"Ah, Chamberlain! Is there any change of plans?"
"No, Captain." The old man sighed and mopped his brow, his jowls shaking. "The August Ones are bathing as usual, then they will rest as usual, take their real bath and massage at sunset as usual, after which they will dine as usual, play Go as usual and so to bed. All is in order?"
"Here, yes." The Captain had a garrison of a hundred and fifty samurai at any one time within the compound that measured about two hundred metres square. A unit of ten men guarded the only entrance, a pleasing bridge over a stream that led to tall decorative beams and equally ornate gates. Around the whole perimeter hedge a samurai was stationed every ten paces. These would be relieved by fresh units from the six hundred samurai lodging in barracks just outside the main gate or nearby in other Inns. Patrols would scour the garden and fence line discreetly as noise and an obvious samurai presence infuriated the Princess and therefore her husband.
Above them the clouds were thickening, a bleak, misted sun not yet on the horizon, a high wind toying with the clouds. It was cold and promised to be colder. Servants were lighting lanterns amongst the shrubs, their light already reflected in the pools, and glistening off rocks that had been moistened for that effect moments ago.
"It's beautiful," the Captain said.
"Easily the best, though most of the other Inns have been good." This was the first time he had ever made such a journey. All his life he had been within or near Yedo Castle, with or near Nobusada, or the previous Shogun. "Beautiful, yes, but I'd rather have the Lord Shogun and his wife in Sakamoto Castle than here. You should have insisted."
"I tried, Captain but... but she decided."
"I will be glad when we are in our own barracks, when they are within the palace walls and even gladder when we and they are safe at home in Yedo Castle."
"Yes," the Chamberlain said, privately weary of his Master and Mistress and the constant fault finding, nagging and petulance. Still, he thought, his back aching, wanting a bath and massage too, and the attentions of his youthful friend, I suppose I would be the same if I was as exalted as them, so mollycoddled from birth, and only sixteen. "May I ask the password, Captain?"
"Until the middle of the night it is "Blue Rainbow."
Two hundred metres away on the eastern outskirts of the village, an old broken-down farmhouse huddled at the end of an alley not far from the Tokaido and the Otsu barrier. Inside, the leader of the shishi attack team, a Choshu youth called Saigo glowered at the farmer, his wife, four children, father and mother, brother and a maid who knelt petrified, crowded into a corner. This was the only room and it served for living eating working sleeping. A few scrawny chickens in a rafter cage clucked nervously. "Remember what I told you. You know nothing, have seen nothing."
"Yes Lord, certainly, Lord," the old man whimpered.
"Shut up! Turn your backs, face the corner and close your eyes, all of you. Tie your sashes around your eyes!"
They obeyed. Instantly.
Saigo was eighteen, tall and strongly built, with a rugged handsome face and he wore a short dark tunic and pantaloons similar to the samurai at the Inn and two swords, straw sandals, no armor. When he was satisfied the peasants were blind as well as docile, he sat beside the door and peered out through rips in the window paper and began to wait.
He could see the barrier and guard houses clearly. It was not yet sunset so the barrier was still open to latecomers. It had taken him and his men many days to find this place, ideal for their purposes. The back door led to a maze of alleys and paths, perfect for a sudden retreat.
This afternoon, the moment the Shogun's party had passed through the barrier, he had taken sudden possession.
Footsteps. His hand readied his sword, then relaxed. Another youth came in silently, to be followed by another from a different direction.
Soon seven more were within. Outside one stood guard, another at the corner of the alley that joined with the Tokaido, with an eleventh man, hiding in the village, to act as courier to gallop the glad tidings of success to Katsumata in Kyoto that would signal the attack on Ogama and the Gates. They were tough young men, dressed as he was without armor and identification, formerly goshi--the lowest rank of samurai--now ronin, all more or less the same age, nineteen to twenty-two.
Only Saigo, eighteen, and Tora, seventeen, his Satsuma second in command, were younger. Drafts through rents in the window shivered them --that and their tension.
With signs he motioned them to check their swords, shuriken and other lethal weapons--no need for words during the whole operation. As much as could be planned had been decided over the days.
They all agreed it was to be conducted in silence.
A glance out of the window. The sun was touching the horizon, sky clear. It was time.
Solemnly he bowed to them and they bowed to him.
He turned his attention back to the peasants.
"Three men will be outside," he said harshly, "One rustle out of any of you until I get back and they'll fire the farm."
Again the old man whimpered.
Saigo gestured to the others. They followed him. So did the outside guard and the one on the corner. No turning back now. Those who were Buddhist had said a final prayer before a shrine, those who were Shinto had lit a last stick of incense and so joined their spirit with the thread of smoke that represented the fragility of life. All had written their death poems and sewn them to the breast of their tunics. Proudly they had given their correct fiefs, only the names were false.
Once in the alley they split up into pairs, each taking an independent route. Soon they were in position, crouched down in the tall weeds and coarse vegetation beside the perimeter fence at the back of the Inn, within sight of each other, Saigo at the southeast corner. The fence was three metres high and strongly made of giant bamboo and spiked at the top. By now shadows were losing form in the fading light.
Waiting. Heartbeats heavy in their chests, palms sweaty, the slightest rustle an enemy patrol. Strange, strong taste in every mouth.
Stabbing pains in the loins. Somewhere nearby a cricket began its urgent mating call, reminding Saigo of his death poem: A cricket with its joy filled song, Dies quickly anyway.
Better to be joy filled than sad.
He felt his eyes mist as the sky was misting.
So beautiful to be so happy yet so sad.
From inside the fence they could hear voices of servants, maids, occasionally samurai, the clatter of metal dishes for the kitchen area was not far away. In the distance a samisen and the singer.
Waiting. Sweat fell down Saigo's face.
Then he heard the approaching, barely perceptible rustle of a kimono and a girl whisper, "Blue Rainbow... Blue Rainbow." Then silence.
Again sounds of the Inn.
At once he motioned to Tora, beside him.
Silently this youth hurried to the other units and gave them the words and came back again. At Saigo's signal each pair found the ladders they had made, camouflaged and hidden in the wild undergrowth so carefully, set them against the fence.
Again he watched the sky. As the last thread of sunlight went, another signal and they went up and over the fence as one man, jumping to the ground that was soft and tilled, crouching motionlessly in the meticulous shrubbery but ready for an instant frontal attack.
Miraculously, no alarm yet. They looked up, warily. Ahead, sixty metres away, was the Shogun's section, the thatched roofs showing just above the tall, thick hedge of hemlock, the roofs of the central sleeping section and bathhouses a little higher. The main entrance was well away from them, its doors still open. Everything exactly as they expected. Except for the guards, many more than planned for. Bile jumped into their mouths.