Sword of Honour (44 page)

He saw drums and thought of longswords, and how a longsword worked was this: the right hand held up near the guard pushed and the left hand held near the pommel pulled. It was this controlled
motion that gave the ability to cut properly, not some great swipe with the shoulders but rather the sword utilizing the body as no more than a fulcrum, the potential of the steel by and for itself
duly realized as it whipped around. Thus, two hands always on the sword.

Musashi, though, saw the duel with Akiyama: his longsword cutting down across the body held only in one hand. He had summoned enough strength with his right wrist alone to achieve the motion of
two. Contra. Impossible. But he had done it, and he had kept training the right arm to this day. But always a strange sense of emptiness as he did so, as if he were pushing at something barely
realized.

A feeling as empty as his left hand was during the training.

There before him, the drummers: the two hands together, in unison, forming the rhythm of the universe. One alone would not suffice, the beat of that malformed and unfelt, but two, two together,
fulfilling all possible potential.

In them, in him.

Clarity.

Clarity.

On the surface of the water all the rings now passing through one another, perfect circles cast immaculate and interlocking, and here, now, not in the solitude of wilderness but rather in the
finest city upon the earth, at long last amongst his fellow people, Musashi felt a moment of pure wellbeing, of belonging, of righteousness.

Chapter Twenty-eight

The cheer went up for the champion, echoed through the streets of Maruta, continued, grew. A gang of men roving, shouting and waving fists, eyes locked on the warrior that
strode ahead of them: a black and red rooster on a leash. Upon the creature’s head was placed a miniature samurai helmet, delicate and crested in gold leaf, someone having been to a
dollmaker’s. Around its bristling chest were loosely collared a tiny pair of swords doubtlessly appropriated from the same set.

Those they passed they gathered up in their wake, itinerant rivermen, drunks, gamblers, Musashi. Before them all the rooster strutted back and forth, not scared by the clamour but thriving in
it, his talons and his spurs white and sharp, his tail up resplendent. They made their way to a large shack of some sort down by the river, its true purpose unclear and inside of which more men
were crowding. A ring had been formed by crates and planks and all manner of things set into an angular attempt at a circle and within this waited another rooster, this one white and wearing a
leather hood, clawing at the earth.

‘When that hood comes off, a truly diabolical hellbeast will be unleashed,’ the owner of the white bird was shouting. ‘Within this rooster beats the heart of a tiger,
he’ll tear the throat out of a boar, let alone a scrawny old bantam such as he faces this day! Fearless! Your money’s safe on him, mark my words!’

‘Close your ears to these lies, good men!’ said the owner of the avian samurai as they strode in. ‘I bring to you my undefeated warrior, victor of seven bouts, the pride of the
shit stacks! You cannot argue with experience! You know on which one to bet, wise brothers, oh, how you do!’

Swagger and pomp, and all around the ring money was changing hands, the excitement rising. Musashi let it pass before him. He had focus on the coming duel, his body aching with the pleasant burn
of exploring the potential of what he had envisioned in the drums. The thrill of theorizing and creating anew, fervour and anticipation building in him as he found it, this thing of his devising,
not only possible but practical. Familiar even, as though his body had walked the steps before, or was always meant to walk them.

He rubbed his tired eyes and leant against the wall at the back of the crowd, his only real interest in this cockfight as a diversion, something to keep him awake and fill the span of time from
now until his meeting with Denshichiro.

The black-and-red rooster was carefully divested of its helmet and its swords and then placed into the ring, kept on its leash as the betting was finalized. The white rooster sensed its
presence, feathers bristling and its talons beginning to tap with what some argued was nervousness and others claimed was bloodlust. A lengthy debate, the weight of it growing with each additional
coin.

‘The red one was wearing the helmet, yes?’ asked an ageing man to Musashi’s side.

He nodded, not interested in meeting the man’s eyes.

‘Perhaps I best bet on him,’ said the man, taking a pouch from his waist and rummaging inside for coins. ‘Which one are you going for?’

‘I’ve no money,’ said Musashi.

‘I’ll front you a bet, if you wish.’

‘No.’

