The Accidental Samurai

THE ACCIDENTAL SAMURAI

by

Frank S. Ravitch

Copyright © 2014 Frank S. Ravitch

Distributed by Smashwords

This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite eBook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Cover Design by Tatiana Villa

Ebook formatting by www.ebooklaunch.com

To my wife Chika,

my daughters Elysha and Ariana,

and my parents Carl and Arline.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Epilogue

About The Author

CHAPTER ONE

— Huang Territory, China (New Song Dynasty), 964 C.E.

Tiny red streams trickled silently across the grassland. Beyond the grassland lay a vast blue lake, but today the lake was shrouded in mist. For more than two days the soldiers of Hang had made their last stand in the foothills by the lake. They fought bravely to the last man, but bravery is a sad substitute for experience in battle.

The stench of rotting flesh ate at my soul. In Hang we achieved greatness, but the dead stink no less in the air of greatness than any other. I was raised to believe that war is never to be favored over peace. Yet I fought to unify China with all my heart.

Emperor Taizu sought unification through wisdom and peaceful means where possible. Some of the southern territories joined us in peace, but as the legions of dead soldiers around me testified, others did not. Most of the dead were not ours, but as I looked over the corpses my heart was pained. I did not know how many I had killed. In the heat of battle I did not have time to count. But each was a life lost. My father taught me that we must mourn the dead, for life is precious. I bowed my head and began to say a prayer for those who died—even for those I had killed.

Simeon, what are you doing? Qian Zhaou walked toward me, his leather boots crunching the parched ground as he rose up the hill.

I am saying a prayer for the dead, I replied.

I think I will never completely understand your customs, Simeon, Qian said, but he stood next to me and bowed his head nonetheless.

We stood silently for maybe fifteen minutes, long after I finished the prayer. Qian knew what I was thinking. His chiseled face was covered in dirt and blood, but his eyes were compassionate. Many believed we were two of the greatest warriors in all of the Song Dynasty. Yet here we stood at the end of the last battle.

When I first joined the army my sister joked that I looked like the Persian warriors we had seen in paintings. Like the warriors in the paintings I wore a well-groomed beard and mustache, and I sported long, wavy, brown hair. The fact that I am tall and full of muscle, as my mother liked to say, helped bolster the warrior image.

I smiled and told my sister she was half right. Our family migrated along the Silk Road from Persia to China more than two hundred years ago. My mother, father, sister, brother, and I are proud members of the Chinese Jewish community, which was recently welcomed back to the capitol from the Western territories by the emperor.

My parents cried joyfully when we arrived in Kaifeng from the Western territories. Our family left the old capitol, Chang'an, nearly one hundred years ago, along with many other Chinese and foreigners. Now we returned to the new capitol of Kaifeng, not as foreigners living in China, but as Chinese of foreign descent.

That is, of course, why my sister was only half right. I am a Jew of Persian descent, and I proudly live as a Jew every day, but I am also a citizen of China and a Chinese warrior. I love my family, my religion, my Persian heritage, and China, my home.

I was one of many Chinese of foreign descent who volunteered to help Emperor Taizu unite China. We trained and fought side by side with our native Chinese brothers in the war against the warlords of the Five Dynasties. To the emperor and the generals we were all Chinese, and our skill and power in battle was all that mattered.

War is never trivial, and my family feared for my safety. They respected my choice to fight, but I know they were not happy about it, and it pained me to cause my parents any fear or pain. For hundreds of years my family had been traders, and it seemed natural I would follow that path. I love the beauty and art of silk painting and could see myself as a designer or painter, but I could no more spend my days selling silk than a musician could spend his days selling wood for making instruments. Given the choice of trading silk or being a warrior I chose to fight.

After finishing the prayer, I stood quietly next to Qian as we looked at the battlefield. The carnage pained me, but it also gave me hope. The battle at Hang was the final battle. Our victory meant all of China to the south of Liao was united. Now that China was united, the city of Kaifeng and my family had a chance to live in peace and stability. Yet I felt no joy for myself or my future.

