Musashi - Eiji Yoshikawa [614]
Kojirō laughed and the color rose in his face. “Well, people are blind,” he said bitingly. “So I suppose some consider him a great man or an expert swordsman. That just goes to show you how far the Art of War has declined, with regard to both style and personal conduct. We live in an age when a clever publicity seeker can rule the roost, at least as far as ordinary people are concerned.
“Needless to say, I look at it differently. I saw Musashi trying to sell himself in Kyoto some years ago. He gave an exhibition of his brutality and cravenness in his bout with the Yoshioka School at Ichijōji. Cravenness is not a low enough word for the likes of him. All right, so he was outnumbered, but what did he do? He showed his back at the earliest possible moment. Considering his past and his overweening ambition, I see him as a man not worth spitting on…. Ha, ha—if a man who spends his life trying to learn the Art of War is an expert, then I suppose Musashi’s an expert. But a master of the sword—no, not that.”
He obviously took praise of Musashi as a personal affront, but his insistence on winning anyone and everyone over to his point of view was so vehement that even his staunchest admirers began to wonder. Eventually the word got around that there was a long-standing enmity between Musashi and Kojirō. Before long, rumors of a match were flying.
It was at Lord Tadatoshi’s order that Kojirō had finally issued a challenge. In the several months since then, the entire Hosokawa fief had buzzed with speculation as to when the fight would be held and how it would turn out.
Iwama Kakubei, now well along in years, called on Kojirō morning and evening, whenever he could find the slightest excuse. On an evening early in the fourth month, when even the pink double-petal cherry blossoms had fallen, Kakubei walked through Kojirō’s front garden, past bright red azaleas blooming in the shadows of ornamental rocks. He was shown to an inner room lit only by the failing light of the evening sun.
“Ah, Master Iwama, good to see you,” said Kojirō, who was standing just outside, feeding the falcon on his fist.
“I have news for you,” said Kakubei, still standing. “The clan council discussed the place for the bout today in his lordship’s presence and reached a decision.”
“Have a seat,” said an attendant from the adjacent room.
With no more than a grunt of thanks, Kakubei sat down and continued: “A number of sites were suggested, among them Kikunonagahama and the bank of the Murasaki River, but they were all rejected because they were too small or too accessible to the public. We could put up bamboo fencing, of course, but even that wouldn’t prevent the riverbank from being overrun by swarms of people looking for thrills.”
“I see,” replied Kojirō, still intently watching the falcon’s eyes and beak.
Kakubei, expecting his report to be received more or less with bated breath, was crestfallen. A guest would not normally do such a thing, but Kakubei said, “Come inside. This is nothing to be talking about while you’re standing out there.”
“In a minute,” Kojirō said casually. “I want to finish feeding the bird.”
“Is that the falcon Lord Tadatoshi gave you after you went hunting together last fall?”
“Yes. Its name is Amayumi. The more I get used to it, the better I like it.” He threw away the rest of the food and, winding up the red-tasseled cord attached to the bird’s neck, said to the young attendant behind him, “Here, Tatsunosuke—put it back in its cage.”
The bird was passed from fist to fist, and Tatsunosuke started across the spacious garden. Beyond the customary man-made hillock was a grove of pines, bordered on the other side by a fence. The compound lay along the Itatsu River; many other Hosokawa vassals lived in the vicinity.
“Forgive me for making you wait,” said Kojirō.
“Think