TAIKO: AN EPIC NOVEL OF WAR AND GLORY IN FEUDAL JAPAN

by Eiji Yoshikawa

  The best lodgings in the town were set aside for him, and Akechi Mitsuhide was given responsibility for his reception. In addition, Nobunaga had ordered his son Nobutada, who was about to leave for the western provinces, to help with the preparations for an extravagant three-day banquet.

  Some wondered aloud why Nobunaga was giving such a lavish welcome to Ieyasu, who was eight years his junior and the lord of a province that until recently had been small and weak. Others countered that there was nothing strange about it at all. The alliance between the Oda and the Tokugawa had endured for more than twenty years without suspicion, broken agreements, or fighting, which was a miracle in those days of berayals and feudal power struggles.

  A third group were of the opinion that the reason for the event was not something as trivial as repaying Ieyasu for his hospitality. They argued that in the future the lord of the Oda was going to accomplish great things. The west was a springboard to Japan's southernmost island of Kyushu, and from there to the rich lands of the Southern Seas. If Nobunaga was to succeed in their conquest, he would have to entrust the north of Japan to an ally he could trust.

  For some time now, Nobunaga had planned to go to the western provinces himself to establish his own rule, just as he had done in Kai. Even now he was in the middle of busy preparations to leave for the front. Nevertheless, he put aside that important work to welcome Ieyasu.

  Quite naturally, Ieyasu was given the best of what Azuchi could provide in terms of lodgings, furniture, and utensils, sake and food. But what Nobunaga wanted to give Ieyasu most of all were things that could be found in the humble tenements of the people and around the hearths of country folk—his friendship and trust.

  It was these two things that had ensured the survival of their alliance. And, for his part, Ieyasu had proved himself a reliable ally time and time again. Ieyasu knew very well that his own interests were strongly tied to those of Nobunaga, despite the latter's occasional selfishness and willfulness. So even if he had drunk from a very bitter cup at times, he supported Nobunaga and had sworn to follow him to the very end.

  If a disinterested third party were to look at the twenty-year alliance between the two men and to judge who had gained and who had lost, he would most likely have to say that both men had benefited. Without Ieyasu's friendship when he was young and beginning to set the direction of his life, Nobunaga would not have been in Azuchi. And if Ieyasu had never received Nobunaga's assistance, the weak and small province of Mikawa very likely would not have been able to withstand the pressures from its neighbors.

  Aside from having bonds of friendship and self-interest, the two men had characters that were clearly complementary. Nobunaga had ambitions—and the will to realize them—the likes of which a prudent man like Ieyasu could not even imagine. Ieyasu, Nobunaga was the first to admit, had virtues that he himself lacked: patience, modesty, and frugality. Nor did Ieyasu seem to be ambitious for himself. He looked after the interests of his own province but never gave his ally cause for concern. He always stood his ground against their common enemies, a silent fortress at Nobunaga's rear.

  In other words, Mikawa was an ideal ally, and Ieyasu a reliable friend. In looking back over the hardships and dangers they had faced over the past twenty years, Nobunaga was moved to call Ieyasu his "good old comrade," and praised him as the man who had done the most to make Azuchi a reality.

  During the feast, Ieyasu expressed his heartfelt gratitude for Nobunaga's treatment, but periodically he felt that someone was missing, and finally he asked Nobunaga, "Wasn't Lord Mitsuhide in charge of the banquet? What's happened to him? I haven't seen him at all today, and I didn't see him at the Noh performance yesterday."

  "Ah, Mitsuhide," Nobunaga answered. "He returned to Sakamoto Castle. He had to leave so quickly that he had no time to pay his respects." Nobunaga's answer was delivered in a voice that was refreshing and clear, and he showed no particular emotion as he spoke.

  But Ieyasu was a little concerned. There were disturbing rumors spreading in the town. Nobunaga's brief and untroubled answer, however, seemed to belie the rumors, and Ieyasu let the matter drop.

  Nevertheless, that night Ieyasu returned to his lodgings and listened to the stories that his retainers had heard about Mitsuhide's departure. And he could see that the situation was complicated enough not to be ignored. Listening to the different versions of the story, he pieced together what seemed to be the reason behind Mitsuhide's sudden departure.

