Kill the Shogun (3 page)

“And you, Nakamura-san?”

“I suppose one would have to compare the progress and cost of this part of the castle with the rest of the castle,” Nakamura began. “Then one sees if the relative progress here was better than the rest of the project. However—”

“Thank you, Nakamura-san,” Ieyasu broke in. “And what do you think, Yoshida-san?”

“I agree with Honda-san. The progress here is fine.”

Ieyasu secretly agreed, and he was pleased that Yoshida was so direct. Yoshida combined the intelligence of the new daimyo with the directness of Ieyasu’s Mikawa bushi, like Honda. Ieyasu liked him.

“And you, Toyama-san?”

“I believe—”

A sharp crack rang out. The daimyo, all experienced warriors, knew immediately it was the sound of a musket. Nakamura grabbed his chest and spun around, falling off the edge of the wall and tumbling like a rag doll down the sloping stone wall of the castle into the dry moat. Ieyasu looked down at Nakamura’s body and could tell from the way he landed that Nakamura was dead before he hit the earth.

“Protect the Shogun!” Yoshida shouted, and he followed his words with actions, stepping in front of Ieyasu to shield him. Seeing Yoshida’s example, Honda joined him in shielding Ieyasu as the other daimyo took Ieyasu behind the shelter of the wall. The Shogun shrugged off their urging hands and stalked off the wall at his own speed.

The mighty make plans
as if they were immortal.
Worms still gnaw their bones.

I
t was a sign from heaven,” Toyama said. “The divine hand of the Gods, sparing Ieyasu-sama like that.”

“Ha! It was just a bad shot. If it was a sign from heaven, heaven was a bit hard on Nakamura-san,” Honda said.

Ieyasu entered the teahouse that had been constructed especially for this inspection tour. It was designed to allow the Shogun to rest and take some refreshments. He looked as phlegmatic as ever, although now he had a guard around him that waited at the door. Honda, Toyama, and Okubo were already in the teahouse, but, unlike the Shogun, they were still agitated by the incident.

“Are you all right, Ieyasu-sama?” Toyama asked.

“Of course,” Ieyasu said. Toyama’s excitement reminded Ieyasu that Toyama had relatively little battle experience. Ieyasu had been in over ninety battles and had survived several assassination plots.

Yoshida entered the teahouse and knelt on one knee in salute.

“Well?” Ieyasu said.

“I mobilized my men,” Yoshida said. “They’re already starting a search for the assassin.”

“Is Nakamura-san dead?”

“I’m sorry, Ieyasu-sama, but Nakamura-san has gone to the void. But we will find the assassins. My men are already talking to the soldiers who were guarding that portion of the crowd.”

“I appreciate your efficiency, Yoshida-san,” Ieyasu said.

Toyama said, “It must have been someone in the crowd. Surely they must have caught him. It was at least eighty paces from where we were to the edge of the crowd.”

“I shoot three shots with a musket every day for practice,” Ieyasu observed. “I agree an ordinary gun would not carry much beyond eighty paces, but I have killed a crane at one hundred twenty paces using a gun made by Inatomi Gaiki. If the assassin used such a gun, he could hide on the roof of the houses or the yagura. Have someone check this.”

Honda, who had been disturbed by Yoshida’s willingness to take charge, jumped in and said, “Of course, Ieyasu-sama. I’ll have my men look into this.”

Ieyasu noticed Honda’s willingness to be of help, but he said, “Yoshida-san’s men are already investigating. It would be best to let them finish the investigation, instead of having two groups do it.”

Clearly displeased, Honda said, “Yes, Ieyasu-sama.”

“I appreciate your standing in front of me to block any additional bullets,” Ieyasu said to Honda. “You and Yoshida-san acted quickly to shield me. It is the duty of every retainer to die to protect the life of his lord, but you two had presence of mind and acted quickly.” This was a rebuke to Toyama and Okubo, and Ieyasu could see their faces turn red.

“But Ieyasu-sama—” Toyama started.

