Sword of Honour

by David Kirk

  Goemon raised a hand and silenced the man for a moment. ‘As it has been explained to me,’ he said, ‘your guild profited exponentially selling rice to the campaigning armies during my most noble Lord’s rightful conquest, grew several times your size. It seems only just that you should yield some of the bounty of what my most noble Lord enabled, does it not?’

  The guild master bridled – the rage in him, the actual genuine indignation over such venial things! ‘We offered our tribute of rice grain to the most noble Shogun and his armies as is our duty,’ he said. ‘All profit we made beyond that we made by selling fairly to those who needed it. It is beyond reproach for us to be expected to be raped of all our diligent labour’s reward, and I wish to protest it formally!’

  Very thinly, lips all but white, Goemon said, ‘It is not my business to set the law, merely to enforce it. Pay what is due or face the consequences.’

  ‘The Regent never saw fit to tax us such! This is without precedent!’

  ‘It is the new order of things.’

  The contemptible coin-grubber made to speak on, but Goemon simply turned away from him. There was no respite for him, however, and he merely found another seeking to petition him. Goemon’s men, knowing their orders, had long since given up trying to enforce order on the mob that swarmed, and there was a constant thriving clamour for his attention.

  A shaven-headed monk forced himself before the captain, and the man had come in his full formal black robes and his saffron sash that hung across one shoulder, even clutched a rosary wrapped around his fist.

  ‘Your men, Captain, have desecrated holy grounds,’ he said, the look of a flagellant in his eyes. ‘Unpardonable. They knocked the northern wall of our temple down merely that they might have an easier route to transport the great blocks of stone to your master’s castle-to-be.’

  ‘I . . .’ said Goemon, and he hesitated out of residual deference to the holy. ‘I apologize on their behalf, but you must understand that for the sake of order upon the streets the construction is of the utmost imperative.’

  The monk’s face twisted in venomous zeal. ‘Vain mortal constructs pale before the glory of the Teachings! Thou shalt right this offence, or thou and thy Lord will incur the wrath of the heavens!’

  From the side a new man interjected. It was hard to gauge what status or rank he held because the man placed himself so close to Goemon. ‘I have waited months Captain, and I wish to know what the ruling is upon the estates of the traitor Lords up in the northern wards of the city. Four years they have stood empty, going to ruin. All I ask is that I be permitted to purchase, for a fair value—’

  ‘Those are property of the Shogunate by right of triumph,’ said Goemon. ‘They are not to be bid upon like farmlands or—’

  The monk hissed over him: ‘Revered be the Regent, who understood the paths of harmony! Who clad in gold the capital city, who built for himself no intrusive palace but enshrined what ought to be enshrined!’

  A fourth man now spoke: ‘Truth there – in the Regent’s time it was safe upon the roads. Captain, my caravan was waylaid upon the Tosando road by bandits east of the Biwa for the third time this year. The third time this year! What is being done about it?’

  Goemon rolled his tongue across the insides of his teeth and prepared to answer, and yet all words were stolen from him by the one who lusted for the Lordly estates actually placing his hand upon the captain. The man wrapped his soft fingers around the lapels of Goemon’s inner kimono and then proceeded to speak his piece, repeat his bland mercantile inanities, and such was his self-absorption the man did not even notice Goemon’s entire frame become rigid with affront. Spoke blindly on as Goemon’s jaw grew tight and his eyes went wide with fury.

  This how they saw him, this how they all of them out there in the city saw him.

  There came a banging and a gruff voice demanding silence. It was the Goat, Goemon’s adjutant, thumping on the frame of the inner door with his fist. He was an older samurai, grey of beard and lamed of leg, and he used his longsword in its scabbard as an ersatz walking cane. He snarled at the crowd to relent and they obeyed and shrank back, and then in the silence he hobbled over to whisper in Goemon’s ear after snapping out a curt bow.

  ‘An incident developing, sir,’ he said. ‘Out in the street front. You are needed there more than you are here.’

  With some relief, Goemon jerked his head and the pair of them left the forehall behind and set off through the garrison. It was a military building, close corridors with low ceilings to prevent the swinging of swords, everything dark wood, bereft of ornamentation and thick enough to stop spear-thrust, and also, at the back of every man’s mind, heavy enough to crush should an earthquake come.

