Shinju Read online

  Copyright © 1994 by Laura Joh Rowland

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions.

  Published in the United States by Random House, Inc., New York, and simultaneously in Canada by Random House of Canada Limited, Toronto.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Rowland, Laura Joh.

  Shinjū / Laura Joh Rowland.

  p. cm.

  eISBN: 978-0-307-80118-0

  1. Japan—History—1333–1600—Fiction. 2. Tokyo (Japan)—History—

  Fiction. 3. Police—Japan—Tokyo—Fiction. I. Title.

  PS3568.O934S55 1993

  813’.54—dc20 94-10181

  v3.1

  Edo

  Genroku Period, Year 1, Month 12

  (Tokyo, January 1689)

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Prologue

  The horseman halted his mount on a narrow path that led to the Sumida River, listening to the night. Had he heard a footstep somewhere in the dark forest that surrounded him? Was someone watching him? Fear set his heart racing.

  But he heard only the icy wind rattling the bare winter branches and the faint chuffing of his mare as she stirred restlessly beneath him. High above the horizon, the last full moon of the Old Year shone brightly, silvering the path and the forest with a chill radiance. He peered into the shadows, but saw no one.

  Then he smiled grimly: guilt and imagination had deceived him. This path in the remote northern outskirts of Edo saw little enough traffic by day. Now, at just past midnight, it was deserted.

  As he’d foreseen.

  He urged the mare forward through a thicket of branches that caught on his hooded cloak and on the long, bulky bundle slung over the horse’s back behind him. The mare faltered, whinnying softly, unaccustomed to the extra weight. He tried to calm her, but she refused to go on. As she stamped her hooves, the bundle wobbled dangerously. He flung a hand back to steady it. Cold fear licked at him. What if it fell? Strong as he was, he would never be able to lift it back on—not here. And he couldn’t carry it the rest of the way to the river. It would take an hour by foot; impossible with a burden nearly as long as and even heavier than he. Besides, dragging it would tear the fine rice straw of the tatami mats with which he’d wrapped it, damaging the contents.

  The horse, after one more stamp, suddenly continued down the path. The bundle held firm. Fear receded. His eyes watered and his face grew numb from the cold; his gloved hands seemed frozen to the reins. What sustained him was the knowledge that each misery-laden step brought him closer to the completion of his mission.

  Finally, the woods thinned and the path sloped steeply toward the river. He could smell the water and hear it lapping at the shore. Dismounting, he tied the horse to a tree and stepped off the path.

  The boat was right where he’d left it yesterday, hidden among the lower branches of a huge pine. With his cold-stiffened hands, he grasped its prow. Carefully, so that the rocky ground wouldn’t damage its flat wooden bottom, he dragged it onto the path beside the horse. Then he untied the ropes that bound the bundle to the horse’s back. When the last knot opened, the bundle dropped into the boat with a loud thud.

  He began to push the boat down the slope to the water. The slope, though not more than forty paces long, did not provide an easy launch. Soon he was panting with the effort of alternately pushing, lifting, and dragging the boat toward the river. At last he reached the shoreline, and the boat slid in with a whoosh. He waded into the freezing water, pulling the boat with him until it cleared bottom and floated free of the rushes. Then he climbed inside.

  The boat rocked precariously under the combined weight of him and the bundle. Water sloshed over the sides. For one dreadful moment he feared the boat would sink, but it abruptly stabilized with its gunwales just above the water. Sighing his relief, he lifted the oar, stood in the stern, and began to row south toward the city.

  The river spread before him like an immense length of oiled black silk stippled with moonlight. The splash of his oar made a rhythmic counterpoint to the keening wind. On the near shore to his right, pinpoints of flame winked on dark land that rose gradually toward the hills: lanterns lighting the Yoshiwara pleasure quarter; torches flaring in Asakusa’s temple gardens. On the distant eastern shore he could discern nothing of marshy Honjo. No pleasure craft decorated the scene, as in summer. Tonight he had the river to himself. He could almost enjoy the solitude and the eerie beauty of the night.

