Shinju (2 page)

The wide canal, lined with whitewashed warehouses, was jammed with barges and fishing boats. Smoke from countless charcoal braziers and stoves formed a haze over the low tiled and thatched rooftops that extended over the plain in all directions. Through it he could see Edo Castle perched on its hill at the end of the canal. There Ieyasu, first of the Tokugawa shoguns, had established the seat of his military dictatorship seventy-four years ago, fifteen years after defeating his rival warlords in the Battle of Sekigahara. The upturned eaves of the keep's many roofs made it look like a pyramid of white birds ready to take flight: a fitting symbol of the peace that had followed that battle, the longest peace Japan had known in five centuries. Beyond the castle, the western hills were a soft shadow, only slightly less blue than the sky. Mount Fuji's distant snow-capped cone rose above them. Temple bells tolled faintly, adding to the panoply of sounds.

At the foot of the bridge, Sano passed the noisy, malodorous fish market. He edged his horse through the narrow winding streets of Nihonbashi, the peasants' and merchants' quarter named after the bridge. In the open wooden storefronts of one street, sake sellers bartered with their customers. Around the next corner, men labored over steaming vats in a row of dyers' shops. Mud and refuse squished under the horses' hooves and pedestrians' shoes. Sano turned another corner.

And emerged into a vast open space where last night's fire had leveled three entire blocks. The charred remains of perhaps fifty houses—ash, blackened rafters and beams, soaked debris, fallen roof tiles—littered the ground. The bitter smell of burnt cypress wood hung in the air. Forlorn residents picked their way through the mess, hunting for salvageable items.

“
Aiiya
,” an old woman keened. “My home, all my things, gone! Oh, what will I do?” Others took up her cry.

Sano sighed and shook his head. Thirty-two years ago—two years before his birth—the Great Fire had destroyed most of the city and taken a hundred thousand lives. And still the “blossoms of Edo,” as the fires were known, bloomed almost every week among the wooden buildings where a strong wind could quickly fan a single spark into a ferocious blaze. From their rickety wooden towers high above the rooftops, the firewatchers rang bells at the first sight of a flame. Edo's citizens slept uneasily, listening for the alarm. Most fires were accidents, caused by innocent mistakes such as a lamp placed too near a paper screen, but arson wasn't uncommon.

He'd come to learn whether this fire had resulted from arson. But one look at the ruins told him he could not expect to find evidence. He would have to rely on witnesses' stories. Dismounting, he approached a man who was dragging an iron chest from the rubble.

“Did you see the fire start?” he called.

He never heard the answer. Just then, running footsteps and cries of “Stop, stop!” sounded behind him. Sano turned. A thin man dressed in rags streaked past, panting and sobbing. A pack of ruffians brandishing clubs stampeded after him. The man's bare feet slipped in the mud, and he went sprawling about ten paces from Sano. Immediately the pursuers set upon their quarry, clubs flailing.

“You'll die for this, you miserable animal!” one of them shouted.

The ragged man's sobs turned to screams of pain and terror as he threw up his arms to shield his head from the blows.

Sano hurried over and grabbed the arm of one of the attackers. “Stop, you'll kill him! What do you think you're doing?”

“Who's asking?”

At the sound of the gruff voice beside him, Sano turned. A burly man with small, mean eyes stood at his elbow. He wore a short kimono over cotton leggings; his cropped hair and the single short sword fastened at the waist of his gray cloak marked him as a samurai of low rank. Then Sano caught sight of the object in the man's right hand, a strong steel wand with two curved prongs above the hilt for catching the blade of an attacker's sword. It was a
jitte
, a parrying weapon, standard equipment of the
doshin
, the law enforcement officers who patrolled the city and maintained order.

Comprehension flashed through Sano. This man was one of his hundred-odd subordinates, one of the long line of bowed heads he'd passed during the formal ceremony at which his staff was presented to him. The armed ruffians, who had ceased torturing their victim to look at him, were the
doshin
's civilian assistants. Privately employed by their superior—and responsible only to him—they performed the dirty work of policing, such as capturing criminals, under his direction. Now three of them moved menacingly in on Sano.

