Thus, on the fifth morning, in balmy weather and with Seimei nearly well again, they took passage on a ship and crossed Sagami Bay to Kisarazu in Kazusa province. The trip by water, though dangerous in bad weather, saved them a week’s hard riding across country.
Instead of proceeding directly to the provincial tribunal, Akitada took lodgings in a modest inn next to the city market. He wanted a look at the city and its people before announcing his arrival to the governor.
Leaving Seimei there to rest, he and Tora set out to explore the town.
Kisarazu bustled with activity. Akitada guessed at a population of nearly ten thousand, but there seemed to be many visitors also. Their inn had been packed, and in the unseasonably warm sun the market was bustling with vendors, shoppers, and people out catching fresh air and sunshine. The large gated enclosure of the provincial administration looked substantial, even elegant. Kazusa province seemed a very good assignment, even for a Fujiwara governor. Had the present incumbent improved it by appropriating to himself three years’ worth of tax goods due to the emperor?
Around the hour of the evening rice, they returned to the inn and sat at one of the tables outside. Seimei joined them, and they ordered a simple meal from a stout, middle-aged waitress with a pronounced overbite. Tora took one look at her, grimaced, and watched the shoppers instead.
“I could swear that tall fellow lost his ear in a tangle with a chain and ball,” he said, nodding toward a group of young Buddhist monks passing the inn.
Akitada followed his glance and saw what Tora meant. The chain and ball was a vicious weapon used by violent gangs. This monk shared only the saffron robe and shaven head with the pasty-faced and soft-bodied clerics Akitada had met in the capital. Tall, ruddy, and very muscular, he walked with a swagger and had the face of a cutthroat. And Akitada saw with surprise that his companions were like him. They passed through the crowds almost disdainfully, speaking to no one, their eyes roaming everywhere. People scurried out of their way.
“Hmm,” said Akitada. “Odd. If he has had a checkered past, let us hope he has seen the error of his ways and chosen to atone.”
Seimei, being a good Confucianist like his master, also distrusted the Buddhist religion. He looked after the monks and shook his head. “You cannot make a crow white even if you wash it for a year.”
The waitress, who was serving their food and wine, burst into loud giggles and poked him with her elbow. Seimei glared at her.
“You used to say the same about me, old man,” Tora reminded Seimei.
“Exactly. And look at him now!” Akitada smiled at Tora with great satisfaction. They had done some shopping. The ragged tramp was wearing a new blue cotton robe with a black sash. His long hair was pulled back neatly into a topknot tied with a black cord, and his face clean shaven except for a small mustache. The scar had faded, and Tora attracted admiring glances from passing young women.
“I may have been wrong about you,” Seimei conceded. He took a bite and chewed thoughtfully. “We shall see. But remember, Master Kung Fu says that a man should be distressed by his own lack of ability, not by the failure of others to recognize his merits.”
Tora reached for his bowl of rice and vegetables. “A very good saying, that,” he said, nodding. “You must teach me more about your Master Kung Fu.”
Seimei looked pleased. Akitada hoped that the old man was beginning to take a fatherly interest in Tora; it would be a welcome distraction if he found someone else to scold and instruct.
They ate and drank contentedly, watching the bustling crowd in the market.
“This looks like a healthy and prosperous province,” remarked Seimei to Akitada, echoing Akitada’s earlier thoughts. “The rice paddies and mulberry plantations we passed on the way here are well kept, and this market is selling an abundance of goods.”
“Yes.” Akitada had seen no signs of neglect or grinding poverty among the peasants. He knew that a dishonest administration satisfied its greed by excessive taxation and minimal maintenance of roads and fortifications.
“Something’s not right here,” Tora said. “I’ve a feeling about such things. Those bastard officials wouldn’t have to rob the peasants if they kept all the taxes for themselves. The governor’s palace has green roof tiles and gilded dragon spouts like a temple. Where did he get the money for that?”
“Well,” said Akitada, shaking his head doubtfully, “I find it hard to associate wholesale thievery of taxes with an otherwise excellent administration.”
Tora suddenly whistled.
“What’s the matter?” Seimei asked, raising his eyes from peering into the empty wine pitcher.
Tora pointed. “Look at that girl! She’s a beauty. What a neck! And those hips and thighs!”
Across from the inn, a vegetable vendor had set up his baskets of turnips, radishes, beans, herbs, sweet potatoes, and chestnuts. A pretty young girl, her hair tied up in the style of women of the lower class, and her slender figure wrapped tightly in a plain striped cotton gown, was bargaining with many gestures for a bunch of large radishes.
“Don’t stare, Tora,” Seimei scolded. “Women should neither be seen nor heard.” He called for their waitress. She arrived eagerly to take his order for more wine and pickles. “And don’t try to charge us for those pickles this time,” he told the woman. “They come with the wine.” She bobbed her head, grinned at him toothily, and padded away. He scowled after her and muttered, “Women can’t be trusted. Charging for pickles and pocketing the money herself, I bet.” Turning back to Tora, he said, “Mark my words and stay away from females. A young man in your position must keep his mind pure or he will be ruined by some flirtatious light-skirt.”
Too late. Tora, a look of determination on his face, jumped up and disappeared in a passing group of shoppers.
There seemed to be some kind of commotion. People turned their heads to stare. But when the crowd thinned, there was no trace of either Tora or the girl.
“Well!” exploded Seimei. “Did you see that? Outrageous! He jumped up without a word to run after the first skirt that appeals to him. What shall we do now?”
“Nothing. Here’s the waitress, Seimei. Let’s drink our wine and eat these excellent free pickles. If Tora has not returned by the time we are done, we’ll retire. You can lecture him about his behavior tomorrow.”
“Hah! Trying to talk to that one is like taking the whip to the bullock’s horns.”
They were idly watching people again, when a peddler approached some guests at the other end of the porch. He was the first poor man they had seen in the city.
Ancient, bent, and skeletal, he was barely able to support the tray of merchandise strapped around his birdlike neck and shoulders. As he hobbled among the guests, he kept propping the tray up on tables every chance he got. Through the holes and tatters of his shirt patches of leathery skin could be seen, and he was bare-legged to his loincloth.