  But soon his arms grew tired. His breath came in painful gasps. Sweat drenched his garments, letting the frigid wind penetrate them. He longed to simply drift with the river’s current as it flowed toward Edo Bay and the sea. Only his desperate need for haste enabled him to push on. Just a few short hours now remained until dawn, and he needed the cover of darkness. If only he could have made the journey by land, on horseback! But Edo’s many guarded gates closed before midnight, sealing off each sector to prohibit exit or entry. The river was the only way.

  So he felt immense relief when the city’s familiar sights began to appear. First the pavilions of the daimyo, powerful provincial lords who owned much of the land along the upper stretches of the river, as well as most of Japan. Then the whitewashed walls of the city’s rice warehouses. Piers and wharves crowded with boats jutted out into the river, now turned foul and fishy, stinking from the waste dumped into it every day. At last the Ryōgoku Bridge arched above him, the interlocked pillars and struts of its wooden structure an intricate pattern cut out of the sky.

  Exhausted, he stopped at the end of a pier downstream from the bridge, but still within sight of it. He set aside his oar and tied the boat to a piling. Once again, fear gripped him, stronger this time. The whole great city of Edo lay beyond the blank facades of the warehouses. He could sense the million souls that lived there—not asleep, but watching him. Choking back his panic, he knelt before the bundle. Gently, so as not to unbalance the boat, he unwound the stiff straw wrappings. A glance at the sky told him that the moon had long set; dawn’s first rosy light tinted the eastern horizon. He could make out the docks of the lumberyards in Fukagawa on the opposite bank.

  He fought the impulse to jerk at the last mat, instead folding it carefully away.

  The two bodies, joined in death and by ropes that bound them at wrists and ankles, lay facing each other, heads positioned cheek to cheek. The man wore the short kimono and cotton trousers of a commoner. His cropped hair framed a blunt, coarse face. Puffy eyes and a sensual mouth bespoke a life of dissipation, carnality, and avarice. He’d deserved killing. How easy it had been to lure him to his death with a promise of riches! But the woman …

  Her innocent young face, covered with rice—flour makeup, glowed a translucent white. High on her forehead, the fine dark line
s drawn above her shaved brows took wing over the longlashed crescents of her closed eyes. Her lips had parted slightly to reveal two perfect teeth: Darkened with ink according to the fashion for ladies of high birth, they gleamed like black pearls. Long black hair spilled nearly to her feet over a silk kimono that twisted around her slender body.

  Sighing, he reminded himself that her death was as necessary as the man’s. But he could not look at her beauty without a spasm of grief—

  A sharp clacking noise made him start. Was someone walking toward him along the pier? Then the clacking repeated: two long beats followed by three short. He relaxed. It was only a nightwatchman, somewhere inland, striking his wooden clappers to signal the time. The water had carried the sound.

  From his cloak he took a small, flat lacquer case, which he tucked into the woman’s sash. Then he put his arms under both bodies and heaved. They tumbled over the side of the boat. There was a muffled splash as they hit the dark water. Before they could sink, he caught the end of the rope that bound their wrists and wrapped it around the piling, wedging it firmly into a crack in the slimy wood. He took one last look at the corpses that now floated just beneath the water’s surface in an undulating tangle of the woman’s hair. Then he looked back toward the bridge.

  And nodded in satisfaction. When they were found—as they soon would be—everyone would surmise that they’d jumped from the bridge together and drifted downstream until the piling caught them. The letter sealed in the watertight case would confirm that impression. He watched to make sure the rope was secure. Then he untied his boat and began the long, cold journey back upstream.

