The late afternoon of the grand Peking marketplace bustled with excitement. The red paper lanterns swayed gently in the wind while the people below bought, traded, talked, ate, and gossiped. Stall after stall offered a variety of purchasing prospects: food, weapons, books, clothes, and anything else the mind could think of. Scents of foreign and familiar foods wafted over the heads of the busy buyers, some of them indulging in their gluttonous desires as they perused the market.
Among the silk tents stood a particular one. On the outside, it appeared insignificant, however, if one were to look at what was being sold, they could tell that stall was different. The man—a merchant approaching his elder years—had spent his life traveling, collecting, and trading, and now found himself in possession of a variety of foreign items. Swords, bows, banners, and all sorts of exotic things hailed from nations.
The crowd parted as an entourage wound its way through the busy streets. The people’s loud conversations quieted to hushed whispers as Third Prince Zhao Rei strode by, his face hidden behind his signature paper fan, only his sharp eyes showing above the silver-laden rim. His gaze darted back and forth, settling on the merchant’s tent. He gave the slightest wave of his hand, and his guards parted, allowing him to step forward into the merchant’s tent.
The older man dropped his upper body into a bow and greeted Third Prince Zhao Rei, “Wang-Zhao.”
The prince was silent as he scanned the items, his eyes sweeping through the collection of objects. He occasionally reached out and touched something, bringing it up out of its bucket into the fading light of the sunset. He drew out a kukri, the curved Nepalese knife laid with precious stones and the handle set in ebony. Zhao Rei unsheathed the blade and was dismayed to find the ceremonial dagger blunt from disuse.
Zhao Rei replaced the dagger and then stopped in his place, mesmerized by the piece in front of him. Displayed beautifully was a magnificent samurai cuirass, faded by age and marred with dents, scratches, and the slow decay of time. The interior of the samurai cuirass had the unmistakable stench of death staining the silk lining, dark splotches reinforcing his thoughts. This was no ordinary relic in the prince’s mind.
“Oh, guowang, you have a keen eye,” the merchant said from behind the prince. “This armor is one-of-a-kind, from the glory days of the samurai.”
“Ah, so this is from Riben?” he replied as he felt the leather straps of the shoulder clasps.
“Yes, guowang. Exceedingly rare, very unusual.”
The Third Prince laughed. “I have seen samurai armor before.”
“Of course, Wang-Zhao.” The merchant lowered his voice, as if the next thing he was about to divulge was something secretive and forbidden. “However, you do not know what song this armor sings.”
“Oh?” The prince’s eyebrow raised. “Do tell.”
“Wang-Zhao, this was no ordinary Ribenren who wore this armor. Legend has it that it was a foreigner.”
“A foreigner?”
“Yes, and not just any foreigner; they allowed in a Feizhouren.”
That caught the prince’s attention. “A Feizhouren, you say?”
“Yes, guowang. His story is long one, full of valor and full of tragedy.”
Zhao Rei glanced towards the setting sun and replied, “I have time. Tell me his story.”
The merchant nodded and gestured to an ornate chair—undoubtedly another one of his foreign treasures. The prince took the invitation and sat upon it, the velvet cushions easing him into the mahogany wood as he watched from behind his elaborate fan.
“If the man ever had a given name, it was lost to time,” the merchant began, standing next to the armor as he spoke. “However, to the people he served, he was called Kofi. Kofi was the young slave of a Christian missionary. He traveled the world and across the great seas, through empires and kingdoms and farmland alike, tending to the will of his master. His master heard of a land where many other missionaries had fared, and thought he would try his luck in converting the people there. So, he, Kofi, and a captain’s crew set sail from their lands to the Far West and found their way to Japan. There, his master set hard to work, his efforts to convert the people gaining slow traction. The daimyo that had granted him amnesty took a great interest in Kofi, the young man from Africa who now stood three heads taller than his highest man, and whose skin was darker than blackened ashes.”
Zhao Rei leaned forward in the seat, his head propped on his fist as he listened, engrossed.
