Yasuke: In Search of the African Samurai

by Thomas Lockley

  On one side of the arena, Nobunaga had erected a viewing pavilion directly outside the east gate of the imperial residence. Although a temporary structure of simple cypress wood, it was painted in gold and silver leaf. Here on a gilt tatami mat sat the sixty-three-year-old, white-haired dairi, Ōgimachi, the 106th Emperor of Japan and his kuge nobles. Befitting their exalted positions, and following etiquette and court protocol, none appeared pleased nor displeased, excited nor bored. As they solemnly processed to their gilded pavilion, they merely stared straight ahead, as if they’d seen events like this every day of their lives. With them sat principals of the old shogunate regime, who, like the court nobles, still retained a veneer of respectability and influence, but were the powerless puppets of Nobunaga.

  The more common nobles, the daimyō, and their senior vassals, rulers of taxable provinces and wielders of military might, were accommodated in wooden stands to the right and left of the nobility, symbolically fulfilling their role of “protecting” the emperor.

  The guests of honor, the nobles and courtiers in the pavilions and stands, were all in formal dress. The sweet smell of perfumed sokutai robes, preserved from ancient times especially for such occasions—held once a century, if ever—pervaded the air. The court costumes were multilayered flowing waterfalls of silk, extremely limiting to movement and very heavy. The outer garments, osode, were red, black, gold and deep blue, and embroidered with mythical creatures from a dozen different ancient myths. Kirin, Shishi and long wingless Chinese dragons. Beneath these robes lay visible undergarments of shimmering pure white silk, white due to the diet of white mulberry leaves purposely fed to the silkworms. The whole was topped off with the kammuri cap of black-lacquered silk with a scorpion tail–like peak. Each courtier seemed more gorgeously dressed than the next, all intent on outdoing one another, perhaps a sign they were more excited about the day than their passive expressions revealed.

  Several hours after sunrise, the first horses and their riders entered the showground in tight procession.

  Leading their carefully chosen cavalry of senior retainers, Nobunaga’s chief vassals paraded in, foremost among them Niwa Nagahide, an old and trusted retainer who had the honor of holding a fief and castle near Azuchi. Even their horses were dressed in Oda clan finery, leather and lacquer saddles and exquisitely embroidered scarlet-and-purple bridles and reins. Next came several lines of warrior monks of the Shingi Shingon sect, their presence a symbol of Nobunaga’s dominance over the previously formidable militant Buddhist schools. After these two groups entered the man who’d stage-managed the whole day: Akechi rode tall and proud, his plump face impassive, astride his chestnut-colored mount. Beside him rode his mounted contingent and their allies.

  Following Akechi, came Nobunaga’s three principle sons and other close relatives—including his nephew, Tsuda, the man who’d presented Yasuke a small fortune only days earlier. Nobutada, the eldest and acknowledged Oda clan heir, led eighty horsemen. Nobukatsu, his younger brother, and the others each led ten.

  Behind them, among fifty other Nobunaga retainers, rode Yasuke.

  A last-day addition, the brief order dispatched through an orderly the previous evening had informed him of his place and tasks. There’d been no time for Yasuke to be part of the main equestrian events. His role was to simply ride as part of the procession, as one of Nobunaga’s retainers, and then fall out with other nonperformers to watch the later proceedings. They’d mounted him onto a beautiful grey steed. Like Nobunaga’s other direct attendants, he’d been dressed in starched sleeveless white robes layered over undergarments of red silk, and trousers of black leather. The night before, a pair of anxious seamstresses had feverishly stitched together three outfits into something that might fit the giant man.

  Surely, thousands recognized Yasuke from the day of the riot or from the rumors since. This wonder from the south! And now all of Japan saw who this man served: Lord Nobunaga.

  A mild hush seemed to descend on the crowd as he entered the arena, but the buzz of chatter and cheers soon picked up again, plenty more to talk about this day, the extreme novelty just five days earlier was now only a footnote to this glorious parade.

