Winter Raven Page 12

  ‘On abokya beiroshanō makabodara …’

  The blade fell. The trials were over. Chikaaki stood swaying at the centre of the courtyard. He looked around the silent compound. He gazed at headless bodies. The place smelled like a battlefield. The stink of evacuated bowels and the metallic taint of spilled blood. The samurai beckoned Chikaaki forward. The convict limped across the yard and stood in front of the table.

  ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Chikaaki.’

  The samurai handed him a flask of water. He drank deep.

  ‘Not so fast,’ advised the samurai. ‘Steady sips.’

  Chikaaki staggered and struggled to keep upright.

  ‘You better sit down,’ said the samurai.

  Chikaaki handed back the flask with shaking hands. He walked a few paces then lowered himself to the ground. He lay on his back with his hands behind his head, closed his eyes and enjoyed the blissful sensation of rain on his face.

  * * *

  The samurai and the captain stood over the exhausted man.

  ‘He’ll need bandages,’ said the samurai. ‘Look. The soles of his feet are torn up.’

  The captain studied Chikaaki’s face. The man lay still. Too still. He knelt and felt Chikaaki’s neck. There was no arterial pulse.

  ‘His heart has stopped.’

  The samurai contemplated the corpse. A serene smile on the dead man’s face as if he were lost in a beautiful dream.

  ‘Looks like I’ll be taking three men after all.’

  The sun rose over the near-deserted prison compound. The stockade was shrouded in morning mist. The convicts stoked the fire and warmed their hands. None of them had slept the previous night. They had been under sentence of death. Each day spent in the camp brought them closer to execution. But they had been reprieved and suddenly the air was crisp and the stars impossibly bright. It was as if they were reborn.

  Ariyo huddled in a blanket and checked the compound gate out of the corner of his eye. It was open and unguarded. The captain stood nearby stripped down to his fundoshi as if defying the cold. He poured a jug of water over his head and washed with a rag. He watched Ariyo assess his chances of escape.

  ‘See that man up there?’ said the captain. He pointed to a soldier in one of the watch towers. ‘I once heard him boast that he is the best archer in Honshu. He reckons he can fire an arrow up into the sky with such precision that, when it loses momentum and dives to earth, it will kill a man hiding behind a wall. So by all means run for the gate. Let’s test his skill on a moving target.’

  Ariyo spat into the flames.

  ‘Time we discussed your situation,’ said the captain when he was fully dressed. He beckoned the men. The convicts gathered in front of him with blankets over their heads like shawls. They watched him strap armour.

  ‘You three prisoners have been selected to take part in a military mission. Your chances of survival are slim. But if you follow orders and fight like mad dogs, you might make it through.’

  ‘What kind of mission?’ asked Tameyo.

  ‘Details later.’

  ‘Why send us?’ asked Masaie. ‘Why not send regular troops?’

  ‘That’s not your concern. Just do your job.’ The captain looked Ariyo in the eye. ‘And put any thoughts of desertion from your mind. We have your families. Your sons and daughters. So if you are planning to run, forget it.’

  The captain untied a pouch from his belt. He loosened the drawstring, shook out some black stones and placed a pebble in the palm of each man.

  ‘The Emperor, in his mercy, has spared your lives. He has given you one last chance to prove your worth. This stone represents your debt to him. Carry it. Carry it wherever you go. If, by some miracle, you complete the mission and return to Kyoto the debt will be lifted. You will be free, pardoned of all past crimes.’

  ‘If we make it back alive.’

  ‘Have faith in your own tenacity, gentlemen. You are survivors. Each of you has demonstrated an admirable talent for self-preservation. That is the quality we need.’

  * * *

  The company prepared to leave. The captain pointed to the mound of headless cadavers.

  ‘Put the bodies in the huts,’ he ordered. ‘Then torch the compound.’

  The troops dragged the dead men by their ankles and hauled them up bamboo steps into a barrack hut.

  The captain turned to the samurai.

  ‘Forty-eight hours from now the alarm will be raised. It will be announced that you and your three companions have killed the guards, killed your fellow inmates and escaped. A story that will further distance you from the Emperor should you be captured.’

