To blast open the safe and steal the diamonds back would have been one thing, an impressive demonstration. To exchange them for paste without tampering with the safe was quite another thing. Only the legendary ninja talent could accomplish such a feat. That would put the awful fear of the supernatural into the hearts of the enemy. These people would be ten times as nervous about tangling with Fu Antos, or anyone connected with him, again.
Hiroshi had committed no real crime, but he had made his point with a vengeance! If my understanding were correct, and I would never be sure of that. And in the process, he had given me an unforgettable lesson in the imperatives of a ninja: the need for strength, stealth, and desperate measures. The inevitable ruthlessness. Perform or die! I could no longer question the motives of Fu Antos; he was what he had to be.
So I let that aspect rest and asked a different question. "How did you make them stop—those two policemen? I saw them freeze, and I can't believe the sight of the diamonds would have done that. What did you have in your hand?"
Hiroshi opened his bag and showed me.
It was a gruesome shrunken head.
I paused, just as the guards had. "What are you doing with a headhunter's trophy?" I demanded. This was the last thing I had anticipated, despite the bizarreness of this episode.
"It belongs to Fu Antos," Hiroshi said. "I merely safeguard it while he is otherwise occupied."
"But why bring it here?"
Calmly he ran his nail along the back of the head. The leathery surface parted, revealing the interior. The entire head was a kind of pouch, and inside it were the diamonds. The real ones, I was sure.
I realized I had asked the wrong question. "How did Fu Antos come by this head?"
Hiroshi smiled. "It is best that you know, Jason Striker," he said, handing the whole grisly package to me. "I shall tell you." And on our way home, he did.
Chapter 6:
Assassin
Medieval Japan was restive. Barbaric Western nations had been demanding that Japan open her ports to world trade, and the American Commodore Perry had impressed upon the empire the ruthless power of uncivilized warships. The feudal system was ending, but a wave of anti-foreign sentiment was building up.
Fu Antos shared this feeling. An open Japan would be a modernized, commercial Japan, the antithesis of the society he valued. The ancient ways were the proper ways; these could not be permitted to dissipate without resistance.
But the leadership of the nation was drifting toward Westernization. One of the prime movers was the powerful regent Ii Naosuke, Kamon-no-Kami. Lord Ii, as he was called, had arranged treaties with the Netherlands, Russia, Britain, and France. He was an unashamed internationalist. He had to be stopped. Perhaps the trend was already too strong, and like the tide, it would inevitably have its way; but if it could be reversed, the elimination of Lord Ii was the way.
But Lord Ii was powerful. He was always well-guarded, and no one could approach him without his permission. So the job was up to a specialist in assassination, the fabled ninja master Fu Antos.
It was the twenty-second of March, 1860. Fu Antos was no longer young. He had lived, by some accounts, exactly three hundred years, and he appeared to be about sixty. He was garbed as a ronin, an unattached samurai warrior. Like many of these masterless martial artists, he was shabbily dressed, as though quite poor. The days of rich patrons were declining, but professional pride remained. The sheath of his long sword was covered with cracks where the lacquer had worn away because of long use and exposure.
In Yokohama he had to make his way through a crowd. He had made a long journey—a fit ninja could travel a hundred miles in a day on foot, and Fu Antos was the best—and though he was not really tired, the sharp edge of his alertness was off. His long scabbard stuck out behind his back, and it happened to brush the scabbard of one of three stalwart youths passing by. This was sayaate, scabbard-striking, an offense against dignity.
"You have insulted me!" the youth exclaimed dramatically. "I demand satisfaction!"
Immediately his two friends drew in beside him. All three were tipsy: the odor of sake, rice wine, was on their breaths. "You have insulted us all, dull ancient!"
Fu Antos was not looking for incidental trouble; he had quite another mission in mind, which would bring him all the trouble he needed for this century, though it might also preserve his culture as he knew it. As a ninja he had little superficial pride. All he cared about was accomplishing his purpose expeditiously. So he apologized. "I am most regretful, honored sirs; I was unpardonably clumsy."
