Black Arrow (34 page)

“The wrestling match is this afternoon,” said Hitomaro.

“What wrestling match?”

“Genba’s match. He’s a top contender, sir,” pleaded Tora.

Akitada snapped, “Do you mean to tell me that he, and both of you, consider some wrestling bout more important than your duties in the present crisis?”

Oyoshi cleared his throat. “Perhaps I can explain. The wrestling match is a most significant event in this province. In a remote place like ours the citizens follow wrestling with an almost religious devotion since they have little else to look forward to but a long and hard winter.”

“Really?” Akitada thought about it. If Genba was a favorite, then his participation would go a long way to create goodwill for the tribunal later on. “I suppose I should have kept myself better informed,” he said. “Is Genba really good enough?”

“Oh, yes,” said Hitomaro. “You would not recognize him, sir.”

“Then I have been remiss,” Akitada said with a nod. “We shall all attend. I should have planned to do so from the start. It cannot hurt to reinforce the good impression we made on the local people yesterday.”

“You cannot go, sir.” Seimei, who had been a quiet observer until now, was adamant. “Not only are you not well enough, but by going out to a public event of this type you invite another attack. Neither Tora nor Hitomaro can protect you against an assassin in a crowd.”

Dismayed, they all looked at Akitada.

He frowned. “You exaggerate the danger, Seimei, but to satisfy everyone I shall wear ordinary clothes and watch with the crowd. I feel much stronger. This is only a small excursion, the weather is pleasant, and I need fresh air.” He raised his hand to stop further remonstrance. “Enough! I have made up my mind.”

♦

In order to attract no undue attention, Akitada wore no cap and only a plain dark gray jacket over his old blue lined silk robe. Oyoshi had calmed everyone’s worries about his health by offering to accompany him.

They left the tribunal by the back gate. The street outside was empty except for a few stragglers hurrying ahead of them. The shops were closed and shuttered, and the town seemed deserted. From the distance came the muffled sound of drums.

“Extraordinary,” muttered Akitada, striding along and looking about him. “Not even the Kamo festival in the capital attracts such total support.”

Oyoshi, being shorter and older, had trouble keeping pace. “You have much to learn about the customs hereabouts,” he gasped.

“Yes, and going about like an ordinary person seems a good way to keep myself informed,” Akitada said. “I must do this more often.” He was enjoying himself.

They had almost reached the end of the street. The curving roofs of the temple loomed ahead through the branches of bare trees. A shrill whistle sounded in the distance, followed by a roar of applause and more drumbeats. The sweet sound of zither music came from the door of a small curio shop. It mingled pleasantly with the drumbeats from the temple. Akitada stopped.

“Ah. Shikata is playing,” said Oyoshi.

Akitada listened for a moment, then entered the shop. Oyoshi followed, mopping his face with a sleeve.

The shop was very small, consisting only of a four-mat platform normally open to the street entrance on one side, with shelves on two other walls and a shuttered window on the fourth. The shelves held a collection of musical instruments, lacquer ware, carved figures, games, and dolls. An ancient man sat on the platform with a beautifully decorated
koto
zither before him. He looked at them, then stopped playing and bowed deeply.

“Welcome.” His voice was very soft and sounded as if it came from far away.

“I heard your music,” Akitada said, slipping off his shoes and stepping up on the platform. “It is very fine, but why aren’t you at the wrestling match?”

The old man smiled. “My legs won’t carry me any longer. And what is your reason?”

Akitada was pleased with the old-timer’s lack of ceremony. Apparently his disguise was good. “I’m in no hurry,” he said, looking at the zither curiously. “When I heard you playing this fine instrument, I decided to have a look.”

“Do you play?”

“I play the flute. Do you have any good ones in stock?”

“See for yourself.” The curio dealer pointed a clawlike hand toward the shelves. “I’m alone here. The boy’s at the match.”

Akitada went to look.

Behind him, the curio dealer said to Oyoshi, “Sit down, Doctor. Have you been in a fight?”

“It’s nothing. I slipped on the ice.”

“Ah. I thought it was your new job. Your master is younger than I expected. Do you find him a sensible man?”

Akitada turned. Surely he could not have been recognized by this old relic.

Oyoshi shot him a glance and cleared his throat. “Oh, yes.”

“Well, that makes a change,” chuckled the dealer. “A flute player, eh? They are either fools or wise men. Not like zither players. Zither players like to show off. Never offend a zither player. His sense of his own importance won’t bear it.”

Akitada flushed and pretended to examine the wares on the shelves. He recognized fine craftsmanship in every item on display. Shops in the capital had a larger selection, but hardly finer than Shikata’s. Incense guessing games, several versions of the shell-matching game, a backgammon board made of several kinds of rare woods, two sets of lacquered writing implements, a handsome silver mirror, several lutes, another zither, assorted figures of Buddhist and Shinto divinities—they were all, in their own way, quite beautiful.

Meanwhile, Shikata played another tune with three picks worn on the fingers of his right hand. When he was done, he said, “Lutes are different. They are for lovers and beautiful women. One of my best lutes is being played by a local beauty. Her protector is a very wealthy man. It is so rare, he was the only man in the province who could afford my price.”

Oyoshi said, “Then you have become a wealthy man yourself, Shikata. No wonder you are rude to your friends and betters.”

