He stopped to look at the temple, wondering how to find the painter’s house, when he felt a violent push to his back and stumbled forward. Hands pulled at his sash and felt his sleeves. Reacting by instinct, he whirled, his fists clenched and lashing out at his attackers. His right made sharp contact with a body. There was a yelp, and a slight figure scurried away. But he had no time to waste on that one, for he had grabbed hold of a second attacker with his left and flung him face down on the ground. Falling on his prostrate opponent with his knees, he knocked the breath out of him and caught the flailing hands by the wrists, pinning them into the dirt. His prisoner screamed in a high, thin voice, and Akitada realized that he had caught a youngster, about fourteen or fifteen years old. Pickpockets, he thought disgustedly, and shifted his knees from the boy’s back, wondering what to do with his captive.

The answer became quickly obvious. A small hostile crowd gathered around him. Kneeling on the street, Akitada saw their feet and legs first, mostly naked or in ragged straw sandals, except for one pair of massive leather boots right before his eyes. Large as the boots were, the wearer had had to cut them open to make room for some enormous dirty toes. Akitada’s eyes traveled upward and found that their owner matched them in size and uncleanliness. A bearded giant glared down at him. Worse, on either side of him stood no fewer than ten or fifteen burly, hostile males. Akitada swallowed. The bearded giant alone easily outweighed him by a third.

“Let him go!” the giant growled down to him.

Akitada rose to his feet but jerked the youngster up with him, his fist firmly grasping the boy’s flimsy shirt by the neck. The young thief had stopped wailing and struggling and was awaiting the outcome of the confrontation with renewed confidence.

At eye level, or near eye level, for the big man was almost a head taller than Akitada, the bearded giant did not improve. The part of his face which was not covered by the unkempt bristly beard was badly pockmarked, and a fleshy nose and thick lips did nothing for his appearance. They eyed each other in mutual disgust for a moment; then Akitada said matter-of-factly, “This boy and his companion tried to steal from me. I’d like a word with his father if you can tell me where he lives.”

The big man’s jaw dropped a little, but he recovered quickly. “I said to let him go. It’s none of your business. We don’t need your kind here, giving our kids a bad name, calling them thieves.” The others muttered their agreement and shuffled up a little more closely.

Akitada pushed the boy forward without loosening his grip. “You claim to care about your children. Open your eyes!” he challenged the big man. “Look at him! Today he tried to grab a few coppers from my sash, but in another year or two he’ll be pulling knives on helpless old men and women. Do you want him to turn to murder or be killed himself ? How many of your boys are running wild now? How many of your sons end up dead or in chains?”

The other men’s muttering turned angry, but the big man stared at the youngster, and Akitada could see his conviction waver. “Kinjiro’s a good kid, one of eight,” the man said defensively. “I know his folks. They’re poor like the rest of us. His father’s been sick and his mother’s just had another kid. Maybe he just bumped into you. Hey, Kinjiro? Did you try to take the gentleman’s money?”

The boy burst into tears and sobbed explanations in a dialect which Akitada could not make out. But as the big man listened, his face lengthened. When the boy stopped with a sniffle and a swipe at his running nose, he put a big paw on the thin shoulder for a moment. “All right,” he said. “Don’t worry! I’ll take care of it. You go home now.” He looked at Akitada. “You can let him go. I’m Hayata, the warden of this quarter, and I’ll go talk to them. The new babe died this morning and they have no money for a funeral.”

“Oh.” Akitada released the boy instantly. “I am sorry,” he said, helpless in the face of such sadness and so extreme a want. His hand went to his sash for money, but he changed his mind. He had no proof if what he had been told was true or merely a trick to get his money.

The bearded giant nodded to the youngster. “Off you go! And don’t ever let me catch you and Yoshi again.” Then he waved away the other men, who dispersed quickly. When they were alone, he gestured to Akitada’s clothes and remarked, “It is easy to see that this is not your kind of place, sir. Best go home now.” Having said this, he turned and walked quickly after the boy.

The message was clear: he was not welcome. Angered by this reception into stubborn persistence, Akitada brushed off his robe and crossed the street to the temple.

He entered through the sagging gateway and wandered about the vast courtyard filled with people gathered around open fires or haggling with vendors. Children tumbled about among the adults, shouting and chasing each other. Near one of the fires, ragged men sat on the ground gambling with dice. On the temple steps, a storyteller held a group of gaping adults and children spellbound. And everywhere men and women were selling things: cheap wine, soup, amulets, vegetables, old clothes, chipped utensils, and medicinal drafts, potions, and balms for every imaginable ailment. And ailments there appeared to be many. One man was missing an eye, another hobbled on a crutch, one foot hanging mangled and deformed, while near the storyteller an old crone sat coughing weakly into a bloodstained rag.

In spite of these surroundings, Akitada became aware of a ravenous hunger. Following an appetizing smell, he made his way through a group of poor people, who fell back from him in silent awe, and found a young woman, cleaner than the rest, stirring a large pot of soup over a small fire. He held out some coppers, and she ladled a generous helping into an earthenware bowl.

Warming his cold hands on the bowl, Akitada wished he could do the same for his ears. The soup appeared to consist mostly of assorted vegetables and beans. He took a cautious swallow. It was as good as it smelled. He thought he could make out turnip and cabbage, but there was another leafy vegetable, deep green, which had a slightly bitter but pleasant flavor. He emptied the bowl quickly and asked for another. The woman smiled at him this time and watched him eat. He asked her what the green vegetable was. Dock, she said. It was plentiful hereabouts, especially in the old monks’ burial grounds behind the temple.

Akitada choked down the last bite and looked where she pointed. In a nearby open area some six or seven small boys were gathered near leaning wooden tablets where one of them was spinning a top. Akitada had played with tops himself as a youngster, and smiled. The boy with the top looked to be about five or six and was most adept. His top spun and danced, flew through the air, and returned. He made it dart in and out between his friends and kept it moving precisely where he wanted it.

Akitada chuckled. “He’s good, that little one,” he said.

The woman said proudly, “He’s my son. He loves his top. There’s not much else he can be good at, poor boy.”

Akitada handed back his empty bowl and said, “What do you mean? He looks like a fine boy.”

She cast a glance toward the children, and he saw that tears welled up in her eyes. “A fine cripple,” she said bitterly.

Stunned by her words, Akitada looked again and saw now that the small boy was not merely holding his right arm close to his body but seemed to lack his forearm altogether. The right arm ended just below the elbow. Among his people, who relied on the skill and strength of their hands to make a living, he would be unable to support himself by any useful trade and become dependent on alms tossed him by the more fortunate. This part of the city was full of crippled beggars sitting at street corners and on the steps of temples with their begging bowls. Any number of accidents could cut short a productive life and reduce a man to this sort of misery. But this was only a child.