“It’s up to us to uphold the family honor. You’ll have to do more than win children’s games if you expect to match General Fujiwara’s standard.”
Chūgo heard similar admonitions with increasing frequency throughout his young manhood, because his clan’s glee over Matsui’s disgrace soured as they watched him grow ever richer and more influential. While they scrimped to meet rising expenses with their fixed stipends, Matsui lived extravagantly. The Chūgo, as guard captains, saw the shogun during large ceremonies and business meetings; Matsui enjoyed private audiences. His position as financial agent of the Tokugawa put him closer to the seat of power than Chūgo would ever get. With a mixture of fury and humiliation, he realized that his wayward cousin had bettered him.
Now Chūgo fumed, remembering the debts he and his lord owed Matsui. He usually sublimated his desire for battle-a samurai’s rightful work-in the meticulous execution of his duties. But now, with keen pleasure, he felt the power that always flowed through his body the instant before he performed an iaijutsu exercise. He imagined his hand flashing to his sword. He saw the blade whip free of the scabbard and blur across space, yearned for the sensation of sharp steel against flesh and cartilage. In his mind, he saw Matsui fall dead, and himself the victorious warrior…
A needle of fear pierced Chūgo’s fantasy as he studied the stout, smiling, and still-very-much-alive merchant. Was Matsui calling in his loan? He couldn’t possibly pay now. He had heavy expenses and no ready cash.
“Oh, you’re right on schedule with your payments, Chūgo-san. There’s nothing to discuss… about that, anyway.”
A spate of dread swept away Chūgo’s relief. Only his samurai stoicism enabled him to feign indifference. “Then what do you want?”
Matsui’s jovial manner fell away like a dropped screen, revealing the shrewd trader who had made fortunes for himself and his clients. “We must discuss the Bundori Murders, and how to protect ourselves.”
“I don’t understand,” Chūgo stalled.
Suddenly his need for liquor almost overcame his distaste for Matsui’s hospitality. He longed to gulp the heated sake: potent, heady. Because of course he understood Matsui’s meaning.
“Sōsakan Sano has learned about General Fujiwara,” Matsui said, “and about the feud that ties him-and us-to the murders. He’s talked to you, too, hasn’t he?”
“How did you know?” Chūgo demanded, alarmed both by Matsui’s knowledge and the fact that Sano had spoken to the merchant. Sano must truly believe he would find the murderer among General Fujiwara’s descendants. What a disaster, should this information become public! “Who told you?”
Matsui shrugged impatiently. “I have many clients in the castle, whose debts I forgive in exchange for favors. Who told me isn’t important. This is: Did you tell Sōsakan Sano the family secret?”
Chūgo barely managed to contain his shock at this blatant mention of the secret, passed down through the generations since General Fujiwara’s death. It was the one tie that bound their family’s estranged branches. Chūgo could remember vividly the day his father had bequeathed it to him.
It was the first day of the seventh month, ten years ago. He’d succeeded to his retired father’s post as captain of the guard five years previously. Inspecting the castle’s outer perimeter on that hot, wet afternoon, he’d turned at the sound of his name to see his father hobbling toward him down the stone-walled passage.
“Otōsan, what is it?” Alarmed, Chūgo hurried to meet the old man, who had never before interrupted his duty.
His father waved aside the supporting hand Chūgo offered. “Son, you’ve followed the Way of the Warrior in a manner that does our clan proud. Now I must tell you something of great importance. Come.”
Although consumed with anxious curiosity, Chūgo knew his father wouldn’t speak until ready. They walked slowly along the ascending passage. The drizzle trickled off Chūgo’s armor and the old man’s cloak. Moisture steamed up from the ground. Low clouds hovered over the castle, weighty as Chūgo’s father’s unvoiced message. They stopped outside the northwest guardtower, the old man’s favorite spot, and he spoke in hushed, somber tones.
The secret’s immensity left Chūgo breathless with shock and outrage at the terrible wrong that General Fujiwara had sought so valiantly to redress. And, as his father continued, he sensed the huge responsibility that came with his new knowledge.
“As head of the family after my death, you must pass the secret on to your own eldest son before you die. Except for then, you must speak of it to no one, not even your cousins, who have also received the knowledge from their fathers. You must keep the secret alive so that some day, when the time is right, one of General Fujiwara’s descendants will complete the noble mission that he began.”
“Yes, Otōsan.”
Dazed, Chūgo answered automatically, wondering when the time would be right, and if it was he who would fulfill their clan’s destiny. In the years that followed, he’d guarded the secret zealously, awaiting some signal to act. How dare Matsui suggest that he would reveal the secret to Sōsakan Sano?
“Of course I didn’t tell him,” Chūgo said sharply.
“Good.” Matsui refilled his cup. “Now I want your promise that you’ll continue to keep quiet. Sōsakan Sano has guessed that the murders originate in our family’s past. But without knowing the motive behind them, he can’t build a good case against us. As long as he never learns our secret, he can never harm us.”
He added, “And if you’re considering using it to divert his suspicion onto others, remember that the secret incriminates you as well.”
The unjust accusation and the prospect of colluding with Matsui curdled Chūgo’s stomach, even as he realized the necessity of a conspiracy. He knew he would never tell the secret, but he needed assurance that the dishonorable, untrustworthy merchant wouldn’t, either.
“I have nothing to fear,” he said in futile protest. “I have an alibi that no one will ever break. Are you afraid because you can’t say the same?”
Matsui let loose a hearty peal of laughter. “Don’t be ridiculous. My bodyguards can vouch for me. But I have another alibi that’s even better: my innocence. I’m no murderer.”
Chūgo stared, amazed that Matsui could lie with such perfect sincerity. He knew for a fact that the merchant had killed in the distant, if not the recent past. The incident, a culmination of all the offenses Matsui had inflicted upon Chūgo’s family, had provided a shattering aftermath for Chūgo’s greatest professional triumph.
By age thirty, Chūgo had served as gate sentry, patrol and palace guard, squadron commander in both the army and navy- all in preparation for someday assuming his father’s post as captain of the guard-and had just achieved the rank of lieutenant. His first major task: conveying Shogun Tokugawa Iemitsu on a pilgrimage to Zōjō Temple.
The huge procession, a series of palanquins carrying the shogun and his party, attended by squadrons of armed guards, had snaked through Edo ’s winding streets. Chūgo, as the guards’ superior, rode through the ranks, constantly on the lookout for the slightest breach of security. Proud of the mighty defense he’d planned and now directed, he’d wished General Fujiwara could see him.
He was riding with the advance guard when suddenly he heard shouts. Rushing straight toward the shogun’s palanquin came a ragged, unshaven samurai, waving a sword. Chūgo didn’t pause to wonder whether the attacker’s blood lust was due to drink, madness, or anger at the regime. While his troops were still turning to assess the threat, he cut swiftly through their ranks. Before the samurai reached the procession, Chūgo intercepted him, sword drawn. One stroke of Chūgo’s blade, and the attacker lay dead at his feet.