The Convict's Sword (31 page)

In his room, he undressed silently while she lit incense in a long-handled burner. The room filled with the heavy aromatic scent of expensive male perfume. Akitada wrinkled his nose at it. She lifted the court robe, the train, and the full white silk trousers from their trunk and spread them over a wooden stand.

“I tore the trousers and the robe,” he said. “Did someone mend them?”

“Yes.” She took the incense burner by its handle and passed it back and forth under the stand, letting the faint spiral of scented smoke rise into the folds of the clothing. “It was not too bad. The robe only needed re-stitching, and the tears are hardly noticeable in the fullness of fabric.”

“Thank you.” He stood there, feeling helpless and uncomfortable in his underrobe and stockinged feet. Belatedly he remembered his cap. Risking a glance at the mirror, he winced, took off the cap, and studied his eye. The bruises, though they had faded, were still there and made him look like a hooligan.

“I have some cosmetics,” she said. “They should hide those bruises.”

“I’m not wearing powder and paint,” he said, shocked by the notion.

She bowed her head. “I am sorry. I should not have suggested it.”

They fell silent again as he waited for her to finish perfuming his clothes.

After a long while, he said, “I should not have spoken so harshly to you earlier. Especially when it turns out that you were quite right about the emperor.”

“It does not matter,” she said listlessly.

She held out the silk trousers, and he put his hands on her shoulders as he stepped into them. Their physical closeness was an irritant, and he stepped away from her as soon as he could. Feeling guilty, he searched for something else conciliatory to say. “Let Yori practice his reading until we can buy more paper and brushes.”

“As you wish.” She helped him with the gown and seemed to avoid touching him, then turned to get his sash, his elaborate headgear, and his baton of office. Kneeling before him, she placed these articles at his feet and bowed. “Do you wish for anything else?”

“N-no. Thank you.” He watched as she rose and left the room—so silently that he was aware only of the softest rustle of silk and the slightest whisper of her feet on the polished boards. The door closed noiselessly. It was as if his wife had dissolved into air. Putting on the sash by himself was a struggle.

His progress on the way back was awkward, as always when he was forced to wear formal dress. Nakatoshi awaited him with the official pass that would admit him to the Imperial Palace. Sakae hovered in the background, looking smug. Akitada took the opportunity to apologize for having doubted him earlier. Sakae’s smug expression turned into a smirk. He accepted the apology with a humility that was as excessive as it was false.

At Kenreimon, the central gate to the Imperial Palace, Akitada presented his pass to an officer of the palace guard, a man much younger than he and well above him in court rank. He was waved through without so much as a curious glance. No doubt a stream of well-wishers had already paid their respects, and Akitada was of less significance than any of them.

Before him lay the inner wall and another gate, Shomeimon, nicknamed the “Bedroom Gate.” It was thatched with cypress bark and only slightly smaller than the outer one. He climbed the three steps, had his credentials and costume inspected by two stern-faced officials, and descended on the other side.

He now stood in the South Court of the Imperial Palace. The Audience Hall, known as the Purple Sanctum, rose directly before him. It was very large but as simple as a Shinto shrine, unpainted and roofed with thick cypress bark. A wide staircase led up to its veranda.

To his right and left were other halls, and beyond the Audience Hall rose more roofs in bewildering succession. Akitada looked around the courtyard, scene of many imperial festivities and sacred rituals, and at the famous cherry and orange trees on either side of the grand staircase. These things he had only heard about. Then he gazed at the people in the courtyard, some walking, others standing about in groups. They were either not afraid of contagion or valued the opportunity to show their devotion more highly. Palace servants in white with tall black hats mingled with courtiers and senior Imperial Guard officers carrying bows and arrows.

Akitada caught some surprised glances at his own robe and retreated nervously. He saw now that the inner wall was a double covered gallery that led off to the east and west, but he did not know where to turn.