Qian brushed some dust off of his mountain armor and looked up at me. When he finally spoke, his voice was quiet, but strong. Simeon, what will you do? he asked.

I can return, I said, my heart sinking with each word.

Do you think you can love her? Qian asked.

Qian was lucky. Though he came from a good family, his father and mother married of their own accord without an arrangement by their parents. His parents believed this was the natural way, so when Qian met Lia and they fell in love, Qian and Lia made the decision to marry. Lia's parents were happy for the good fortune of joining the Zhaou family through their daughter, so neither family objected.

No, I replied. I grappled with my fate in Kaifeng from the time I was told Ayala would be my bride. She was a brilliant and beautiful woman, but she did not love me, and I did not love her. It was that simple. We were expected to marry each other, and both families thought our strength and beauty would make us ideal mates, but our strength gave us the desire to choose our own mates.

I looked at Qian. Ayala thinks war is barbarous and that I am a barbarian for fighting when my people have the option not to fight.

But your people fight in great numbers, Qian said. She can hardly think you are different than the others. He seemed a bit put off by the thought that I would be considered a barbarian, and by implication he, too.

I did not say she was right. I believe if I were another man who fought the same battles she would not view me that way. But she does not love me and knows I do not love her, so thinking me a barbarian is a way for her to keep me at a distance, I said. Ayala and I should be able to choose our partners, not have the decision forced on us against our will.

Then your path is not completely clear. Qian resumed attending to his mountain armor as he spoke. Its small, interconnected metal patterns were attached to tough brown leather, forming strong armor. The metal pattern was always the same: three vertical lines, the middle the tallest, connected at the base by a horizontal line. The pattern resembled the Chinese character for mountain, and so the armor was called mountain armor. It covered the arms, shoulders, and torso and hung down to the thighs. We felt more brave with it on, along with our gloves and helmets. Qian had a nervous habit of meticulously wiping every metal piece on his armor. Qian continued wiping his mountain armor without looking up. It was obvious this topic greatly concerned him.

I want you to be happy, but I do not know the best advice. Qian polished absentmindedly. The heart usually knows though. Your parents know how you feel, but tradition dictates you marry the one chosen for you. Your peoples' traditions and my peoples' are similar, but you and I both know that does not make those traditions right. Qian looked up at me as he finished the statement. Then he went back to working on his armor.

I know, I replied. I looked down and noticed my helmet was dirty, and I began using a cloth to wipe off dirt and blood as I held it in one hand, balancing it on my knee, which rested on a tree stump. Am I truly destined to marry a woman I don't love and sell silk for the rest of my life?

There are worse fates, Qian said, challenging me to face the question myself. He was looking straight at me.

I have never been comfortable with being a prisoner, I said, gazing back at him. I could see the compassion in his eyes. You and I could have been captured by the armies of Liao or Hang, but we chose to fight or die rather than live on others' terms. That is who I am and who you are. We are not meant to live in a prison, whether of our enemy's making or our own, I continued, and Qian did not look away.

So Kaifeng would be a prison for you if you return? Qian raised his left eyebrow as he spoke, as though he already knew the conclusion I was just reaching myself. He did not alter his gaze.

Yes, I suppose so. I am a warrior, and maybe a painter, but not a salesman or trader.

Qian put his right arm on my shoulder, chain mesh glove still clutched in his left hand. You know our days of fighting have ended. Hang was the last holdout in the south and for now, at least, Liao has secured the north. We shall surely fight them again, but that will not be for years. I nodded in agreement. He continued, You can stay a warrior, but there is no war for you now. It is an odd thing to be sad when someone tells you there is no war, but I was sad. I still feel shame because of that sadness and the selfish escapism that drove it, but it was how I genuinely felt at the time.

Perhaps Liao will attack sooner than expected, I said, knowing that this was not likely.