“I don’t want to discuss it now.” Ieyasu said this in a calm voice, but Toyama was stopped in mid-sentence by the Shogun’s tone. Ieyasu noted with satisfaction that Okubo had enough sense to keep his mouth shut.

Yoshida excused himself to check on the housetops, and Ieyasu said, “Call the chief architect in to see me.”

The architect was hurriedly summoned. When he arrived, Ieyasu said, “I’ve decided we should expand the size of the castle. We should also publish decrees that no building or tower may be constructed which looks down into the castle.”

The architect was surprised that Ieyasu could be so calm after an assassination attempt and so interested in discussing military matters. Ieyasu was famous for always mulling over political and military matters. Once, during a dramatic moment in a Noh performance, an art Ieyasu was enough interested in to actually participate in performances, he leaned over to a daimyo and remarked, “I’ve been thinking, it’s just about time to cut the bamboo for military banners.”

“How much bigger do you want the castle?” the architect stammered.

“I think fourteen thousand paces for the outer wall will do.”

“Fourteen thousand! Ieyasu-sama, that is many times bigger than the current plans!”

“I think today’s events justify changing the plans,” Ieyasu said coldly.

“Yes, Ieyasu-sama,” the architect stammered.

“When you get the new plans done, tell me. I’ll have to alert the daimyo that they will be contributing to this project.”

Ieyasu dismissed him with a wave of his hand; then he ordered tea and relaxed, as if totally oblivious to the attempt on his life and the death of one of his chief counselors.

I
have news,” Yoshida reported.

Ieyasu raised an eyebrow, but said nothing, waiting for Yoshida’s report. Ieyasu had an undistinguished face, with jowly cheeks
and a thin mustache. His eyes were close-set but intense, and his pate was shaved in the standard samurai fashion. His hair was now mostly gray, with only a few stray strands of black.

“We found the fire observer killed in the yagura across from the wall. His throat was slit. So the assassin must have been waiting in the fire watchtower. It’s around one hundred and forty paces from the watchtower to the wall, so you were correct that no ordinary gun was used. More importantly, we know who the assassin is.”

Ieyasu sat impassively, waiting for Yoshida to finish, but the other daimyo in the teahouse couldn’t keep excitement and surprise off their faces.

“One of the guard captains was patrolling the crowd when he saw a street entertainer. The entertainer looked familiar to him, but he couldn’t place his face. Then we appeared on the wall and the guard was busy making sure everyone in the crowd was showing proper obeisance.

“After the shot was fired, there was pandemonium in the crowd. The common people were very concerned about your safety, Ieyasu-sama. The guard said he started a search immediately, because, like us, he thought the shot must have come from the crowd. The excited crowd made such a search difficult, but the guard captain swears the street entertainer who caught his eye was no longer in the crowd. Obviously, he had left the crowd to go to the yagura to try to assassinate you, Ieyasu-sama.”

“For goodness’ sake! Who was this entertainer?” the blunt Honda broke in. Years of friendship made Ieyasu indulge his companion’s lack of proper protocol.

Yoshida said a name. “He’s still on the list of men we are looking for after Sekigahara,” Yoshida added. Ieyasu took a quick glance at Okubo, and he saw the tall daimyo’s thin, scarred face cloud over with hate. Interesting.

“Who is that?” asked Toyama. Ieyasu had already decided that
Toyama was a fool and that he would be sending him to a new, remote fief in Shikoku or Kyushu to get rid of him. Although Ieyasu hoped to ensure peace, Toyama’s ignorance of military matters was still unacceptable.

“He’s the one who won the sword contest Hideyoshi-sama had many years ago,” Honda said. “Okubo-san has reason to know him!” Honda’s braying laughter filled the small teahouse.

Even Toyama understood this reference. Okubo was crippled because he was a finalist in Hideyoshi’s sword contest. Although they used wooden swords for the contest, one samurai was killed because every man tried his utmost to win. In the final match, Okubo was defeated by the overall winner. In the course of this match, the winner had maimed Okubo for life, putting a scar on his face and damaging his left leg.