One of the officials at the gate had waved casually toward the left. Akitada began to walk that way along the covered gallery. Men passed him, giving him curious stares; he was a stranger here. All of them outranked him, and he did not dare ask them for directions. When he reached another set of steps into the courtyard, he saw that the gallery continued into a separate enclosure and stopped. He looked doubtfully at the two halls ahead. Most visitors seemed to be headed toward the second of these. Akitada followed them into the graveled courtyard and walked under the trees, looking for one of the palace servants. Alas, there were none.

He had just made up his mind to risk interrupting one of the small groups of nobles, when he recognized a face. His old friend Kosehira stood chatting with several others, his pudgy hands fluttering and his round face unusually serious. Akitada stopped.

One of the men with Kosehira noticed him and said something. Kosehira turned, cried out, “If it isn’t Akitada!” and rushed over. Good old Kosehira. He had always treated Akitada as a friend, even if he had long since outstripped him by several ranks.

They embraced. “What did you do to your face?” demanded Kosehira. “Been in the wars again?”

“Just a disagreement with a thug. How are you, Kosehira?”

“Never better. My family grows and my garden is beautiful just now. You must see it. I have moved the waterway and built a charming poetry pavilion in the far corner. It’s so inspiraenve you would have poetry flowing tional that even you vould have poetry flowing from your lips

“Kosehira,” said Akitada nervously with a glance at his friend’s companions, “surely this is not the time and place, when His Majesty is so ill. And aren’t people afraid to come here?”

“Oh, that. Well, we’re not likely to be admitted to his presence. Everyone is very concerned, but I hear he is not too bad. Young people seem to shake these things off so easily. They say he’s hardly marked at all. Dreadful disease, of course. A lot of people have left for the country. All is well at your house, I hope?”

“Yes,” Akitada said, bemused, “and yours?”

“Of course. I’ve added three more children to my brood. Two sons and a puny little girl. I seem to spoil my little ladies more than the boys. And how fares your family? Any new lovely ladies?”

Akitada smiled. “No. Both Tamako and Yori are well.”

Kosehira cocked his head. “Only one child? In all those years? Come, that is too bad of you. I know of any number of well-born young women who would eagerly join your household and provide you with a large family. As a matter of fact, one of my own cousins . . .”

“Please, Kosehira, not now. I’m here to pay my respects and have no idea where to go.”

Kosehira looked puzzled. “But how did you get in?”

Akitada produced his pass. “I’m representing Soga.”

“Is he ill or dead?” Kosehira asked hopefully. He knew Soga, and he also knew of Akitada’s troubles with the minister.

“Neither. He’s gone to the country.”

“Pity.”

“How serious is this epidemic?”

Kosehira’s face lengthened. “Serious. Kinnori has died and now his son and two of his wives have it. The great minister of the left has moved to his second wife’s home, because his first wife’s father and uncle are both ill. The crown prince’s mentor is at death’s door and has taken Buddhist vows. And there are others. It’s hard to tell who’s sick and who’s in hiding; they just don’t come to court or they have left the capital. It’s said that Takaie brought it back with him from Tsukushi when he returned to court early this year. His retainers and servants have spread it among the common people. Apparently the young get it first.”

Akitada stared at him. This passed belief. “But what about all these people here? And why haven’t there been announcements and proclamations? Why just let the disease spread without so much as a word?”

Kosehira raised his thin brows. “You must have heard something about it.”

“I didn’t take it seriously. Not until I was told about His Majesty’s illness today.”

“Actually, the place is pretty empty today. You should see it when all is well.” Kosehira sighed. “We’re all in the hands of Buddha.”

They fell silent. Akitada wondered if Tamako worried that he would bring the disease back with him. She had expected him to take his family to their farm in the country. But Seimei was too ill to travel, and Akitada could not leave the ministry. Worse, Tora had disappeared, and Genba was at the Yasugi mansion.

Kosehira slapped his shoulder. “Come, cheer up. You’re safe enough. All will be well. Now go and take your wishes for His Majesty’s complete recovery to the chamberlains’ office. I’ll show you the way. The head chamberlain is on duty now; he will receive you.”

Kosehira left to explain matters to his friends and then walked with Akitada to the chamberlains’ office. Akitada felt a shiver of awe. He had never set foot in the Imperial Palace, let alone penetrated as far as the handful of nobles who associated daily with the emperor in his private apartments. But he had prepared his speech and must deliver it. It was now part of his duties.