Qian nodded once in disagreement, but he continued to look directly at me. I am sorry you have lost the escape you found in battle, but war is bad for us all . . . even you. You mourn the dead, he pointed at the field full of dead soldiers for whom I said the mourning prayer, and I can see the pain of their loss in your eyes. He paused, letting the thought enter my consciousness. Bar Asher, he said, using my family name, which told me what he was about to say was likely to be unwelcomed, you take no joy in killing and risking your life, but it is easier for you than facing your demons at home. He was right, and I knew it. I know you. You will not defy your parents if you return to Kaifeng.

Qian picked up the helmet of a dead Hang soldier. He began collecting blood from nearby puddles in the empty helmet. I gave him an odd look.

Qian looked down the hill he had climbed to find me. The men down there do not know who is alive or dead other than themselves, well . . . and me. They have been celebrating since the battle ended two hours ago. Soon the general will come with his guard to count our dead. If you are alive you will have to return to Kaifeng. If you hide they will search for you as a brother in arms. He paused, and stared straight into my eyes, searching them for an answer.

I said nothing immediately. Then I put my helmet on and began walking toward one of the areas most densely populated by dead Hang soldiers. The smell of their corpses was horrible. The first were killed nearly two days ago when the battle began. The most recently killed were thankfully less fragrant, but there were some of each scattered throughout the battlefield. I laid down on my side among the dead, sword in my hand. Qian poured a little blood over my sword first and then poured the rest over the small portion of forehead that showed through my helmet so that it dripped down through the helmet to the ground, forming a puddle by the base of my head. He sprinkled my helmet and armor with dirt. You fought valiantly, my friend. It is a shame that archer had such good aim. He looked around and found a broken arrow on the ground nearby. He set its sharp tip by my forehead, covering the tip with my long brown hair, which he pinched down with two fingers through the small opening in my helmet into which he had poured the blood.

It would look quite real to anyone quickly searching the battlefield to count our dead. Qian would take care of the rest by telling the story of my valiant fight and death. My body was now just a vessel to my comrades, a vessel that would be left to the vultures and any nearby scavengers.

Qian looked down at me and said, I hear them coming. Goodbye, Simeon. I hope you find love and peace, and if you don't and choose to return to Kaifeng, your survival will be a miraculous story for all. He smiled, but I could tell he was sad I would not return with him to Kaifeng.

I looked up at Qian without moving my head. My eyes must have looked like odd slits filled with white and brown. Thank you, Qian. Your kindness and strength will always be with me wherever I go. Love Lia and have a good life. I moved my eyes so that I was looking straight ahead and fought hard against tears. I had to bite my lip to keep from crying, but that added fresh blood, which only helped the illusion Qian had created. I stayed still for the next two hours. The blood in my helmet felt sticky and repulsive, but it, along with the dirt, kept sweat from my eyes. At times, the smell in the air was almost impossible to tolerate. I wanted to stand up and scream, I am alive! But I knew that was not an option. Not a good one at least. I made the right choice and even the hellish stench around me could not pull me away from that truth.

When I next heard footsteps approaching I did not allow myself to breathe. I knew the general or one of his guards was counting the bodies around me. I was sure it was the general himself, however, when I heard the familiar gruff voice say to a nearby guard, Simeon Bar Asher is dead. I did not think I would see this sad day. Bar Asher was a brave soldier. I will mourn his loss, and the emperor will be saddened to hear of his death. The general's tone softened as he spoke, but after a few moments he and the guard moved on.

As I lay on the battlefield, the motion of the sun told me that the minor commotion caused by the general and his guard counting the dead ended after an hour and a half, but I laid still for at least another half an hour to be sure they were gone. The sticky mix of blood and dirt on my forehead left an odd sensation, but I was lucky that it was not my blood and that I was still alive to see better days—or at least I hoped.

I could not return to Kaifeng. I knew that. A new life awaited somewhere. I got up slowly.

CHAPTER TWO

—Heian-Kyo (Kyoto), Japan, 964 C.E.