  It had happened on the day of Ieyasu's arrival. Without previous notice, Nobunaga had made an official inspection of the kitchens. It was the rainy season; Azuchi was hot and muggy. The smell of raw fish and preserved vegetables offended the senses. Not only that, but the foodstuffs that had been collected in great quantities from Sakai and Kyoto had been unpacked and piled up in terrible disarray. Flies swarmed over the food and on Nobunaga's face.

  "This place stinks!" he growled angrily. Then, as he walked into the preparation room he continued, speaking to no one in particular, "What is this? All this dirt! All this waste! Are you going to cook for our honored guest in this stinking place? Are you going to serve him rotten fish? Throw all this stuff away!"

  Nobunaga's anger was completely unexpected, and the kitchen officials flung themselves at his feet. It was a pitiful scene. Mitsuhide had done his best to purchase the finest ingredients and to have exquisite dishes prepared, going almost without sleep for several days, supervising his retainers and the kitchen workers. Now he could hardly believe his ears. He ran out in surprise and prostrated himself before his lord, explaining that the of­fensive smell was most certainly not caused by rotten fish.

  "Don't give me any excuses!" Nobunaga interrupted. "Throw everything away! Get something else for tonight's banquet!"

  Turning a deaf ear, Nobunaga walked away.

  Mitsuhide sat silently for a while, almost as though he had lost the power to move his legs. At that point a messenger arrived and handed him a letter ordering him to collect his forces and leave immediately for the western provinces.

  The Akechi retainers carried the many delicacies they had prepared for Ieyasu through the back gate and dumped them into the moat, exactly as they might have thrown out trash or a dead dog or cat. Silently, suppressing their tears, they poured their feelings into the black waters.

  At night the frogs croaked loudly outside Mitsuhide's lodgings. What are you brooding over? the frogs seemed to ask. Were they crying in sympathy for him, or laughing at his stupidity? It depended on how one listened to them.

  Mitsuhide had ordered that no one be let in, and now he sat alone in a large, empty room.

  Though it was only the beginning of summer, a cooling, delicate breeze blew silently into the gloom. Mitsuhide was terribly pale. It seemed that the hair of his sidelocks stood straight up each time the candle flickered. His anguish could be seen in the disarray of his hair and in the dreadful color of his face.

  Finally he slowly raised what Nobunaga had dubbed his "kumquat head" and looked out into the darkened garden. In the distance he saw a great number of lamps shining between the trees. It was the first night of the banquet in the castle.

  Should I go like this, just as I was ordered? Mitsuhide asked himself. Or would it be better to go and pay my respects at the castle once before leaving? Mitsuhide had always been confused by such things. His ordinarily clear head was so tired at that point that he had to think hard in order not to make a mistake.

  Having made this question into such a great issue, no matter how he long he considered the matter, he was at a complete loss about what to do. Most of the pain of confronting his difficulties welled up in an unconscious sigh of grief and he wondered: Are there other men in this world so difficult to understand? he wondered. What can a person do to suit my lord's temperament? He's so hard to please.

  If he had been able to put aside the absolute nature of the lord-and-retainer relationship and speak honestly, he would have criticized Nobunaga. Mitsuhide had been endowed with
critical faculties far beyond the common man's, and it was only because Nobunaga was his lord that he was cautious and, in fact, afraid of his own criticism.

  "Tsumaki! Tsumaki!" Mitsuhide called, suddenly looking at the sliding doors on either side of him. "Dengo? Dengo, are you there?"

  But the man who finally opened the door and bowed in front of him was neither Dengo nor Tsumaki. It was one of his personal attendants, Yomoda Masataka.

  "Both men are busy with the disposal of the material we were going to use for the banquet and with the sudden preparations for our departure."

  "Come with me to the castle."

  "The castle? You're going to the castle?"

  "I think it's proper to pay my respects to Lord Nobunaga once before we depart. Make the preparations."

  Mitsuhide quickly got up to dress himself. He seemed to be spurring himself on before his resolution faded.