  The samurai nodded.

  ‘There will be a bounty, a price on your head. You’ll need to put some distance between yourself and Kyoto by then.’

  Troops continued to drag dead men to the barrack hut. The soldiers gripped severed heads by the hair and threw them through the doorway into the interior of the hut. A faint thud and rumble as the heads hit the floorboards and rolled. The executioner walked shack-to-shack with a torch. He lit rice-straw thatch.

  The column of troops took to the road and headed back towards Kyoto as the prison compound burned behind them, the fire sending up a thick column of smoke. They turned at the sound of splintering wood and watched one of the watchtowers topple in flames.

  The three surviving convicts sat in a cart as it jolted along a dirt track. They looked around at the grass, the trees, the sky, still ecstatic to be alive. The captain rode at the head of the column. He checked the position of the sun in the sky. It was heading towards evening. He slowed his horse and brought himself level with the samurai.

  ‘Follow me,’ he instructed.

  The two horsemen left the troop column and headed across open ground towards woodland.

  * * *

  They followed a narrow track through the forest passing through dense brush and dappled light. They descended the side of a valley and approached a white canvas tent pitched in lush grassland. Saracen and a couple of troops lounged on the grass watching the sunset turn the sky gold. Saracen bore a beatific expression. He found the sights and smells of the valley were richly intoxicating. He hadn’t seen the sun for many days. Each time he was locked in his library prison he never knew how long it would be before he saw daylight again. Each moment he spent outside was precious. He got to his feet as the horsemen approached.

  The samurai and the captain dismounted. They bowed.

  ‘The fearless assassin,’ said Saracen looking the samurai up and down. ‘You seem to have accepted your forced change of allegiance with laudable equanimity.’

  ‘You have something to show us?’ asked the captain.

  ‘I do indeed.’

  Saracen beckoned them to join him at a table and lifted a cloth to reveal piles of powder and a couple of cardboard tubes.

  ‘It was a difficult commission. An arrowhead that will explode on impact. Tricky.’

  He sprinkled metallic granules into a shallow dish.

  ‘Allow me to demonstrate. This is a derivative of potash. Watch what happens when I add water.’

  He tipped a cup and let a fat droplet of water fall onto the powder. There was an immediate reaction. The dish was filled with fizzing, spitting fire. The captain stepped back as the powder popped and burned.

  ‘Potash?’ murmured the samurai, leaning forward to inspect the smouldering mound of ash at the centre of the dish.

  ‘Of a kind. There is no word for it in Japanese. Al-Kindi called it fire salt.’

  ‘Fascinating.’

  The samurai felt a sudden pang of regret. He had hoped to retire to a monastery and spend his last years contemplating metaphysical texts and works of natural philosophy, but his life was to be cut short. So many things he would never know.

  ‘At the heart of the projectile are two glass bulbs.’ Saracen held up two small glass orbs. ‘One bulb contains water, the other contains air. These bulbs are held in a thin paper sle
eve filled with fire salt. Simple enough, neh? The missile hits the target, the bulbs shatter, the three elements mix and an intense flame is immediately sparked.’

  The samurai nodded.

  ‘So we put this ignition device at the centre of a larger paper cylinder filled with gunpowder and seal it closed.’ He held up a fat red paper cylinder about three fists in length. ‘And yes, this is powder from the consignment you were intending to use to blow up the Imperial family. I thought you might enjoy the irony.’

  Saracen speared the red cylinder onto the tip of an arrow and picked up a bow.

  ‘The armourers were good enough to make some cut-down longbows to deliver the projectiles. Easy to carry. Easy to hide.’

  The samurai and captain watched as Saracen strung the arrow and readied the bow. A target had been set eighty yards distant – the wooden silhouette of a man. Saracen adjusted his stance.

  ‘The weight of the projectile will slow the arrow’s flight. You have to aim high if you want to cover a significant distance.’

