Kill the Shogun

CHAPTER 4

Toyama put one hand on his sword. It was scary dealing with these people, and now that he saw the meeting place, his apprehensions unfolded like the petals of the night-blooming lotus.

The small abandoned temple was in a grove of bamboo. The roof sagged from rot and neglect, and the tall weeds grew in profusion right up to the door. A light breeze blew, lifting dried leaves and idly tossing them against the decaying walls. In the light of the half-moon, the temple looked deserted and empty, and Toyama briefly wondered if he could have gotten confused on the directions and somehow ended up at the wrong place.

Toyama lifted the reed basket covering his head to get a better look. He was disguised as a komuso, an adherent to the strange Fuke sect of Buddhism. These men wandered the countryside, wearing an inverted basket with eyeholes to mask their identity. They played the shakuhachi, the bamboo flute, as their way of asking for alms. Increasingly, samurai and ronin were converting to this sect as they sought escape from defeat and shelter in the sect’s temples. They were becoming a familiar sight on the streets of Edo, and their unusual headgear formed a perfect disguise. Since so many samurai were komuso, the disguise had the advantage of letting Toyama wear his swords as he masked his face.

Toyama was quite proud of his selection of disguise, and he was convinced that no one knew where he had gone. The guards by the side gate of his villa were surprised when he left without an entourage, and they asked him if he wanted them to accompany him. He told them no and put the hat of the komuso on. The guards exchanged sly smiles at their master’s secrecy, convinced that he was out on an amorous adventure, perhaps to visit the wife of another man.

Even with the impediment of the basket out of the way, Toyama saw no signs of life. Returning the basket to his shoulders, he carefully walked toward the temple. In his hand he carried a lantern. The flickering yellow light, smoothed by the thin paper that surrounded the lantern, allowed him to pick his way between the weeds.

He hesitated a moment at the temple door, holding the lantern out before him so the weak light could penetrate the gloom.

“Come in,” a voice said from out of the darkness. Toyama gave a start. He expected someone to be here to meet him, but he could not see where the owner of the voice was standing.

“Your light will let others know we are here.” The voice was neutral in its intonation, but the speaker was actually quite annoyed by Toyama’s hesitancy. He had seen Toyama’s face when the Lord had lifted the komuso’s hat, so he was sure who his visitor was. Even without this stupid blunder, the man waiting in the gloom of the temple would know that this man was a daimyo and not a true priest. Toyama had adopted the basketlike hat of the komuso and had even stuck a bamboo flute in his sash, but no komuso could have a silk kimono or lacquered geta sandals as fine and expensive as the ones this man wore.

At last, Toyama stepped into the temple. The air in the temple was musty and old and full of dead smells. The inside had a dirt floor and the walls were stripped bare, so Toyama could not tell what God had been worshiped there. The feeble light of the lantern made a weak circle in the center of the floor but didn’t penetrate into the gloom beyond.

The man saw Toyama kept his hand on his sword, as if this would protect him, and he smiled. If he wanted, the man could kill Toyama in a hundred ways, most of them not involving weapons. The man stepped out of the dark corner and into the light of the lantern. Toyama took a step backward.

“You wanted to speak to us,” the man said. He was dressed all in black, with tied pants and a short jacket held by a sash. Black tabi socks covered his feet, and even the hemp ties of his sandals were rubbed with ink to help them blend into shadows. A short Chinese-style sword was strapped across his back, with the hilt protruding over one shoulder where the man could reach back to draw it out. A piece of black cloth was wound around his head and face, masking his identity.

“Are you the one who gave me instructions?” Toyama asked.

The man was disgusted with this Lord’s hesitancy and stupidity, but hid his impatience. “I am the one who was sent to talk to you,” he answered.

“I… ah … I understand that you can be hired to do … ah … certain jobs…” Toyama let the sentence trail off, in a characteristic Japanese way that invited comment from the other party.

“That depends on the job.”

“I want a man killed.”

“That depends on the man.”

Toyama took a piece of paper from his sleeve and handed it to the man in black. The paper was folded into a strip and tied into a loose knot.

The man took the paper and unfolded it, shaking it open and tilting it slightly to catch the light of the lantern. He was surprised when he read what was on the paper, but a lifetime of training allowed him to hide his reaction. Through habit, he kept his eyes on the paper, because a highly trained adversary could sometimes learn much from the expression in a man’s eyes. It was unlikely that Toyama was so trained, but it could be his ineptness was simply a well-honed act.

“We know this man,” he said. “When do you want this done?”

“As soon as possible, but you must tell me first, so I’ll know in advance it’s about to happen.”

“We never tell that. We either fulfill our contract or die in the attempt. If we broadcast our intentions, it would be too easy to trap us.”

“But I want to know, so I can make preparations.”

“Then you should always be prepared, because we will not make such an announcement.”

“What is the price then?” Toyama said petulantly.

The man quoted a figure.

Toyama spluttered. “That’s outrageous!”

“As you wish.” The man started to blend back into the darkness.

“Wait!”

The man stopped.

Toyama made a counteroffer.

The man shook his head. “No. I have given you the price for this man. It will take several of us to kill him, and even then we may not be successful. The price you were given is the value of our lives if we fail. This man is an expensive one to kill.”

Frustrated, Toyama said, “Fine. If that’s the price, then I will pay it. I want this man dead. I’ll pay you when you are done.”

“No. In advance.”

“But how am I to know if you will complete your part of the bargain?”

“Do you know who we are?”

“Yes.”

“Then you know we have never failed to either complete a mission or to die trying. There is no bargaining. Those are the terms. You may take them or leave them, as you choose.”

