Wada seemed to be enjoying himself. “The fun’s over. Who would send a convict on a trip with a horse and a mule and all sorts of valuable equipment?” he sneered, then waved his men forward. “Search him and the saddlebags.” The constables jumped into action. In a moment, Akitada was pulled from his horse and pushed into the dirt. Two men knelt on him, pulling his arms behind his back and wrapping a thin chain around both wrists. It was standard procedure in the apprehension of criminals, but he had never realized how painful tightly wrapped chain could be and gritted his teeth to keep from crying out. He had to remain calm at all cost. Wada, no matter how ruthless he was in his treatment of convicts and how stupid he might be in this instance, was still an official, and one who had been appointed to his present position by someone in authority. He was doing his duty in arresting the supposed escapee. The problem could be worked out later. The important thing was to be cooperative and not give the man an excuse for more physical abuse.
They pulled him to his feet and searched him. The imperial documents being lost, along with Mutobe’s safe- conduct, Akitada submitted meekly, which did not prevent them from pummeling and kicking him a few times.
They found nothing, but the mule’s burden caused an outcry. “Papers,” cried one of the searchers. “A flute,” cried another, tossing Ribata’s precious instrument to Wada. Akitada winced, but Wada caught it, glanced at it incuriously, and tossed it back.
This time the flute fell between the mule’s hooves, and Akitada instinctively moved to rescue it. He was jerked back instantly and painfully.
Wada cried, “Wait. It must be valuable. Pick it up. What else is there?”
“This, Lieutenant,” cried a man triumphantly, holding up Osawa’s silk pouch and jingling it. “He’s a thief, all right.” Akitada silently cursed Osawa’s forgetfulness.
Wada rushed over. He opened the pouch, shook out and counted the silver and copper, and then extracted some papers.
“Belongs to a man called Osawa,” he said. “A provincial inspector of taxes.” He almost purred when he asked Akitada, “What did you do with him?”
“Nothing. Osawa had to go back to Minato and sent me on by myself.” Akitada knew how this must sound, but was shocked by the viciousness of Wada’s reaction. Wada snatched one of the short whips from a constable’s leather belt and lashed him across the face with it. The pain was much sharper than he could have imagined. Tears blinded his eyes, and he heard Wada sneer, “I warned you that the fun is over. You don’t listen well, do you?”
Akitada was seized by an unreasoning fury. The insult was too much. He would kill the man, but not now, not while Wada had the upper hand. Focusing was difficult. He blinked away the tears. His face was bleeding, and he licked the salty drops from his lips. “Lieutenant,” he forced himself to beg, “please take me to the governor. He’ll explain.”
“The governor?” Wada’s eyes grew round with pretended shock. “You want me to trouble the governor with this? You think he likes me to bring him every robber, thief, and killer we catch?”
“I did not rob, steal, or kill anyone,” Akitada began again, but it was useless.
“Enough chatter!” snapped Wada. “Take him into those woods over there. We’ll soon sort out what he’s done with the body of this Osawa.”
It was getting out of hand. Once the sadistic Wada and his thugs got him out of sight of passersby, it would be too late to remonstrate. “Lieutenant,” Akitada said, drawing himself up as much as he could under the circumstances. “You are making a mistake. I am not a convict, but a government official. I demand that you take me to Governor Mutobe this instant.” Wada chuckled. “You’ve got to give it to him. He’s pretty good,” he said to his men, who guffawed again. “All right. Let’s show him some fun!” He marched ahead toward a cluster of trees, and Akitada’s guards obliged with some well-placed kicks to his lower back which sent him staggering after Wada.
Dear heaven, he thought, as he stumbled toward the woods, let me get out of this alive and I’ll never be off my guard again. He recalled vividly the battered face and body of little Jisei. Staring at Wada’s swaggering back, he tried to think of some way to talk himself out of this. Then he glanced at the constable who held his chain, wondering about an evasive action he could take to escape. At least his legs were not tied.
Maybe he could pull the chain out of his guard’s hand and run.
Wada had a bow and arrows. Still, it was worth a try if nothing else offered.
“Lieutenant,” he called out, “if you will stop this nonsense, I’ll explain before it is too late. There are matters you’re not aware of, and they will be easy enough to verify.” Wada did not stop.
They passed into the trees, and the constables moved in more closely until they reached a clearing, and Akitada saw their horses and a small pile of wooden cudgels near a tree.
Cudgels? The moment he realized they had been prepared for him, he exploded into action. Kicking out at the constable on his right, he flung himself forward, feeling the chain bite his wrists and his arms jerking up under the strain. His shoulders were almost wrenched from their sockets, but he pulled away with all his strength, knowing that if he did not get free, much worse awaited him.
And he almost made it. In the confused shouting and angry cries, he felt the chain slacken and took off, twisting past one of the constables to loop back toward the road, dodging another man, and thinking of Wada, who was probably placing an arrow into the groove of his bow even then. He dodged again, a tree this time, and then the chain caught on something, and he fell forward, his face slamming into a tree root.
After that, he had no more chances. They took him back to the clearing and lashed the chain around a large cedar. A cut he had suffered in the fall was bleeding into his right eye, and his left eye was swelling shut because the constable he had kicked had returned the favor. But he glimpsed-and wished he had not-the neat pile of sticks and cudgels and the constables arming themselves before they formed a circle around him. They were going to have their fun.
His chain was loose enough to allow him some minimal dodging. Wada stood off to the side, his face avid with antici-pation.
“So,” he said, stroking his skimpy mustache with a finger.
“Let’s get started. Where is the body of the man you killed?” Akitada saw no need to reply. He kept his eyes on the constables.
“Very well,” said Wada, and the first man stepped forward and swung.
Akitada dodged, and the end of the stick merely brushed his hip. Not too bad, he thought.
Wada shook his head. “Go on. All of you. At this rate we’ll be here till midnight.”
What followed was systematic and practiced. As one man stepped forward and swung, Akitada dodged and was met by the full force of the cudgel of the man at the other end. The blows landed everywhere on his body, but for some reason they avoided his head, which he could not in any case have protected.
The pain of each blow registered belatedly. The full sensation was blocked by his concentration on dodging the next one, but this did not last long. He had never been so totally at the mercy of an enemy. The experience was simultaneously humbling and infuriating. It became vital not to disgrace himself. In an effort to distance himself from his pain, he thought of playing his flute. Concentrating on a passage which always gave him trouble, he played it in his mind, allowing his body to move by instinct.
Time passed. Perhaps not much, perhaps a long time. Eventually one of the sticks broke, and once Akitada stumbled and fell to his knees. He ducked in time, or the swinging cudgel might have hit his head. Somehow he got back on his feet, and once he even landed a kick to the groin of one of the men who had strayed a bit too close. But he was quickly wearing out, and his mental flute-playing disintegrated in hot flashes of agony.
Parts of him had gone numb. One arm was on fire with pain that ran all the way from his shoulder to his hand. Then one of the cudgels connected with his right knee, and he forgot the other pains and his pride. He screamed and fell.
Mercifully they stopped then-though there was no mercy about it, really. Wada walked over and kicked him in the ribs.
“Get up!”
“I can’t,” muttered Akitada through clenched teeth.
They jerked him upright. He screamed again as he put weight on his injured knee and both knees buckled.
“Silence!”
Wada was listening toward the road. At a sign from him, his men dropped Akitada. This time they left him
