Even though the shogun had the right to do whatever he wanted, Masahiro couldn’t let an innocent person be hurt. He lunged at the shogun, grabbed his arm, and shouted, “Stop, Your Excellency!”
The other people in the room gasped, shocked because he dared to lay a hand on their lord. The shogun emitted a startled grunt. Masahiro hauled him away from the fallen boy. He spun the shogun around to face him. Fury twisted the shogun’s mouth. He raised the fan to strike Masahiro.
Masahiro seized him by the wrist. He was aghast at his own audacity, terrified because the shogun could have him killed, but he said, “Let go of that fan!” in the stern tone that his sword-fighting teacher used when he made a mistake during a lesson.
The shogun gaped. His hand opened. He let the fan fall. The room was silent except for the injured boy’s weeping. Masahiro released the shogun. As they stared eye to eye, he was astonished to realize that they were of equal height. The shogun’s mouth trembled as if he were about to cry. Suddenly Masahiro was the powerful adult and the shogun the child at his mercy. Suddenly Masahiro pitied the supreme dictator of Japan.
“It’s all right.” Masahiro spoke in the gentle voice he used toward his sister Akiko when she was upset. “There’s no need to hit anybody. I’ll make things all better.”
“You will?” The shogun’s eyes shone with hopeful trust.
“Yes.” Masahiro heard the others sigh in relief because the danger had passed. He remembered when a horse in his father’s stable had gone wild, kicking and bucking, and the groom had seized its reins and talked to it until it calmed down. This was just like that. “I’ll find your sash.”
“But how?” The shogun gazed despairingly around the room.
Masahiro took the shogun by the hand. “We’ll sort everything. Your sash will turn up.”
That was what his nurse had taught him when he was little, when he’d cried because he’d lost his favorite toy soldier. Now he and the shogun picked up clothes, folded them, cleared out cabinets and drawers and shelves, then refilled them with neatly arranged items. Pages, boys, and the guard helped. The shogun seemed captivated by the novelty of it. When they were almost finished, he exclaimed, “Look!” He held up the black and gold sash.
Everyone cheered. The shogun beamed at Masahiro. “From now on, you shall be in charge of my private chambers.”
Masahiro felt the pride of every samurai who’d ever won a battle for his lord and been rewarded with riches. Then he realized that he’d done the very thing his father had warned him against doing. He’d attracted the shogun’s notice, and there was no going back.
Yanagisawa looked around in amazement as he rode through Edo with his four bodyguards. He’d not realized how bad the earthquake damage was, because he’d never gone out to see. He’d heard his retainers and servants talking about it, but the devastation was beyond belief. Along with his horror came an unexpected thrill. The politician in him, which was coming back to life, recognized opportunity in this crisis.
When they reached the Sumida River, he and his men dismounted at the lone dock that the earthquake hadn’t shaken loose. They climbed into two little wooden ferryboats, the only means of crossing the river now that the Ry o goku Bridge was gone. The boatmen rowed the ferries through the debris that clogged the shallows. As he crossed the clean middle of the river, Yanagisawa felt like a survivor of a stormy voyage, heading toward a new shore. In spite of his grief over Yoritomo, he felt hopeful, euphoric.
After the ferry docked, he and his guards trudged through the Honjo district. Its lumberyards, which had once supplied Edo with wood brought from forests in the provinces, looked as if a giant had picked up all the logs and flung them down like a fortune-teller casting yarrow sticks. Peasants labored to pull out the logs that jammed the canals, which had flooded the collapsed neighborhoods. A few houses had survived-the well-built estates of rich lumber merchants. Yanagisawa’s party arrived at one of these. It consisted of four houses grouped around a square courtyard, connected by covered corridors and surrounded by a bamboo fence. Guards stationed outside the gate recognized Yanagisawa and bowed.
Yanagisawa didn’t like to put all his eggs in one basket, but the earthquake had destroyed the separate villas where his four sons had lived with their mothers. His retainers had managed to commandeer this estate for them during the rush when so many people were seeking housing. Yanagisawa gazed up at the plank walls of the houses’ upper stories, the wooden shutters and bars over the windows, and the drab brown tiles on the roofs. Sumptuary laws forbade commoners to flaunt their wealth. Inside, the estate was luxurious. Yanagisawa felt apprehension mount in him as he walked through the gate. He didn’t know if what he found here would be good enough for his purposes. His heart bounded with the hope that one of these sons had Yoritomo’s looks, intelligence, and sweet, tractable personality. If only one of them could be to him what Yoritomo had been!
Yanagisawa banished the wish from his mind. Sentimentality had no place in politics.
As he approached the nearest wing of the mansion, the guard captain came out on the veranda. Yanagisawa said, “I’m here to see my sons.”
The guard captain looked surprised. Yanagisawa hadn’t seen his sons up close since they were born, when he’d examined the infants to make sure they were normal before he acknowledged them as his and provided for their support. He routinely sent his aides to check on the boys and report back to him. When he’d needed one to place close to the shogun, he’d set out to evaluate his sons and choose the best. He’d met Yoritomo-the eldest-and stopped there. Now, here on the same quest, Yanagisawa found himself jittery with nerves.
“How are they?” he asked, prolonging the suspense, avoiding disappointment.
“Tokichika, the youngest, has a fever. He’s often sick with one thing or another.”
“I don’t need to see him, then.” A sickly boy wouldn’t suit Yanagisawa’s purposes. “What about the other three?”
“They’re fine. Shall I tell them you’re here?”
“No.” Yanagisawa strode into the mansion. Walking down the corridor, he came upon a woman. She froze in her tracks. He barely recognized her as his former concubine; he didn’t remember her name. She’d gotten old; she’d gained weight. “Where’s our son?”
She gazed at him for a moment, fearful and mute, then called, “Rokuro! Come quickly! Your father is here!”
A young samurai came running. He tripped, stumbled, and almost fell. Scarlet with embarrassment, he bowed and stammered, “Greetings, Honorable Father.”
Yanagisawa winced. That a child of his could be so awkward! He could see himself in Rokuro, but the resemblance was distorted, as if his son’s features had been shaped by a sculptor using him as a model and working in the dark.
“Are you doing well in your studies?” Yanagisawa asked.
Rokuro looked at the floor. His mother answered, “He needs to work harder.”
Yanagisawa understood that Rokuro was dull-witted. “Can you sing and play music?”
“A little,” the boy muttered.
“I see.” Yanagisawa saw that Rokuro could never attract the shogun, who liked only handsome, clever, charming boys. He left the room without a backward look.
As he walked through the passage to the adjoining house, a boy ran smack into him. Yanagisawa grabbed the youth’s arms to steady them both. They stared at each other in mutual astonishment. Yanagisawa saw a face that was a young version of his own, the image of Yoritomo’s minus some ten years. His breath stopped as if he’d been punched in the chest. Here was Yoritomo, miraculously reborn!