“This daimyo was known for… bending the rules of tradition. And since no man there had seen an African before, there was no rule stating that one could not be taken under wing and trained. So that is what happened to Kofi; he was bought from his master for three yards of silk, ten gold pieces, and a horse. By the time he was fully grown, he had amassed twenty times that amount of wealth for his new master. He was a promising young man, listening to every instruction and executing those instructions to perfection. Kofi honed his skills with staff, sword, and bow, bringing much honor to his daimyo.” The merchant swallowed, his throat raw, before continuing. “One fateful day, he was given the much-sought-after title of samurai. It was then that he was gifted this very armor that you took interest in, guowang. It was fitted to him perfectly. And he loved that armor, guowang. No one had ever gifted him such a luxurious item before. Though it has seen its fair share of battle and death, the gold designs on the plate have not lost their luster, nor have the powder hooks lost their shape. And here, my lord, the ducal signet of the daimyo, as polished as the day it was sealed.” The merchant pointed to a mon on the back of the armor.
“Is that Tokugowan?”
“Close, guowang, Miyoshi.”
“Miyoshi…” The prince let his voice trail off as his hand mimicked the sound, gently sliding over the mon as he traced the circular arc of the signet. “They were all killed decades ago?” His tone made the statement a question.
“Not all, Wang-Zhou, but nearly so. The family fell into despair and death. Those that were not slain retreated into the shadows of history.”
“And how did he die, this African samurai of yours?”
“That,” the merchant sighed, “is a tragedy unto itself.” The merchant shifted his weight, leaning on the table that the armor sat upon as if fatigued. “He fell amid a great battle. A rivalry between his lord’s clan and a neighboring daimyo broke out. Kofi was sent to rescue his daimyo’s family that had been kidnapped by the rival. Because he was honor-bound to serve his lord, he went without question, knowing it was unlikely he should return. He slayed many enemies in his fateful attempt to free his lord’s wife and his adopted son, his valor and bravery going beyond that of a normal man. However, it was not enough. He was overtaken and enchained by the rival daimyo, who kept him alive just long enough to behead him in front of his lord. The blood that you see here, guowang, is not that of an enemy. It is Kofi’s himself. He would not have allowed his most precious possession to be stained like this.” The merchant ran his hand along the leather backing of the breastplate, tracing the floral patterns engraved on the gold edge. “Wang-Zhao, this armor carries with it not only the legacy of a man, but the spirit of a
warrior who fought against fate. And he won, guowang. When he died, Kofi was a free man, buying himself out of slavery and into a brotherhood that he cultivated for himself.”
The Third Prince stared at the Japanese panoply silently, the merchant’s words echoing in his brain. It was a moving story, one of perseverance, trial, and, indeed, tragedy. This honor-bound man had given his life when he need not have; he was free. Yet he still fought and died for someone else. It was inspiring.
“I will take it,” Zhao Rei stated firmly, closing his fan, disclosing the features of his face to the merchant for the first time. The young man had a strong face shape, his cheekbones high and his lips full. Put together with his striking eyes, it was clear he had the look of a man who knew the value of honor and what must be lost to keep it. “It shall be displayed for all to see and witness the bravery of a man who knew the risks yet fought on anyway.”
“Thank you, Wang-Zhao.”
The merchant began to wrap the armor, taking exceptional care not to jostle it and to make sure silk covered the gold plating so that the paper would not scratch it. When he had finished, he placed the armor into the arms of one of the Third Prince’s guards, and a second guard handed him a bag of silver taels.
“Guowang,” the merchant stated, “this is too much.”
“No, I fear it is too little,” Zhao Rei replied, waving the merchant off. “An artifact such as this should have no price, yet this is what I can pay.”
“T-thank you, Wang-Zhao.”
“I am curious though. How came you—a man from across the sea—to find yourself in Peking Market?”
“Guowang, that is a simple answer. I sailed across the sea before the shogun closed the border.”
“Why?”
“There was nothing left for me there.”
The Third Prince nodded and turned, walked a few paces, and then turned back around and said, “One more question for you: how do you know so much about this man?”
The merchant smiled sadly and said, “The daimyo that he fought for was very close to me. However, he is a daimyo no more.”
Zhao Rei’s eyes narrowed, and when realization hit him, his fan snapped back into place, hiding his reaction behind the paper. “I see,” he said cryptically. He stood and took one last look at the merchant’s small tent before he sighed and walked off into the dusky twilight of Peking market.
The merchant watched the prince and his entourage disappear into the crowd, his eyes brimming with unshed tears. He turned around and laid the unopened silk bag of silver onto his table, his hand absentmindedly tracing around the dust where the armor had laid.
Glimpses of memories sped by in the old man’s brain; the soft woosh of a bamboo stick slicing through the air, the flash of a bright white smile against coal-black skin, the dripping of thick, coagulated blood staining the ground crimson as a wail of agony resounded loudly.
Goodbye, my friend. May your deeds finally receive the recognition you deserve.
