Sword of Honour

by David Kirk

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Of the west?’

  ‘Yes. Ukita.’

  ‘Must have been no more than a child, you, then.’

  ‘I killed a man in a duel,’ said Musashi. ‘One of theirs, the Yoshioka.’

  ‘Is that so?’ said the captain, but he was preoccupied with his own circumstance, dismissed the boast. ‘A chance that you and I have met before, then, or at least shared a horizon once of a morn. The clan Date swore allegiance to my most noble Lord Tokugawa, rode to that valley together. Fine day. Not for you, as like, but for me . . . For our clans, for our cause, a fine day. Then the aftermath. The reassessment. The Date were allies, but allies only have worth after centuries, do they not? A union born of war is perilously fragile at the war’s end . . . The north there looming unknown. Untrustworthy. Intolerable to my Lord Tokugawa, so to planning: an exchange of the bannermen between the clans.

  ‘“A show of unity and strength” were the words spoken most, over and over, “fresh brotherhood fostered” and the like, but the tactic was clear. And respectable. Take the man you think enemy’s sword away, put your own to his throat. The Lord Date could not refuse. Tokugawa had the numbers on him, and other more enduring allies still. Therefore . . . Ahh, the thing I’d like to scry most is who was it exact that put forth my name? Was I of such renown and reputation that the Tokugawa demanded me, or did the Date think low enough of me to consider me expendable? Which truth softer, which truth finer to my ears?

  ‘It matters not. A score of us went south, made our vows. Scattered quickly, sent to separate posts the length of the country so that we’d not form some little faction canker-like in the bosom of Edo. Me, the last to be designated duty, and thus’ – and now his brogue vanished, snapped back into the rigidity of the Kyoto tongue – ‘here I am demoted so, a captain of alien streets that loathe and mock me where once I ruled a swathe of land from the mountains to the sea as I saw fit, using words comfortable to me.’

  There was a melancholy mirth on his face. Musashi pulled a fish bone from his teeth and wiped it upon his thighs.

  ‘In your estimation this makes us alike?’ he said.

  ‘We are both outsiders here, are we not?’ said Goemon.

  ‘But you follow what you hate. Why? Do you see any future for yourself here in Kyoto?’

  Goemon did not answer.

  ‘And it will lead to what? Your head on a spike. If you stay here, then, you are complicit in your own annihilation. Why not renounce Tokugawa and return home? You think he cares the slightest whether you live or die?’

  ‘I would not expect him to. This is service.’

  ‘That is the Way, and the Way is a lie forced upon us all,’ said Musashi. ‘Here is what I have learnt: true strength is in independence, not in having men to do things for you. A babe can summon its mother to tend on its every whim with a single wordless cry – that is what all Lords are, truly, and you must not empower them in their weakness with your acquiescence.’

  ‘You are saying that my most noble Lord Tokugawa is a weak man, then?’ said Goemon. ‘A bold thing to do in a stronghold of his men.’

  ‘Weak, incapable, unworthy,’ said Musashi, ‘all of these things he must be, and all Lords, for anyone who wants to tell others what to do is inherently unfit to be followed.’

  ‘And presumably you offer yourself in contrast?’

  ‘I felled Seijuro Yoshioka. I felled a half-dozen of his men. Myself. Me. Because I chose to, and it was I who wielded the sword. Thus, this victory has infinitely more meaning than Tokugawa’s triumph from his distant inviolate saddle at Sekigahara.’

  He meant it. At that moment, he truly meant it.

  Goemon looked at him curiously. ‘But how did you earn this victory?’ the captain asked. ‘Take your sword then, as example; this sword that lies between us now. Did you earn this with your independence? Did you dig the ore and smelt it and forge it yourself? Or what of the rice you are eating now? Did you grow it for yourself?’

  ‘Those are insubstantial things of no worth.’

  ‘Those are the things of the greatest substance.’

  ‘You’re wrong,’ said Musashi, slashing the air with his chopsticks. ‘Look at Seijuro. Thrall to the Way. Where is he this morning? Where is the code he believes in? Do not waste your time doubting me – I am honest. Ask your questions of the Way instead, for that is the abomination that will claim your life. Can you even explain to me why it is you follow?’

