Musashi - Eiji Yoshikawa [486]
A fief, the elder Hosokawa had advised, was like a castle wall built of many rocks. A rock that could not be cut to fit in comfortably with the others would weaken the whole structure, even though the rock itself might be of admirable size and quality. The daimyō of the new age left the unsuitable rocks in the mountains and fields, for there was an abundance of them. The great challenge was to find one great rock that would make an outstanding contribution to one’s own wall. Thought of in this way, Tadatoshi felt, Kojirō’s youth was in his favor. He was still in his formative years and consequently susceptible to a certain amount of molding.
Tadatoshi was also reminded of the other rōnin. Nagaoka Sado had first mentioned Musashi at one of these evening get-togethers. Though Sado had allowed Musashi to slip through his fingers, Tadatoshi had not forgotten him. If Sado’s information was accurate, Musashi was both a better fighter than Kojirō and a man of sufficient breadth to be valuable in government.
As he compared the two, he had to admit that most daimyō would prefer Kojirō. He came from a good family and had studied the Art of War thoroughly. Despite his youth, he had developed a formidable style of his own, and he had gained considerable fame as a fighter. The story of his “brilliant” defeat of men from the Obata Academy on the banks of the Sumida River and again at the dike on the Kanda River was already well known.
Nothing had been heard of Musashi for some time. His victory at Ichijōji had made his reputation. But that had been years ago, and soon afterward word had spread that the story was exaggerated, that Musashi was a seeker after fame who had trumped up the fight, made a flashy attack and then fled to Mount Hiei. Every time Musashi did something praiseworthy, a spate of rumors followed, denigrating his character and ability. It had reached the point where even the mention of his name usually met with critical remarks. Or else people ignored him entirely. As the son of a nameless warrior in the mountains of Mimasaka, his lineage was insignificant. Though other men of humble origin—most notably Toyotomi Hideyoshi, who came from Nakamura in Owari Province—had risen to glory in recent memory, people were on the whole class-conscious and not given to paying much heed to a man of Musashi’s background.
As Tadatoshi mulled over the question, he looked around and asked, “Do any of you know of a samurai named Miyamoto Musashi?”
“Musashi?” replied a surprised voice “It’d be impossible not to hear of him. His name’s all over town.” It was evident that they were all familiar with the name.
“Why is that?” A look of anticipation came over Tadatoshi’s face.
“There are signs up about him,” offered one young man, with a slight air of reticence.
Another man, whose name was Mori, chimed in, “People were copying the signs, so I did too. I’ve got it with me now. Shall I read it?”
“Please do.”
“Ah, here it is,” said Mori, unfolding a crumpled scrap of paper. ” ‘Here’s a word to Miyamoto Musashi, who turned tail and ran—’ “
Eyebrows were raised and smiles began to appear, but Tadatoshi’s face was grave. “Is that all?”
“No.” He read the rest of it and said, “The signs were put up by a gang from the carpenters’ district. People find it amusing because it’s a case of street ruffians tweaking the nose of a samurai.”
Tadatoshi frowned slightly, feeling that the words maligning Musashi called his own judgment into question. This was a far cry from the image he had formed of Musashi. Still, he was not ready to accept what he had heard at face value. “Hmm,” he murmured. “I wonder if Musashi is really that sort of man.”
“I gather he’s a worthless lout,” volunteered Mori, whose opinion was shared by the others. “Or at least a coward. If he wasn’t, why would he allow his name to be dragged through the mud?”
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