“Stop, I beg you,” Chamberlain Yanagisawa wailed. “Please don’t hurt me. I’ll do anything, give you anything—money, women, a higher rank—name it. Just let me go!”
Chūgo ignored Yanagisawa’s pleas and promises. His foot struck hard bone and soft tissue, eliciting screams from his victim. In the dark pleasure of venting his anger, he almost forgot the necessity of keeping Yanagisawa alive until they were far from Edo.
Desperately, Sano clung to his lifeline. The water swirled around him; the Sumida’s current threatened to drag him under. He gulped air between waves that doused his head. The storm continued unabated—if the river didn’t drown him, the rain would. With the boat ahead of him, he couldn’t see downriver. The landscape streamed past at a frightening speed, and he guessed they must be halfway to the Ryōgoku Bridge. He couldn’t see anyone following, either on land or water. Where were Hirata, the police, the navy? And what had become of Chamberlain Yanagisawa? He must get aboard the boat!
Clenching his teeth with the effort, Sano climbed the rope, hand over hand, knees and ankles grasping the rough straw cable. The hull slammed his sore body. Hand over hand. Finally he swung free of the water. Hand over hand he climbed, thumping against the boat, until finally his head cleared the deck and he locked his fingers around the railing.
“Please don’t hurt me anymore!” Chamberlain Yanagisawa shrieked.
But Chūgo’s anger had tapped the reservoir of deep rage that learning his family secret had instilled in him. That rage drew him into the past, making him a witness to the abominable act that had inspired General Fujiwara’s blood score.
A summer night, one hundred and eight years ago, at the Honno Temple. In the guest cottage, Oda Nobunaga awakened, sensing danger. He jumped to his feet, sword in hand.
“Enemy attack!” he shouted to his guards.
Too late. The door burst open. Arrows flew, slaying the guards. Akechi Mitsuhide’s army stormed into the cottage.
Oda lashed out at his attackers, downing two with one stroke of his sword. Spears slashed his arms and legs. Then, realizing he was doomed, he jumped out the window and fled, bleeding from his wounds. Akechi’s troops loosed upon him a round of gunfire. A bullet struck his arm.
“Now you’ll die for insulting me!” shouted the traitor Akechi. “Better men will rule in your place. I and Generals Araki and Endō have seen to that!”
Oda ran into the main hall to die by his own hand rather than suffer the disgrace of capture. Akechi and his troops set fire to the hall: a splendid funeral pyre for the greatest warlord who ever lived.
Wild with fury at that ancient catastrophe, Chūgo ground his foot against the screaming, sobbing chamberlain’s face. The greatest sorrow of General Fujiwara’s life had been his inability to save Lord Oda. Akechi, Araki, and Endō, knowing his loyalty, had persuaded Oda to send him to help Hideyoshi fight the Mori. Now Chūgo experienced the full force of his ancestor’s grief and rage. He hauled the chamberlain to his feet and punched him square in the face.
The chamberlain flew backward, slamming up against the cabin door. “Please, Chūgo,” he begged. Crumpling to the floor, he twisted in a futile attempt to free his hands and feet. Blood and saliva spattered from his mouth as he pleaded, “I’ll make you a rich man. I’ll promote you to chief of defense. Anything. Just have mercy!”
But Yanagisawa’s status, power, and hostage value no longer mattered to Chūgo. Now he saw Yanagisawa as a symbol of all he hated—of today’s weak, corrupt samurai, so inferior to past heros. A kinsman who had failed to venerate their ancestor as he did. A representative of the Tokugawa, who’d reaped the benefits of treachery, and were therefore just as responsible for Oda’s murder as Akechi Mitsuhide, Araki Yojiemon, and Endō Munetsugu. Chūgo backhanded a blow across Yanagisawa’s mouth. Then he hit on a truly fitting punishment for the chamberlain, who so deserved a taste of his own evil.
Chūgo threw Yanagisawa facedown on the floor. He lifted the chamberlain’s outer robes and yanked down his voluminous trousers. He tore away the loincloth whose band cleaved the naked buttocks. Then he hiked up his own kimono, loosened his loincloth, and rubbed his organ until it hardened. He straddled Yanagisawa and entered him with a brutal thrust.
“No, master!” screamed Yanagisawa. His body bucked; the fingers of his bound hands clawed the air. “Please!”