The curio dealer thought this funny and heaved with wheezing laughter.

Akitada said loudly, “There are no flutes here, only games and a few other instruments.”

“Never mind,” said the old man, turning a toothless grin his way. “You don’t want a flute anyway. Better get something for your wife instead.”

“A lute?” Akitada smiled.

“Hah,” cried the curio dealer with another wheezing chuckle. “For your sake, I hope not. Beauties are all very well, but they make terrible wives.” For a moment, his face became serious.
“Terrible
wives!” he repeated, and shoved the zither aside. “Better give her a shell game. A suitable gift from a young husband to a faithful wife.”

The old one had no manners, but he was amusing and the idea appealed to Akitada. The game had been on his mind only recently. It was a traditional gift to brides because only two shells made a perfect match, like a husband and wife. But Akitada had thought of it as a symbol of the hidden relationships between people in this province. Still, the game would give Tamako pleasure during the coming months of a long winter and the waiting for the birth of their child.

He looked at the elegant sets and the hand-painted shells inside them and then chose the older one for its special beauty. Finely detailed golden chrysanthemums bloomed among silver grasses on the container’s brilliant red lacquer background.

Shikata nodded when he saw Akitada’s choice. “You have good taste. I ordered that forty years ago as a gift for one of the Uesugi ladies. It was specially made, very fine work, very costly. It took all my savings then, and I’ve kept it as a warning to myself not to rely on young men’s promises nor on young women’s lives, but you shall have it.”

“Oh.” Akitada hesitated. Their finances were still severely strained after the expensive journey here. “How much is it?” he asked anxiously.

“A silver bar? It is worth much more, but I wish to be rid of it. It depresses me.”

Akitada agreed quickly and arranged to have the game delivered to the tribunal as soon as Shikata’s boy returned from the wrestling tournament.

“For which we are very late,” urged Oyoshi, getting to his feet. “If I am not mistaken, those drumrolls mark the beginning of the final matches.”

♦

The contest was staged in the main courtyard of the temple. Brown-robed monks greeted them and directed them to a space where the crowd was not as dense as elsewhere.

Akitada was familiar with the annual wrestling tournament at the imperial palace and liked the elaborate ritual. It involved musical performances, religious rites to the ancient gods, and colorful decorations, but he had not expected anything like it in this remote northern province. To his surprise, there was little difference in the arrangements.

In spite of the cold, the abbot, surrounded by assistant priests and guests, watched from the broad veranda of the great hall, much as the emperor did in the capital. Below the abbot sat the orchestra members with two great drums, two gongs, and assorted smaller instruments. Across from him, the provincial guard stood at attention under gaily fluttering banners. To one side, the contestants sat on cushions. Each man had stripped to his loincloth and placed his outer clothing neatly folded beside him. The referees, in formal white robes, and black hats, quivers slung across their backs and bows in their hands, stood near them, watching the ongoing match. It all looked quite proper and professional.

Akitada, who was taller than those in front of him, saw that two contenders had just entered the ring, marked out by thick straw ropes buried in a thick layer of white beach sand. Their loincloths formed short aprons in the front and disappeared between their huge haunches in the back to emerge in an elaborate bow at the waistband. Steam rose from their bodies in spite of the chilly air. When the closest referee raised his hand, they stamped their feet, raised their arms to show they had no concealed weapons, clapped their hands, rinsed their mouths with a sip from a dipper on the water barrel, and spat. Then they took their places on either side of the dividing line in the center of the ring. At another signal from the referee, they began to circle, then grasped each other, striving mightily to push each other across the ropes of straw and out of the ring.

The crowd began to stir, at first only muttering, but soon moaning or shouting their distress or triumph.

One of the wrestlers was as hairy as an animal, with a shaggy mane and ragged beard; the other, by comparison, looked like a very large pale baby. Man against beast, thought Akitada, amused, and what a weak, naked, and vulnerable creature man was! A clearly uneven match. Only, suddenly the baby seized the animal by his hairy middle and tossed him out of the ring with one mighty heave. A tremendous cheer went up from the crowd, and the big baby bowed, grinning from ear to ear.

Akitada blinked. The baby was Genba. When he had last laid eyes on his third lieutenant, they had parted company outside the city. Genba had always been tall and broad. With his healthy appetite, he had gained weight rapidly after his lean years in the capital, but this clean-shaven mountain of rosy flesh looked nothing like the thick-haired, bearded man he had parted from.

A drumroll marked another match, but Akitada paid little attention to it. His eyes were on Genba, now seated again by his bundle of clothes, waiting for his next, and final turn. The winner of the remaining contests would face Genba for the top prize.

“Good heavens,” muttered Akitada to Oyoshi. “You don’t suppose Genba will win and be sent to the capital?”

“Certainly not,” snapped a bald fellow near him. “Nobody beats Tsuneya. He rips out full-grown pines with his bare arms. He’s from my village and I’ve seen him do this myself.”

“Tsuneya’s strong and he’s a local boy, but he has no technique,” cried a pockmarked man with a fierce mustache. “Genba will only have to use his foot to trip him, and when he’s off balance, he’ll push him across the ropes. I’ve seen him use that move and many others besides. He’s a master at technique because he was a wrestling teacher in the capital.”