“Who are you?” the
doshin
demanded again.

Sano said, “I am
Yoriki
Sano Ichirō. Now explain to me why your men are beating this citizen.”

Although he kept his voice calm and stern, his heartbeat quickened. He'd had little chance to exercise his new authority.

The
doshin
's mouth gaped. He passed a hand over his jutting jaw in obvious confusion. Then he bowed obsequiously.

“
Yoriki
Sano-
san
,” he muttered. “Didn't recognize you.”

He jerked his head at his assistants, who formed a hasty line and bowed, hands on their knees. “My sincerest apologies.”

His sullen tone belied the respectful words. Sano could sense the
doshin
's veiled contempt. The mean little eyes narrowed still more as they traveled over his freshly shaved crown and his oiled hair drawn into a neat looped knot at the back. They registered
disgust at the sight of Sano's best outer garment, the black-and-brown-striped
haori
, and his new black
hakama
, the wide trousers he wore beneath it. Sano bristled at such open rudeness, but he could understand the man's contempt. The reputation of
yoriki
for vanity was well known. He himself cared little for fashion, but his superior, Magistrate Ogyu, had stressed the importance of proper dress and appearance.

“Your apologies are accepted,” Sano said, deciding to address the matter at hand instead of making an issue over his subordinate's manners. “Now answer my question: what has this man done for which you must punish him?”

Now Sano could see bewilderment on the
doshin
's face.
Yoriki
seldom ventured into the streets, preferring to keep their distance from the rough-and-tumble of everyday police work. They appeared only for very serious incidents, and then as field commanders dressed in full armor with helmet and lance. Sano supposed he was the first to ever investigate a common fire.

“He did this,” the
doshin
answered, gesturing at the ruins. “Set the fire. Killed fifteen people.” He spat at the man, who still lay facedown in the mud, shoulders trembling with muffled sobs.

“How do you know?”

The
doshin
's prominent jaw thrust out even further, in anger and resentment. “The townspeople saw a man fleeing the street just after the fire started,
Yoriki
Sano-
san
. And he confessed.”

Sano walked past the assistants and over to the fallen man. “It's all right,” he said gently. “Get up now.”

Clumsily the man hunched at the waist, then rose to his knees. Sitting back on his heels, he wiped the mud from his face. Then, to Sano's surprise, his mouth opened in a wide, toothless smile.

“Yes, master.” His head bobbed, and his eyes twinkled. Despite the wrinkles that creased his cheeks and forehead, he looked as innocent as a child.

“What's your name?” Sano asked.

“Yes, master.”

Sano repeated the question. Getting the same response, he tried another. “Where do you live?”

“Yes, master.”

“Did you start the fire?” Sano asked, beginning to understand.

“Yes, master, yes master!” Then, seeing Sano's frown, the man lost his smile. He got to his feet, but fell back as the
doshin
's assistants surrounded him again. “No hurt, master!” he pleaded.

“No one will harm you.” Furious, Sano turned to the
doshin
. “This man is a simpleton. He doesn't understand you, or what he's saying. You cannot accept his confession.”

The
doshin
's face flushed, and he squared his shoulders. The
jitte
shook in his clenched fist. “I asked him if he started the fire. He said yes. How was I to know he was an idiot?”

A voice from the swelling crowd of spectators cried, “If you'd taken the time to talk to him, you would have found out!” Someone else shouted, “He's just a harmless old beggar!” Mutters of agreement followed.

“Shut up!” The
doshin
turned on the crowd, and the mutters faded. Then he faced Sano. “Arson is a serious crime,” he said with exaggerated patience and not a little self-righteousness. “Someone must pay.”

For a moment, Sano was too appalled to speak. This law officer—and many others, if the rumors he'd heard were correct—cared more about finding a scapegoat than about uncovering the truth. He wanted to chastise the man for shirking his duty. Then he saw the
doshin
's free hand stray toward the short sword. He knew that only his rank kept the man from challenging him on the spot. He'd made the
doshin
lose face before the assistants and the townspeople. And, on his first day in the field, he had made an enemy.

