Like other men his age, he’d never gone to war. He knew about its atrocities, of course: men decapitated with a single sword slash, or shot with guns bought from foreign barbarians. Limbs severed. Bodies hacked to bits. He’d read accounts in the history texts and heard the stories handed down from generation to generation. Somehow he’d always imagined the carnage of battle as noble, necessary, and part of a samurai’s domain. This-this cold, deliberate mutilation of a human body-seemed obscene. It was defilement in its worst form. He could feel the pollution staining his skin, seeping into his nostrils, coating his eyeballs. His stomach lurched. Even his sweat seemed contaminated; he couldn’t bring himself to touch it. He pressed his lips together to keep it from running into his mouth.
“Mura-san , the lower two ribs on the right side,” Ito said.
Sano watched as Mura took one rib between the jaws of a sturdy pair of grips. He closed his eyes at the sickening crack of bone- once, twice. When he opened them again, he saw why Mura had covered his face. Bits of red tissue flecked the white cloth just over the eta’s mouth.
“Good.” Ito nodded. “Now cut… there.” He sketched a line in the air above the place where the ribs had been, over the section of spongy lobe now exposed. To Sano he said, “If there is water, it will be in the breathing sacs.”
Sano nodded quickly, afraid that he would vomit if he tried to speak. He watched the thin knife slice the breathing sac and braced himself for the gush of fluid.
It never came. Instead the sac merely shrank a little, like the punctured swim bladder of a fish.
“No water.” A grim satisfaction suffused Dr. Ito’s face. “This man did not drown. He died before he entered the water. He was murdered, then thrown into the river.”
Sano’s vision darkened, and his legs wobbled beneath him. Then he retched.
“Yoriki Sano-san . Are you ill?”
Sano tried to answer, but bile seared his throat. Without making a proper farewell, he stumbled from the room. He had to get out. Fast.
The jail corridors seemed endless; the prisoners’ cries were the sounds of demons in hell. Somehow Sano made it to the door. He managed to climb onto his horse and get halfway across the bridge. Then his stomach heaved again. Dismounting, he vomited into the canal. But the end to his sickness brought little relief. He felt horribly soiled by his experience. Conscious only of a desire to put as much distance between himself and Edo Jail as possible, he rode blindly through the twilight at a furious gallop.
Then, looming before him like a blessing from the gods, there appeared a building with a dark blue curtain hanging out front. The curtain displayed the character yu : hot water. A bathhouse. Sano jerked on the reins and fell off his horse. Dashing inside, he threw some coins on the counter.
“Sir, the price is only eight zeni !” the attendant cried, holding out Sano’s change.
Sano ignored him. He snatched a bag of rice-bran soap from the counter and shoved his swords at the attendant for safekeeping. Then he stumbled into the bathing area. In the dim, steamy room, men in loincloths and women in thin under-kimonos scrubbed and rinsed themselves, or soaked in the deep tub. Oblivious to their curious glances, he ripped off his clothes, throwing them on the floor in an untidy heap. He scoured his skin with the soap until it hurt. He sloshed a bucket of water over himself. Then he plunged into the tub, completely immersing himself again and again. The water was scalding hot and scummy with soap residue, but he forced himself to keep his eyes and mouth open so that it could cleanse him inside as well as out.
Finally a sense of peace came over him. He no longer felt contaminated. Gasping, he dragged himself out of the tub and went to sit on a bench in the steam room. Then he closed his eyes and groaned as realization struck him.
Noriyoshi had been murdered. Logic told him that Yukiko had, too. But since he couldn’t tell anyone about the illegal dissection, he must find some other way to prove what no one was supposed to know.