  As they navigated the tight hallways the captain reset his clothing where it had been pulled out of order. He tried to level his spirit, clenched his fist around the handle of his sword that he might grant himself a measure of satisfaction. The Goat was attentive and perceptive, and noticed Goemon’s disquiet.

  ‘You should have the men impose some order on that lot, sir,’ he said in a voice low enough that none but they would hear. ‘Disgraceful impertinence.’

  ‘What am I to do, Onodera?’ said Goemon. ‘You know the remit of my command.’

  The Goat did, and he gave nothing but a vague grunt and a jerk of the chin onwards.

  Outside the sun was fierce in a cloudless sky, fierce enough that the burnished heads of spears were hard to look at after the shade indoors. The yard was dusty and the samurai who crowded it were silent. They were waiting for Goemon with grim anticipation, and at his appearance they barked a salute and dropped to one knee. He gestured them up immediately. An odd atmosphere pervaded. The garrison was no moated castle and beyond the walls of its compound lay the common thoroughfares of the city. Silence reigned there also, when usually there was the bustle of commerce.

  Through the mouth of the gate itself, Goemon found the cause: a group of men stood before the garrison in bold challenge. There were perhaps twenty of them clustered close together, and though they were all unkempt they were all obviously samurai: they wore kimonos rather than jerkins; those that were not wearing wide-brimmed straw hats wore their hair in topknots; and each met Goemon’s gaze as an equal would.

  Yet, for all this, not one of them wore a pair of swords at his side.

  Goemon took this in with his face a picture of level sternness. He was standing between two great banners of the Tokugawa livery, white field and black emblem, both splayed taut on the right angle of their bamboo frames. He looked to either end of the street, where the lowerborn had clustered to watch on. Then he turned back to the group and spoke, careful as always to twist his voice into the Kyoto accent.

  ‘I am Goemon Inoue, proud vassal of the most noble Shogun Tokugawa,’ he said. ‘I command in his name in the city of Kyoto. What is your intention here?’

  One man strode forward from the group of men, his eyes squinting in the brightness. He struck a proud stance with his arms crossed, hands hidden up the sleeves of his jacket, but his voice was not aggressive.

  ‘We have travelled far, Sir Inoue,’ he said. ‘We would ask that you hear us in the name of your Lord.’

  ‘I shall do so.’

  ‘We are all of us indebted to you,’ said the man, and bowed not quite deep enough to be respectful. ‘We have come on the cause of protest.’

  ‘I would inform you, before you speak,’ said Goemon, ‘that my jurisdiction is limited to the city of Kyoto alone. Should you have a problem in your realm, Edo may be better able to settle your dispute.’

  ‘We come not to dispute the minutiae of the law of the nation,’ said the lead man. ‘No, we come to protest a perversion of the proper way of things, and what better place than Kyoto for that?’

  Samurai eyes peered out pensively through triangular arrow loops from within the garrison. Goemon said, ‘I fear you have been a victim of some cruel circumstance.’

  ‘That we have,’ sa
id the lead man, and from one of his sleeves he produced a folded, sealed sheaf of paper. ‘Here, then – formal written protest at vile humiliation visited unjustly upon decent men.

  ‘Our clan was neutral in the war in which your master Tokugawa claimed the Shogunate. We raised not a single weapon against your warriors, prayed not for your defeat, but even fed you, aided you, and guided you through the mountain passes of our realm. We were assured by your Lord Tokugawa that our fiefdom was inviolate, and, in the spirit of honour, in the code of fellow samurai, we believed in such promises.’

  His voice was deep and carried well, drew in the distant crowd. He waved the sheaf of paper with one hand as he spoke, kept the other hand clasped upon his elbow. Goemon became aware of a faint smell of burning in the air, a chemical smell. The oil merchant up the street must have been burning in excess of his permit once again; yet another petty grievance he would be forced to address.