  Masataka looked flustered. "This evening when I asked what you wanted to do, I thought you might want to go up to the castle, for just that reason. But we had no time, with His Lordship's sudden command. And you said then that we would leave without paying our respects to either Lord Nobunaga or Lord Ieyasu. Now, all the attendants and servants are engaged in cleaning up. May I ask you to wait for a little while?"

  "No, no. I don't need many attendants. You'll be enough. Bring my horse."

  Mitsuhide went out toward the entrance. There was not one retainer in the rooms he passed on his way. Only two or three pages followed behind him. But once he stepped outside, he could see small groups of retainers with their heads together, talking in the shadows of the trees and in the stables. Quite naturally, all the Akechi retainers were concerned about suddenly being dismissed as officials of the banquet and being ordered on the very same day to set out for the west.

  Back and forth they expressed their resentment, their eyes filled with tears of grief. Their antagonism and anger toward Nobunaga, which had been intensifying since the Kai campaign, like oil poured on firewood, had been ignited by this latest incident.

  At the camp in Suwa during the Kai campaign, Mitsuhide had already met with an unbearable public humiliation, an event that had not been hidden from his retainers. Why had Nobunaga been tormenting their master so much recently?

  But today's shock was by far the worst, because the incident would be known to all the guests: Lord Ieyasu and his retainers, the nobility from Kyoto, and Mitsuhide's fellow Oda generals. To have suffered an insult here was the same as having one's shame exposed to the entire nation.

  Such public humiliation was unbearable to anyone born a samurai.

  "Your horse, my lord," Masataka said.

  The retainers had still not noticed the attendant leading Mitsuhide's horse. Distracted by the events of the day, they still stood in small groups, discussing the matter.

  Just as Mitsuhide was about to leave, someone dismounted in front of the gate. It was a messenger from Nobunaga.

  "Lord Mitsuhide, are you leaving?" the man inquired.

  "Not yet. I thought I would go to the castle once more, pay my respects to His Lord­ship and Lord Ieyasu, and leave."

  "Lord Nobunaga was worried that you might consider doing that, and sent me here so that you wouldn't have to go to the castle in the middle of your haste to depart."

  "What? Yet another message?" Mitsuhide said. He immediately went back inside, sat down, and listened respectfully to his lord's wishes.

  The order for you to be dismissed from today's function and take your leave still stands as before, but there are further instructions concerning your departure as the vanguard to the western provinces. The Akechi forces are to march from Tajima into Inaba. You may enter Mori Terumoto's provinces at will. Do not be careless, and do not allow time to pass. You should return to Tamba at once, prepare your troops, and protect Hideyoshi's flank along the Sanin Road. I myself will soon head west­ward as a rear guard. Do not waste time and possibly cause us to miss this strategic opportunity.

  Mitsuhide prostrated himself and responded that he would follow the instructions to the letter. Then, perhaps feeling that he had shown too much servility, he sat up, looked directly at the messenger, and said, "Please speak to His Lordship as you see fit."

  Mitsuhide walked to the entrance to see the man off. With each step, his senses were set on edge by the wind that wafted through the almost empty building.

  Until a few years ago, when I was given leave to return home, he always wanted me to see him once before I left, even if it was the middle of the night. How many times had

  Nobunaga said, Come by for a bowl of tea, or If you're leaving in the morning, come by before dawn. Why has he come to despise me like this? He's even sent a messenger so he won't have to see me in person.

  Don't even think. Don't even consider it. The more he made an effort not to, the more he grumbled and the more his heart was flooded by a silent monologue. The words were like bubbles rising up through fetid water.

  "Does anyone see these flowers? They're useless too!"

  Mitsuhide reached out for the large vase in the alcove and shook the flowers that had been beautifully arranged. As he carried the vase to the veranda, the water spilled noisily onto the floor. "Let's get out of here! It's time to leave! Are you ready?" he shouted to his retainers. Mitsuhide raised the vase over his head, aimed at a wide stepping stone, and threw it with all his might. It exploded amid a spray of water with a comforting sound, and water flew back onto Mitsuhide's face and chest. Mitsuhide turned his soaked face up ward the empty sky and laughed out loud. He laughed completely alone.

