Is he telling me that because of my own Murasama sword? Yabu asked himself. Many people know I possess one. Or is he just an old man who remembers a special day in a long life? “What was Toranaga’s grandfather like?” he asked, feigning lack of interest, testing Suwo.
“Tall, Yabu-sama. Taller than you and much thinner when I knew him. He was twenty-five the day he died.” Suwo’s voice warmed. “Eeeee, Yabu-sama, he was a warrior at twelve and our liege lord at fifteen when his own father was killed in a skirmish. At that time, Lord Chikitada was married and had already sired a son. It was a pity that he had to die. Obata Hiro was his friend as well as vassal, seventeen then, but someone had poisoned young Obata’s mind, saying that Chikitada had planned to kill his father treacherously. Of course it was all lies but that didn’t bring Chikitada back to lead us. Young Obata knelt in front of the body and bowed three times. He said that he had done the deed out of filial respect for his father and now wished to atone for his insult to us and our clan by committing seppuku. He was given permission. First he washed Chikitada’s head with his own hands and set it in a place of reverence. Then he cut himself open and died manfully, with great ceremony, one of our men acting as his second and removing his head with a single stroke. Later his father came to collect his son’s head and the Murasama sword. Things became bad for us. Lord Chikitada’s only son was taken hostage somewhere and our part of the clan fell on evil times. That was—”
“You’re lying, old man. You were never there.” Yabu had turned around and he was staring up at the man, who had frozen instantly. “The sword was broken and destroyed after Obata’s death.”
“No, Yabu-sama. That is the legend. I saw the father come and collect the head and the sword. Who would want to destroy such a piece of art? That would have been sacrilege. His father collected it.”
“What did he do with it?”
“No one knows. Some said he threw it into the sea because he liked and honored our Lord Chikitada as a brother. Others said that he buried it and that it lurks in wait for the grandson, Yoshi Toranaga.”
“What do you think he did with it?”
“Threw it into the sea.”
“Did you see him?”
“No.”
Yabu lay back again and the fingers began their work. The thought that someone else knew that the sword had not been broken thrilled him strangely. You should kill Suwo, he told himself. Why? How could a blind man recognize the blade? It is like any Murasama blade and the handle and scabbard have been changed many times over the years. No one can know that your sword is the sword that has gone from hand to hand with increasing secrecy as the power of Toranaga increased. Why kill Suwo? The fact that he’s alive has added a zest. You’re stimulated. Leave him alive—you can kill him at any time. With the sword.
That thought pleased Yabu as he let himself drift once more, greatly at ease. One day soon, he promised himself, I will be powerful enough to wear my Murasama blade in Toranaga’s presence. One day, perhaps, I will tell him the story of my sword.
“What happened next?” he asked, wishing to be lulled by the old man’s voice.
“We just fell on evil times. That was the year of the great famine, and, now that my master was dead, I became ronin.” Ronin were landless or masterless peasant-soldiers or samurai who, through dishonor or the loss of their masters, were forced to wander the land until some other lord would accept their services. It was difficult for ronin to find new employment. Food was scarce, almost every man was a soldier, and strangers were rarely trusted. Most of the robber bands and corsairs who infested the land and the coast were ronin. “That year was very bad and the next. I fought for anyone—a battle here, a skirmish there. Food was my pay. Then I heard that there was food in plenty in Kyushu so I started to make my way west. That winter I found a sanctuary. I managed to become hired by a Buddhist monastery as a guard. I fought for them for half a year, protecting the monastery and their rice fields from bandits. The monastery was near Osaka and, at that time—long before the Taikō obliterated most of them—the bandits were as plentiful as swamp mosquitoes. One day, we were ambushed and I was left for dead. Some monks found me and healed my wound. But they could not give me back my sight.”
His fingers probed deeper and ever deeper. “They put me with a blind monk who taught me how to massage and to see again with my fingers. Now my fingers tell me more than my eyes used to, I think.
“The last thing I can remember seeing with my eyes was the bandit’s widespread mouth and rotting teeth, the sword a glittering arc and beyond, after the blow, the scent of flowers. I saw perfume in all its colors, Yabu-sama. That was all long ago, long before the barbarians came to our land—fifty, sixty years ago—but I saw the perfume’s colors. I saw nirvana, I think, and for the merest moment, the face of Buddha. Blindness is a small price to pay for such a gift, neh?”
There was no answer. Suwo had expected none. Yabu was sleeping, as was planned. Did you like my story, Yabu-sama? Suwo asked silently, amused as an old man would be. It was all true but for one thing. The monastery was not near Osaka but across your western border. The name of the monk? Su, uncle of your enemy, Ikawa Jikkyu.
I could snap your neck so easily, he thought. It would be a favor to Omi-san. It would be a blessing to the village. And it would repay, in tiny measure, my patron’s gift. Should I do it now? Or later?
Spillbergen held up the bundled stalks of rice straw, his face stretched. “Who wants to pick first?”
No one answered. Blackthorne seemed to be dozing, leaning against the corner from which he had not moved. It was near sunset.
“Someone’s got to pick first,” Spillbergen rasped. “Come on, there’s not much time.”
They had been given food and a barrel of water and another barrel as a latrine. But nothing with which to wash away the stinking offal or to clean themselves. And the flies had come. The air was fetid, the earth mud-mucous. Most of the men were stripped to the waist, sweating from the heat. And from fear.
Spillbergen looked from face to face. He came back to Blackthorne. “Why—why are you eliminated? Eh? Why?”
The eyes opened and they were icy. “For the last time: I—don’t—know.”
“It’s not fair. Not fair.”
Blackthorne returned to his reverie. There must be a way to break out of here. There must be a way to get the ship. That bastard will kill us all eventually, as certain as there’s a north star. There’s not much time, and I was eliminated because they’ve some particular rotten plan for me.
When the trapdoor had closed they had all looked at him, and someone had said, “What’re we going to do?”
“I don’t know,” he had answered.
“Why aren’t you to be picked?”
“I don’t know.”
“Lord Jesus help us,” someone whimpered.
“Get the mess cleared up,” he ordered. “Pile the filth over there!”
“We’ve no mops or—”
“Use your hands!”
They did as he ordered and he helped them and cleaned off the Captain-General as best he could. “You’ll be all right now.”
“How—how are we to choose someone?” Spillbergen asked.
“We don’t. We fight them.”
“With what?”
“You’ll go like a sheep to the butcher? You will?”