The Court of the Son of Heaven was easy to dominate because, though it possessed all the land, it had no revenue. Only daimyos, samurai, possessed revenue and the right to tax. And so it was that although all members of the Imperial Court were above all samurai in rank, they still existed on a stipend granted the Court at the whim of the Shōgun, the Kwampaku—the civil Chief Adviser—or the ruling military junta of the day. Few were generous. Some Emperors had even had to barter their signatures for food. Many times there was not enough money for a coronation.
At length the Minowara Shōguns lost their power to others, to Takashima or Fujimoto descendants. And as the civil wars continued unabated over the centuries, the Emperor became more and more the creature of the daimyo who was strong enough to obtain physical possession of Kyoto. The moment the new conqueror of Kyoto had slaughtered the ruling Shōgun and his line, he would—providing he was Minowara, Takashima, or Fujimoto—with humility, swear allegiance to the throne and humbly invite the powerless Emperor to grant him the now vacant rank of Shōgun. Then, like his predecessors, he would try to extend his rule outward from Kyoto until he in his turn was swallowed by another. Emperors married, abdicated, or ascended the throne at the whim of the Shōgunate. But always the reigning Emperor’s bloodline was inviolate and unbroken.
So the Shōgun was all powerful. Until he was overthrown.
Many were unseated over the centuries as the realm splintered into ever smaller factions. For the last hundred years no single daimyo had ever had enough power to become Shōgun. Twelve years ago the peasant General Nakamura had had the power and he had obtained the mandate from the present Emperor, Go-Nijo. But Nakamura could not be granted Shōgun rank however much he desired it, because he was born a peasant. He had to be content with the much lesser civilian title of Kwampaku, Chief Adviser, and later, when he resigned that title to his infant son, Yaemon—though keeping all power, as was quite customary—he had to be content with Taikō. By historic custom only the descendants of the sprawling, ancient, semidivine families of the Minowara, Takashima, and Fujimoto were entitled to the rank of Shōgun.
Toranaga was descended from the Minowara. Yabu could trace his lineage to a vague and minor branch of the Takashima, enough of a connection if ever he could become supreme.
“Eeeee, Lady,” Yabu said, “of course Toranaga wants to be Shōgun, but he’ll never achieve it. The other Regents despise and fear him. They neutralize him, as the Taikō planned.” He leaned forward and studied his wife intently. “You say Toranaga’s going to lose to Ishido?”
“He will be isolated, yes. But in the end I don’t think he’ll lose, Sire. I beg you not to disobey Lord Toranaga, and not to leave Yedo just to examine the barbarian ship, no matter how unusual Omi-san says it is. Please send Zukimoto to Anjiro.”
“What if the ship contains bullion? Silver or gold? Would you trust Zukimoto or any of our officers with it?”
“No,” his wife had said.
So that night he had slipped out of Yedo secretly, with only fifty men, and now he had wealth and power beyond his dreams and unique captives, one of whom was going to die tonight. He had arranged for a courtesan and a boy to be ready later. At dawn tomorrow he would return to Yedo. By sunset tomorrow the guns and the bullion would begin their secret journey.
Eeeee, the guns! he thought exultantly. The guns and the plan together will give me the power to make Ishido win, or Toranaga—whomever I chose. Then I’ll become a Regent in the loser’s place, neh? Then the most powerful Regent. Why not even Shōgun? Yes. It’s all possible now.
He let himself drift pleasantly. How to use the twenty thousand pieces of silver? I can rebuild the castle keep. And buy special horses for the cannon. And expand our espionage web. What about Ikawa Jikkyu? Would a thousand pieces be enough to bribe Ikawa Jikkyu’s cooks to poison him? More than enough! Five hundred, even one hundred in the right hands would be plenty. Whose?
The afternoon sun was slanting through the small window set into the stone walls. The bath water was very hot and heated by a wood fire built into the outside wall. This was Omi’s house and it stood on a small hill overlooking the village and the harbor. The garden within its walls was neat and serene and worthy.
The bathroom door opened. The blind man bowed. “Kasigi Omi-san sent me, Sire. I am Suwo, his masseur.” He was tall and very thin and old, his face wrinkled.
“Good.” Yabu had always had a terror of being blinded. As long as he could remember he had had dreams of waking in blackness, knowing it was sunlight, feeling the warmth but not seeing, opening his mouth to scream, knowing that it was dishonorable to scream, but screaming even so. Then the real awakening and the sweat streaming.
But this horror of blindness seemed to increase his pleasure at being massaged by the sightless.
He could see the jagged scar on the man’s right temple and the deep cleft in the skull below it. That’s a sword cut, he told himself. Did that cause his blindness? Was he a samurai once? For whom? Is he a spy?
Yabu knew that the man would have been searched very carefully by his guards before being allowed to enter, so he had no fear of a concealed weapon. His own prized long sword was within reach, an ancient blade made by the master swordsmith Murasama. He watched the old man take off his cotton kimono and hang it up without seeking the peg. There were more sword scars on his chest. His loincloth was very clean. He knelt, waiting patiently.
Yabu got out of the bath when he was ready and lay on the stone bench. The old man dried Yabu carefully, put fragrant oil on his hands, and began to knead the muscles in the daimyo’s neck and back.
Tension began to vanish as the very strong fingers moved over Yabu, probing deeply with surprising skill. “That’s good. Very good,” he said after a while.
“Thank you, Yabu-sama,” Suwo said. Sama, meaning “Lord,” was an obligatory politeness when addressing a superior.
“Have you served Omi-san long?”
“Three years, Sire. He is very kind to an old man.”
“And before that?”
“I wandered from village to village. A few days here, half a year there, like a butterfly on the summer’s breath.” Suwo’s voice was as soothing as his hands. He had decided that the daimyo wanted him to talk and he waited patiently for the next question and then he would begin. Part of his art was to know what was required and when. Sometimes his ears told him this, but mostly it was his fingers that seemed to unlock the secret of the man or woman’s mind. His fingers were telling him to beware of this man, that he was dangerous and volatile, his age about forty, a good horseman and excellent sword fighter. Also that his liver was bad and that he would die within two years. Saké, and probably aphrodisiacs, would kill him. “You are strong for your age, Yabu-sama.”
“So are you. How old are you, Suwo?”
The old man laughed but his fingers never ceased. “I’m the oldest man in the world—my world. Everyone I’ve ever known is dead long since. It must be more than eighty years—I’m not sure. I served Lord Yoshi Chikitada, Lord Toranaga’s grandfather, when the clan’s fief was no bigger than this village. I was even at the camp the day he was assassinated.”
Yabu deliberately kept his body relaxed with an effort of will but his mind sharpened and he began to listen intently.
“That was a grim day, Yabu-sama. I don’t know how old I was—but my voice hadn’t broken yet. The assassin was Obata Hiro, a son of his most powerful ally. Perhaps you know the story, how the youth struck Lord Chikitada’s head off with a single blow of his sword. It was a Murasama blade and that’s what started the superstition that all Murasama blades are filled with unluck for the Yoshi clan.”