  It was late at night, and as the fog settled in, the air became hot and humid. His retainers had finished packing and stood in ranks in front of the gate. The horses neighed under the low rain clouds in the sky.

  "Has rain gear been prepared?" a retainer asked, looking inside the gate again.

  "There's not a bit of starlight tonight, and if it starts to rain, the roads are going to become difficult. We'd better prepare a few extra torches," another yelled.

  Every samurai's face was as gloomy as the night sky. Eyes were filled with anger, tears, bitterness, or sullen discontent. Very soon, Mitsuhide's voice could be heard as he rode away from the entrance with a group of mounted men.

  "Sakamoto is almost within view," he said. "We should arrive there soon, even if it does rain."

  Hearing the unusually cheerful voice of their lord, his retainers felt surprise more than anything else.

  Earlier that evening, Mitsuhide had complained of a slight fever and had taken medicine, and now his attendants were anxious about the possibility of rain. He had responded to their concern in a voice purposefully loud enough for the men standing both inside and outside the gate to hear.

  When Mitsuhide was announced, fire was passed from torch to torch until the number of lights seemed almost to multiply infinitely. Then, with flames held aloft, the retainers walked out one after another, following the vanguard.

  After they had traveled about half a league, rain began to fall, the drops splashing the flames of the torches.

  "It seems the guests in the castle still haven't gone to bed. Perhaps they're going to stay up all night."

  Mitsuhide did not notice the rain. As he turned in his saddle and looked back toward the lake, the huge donjon of Azuchi Castle seemed to soar into a sky that was as black as ink. He imagined that the golden dolphins that adorned the roof sparkled brighter on this rainy night, glaring out into the darkness. Reflected in the lake, the sea of lights in the many-storied building seemed to shiver with cold.

  "My lord, my lord! You shouldn't catch cold!" Fujita Dengo said with concern as he drew his horse up to Mitsuhide's and put a straw raincoat across his shoulders.

  That morning the shore of Lake Biwa was once again lost in the mist, perhaps be­cause the sky had not yet settled from the early summer rains. With the lapping waves and the mist that was indistinguishable from rain, the world appeared to be pure white.

  Th
e road was extraordinarily muddy, and the horses were spattered all the way up to their ears. Silently defying the previous night's rain and the condition of the road, the en­tire army tramped desolately toward Sakamoto. To the right was the lakeshore, to the left, Mount Hiei. As the wind blew down the mountain, it. stiffened the straw raincoats the men were wearing and made them look like bristling hedgehogs.

  "Ah, look over there, my lord. Lord Mitsuharu has come to greet you," Masataka said to Mitsuhide.

  The castle on the lakeshore—Sakamoto Castle—was directly ahead. Mitsuhide nod­ded slightly, as though he had already noticed. Although Sakamoto was almost close enough to Azuchi for him to be able to turn around and see it, Mitsuhide looked as if he had walked a thousand leagues. As he stood in front of the castle commanded by his cousin, Akechi Mitsuharu, he felt exactly as though he had escaped from the tiger's den.

  His attendants, however, were far more worried about Mitsuhide's periodic cough­ing than they were about what might have been on his mind, and they expressed their concern.

  "You've been traveling all night in the rain with this cold, and you must be exhausted. Once you've gone inside the castle, you should waste no time in getting yourself warm and going to bed."

  "Yes, I probably should."

  Mitsuhide was truly a gentle lord. He listened intently to his retainers' advice and understood their anxiety. When they arrived at the pine grove in front of the gate, Dengo took the reins of Mitsuhide's horse and stood next to the saddle, ready to help his master dismount.

  On the bridge across the moat, a line of Mitsuharu's retainers had drawn up. One of the retainers opened an umbrella and offered it deferentially. Masataka took the umbrella and held it over Mitsuhide's head.

  Mitsuhide walked across the bridge. Looking down through the railing, he could see white water birds swimming around the pilings like scattered flowers over the blue-green water.