Winter Raven (Path of the Samurai Book 1) Page 2

  He should have joined a monastery. Spent secluded days exploring the texture of consciousness rather than riding to war to please his ambitious wife.

  He heard the rustle of fabric pulled aside. He opened his eyes. Raku stood at a respectful distance.

  ‘General-sama, your brother wishes to see you.’

  * * *

  Akitane finished writing and set the brush aside. He watched the ink slowly dry. The prospect of death put him in a strange, dissociative state. His hands seemed to belong to someone else.

  Raku pulled the curtain aside and Motohide emerged from his private quarters.

  Akitane got to his feet. The brothers faced each other. They were small men, conspicuously shorter than the officers around them. They each gave a stiff bow. There was no enmity. They had gamed for the province, each with dynastic ambitions, each vying to establish their branch of the family as a dominant clan. It was a calculated power-play. Nothing personal.

  They knelt. Four soldiers stood over them. Like most great men they had no private moments. Advisors attended them in the bedchamber, attended them as they used the toilet. There were not self-conscious in the presence of underlings, regarding them as little more than furniture.

  Motohide tried to think of something to say. He could assure Akitane his family would not face persecution. His young son would be allowed to live if he were stripped of his title and family name, and given over to the care of a monastery. But it would be a redundant exchange. It was well understood that, in this contest for regional supremacy, the loser’s household would be treated with leniency.

  The two brothers knelt in silence a long while. These would be their last moments together. Both of them were stoic, refusing to show a trace of emotion. But each of them ached for childhood afternoons when they had played together in the courtyard of their parents’ house, long before territorial ambitions pitted them one against the other.

  Akitane wanted to deliver a warning. His brother had conquered the north of Etchū. His territory now extended from the mountainous interior of the province to the coast. His grasp encompassed lucrative trade routes to China and gave him the chance to expand his military forces using tax revenue from the import of porcelain and raw silk. News of his victory would reach Kyoto within hours and the plotting would begin. The Shōgun might fear Motohide’s newfound strength, might see him as a rival rather than an ally. The battle of Kurobe River had been a minor skirmish, comparatively few troops involved, but the outcome had the potential to break the delicate web of alliances which determined national power.

  The words died on Akitane’s lips. There was no point warning of the Shōgun’s schemes. Motohide and his advisors would already have plans to consolidate their hold over the province. There was nothing Akitane could say that would not have already occurred to his brother. These struggles belonged to a future he wouldn’t live to see.

  Motohide eventually forced himself to bring the silence to an end. They both got to their feet and bowed once more with the brusque formality of men suppressing strong emotion. Motohide turned his back on his brother and left the room.

  Akitane knelt and resumed his position at the table. He picked up the sheathed tantō. Raku stepped close with a hand on the tsuka of his sword ready to draw and strike.

  Akitane settled his breathing. He steeled himself to slit open his belly then hold his head erect for the decapitating death blow. He took a last glance at the paper in front of him. A poem left for his brother.

  Wait a while

  Traversing together the road of Shideyama

  Let us talk of the transient world

  He unsheathed the knife.

  Motohide’s men marched back to the provincial capital of Sekino. The endless column of troops trudged single-file down a narrow mud track in time to the drummers’ beat.

  The injured were carried on litters or sat roped to a comrade’s back. The lame limped along on crutches. Some died along the way and were quickly buried by the roadside with a rock to mark their graves.

  They were drenched by relentless rain. Infantrymen walked with their heads bowed, water cascading from their conical jingasa helmets.

  Cavalry and officers rode ahead of the infantry. Motohide took the lead flanked by his bannermen. He wore full armour and sat straight-backed and proud, as befitted a victorious general. Rain dripped from his visor. His bear-skin cloak hung heavy with water. He tried to think of anything except his dead brother.

  The standing army would camp outside Sekino. Conscripts would be paid off and return to their villages. The coopers, carpenters and farmers who had marched to war would arrive home and impress their neighbours with tales of their accomplishments during the great campaign. They would recount their exploits and show their battle scars, relive the brief moment their insignificant lives had intersected with history.