Nariakina Shinno sat in his private chambers in the Dairi, the opulent living area within the Imperial Palace in Heian-Kyo, the capitol of Japan. The emperor and his family lived in the Dairi, and Shinno was better known to the people of Japan as Emperor Murakami. The Diari was surrounded by towering white walls, and the buildings within the walls were adorned with green tile roofs, and orange pillars and facades. Beautiful gardens and gently flowing streams were abundant within the Diari and throughout the Imperial Palace.

Outside the Diari lay the rest of the huge palace. Much of Heian-Kyo was built using the Chinese model. The palace was located in the north central part of Heian-Kyo. It spanned from there to the northernmost edges of the city. The spacious palace grounds were themselves surrounded by large walls. The palace could be accessed via thirteen gates, ten of which were approached by large commercial thoroughfares. The Diari, the inner sanctum of the palace, had only one main entrance.

Emperor Murakami, like his father Emperor Daigo, regularly grappled with the political maneuvering of the Fujiwara Clan. In Japan the emperor led the nation, at least in theory. In China, Emperor Taizu was able to make decisions without much interference, but in Japan the Fujiwara clan had great power and controlled many affairs of state from behind the scenes. This had been so for more than one hundred years by the time Emperor Murakami took the throne. Yet recently Murakami began questioning the Fujiwara clan's interference with his rule.

Emperor Murakami was himself part Fujiwara through his mother and paternal grandmother. This had been common in the years before Murakami. Of the preceding five or ten emperors, only Murakami's grandfather, who limited the power of the Fujiwara clan, did not have a mother from the Fujiwara clan. Murakami admired his grandfather for resisting the clan's political maneuvering and wished he had done more to fend off the Fujiwara himself.

The Fujiwara were not the only powerful clan Emperor Murakami needed to consider. There was also the Minamoto clan. The Minamoto were members of the royal family too far removed from the throne and therefore reduced to the level of nobility rather than royalty. These nobles had been given the honorary name Minamoto since the time of Emperor Saga about one hundred and fifty years before Emperor Murakami acceded to the throne.

For nearly one hundred years before Emperor Murakami came to power, the Minamoto gained military power and influence. Still, Emperor Murakami did not view the Minamoto as a major concern because they were generally supportive of the throne, even if they were also respectful of the Fujiwara. The Minamoto sometimes aided the emperor and the Fujiwara when military force was needed to restore order in various areas. Emperor Murakami thought that perhaps if he had support from high ranking members of the Minamoto clan he could push back a bit against the Fujiwara clan's control, but the relationship between the two clans and the throne made that problematic.

Emperor Murakami sat in an ornate chair. Murakami was a portly man and the chair was large, its cushions colorfully decorated with flower patterns. Its frame was made of well-polished cypress wood. One of the emperor's courtesans read him poetry. This always calmed Murakami, but recent events made even the beauty of the poetry seem distant and empty. Emperor Murakami had worked hard to support the creation of great art and poetry, and he was a gifted musician.

Yet recently he learned the people were suffering as a result of the opulent ways of the court, and he decreed the suspension of specific taxes and sought to provide aid to the people in a number of provinces. A few weeks after his edicts were issued, he learned that local leaders did not follow his decrees and the people were still suffering from the same tax burdens. Murakami was furious.

It seemed the local leaders respected the Fujiwara clan more than the emperor, and the Fujiwara clan's leaders did not support the emperor's newfound graciousness toward the people. After all, a beloved emperor was far more dangerous to their presumed control than an insular hedonist. And there was no doubt power and control were what the Fujiwara leadership sought. The harsh reality was that thanks to generations of imperial court maneuvering the Fujiwara clan already controlled the affairs of state.

Emperor Murakami had a thin mustache and a small goatee, and was graced with gentle features. Yet behind his gentrified stare was a brilliant mind. He could be a capable leader when he wanted to be, and he brought his nation's artistic, musical, and literary culture to a level that rivaled even what Taizu had achieved in his first years as emperor in China.