“All right! But I didn’t bring that much money with me.”

“Have someone bring it to this temple tomorrow night. In gold. Place the gold in a cloth and leave the bundle on the temple floor. Then leave.”

“All right.”

The man looked at the sheet of paper once more. “Is this all you know about him?”

“I can describe him.”

“I said we know him. You do not have to describe him. Do you know where he is now?”

“No.”

“Then this will be a difficult job. It may take us some time. But we will not quit until we have completed the task.”

“Tell me,” Toyama said, “am I dealing with the Kogas?”

Now the man was extremely annoyed by this silly daimyo’s curiosity and lack of knowledge of how these transactions were accomplished and which questions were questions not asked. “No,” the man said, “you are dealing with me.”

“But…”

Before Toyama could complete his thought, the man had quickly merged with the shadows of the temple. Toyama lifted his lantern and let its feeble light illuminate the edges and corners of the room. The man was gone, and Toyama could see no obvious escape route. Outside, the crickets made their lonely lament. Toyama felt a chill pass through him, because he could not fathom how and where the man had disappeared to.

Maybe ninja could turn themselves to smoke or make themselves invisible, as legends said, Toyama thought. He found some comfort in the fact that such men were hunting on his instructions, and not hunting him.

Honda went to the back gate of his villa. He was staying in what would eventually be the guest house when the new main structure was completed. His wife and retainers insisted that he build a bigger house, and he had acquiesced. It was a financial strain because of Ieyasu’s policy of giving the fudai small estates, while the tozama became wealthy. Despite Honda’s famous temper, his wife had berated him about this injustice. Honda had simply told her yakamashii, shut up, and refused to respond. He didn’t trust himself to respond. He secretly agreed with her. The Tokugawas had a newfound position as the ruling clan of Japan, but he felt his own position was precarious, and that peace was as great a threat to him as the most desperate battle.

Honda knew he was a rough country samurai. He had a certain blunt cunning honed by a lifetime of warfare, but also he knew that the winds of a shifting nation demanded new skills, skills he neither had nor valued. Honda’s skill was killing. This was an invaluable skill when there was a country to be won, and this skill kept him at Ieyasu’s side through countless battles. Now that the last great battle was over, the battle at Sekigahara, he could see Ieyasu’s mind turning to strategies for establishing a lasting dynasty. Undoubtedly there would be some killing involved in maintaining this dynasty, but other skills, more subtle skills, would be necessary if the Tokugawas and their descendents were to rule without having a state of constant warfare.

These were skills that other, more clever, men, like Yoshida, Okubo and Toyama, had. Nakamura, despite his pompous lecturing, also had a talent for creating stable administrations. Yoshida and Okubo were warriors, but the fact that Ieyasu had allowed men like Toyama and Nakamura into his inner circle showed that the balance was already shifting from the bushi to the bureaucrats.

Honda, as did most samurai, had a fatalistic view of life and death. He attributed Ieyasu’s escape from death to simple luck. If the musket ball had been just a few inches to the right, the assassination would have been successful and it would be Ieyasu lying dead, not Nakamura.

Still, Ieyasu had been lucky. He had always been lucky. His primary stroke of luck was simply outliving most of his rivals. The other contenders for the rulership of Japan had died violent deaths or, like Hideyoshi, passed away from old age. Ieyasu simply waited for his time. Ieyasu had also been lucky that, although he had been defeated in battle, none of these defeats turned out to be devastating. Through good fortune and the stupidity of his enemies, he had always survived to fight another day. Looking at Ieyasu’s entire life, where he spent his childhood as a hostage to ensure the good behavior of his clan, it was amazing that he had risen so far. He had no special skills, but the ordinary skills of a military leader and daimyo were honed in him to an unusually high degree, and these ordinary skills had proven triumphant in the end.

Still, the luck to conquer the country was not a guarantee that his house would rule the country beyond his lifetime. Hideyoshi had thought his young son would rule the country after him, but after the defeat of the forces loyal to him at Sekigahara, all the child and his mother ruled was Osaka Castle. Ieyasu ruled the country.

Transforming this rule into a dynasty was another matter altogether. Years before, Ieyasu had his first wife killed for plotting against him with another daimyo, and he forced his firstborn son and heir to commit suicide for suspected involvement in the same plot. Recently, he had almost executed his second son and current heir, Hidetada, for arriving late at the battle of Sekigahara.

Honda and others had intervened to protect this tardy son from his father’s wrath, saving his life. With such a turbulent and unstable house surrounding his Lord, how could Honda rest assured that his own house would prosper in the future?

Now, because of these unsettling times, Honda was doing something he was embarrassed about. The blunt warrior was uncertain if he was doing the right thing, and even used the back gate of his villa so that his comings and goings would attract the least attention possible.

Yoshida sat on the floor, leaning against a movable wooden armrest that was used to provide comfort in a culture without chairs. He was in the reception room of the temple he had commandeered as a residence while his villa was being built. The priests at the temple were not happy about their enforced guest, but they gave him and his men the expected courtesy, which was all Yoshida required.

He was talking to guard captains, trying to ascertain the status of their search.

“Surely you must have some idea where he is?” Yoshida said.

“Edo is a difficult town to police,” one captain said. “Before Sekigahara, it was growing, but still manageable. Now it is completely out of control. Peasants, ronin, merchants, artisans, and scoundrels are pouring into the city, and it’s impossible to track them all.”

“I’m not asking you to track them all,” Yoshida said with some irritation. “I’m asking you to track the man who tried to assassinate Ieyasu-sama. Go back to your men and redouble your efforts. This Matsuyama Kaze must be found before he tries to kill again!”