Shike - Robert J. Shea (best finance books of all time .TXT) 📗

to make much difference. Einally the surviving foot soldiers broke ranks and ran. The red-coated horsemen rode them down and finished them before any could make the protection of the wall.

“Very good,” said Jebu, and the man beside him signalled again with the yellow banner. The casualties scattered along the beach and the grassy dunes began to pick themselves up, and foot soldiers went out to collect the arrows, all of which were tipped with large leather balls stuffed with cotton. Jebu hoped none of his demonstration troops had been hurt. In the three years he had been staging these mock battles, only one man had been killed and six seriously injured. There had been a number of broken arms and legs from bad falls, many teeth knocked out-and a few eyes. He turned to address the officers who had been watching the demonstration.

“This is what happens when samurai fighting in the usual way come up against Mongol tactics. I saw it again and again in China until we learned to employ the Mongols’ methods against them. Samurai tend to fight as individuals, each man seeking glory for himself. Mongols are only interested in winning as quickly and easily as possible so that they can enjoy the fruits of victory. They are organized and trained to manoeuvre and fight in large masses, not as individuals. If you ride out to meet them seeking a worthy opponent for single combat, the only opponent you’ll meet will be a cloud of arrows.”

Jebu analysed the demonstration in detail, pointing out how each instance of customary samurai fighting behaviour was less effective than the corresponding Mongol tactic. He noticed many of his listeners growing restless and annoyed. He enjoyed provoking that reaction.

An eastern samurai with a scar down his face suddenly spoke up. “May I say something, shik��?”

Jebu recognized the scarred samurai as Nagamori Ikyu, who had been in charge of the guards at the Rokuhara the day Jebu rescued Sametono. “Certainly, Captain Nagamori.”

“Excuse me, shik��,” said the samurai with a twisted smile. “Lieutenant Nagamori, if you please. I let a prisoner escape from my custody many years ago and was demoted.”

“I’m sorry you were demoted, lieutenant. What is your question?”

“Don’t feel sorry, shik��. I am very happy that particular prisoner escaped. And at least I wasn’t ordered to commit harakiri as other officers were who fell victim to your tricks.” The samurai standing around Lieutenant Nagamori stared at him curiously. “What I want to say is, when you stage a battle for demonstration purposes you can set it up to prove whatever you want. It could just as easily be arranged to have those impersonating the Mongols play dead and the samurai appear to be victorious.”

“Quite true,” said Jebu. “But I was not trying to prove anything to you. What you saw was a re-enactment of what happened here six years ago when the Mongols attacked, as well as many battles I witnessed in China between our samurai and the Mongols.”

“How would you have us fight them, shik��, if not in the manner we are accustomed to?” an officer asked.

“Our strategy must be to avoid meeting them head on. When they land, we will stay behind the wall and our bowmen will shoot them off their horses. When they advance, we will retreat and draw them into traps. We will not attack them, we will simply try to hold them to this beach until they decide it is too costly to stay here. If they lose enough men and horses and ships they will withdraw, and that will be victory.”

“A poor sort of victory,” said Nagamori. “Any true samurai would be ashamed to fight by feigning retreats and hiding behind walls.” Some of those around him muttered agreement.

Jebu smiled and said, “It is painful to be told that one’s preferred style of fighting is not effective.” He stopped smiling and stared hard into the eyes of each of the officers facing him, especially Nagamori Ikyu. “You enjoy the privileges of samurai because you have accepted the duty of defending this land and its people. In decisive moments, to be unwilling to use the necessary means is to invite disaster. It is to betray those you are pledged to protect.”

The words sank in and they stared back at him solemnly. “Please understand, honoured sirs, I am not here to give you orders on how to fight. My superiors-our superiors-have asked me to teach you certain ways of fighting that are different from those you are used to. The Shogun, the Regent, the Bakufu and their generals will decide what tactics to use. I am no general.”

He could tell by looking at them that his frankness and simplicity had impressed them. The initial resistance displayed by Ikyu and those who agreed with him was typical of the first day with a new group. He had been training samurai officers in Mongol tactics and Zinja fighting methods and attitudes for the past five years, and he felt he knew how to overcome that resistance. In different parts of the Sacred Islands he had set up nine other schools like this, staffed by Zinja martial arts masters and veterans of Yukio’s China campaign. Each school took one hundred samurai officers through a gruelling, intensive course of training lasting two months, running from sleep to sleep every day and through some sleepless nights as well. Most of the samurai hated it, undergoing the training only because their lords told them to. Jebu had managed to put over twenty thousand through the course. The highest-ranking and most promising samurai studied under Jebu himself at Hakata Bay.

Now that he had this group’s respectful attention, he could speak of deeper things. He opened his heart to them and shared with them some of the Zinja principles that had been part of his way of life since boyhood.