Others stopped in the street to watch his humiliation. But the three half-drunken samurai, sensing easy prey, refused to be mollified. "Your apology is worthless, old man; for this offense you must pay a steeper price." And three right hands crossed to the hilts of the swords thrust through their obis, or sashes. The meaning was unmistakable.
Privately, Fu Antos was furious. These clowns were foolishly arrogant, a disgrace to the samurai class, and ignorant of whom they faced. But he did not want to attract attention to himself; that could interfere with his mission. "I humble myself before you," he said, bowing even deeper, until it seemed as though his forehead would touch the ground. "I admit my fault, and beg your indulgence for an old man." If they only knew how old!
But this only aggravated their impertinence. "We shall settle for nothing less than the ultimate, reprobate!"
The utter idiots! "Are you challenging me, then?" Fu Antos inquired softly, rising to his feet. An observant man would have noted the subtle change in his bearing, and taken warning. Indeed, there was a well-dressed samurai in the crowd who took note, allowing the faintest of smiles to touch his lips. But this man said nothing.
By this time a fair number of spectators had gathered around, ranging from street urchins to warriors. Though there were murmurs supporting the lone ronin, sympathizing with the underdog, no one offered to intercede directly.
"Yes, I challenge you, dotard!" the offended warrior said loudly, playing to his own audience.
Fu Antos did not smile. "You alone?" The implication was manifest, and a chuckle rippled through the crowd. The brash youngster realized too late that he faced a seasoned warrior: no easy mark.
"All three of us!" one of the others said, and the third nodded. Now they had confidence again, for the odds were satisfactory. "Then I shall identify myself," Fu Antos said, as protocol required. But he did not speak loudly enough for the crowd beyond the three to hear, for he hoped no word of this would reach Lord Ii. The man, no fool, might recognize the presence of the ninja and be alert.
The three youths gave their names. Then, the formalities completed, all four unsheathed their swords. Fu Antos drew his slowly, as though he were not accustomed to strenuous activity; the truth was, no living man could match the speed of his draw. The blades glittered in the sun.
Fu Antos fixed his gaze on the center samurai, advancing behind the unwavering point of his weapon. That youth, fixed by the steely eye and blade, slowly gave way, dismayed by the evident confidence of his single opponent. Small wonder, for it was impossible to conceal completely the competence of the finest swordsman in all Japan. It had been a century since he had actually fought, but Fu Antos had trained when more stringent standards of swordsmanship prevailed, and still practiced daily in private.
The youth on his right thought he saw an opening, and rushed to the attack.
Fu Antos, who had anticipated that very move, parried with lightning speed, then cut the man down with a stroke across his neck. Even as the hapless man fell, Fu Antos whirled to meet the charge of the left-hand samurai. A single motion severed the youth's head from his neck. The head flew into the air, its startled eyes staring, then dropped to roll in the street. The masterless body assayed a few drunken steps, while a crimson fountain of arterial blood jetted upward a good two hands up, driven by the still furiously beating heart. There was a gasp of amazement and morbid delight from the crowd.
The one in the center
suddenly revealed himself to be a coward. He whirled away and started to flee down the street.
Fu Antos hurled his sword like a spear so that it transfixed the coward's back and stood out from his chest. The youth looked down, amazed. He tried to claw the steel out of his body, "But he was so old!" he protested, as though he had merely suffered an indignity at the hands of an incompetent, an accident, as it were. Then he died.
The spectators applauded as Fu Antos calmly drew out his blood-wet sword, wiped it on the dead man's tunic and coolly returned it to its sheath. His feat of arms was warmly congratulated by the samurai in the audience.
Fortunately, none of the three who had heard his name had survived. The secret was safe.
Fu Antos turned to go. "Sir!" someone called. "Aren't you going to the magistrate's office to report?"
