12
The Shogun stood in his chamber, wearing his loincloth and a pair of quilted brown trousers fastened with drawstrings. He held his arms out to his sides while the twins dressed him in layers of quilted underrobes. “I think I’ll wear my, ahh, green brocade kimono today.”
Masahiro watched the shogun’s other pages search for the green kimono on stands that sagged under the weight of draped garments. Robes strewn on the floor almost covered the tatami. Cabinets and drawers spilled toiletries and other personal articles. Shoes fallen from their cubbyholes lay in heaps; underclothes were crumpled haphazardly into shelves. The monthlong shortage of servants had resulted in a mess that worsened every day.
When the pages located the kimono and the twins tried to put it on the shogun, he wrinkled his nose. “It smells! Why hasn’t it been washed? Bring me my burgundy satin instead.” The pages found the burgundy robe wadded up on the floor. The shogun frowned and rubbed at the creases as the twins dressed him. “My black sash with the gold dragons would look well with this.”
The hunt began again. Masahiro saw the shogun growing impatient, the pages worried and frantic. The twins and the shogun’s bodyguard rushed to help. The shogun’s expression darkened into a scowl. Masahiro joined the search because he knew what that scowl portended. They had to find that sash.
“I’ve had enough! I can’t stand this any longer!” The shogun hopped from side to side; his hands waved. “I’m surrounded by, ahh, disorder, incompetence, and stupidity! You oafs are driving me mad!”
He picked up an ivory fan from the mess and struck one of the twins on the head with it. The boy yelped in pain. Masahiro had never seen the shogun hit anyone before, but since the earthquake his temper was even quicker than usual, and violence had seemed inevitable. The shogun beat the boy about the shoulders. The boy fell on the floor and moaned, but he didn’t defend himself or protest, lest he be put to death. Everyone else stood by, helpless. The other concubines, the pages, and the guard didn’t want the shogun to turn his wrath on them. The shogun shrieked as he wielded the fan against the boy’s face, splitting his lip, bloodying his nose. The boy sobbed.
Even though the shogun had the right to do whatever he wanted, Masahiro couldn’t let an innocent person be hurt. He lunged at the shogun, grabbed his arm, and shouted, “Stop, Your Excellency!”
The other people in the room gasped, shocked because he dared to lay a hand on their lord. The shogun emitted a startled grunt. Masahiro hauled him away from the fallen boy. He spun the shogun around to face him. Fury twisted the shogun’s mouth. He raised the fan to strike Masahiro.
Masahiro seized him by the wrist. He was aghast at his own audacity, terrified because the shogun could have him killed, but he said, “Let go of that fan!” in the stern tone that his sword-fighting teacher used when he made a mistake during a lesson.
The shogun gaped. His hand opened. He let the fan fall. The room was silent except for the injured boy’s weeping. Masahiro released the shogun. As they stared eye to eye, he was astonished to realize that they were of equal height. The shogun’s mouth trembled as if he were about to cry. Suddenly Masahiro was the powerful adult and the shogun the child at his mercy. Suddenly Masahiro pitied the supreme dictator of Japan.
“It’s all right.” Masahiro spoke in the gentle voice he used toward his sister Akiko when she was upset. “There’s no need to hit anybody. I’ll make things all better.”
“You will?” The shogun’s eyes shone with hopeful trust.
“Yes.” Masahiro heard the others sigh in relief because the danger had passed. He remembered when a horse in his father’s stable had gone wild, kicking and bucking, and the groom had seized its reins and talked to it until it calmed down. This was just like that. “I’ll find your sash.”
“But how?” The shogun gazed despairingly around the room.
Masahiro took the shogun by the hand. “We’ll sort everything. Your sash will turn up.”
That was what his nurse had taught him when he was little, when he’d cried because he’d lost his favorite toy soldier. Now he and the shogun picked up clothes, folded them, cleared out cabinets and drawers and shelves, then refilled them with neatly arranged items. Pages, boys, and the guard helped. The shogun seemed captivated by the novelty of it. When they were almost finished, he exclaimed, “Look!” He held up the black and gold sash.