  Yoriki Sano Ichirō, Edo’s newest senior police commander, made his way slowly on horseback across Nihonbashi Bridge. Early on this sunny, clear winter morning, throngs of people streamed around him: porters carrying baskets of vegetables to and from market; water vendors with buckets suspended from poles on their shoulders; shoppers and tradesmen bent low under the packages on their backs. The planks thundered with the steps of wood-soled feet; the air was bright with shouts, laughter, and chatter. Even the hallmarks of Sano’s samurai status couldn’t speed his passage. His mount, a bay mare, merely raised him above the bobbing heads. The two swords he wore—one a long, curved saber, the other a shorter dirk—elicited no more than an occasional mumbled “A thousand pardons, honorable master.”

  But Sano enjoyed his leisurely progress, and his freedom. He’d escaped from the tedium that had marked his first month as a yoriki. A former tutor and history scholar, he’d quickly found the administration of his small section of the police department far less satisfying than teaching young boys and studying ancient texts. He missed his old profession; the thought of never again chasing down a lost or obscure fact left a sad, empty ache at the center of his spirit. Still, although family circumstances and connections, rather than choice or talent, had thrown him into the unfamiliar world of law enforcement, he’d sworn to make the best of the situation. Today he had decided to explore his new domain more fully than he could by sitting in his office and affixing his seal to his staff’s reports. Exhilarated, he peered over the bridge’s railings at the panorama of Edo.

  The wide canal, lined with whitewashed warehouses, was jammed with barges and fishing boats. Smoke from countless charcoal braziers and stoves formed a haze over the low tiled and thatched rooftops that extended over the plain in all directions. Through it he could see Edo Castle perched on its hill at the end of the canal. There Ieyasu, first of the Tokugawa shoguns, had established the seat of his military dictatorship seventy-four years ago, fifteen years after defeating his rival warlords in the Battle of Sekigahara. The upturned eaves of the keep’s many roofs made it look like a pyramid of white birds ready to take flight: a fitting symbol of the peace that had followed that battle, the longest peace Japan had known in five centuries. Beyond the castle, the western hills were a soft shadow, only slightly less blue than the sky. Mount Fuji’s distant snow-capped cone rose above them. Temple bells tolled faintly, adding to the panoply of sounds.

  At the foot of the bridge, Sano passed the noisy, malodorous fish market. He edged his horse through the narrow winding streets of Nihonbashi, the peasants’ and merchants’ quarter named after the bridge. In the open wooden storefronts of one street, sake sellers bartered with their customers. Around the next corner, men labored over steaming vats in a row of dyers’ shops. Mud and refuse squished under the horses’ hooves and pedestrians’ shoes. Sano turned another corner.

  And emerged into a vast open space where last night’s fire had leveled three entire blocks. The charred remains of perhaps fifty houses—ash, blackened rafters and beams, soaked debris, fallen roof tiles—littered the ground. The bitter smell of burnt cypress wood hung in the air. Forlorn residents picked their way through the mess, hunting for salvageable items.

  “Aiiya,” an old woman keened. “My home, all my things, gone! Oh, what will I do?” Others took up her cry.

  Sano sighed and shook his head. Thirty-two years ago—two years before his birth—the Great Fire had destroyed most of the city and taken a hundred thousand lives. And still the “blossoms of Edo,” as the fires were known, bloomed almost every week among the wooden buildings where a strong wind could quickly fan a single spark into a ferocious blaze. From their rickety wooden towers high above the rooftops, the firewatchers rang bells at the first sight of a flame. Edo’s citizens slept uneasily, listening for the alarm. Most fires were accidents, caused by innocent mistakes such as a lamp placed too near a paper screen, but arson wasn’t uncommon.

  He’d come to learn whether this fire had resulted from arson. But one look at the ruins told him he could not expect to find evidence. He would have to rely on witnesses’ stories. Dismounting, he approached a man who was dragging an iron chest from the rubble.

  “Did you see the fire start?” he called.