  Saracen took a deep breath as he drew the bow. The string creaked. He adjusted his aim, exhaled and released the arrow. The projectile followed an elegant, arcing trajectory. It rose high, slowed then dived to earth. It slammed into the target. Gunpowder detonated like a thunderclap. The target was pulverised, instantly reduced to a blizzard of splinters. Smoke cleared and there was nothing left of the silhouette but a smouldering stake standing crooked in blasted earth.

  ‘Imagine an army equipped with these projectiles,’ murmured the captain. He picked up a bowl and ran his fingers through the powder. ‘Their master would wield the power of the god. No one would dare oppose him.’

  ‘He would be the most powerful man in the world,’ said Saracen, ‘for a while. Then his enemies would copy the weapon. Imagine a war in which both armies used explosive projectiles. Imagine the carnage.’

  ‘How many of these missiles have you made?’ asked the samurai.

  ‘Ten, so far.’

  ‘Can you adjust them to create fire as well as a tremendous blast? I need incendiaries.’

  Saracen thought it over. ‘I could add a little oil to the mixture. The explosion would spread droplets of flaming tar.’

  ‘Can it be done by tonight?’ asked the captain.

  ‘Yes, I think so.’

  Saracen laid a backpack, sewn from oiled canvas, on the table. ‘One of your party will need to carry the projectiles on their back. They are delicate. If you drop them, if you subject them to any kind of impact, they will explode. You saw what happened to the target. Imagine what would happen if ten of these missiles blew simultaneously. You and your entire team would be turned to smoke.’

  The samurai contemplated the canvas pack.

  ‘Remember,’ said Saracen. ‘Whoever carries this pack needs to understand the danger. Not a bump. Not a single jolt. Their life will depend on it.’

  The team travelled east to the port of Ōtsu on the bank of the Freshwater Sea. It was a short journey from Kyoto, little more than an hour’s ride. The captain led them to a derelict merchant’s house. Once inside the grounds they rode up an overgrown path flanked by tall grass and weeds run wild. The house itself was boarded shut and the roof had partially collapsed. The estate must have sat neglected for years.

  ‘This place used to belong to a porcelain merchant,’ said the captain. ‘The entire household was wiped out by illness. Nobody comes here. Locals believe this plot of land is haunted by apparitions. It is a place of ill-omen. We’ve used it as an embarkation point for ninjitsu missions before.’

  Night fell. Tables and mats had been set in front of the jetty at the rear of the house and torches had been staked in the ground. A large, flat-bottomed, single sailed boat was moored at the jetty. The type of shallow-draught vessel that plied the shores of the Freshwater Sea, Honshu’s largest lake, transporting bales of wool and skins. There were two crewmen: a skipper and his mate. They prepped the ship with the bored professionalism of sailors who had taken part in covert military operations before. They were tried and trusted men. They loaded cargo; supplies for the journey. The skipper stood at the dockside and surveyed the oil-cloth packages stowed at the bottom of the boat. They would be travelling through the wilderness, avoiding towns and major roads, so they would need to carry everything they might need on their backs. There were parcels of dried fruit, dried meat and plenty of rice, There were a couple of bales of clothes bound with twine – heavy garments packed in anticipation of winter. Cloaks, padded jackets and furs, all of them old and ragged enough not to attract attention.

  A roll contained swords and knives to be issued when the foot journey began – a selection of battered, mismatched weapons that couldn’t be traced back to Kyoto. And at the centre of the equipment pile sat the backpack filled with explosive projectiles. The crewmen covered the cargo and roped it down.

  The convicts were brought by cart. Soldiers had laid out a farewell meal. Flasks of saké, bowls of fish, pickles, cakes and fruit. Pole-lamps threw a warm glow. The men ate and drank, all the while regarding the boat with trepidation. A new trial lay ahead of them. A new opportunity to die screaming.

  ‘Come on,’ urged the captain, standing over the men ‘If you don’t eat this food my men certainly will.’

  For months the convicts had subsisted on a daily bowl of millet gruel swilled with brackish water. The food before them was the stuff of dreams and they snatched with both hands and crammed their mouths.