The differences between Emperor Murakami and Emperor Taizu were also crucial. Taizu was a brilliant military mind and quite adept at court politics. He lacked a great deal of personal artistic talent, but he promoted art and culture throughout the New Song Dynasty. Murakami, on the other hand, was a gifted and talented musician and had achieved a lot in the world of art, but he lacked military cunning and had been so caught up in life in the Imperial Palace that the Fujiwara clan was able to further tighten its already strong grip on political control.

The emperor could not speak freely to his top advisors, the Kugyo in Japanese, because they were powerful members of the Fujiwara clan. Having members of the Fujiwara clan serve on the Kugyo had been a tradition since before the reign of Emperor Murakami's father, Emperor Daigo. Emperor Daigo was somewhat successful at keeping the Fujiwara clan at bay. For Emperor Murakami, however, that distance was nearly impossible to maintain.

Ordinarily there were three members of the Kugyo, a regent or top advisor, a minister of the left, and a minister of the right. The regent was generally the most powerful of the three and had often been the de facto political decision maker for the nation. The minister of the left oversaw almost all functions of government, and the minister of the right was his chief deputy. Emperor Murakami, though, had no regent. His regent, a powerful but sympathetic member of the Fujiwara clan, had died seventeen years earlier and was never replaced.

Without a regent the other two members of the Kugyo grew even more powerful. Two powerful members of the Fujiwara clan, Fujiwara no Saneyori and Fujiwara no Akitada, held the titles of minister of the left and minister of the right, respectively. As a practical matter they ruled the empire from behind the scenes.

The Kugyo's interference with imperial decisions was becoming less acceptable to Emperor Murakami. The recent failure to enforce his tax edict was the latest example of the Kugyo's insolence, and it weighed heavily on the emperor. Worst of all, the Murakami was not sure he could speak to his consorts about his fears and concerns regarding the Fujiwara because most, including the empress, had been raised by powerful members of the Fujiwara clan.

Emperor Murakami needed to speak to someone about the failure to enforce his tax edict. Someone he could trust beyond a doubt. He carefully worded a note and then sealed it. He called for a royal courier and asked the courier to give the note to one of the few men the emperor trusted completely. The courier complied immediately, bowing deeply before setting off to fulfill his task.

Within a few hours Sakanoue no Mochiki arrived. He was shown into the emperor's royal chambers within the Dairi of the Imperial Palace. Mochiki was a great Waka poet and one of the Five Men of the Pear Chamber, a group Emperor Murakami himself had commissioned to compile the Gosen Wakushuu, which would become the greatest collection of Waka poetry created to date. The emperor particularly loved Waka poetry because it was uniquely Japanese. The term Waka meant that the poems were written in the Japanese language. The other major poetry traditions in Japan used Chinese. Murakami liked all forms of Waka, and he particularly liked the work of the Five Men of Pear Chamber. More importantly he respected these poets and had formed bonds of friendship and mutual artistic respect with several of them.

The emperor's great musical talents were not lost on the poets, either. Each of the five wrote poems about the emperor's impressive playing of the Biwa, a popular four stringed instrument with a large body and sleek neck. In fact, Mochiki himself had written poems about Emperor Murakami's Biwa itself. The emperor named the Biwa Kenjou, and Kenjou was itself famous.

Sakanoue no Mochiki became not only a friend to the emperor, but also a confidant. Emperor Murakami knew he could speak to Mochiki about anything. When Mochiki arrived the emperor was playing a beautiful melody on Kenjou, sitting cross legged on the floor with the instrument on his lap. Kenjou was beautiful. Its rounded body was covered in a stunning flower pattern that was carved directly into the black stained wood. The Biwa's graceful neck rose like a pristine tower to its ornate tuning knobs and head. As the emperor plucked away at the four strings, Kenjou seemed to sing. The elegance and grace of the music nearly brought a tear