Musashi - Eiji Yoshikawa [72]
Hideyori still resided at Osaka Castle, and although Ieyasu, rather than have him done away with, permitted him to enjoy a substantial annual income, he was aware that Osaka was a major threat as a possible rallying point of resistance. Many feudal lords knew this too, and hedging their bets, paid equal court to both Hideyori and the shōgun. It was often remarked that the former had enough castles and gold to hire every masterless samurai, or rōnin, in the country, if he wanted to.
Idle speculation on the country’s political future formed the bulk of gossip in the Kyoto air.
“War’s bound to break out sooner or later.”
“It’s just a matter of time.”
“These street lanterns could be snuffed out tomorrow.”
“Why worry about it? What happens happens.”
“Let’s enjoy ourselves while we can!”
The bustling nightlife and booming pleasure quarters were tangible evidence that much of the populace were doing just that.
Among those so inclined was a group of samurai now turning a corner into Shijō Avenue. Beside them ran a long wall of white plaster, leading to an impressive gate with an imposing roof. A wooden plaque, blackened with age, announced in barely legible writing: “Yoshioka Kempō of Kyoto. Military Instructor to the Ashikaga Shōguns.”
The eight young samurai gave the impression of having practiced sword fighting all day without respite. Some bore wooden swords in addition to the two customary steel ones, and others were carrying lances. They looked tough, the kind of men who’d be the first to see bloodshed the moment a clash of arms erupted. Their faces were as hard as stone and their eyes threatening, as if always on the brink of exploding in a rage.
“Young Master, where are we headed tonight?” they clamored, surrounding their teacher.
“Anywhere but where we were last night,” he replied gravely.
“Why? Those women were falling all over you! They barely looked at the rest of us.”
“Maybe he’s right,’ another man put in. “Why don’t we try someplace new, where no one knows the Young Master or any of the rest of us.” Shouting and carrying on among themselves, they seemed totally consumed by the question of where to go drinking and whoring.
They moved on to a well-lit area along the banks of the Kamo River. For years the land had been vacant and weed-filled, a veritable symbol of wartime desolation, but with the coming of peace, its value had shot up. Scattered here and there were flimsy houses, red and pale yellow curtains hanging crookedly in their doorways, where prostitutes plied their trade. Girls from Tamba Province, white powder smeared carelessly on their faces, whistled to prospective customers; unfortunate women who had been purchased in droves plunked on their shamisens, a newly popular instrument, as they sang bawdy songs and laughed among themselves.
The Young Master’s name was Yoshioka Seijūrō, and a tasteful dark brown kimono draped his tall frame. Not long after they’d entered the brothel district, he looked back and said to one of his group, “Tōji, buy me a basket hat.”
“The kind that hides your face, I suppose?”
“Yes.”
“You don’t need one here, do you?” Gion Tōji replied.
“I wouldn’t have asked for one if I didn’t!” Seijūrō snapped impatiently. “I don’t care to have people see the son of Yoshioka Kempō walking about in a place like this.”
Tōji laughed. “But it just attracts attention. All the women around here know that