Ambivalent, the man ambled over to speak with the bookmaker. Inside the ring the two roosters were growing more agitated, the white one beginning to caw beneath its hood, the red one now testing
the extent of its leash, cantering at its limits. His bet made, the man returned to Musashi’s side with a wooden chit in his hand. He was out of place here, all but bald, his legs bare
beneath a plain black kimono belted loosely. This a fine garment compared with the rough jerkins and jackets others wore, with the tattered and sleeveless kimono upon Musashi.

Musashi crossed his bare arms, tried to make his desire for solitude apparent. The man persisted oblivious, flapping the lapels of his clothing to fan his chest: ‘Maruta, Maruta. Rare I
venture up out here any more, but fun when I do. Not from Kyoto, are you?’

‘No.’

‘What think you of our fair city?’

‘It is what it is.’

‘A pity to hear words so jaded from one so young.’

His tone amiable and ignored by Musashi. At the back of the crowd a man turned to look back at the pair of them. Had a good long look this time, having glanced back several times before, and
then his eyes went wide. He turned back to the ring without saying anything. It was not Musashi or his swords he had been examining.

‘Surely you’ve been outside of Maruta?’ said the man. ‘You can’t judge Kyoto on what happens here, honest as it is. What have you seen of the true city? Where have
you been?’

Musashi rubbed his nose, sniffed, looked only at the roosters.

‘You must have been to some of the temples, at least? Even if you’re not pious, you have to see them. Beautiful buildings, just beautiful. Achievements. Chionin, Kiyomizu, Tofuku . .
. No? None of them?’

‘I’ve been to Hiei.’

‘Ah, Hiei.’ The man nodded. ‘Enryaku temple. That was beautiful, back in the day. What does it look like now?’

‘Dead. Burnt.’

‘Indeed,’ said the man sadly. ‘I can’t bring myself to go and look. Such a shame. The late Lord Oda’s work . . . An outsider lessening Kyoto.’

Above them all the cry went up from the umpire that betting was closed and that the fight was nigh. He stood on a chest and gesturing with a crude imitation of a gourd-shaped fan like a man
adjudging a cultured wrestling bout would use. Those clustered closest to the ring were forced to their knees, those behind them into a squat, those at the back onto their straining toes. The two
combatants were picked up by their respective owners and taken to opposite sides of the ring. There squatting they made the final preparations, the owner of the red cooing something unheard, the
owner of the white repeatedly flicking his bird on the back of the head.

Musashi and his apparent companion alone were bereft of excitement, the ring barely visible to them. The man was unyielding: ‘When did you come to the city?’

‘A week or two past.’

‘Ahh, that’s time enough. You must have formed some opinion, however small. I’d like to hear it, just for the sake of idle curiosity. Mine the fortune to have been here so long
I forget how others view what is common to me.’

Musashi exhaled through his nose: ‘If you want to know, I hate the cleanliness there. People always brushing, sweeping, polishing. Staring at you if you dare to defile it. Wasting so much
time fighting against what is natural.’

‘So you would prefer a city dusty and falling into disrepair?’

‘I would prefer a city full of people concerned with things higher than appearance. A city clean from the inside.’

‘A lofty desire.’

Musashi grunted, crossed his arms anew.

The fight was imminent now. The umpire of the contest stood in a wide squat, raised his rickety bamboo approximation of a fan high in one hand. Hush fell, breaths were held. The two owners
nodded their readiness. The fan slashed down, the hood upon the white bird was ripped off and then the two roosters were hurled into the centre of the ring to wild cheers.

They met in the air in a scrabbling flurry of claws and wings and beaks and then fell to the ground still fighting. The white one jumped and the red one rose to meet it, necks extending, feet
gouging, feathers on end, and when they clattered to the ground for the second time they backed apart from one another. The men roared and started to beat upon the crates, goading them on. The
roosters, though, were wary, circled each other as around them their feathers drifted slowly down.

‘Evenly matched, it seems,’ muttered the man. ‘I thought the red one had weight on the other. I suppose white is a misleading colour, lessening. Tell me: after that opening
flurry, which one has your favour?’

‘I don’t know. I haven’t seen a cockfight before.’

‘You’re a samurai, aren’t you? Can you not discern their fighting spirits?’

‘They’re just birds.’