Annoyed, Fu Antos paused. He saw that the speaker was one of the samurai spectators, obviously a man of good breeding. Because it was the fashion of the ninja to notice everything, Fu Antos had observed this man's smiling anticipation of the climax. Had it been mere professional interest, or something more?
But obviously the man intended no offense. "What interest have I in this offal?" he asked, glancing at the corpses. "What interest does the magistrate have?"
"It is the law. Do you not remember?"
Fu Antos had not forgotten. He had never known of this law, as it had not been in force when he was current with affairs of the world. He had emerged from his seclusive retreat only because of the urgency of his mission, and would return to it the moment that mission was done. "I apologize, sir. The quarrel confused me; I had forgotten."
The samurai smiled. "No apology necessary, but I hasten to accept, as I hardly wish to share the fate of the three buffoons who declined your plea! It was a natural error on your part. These regulations are a nuisance. The office is right down the street, here; I will escort you, if you have no objection." And he fell in beside the ninja, though Fu Antos had not solicited his company and did not want it.
"I do not recognize you," the man continued. "I thought I knew all the superior swordsmen of Japan—God knows they are fewer than they were in the old days!—but surely you are among the finest. I have seldom seen such efficiency in a duel, such composure. I am Yonezuka, of the Mito clan."
The busybody was soliciting a return introduction. Fu Antos could not decline without insulting the clansman, and that would mean another duel, this time against no bumpkin. In the end, the samurai would indeed share the fate of the three. But if he gave the name, Yonezuka would surely recognize it, for he was a weapons sophisticate, collecting reputations like butterflies. That explained his intense interest.
Still, the Mito clan was a formidable one, much attached to the ancient ways. Fu Antos had intimate knowledge of this clan of old, and was intrigued. Perhaps this chance encounter could be turned to advantage after all. "Your pardon—I must first ask a question," Fu Antos said.
"Granted, certainly!" Now Yonezuka was doubly curious.
"Do you support the ancient ways?"
This was no superficial question; it was the leading issue of the day. "Indeed I do!" the samurai said warmly. "Do you know that they are trying to let accursed foreigners into Japan? The filthy French, the dastardly Dutch, the ridiculous Russians, even the awful Americans! What is it coming to?"
Fu Antos' eyes widened a trifle. Here was a man after his own heart. The Mito blood was running true. "Yet what can any man do?" he asked rhetorically. "The leaders sign the treaties, not the real Japanese warriors."
"There are ways," Yonezuka said grimly. Then he remembered himself, and backtracked. "I mean no treason, of course."
"Of course." They both understood the implication: the treason was by the leaders who were opening Japan to the foreign element, not by the warriors who defended the old ways. Thus, by definition, it was not treason to consider ridding the nation of those leaders, but it could be death to speak it aloud.
"Here is the office."
"Thank you. I am Fu Antos."
Yonezuka paused. "I don't believe I—" He did a double-take. "Impossible!"
Fu Antos did not take offense. The samurai's reaction was in fact encouraging. "Perhaps you recall my ancestor, him of the Black Castle. Men called him a traitor."
"Not the men of Mito," Yonezuka murmured, staring at him. "That swordsmanship—yet it fits. It could be! I had thought that particular ninja line was extinct."
"Not quite. We have been in hiding, for reasons of expediency. My ancestor was no friend of the shogun."
"There are others who have had less courage in expressing their objections to certain high officials." The samurai still stared at Fu Antos. "I have heard certain rumors, surely false, of long life—extremely long life!—of absolute seclusion, of extraordinary spiritual powers."
"On occasion the seclusion must be abridged, when there is necessary work to be done."
"Necessary work," Yonezuka repeated thoughtfully. "There is that today!" Abruptly he straightened. "You cannot put your name to that magistrate's report! Allow me; then we shall talk."