Everyone cheered. The shogun beamed at Masahiro. “From now on, you shall be in charge of my private chambers.”
Masahiro felt the pride of every samurai who’d ever won a battle for his lord and been rewarded with riches. Then he realized that he’d done the very thing his father had warned him against doing. He’d attracted the shogun’s notice, and there was no going back.
Yanagisawa looked around in amazement as he rode through Edo with his four bodyguards. He’d not realized how bad the earthquake damage was, because he’d never gone out to see. He’d heard his retainers and servants talking about it, but the devastation was beyond belief. Along with his horror came an unexpected thrill. The politician in him, which was coming back to life, recognized opportunity in this crisis.
When they reached the Sumida River, he and his men dismounted at the lone dock that the earthquake hadn’t shaken loose. They climbed into two little wooden ferryboats, the only means of crossing the river now that the Ry o goku Bridge was gone. The boatmen rowed the ferries through the debris that clogged the shallows. As he crossed the clean middle of the river, Yanagisawa felt like a survivor of a stormy voyage, heading toward a new shore. In spite of his grief over Yoritomo, he felt hopeful, euphoric.
After the ferry docked, he and his guards trudged through the Honjo district. Its lumberyards, which had once supplied Edo with wood brought from forests in the provinces, looked as if a giant had picked up all the logs and flung them down like a fortune-teller casting yarrow sticks. Peasants labored to pull out the logs that jammed the canals, which had flooded the collapsed neighborhoods. A few houses had survived-the well-built estates of rich lumber merchants. Yanagisawa’s party arrived at one of these. It consisted of four houses grouped around a square courtyard, connected by covered corridors and surrounded by a bamboo fence. Guards stationed outside the gate recognized Yanagisawa and bowed.
Yanagisawa didn’t like to put all his eggs in one basket, but the earthquake had destroyed the separate villas where his four sons had lived with their mothers. His retainers had managed to commandeer this estate for them during the rush when so many people were seeking housing. Yanagisawa gazed up at the plank walls of the houses’ upper stories, the wooden shutters and bars over the windows, and the drab brown tiles on the roofs. Sumptuary laws forbade commoners to flaunt their wealth. Inside, the estate was luxurious. Yanagisawa felt apprehension mount in him as he walked through the gate. He didn’t know if what he found here would be good enough for his purposes. His heart bounded with the hope that one of these sons had Yoritomo’s looks, intelligence, and sweet, tractable personality. If only one of them could be to him what Yoritomo had been!
Yanagisawa banished the wish from his mind. Sentimentality had no place in politics.
As he approached the nearest wing of the mansion, the guard captain came out on the veranda. Yanagisawa said, “I’m here to see my sons.”
The guard captain looked surprised. Yanagisawa hadn’t seen his sons up close since they were born, when he’d examined the infants to make sure they were normal before he acknowledged them as his and provided for their support. He routinely sent his aides to check on the boys and report back to him. When he’d needed one to place close to the shogun, he’d set out to evaluate his sons and choose the best. He’d met Yoritomo-the eldest-and stopped there. Now, here on the same quest, Yanagisawa found himself jittery with nerves.
“How are they?” he asked, prolonging the suspense, avoiding disappointment.
“Tokichika, the youngest, has a fever. He’s often sick with one thing or another.”
“I don’t need to see him, then.” A sickly boy wouldn’t suit Yanagisawa’s purposes. “What about the other three?”
“They’re fine. Shall I tell them you’re here?”
“No.” Yanagisawa strode into the mansion. Walking down the corridor, he came upon a woman. She froze in her tracks. He barely recognized her as his former concubine; he didn’t remember her name. She’d gotten old; she’d gained weight. “Where’s our son?”
She gazed at him for a moment, fearful and mute, then called, “Rokuro! Come quickly! Your father is here!”
A young samurai came running. He tripped, stumbled, and almost fell. Scarlet with embarrassment, he bowed