  General Motohide chose not to enter the capital. Instead he and his praetorian guard journeyed deeper into the hills to Nakatomi Castle, the mountainside redoubt he had made his seat of power during the military campaign.

  * * *

  They spent a further day marching along a road that wound through a deep wooded gorge.

  The troops were well-trained and masked their fatigue, marching boldly behind banners bearing the general’s family insignia. But the adrenalin of battle, the euphoria of survival, had worn off and been replaced by exhaustion and debilitating trauma. General Motohide was aware that the Daimyō of the adjacent provinces of Kaga or Shinano might choose such a moment to attack, anticipating that the ranks of his army were depleted and his surviving troops were in a weakened state. His first order of business once he arrived at the castle would be to replenish materiel and bolster troop numbers. He would order each military unit drilled and brought back to battle-ready status.

  * * *

  They entered a steep valley tiered with dormant paddies; valley walls patchworked with plots of wheat and sweet potatoes. The plots were bordered by an elaborate network of irrigation channels fed by spring water from the mountain. Village huts dug into the precipitous slopes were roofed with turf.

  There were ramparts on the mountainside high above the village. The sheer granite walls of Nakatomi Castle, half-hidden in cloud. A baleful citadel.

  The crude foundations had been laid during the nation’s dark prehistory. A square rubble base with dove-tailed cornerstones had been constructed on a natural plateau. Granite blocks had been hauled up the mountainside to build what must have been a magnificent temple or mausoleum. An earthquake had toppled the original structure, but the foundations and outer walls remained. New quarters had been built on the remains of the old, turning the ruins into an unassailable fortress. Modern barracks, stables, kitchens and stores. At the centre of the compound stood a high white tower.

  Some of the troops left the column and headed for the valley floor. They would camp beneath the village and put their horses out to graze.

  General Motohide and his remaining guards laboured to climb a precipitous track which wound up the mountainside to the castle gates. Their approach was observed by archers manning the ramparts. The archers rang a brass bell to muster the castle guard.

  The great doors were hauled wide. The warlord and his battle-hardened men entered the castle precincts. The moment he crossed the threshold his black sun nobori was raised above the battlements to declare the general was in residence.

  Liegeman hurriedly mustered in the cobbled courtyard and lined up at attention. The general dismounted and stretched. He looked around. Months earlier he had climbed into the saddle, taken a last look around the castle precincts then rode out knowing he might never see his home again. He strode across the courtyard towards the keep while a groom led his stallion to the stables.

  The tower had a pine beam superstructure, plaster walls and sweeping cypress bark gables. Gilded dolphins had been set at the apex of the roof to guard the castle against evil spirits and fire.

  Sentries, Motohide’s trusted clansm
en, guarded the tower entrance, pulling the door wide as he approached.

  The general’s son rushed to meet him. The boy ran like he expected to embrace his father, before registering the soldiers around him. He slowed and gave a formal bow.

  Asaji, his wife, glided down the steps, the skirts of her crimson jūnihitoe hiding her feet. She was ten years his junior. He gazed at her exquisite porcelain perfection. She held back out of modesty, but Motohide could see by the almost imperceptible clench of her jaw she was exhilarated to see him return triumphant.

  ‘Victory,’ he declared, as if he were offering his military accomplishments for Asaji’s approval, his voice echoing harsh and metallic from the high walls surrounding the courtyard. He said it again, softer, more hesitant, as he contemplated the hollowness of the word.

  ‘Victory.’

  * * *

  The general’s private apartments were at the top of the tower. The sword room adjacent to his bedroom was a small vestibule with an altar at one end. He unhitched his sword, glimpsing his reflection in its polished steel. The sword hadn’t pierced flesh but at the commencement of each battle he’d raised the weapon and brought it down, giving the signal to attack. That single, bloodless stroke sent thousands of men to their deaths.