  To Musashi’s surprise Goemon thought about it, then spoke honestly.

  ‘Imagine a hundred men in a line,’ he said. ‘There is space between them. The first man carries something precious. Let us say it is an icon of glass, and he must toss this icon to the next man in the line. It sails through the air, perilous and fragile, and then is caught. What was valuable before becomes even more so, inherently, thanks to that risk. It could have been shattered, but survived. And that value magnifies as that man tosses it to the next man, who tosses it to the next man, and so on and so on. Accumulating countless merit yet still as easily broken as it was in the air that first time. Immeasurable, precarious worth.

  ‘I am the hundredth man in the line. The icon is the name Inoue, and it is falling in the air towards me now. I must catch it and pass it on, lest the lives of all those men also be for naught. I cannot be the one to let that happen. I cannot be the one to shatter it, for when I die I shall have to present myself before all those men of worth and account to them my failure. That I cannot bear.’

  ‘But that death will be hastened if you continue to follow,’ said Musashi

  ‘That is the way of things,’ said Goemon. ‘I had the privilege of being born samurai, of being born Inoue. My fate is what it is.’

  ‘So you are content to die?’

  ‘Never once have I found my dinner bowl wanting, yet the calluses upon my hands are born not of the field but of the grips of swords. This luxury I did not question; it would be a cowardly man indeed who acted thus and then reneged upon the hardship.’

  ‘That does not answer my question.’

  Silence from Goemon.

  ‘Do you not see?’ said Musashi. ‘The only people who would call you coward are men in the exact same place as you, who could suffer the exact same fate. Unless we smash this idiocy that binds us, limits us, and start anew. Otherwise we’re no more than, than, men in a mire, pushing each other down by the shoulders, content in the fact that those around us have an equal mouthful of shit when we could all of us be free of it entirely. That is why I came to Kyoto. To scour it out from the heart. The Yoshioka its embodiment, and now they are humbled. Now they are ended. Let all in the nation take that as proof, and let a better realm grow from it.’

  It was spoken aloud then for the first time. The thing of worth he had envisioned in the winter months tending to Akiyama, the thing that he had now achieved. His pride was boundless and golden as the sun that he felt shone within him, but the captain looked at him and it seemed, just for a moment, that of all things he might actually laugh.

  ‘Ended?’ was all he said.

  ‘Ended,’ repeated Musashi hotly.

  The room, though, was cold and hard, and the word seemed if anything to possess a sort of anti-reverberation. It was both there between them, and nothing. Goemon stared at Musashi through narrowed eyes. Stared as though he were trying discern the extents of a mirage in a distant haze, and how silence could be the most pressing inquisition, the most invasive.

  ‘Let Inoue be damned,’ said Musashi, for attack was always preferable to parrying. ‘Live for Goemon. It is that simple.’

  Goemon Inoue turned his head slightly. ‘Does the name Miyamoto mean nothing to you? Do you not fear the inquisition of your ancestors beyond the Sanzu river?’

  ‘Miyamoto is my name, and in these rags, in the blood I shed, I am honouring the one member of my family I value.’

  ‘This, presumably, includes pushing statues of the Buddha onto your foes?’

  ‘It w
asn’t a Buddha, it was a Raijin!’ said Musashi, and then he glowered as he realized the ridiculousness of the statement. ‘And it was not my intention to do so.’

  Goemon let amusement pass again across his face for a moment, and whatever empathy Musashi had gained for the captain vanished as though it had never been. He realized the waste of trying to reach such a man here in his sombre crypt of a room. His topknots. His swords. His Tokugawa livery. The outrage spiralled ever outwards.

  ‘Am I captive, or have I liberty?’ he said bluntly.

  ‘What are your intentions?’ said Goemon. ‘I speak now in the interests of Kyoto. There must be peace. Another lawless incident such as last night is impermissible.’

  ‘I will do as I will do.’

  ‘Your feud with the Yoshioka.’

  ‘This fight was of their choosing, entirely them. They started it years ago, and I ended it last night.’

