Black Arrow (35 page)

“You know nothing, fool,” cried the bald man, raising a fist, and shouts broke out all around. For a moment it looked as though a separate match would be fought in the crowd, but the whistle of the scorekeeper recalled attention to the official bout, and peace returned.

Akitada felt a touch on his sleeve. One of the young monks was bowing to him. “His Reverence asks the gentlemen to join him,” he said.

Akitada glanced across the broad courtyard at the raised veranda of the main hall where Abbot Hokko was seated with other dignitaries before brilliant red silk hangings. The abbot looked back and smiled.

So much for remaining an anonymous observer. Not only had the curio dealer guessed who he was, but now Hokko had seen him and was about to display him to the crowd.

They followed the monk to a rear staircase and then walked to the front of the great veranda. Hokko gestured to two cushions. Akitada sat beside the abbot, and Oyoshi farther back. Mercifully, the crowd below seemed too preoccupied with the contest to pay attention.

“You must forgive me, Excellency,” murmured the abbot. “I think you wished to remain unrecognized, but I have an urgent message for you.”

Akitada was irritated. “Here and at this time?”

Hokko pointed down into the courtyard. “None better,” he said. “All eyes are on the final match.”

Below Genba had reentered the ring. His opponent stood already waiting. Akitada had never seen a human being of that size. He towered even over Genba by more than a head and he was all muscle.

“Is that the man they call Tsuneya?” Akitada asked, momentarily distracted.

“Yes. And he will win,” remarked Hokko. “Still, his opponent, a stranger to me, has been very good, and that means nobody will pay attention to us.”

Akitada resented Hokko’s calm assurance about the outcome. He frowned and kept his eyes on the contestants who had begun to circle, crouching low, looking for an opening to grapple with the opponent or trip him. Genba’s adversary was huge. Bulging muscles rippled across his back and shoulders as he moved. He was also quick and tricky. Akitada saw him dodge, feint, and seize Genba several times. But again and again Genba managed to break his hold or step aside to seek his own opening. It promised to be an extraordinary match.

The confrontation took on a symbolic relevance for Akitada that far exceeded a mere exercise of skill and sportsmanship. In his imagination, Tsuneya, the local champion, stood for the forces pitted against Akitada in this mysterious and hostile land; Genba, the outsider, was the champion of distant imperial authority. The outcome of the match would spell Akitada’s success or failure.

“How can you be so sure Tsuneya will win?” he asked the abbot without taking his eyes off the wrestlers.

“I know the boy well. His mind is pure,” said Hokko simply. Then he lowered his voice. “The message I have for you was given to me by an unimpeachable source, so you may rely on its accuracy. You are to guard against an attack on the tribunal tonight or early tomorrow morning.”

Akitada tore his eyes from the contest just as Genba narrowly avoided being pushed across the rope in a mighty and roaring charge by his opponent. “What? Who sent this message?” he demanded angrily.

Hokko smiled and shook his head. “I cannot tell.”

“Then the warning is worthless.”

Hokko sighed. “You will be well advised to prepare a defense, or you and yours will be lost.”

Akitada searched the other’s face. How could he trust this man? A Buddhist abbot? His last experience with provincial clergy had taught him that pure evil could lurk behind the mask of saintliness. And why should he find an anonymous benefactor in a province where he had met with nothing but treachery? “How strong a force?” he asked.

Hokko responded with a question. “How many serve at Takata?”

Silence fell between them. Then Akitada nodded. “Thank you,” he said. “I will take your advice.”

“Look, over there is Captain Takesuke.” The abbot pointed to a small group of officers watching from the eastern gallery. “He has been most accommodating in helping with crowd control today. A very useful young man when one needs to keep peace and order.”

Akitada looked toward Takesuke, then at the abbot. Hokko nodded.

Thoughts racing, Akitada wondered about the size of the provincial guard and about the Uesugi forces. His information about the strength of either was sadly inadequate. The crisis he had feared was at hand, and he was unprepared. Dazedly he turned his eyes to the courtyard again.

In the ring, Genba feinted, ducked under Tsuneya’s arms and grasped the waistband of his opponent’s loincloth. He gave a mighty heave upward to lift Tsuneya off the ground, but the other man hooked a leg around Genba’s thigh. The two contestants strained in the thin winter sun, their bodies locked together, steaming, their muscles bulging with effort.

And Akitada felt sick at his helplessness. He had brought them all to this: Genba, Tora, Hitomaro, and old Seimei. And worst of all: What was to become of Tamako and his unborn child?

The two wrestlers broke apart, and Akitada clung desperately to the hope that fate would be with them.

Hokko touched Akitada’s sleeve. “I almost forgot. There was another part to the message. I am to tell you that the boy is safe.”

Akitada blinked. He had forgotten the missing boy over his own danger. For a moment, he did not know what to say. When he found the words to ask about Toneo, a great roar went up from the crowd: “Tsuneya! Tsuneya! Tsuneya!”