“I’m not looking forward to it,” he confessed when they stopped at the bottom of the steps.

Kosehira laughed. “You’re only the hundredth visitor today. They won’t pay much attention. Just say your bit, and creep back out. Backward, mind you.”

Yes. He had almost forgotten about that. Much depended on his not placing a foot wrong or neglecting proper protocol. He felt the sweat breaking out on his forehead. Better get it over with before he started dripping all over the chamberlains’ shining floors. He started up the stairs.

As it turned out, Kosehira was right. When he gave his name and purpose to a guard at the door to the chamberlains’ office, he was conducted into a large room where three formally attired nobles awaited him. He entered, knelt before the one in the center, and touched his forehead to the polished wooden boards.

“You are Sugawara, acting Minister of Justice?”

“Acting Minister of Justice” sounded very grand, but Akitada felt thoroughly inadequate to the present situation and merely murmured his assent.

“Why have you come?”

At this he sat up and delivered his prepared speech. He managed to do so without stammering, then bowed and immediately returned to his previous position.

“Very dutiful, Sugawara,” said one of the great men—Akitada was not sure who any of them were—“Your wishes will be delivered to His Majesty. He is grateful for the prayers of the nation.”

Akitada did not know how he was to respond to that and therefore remained perfectly still. There was a brief silence, then another voice said impatiently, “That is all. You may now proceed to the temple.”

Akitada rose to his knees, bowed again, and retreated backward, hoping he would not miss the doorway and fetch up against the wall. A hand touched his shoulder, and the guard motioned him to rise and depart. The worst was over.

Kosehira waited outside. “I’ll come with you to the temple,” he said. “It never hurts to pray.”

A practical attitude. They walked the short distance together, exchanging news about their families and their work. It was a measure of Kosehira’s worry that he was unusually subdued.

No monks were sweeping the steps of the temple gate today. All was quiet and neat until they had crossed the temple garden. When they were climbing the steps together, they heard the soft hum of sutra chanting. They stepped into the shadowy solemnity of the temple hall and the heavy scent of incense. The only light came from the tall tapers that burned before the monumental figures of three golden Buddhas. Smaller statues of the celestial generals danced in front of them. Each of the Buddhas wore swirling gilded robes and stood before a large gilded nimbus. By a trick of the flickering candlelight and the haze of incense against the shimmering gold, it seemed as if the statues were alive. The generals turned and dipped and the Buddhas smiled as they emerged from the divine fire.

The chanting monks—dark-robed and seated in the shadows—were almost invisible against the side walls, but a gorgeously attired priest in purple silk and a rich brocade stole occupied the central mat before the altar. He sat cross-legged, apparently in prayer. Kosehira approached him, bowed a greeting and murmured, “My friend Sugawara and I came to pray for His Majesty.” The priest turned his head, gave Akitada a long glance from under heavy lids, and nodded.

They knelt side by side on another mat, performed the customary obeisances, and then assumed the posture of meditation.

Akitada had been raised in the faith and was familiar enough with its rituals, but his true spiritual center was with the ancient gods of Shinto. At heart, he did not approve of the foreign faith, though it was not wise to say so when it was practiced with such devotion by those in power. He listened to the hum and throb of the chant and stared up at the image before him. Judging by the small jar of ointment in the statue’s left hand, this was Yakushi Nyorai, the Buddha of healing. Akitada concentrated on saying a prayer. After all, he was praying for the sovereign and he wished the young emperor well. Indeed, he had been glad to hear he was not dying.

But his mind drifted to worldly matters. He would have to go home to change again, and that meant meeting Tamako to report on the emperor and discuss the problems of sending her and Yori into the country. The complications involved were beyond him. She would leave without him, and he could hardly stop her. Given her feelings at the present time, this separation was likely to deepen the breach between them. As he thought of her words again, they seemed to him a rejection of who and what he was. He could not bridge the distance between them without changing himself into someone he did not want to be.