  ‘Again, you seem to think that this is somehow over,’ said Goemon. ‘Were it not for my intervention, your head would be up on a spear over Imadegawa avenue. You cannot deny this. And you do know Seijuro has two younger brothers, no? That the four or five men you killed last night are but a fraction of the whole? What of them? Do you think they will politely accede to you the rights of the victor? Or will they speak of vengeance? Does that not daunt you?’

  ‘Daunt me?’ said Musashi, angry, goaded, the sun within scorching wrathful and every syllable felt so utterly. ‘I’ll not leave, not if it’s unfinished. Not until what I came for is achieved. They started this and if they continue I will not stop until they’re all humbled at my feet. And all the world will know that it was done in my name, that it was not a clan, not a Lord, not a family that felled the Yoshioka – me. Musashi Miyamoto, enemy of the Way, the one man truly alive in the realm of the willing dead . . . And when they see my victory, know my name, then they will know which is the superior path.’

  Goemon said nothing, but Musashi saw in the captain’s eyes a sudden intensity, something piqued, and took it for a challenge, an insult. He tried to think of something further to say, when through the arrow slits the sound of a commotion disturbed them. Noise in the courtyard below, an inchoate roar of masculine confrontation that was soon quelled and then defined by one voice screaming above the others, furious, utterly furious:

  ‘Outrage! Outrage!’

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Hard of brow and wide of shoulder, Denshichiro Yoshioka, and he also gifted of a supreme set of lungs. His voice so loud and so fierce the edge of it was almost like paper ripping:

  ‘This is unforgivable! Outrage! I demand justice! Where is he? Bring him out, bring out the captain so that he can beg forgiveness!’

  Goemon peered unseen out of an arrow loop, assessed the situation in the courtyard before he emerged. Denshichiro had with him two dozen swordsmen of the Yoshioka, they arrayed for something more than shouting, sleeves of their tea-coloured jackets bound up and the material a vivid green in the morning sun. They were outnumbered by men of the Tokugawa, these carrying bow and spear, yet the men of Kyoto stood defiant and dismissive of any threat.

  Tadanari Kozei was with them. He alone wore his sleeves loose, something less than total conviction on his face. The bald samurai stood there and watched guardedly as Denshichiro stalked back and forth in fury, found his way back to his refrain.

  ‘Outrage!’ Denshichiro howled again and again, face reddening, hands clawed, and yet bellowed with such a perfect honesty and belief that Goemon found it remarkable. ‘Outrage!’

  The captain could delay no longer, though he was tempted to see just how long this display could be sustained without faltering. He took all emotion from his face, and stepped outside with measured steps of authority.

  Denshichiro’s eyes bulged at his emergence. ‘At last!’ he said. ‘Account for yourself, Inoue! Four of our men slain last night at your command! What gives you the right to spill our blood, the blood of Kyoto itself? Outrage!’

  The captain spoke coldly: ‘I was merely fulfilling my remit to keep the peace in the name of my most noble Lord Tokugawa, he being the high protector of this entire country, Kyoto included. The duel was lawful. Everything afterwards, however, was in violation of it. Your men were given clear orders to cease and disband, and refused. Thus I ordered them killed.’

  ‘Lies!’ said Denshichiro, the volume and intensity maintained flawless. ‘They were not interfering with any man of the Tokugawa, but still you slew them! They were ridding the city of a masterless vagrant, in fact, doing your job for you, and yet you chose to kill them! This your scheme no doubt to bring us all under the yoke of Edo!’

  ‘The yoke of Edo is already upon you,’ said Goemon. ‘Do not suggest otherwise, Sir Yoshioka. Perhaps if Seijuro had beaten that masterless vagrant, I would have not had to intervene at all. But, alas . . .’

  It took a moment for Denshichiro to recognize the jibe. He all but shuddered, voice now threatening to crack as an adolescent’s might.

  ‘You dare to speak thus to me?’ he spat. ‘Belittle the Yoshioka? The things I could do to you with these swords of mine, you son of a—’

  ‘Denshichiro,’ said Tadanari to his side.

  It was not this that silenced Denshichiro, but rather the emergence of Miyamoto from behind Goemon. A pointed entrance, arm draped casual over the hilt of the longsword at his waist. A silent countenance so studiously obnoxious Goemon found himself marvelling at it in the same black way he had marvelled at Denshichiro’s anger.