  The general set the sword on its altar stand and bowed before it. The weapon had belonged to both his father and grandfather. When he rode to battle with the sword strapped to his hip, they rode with him. Later, an attendant would remove bamboo pins from the tsuka and strip the sword of its decorative fixtures. He would spend a day sharpening the blade on a fine whetstone then sheath it in a nurizaya sleeve for storage and then the weapon would sit dormant, ready for the next war.

  * * *

  The general visited the household shrine. He knelt, lit incense and prayed for Akitane’s forgiveness and blessing.

  ‘I’m sorry, brother,’ he murmured. ‘But help me. Help me now. Stand by me in the coming days.’

  * * *

  Motohide returned to his bedchamber. He held his arms cruciform while manservants unlaced his armour. Segmented leather shoulder-plates studded with iron bolts were unbuckled and set aside and he sighed with relief as his breast plate was lifted clear. His undergarments were mottled with sweat.

  The armour was carried from the room to be sponged, oiled and boxed while a bath was prepared in an adjacent room. A couple of logs were lit in a brazier beneath a copper-bottomed tub. A maid added scented herbs to the water.

  ‘So what now?’ Motohide asked his commanders as they stood to attention while he disrobed. They towered over their diminutive lord. ‘What is my next move? What is your counsel?’

  ‘General-sama, you should proceed with the chain of fortifications you intended to build bordering Hida and Shinano. It will discourage incursions.’

  ‘But in the short-term?’

  ‘You should send an ambassador to Kyoto. Assure the Shōgun you will not raise an army against him. Assure him you will be his hand in Etchū.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘A trade treaty might also help. We have Toyama Bay and the overland trade routes. That offers us an opportunity to be generous in victory. We could make an annual tribute to the Shōgun.’

  ‘Yes,’ mused the general. ‘No doubt the best way to secure our position is to become a regular source of revenue.’

  ‘You have a son. Send him to Kyoto for training. The Shōgun will appreciate the hostage.’

  Motohide nodded. It would break his heart to send the boy away. He dreaded the day he would stand in the courtyard, watch his son climb aboard a palanquin and be sent on his way to a distant city, but the moment would inevitably come. His son was a strategic asset. Motohide couldn’t allow himself to be ruled by sentiment. Both he and his son served a purpose greater than themselves: the advancement of their family name.

  ‘Make enquiries.’

  The general pulled off his shirt, stood naked and stretched, relishing the absence of armour, the sudden lightness and freedom. He used a stepping stool to climb into the bath and sank chin deep. He addressed Commander Raku, his most trusted advisor.

  ‘If you were Shōgun, how would you respond to our overtures? What would be your next move?’

  ‘General-sama, I would accept your professions of loyalty. The Shōgun is preoccupied with subjugating the western lands. He won’t send an army against us. We are far from his mind.’

  ‘Good.’

  The maid brought a tray with a towel and razor ready to shave stubble from the top of the general’s head. Motohide waved the commanders away.

  ‘Drink some wine. Get some rest. You deserve it.’

  He lolled in the bath a moment, eyes closed, then heard a screen pulled back and the rustle of Asaji’s kimono as she entered the room.

  ‘You were listening?’

  His wife stood demurely in the corner of the room.

  ‘Go on,’ he sighed. ‘Speak.’

  ‘Akitane is dead?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘His wife? His children?’

  ‘What does it matter?’

  ‘If you had died in battle, if I were your widow, I would do anything in my power to avenge your death. I would dedicate every waking moment to the pursuit of my revenge.’

  ‘That’s the nearest you have come to a profession of love,’ said Motohide. ‘I’m touched.’

  ‘What is your command?’

  ‘His wife will enter a convent. His sons will enter a monastery.’

  The general held his head still as the maid turned up her sleeves, leant over him and, with an almost imperceptibly trembling hand, began to shave his scalp.