Fu Antos nodded. They entered the office, and the samurai assumed credit for the killings. "This ronin was witness," he concluded, indicating Fu Antos. "Those three ruffians would not be satisfied with anything less than bared blades."
"We understand," the magistrate said. "Strange they did not recognize your name."
"I admit to feeling some affront on that score," Yonezuka said. "But these days many worthy warriors go unrecognized." He glanced meaningfully at Fu Antos.
"Yes, it is too bad," the magistrate agreed, misunderstanding, as he was supposed to. "All those accursed foreigners disrupting our sacred customs..."
They were hardly outside the office before Yonezuka resumed. "You come for Lord Ii!"
Fu Antos shrugged. "Perhaps."
"But you cannot approach him alone! There have been many attempts on his life, and as many executions. His guards are alert, the pick of the samurai. They leap to dispatch any fool who intrudes even accidentally into the regent's party."
"That is edifying news."
"One man—it is impossible. Even for the nefarious ninja!"
Fu Antos shrugged again, eloquently.
"I have friends," Yonezuka said thoughtfully. "Strong men of my clan, and courageous. But not foolhardy. They lack the proper leadership, they have no feasible plan. If that leadership and that plan were provided—"
Fu Antos smiled.
Fu Antos repaired that evening to the ill-famed "Nightless City," Yoshiwara of Edo. Here many of the houses were extraordinarily tall—four, five, and even six stories high.
They were brightly illuminated, of almost palatial aspect. For this was the home of the licensed hetaerae.
He entered at the main gate, where he divested himself of both his katana long sword and his dirk. As a member of the samurai class, he did not, of course, carry the special ninja weapons. He understood the need for this disarmament; it was not that the proprietors feared mayhem—though certainly they had no desire for drunken brawls—so much as the fact that certain of the hetaerae so loathed their captive existence that they would quickly kill themselves if they ever had access to a suitable weapon. Fu Antos had considerable sympathy for the plight of the common man, but this did not extend to that of women. There were, after all, limits.
He proceeded on foot to one of the introductory tea houses. He was ushered into a private room, where an attendant brought him a cup of tea. It was, he had to admit, excellent tea.
As he sipped, a parade of young, pretty, elegantly attired girls passed before him. Some carried decorative fans with which they concealed portions of their faces, vastly enhancing the allure by means of this affected mystery. Some showed portions of their anatomy—a hip, a breast, or intriguing fractions thereof. Some smoked their little kiseru pipes containing a few puffs' worth of fragrant tobacco. All had gorgeous raiment, brocade of gold or silver, high clogs on their feet, with black
hair piled high and set with rows of light tortoiseshell hairpins. Their faces were powdered white, their lips gilded, and they were completely expressionless. Some proudly bore aloft phallic emblems, in case there should be any lingering doubt about the nature of their profession. These were the queenly oiran, the first-class courtesans. Fu Antos watched without expression, remembering that he had possessed one more beautiful than any of these in his youth. At length he indicated his choice, an extremely attractive specimen, not altogether unlike his wife of centuries past.
He was then conducted to a more comfortable and private locale equipped for diverse entertainments. In due course the selected girl entered. "I am Little Butterfly," she said, making obeisance. Fu Antos surveyed her charms at closer range, giving no advance sign of his reaction. Yes, she was indeed lovely. Just as she was about to withdraw, thinking herself rejected, he spoke. "Please have some sake." In this way he signified his final acceptance of her.
They went through the ceremony, exchanging cups of wine three times in the symbolic marriage. Little Butterfly was now his girl; if ever he should come to this house again, she alone would be his companion.
She had, he knew, been sold into virtual slavery for the term of her greatest sexual charm. After age twenty she would no longer solicit new patrons, and at age twenty-seven she would become her own property and retire, her allure gone. Women aged rapidly in Japan; the Western notion of beauty extending into middle age—thirty or even thirty-five!—was plainly an opium dream having no reality. There was no shame in this profession; in fact, it was hardly more stringent for a woman than that of legal wife.