he called to Jocko in a loud, affable voice. The old man sidled over to a keg and drew off a half-cup of the ruby liquid, all the while eyeing Gonji quizzically.
Then Gonji began moving about in a broad theatrical manner full of elaborate gestures and cocky tosses of his head. Menacing grins plummeted into puzzled frowns, like the unfurling of tapestries, as he flourished his plate and dirk and spoke in a resonant monologue—in Japanese:
“Do you know something? A long time ago my father, the great daimyo Sabatake Todohiro, instilled in me the understanding that no man can affront another, such as you have done to me here, without being challenged for it. Hai, that is so. By rights I should kill you—all of you!”
He picked up the wine goblet with a smiling nod to Jocko and sipped, set it down. Took up the dirk again and waved it suddenly in the direction of the kneeling Mongol and his seated cohorts. All gaped at him in slack-jawed bewilderment.
“But I’m not going to. No. You are very lucky, and do you know why?”
Still carrying the plate of deer meat, Gonji ambled toward the perplexed watchers, head tilted to the majestic heavens.
“You see, when he, told me that, he was referring to intelligent, civilized men. You are obviously not, neh?” He pointed the dirk at one of the seated men, who jerked back in surprise and offered a wide-eyed sheepish smile and a vapid nod.
“True, quite true, I thought so! Very good. You see, by your fat, puffy faces—”
He skillfully sliced off a bite of meat and speared it.
“—I can see that you’re pigs, not men. And as such you’re no doubt equipped with pigs’ brains. That’s right, you and you and you—this wretch back here—”
He had stopped in his tracks to point out various mercenaries, ending by cocking his blade back at the simmering Mongol. He passed the brigand a scornful look and shoved the morsel into his mouth, chewing it noisily in the charged silence.
“My father was right, you know, but only as far as the Land of the Gods is concerned. I’ve come to believe that in a land of dregs, one must make allowances for ignorance. Hai, very necessary. The world does that to you,” he sighed resignedly. “Compromise. Always the crumbling of time-honored principles....
“But that’s very good for you, you ugly toads, because I won’t have to kill you!” He made an open-armed gesture that took in the whole audience. A rolling night-breeze leaned into the camp, mingled with Gonji’s adrenaline rush to produce in him an odd sense of euphoria.
“And so now, as I’ve granted you a reprieve, by all means, go back to your mindless banter. But first...be sure to thank your gods, won’t you?”
Spellbound, the mercenaries whispered and chuckled cautiously as the samurai breezily strode back to the casks for his wine.
But the dagger-wielding Mongol charged forward and seized Gonji’s reaching arm. He froze. Sibilant hushes sprouted all about them.
He had lost the gamble.
Gonji faced the Mongol squarely, holding his plate before him, the dirk dangling limply at his side. Their eyes locked stonily. The wind tufted the fur on the Mongol’s peaked helm, and the drooping tendrils of his mustache wriggled as he whined something plainly venomous.
Gonji spoke gravely in Spanish. “Look—why don’t you let this drop, you stupid savage?” By now Gonji only half cared to himself; in Japan, to grab another out of malice was an insufferable insult.
The Mongol hawked and spat onto his plate.
Gonji breathed deeply, his heart hammering. He heard the scuffle of men rising behind him, the soft whine of steel. In his mind: the cold black door of the end. There came fleetingly the words of an old teacher:
The mighty guard their faces
While the small make off with their toes
He heard Navárez’ shout, but it came too late.
Gonji tossed the dirk sideways into the air. The Mongol instinctively followed its harmless course. In that instant Gonji splatted him in the face with the plate.
The Mongol cried out and lunged awkwardly with his dagger. Batting it free with a sharp knife-hand blow that snapped back the snaking arm, Gonji pulled the Sagami and slammed the pommel hard into the Mongol’s belly. He thudded to his knees, groaning and heaving, as Gonji coiled into a striking stance.
Sporadic shouts, as men scrambled to their feet and produced steel. Gonji stared along a horizontal crop of circling blades. Down the barrels of half-hammered pistols.
So it ends....
Navárez was roaring, holding the Mongol’s friends at their tethers for a moment that seemed endless. Then something else happened.
A tall, gaunt highwayman in subdued attire and a moth-eaten slouch hat drew up beside Gonji. The oriental’s eyes flared a threat, but the other turned and faced the opposing contingent. He drew a pistol and aimed it at the second Mongol’s head. Uneasy looks betrayed faltering resolve.
Navárez and Esteban sensed the opportunity to bound between the mismatched sides in the stand-off, and a great relief swelled Gonji’s insides.
Reprieve. Again. But the perverse traces of bushido training chafed inside, only half appeased.
Gonji replaced his sword and bowed to his unforeseen benefactor, smiling slightly but gratefully. One was properly curt and respectful, never fawning. The tall man wiped his brow with the slate-gray slouch, pursed his lips and nodded in quiet satisfaction.
Navárez was pushing men back, calming them, the sycophant Esteban dogging his steps. The captain advised with snarling arrogance that if any blood was to be spilled in this camp, he would do the spilling. Gonji cast him a scornful glance, then sauntered back to the serving line to refill a plate.
“How ‘bout some o’ this stew fer that bugger—that’ll bring ‘im around!” Jocko was calling to the two men who were helping the injured Mongol to his feet. They paid him no heed, and the mule packer’s raucous laughter rose to the skies. He leapt about and clapped his hands like a drunken gnome, kicking at the casks in his mirth.
Gonji found a quiet spot under the pines fringing the camp and sat down to his meal. Night had fallen, layer upon layer, during the course of the incident, and he found the thickening gloom of the camp’s perimeter somehow more comforting than the bonfire near which most of the men drew. He was glad for Jocko’s churlish good humor, which cut through the sinister muting of the campfire banter.
He knew he was being discussed.
The tall man who had sided with Gonji sat alone under the trees at the far end of the glade, his back to the camp as he sipped his ale. Gonji hadn’t noticed the warrior before, but he wasn’t surprised: Loners who drifted into mercenary camps generally made themselves scarce. One simply steered clear of them out of respect for whatever private misery they suffered. And although Gonji ached for pleasant conversation, he left him to his solitude.
Gonji turned away from his view of the unfortunate belly-wound victim, who had begun to moan pathetically. He thought melancholy thoughts, his spirit at low ebb.
Another