“Get rid of the fear of death. Being afraid to die will not keep you alive in battle. It may even kill you.

“Warriors who rise to eminence, as you have, honoured sirs, may think they have earned comfort. This temptation can ruin you. Hardship and danger make warriors strong. Comfort and safety spoil them.

In my Order the older monks are treated more harshly than the younger ones. If you would be good officers, you must discipline yourselves more rigorously than you would the rawest recruit.

“Practise, practise, practise. Practise constantly with all your weapons. Practise until the sword is part of your arm. Become one, not only with your bow and arrows, but with the target. Learn to react instantly with all weapons, without having to take time to think.

“Remember that anything can be a weapon. We Zinja are trained to fight and kill, when we have to, with any object that comes to hand-a monk’s walking stick, a parasol, a fan, even a teapot.

“Since you’re officers, the unit of troops you command is your chief weapon. Practise long hours every day with them, drilling them in the tactics you are going to use.

“Remember Muratomo no Yukio. Not his unhappy final days, but his great victories. Tonamiyama, Ichinotani, Shimonoseki. In China, Yukio led the defence of the city of Kweilin against a Mongol force many times the size of ours. We held out for six months and the Mongols eventually left the city unconquered.

“Yukio was a master of all weapons. I am honoured to say that the first time we met he trounced me soundly. And he was only fifteen at the time.

“He was cheerful and courageous. He was merciful and just. In all things, Yukio is a model you can hold up to your sons. Never forget him. He is watching us as we fight.” Jebu felt tears coming into his eyes, and he saw tears on the cheeks of many of the men listening to him.

“Enough talk,” he said. “Now our samurai and our ‘Mongols’ will show you how the warriors of Kublai Khan can be defeated.”

The AmaShogun and the last of the Zinja walked together in the garden of the military governor of Kyushu at Dazaifu. She carried an oiled-paper umbrella to conceal her face, should anyone spy her walking at night with Jebu. There was a mist in the air, and rain was threatening. They followed a winding path past clusters of black bamboo full of fireflies and bell cicadas. The lagoon occupying the north side of the garden was intended to be a small replica of Lake Biwa. Some former governor of Kyushu, his heart in the Home Provinces, had built it. A garden house on a little island was a miniature replica of Lake Biwa’s shrine to the goddess of Chikubushima. Jebu picked Taniko up in his arms. She felt light and tiny. He carried her over the stepping stones to the island.

A faint light from the lanterns scattered artfully around the garden filtered in through the windows of the little house. Jebu looked down at Taniko’s upturned face, loving her delicate bones, her fine skin, her large eyes. He touched her cheek lightly with his fingertips, then bent to kiss her greedily, like a warrior slaking his thirst during a respite in battle. They sank to the floor, Jebu drawing Taniko down into his lap. Eacing each other, they kissed for what seemed endless moments. They had made love in this manner many times before. He reached around behind her, untied her obi, then began to part her robes. It fascinated him that, considering how many layers women wore, it was always easy to get through the clothing of one who was willing. His own simple robe and the fundoshi, the loincloth underneath, were never a barrier. Joining their bodies, they went into a near-trance of mental and physical bliss. They barely noticed the patter of rain on the wood-shingled roof of their shelter. As in meditation they paid no attention to the passage of time. They sought no climax in their union, the state of arousal and the ecstasy to which it lifted them being the main object of their desires. They were no more anxious for completion than they would have been if listening to beautiful music.

When she felt like speaking again Taniko asked, “Will you ride with me when I inspect the wall tomorrow?”

“I’ll be near you.” He leaned back against the wall of the little house. She lay with her head on his chest.

“Jebu,” she said abruptly, “I don’t like the idea of being carried along the wall in a sedan chair. It would make me happier, and I think would please the samurai, too, if I could go on horseback.”

“I have no say in the matter,” said Jebu.

“It’s Munetoki,” she said bitterly. “He takes my advice in everything, but he insists that I hide myself like a leper. It makes no sense. We’re prisoners of rules in these islands. Not just the women, but every one of us from the Emperor down. That’s why I fear for us. The Mongols will do anything to win, while with us it’s all honour and ceremony.”

“Yes,” said Jebu. “Exactly what I’ve been trying to teach the officers who are sent to me.”

“When the Mongols come I intend to show myself to the troops as the AmaShogun. I will not hide myself. Jebu, how much more time do we have before Kublai’s fleet comes?”

“It will come next year,” he said with certainty.

Last year, the Year of the Hare, the Mongols had completed their conquest of China, destroying a Chinese fleet in a great battle off the southern coast. The last Sung Emperor, a boy, had disappeared beneath the waves, like the child-Emperor Antoku at Shimonoseki. And so the Mongols are already a sea power, Jebu thought with foreboding. Agents on the mainland reported that the Mongols were ruthlessly driving both the