Genba had lost the match.

* * * *

THE SHELL GAME

t was only late afternoon, but lanterns swaying from the rafters of the restaurant already cast a smoky golden light over the flushed and shining faces of men; old and young, poor and well-to-do, laborers and merchants were celebrating with the champions of the wrestling contest. Harried waitresses moved among the guests, pouring warm wine and carrying heaping trays of pickled vegetables and fried fish. Someone was singing along with the folk tunes played by an old zither player, and Tsuneya, the champion, was giving a solo performance of a local dance on a sake barrel.

Genba was there also, surrounded by his own circle of supporters. It mattered little to Genba’s fans that he had lost the final match; he had come very close to winning, and that was reason enough for them to celebrate. And there was always next year.

Akitada, a stranger to all but Genba, stayed well in the background. He had come to congratulate Genba and because he wanted to gauge the mood of the local people. Their light-hearted revels reassured him, but his thoughts were on the coming night and his attention on the door to the restaurant.

Genba did not look at all unhappy with his loss to Tsuneya and was soaking up compliments, food, and wine in enormous portions. Akitada had put aside his fanciful notions about the contest somehow forecasting his future and felt relieved that Genba had not won. Winning the title would have meant his departure for the capital to perform before the emperor.

Thinking of this, Akitada leaned toward Genba and asked, “Will you continue with your wrestling?”

Genba put down his cup and burped softly behind his hand. Then he grinned, patting his huge midriff. “Sorry, sir. I’ve had no wine during training and now it seems to put wind in my belly. As for the wrestling, well, I guess it’s in my blood. I was amazed how easily it all came back to me. And that was a good match today, sir. Never think they are yokels fresh from the farm or mountain men who live in caves the rest of the year. No, people honor the art hereabouts. Tsuneya has a very good chance of becoming national champion.”

“I could see that.” Akitada’s heart sank at the thought that he was losing Genba after all. But he added bravely, “I had no idea that you were so good. I was very proud of you.”

“Thank you, sir.” Genba lowered his eyes and scratched his shiny scalp, overcome with embarrassment.

The zither player struck up another tune, and Akitada’s eyes wandered to the door again. Nothing. “So, I suppose,” he persisted, “you will not wish to take up your duties at the tribunal now?”

Genba stared at Akitada, his smile fading. “Why not? Don’t you want me anymore?”

“Don’t be foolish!” snapped his master, his nerves stretched as tight as the old man’s zither strings. “Of course I want you. I even need you. But you cannot serve as my lieutenant in the tribunal and at the same time engage in wrestling as a profession.”

“Oh!” The grin returned to Genba’s face. “In that case, don’t worry. I was afraid you were angry with me for spending so much time away. I’ll be going back to the tribunal with Hito and Tora as soon as this party is over. My landlord’s already paid off, and my things are over there in that bundle by the door. Some more wine, sir?”

“Thank you,” said Akitada with feeling and held out his cup. His eyes went to the door again. He noted the bundle, then tried to control the sick panic that had been forming in his belly ever since the abbot’s warning. But the door finally opened and Hitomaro slipped in, brushing a dusting of snow from his jacket.

Akitada put down his cup and got up to meet him. “Well?” he asked, his heart beating faster.

“No difficulties at all, sir.” Hitomaro took a tightly folded and sealed paper from his sleeve and handed it over. “The weather is changing,” he added. “The captain seems to think that will make it easier to hold the tribunal.”

Akitada felt almost dizzy with relief. He scanned the letter and nodded. “The abbot was right. Takesuke will help us. One hundred men. He expresses his eagerness to uphold imperial authority in this province. Very proper.” He gave Hitomaro the letter with a twisted smile. “Perhaps his fervent wish to ‘sacrifice his own life and that of all his soldiers in this stand against the military might of traitorous warlords’ is a little unsettling, but I am grateful for his support. It seems we are not friendless after all. Come, join us for a quick bite and a cup of wine. I expect we have a long night ahead of us.”

♦

Much later that night, past the hour of the tiger, Tora and Hitomaro, in partial armor, sat dozing in Akitada’s office. They had spent several hours helping to prepare for the defense of the tribunal. Now there was nothing left but the waiting. Akitada had sent Seimei, who was still weak from his recent illness, to bed.

The smell of wood smoke was in the air, and a faint red glimmering showed through the closed shutters where metal cressets filled with oil-soaked kindling lit the courtyard. Now and then one of the guards outside pulled his bowstring with a loud twang to show that all was safe. Their master slept, wrapped in quilts and protected from the pervasive drafts by low screens. Genba snored in a corner.

“Go turn him over,” muttered Hitomaro, “before he wakes the master.” 

Tora stumbled up, shook Genba, who grunted and rolled onto his side. From the courtyard came the muffled shouts of the sentries. Tora stretched and yawned. “I’ll take a look around,” he whispered to Hitomaro and slipped out.

Behind the screen Akitada said, “Hitomaro?”