Laura Rowland - The Fire Kimono

Below him, white sand had been spread on the floor to form a shirasu, symbol of truth. On a straw mat on the sand knelt Yoritomo, his wrists and ankles bound, his face dripping sweat. His head turned from side to side; his eyes pleaded for help.

None came from Sano’s troops stationed along the walls. None came from the audience, which included Yoritomo’s father’s enemies; they were eager to see the youth they considered an unhealthy influence on the shogun take a fall. If any man had objections to the trial, he didn’t voice them, for none came from the shogun. He knelt beside Hirata, on the far right side of the dais, lending his tacit approval to the proceedings. He looked frightened and bewildered yet resigned, like a child who’d been forced to swallow bad-tasting medicine.

“The first witness will come forward,” Sano said.

A man entered the room through a door near the dais. He knelt and bowed to Sano and the shogun. The audience leaned forward to see; men in the back craned their necks. He was a strapping young man in worn, faded clothes, a kerchief tied around his shaved head.

“State your name and position,” Sano ordered.

“Itami Senjuro,” the man said. “I’m a ronin.”

He wasn’t a ronin, and that wasn’t his real name. He was a gardener at Sano’s estate.

“Do you know the defendant?” Sano asked.

“Yes, Honorable Chamberlain,” Itami said.

Yoritomo regarded Itami, and Sano, with incredulous dismay.

“How do you know him?” Sano asked.

“He hired me and some other ronin to attack your soldiers.”

The audience stirred, excited by the news. Yoritomo cried, “I didn’t! That’s a lie!”

“Be quiet,” Sano ordered sternly. “You’ll have your turn to talk later.” He said to Itami, “When was this attack?”

“Last autumn.”

“Tell me what happened.”

Itami repeated the story Sano had instructed him to tell: “Yoritomo gave us guns. We hid in the woods along the highway. When your soldiers rode by, we shot them.”

Yoritomo was shaking his head, horrified because he realized the trial was rigged. Sano asked, “What else did Yoritomo give you besides guns?”

“He gave us clothes decorated with Lord Matsudaira’s crest,” Itami replied. “We wore them to the ambush.”

Whispers broke out among the audience. Sano saw heads leaning together, speculative glances exchanged. The atmosphere was thick with tobacco smoke, warm from body heat. “Why did he want you to wear Lord Matsudaira’s crest?” Sano asked.

“So that people who saw us would think Lord Matsudaira sent us,” Itami said.

“That will be all,” Sano said. “You’re dismissed.”

Itami bowed and left the room. Sano said, “I call the next witness.”

Through the door came another, older man, his nose misshapen and cheeks scarred from many fights. The tattoos on his thick, muscular arms provoked rumbling and hostile stares from the audience.

After the witness knelt and bowed, Sano said, “State your name and occupation.”

“Uhei,” the witness said in a coarse, sullen voice. “I’m a gangster.”

That actually was his name, and he actually was a gangster, whom Hirata had met and often arrested during his career as a police officer. Hirata had thought Uhei would add authenticity to the trial and threatened him with jail if he didn’t cooperate. Questioning by Sano revealed that Uhei, like the ronin, had been hired last autumn by Yoritomo.

“To do what?” Sano asked.

“To bomb Lord Matsudaira’s villa by the river,” Uhei replied.

His words set off low exclamations among the assembly. The shogun was as stiff and mute as a wooden puppet. Yoritomo gazed at Sano with eyes full of pain, devastated by Sano’s betrayal.

“What happened?” Sano steeled his heart against his onetime friend. Yoritomo was guilty by association if not deed. He knew it as well as Sano did. And the attacks on Sano and Lord Matsudaira weren’t his only crimes.

“I went to the villa with another man Yoritomo hired,” the gangster said. “He lit the bomb and threw it. I was the lookout. He was caught by Lord Matsudaira’s guards. I got away.” He sounded pleased by his fictional exploit.

“Whose crest did you wear on your clothes?” Sano asked.

“Yours.”

Confusion rippled through the audience. That Yoritomo, the shogun’s plaything, had apparently mounted attacks on two such powerful men was a shock to everyone. Sano was certain they would be more shocked if they knew what Yoritomo was really up to. Yanagisawa was undoubtedly calling the shots from behind the scenes, but he needed help from someone who could come and go freely, who had access to information. Yoritomo was his henchman and spy at court.

“Yoritomo wanted Lord Matsudaira to think I ordered the bombing?” Sano said.

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know,” the gangster said. “He didn’t tell me.”

“Perhaps the next witness can shed some light on the matter,” Sano said.

The next witness was a young woman who minced into the courtroom on high-soled sandals. She caused exclamations and mutters from the audience. Her long hair draped her pink and orange floral kimono. Her pretty face was plastered with thick white rice powder and bright red rouge. She dimpled at the men, and Sano felt the heat in the room rise.

When he asked her to identify herself, she said, “My name is Kiku. I’m a maid at the Plum Blossom Teahouse.”

She was really a maid at Sano’s estate. His large household could supply actors to fill any sort of roles. Sano asked, “What is your relationship with Yoritomo?”

Kiku preened and giggled. “We’re lovers.”

The shogun gasped, hurt because his favorite had apparently cheated on him with this female. Every gaze in the room flew to him as he leaned forward to protest. Hirata whispered in his ear. He settled back on his heels, miserable and docile as a whipped dog.

“No!” Aghast, Yoritomo said, “I’ve never even met her! She’s lying!”

“One more outburst from you, and you’ll be beaten,” Sano said, then asked the girl, “How long have you and the defendant been lovers?”

“Oh, three years now,” Kiku said, giggling. “He came into the teahouse, and when we saw each other, it was love at first sight-”

“Did Yoritomo tell you why he staged the attacks on Lord Matsudaira and myself?” Sano cut her off because she was embellishing the story he’d ordered her to tell.

“Oh, yes.” Kiku clearly enjoyed the audience’s attention; she smoothed her kimono that Sano had borrowed from Reiko’s chest of old clothes. “We told each other everything that was on our minds. We had no secrets-”

“Why did he do it?”

Kiku sighed, reluctant to deliver her last lines and end her performance. “He wanted you and Lord Matsudaira to blame the attacks on each other,” she recited. “He wanted to start a war between you. After you destroyed each other, he could step in and take power over the regime.”

The murmuring in the audience rose to a roar. Sano could tell from its tone that many of the daimyo and officials had believed Yoritomo wanted the power his father had craved, and now they thought their suspicions were confirmed. The shogun dropped his head into his hands, rocking back and forth. Yoritomo sat motionless and stunned. To Sano he resembled a stone statue that had been struck a mortal blow, cracks spreading through it, ready to crumble.

“That’s enough,” Sano said to the girl.

She bowed, rose, and flounced out of the room, all smiles. Sano said, “The evidence proves that Yoritomo is guilty of subversive actions that amount to treason. But the law gives him the opportunity to speak in his own defense.” He turned to Yoritomo. “Speak now if you will.”