Location: O-furo (Bathhouse), Kiyosu Castle.
Current Date/Time: Late Afternoon. Late Summer, 1559.
Soma stepped off the wet river stones and onto the dry ground bordering the inner keep. The thick clay on his shins and calves was already drying in the late afternoon heat, tightening against his skin as the moisture evaporated.
He headed toward the main living quarters. The damp silk of his work trousers felt heavy and dragged against his boots. The expensive fabric he’d been given that morning was completely ruined, caked in cedar sawdust, sweat, and gray dirt from the trenches. The hems carried pounds of wet mud.
Toichi walked right at his left flank, keeping a steady pace right beside him instead of leading or trailing behind.
When they stepped onto the polished cedar walkways of the inner keep, two low-ranking guards carrying bamboo buckets stopped and bowed flat against the floorboards. Toichi ignored them, keeping his hand near his sword hilt to show anyone watching that the mud-covered engineer was under direct protection.
Soma kept his pace steady, breathing slowly to manage the dull ache in his bad shoulder. Moving from the open swamp air of the worksite into the timber hallways changed the temperature, and the drying clay on his trousers began to flake off, dropping small gray chunks onto the clean wood with every step.
Toichi stopped at the end of the long corridor, where a pair of heavy cedar doors blocked the hallway.
“The Lord of Owari commands the mud be washed from your skin immediately, Builder,” Toichi said, his rough voice echoing off the high ceiling panels.
Soma stopped, checking his arms. “The mud is setting like concrete.”
Toichi paused, his hand still hovering near the heavy iron door handle. “Con-crete?” he repeated, the modern word sounding clumsy and heavy on his tongue. “What stone is that, Builder? Is it a material the Nanban traders bring from across the sea?”
“Never mind,” Soma muttered, rubbing a dry patch on his forearm. “Just an old word for mortar. It means it’s turning into a rock.”
“You need to be ready for the evening,” Toichi said, reaching out to grip the forged iron handle bolted to the door. “The bathhouse is entirely cleared out. No other retainers are allowed inside while you're cleaning up.”
Toichi braced his boots against the floorboards and hauled the handle back. The heavy door slid along its greased tracks with a deep rumble that vibrated through the planks.
A thick cloud of steam rolled out into the cooler hallway, hitting Soma with a wave of damp heat. The room smelled strongly of wet cypress, boiling well water, and the sharp tang of wood ash from the furnace under the floor. Condensation immediately formed on his face and eyelashes.
Soma stepped over the wooden sill onto the wet slatted floor of the anteroom. Toichi followed him inside, pulling the heavy door shut behind them to trap the heat in the small space.
In the center of the wet room sat a low pine bench with a wooden tray resting on it. Several items were laid out on the dry wood.
Toichi stepped up to the bench, pointing at a long, folded strip of plain cloth. “The servants set out the supplies, Builder. This is the tenugui. Use it to scrub the worst of the mud off your skin. You'll carry it with you when you move to the soaking tub.”
Soma checked the rough weave of the cloth. The stiff fibers felt scratchy against his bruised shoulder. “Water and cloth aren't going to break this swamp mud.”
Toichi shifted his hand to three small hinoki wood bowls resting next to the linen. “We don't use harsh lye soap here; it burns the skin and leaves it dry. You'll use these scrubs instead. The first bowl is nuka, fine rice bran. The second is a thick paste made from crushed adzuki beans. The third is dried seaweed powder.”
Soma leaned over to look at the textures. The coarse grit of the beans and rice bran would act as a heavy abrasive, grinding the tree sap and embedded dirt away without destroying his skin.
Toichi pointed out a small ceramic flask and a bundle of dried leaves at the edge of the tray. “Pure camellia oil to clear the sawdust out of your hair. And these herbs—dried mugwort and crushed ginger root. Rub them into any open scrapes from the trenches to keep the ditch water from festering.”
“Thanks for the walkthrough, Toichi. You can dismiss the attendants now. I'll wash myself.”
Toichi froze, his scarred brow furrowing. He looked across the open space of the anteroom into the thick steam rolling off the main tub, then looked back at Soma. “Honored Guest, the attendants are waiting to clean your back. It isn't proper for a valued guest of the Lord to scrub his own dirt like a common foot soldier. They have been commanded to clean you thoroughly.”
“Dismiss them,” Soma said, turning his head to look right at the senior retainer. He didn't raise his voice. “Dismiss them,” Soma said, turning his head to look right at the senior retainer. He didn't raise his voice. “I need the room cleared, Toichi. I’m done dealing with people for the day. I want the space to myself. Let them wait outside.”
Toichi stared at him, his jaw muscles flexing under the skin. He gave a sharp bow at the waist. “As you command, Honored Guest. You have the room to yourself.”
The old retainer backed out of the anteroom, pulling the heavy cedar doors shut behind him. The iron latch dropped into place with a clean click.
Soma stood alone in the rolling steam, the hiss of the boiling water echoing off the roof timber. He raised his sore hands and grabbed the thick knot of the indigo sash at his waist. The fabric was stiff with trench mud. He dug his thumbs into the center of the knot, forcing the loops apart.
The heavy indigo silk gave way, and the robe hit the wet floorboards with a wet slap.
Soma pulled his arms free from the sleeves. The hot, humid air hit his bare chest, and the deep bruise on his right shoulder throbbed immediately. He rotated the joint, the sore muscle pulling hard. He pushed his thumbs into the waistband of the stiff, ruined hakama trousers, shoving them down his legs and stepping out of the pile of filthy silk.
He stood wearing nothing but the unbleached cotton fundoshi.