  Behind Yasuke trotted Nobunaga’s other retainers, another hundred mounted archers, and the hegemon’s highest-ranking clerics, men who operated as Nobunaga’s administrative officials. Armed contingents followed—another eighty horsemen, and one hundred mounted archers, their bows on the string, ready for action.

  As the horsemen completed their first ceremonial circuit of the riding ground, they fell into formation in the corner opposite the imperial party’s gilt pavilion. The precision throughout was impeccable, and Yasuke had never before seen military discipline like it. Even the horses stood at attention. Next came four men bearing an empty chair garnished in gold and made of velvet. It was the same throne-like seat of state gifted by Valignano to Nobunaga at his audience three days before. Another visible sign of the homage being borne to Nobunaga from distant realms. Even the European barbarians put him on a throne.

  Then Nobunaga himself finally entered, mounted on his war horse, Daikoku. Named for the god of great blackness. Daikoku personified how Nobunaga desired others to perceive him: a destroyer of evil, a transformer, a nation-builder and a person in whom renewal was personified. Yes, today’s event was held “in the emperor’s honor,” but everyone, including the emperor, understood who the event was truly honoring. Oda Nobunaga rode completely alone, in glorious isolation. The other thousand riders and soldiers surrendered the main stage to him. The attendants bearing his gear rode a good distance behind him, symbolically there to serve, but not to take anything away from the day’s main focus. Their lord.

  Nobunaga’s garments displayed symbols of his reign, signifying his successful establishment, for most Japanese, of peace and prosperity over a war-torn country. His under-robe was of plum-colored silk. Above it, a second layer of vintage silk vermillion rested, cuffs ornamented with twisted gold thread. His sleeveless robe was made of crimson damask, sporting the stylized crest of a paulownia flower and trimmings of silk and corded gold thread. Even the saddlecloth of his horse was made of the finest Chinese fabric, as were the mudguards with cloud motifs elaborated in crimson. His trousers were also crimson damask, his shoes of Chinese brocade and his gloves of untanned chamois leather. On his head, Nobunaga wore a cap symbolizing the power of a demon. Thrust into his belt were a pair of swords sheathed in gold-encrusted scabbards. And, over it all, he wore court robes made from cloth of gold. The fabric was said to have originally been made for a Chinese emperor, the Lord of heaven himself. Before war had consumed the islands and cut the trade routes, it had somehow made its way to Japan and had miraculously been kept safe from flame and damp until the realm was at peace again and it could be used for a suitably glorious occasion. Today was just such an occasion, the culmination of all history, and all present knew they were within the aura of a divine, heavenly being. Seven hundred mounted warriors had now trotted into the riding ground in perfect lines, all clad in the finest robes in Japan. But, none could match Nobunaga. And none dared.

  Valignano, in the audience, and well familiar with both European and Indian pomp and pageantry, later remarked that never in all his days had he seen “such a resplendent and magnificent affair, on account of the great quantity of gold and silks with which [the riders] were adorned.” With that comment, Nobunaga’s wish for international renown was officially realized. Accounts of his grandeur—thanks to events like this and the Jesuits’ presence at them—soon reached India, Africa, Europe and even the New World.

  And the actual horsemanship exhibit had not even started yet. The parade was only the opening ceremony. After the last of the procession passed through the impromptu arena, things really got interesting. Yasuke had no role in the actual riding performances. Instead, one of Akechi’s stewards guided his borrowed horse to a groom, Yasuke dismounted and was led to a ringside posit
ion where he knelt, his new norm, on the tatami in the stands.

  For the next six hours, cavalry galloped or trotted back into the showground, performed acrobatics on horseback, swapped rides midgallop and performed horseback archery, shooting from all angles at increasingly distant targets at ever mounting breakneck speeds.

  Nobunaga himself, and his sons, dominated the show.

  The top Oda men excelled at every turn; they performed synchronized movements and mounted tricks—changing their rides in midgallop, standing on their saddles, even jumping as the horse raced beneath them—for the crowds of Kyoto citizens and visitors from the countryside. Nobunaga also swapped horses midgallop with his pages, in a continuous whirlwind carousel, which brought them eventually back to their original mounts.