‘But surely they have some telltale—’

‘What are you doing out here?’ snapped Musashi. ‘Can’t find this in the city proper?’

‘In truth I came to speak to you, Sir Miyamoto.’

In an instant, in the saying of that sentence, the man’s entire comportment changed, his guise shed. Musashi looked at him anew and the image of Denshichiro screaming in the garrison of
the Tokugawa came to him, of a voice commanding him into silence.

‘I know you,’ said Musashi, alarmed. ‘You’re of the Yoshioka.’

‘Tadanari Kozei, of the ward of—’ he began, but did not finish as Musashi made for his swords anticipating a rush of tea-coloured samurai from outside. Kozei placed a hand on
the young man’s wrist before he could draw his weapons, neither gentle nor restraining, spoke evenly: ‘I came alone, and I came unarmed. I only wish to speak with you.’

‘You are without swords. I doubt you are unarmed.’

Tadanari released Musashi, smiled. From his belt he took a folding fan, which he revealed to be plated with iron, strong and thick enough to parry a sword, and his long tobacco pipe the metal
mouthpiece of which ended in a point sharp enough to stab.

‘These are only the tools of common sense,’ he said. ‘But, as you see, you have your swords and I do not. Furthermore you bested Seijuro, who was half my age and a superior
swordsman. I am quite at your mercy. Will you calm yourself, and listen to what I have to say?’

In the ring the white rooster sank down, spread its wings, flared its tail and brayed long and piercing. Musashi leant back against the wall.

‘Thank you,’ said the bald samurai. He replaced the fan and the pipe at his belt, and then he too turned to look at the fight once more. ‘It is clear you are a man of skill
with the blade. Firstly I must ask, as a matter of martial respect: who did you study under?’

‘Munisai Shinmen.’

‘Is that so? I saw Munisai fight in Osaka, when he was named the Nation’s Finest. Your style had been described to me. It does not sound much like his methods.’

‘He died when I was a child. Since then I have taught myself.’

‘Of course. Might I ask of Munisai’s death? I was suspicious of—’

‘He chose it for himself.’

The red rooster suddenly dashed towards the white one and butted it backwards, and the low men of Maruta all sensing blood, longing for it, began a roar that died feeble when the two roosters
did not follow through with claw or beak, settled for merely shrieking at one another and circling once more.

‘Tadanari Kozei,’ said Musashi, ‘Akiyama spoke of you. You’re the one who sent him to kill me. Is it you who wields the power at the school?’

‘My counsel is valued.’

‘But not your hand. What worth that? Do you value it yourself, or is that why you sent another to enact your will? Coward.’

Tadanari bore the insult entirely impassively. In the crowd an errant flailing elbow knocked a hand clutched full of coins open, copper scattering across the earth amongst feet. The owner of the
money sank desperately to his knees, began to grope blindly with clawed hands through the legs around him.

‘I read the late Sir Akiyama’s thoughts upon you, of your character,’ said Tadanari, ‘of how you think, of what you value, and I do not think the school of Yoshioka are
who you believe us to be. We are not high-born, you know. We are not the inheritors of centuries of prestige. No noble bloodline flows through me: my great grandfather was a cobbler. The
great-great-grandfather of the young heirs Denshichiro and Seijuro was in turn a dyer of silk. That, the roots of the Yoshioka. A humble craftsman who discovered the shades of the colour of tea,
and from the rolling of the presses and the hauling of vats found strength and dexterity in his arms, which he turned to the sword. Raised himself up, won renown, founded the school of which my
ancestor was the first student. Is this not what you speak so highly of?’

‘Then bring out your ancestors to meet me,’ said Musashi. ‘You cannot? Then do not speak of their virtue to me. I am concerned with you. You now ruling the Yoshioka, the
inheritors of that “virtuous struggle”. Are you humble? Tell me: would you have a man perform seppuku for you?’

‘Seppuku is a noble choice.’

‘It is an abomination! The greatest abomination! And you, all like you, revel in it. Not humble but fancy yourselves gods; you are a devourer of decent men, of men who could be decent
given the chance.’

The vehemence of his words broke Tadanari’s façade for but an instant, the slighest muscle rippling beneath the corner of his eye: ‘That, the source of your hatred?’