  Yet for all the broad swagger, close as he was the captain could not avoid noticing the stiffness of Miyamoto’s body, the way the young man tried to hide the tenderness of his wounded leg.

  Denshichiro saw only his enemy – both his enemies together. He drew in a long breath as his mind performed the obvious calculation. ‘Collusion!’ he shouted, finger darting between Goemon and Miyamoto. ‘Collusion! I see the plot now! Insidious!’

  ‘I am the thrall of no man,’ said Musashi.

  ‘Horseshit!’ said Denshichiro. ‘Clear to me now! You, you sit on your knees and you guzzle down whatever the Tokugawa fling into your mouth!’

  ‘Miyamoto speaks the truth,’ said Goemon. ‘He is masterless. Does he look as though he has enjoyed any form of luxury lately? But know that to prevent a reoccurrence of last night’s chaos, for the sake of the peace of the city I am placing him temporarily under protection.’

  ‘Shield him, then!’ said Denshichiro, and he sank down now, veins bulging like leeches upon the muscles of his arms, hands going for his swords. ‘We’ll kill him, and we’ll slaughter every last one of you cursed intruders to get—’

  ‘Denshichiro!’ snarled Tadanari, and he grabbed Denshichiro’s right wrist, checked the motion.

  This was interesting to Goemon. Younger, broader, stronger, it was clear that Denshichiro could have shaken Tadanari off if he wanted to. Yet the young samurai relented. He shut his mouth and stood straight. Tadanari held the grip until he was well past certain that his ward was in control of himself once more.

  There was utter silence in the yard. Tadanari released his hold, and then, isolated in such fierce attention, slowly walked to stand before Goemon. There he dropped into a low and grovelling bow, arms by his side, legs straight, chest parallel to the ground.

  ‘Most honourable Captain Inoue,’ said Tadanari, ‘humbly I apologize for the words of the young master Yoshioka. I beg you consider the duress he is under, distraught over the fate of his brother. He is not of sound mind this morning, and I implore you to temper your response with that compassion in mind. We are at your mercy, as we always are.’

  Goemon said nothing. Tadanari could not rise until his apology was acknowledged. The captain stood there for some time, and watched dew beads of sweat shatter and arc the paths of lightning bolts down the dome of the Yoshioka master’s bald crown.

  Magnanimity the greatest insult, complicity the greatest humiliation.

  Eventually the captain had had his fill. />
  ‘There is no insult here, Sir Kozei,’ he said. ‘I, however, ask that you disperse now, and return to the grounds of your school where you can grieve in private. A harrowing day for the Yoshioka, no doubt, to be so exposed in front of the city.’

  ‘Humbly, I thank you for your consideration, Captain Inoue,’ said Tadanari, and he rose with his eyes closed no doubt to hide the hatred there, Goemon supposed, opened them entirely neutral. ‘We obey your just ruling.’

  ‘Now heed me all of you present,’ said Goemon, voice loud. ‘This ends here. Peace must reign. I am the enemy of chaos. Unsanctioned bloodshed cannot be permitted. Unsanctioned violence—’

  ‘Do you understand,’ said Denshichiro, speaking to Miyamoto, looking only at the ragged swordsman, ‘how little time you have left? My sword has already claimed your head.’

  Miyamoto, equally focused, equally young: ‘I felled the first thing that your father squirted out, I am in no fear of the second.’

  ‘Wretched vermin, your eyes I’ll pull out afore I raise your skull up above our gates to rot alongside the Foreigner’s.’

  ‘See the blinded thrall who cites his ambush of a wounded man as a shining triumph. You’ll find me harder to—’

  ‘Silence!’ shouted Goemon. ‘You will heed the word of his most noble Lord Tokugawa! Unsanctioned madness is intolerable and any violator—’

  ‘Then sanction it,’ said Denshichiro.

  Goemon blinked. He allowed the tip of his tongue to emerge and dance across his lower lip. ‘I . . .’

  ‘Sanction it, Captain,’ said Denshichiro. ‘I formally challenge Musashi Miyamoto to a duel of the sword. As a samurai, as a citizen of Kyoto, that is my right, is it not?’

  ‘But the law . . . I . . . It is not for . . .’