  ‘I won’t execute his family, if that is what you are asking,’ said Motohide. ‘I’m a samurai. I’m not a monster.’

  ‘You can’t leave the task unfinished,’ said his wife. ‘You have defeated Akitane. His family will seek retribution. Not immediately. But later, when his children are grown. Think of all you have accomplished. You can’t jeopardise your legacy.’

  ‘No. I won’t do it. He was my brother. I won’t slaughter his family. I won’t descend to the level of a beast.’

  ‘Consider your position, that’s all I ask,’ said Asaji. ‘Consider what is best for your son.’

  She bowed and backed out of the room, drawing the screens closed. She was confident that, having planted an anxiety in her husband’s head, the fear that his son would one day fall victim to revenge from Akitane’s family would goad him to action.

  An Imperial ambassador visited at the castle six days after Motohide declared himself unopposed ruler of Etchū. The ambassador was carried in a silk palanquin surrounded by twelve Imperial guards. Motohide stood at a high balcony and watched his guest arrive. The bearers set the palanquin down in the centre of the courtyard and pulled back the curtain. The ambassador got out and looked around with disdain at rain-slick stonework and an unrelenting mountain wind. His lip curled in disgust to find himself in such a wretched provincial backwater. He drew an embroidered cloak tight around his body and hurried towards the tower entrance. His wooden sandals clacked on the cobbles. Motohide guessed his visitor would not stay long. The ambassador would politely decline the general’s hospitality. He would conclude his business as quickly as formal courtesy would allow, then be on his way back to Kyoto.

  * * *

  Later, when the ambassador left, Asaji joined Motohide in his reception room. She knelt beside him, and looked at the scroll resting on his table. The scroll bore the Emperor’s chrysanthemum seal.

  ‘Is that it?’ she asked.

  He nodded. ‘The Imperial blessing,’ he said. ‘I am now the acknowledged ruler of this province.’

  ‘Etchū is finally yours.’

  ‘Yes.’

  Asaji opened her mouth to speak but Motohide cut her off:

  ‘Let me enjoy this moment.’

  He sat looking at the scroll a while. He stroked the Emperor’s seal, felt the physical presence of the living god. Eventually
he said:

  ‘Speak.’

  ‘This paper means nothing. The Emperor will kill you. Akitane was his man. You have robbed him of a useful ally and he will want revenge.’

  ‘I’m not going to march on Kyoto, if that is what you are implying. You will never be Empress. Put it from your mind.’

  ‘You don’t have to defeat the Emperor. But your life will be under threat until you prove you cannot be deposed. You must demonstrate you can survive anything he and his bitch of a mother might throw at you. Only then will he be forced to accept you as Daimyō.’

  ‘You think they will raise an army?’ asked the general. He felt weary. The gift of the Imperial mandate was the culmination of a lifetime of struggle. He and his brother had worked their way through the ranks. Motohide had bought the loyalty of his fellow commanders, unifying and conquering the province by force of will. He had finally seized the throne, but there was no sense of fulfilment, no sense he could finally rest. He wanted to ask his brother’s advice, but Akitane was dead. He was alone and facing a lifetime of fear.

  His wife, on the other hand, seemed euphoric to find herself the wife of a Daimyō. She seemed to relish the endless intrigue, no doubt looking forward to establishing herself in Kyoto among the other viciously competitive aristocratic households. It was as if her entire life had been a rehearsal for the power games that were about to begin.

  ‘No, they won’t raise an army,’ said Asaji. ‘It would be too costly, too uncertain. If I had to speculate, I would suggest the Emperor will send one man. The most experienced, lethal samurai at his disposal.’

  ‘The Imperial household is decadent. Effete courtiers more concerned with palace intrigue than war. They have no such man.’

  ‘They’ll find a killer,’ said Asaji. ‘He won’t come from the ranks of the Imperial guard. He’ll be an outsider. Expendable. Deniable. They’ll need a man of unshakable will, a man schooled in the arts of ninjitsu. I imagine the search has already begun.’