  The crowd mostly watched in awed silence, breaking into earth-shattering cheers only when each performance finished, before once more descending into rapt attention as a new act began. Throughout, Akechi’s stewards buzzed about, dealing with any problems, but there were few. Akechi himself had seen to it that no possible issue had been left to the vicissitudes of fate; everything had been anticipated, every detail planned.

  Palpable joy filled the arena. The enormous multitude felt unconquerable, chosen, truly alive. And, why shouldn’t they? Their part of the realm was at peace for the first time in more than one hundred years. The common people now prospered and kept their hearths lit and bellies full. They were grateful to be alive in such a blessed age.

  Finally, Nobunaga led the whole body of mounted soldiers in a full stomach-churning gallop past the imperial pavilion for one last royal inspection.

  A week later, at imperial request, the entire show was repeated.

  Chapter Twelve

  Treasures Old and New

  Days after the second performance, Nobunaga departed Kyoto to return to his own clan capital of Azuchi. Yasuke went with him.

  It was early May, a time of misty mornings and new colors. Vivid pink and purple flowers filled the world underfoot and from on high, the soft violet wisteria tumbled over branches like flowing water. They left the Honnō-ji Temple, heading east, trotting through the city streets before crossing the shallow depths of the Kamo River. Early morning fishermen and herons alike, standing in the sparkling waters waiting for the silver flashes of small sweet fish, watched them pass. A scene of tranquility and peace on the edge of the busy metropolis.

  At Nobunaga’s request, Yasuke rode at his side. It felt strange to be riding alongside his new lord, as he’d almost always walked in attendance behind Valignano. Nobunaga was clothed for the ride, simple dark robes and loose hakama trousers. Yasuke had no new outfit for this jaunt, so donned his pre-Nobunaga garb. The miles slipped by easily as the warlord explained various landmarks, newly gifted lands, and then recounted the key moments of his recent horseback spectacle. Yasuke—having learned from Valignano—praised the event with the perfect balance of exuberance and reverence. That he did so in more-than-passable Japanese only delighted Nobunaga the more.

  Behind them rode Nobunaga’s pages. A group of thirty or so boisterous well-born samurai, still teenagers, who rode fast and flashy—joking bawdily with the warlord and each other in this informal setting, pulling simple pranks and competing in impromptu races. Yasuke could see these young men clearly kept Nobunaga feeling youthful, transmitting their vitality and levity to him. That they’d also, without a moment’s thought, fight to the death to defend their lord and protector, was also a given. These youths had been handpicked from the sons of Nobunaga’s chief retainers and allies. They were the best in his growing kingdom. Alongside his own sons, they would be the future of his dynasty, a future shaped under Nobunaga’s tutelage and fond eye. With each mile crossed, Yasuke could only wonder what his role might be in that same future.

  By midday, they’d traversed the heavily forested passes through the mountains which flanked Kyoto. On the other side waited Lake Biwa—an enormous body of water more than two hundred fifty square miles, almost an inland sea, that nearly split the main Japanese island of Honshu in two. As they traced the lake’s rightward shore, along a well-trodden dirt road, the huge Hira Mountains loomed far away on the other side of the wide expanse of water. To their immediate right ran a wide plain stippled with freshly planted green rice shoots just peeping from the muddy brown water. On this side too, the Ibuki Mountains rose again in the distance where a white ribbon of snow gleamed like a moving stream within the highest woods. Nobunaga explained to Yasuke that his original capital, Gifu—which he’d recently gifted to his first-born son Nobutada now that he had his own new capital in Azuchi—lay just beyond those grand mountains.

  The rivers they crossed at fordable points were shallow in this dry season, but would prove swollen and nearly impassable in the snow-melt months ahead, when the water poured down from the mountains. The horses splashed through the cropped scrub before crunching over gravel at the dry edges of the flow, and then waded into the gloriously cool water. The cold flow cleansed the horses’ sweat and splashed refreshingly over the riders’ legs. Then it was back to the dust of the dirt road and the clomp of rice-straw shod hooves. They rode hard, and easily covered the thirty miles in a day.