Five quick strokes, and Chūgo spurted. He felt potent, powerful; but physical satisfaction wasn’t enough. He craved the ultimate release that slaying his ancestor’s enemies always brought. Deep inside, he knew there was every chance that he would be captured. Killing the chamberlain might be his last chance for revenge.
“Please, have mercy,” Yanagisawa blubbered. “Please!”
Rising, Chūgo straightened his garments. He threw the door open. Rain and wind blasted into the cabin. He dragged Yanagisawa onto the deck. He would have to live in the cabin for days or months while he sought a safe harbor, and didn’t want to contaminate it with his enemy’s death.
“No!” screamed Yanagisawa.
Dragging the chamberlain with him, Chūgo splashed through the ankle-deep water on the starboard deck. A jagged lightning streak seared his eyes; the simultaneous thunderclap shook the sky. The boat rolled. Spreading his legs to balance himself, Chūgo positioned Yanagisawa against the railing, head and shoulders hanging over the water.
“No, please, no!”
The sweet flame of anticipated victory leapt inside Chūgo. The thunder rumbled like war drums; the lightning blazed like a burning castle. The rain became soldiers’ chants; the wind, the blaring of conch trumpets. Chūgo saw himself riding into battle, and presenting a new trophy to Lord Oda. Pinning the chamberlain still with his body, he grabbed Yanagisawa’s hair and yanked his head back, exposing his throat. He drew his short sword.
Still clinging to the railing, Sano looked into the stern. Dread clutched his heart when he found it empty. Why wasn’t Chūgo manning the sail’s lines? Had he jumped overboard, leaving Yanagisawa to die? Then Sano heard hysterical screams coming from the starboard deck.
“No, master, spare me, I beg you!”
Sano hauled himself aboard the boat and collapsed on the waterlogged deck, where he fought to catch his breath and regain his strength. His chilled body shivered violently in the cold wind, and when he tried to rise, he fell twice before he gained his feet. Then, leaning against the cabin wall, he lurched toward the sound of Yanagisawa’s voice.
Horror energized him when he saw Chūgo holding the chamberlain over the railing, blade to his throat. Sano drew his own sword. Though he wanted to take Chūgo alive, he would kill to save Yanagisawa.
“Chūgo!” he shouted above the wind and rain and the chamberlain’s pleas. He lunged at the guard captain.
The chamberlain kept screaming. Chūgo’s head snapped around. His eyes were fierce slits, his mouth a snarl like that of an armor mask. Sano raised his sword in both hands, but before he could bring it slashing downward across Chūgo’s face and shoulder, the boat rocked. Sano lost his footing and stumbled sideways. The movement threw Chūgo and Yanagisawa free of the railing. The guard captain let his prisoner fall to the deck. In a motion so fast that Sano didn’t see it, he sheathed his short sword and drew the long one. He rushed at Sano, slashing and thrusting.
Sano regained his balance, sidestepped and parried, but too late. Chūgo’s blade sliced his left upper arm. A gush of blood warmed his cold skin. Darting backward just in time to avoid a cut to his neck, he launched an offensive, but his reflexes were dangerously slow. Spiritual energy couldn’t entirely compensate for an exhausted body. Chūgo effortlessly parried every cut, inserting thrusts between each, driving Sano backward into the stern. The boat swayed as it careened downstream, hurling Sano at Chūgo. Ever more unsure that he could defeat the guard captain, Sano tried to reason with him.
“Give up, Chūgo,” he urged between gasps. “Even if you kill me, you won’t get away. Especially if you harm the chamberlain. The army will h
unt you down. And without a hostage, they’ll have no reason to spare your life.”
Chūgo dealt a low cut that sliced Sano’s calf. Sano’s instinctive jump saved his leg from mortal damage, but his despair increased because he’d easily recognized Chūgo’s maneuver as one he’d faced during practice sessions, yet had been too weak to react soon enough. He had only his wits to use against the madman’s superior strength.
Chūgo’s assault propelled him around the port deck and into the bow. Still parrying frantically, Sano circled the foredeck, noting how, as the boat tipped, the sail swung back and forth in an arc. With a sideways leap that strained his bursting lungs, Sano forced Chūgo to pivot and fight with his back to the sail. Sano lashed out at Chūgo and took a cut to his shoulder. Dodging, he tripped over the anchor. Then the wind whipped the sail around. The boom whacked Chūgo across the back; he stumbled. Sano sliced at Chūgo’s sword hand. The tilting boat knocked him off balance again, and the blade only grazed Chūgo’s knuckles, but the captain dropped his sword. Sano lunged at Chūgo. Then the boat lurched, throwing him backward.