To make peace, he contented himself with saying, “Then we must find the real arsonist. You and your men and I will question the witnesses.”

Sano watched the
doshin
and his men move off to mingle with the crowd. A curious elation came over him. He'd corrected an injustice and probably saved a man's life. For the first time, he realized that being a
yoriki
offered many opportunities for seeking the truth, and just as many rewards for finding it. More, perhaps, than his work as a scholar, poring over old documents. But he wondered uneasily how many more enemies he would make.

It was early afternoon by the time Sano returned to the administrative district, located in Hibiya, southeast of Edo Castle. There the city's high officials had their office-mansions, where they both lived and worked. Messengers bearing rolled documents passed Sano as he rode along the narrow lanes between earthen walls that shielded the tile-roofed, half-timbered houses. Dignitaries dressed in bright, flowing silk garments walked in pairs or groups; fragments of conversation dealing with affairs of state and the latest political gossip reached Sano's ears. Servants scurried in and out of the gates, carrying trays stacked high with lacquer lunchboxes. The thought of those delicacies made Sano regret the greasy noodles he'd eaten at a food stall on his way back. But the arson investigation had taken longer than he'd anticipated, and the quick though unpleasant meal he'd had would let him return to his other duties without further delay. Turning the corner, he headed toward police headquarters.

“
Yoriki
Sano-
san
!” A breathless messenger ran up to him, ducking in a hasty bow. “Please, sir, Magistrate Ogyu would like to see you at once. In the Court of Justice, sir.” He raised questioning eyes for Sano's response.

“Very well. You're dismissed.”

A summons from the magistrate could not go ignored. Sano changed course.

Magistrate Ogyu's mansion was one of the largest in the district. At the roofed portals of its gate, Sano identified himself to a pair of guards dressed in leather armor and headgear. He left his horse
with them, then entered the mansion's grounds and threaded his way through a small crowd of townspeople gathered in the courtyard. Some were waiting to bring their disputes before the magistrate; others, accompanied by
doshin
and with their hands bound by ropes, were obviously prisoners awaiting trial.

Sano paused at the main entrance of the long, low building. Barred wooden lattices covered the windows. The roof's projecting eaves cast deep shadows over the veranda. Seeing the mansion for the first time, he had imagined its dark, brooding appearance symbolic of the often harsh sentences pronounced inside. The surrounding garden, with its unlit stone lanterns and skeletal winter trees, reminded him of a graveyard. Shaking off his fancy, he climbed the wooden steps. At a nod from the two guards stationed there, he opened the massive carved door.

“Blacksmith Goro.” Magistrate Ogyu's reedy voice echoed across the long hall as Sano paused in the entryway. “I have considered all the evidence brought before me regarding the crime with which you are charged.”

Sano went to wait at the back of the hall with the samurai courtroom attendants. At the far end, Magistrate Ogyu knelt upon the dais. A thin, stoop-shouldered old man, he seemed lost in his voluminous red and black silk robes. Lamps on either side of his black lacquer desk lit him like a figure on stage. The rest of the room was dim; sunlight filtering through the latticed rice-paper windows provided the only other illumination. Directly before the dais was the
shirasu
, an area of floor covered with white sand, symbol of truth. There the accused man, bound at wrists and ankles, knelt on a mat. Two
doshin
knelt on either side of the
shirasu
. A small audience—witnesses, the accused's family, and the headman of his neighborhood—formed a row toward the back of the hall.

“That evidence indicates beyond all doubt that you are guilty of the murder of your father-in-law,” Ogyu continued.

“No!” The scream burst from the accused man. He writhed on the mat, straining at his bonds.

Several of the spectators cried out. A woman collapsed weeping onto the floor.

Ogyu raised his voice above the din, saying, “I sentence you to death. So that they may share in your disgrace, your family is to be banished from the province.” He nodded to the
doshin
, who leaped up and bore the screaming, struggling prisoner out the back door. The attendants hurried forward and escorted the spectators from the room, one dragging the weeping woman by her armpits. Then Ogyu called, “Sano Ichirō. Come forward.”