  The pace was exhilarating, but likely served as a bracing reminder for Yasuke. The last time he’d been on such a fast gallop, some eight years before, the feeling had been quite different.

  * * *

  At the time, Yasuke had been in India with a unit of seven hundred other African mercenaries. They were fighting for the Persian lord Ibrahim Husain Mirza, who controlled a southern district of Gujarat. How much longer Mirza controlled the territory was now the question at hand.

  The Mughal emperor, Akbar, had been campaigning throughout much of northern India for nearly two decades, adding to conquered lands he inherited mostly from his grandfather Babur. Gujarat in northwest India was next on Akbar’s wish list.

  Akbar had just caught Mirza’s troops by surprise at a village called Sarnal on the Mahi River. There, Akbar’s elite force of only two hundred horsemen, handpicked from his main force of seventy-five thousand, led by the emperor personally, had charged across the river at sunset and deployed into the narrow village streets where Mirza’s greater numbers meant little. Taken by surprise, the Persian defenders and their African mercenaries had attempted a counterattack, but when their Persian commander turned and fled, they’d also wisely scattered to the four winds.

  Yasuke and his comrades had joined the headlong retreat into the gathering night, bolting on horseback more than one hundred miles to the city of Surat, a great seaport on the coast. The ride had lasted all the next day, and night too. Gunfire spurred them on their way, but they’d managed to evade their hunters. When, at last, they arrived at the gates of the huge walled city, men and horses alike had collapsed from thirst and fatigue.

  India—as Africa, Japan and Europe—was a region plagued by ongoing wars and internecine fighting. Foremost being the ongoing Mughal conquest and consolidation of northern India. How India’s wars differed from Japan’s was largely due to its geographical position at the center of the world’s maritime, steppe and desert trade routes. This centrality attracted combatants from everywhere: Afghans, Turks, Persians, Africans, Arabs, Mongols and Portuguese all flocked to the Indian subcontinent to make their fortunes in war.

  Even so, the need for soldiers far surpassed the influx of voluntary global mercenaries. As a solution, African boys like Yasuke were forcibly brought to India and trained to become slave soldiers.

  Many free Africans also made the journey, seeking the same opportunities as the Turks, Arabs or Portuguese. But the vast majority were children captured in Africa, as Yasuke had been, and sold to foreign slavers in coastal ports, most often Zeila (now in northern Somalia), or Suakin (in modern-day Sudan). Here, their young lives were traded for salt, Indian cloth or iron bars along with other commodities such as guns. If not immed
iately put to work on dhows or galleys, they were taken on Arab, Ottoman or Indian ships, north toward Egypt, Arabia, Turkey and Europe, or east toward Persia and India.

  During the voyage, slave traders often chose to invest in their slaves, educating or even mutilating them to gain more profit at the next stage of sale. For instance, while some were taught their letters, many more young boys were castrated. Handsome eunuch slaves fetched astronomical prices partly because only 10 percent of the victims survived the cut. By the time the captives reached northern India, almost a fourth of those who’d boarded ships in Africa had perished. On arrival in India, the Africans found themselves in slave markets, where they were again sold and taken farther afield to wherever trade routes and eager customers waited—places like Gujarat, the Gulf of Cambay, the Deccan, Cochin (modern-day Kochi), and to Portuguese Goa.

  First arriving in Gujarat in northern India, Yasuke and the others had been herded into underground cells, with only street-level barred windows for light and air. The conditions were dark, airless, cramped and horrific. (On the ships, they’d been kept above deck and out of chains, doing simple maritime chores.) He was thirteen now; the voyage from Africa had taken almost a year—as the ships he traveled on stopped to trade or take shelter from adverse weather on the way. He’d been stripped, subjected to a full body examination and checked that he’d not been overly damaged by punishments or abuse on the way from Africa. The slavers who inspected Yasuke were themselves of African origin, perhaps having passed through exactly the same slave cells years before. Their appraising eyes summed up the young Yasuke, observed his size and growth potential and purchased him on the spot.