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pursuits, arts long since lost—except for a few Sensei who had kept bushido alive. Lost because for the last two and a half centuries Japan had been at peace under rigid Toranaga rule that forbade warlike pursuits, where, for centuries before, there had been total civil war.
    Cautiously the shishi began to meet and discuss and to plan. Swords manship schools became centers of discontent. Zealots and radicals appeared in their midst, some good, some bad. But one common thread joined them—all were fanatically anti-Shōgunate, and opposed to allowing Japanese ports to be opened to foreigners and foreign trade.
    To this end, for the last four years, they had waged sporadic attacks on gai-jin, and begun to articulate an unprecedented, all-out revolt against the legal ruler, Shōgun Nobusada, the all-powerful Council of Elders and Bakufu that in theory did his bidding, regulating all aspects of life.
    The shishi had conjured up an all-embracing slogan,
Sonno-joi:
Honor the Emperor and Expel the Barbarians, and had sworn, whatever the cost, to remove anyone in the way.
    “Even if they are shishi,” Sanjiro said angrily, “I cannot allow such a public disobedience to go unpunished, however merited—I agree those gai-jin should have dismounted and knelt, as customary, and behaved like civilized persons; yes, it was they who provoked my men. But that does not excuse those two.”
    “I agree, Sire.”
    “Then give me your advice,” he said irritably. “If they’re shishi as you say and I crush them, or order them to commit seppuku, I will be assassinated before the month is out, however many my guards—don’t attempt to deny it, I
know
. Disgusting their power is so strong though most are common
goshi.”
    “Perhaps that is their strength, Sire,” Katsumata had replied. Goshi were the lowest rank of samurai, their families mostly penniless country samurai, hardly more than the warrior peasants of olden times with almost no hope of getting an education, therefore no hope of advancement, no hope of getting their views acted upon, or even heard by officials of low rank, let alone daimyo. “They’ve nothing to lose but their lives.”
    “If anyone has a grievance I listen, of course I listen. Special men get special education, some of them.”
    “Why not allow them to lead the attack on the gai-jin?”
    “And if there is no attack? I cannot hand them over to the Bakufu, unthinkable, or to the gai-jin!”
    “Most shishi are just young idealists, without brains or purpose. A few are troublemakers and outlaws who are not needed on this earth. However, some could be valuable, if used correctly—a spy told me the oldest, Shorin, was part of the team that assassinated Chief Minister Ii.”
    “So ka!”
    This had occurred four years ago. Against all advice, Ii, who was responsible for maneuvering the boy Nobusada to be Shōgun, had also suggested a highly improper marriage between the boy and the Emperor’s twelve-year-old half sister, and, worst of all, had negotiated and signed the hated Treaties. His passing was not regretted, especially by Sanjiro.
    “Send for them.”
    Now in the audience room a maid was serving Sanjiro tea. Katsumata sat beside him. Around stood ten of his personal bodyguard. All were armed. The two youths kneeling below and in front of him were not, though their swords lay on the tatami within easy reach. Their nerves were stretched but they showed none of it. The maid bowed and left, hiding her fear.
    Sanjiro did not notice her going. He lifted the exquisite little porcelain cup from the tray, sipped the tea. The tea’s taste was good to him and he was glad to be ruler and not ruled, pretending to study the cup, admiring it, his real attention on the youths. They waited impassively, knowing the time had come.
    He knew nothing about them except what Katsumata had told him: that both were goshi, foot soldiers like their fathers before them. Each had a stipend of one
koku
yearly—a measure of dry