Okubo tightened his jaw but controlled his anger, something Ieyasu saw and approved of. Many times in his life, Ieyasu had controlled his anger and every other emotion, when he found it beneficial.

“I have some information about that man,” Okubo said tightly. “He no longer goes by that name. He now calls himself Matsuyama Kaze, Wind on Pine Mountain.”

“What a weird name,” Honda said. “How do you know this?”

“After Sekigahara, that man made trouble for me; then he disappeared,” Okubo said. “I thought he had taken the honorable way and killed himself, but recently my men spotted him in Kamakura. They couldn’t capture him, but they made inquiries in the town and were able to learn his new name. Unfortunately, they weren’t able to locate him before he slaughtered a prominent merchant and his entire household. He’s obviously become an outlaw of the worst order and now he’s dared to try and kill the Shogun! He must be hunted down like a dog and killed.”

“Okubo-san, Honda-san, why don’t you both try to find this ‘Wind on Pine Mountain’ for me,” Ieyasu said.

“
Hai!
Yes, Ieyasu-sama,” both lords said.

“Good. Yoshida-san will be joining you in this search. In fact, I want him to lead the search.” Both daimyo showed considerably less enthusiasm when Ieyasu mentioned Yoshida. With Nakamura gone, perhaps Yoshida would make a good substitute. He dismissed the daimyo with a motion of his hand. They left the teahouse, making the proper bows to the ruler of Japan. Trading on his friendship and status as a
hatamoto
, a direct vassal of the Shogun, Honda lingered after the rest had left.

“You know, I don’t think I can be killed with a musket ball,” Ieyasu mused.

Honda looked at him with surprise. “Why do you say that?”

Honda counted on his long relationship with Ieyasu to leave off Ieyasu’s tide, not addressing him as “Ieyasu-sama” when they were together.

“Well, in one battle I was shot twice by musket balls,” Ieyasu said. “Both times, the musket balls lodged themselves in my armor and didn’t kill me or even wound me. Now I’ve been shot at again, but this time the ball hit Nakamura-san by mistake, killing him and leaving me totally untouched.”

“It’s all well and good to believe in your own destiny,” Honda said. “But destiny or no, a man is dead if a musket ball hits him in the right spot.”

Ieyasu laughed, looking fondly at his old camp companion and fellow warrior. “It’s a shame that my new responsibilities take me away from talking to you and my other generals,” Ieyasu said. “But my life is changing, and I must take care to establish my rule and my family’s rule, and that takes time. I miss the old days, when we would share the warmth of a campfire, talking frankly about any topic that comes up.”

Honda looked at Ieyasu, thinking that Ieyasu’s words paralleled his own feelings and thoughts. He hated the way life was turning and much preferred the path of war, where he understood the
rules. The new age they were moving into disturbed Honda and made him feel like an outsider whose skills were no longer needed.

Ieyasu picked up a cup of tea and took a sip. “So, Honda, what have you been up to?”

Honda looked at Ieyasu and almost blushed. Sitting with his old lord, swapping opinions just as they would do on military campaigns, Honda almost weakened and was ready to confess to Ieyasu what he was doing. But Honda knew that his customary bluntness was not always beneficial.

“I’ll be spending my time looking for your would-be assassin, so that we don’t have to put to the test your theory that you can’t be killed with a musket ball,” Honda said. “What do you think? Is this ronin, Matsuyama Kaze, the man who tried to shoot you today?”

Ieyasu, who rarely told people what he thought, answered Honda’s question with some questions of his own.

“Do you think this Matsuyama Kaze is a true samurai?”

Honda thought a minute. “He’s a dangerous man. That’s why he’s still on our list of men we want captured. Still, he had a reputation for courage and honor before the war, so I suppose he is probably a true samurai.”

“And what are the weapons of the true samurai?”

“The sword and the bow,” Honda said without hesitation.

“Exactly,” Ieyasu answered.

The bottom of a
deep well on a moonless night.
Darker still a heart.

T
oyama 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.

H
onda 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.

Y
oshida 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!”