The coarse cotton had soaked up his sweat and the muddy water from the ditch line. As the heat of the bathhouse hit the damp fabric, the cotton shrank, digging the rough seams straight into his hip bones. Soma hooked his fingers under the thick strap at his right hip and pulled outward. The wet knot didn't budge. He dug his fingernails into the wet fabric, anchored his bare feet against the slippery cedar floorboards, and forced the loops apart with a hard yank.
“This is a terrible design,” Soma muttered, his fingers slipping against the wet, swollen fibers. “The cloth shrinks the second it gets wet. It completely locks the loop.” He gave the knot a hard wrench, his knuckles straining. “Come on.”
The knot finally gave. The heavy, damp fabric fell away from his waist and dropped between his feet.
A sharp sting hit his hips and inner thighs. The rough, wet cotton had rubbed his skin raw with every step he took through the deep Owari mud. He locked his jaw, breathing out hard through his nose until the burning sensation subsided.
He stepped carefully away from the pile of dirty clothes.
A row of low wooden washing stools sat along the far wall of the room, right in front of a deep trough of steaming water. Soma walked to the center stool and sat down on the hinoki wood, his tired legs shaking a bit as they finally let go of the day's tension.
He reached down and picked up the small wooden bucket by his feet. Dunking it into the steaming trough, he lifted the heavy water with his left arm to spare his bruised right side and poured the near-boiling water straight over his head.
The hot water scalded his scalp, neck, and back. The initial shock cleared away the loose gray mud and sweat, sending a dark, muddy stream down into the floor drains. The stubborn muck and clay remained glued to his skin.
Soma dragged the tray closer. He dipped his hand into the bowl of crushed adzuki bean paste, scooping up a thick handful of the gritty sludge, and smeared it across his chest.
He rubbed the paste in, feeling the rough texture. “This works,” he muttered. It acted like a heavy pumice soap, grinding away the sticky pine sap and worksite grime without the risk of a chemical burn from harsh lye soap. He scrubbed in firm circles until the friction turned his skin a bright, clean pink.
He worked his way down his left arm, rubbing the grit into his elbow crease and across his knuckles, before scooping more for his right side. He went easier around his right shoulder, applying just enough pressure to clear the dirt without aggravating the deep bruise.
He filled the bucket again and rinsed his shoulders, watching the dirty paste wash down the drain.
Soma picked up the long linen tenugui, soaked it in the trough, and wrung it out. He dumped the remaining bean paste onto the center of the cloth, grabbed one end, and threw it over his shoulder. Reaching behind his back with his left hand, he caught the loose end and pulled it taut.
He worked his arms back and forth in a steady, sawing motion. The rough linen and the beans scoured the hard-to-reach skin of his upper back. He dragged the cloth down his spine, leaning forward to get more leverage against his lower back, then dropped the linen and rinsed himself clean with a final bucket of fresh water.
He reached for the bowl of nuka. Scooping up the fine rice bran, he rubbed it into his shins. The grit scoured the hardened clay right out of his leg hair. He worked the abrasive down to his ankles, over his heels, and scraped the black earth out from under his toenails.
When he reached his hips, he dropped the abrasives. Cupping his hands, he splashed hot water from the trough directly onto his chafed skin. He washed the sweat away gently, making sure not to add any more friction to the raw flesh.
He picked up the small ceramic flask and poured a puddle of clear camellia oil into his palm. The floral smell cut through the steam. He pressed both hands into his hair, working the thick oil deep into his scalp to loosen the sawdust and clay trapped at the roots. Three successive buckets of hot water over his head flushed the oil and debris down the drain.
Opening the medicinal kit, he took a pinch of the dried mugwort and crushed ginger root. He found a jagged splinter scrape on his left forearm and pressed the herbs straight into the cut.
Soma flinched, grinding his teeth as the raw ginger burned. "Potent," he exhaled, holding his arm still. "Fast heat induction. Good enough for an antibacterial."
The sharp sting flared and faded. The dirt was finally gone.
Soma stood up from the stool. He grabbed the damp tenugui, wrung it out, and draped the linen over his front to cover himself.
He left the washing station and stepped through the wooden archway into the main bathing chamber.
The primary O-furo bathtub sat in the center of the room. The massive square basin was built entirely out of tightly joined cypress wood. Soma looked at the corners through the mist. There were no iron nails, no metal brackets, and no sealant. The thick planks were locked together using precise wooden dowels and overlapping joints. The moisture had swollen the wood, driving the seams together into a perfectly watertight vessel. A bamboo pipe fed a silent stream of boiling water into the far corner to hold the level.
Soma walked to the edge and set his folded towel on the dry wooden lip.
Gripping the rim, he stepped his right foot into the water.
The heat was absolute. The temperature sat right on the edge of scalding, biting hard into his freshly scrubbed skin. He didn’t pull back. He shifted his weight, brought his left leg over the rim, and stepped completely into the basin.
He bent his knees and sank. The water displaced over the wooden rim, spilling out across the slatted floorboards.
He dropped down until the waterline hit his collarbones and pressed his back flat against the smooth cypress wall. The intense heat soaked straight into his chest, penetrating the deep bruise in his right shoulder and the exhausted muscles in his legs.
Soma let out a long, heavy breath, watching the steam rise toward the rafters.
“Finally,” he muttered to the empty room, rolling his bad shoulder slightly under the water. “No timber counts, no carpenters, no armor clanking in the yard. Just me alone. If I stayed in that mud any longer, my legs would have locked up permanently.”
He sank a fraction of an inch deeper, letting the boiling water lap right against his chin as the deep ache in his joints finally began to ease.
Soma tipped his head back against the rim and closed his eyes, letting the hot water ripple against his jaw.