  ‘But how long they lasted, these vows,’ continued the swordless samurai. ‘Fleeting things, soon forgotten like the gold of dawn, and come the spring this year: shameful betrayal! Our most noble Lord assented to the new way of things, gave no objection to your Lord’s proclamation as Shogun last summer but rather paid loyal tribute, and what is his reward? He, commanded to seppuku! We, all of us, our swords confiscated! Such was our Lord’s loyalty, he ordered us not to resist. But still he lies dead, and still we linger here.’

  Goemon nodded his head. ‘A sad case of affairs. But my most noble Lord has his considered reasons for every action, and it is not for me to explain nor question them. What now, of you? What now your intentions?’

  ‘Stripped of purpose, stripped of meaning, we have decided that we do not wish to clutter the world any longer. We have come here to die, as samurai should.’

  ‘Noble,’ said Goemon.

  ‘Here are our seventeen names and the seventeen seals of our families in testament. Take them. Record them. We wish to be known as true followers of the Way, and by our deaths prove our unyielding loyalty.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘We also with our deaths protest this obscene government, pray to all righteous spirits for the death of the devil-tyrant Tokugawa and ask that he face judgement for his shameful duplicity in the myriad hells.’

  There was a long silence that followed. Goemon sighed sadly.

  ‘That you had but held your tongue,’ he said, ‘yours is a sympathetic story. I would have shown you mercy. I would have even lent you my own sword, that you could perform seppuku as it should be done. But no. Insults. Now what is left to us but—’

  ‘Do you really think,’ said the lead samurai, ‘we would have come this far without a way to be the masters of our own end?’

  He withdrew his other hand from under his sleeve, and the source of the chemical burning smell became apparent: two burning lengths of arquebus matchcord in his hand.

  Behind him his men burst into action, tossing off their straw hats and shawls. Amongst their huddle they had been hiding two large casks, which they now revealed with a grim flourish. The swordless samurai dropped to their knees, their leader tossed their declaration towards Goemon, and then turned and headed back to his men.

  As the samurai clutched their bodies tight to the barrels like leeches, the leader handed one matchcord to another man, and then, within a cold moment, Goemon knew what would follow.

  From behind him one of his men began rushing forward out of sheer instinct, levelling his spear. Goemon grabbed the man by the belt and tried to haul him backwards. He struggled, but the captain was stronger, dragged him back towards the shelter of the walls of the garrison, screaming at all his men to do likewise, and then the matchcords were at the caskets and there was the punch of a roar beginning and—

  Goemon became aware that he was horizontal, that he was in the dirt, and so he sat up, and he found the street was dusty and that the swordless samurai were gone, and also that it felt as if his teeth had shattered and that every bone in his ribcage had been forced inwards. There was no sound, though he could feel his throat moving spastically and knew he had to be making some kind of noise.

  There were bits of things everywhere, cloth and meat, the great banners of the Tokugawa he had been standing between annihilated. The man he had tried to haul backwards was nearby, he on his hands and knees. His face was dirty or bloody or something, he didn’t look good, and there was sound now, painful, coming in from Goemon’s left ear like a lance of boiling water: wailing, the samurai on his hands and knees, he was wailing piteously.

  Across the street a storefront collapsed in fitful stages, belching more dust into the air. And there behind the dust he saw smoke, the flickering of budding flame, and he tried to shout ‘Fire!’, tried to summon someone to deal with it before the buds of it bloomed blazing, and perhaps he did, perhaps he formed actual words but he could not be sure.

  From above then he thought he felt rain, but he did not look up, looked instead at the ground, at the folded piece of paper containing the names of the seventeen obliterated samurai, and he saw that the rain that fell upon the paper was red, the smallest parts of their bodies that had risen the highest now falling, all the little gobs of gore and hair like warm sleet, and then Goemon was horizontal once more, felt it pattering on his face, caressing him into oblivion.

  The Goat’s ears howled with a piercing resonance. All was chaos, all was noise. Tiles slid from the shattered roof of the gatehouse, falling one by one arrhythmic, crashing, shattering. A Tokugawa samurai rushed outwards to help, obliviously, only for a tile to connect with his head. He collapsed amidst the debris and bodies, added to them.

  Later, tend to him later.

