.
Jaws clenched, he plunged in and out, excitement mounting. Across the distance of twenty-four years, he heard his own childish screams, felt his own hands against rough plaster, felt the tearing pain as Lord Takei violated his body. And he remembered the sublime moment when he’d first penetrated Tokugawa Tsunayoshi after a year together, finally reversing their roles to become the dominant partner. Since then, no one had ever taken him. He was the taker now.
Shichisaburō’s cries turned to whimpers; his body went limp. These cues nearly drove Yanagisawa mad with arousal, but he held back, awaiting the boy’s final response, the one that would bring the ritual to its climax.
“… please …” A tearful plea.
Yanagisawa’s excitement peaked in a cataclysm of pleasure. He shouted out his orgasm. But as always, he experienced a triumph infinitely more satisfying than any physical sensation.
Never again would anyone dominate him, punish him, or make him suffer the humiliation he feared above all else. It was he who dominated, punished, and humiliated others.
No one must interfere with his rise to power. He would rule the land, if not as shogun, then as the next best thing. No one would ever relegate him to his former status as powerless victim.
Especially not Sōsakan Sano Ichirō, wh
om he must and somehow would destroy.
20
The Hinokiya Drapery Store—one of Edo’s best-known shops, and centerpiece of the suspect Matsui Minoru’s business empire—stood in the newer merchant district north of Nihonbashi. Sano followed the main approach to the store, urging his horse up the steep slope of Suruga Hill toward the famous view of Mount Fuji that adorned its crest. Around him, porters hauled goods to and from the shops that lined the broad thoroughfare. Food sellers staggered beneath loaded trays; water vendors swung buckets; browsers loitered before the storefronts. But these ordinary sights failed to reassure Sano. He rode with his hand on his sword, eyes alert, and with a growing sense of unease. Danger still lay in wait for him. And he could see that news of the priest’s murder had spread faster than his calming message.
Newssellers shouted, “Read the latest! After killing a hatamoto, a rōnin, and an eta, the ghost has now slain a holy man. No one is safe!”
And the unrest had worsened: “Eight samurai killed in drunken duels. Twenty peasants wounded in gang brawl!”
Customers snatched the broadsheets; money changed hands. Eager listeners clustered around a storyteller who acted out the killings in melodramatic speech and gestures. Mystics moaned and wailed over lit candles and incense, trying to invoke the spirits of the victims, or the protection of the gods, while onlookers tossed coins in encouragement.
“O Inari, great goddess, please keep us safe from evil!” one ragged old woman keened.
Watching her, Sano thought of Aoi, and a spark of anger kindled within him. Not only had her last prophecy proved false, but her description of the killer fit none of the suspects. He was beginning to harbor suspicions about her, that he must eventually allay, or confirm. With all the spies in Edo, and more than one person who wanted his investigation to fail, had he been wrong to trust a stranger—even one recommended by the shogun? Now Sano remembered Noguchi telling him about an official forced to commit suicide because his mother’s spirit had compelled him to attack Chamberlain Yanagisawa. Had Aoi, with her rituals, played a part in the man’s demise? But for now, more pressing problems demanded Sano’s flagging energy.
He had his miai to attend this afternoon, and four suspects to investigate in less than as many days. And he saw all too well the difficulties inherent to the last task.
Matsui Minoru’s, Chūgo Gichin’s, O-tama’s, and Chamberlain Yanagisawa’s status accorded them considerable protection from the law, and greater credibility than his. He couldn’t jail them and order the truth tortured out of them, as with common criminals. He must back any accusations he made against any of them with hard evidence—gathered without offending the innocent.
With little time to plan and less expertise to guide him, Sano had left the archives and gone home, where he’d hoped to receive news from Dr. Ito, but the doctor’s message said that he’d found no clues on the rōnin’s remains. Sano had dispatched his servants and messengers to post notices warning Endō’s descendants at the castle’s checkpoints, on the city’s notice boards, and at the gates of the daimyo and hatamoto estates. Then he’d prayed briefly at his father’s altar for inspiration. Receiving none, he’d formulated a strategy based more upon emotion and expedience than logic.
He’d decided to leave O-tama, the least likely suspect, until last. His samurai spirit rebelled against challenging Chūgo, his superior officer, whose exalted position also posed unique obstacles. And as for Yanagisawa…
Any pleasure Sano might have taken from imagining his adversary exposed as a murderer fell before his fear of what he would have to do if he found evidence of Yanagisawa’s guilt—which the chamberlain’s attempts to thwart him already supported. A black abyss of terror yawned inside Sano whenever he thought of it, so he relegated Chamberlain Yanagisawa to the back of his mind. Instead he concentrated on Matsui, who was neither more nor less likely a killer than the other men, but whose situation presented an easy opportunity. He would go to the merchant’s businesses, and, via discreet questioning of his staff, determine Matsui’s whereabouts during the murders and probe for rumors of madness or violence on his part. He would investigate Chūgo and Yanagisawa only if this effort failed. Now he reviewed what everyone knew about his first suspect.