Sano’s feet skidded on the flooded deck. His arms instinctively shot out. As he hit the cabin, Chūgo was upon him, one hand gripping his throat, the other clamped around his wrist, immobilizing his sword. The boat rocked again. Together he and Chūgo pitched forward. Now Chūgo, in a deft maneuver, reversed their positions. Sano reeled backward, past the swinging sail, and into the bow. His back struck the railing as he grappled with Chūgo. The guard captain increased the pressure on his throat, bending his head back.
Sano coughed, struggling with his left hand to break Chūgo’s hold, and with his right to free his sword. Back, back, he arched over the railing. Faintly, he heard Yanagisawa’s screams. Rain filled his gaping mouth, splattered his eyes. Above him he saw the stormy sky, then a soaring arch of crossed and parallel wooden beams. They were passing beneath the Ryōgoku Bridge. Sano couldn’t resist Chūgo any longer. His feet left the deck—
With a sudden, shuddering crash from the port side that Sano initially took for thunder, the boat stopped. He barely had time to register that it had struck one of the bridge’s supports. Their forward momentum carried him and Chūgo over the railing. They were falling …
The resultant splash jarred Sano’s bones. He gasped and gurgled when the cold water closed over his head. Kicking and thrashing, he tried to raise himself above the surface, but Chūgo kept hold of his wrist, twisting it. Pain shot through his arm; he let go the sword. Then Chūgo clasped both hands around his throat, throttling him, holding his head underwater.
The blood thundered in Sano’s head while he tried to tear Chūgo’s hands away. Seemingly made of steel, they didn’t budge. Sano retched and wheezed. Through the water that swirled across his vision, he saw Chūgo’s face: fierce, teeth bared, maniacal. The bridge seemed to sway above him, while the boat tossed beside it. Desperately Sano scissored his legs, pulling Chūgo down with him. At the same time, he grabbed for the short sword at his waist.
Obviously guessing his intention, the guard captain released Sano’s neck and intercepted his hand. Together they shot above the surface. Sano gulped a breath of air before a wave hit his face. He reached the sword, but Chūgo’s hand pinned his at his side. The captain’s muscular legs locked around Sano’s waist; his other hand pressed against Sano’s face, gradually pushing him back underwater. Sano’s strength was fading and his struggles weakened. Then despair brought inspiration. Behind Chūgo, the boat’s rocking, curved bow rose. Sano thought of the obsession that had compelled Chūgo to commit four murders and embark on this perilous journey.
“Chūgo,” he choked out, timing his words with the boat’s movements, “General Fujiwara and Lord Oda Nobunaga command you to let me go!”
The guard captain’s hold on him relaxed—just for an instant, but it was enough. With all his remaining strength, Sano threw his weight against Chūgo. Chūgo surged backward just as a wave lifted the boat. Then the boat dropped, smashing its hull against Chūgo’s crown. The captain’s face froze in an expression of puzzled surprise; his legs and hands fell away from Sano. Unconscious, he floated on his back amid rain and waves.
Sano wasted no time savoring his triumph. He had to get himself and his prisoner out of the river before they both drowned, free Yanagisawa, and tie the boat to the bridge, so a rescue party could reach them. Crooking his arm around Chūgo’s neck, Sano swam around to the stern and found the rope he’d climbed earlier. He tied it around Chūgo’s chest, then pulled himself up the rope and aboard the boat. Heaving and straining until his muscles almost tore and tears came to his eyes, he got Chūgo onto the deck …
… only to find that, while he was laboring, the boat had drifted out of reach of the bridge and down the river. Waves washed over the deck and dashed against the cabin. Sano used the rope to tie Chūgo’s hands and feet and lash him upright to a lantern pole. He slumped against the railing in despair as he scanned the deserted riverscape. Even if he anchored the boat, it might capsize before help arrived. Sano staggered around to the starboard deck, where Yanagisawa lay moaning and sobbing in a pool of water.
“Chamberlain Yanagisawa. Can you sail a boat?”
Yanagisawa abruptly quieted. Gulping in surprise, he raised his head. Rain, tears, and blood drenched his face. His mouth trembled; his swollen eyes were wells of stark fear.
