A drumroll marked another match, but Akitada paid little attention to it. His eyes were on Genba, now seated again by his bundle of clothes, waiting for his next, and final turn. The winner of the remaining contests would face Genba for the top prize.

“Good heavens,” muttered Akitada to Oyoshi. “You don’t suppose Genba will win and be sent to the capital?”

“Certainly not,” snapped a bald fellow near him. “Nobody beats Tsuneya. He rips out full-grown pines with his bare arms. He’s from my village and I’ve seen him do this myself.”

“Tsuneya’s strong and he’s a local boy, but he has no technique,” cried a pockmarked man with a fierce mustache. “Genba will only have to use his foot to trip him, and when he’s off balance, he’ll push him across the ropes. I’ve seen him use that move and many others besides. He’s a master at technique because he was a wrestling teacher in the capital.”

“You know nothing, fool,” cried the bald man, raising a fist, and shouts broke out all around. For a moment it looked as though a separate match would be fought in the crowd, but the whistle of the scorekeeper recalled attention to the official bout, and peace returned.

Akitada felt a touch on his sleeve. One of the young monks was bowing to him. “His Reverence asks the gentlemen to join him,” he said.

Akitada glanced across the broad courtyard at the raised veranda of the main hall where Abbot Hokko was seated with other dignitaries before brilliant red silk hangings. The abbot looked back and smiled.

So much for remaining an anonymous observer. Not only had the curio dealer guessed who he was, but now Hokko had seen him and was about to display him to the crowd.

They followed the monk to a rear staircase and then walked to the front of the great veranda. Hokko gestured to two cushions. Akitada sat beside the abbot, and Oyoshi farther back. Mercifully, the crowd below seemed too preoccupied with the contest to pay attention.

“You must forgive me, Excellency,” murmured the abbot. “I think you wished to remain unrecognized, but I have an urgent message for you.”

Akitada was irritated. “Here and at this time?”

Hokko pointed down into the courtyard. “None better,” he said. “All eyes are on the final match.”

Below Genba had reentered the ring. His opponent stood already waiting. Akitada had never seen a human being of that size. He towered even over Genba by more than a head and he was all muscle.

“Is that the man they call Tsuneya?” Akitada asked, momentarily distracted.

“Yes. And he will win,” remarked Hokko. “Still, his opponent, a stranger to me, has been very good, and that means nobody will pay attention to us.”

Akitada resented Hokko’s calm assurance about the outcome. He frowned and kept his eyes on the contestants who had begun to circle, crouching low, looking for an opening to grapple with the opponent or trip him. Genba’s adversary was huge. Bulging muscles rippled across his back and shoulders as he moved. He was also quick and tricky. Akitada saw him dodge, feint, and seize Genba several times. But again and again Genba managed to break his hold or step aside to seek his own opening. It promised to be an extraordinary match.

The confrontation took on a symbolic relevance for Akitada that far exceeded a mere exercise of skill and sportsmanship. In his imagination, Tsuneya, the local champion, stood for the forces pitted against Akitada in this mysterious and hostile land; Genba, the outsider, was the champion of distant imperial authority. The outcome of the match would spell Akitada’s success or failure.

“How can you be so sure Tsuneya will win?” he asked the abbot without taking his eyes off the wrestlers.

“I know the boy well. His mind is pure,” said Hokko simply. Then he lowered his voice. “The message I have for you was given to me by an unimpeachable source, so you may rely on its accuracy. You are to guard against an attack on the tribunal tonight or early tomorrow morning.”

Akitada tore his eyes from the contest just as Genba narrowly avoided being pushed across the rope in a mighty and roaring charge by his opponent. “What? Who sent this message?” he demanded angrily.

Hokko smiled and shook his head. “I cannot tell.”

“Then the warning is worthless.”

Hokko sighed. “You will be well advised to prepare a defense, or you and yours will be lost.”

Akitada searched the other’s face. How could he trust this man? A Buddhist abbot? His last experience with provincial clergy had taught him that pure evil could lurk behind the mask of saintliness. And why should he find an anonymous benefactor in a province where he had met with nothing but treachery? “How strong a force?” he asked.

Hokko responded with a question. “How many serve at Takata?”

Silence fell between them. Then Akitada nodded. “Thank you,” he said. “I will take your advice.”

“Look, over there is Captain Takesuke.” The abbot pointed to a small group of officers watching from the eastern gallery. “He has been most accommodating in helping with crowd control today. A very useful young man when one needs to keep peace and order.”

Akitada looked toward Takesuke, then at the abbot. Hokko nodded.

Thoughts racing, Akitada wondered about the size of the provincial guard and about the Uesugi forces. His information about the strength of either was sadly inadequate. The crisis he had feared was at hand, and he was unprepared. Dazedly he turned his eyes to the courtyard again.

In the ring, Genba feinted, ducked under Tsuneya’s arms and grasped the waistband of his opponent’s loincloth. He gave a mighty heave upward to lift Tsuneya off the ground, but the other man hooked a leg around Genba’s thigh. The two contestants strained in the thin winter sun, their bodies locked together, steaming, their muscles bulging with effort.

And Akitada felt sick at his helplessness. He had brought them all to this: Genba, Tora, Hitomaro, and old Seimei. And worst of all: What was to become of Tamako and his unborn child?

The two wrestlers broke apart, and Akitada clung desperately to the hope that fate would be with them.

Hokko touched Akitada’s sleeve. “I almost forgot. There was another part to the message. I am to tell you that the boy is safe.”

Akitada blinked. He had forgotten the missing boy over his own danger. For a moment, he did not know what to say. When he found the words to ask about Toneo, a great roar went up from the crowd: “Tsuneya! Tsuneya! Tsuneya!”

Genba had lost the match.

* * * *

SIXTEEN