Laura Rowland: The Ronin’s Mistress

“But I don’t get many requests for help lately,” Reiko said. The whole samurai class knew about Sano’s fall from grace, and the news must have filtered down to the commoners. Perhaps Okaru, from out of town, was the only person who thought Reiko had the ability to help anybody anymore. “Only letters from people wanting money.”

And she had less of that to give nowadays. His demotion had cost Sano a fortune. His stipend from the government had been reduced, and he’d had to discharge many of his retainers and servants. Too kind to throw them out in the streets, he’d paid other samurai clans to take on the retainers and given the servants money to live on until they found other jobs. He and Reiko were far from poor, but for the first time in her life she was feeling the pinch of tight finances.

“What kind of trouble is this Okaru in?” Masahiro asked.

“Your guess is as good as mine.” Reiko headed for the door.

“You’re not going to her, are you?” Chiyo said, alarmed.

“I can’t ignore such a desperate cry for help,” Reiko said.

“But you don’t know anything about Okaru,” Chiyo said. “Or about this man, except that it sounds as if he’s her lover and not her husband.”

“I’ll know soon,” Reiko said.

“I think you shouldn’t go.”

Reiko was surprised that Chiyo would oppose her. Chiyo had a mild nature; she’d never gone against anything Reiko wanted to do.

“I’m concerned for your safety,” Chiyo explained. “Okaru might be someone you’d be better off not knowing.”

“If she is, I’ll find out when I meet her.” Reiko had made up her mind. Not only did she want to help a woman in need, but she had a taste for adventure that had gone unsatisfied too long. She craved an outing to lift her spirits after the bad news from the matchmaker and the grim consequences of Sano’s downfall.

“All right,” Chiyo conceded with good grace, “but I would like to go with you, if I may.” She smiled at Akiko, who was playing with her doll. “I just wish I could stay with her, too.” Reiko’s children helped to fill the emptiness in her heart left by her own children’s absence.

“I would be glad of your company,” Reiko said sincerely.

“Maybe there will be an investigation.” Masahiro’s eyes sparkled with excitement. He loved detective work. He’d done some in the past, and he’d performed well beyond what could be expected of a child. “Can I go, too?”

Reiko hesitated. Masahiro should be at the palace, attending the shogun. If he was absent when the shogun wanted him, the shogun would be displeased, and nobody in their family could afford to displease the shogun. But Reiko badly wanted to keep her son away from the shogun as much as possible.

“Yes,” she said. “You can come.”

Outside Kira’s estate, Sano and his men mounted their horses. They followed the bloody footprints in the snow down the street and through the neighborhood until the gang’s trail had been obliterated by pedestrians and horses. Sano stopped at a gate at an intersection.

“Did you see a gang of samurai pass by here?” he asked the watchman.

“Yes. They went through, even though I told them it was too early for the gates to open.” The neighborhood gates in Edo closed each night, to restrict traffic and confine troublemakers. “I couldn’t stop them.” The watchman exclaimed, “They had a head stuck on a spear!”

Sano envisioned the gang parading Kira’s head around town like a war trophy. It seemed outrageous, barbaric. “Which way did they go?”

The watchman pointed. Sano and his men followed the gang’s trail across the Ryogoku Bridge. They had plenty of witnesses to direct them. Gate sentries, shopkeepers, and other folks had seen the gang. “There were forty-seven of them,” said a noodle vendor.

“They didn’t even try to hide,” Fukida remarked.

Indeed, the forty-seven samurai had made no secret of what they’d done. The Nihonbashi merchant quarter buzzed with the news. People clustered in shops, doorways, and teahouses, glad to pass on information to Sano and anyone else who came along.

“They killed the bastard who caused their master’s death,” said a teahouse owner. Everyone in the teahouse cheered. “I gave them all free drinks.”

Sano wasn’t surprised that the gang had aroused the sympathy of the public, which romanticized people who took the law into their own hands. “Did they say where they were going?”

“To Sengaku Temple.”

“I might have guessed,” Sano said to Hirata as they and their party rode away. “Lord Asano’s tomb is at Sengaku Temple. Of course his men would take Kira’s head there.”

The story of the vendetta spread through town. News-sellers were hawking hastily printed broadsheets: “Read all about the Forty-seven Ronin Revenge!”

“So the crime already has a name,” Fukida said.

“It has a nice ring to it,” Marume said.

Restaurants had fed the gang; girls at the bathhouses had offered them sexual favors. The city had a carnival atmosphere that seemed a harbinger of more lawlessness. The trail continued through Ginza, the sparsely populated district around the Tokugawa silver mint. Sano and his men turned their horses onto the Daiichi Keihin, the main highway to points south. The highway ran through woods, past walled samurai estates. The gang’s footprints showed clearly in the snow and led straight to Sengaku Temple.

Sengaku was a modest temple, a few buildings set apart from the huge Zojo Temple district to the west and the inns, markets, and brothels that served the religious pilgrims. Sano and his men stopped at the outer gate, a simple square arch topped with a tile roof. They jumped off their horses and looked around.

The sun shone on the snow, which glittered with jeweled lights. Shadows reflected the cold, vivid blue of the sky. Sano saw a few houses in the distance, smoke rising from their chimneys. Crows perched in the leafless trees like sentries; their caws echoed weirdly. An unnatural stillness gripped the landscape. No one moved. Even the horses stood as if their hooves had frozen to the ground. Sano’s men listened, their noses red from the cold, their eyes alert. Hirata’s gaze swept the scene for danger.

“Just because they didn’t hide, that doesn’t mean they want to be caught,” Sano said. He couldn’t help hoping for a challenge that would make the pursuit worthwhile.

He and his men drew their swords. Hirata led the cautious advance through the gate. Beyond it lay an open space, the outer temple precinct. Footprints marked the snow to an inner gate flanked by ornamental pine trees with twisted boughs. The gate was a building with a double-tiered roof; its central doorway led to the inner precinct. From the doorway emerged a priest who wore a hooded cloak over his saffron robe and shaved head. He rushed down the steps to meet Sano and the troops, clearly relieved that the law had arrived.

Clasping his hands, he bowed; then he beckoned. “They’re in here.”

“What are they doing?” Sano asked as the priest led him and his group to the inner precinct.

“Nothing.” The priest sounded perplexed. “They just marched into the temple without a word.” He bypassed the worship hall, where a few other priests stood about in confusion. He pointed at a well-a round hole encircled by a carved stone rim. The snow around it was wet and red. “They washed the head there.”

They had performed a ritual purification of Kira’s head, Sano deduced. His heart began to drum with excitement. The priest led the way through a gate in a stone wall. In a small cemetery, the forty-seven samurai stood crowded amid stone pillars that marked the graves where the ashes of the deceased were buried. Their swords were sheathed, bows and empty slings dangling from their shoulders, spears resting on the ground. Their faded, threadbare clothes were splattered with blood. Grime and whisker stubble shadowed their faces. They gazed at Sano and his party without making a sound, their expressions set in identical hard, stoic lines. They ranged in age from a youth of about sixteen years to old, white-haired men. Some were wounded, with rags wrapped around arms and legs. One fellow had a gory cut across his eye, which was swollen shut and leaking bloody fluid. They all faced Lord Asano’s tomb, a pillar elevated on a stone base and enclosed by a fence made of stone posts. In front of the tomb was a stone lantern with a curved lid and a persimmon-shaped ornament on top. Against the lantern’s tall base stood the forty-seven ronin ’s trophy.