  The Goat sought his captain first and foremost, and he limped and staggered as he checked upon those sprawled out in the street. He found Goemon senseless, and he grabbed him beneath the arms and began dragging him inwards, struggling in his dazed senses and on his maimed leg.

  Across the street in the wreckage of the buildings opposite he saw the flames now, rising fierce, erupting almost, consuming what had been a purveyor of grilled fish. Doubtless coals and hearths had been burning within prior, and yet the Goat gaped aghast at the how rapidly the fire progressed, and so many buildings next to it, behind it, whether damaged or pristine, they were all things of paper and wood, awaiting kindling . . .

  A lowerborn ran up to the Goat, pulled on his shoulders as he pulled on Goemon’s in turn, trying to draw his attention.

  ‘Do something!’ the man was shouting. ‘The fire! Fire! Are you not in command? Are you not the Tokugawa? Do something!’

  ‘What?’ said the Goat. ‘Do what? What can I do?’

  The words were barely heard, but he saw the look of horror and helplessness on the man’s face. Perhaps he owned one of the buildings. The lowerborn began to dance a pathetic fretting dance from one foot to the other, hands pulling at his hair as he beheld the blaze beginning to spread from building to building.

  He was not alone in this, so many dozens of people just staring, tentative shouts going up for the volunteer firefighters of the ward to assemble, but how long for them to arrive, to organize? How many more buildings, more livelihoods would be turned to ash before then? The teeming despair, the dread, the fear, and, as it deepened, threatened to become abyssal suddenly there came a great heroic cry.

  Teams of men were arriving now, running down the street in perfectly arrayed columns. They were not lowerborn but samurai, and yet they came bearing the necessary tools for combating the fire: hooked ropes, ladders, saws, mallets. The Goat stared at them, these samurai not of the Tokugawa, watched as with perfect discipline these dozens of men set to work.

  With no choice but to sacrifice the block the fire was burning on already, the samurai cast their hooked lines on the buildings of the street fronts opposite and began the frantic process of pulling down the structures before the fire could reach them, sawing and cutting and hammering where they had to, creating a firebreak that would isolate the bl
aze. So effortlessly skilled at it were they that it was as though they had had practice in it, surprising for men of the sword, and on they cut and dragged and hauled, tireless, throwing their entire bodies into the cause, they not panicking but confident, strong, shouting in unison as they worked.

  It was infectious, and, though the flames and the heat rose and rose, the people of the city saw the fearlessness of these samurai and felt their own dread lessen. They began to cheer the swordsmen on, felt joy in their hearts as they knew these men, these familiar samurai, to be their protectors, their true benefactors. They and their school of the city and for the city, and though the air was rent with smoke their kimonos all shimmered in the shade that all of Kyoto knew and revered, shimmered the colour of tea.

  The crowd cheered for them rhythmically: ‘Yoshioka! Yoshioka! Yoshioka!’ And the chant went on as the fire raged against, and then died in, its cage; and, as the ash blew and reddened eyes dried, the Goat recognized the bald samurai who had led the Yoshioka.

  Tadanari Kozei, and through the smoke he was looking at the ruins of the Tokugawa garrison, and on his face was a wide smile of black satisfaction.

  Chapter Twelve

  The dawn was nascent as a cobalt smear in the eastern sky when Musashi felt eyes upon him. A primal instinct that pierced his slumber. He saw two brown orbs low to the ground, catching the light of the remnants of the fire that smouldered still. A canine form, and he thought it first a ranging wolf poising to strike, and started. The animal, though, skittered back at his sudden movement, and he realized it was in truth a famished dog.

  Its hide was mottled tan, though great clumps of it were missing and the bare skin beneath revealed lean muscle and the shape of bones. One of its pointed ears had been torn away in some long-ago struggle.

  An exile from nearby Kyoto, perhaps.

  Wary, it did not approach, but neither did it flee. Musashi watched it for a long while. He realized the creature must be tantalized by the smell of the mushrooms he had boiled the night before. Some remained in the little cast-iron pot. He picked one of them up and held it out in the palm of his hand, offered it to the dog. The dog lowered its head and growled, distrustful.