  He never heard the answer. Just then, running footsteps and cries of “Stop, stop!” sounded behind him. Sano turned. A thin man dressed in rags streaked past, panting and sobbing. A pack of ruffians brandishing clubs stampeded after him. The man’s bare feet slipped in the mud, and he went sprawling about ten paces from Sano. Immediately the pursuers set upon their quarry, clubs flailing.

  “You’ll die for this, you miserable animal!” one of them shouted.

  The ragged man’s sobs turned to screams of pain and terror as he threw up his arms to shield his head from the blows.

  Sano hurried over and grabbed the arm of one of the attackers. “Stop, you’ll kill him! What do you think you’re doing?”

  “Who’s asking?”

  At the sound of the gruff voice beside him, Sano turned. A burly man with small, mean eyes stood at his elbow. He wore a short kimono over cotton leggings; his cropped hair and the single short sword fastened at the waist of his gray cloak marked him as a samurai of low rank. Then Sano caught sight of the object in the man’s right hand, a strong steel wand with two curved prongs above the hilt for catching the blade of an attacker’s sword. It was a jitte, a parrying weapon, standard equipment of the doshin, the law enforcement officers who patrolled the city and maintained order.

  Comprehension flashed through Sano. This man was one of his hundred-odd subordinates, one of the long line of bowed heads he’d passed during the formal ceremony at which his staff was presented to him. The armed ruffians, who had ceased torturing their victim to look at him, were the doshin’s civilian assistants. Privately employed by their superior—and responsible only to him—they performed the dirty work of policing, such as capturing criminals, under his direction. Now three of them moved menacingly in on Sano.

  “Who are you?” the doshin demanded again.

  Sano said, “I am Yoriki Sano Ichirō. Now explain to me why your men are beating this citizen.”

  Although he kept his voice calm and stern, his heartbeat quickened. He’d had little chance to exercise his new authority.

  The doshin’s mouth gaped. He passed a hand over his jut
ting jaw in obvious confusion. Then he bowed obsequiously.

  “Yoriki Sano-san,” he muttered. “Didn’t recognize you.”

  He jerked his head at his assistants, who formed a hasty line and bowed, hands on their knees. “My sincerest apologies.”

  His sullen tone belied the respectful words. Sano could sense the doshin’s veiled contempt. The mean little eyes narrowed still more as they traveled over his freshly shaved crown and his oiled hair drawn into a neat looped knot at the back. They registered disgust at the sight of Sano’s best outer garment, the black-and-brown-striped haori, and his new black hakama, the wide trousers he wore beneath it. Sano bristled at such open rudeness, but he could understand the man’s contempt. The reputation of yoriki for vanity was well known. He himself cared little for fashion, but his superior, Magistrate Ogyu, had stressed the importance of proper dress and appearance.

  “Your apologies are accepted,” Sano said, deciding to address the matter at hand instead of making an issue over his subordinate’s manners. “Now answer my question: what has this man done for which you must punish him?”

  Now Sano could see bewilderment on the doshin’s face. Yoriki seldom ventured into the streets, preferring to keep their distance from the rough-and-tumble of everyday police work. They appeared only for very serious incidents, and then as field commanders dressed in full armor with helmet and lance. Sano supposed he was the first to ever investigate a common fire.

  “He did this,” the doshin answered, gesturing at the ruins. “Set the fire. Killed fifteen people.” He spat at the man, who still lay facedown in the mud, shoulders trembling with muffled sobs.

  “How do you know?”

  The doshin’s prominent jaw thrust out even further, in anger and resentment. “The townspeople saw a man fleeing the street just after the fire started, Yoriki Sano-san. And he confessed.”

  Sano walked past the assistants and over to the fallen man. “It’s all right,” he said gently. “Get up now.”

  Clumsily the man hunched at the waist, then rose to his knees. Sitting back on his heels, he wiped the mud from his face. Then, to Sano’s surprise, his mouth opened in a wide, toothless smile.