For generations, Matsui’s clan had lived humbly as low-ranking samurai in the Kantō. Then, some thirty years ago, the young, ambitious Minoru had become head of the family. He’d relinquished his samurai status to enter trade, establishing a small sake brewery near Ise Shrine. Modest success had whetted his appetite for more. He’d moved to Edo and opened a drapery shop in Nihonbashi, where he introduced the revolutionary practices that made him a fortune, as well as many enemies. He advertised widely, and welcomed small customers as well as the great warrior clans. His prices were fixed, instead of negotiable, and he demanded cash upon sale, instead of at the end of the year. In exchange, his customers paid 20 percent less than elsewhere. This had so enraged his competitors that, to escape their hostility, Matsui had moved his shop to Suruga.
However, the change hadn’t hurt the Hinokiya, or stopped Matsui’s expansion into other business ventures. Now, at age fifty, he held controlling interest in the national shipping firm run by the great merchants. He operated rice plantations. He was one of the country’s thirty principal money changers. He also served as financial agent and banker to the Tokugawa and several major daimyo, who considered the handling of money beneath their samurai dignity. These last ventures had made him another fortune in commissions, interest, and fees. He was the wealthiest and arguably the most famous commoner in Japan. And his achievements had regained him the samurai privilege of wearing swords.
The weapons he’d used to murder four men?
Reaching his destination, Sano dismounted and secured his horse outside the Hinokiya. Beneath the deep eaves of its stately tile roof, carved wooden doors stood open, exposing the store to the street. The indigo entrance curtains bore the store’s crest in white: a cypress tree, for Hinokiya—Cypress House. From the eaves dangled paper lanterns painted with advertisements: “Cotton and Silk Cloth,” “Readymade Clothing,” “No Padded Prices!”
Lifting a curtain, Sano peered inside. The store was divided lengthwise into two sections. On the left, clerks wrote up orders and calculated prices on their abacuses at desks ranged along an aisle that extended to the back of the building. Separated from this aisle by a wall of cabinets was the showroom, where shelves held rolls of colorful cloth, sample garments hung from the ceiling, and clerks conferred with customers. Sano decided he would pretend to browse until the senior clerk, an elderly white-haired hunchback, became available. Renowned for his gossip and garrulity, he would be the most likely employee to know and report on his master’s doings.
“Sōsakan-sama. Wait!”
Already inside the shop, Sano winced at the sound of his title, shouted from down the street. He hoped that his pursuer wouldn’t follow, and that his plain garments and lack of response would preserve his anonymity. But to his dismay, the man rushed in after him, demanding loudly, “Is it true that there were witnesses to the Zōjō Temple murder?” A young newsseller dressed in cotton kimono and headband, he wore at his waist a pouch that bulged with coins from the sale of the broadsheets he carried. “Has someone actually seen the ghost?”
“Go away!” Sano hissed. “And stop spreading ghost stories—you’re scaring people.”
The newsseller stood his ground. “It’s my job to bring my customers the news.”
Sano touched his sword, and the newsseller hurried out the door. But the damage was done. Business ceased as clerks and customers stared at him; he saw recognition on their faces, heard his title murmured. And then the street crowd, alerted to his presence, burst into the store. Sano found himself surrounded by frightened faces and grabbing hands. Hysterical voices assailed him.
“These murders are ruining my business … gangs own the streets … for two zeni, I’ll perform an exorcism … stop the ghost before he kills us all!
”
Sano realized with chagrin that he’d become a public figure. No longer able to conduct a covert inquiry at the Hinokiya, he decided to try one of Matsui’s other businesses in hopes that he could maintain his cover long enough to get some answers.
“Get away!” he ordered.
The crowd pushed him farther into the store. “Please, save us!”
Sano saw clerks frantically lugging merchandise to safety, trying in vain to close the doors against the horde. Then an angry male voice bellowed, “What’s going on here? Everyone out. Now!”
The mob’s cries turned to screams. Bodies hurtled into the street, shoved, kicked, and thrown by two huge, grim samurai who had appeared from the back of the store. In no time at all, the doors slammed shut; the Hinokiya was empty except for its staff, Sano—and the man he’d come to spy on.
Matsui Minoru. The man whose business empire spanned the nation. Flanked by the two rōnin who served as his bodyguards, accompanied him everywhere, and had cleared the store at his orders, he presented an intriguing and contradictory array of merchant and samurai qualities.
His round, bald head, full cheeks, and eyes that closed into slits when he smiled at Sano could have belonged to any middle-aged, well-fed commoner. He wore a cotton kimono patterned with brown, black, and cream stripes, probably from the Hinokiya’s least expensive inventory. Of medium height, he had a stout but firm body whose thick, muscular neck, shoulders, and arms bespoke a life spent lifting heavy sake vats and bolts of cloth.
Matsui bowed. “So, sōsakan-sama. Have you taken a break from your work to shop in my humble establishment?”
His direct gaze belied his words, betraying a wholly samurai arrogance. A luxuriant silk lining showed at his kimono’s cuffs and hem: the wealthy merchant’s circumvention of the sumptuary laws that forbade commoners to wear silk. And he’d not erased the samurai swagger from his posture. This lent his two swords an air of authenticity usually missing in merchants who wore weapons as status symbols. It was common knowledge that he employed a private kenjutsu master to tutor him. Matsui gave the impression of a man straddling two classes. Had spiritual conflict caused this former samurai to yearn for the simpler, nobler days of his ancestors? To continue General Fujiwara’s deadly mission? Sano studied the merchant carefully as he framed a reply. Despite Matsui’s genial welcome, this man of shrewd intelligence surely knew why Sano had come. With subterfuge impossible, he decided on a direct approach.
Bundori Page 19
