Bundori: A Novel Of Japan

new era of warfare.

Now, from behind the ranks, the war trumpet blared. The Bundori Killer galloped out from behind the palisade amid the main fighting force. Yelling orders to his troops, he steered his mount and wielded his sword. Scores of enemy soldiers fell before him, adding to the carnage that littered the field. The gunners continued blasting the Takeda to eternity. By the time the Nagashino Castle garrison sallied out to attack the fleeing Takeda from the rear, he was hoarse from shouting and delirious with joy.

With his help, Lord Oda had vanquished the Takeda, his chief rivals. Now nothing stood between him and his goal of dominating the entire nation.

Chapter 17

Zojo Temple, founded as the Tokugawa family temple nearly a hundred years earlier, occupied a vast area of land in Shiba, south of the city proper. The domain of three thousand priests and their attendants, its halls, pagodas, tombs, dormitories, and gardens nestled among hills shrouded in dense pine forest.

As he and Hirata neared Zojo Temple, Sano felt a sense of homecoming that the late hour and unusual circumstances of their visit didn’t diminish. Like other Edo citizens, he’d worshipped at the temple and attended ceremonies there. He’d also spent nine years of his life at the temple’s school for boys. He knew every stretch of this country road, and found himself checking off familiar landmarks. There was the Iigura Shinmei Shrine; here was the bend in the road. In a moment they would reach the bridge leading across the Sakuragawa Canal, and then Zojo Temple ’s main gate. As he rode, Sano dreaded what the temple might hold for him now-not the welcome of his boyhood friends and teachers, but another murder scene. Created by the killer he’d expected to catch tonight.

They rounded the bend. Hirata, riding beside him, exclaimed, “Look!”

Flaming stone lanterns lit the towering, two-story main gate.

Beyond this, more lanterns climbed the hill alongside steep steps leading to the temple’s main precinct. High above the road, the roofs of the temple’s monuments, illuminated by lights in the courtyards below, floated atop the forest like rafts on dark waves. The priests had lit the temple as if for some weird nocturnal festival.

But the reception Sano and Hirata received when they arrived at the gate was anything but festive. Three grim priests, dressed in flowing saffron robes and armed with spears, greeted them.

“The Bundori Killer has struck here, hasn’t he?” Sano asked the leader.

The priest only bowed and said, “His Holiness the abbot is expecting you, sosakan- sama.” His words confirmed Sano’s fears, but he obviously had orders to let his superior do the talking. “If you’ll please wait here?”

One of the other priests took charge of the horses. The leader ushered Sano and Hirata into the dim gatehouse, where, under the watchful eyes of an enshrined Buddha, statues of Manjusri and Samantabhadra mounted on white elephants, and the sixteen apostles, they waited for the third priest to fetch the abbot.

Apprehension’s steel fist tightened within Sano’s stomach as he wondered how best to approach an inquiry centered on sacred ground to which he had strong emotional ties. In what seemed like no time at all, the door on the temple side of the gatehouse opened.

“His Holiness,” the messenger priest announced.

Down the torchlit path walked the abbot of Zojo Temple, followed by a retinue of four priests. The abbot’s shaven head rose above those of his subordinates; the silk brocade stole of his exalted office glittered. Seeing him again evoked in Sano his childhood fear and awe of the man who had once represented the highest authority. Bowing deeply in respect, he fought the resurgence of those emotions. To display the awkward uncertainty of youth would jeopardize the investigation.

“Sano Ichiro.” The abbot’s deep voice had a humming quality imparted by years of chanting sutras. “It has been a long time since last we met.”

Sano straightened, tilting his head back to look into the taller man’s eyes. “It has, Your Honorable Holiness,” he agreed before introducing Hirata.

He’d spoken with the abbot exactly twice before: at age six, during his admission interview, and again upon completing his studies. Now he saw with surprise that the passage of sixteen more years had scarcely altered the abbot.

Age spots marked the shaven head, and the thick eyebrows had turned white, but although he must be in his seventies now, the abbot retained an air of youthful vigor. His full-fleshed body was still firm; his oval face virtually unlined. The prominent features hadn’t lost their resolute strength. Nor had time dimmed the serene light of his eyes. Benevolent and all-knowing, they contemplated Sano. Suddenly he remembered the abbot’s parting words to him:

“You have an inquisitive spirit and a talent for uncovering truth, my son. This talent can be a blessing, or a curse. Will the truths you uncover bring darkness and trouble to you and the world, or light and serenity?”

Now Sano wondered if the abbot remembered their conversation. With the arrogance of youth, he’d disregarded his elder’s insightful remark. Never had he imagined that he would one day appreciate the danger in his dubious talent.

Having acknowledged their past association, the abbot dispensed with refreshing their acquaintance. As much canny politician as spiritual leader, he undoubtedly knew as much about the shogun’s sosakan as anyone in the bakufu, and had probably reviewed Sano’s school records in preparation for this encounter.

“I thought it best to await your arrival before attending to the remains of our brother, Endo Azumanaru, who was murdered tonight,” he said. “You will, of course, have our full cooperation in apprehending his killer.”

Endo.

Sano’s excitement overrode his relief at learning that the abbot meant to facilitate his investigation. As the abbot and his retinue ushered them up the path toward the temple’s inner precinct, Sano asked, “Was the dead priest a descendant of Endo Munetsugu?”

“Why, yes. Brother Endo took orders after retiring from the bakufu service.” Many samurai sought a contemplative life in their old age. “He was very proud of his ancestry. But how did you know of it?” Displeasure brought a transient frown to his serene face. “Did the guards tell you that the name Endo Munetsugu appeared on the label fastened to Brother Endo’s head?”

Sano and Hirata exchanged glances of suppressed elation. This fourth victim proved the theory.

“No,” Sano said, hastening to exonerate the guards of disobedience by explaining how this tragedy had brought enlightenment.

They passed beneath a torii gate at the end of the path, then climbed the steps.

“What was Brother Endo doing outside after dark?” Sano asked. Priests, who rose at dawn, usually retired by sunset.

“He was the security officer who led the night patrol.”

Now Sano knew that the Bundori Killer chose his victims deliberately, familiarizing himself with their habits, then selecting the right time and place for their murders. Anyone in the bancho could have told him of Kaibara’s visits to the pharmacists’ district, but he must have paid informers to tell him the ronin Tozawa’s whereabouts. To learn of Brother Endo’s job, he must have questioned someone living at the temple. The thought of such elaborate calculation froze Sano’s blood.

At the top of the steps, an enclosed corridor with a tile roof formed the temple’s inner wall. Through its narrow windows, Sano saw frightened faces looking out at him, and heard whispered conversation. Even before he entered the main precinct, he could feel the atmosphere of fear, shock, and horror that pervaded the temple.

The precinct blazed with the light of flames that leapt within stone lanterns and flared from torches planted in the vast courtyard. The massive architecture, with its carved columns and doors, and undulating thatched roofs supported on complex wooden bracketry, dwarfed the priests who stood around the Buddha Hall, five-story pagoda, octagonal sutra repository, and the temple bell in its wooden cage. On the hill outside the wall, Sano could see the roofs of the temple’s other buildings: abbots’ residence; priests’, novices’, and servants’ dormitories; refectory; the tombs of past shoguns. Stripped of the animating panorama of pilgrims and ritual, the temple seemed like a stage set where the minor players waited, motionless and silent, for the principals to arrive.