  ‘Take it slow,’ advised the samurai, abstaining from the feast. ‘You’ll make yourselves sick.’

  The prisoners were halfway through their meal when a second cart pulled up. Soldiers helped women and children jump from the wagon. The convicts raced to greet their families while the samurai sat alone and watched the reunions.

  Tameyo was greeted by his wife and two young daughters. They embraced and stood a long while with their arms wrapped round each other. The man was clearly adored.

  The samurai had met plenty of thieves. Some had no impulse control. A couple of bowls of saké were enough to turn them feral. They stole and raped with no thought for the consequences. They were no better than animals. For others a life of crime was a rational choice for poor folk trying to better their family’s situation. They had no legitimate hope of advancement so they acquired backstreet skills. They learned to forge coins, pick locks or kill unseen. They used the proceeds to buy schooling and administrative positions for male children and compile a significant dowry for any daughters they might possess. Tameyo seemed to fall in the latter category. He was a circumspect, watchful man.

  Masaie was greeted by his wife and son. She was beautiful but obviously dirt poor. Her clothes were patched and her hair uncombed. But she was truly beautiful. She and Masaie sat together. They talked and laughed.

  Ariyo was greeted by his mother. Maybe he had a wife and children in the past. Maybe they died or maybe he abandoned them. But right now he had only his mother for company. She was an old woman with a bent back. They didn’t embrace or smile but grimly acknowledged each other like soldiers regrouping on the battlefield in the midst of war. Evidently they had endured desperate hardships together. For them, the world was enemy territory.

  Tameyo and Masaie quietly talked and laughed with their wives as their children fell asleep on their shoulders. Ariyo and his mother ate as much as they could, taking advantage of good food while it was available. Ariyo’s mother hid dumplings up her sleeve to eat later.

  The captain paced the dock. He estimated time by the revolution of the constellations. In a while the sun would rise, the team would set out and the outcome of the mission would no longer be in his hands. He would return to his duties at the Imperial Palace and await news of success or failure. And if a messenger brought word that the assassination team had been captured and killed he would wait once more to discover his own fate. Maybe the Emperor’s mother would be merciful. Maybe she wouldn’t blame him for the failure of the mission. Or maybe she w
ould exhibit his head on the palace wall.

  The samurai joined the captain. ‘This is good,’ he said, gesturing to the families. ‘It’s kind of you to allow the men to see their wives and children one last time.’

  ‘I could have brought whores,’ said the captain. ‘But these criminals need to be reminded I hold the lives of their families in my hand. If they desert, I will give the order. I won’t hesitate. These women, these sweet children, will face summary execution.’

  ‘Would you do it? If the moment came? Would you carry out the threat?’

  ‘Yes. I would do it myself with my own sword to spare my men the task.’

  ‘Pointless cruelty.’

  ‘If I make a threat and don’t follow through next time I give an order it will be ignored. I have to keep my word. It is the cost of leadership.’

  The captain turned to a nearby soldier. ‘Give them more wine. They won’t have much to exert themselves tomorrow. Just sit in a boat.’ He checked the sky again for any trace of dawn. ‘You set off at sunrise. The boat journey will take a day or two depending on the weather.’

  The samurai nodded.

  ‘You hold my fate in your hands,’ said the captain. ‘If you fail my life will be forfeit.’

  ‘Is the Emperor’s mother that unforgiving?’

  ‘She’s never seen a throat she didn’t want to cut. I think her fondest dream would be to wake a find everyone dead from some plague. All her enemies, all her rivals finally extinguished. Empress of a silent world.’

  The samurai turned a black debt-stone in his hand.

  ‘I want my daughter,’ he said. ‘She must accompany me.’

  ‘No. Out of the question. You need to put her welfare before your own.’

  ‘Where is she?’

  ‘Safe. Think about it. Think of the enormity of her crime. Thanks to you she became an accomplice in the attempted assassination of the Imperial family. Whatever you may think of the Emperor’s mother, the fact that the girl is alive and unharmed is a stroke of divine good fortune. You should leave it at that.’