“You,” he croaked. “Where’s Chūgo?”
Sano’s animosity toward the chamberlain dissolved into pity, leavened by a slight pang of satisfaction at seeing his enemy thus. “I’ve tied him up. He can’t hurt you. Chamberlain—”
Yanagisawa’s features contorted into the familiar mask of hatred. “I order you to untie me, Sano Ichirō,” he rasped. Safe from Chūgo, he’d recovered his authority. He wriggled toward Sano, spitting hoarse curses.
The boat was speeding down the river, smacking the waves. Lightning forks stabbed the sky. Sano repeated, “Can you sail this boat?”
“Of course not, you imbecile. I’m not a common sailor. Now free me, so I can kill you!”
Sano grabbed Yanagisawa by the armpits and dragged him into the cabin. Then, leaving the chamberlain tied, Sano hurried out to the stern. He’d never sailed a boat before, but he would have to try. Through the rain, he squinted in dismay at the bewildering web of ropes that ran from the sail, over the cabin, and through wooden fittings on the gunwales. What to do?
Sano seized the tiller and tried to turn the boat shoreward. Nothing happened. The oars, designed for a team of rowers, were too heavy and too far apart for one man to operate alone. Sano grabbed the sail’s lines and yanked, turning the flapping sheet at a diagonal. The headwind filled it, pushing the boat right—too hard. The boat heeled sharply. Sano’s heart seized as he first let out the sail, then heaved the other way and tried to brace his feet on the slippery, tilting deck.
“I’ll kill you!” Yanagisawa screamed from the cabin.
Just when Sano thought the boat would capsize, it bobbed upright. But his next attempt to change direction met with similar, near-disastrous results. He realized that he would have to correct the boat’s course gradually. He turned the sail again, this time at a slighter angle to the wind. The boat heeled, but held stable. As it raced downstream, it continued to turn. The bow aimed west and shoreward. Soon Sano saw looming toward him Edo’s docks and warehouses. Now he heard other shouts besides Yanagisawa’s. He saw ahead the tiny figures of people waving from warehouse doors. One man separated himself from a group and ran out on the dock, jumping up and down. Recognizing Hirata, Sano laughed aloud in sheer, joyous relief. Now he was approaching his assistant on a diagonal. He waited until he neared the dock, then let loose the sail.
The boat turned downstream and drew up alongside the dock. Its bow crashed into small craft moored there; its hull scraped against the pilings. But the boat stopped. The storm still raged around Sano, yet the world stood still.
Suddenly the boat was swarming with men: a doshin and assista
nts; two boatmen in wide hats and straw rain cloaks; Yanagisawa’s retainers. The boatmen secured the vessel to the dock and lowered the gangplank. The police untied Chūgo—conscious now, but dazed—and led him away. Yanagisawa’s retainers rushed into the cabin.
“Sōsakan-sama!” Hirata ran up to Sano, his face radiant with joy and excitement. “You’ve done it, you’ve caught the Bundori Killer! Come on, let’s go.”
Suddenly too weak to stand, Sano let his assistant help him down the gangplank.
“Sano Ichirō!”
Turning, Sano saw Chamberlain Yanagisawa emerge from the cabin, leaning on his retainers.
“You’ll pay for this, Sano Ichirō!” Yanagisawa shrilled, shaking his fist. Pale, disheveled, and furious, he looked like a mad demon from one of the shogun’s No plays. “I swear you’ll pay for this!”
Sano’s mind closed against the chamberlain’s threats as a temporarily forgotten longing swelled his heart.
“Aoi,” he whispered.
36
One month after the Bundori Killer’s capture, the shogun’s banquet hall sparkled with noisy festivity. Lanterns brightened the huge room and the garden, visible through sliding doors opened to admit the warm, summer night breeze. Beautiful attendants, both male and female, served refreshments to gaudily robed men who reclined on silk cushions in laughing, joking clusters, or moved about the room to pour liquor for one another in the customary social ritual. On the veranda, musicians performed songs from the shogun’s favorite plays. Tokugawa Tsunayoshi, seated on the dais, struck a dramatic pose and intoned:
“I am a wanderer in life’s journey
I know not when it might end—”
Occupying places of honor just below the dais, the Council of Elders, Chamberlain Yanagisawa, and the boy actor Shichisaburō laughed and applauded.
Bundori Page 34
