by Steve Bein
Katsushima came running around the corner of the house, sweat on his brow. As he drew near, Daigoro opened his arms wide. “Katsushima, have you heard? She’s with child!”
“You’ve got visitors, Okuma-sama.”
“Don’t sama me. I’m going to be a father!”
“Yes. How nice. You’ve got visitors.”
“Good, good, everything’s good. Show them in. We’ll pass the sake all around.”
“They’re already in your courtyard. Armed.”
Only then did Daigoro notice how stern Katsushima’s face was. His jaw muscles stood out in his cheeks, and a cold light seemed to glow in his eyes. Out of habit his thumb flicked his katana loose in its sheath, drawing it back in only to loosen it once more.
“Armed? Who?”
“Guess.”
Daigoro nodded and picked up his own swords, which had been lying on the veranda while he was playing games. One day of peace, he thought. Is that too much to ask? And to think I’d been planning on swimming later.
As he rounded the corner, Tomo and Katsushima in tow, he saw a horde of dusty, armored men sweating in the hot sun. They looked as though they’d endured many a forced march to come here. Daigoro put them at no less than half a hundred strong, all wearing twin swords and topknots. Every tenth man wore a tall red banner bearing the kiri flower of Toyotomi Hideyoshi. With the sunlight streaming through them, the banners cast a red glow on the faces of the men in their shadows.
The company stood in formation just inside the front gate. It was not lost on Daigoro that he could not leave his own home except by going through them. Nor was it lost on him that there was only one reason why a guest would enter uninvited and armed. The laws of hospitality were clear. Even the most boorish of brutes knew to announce himself at the door if he did not want to be thought an enemy.
“Patience and caution,” Katsushima said quietly. Hideyoshi’s company was still fifty paces offs, but he kept his voice low all the same. “We’re one wrong word away from a bloodbath.”
“I know,” said Daigoro. He took a deep breath and shortened his strides. There was no blood on these men, so either they hadn’t killed his gate guards or there was a second company outside that had done the fighting. Now that he thought on it, he was certain he’d have heard swordplay even if he was wrapped up in Cutting Swallows or rejoicing with Aki. So there had been no fighting. Whatever this was, the situation was not yet so bad that diplomacy was impossible.
Yet.
And he had a baby on the way. It was a fine day to fend off an invasion.
“Commander,” he said, forcing as much cheer into his voice as possible, “to what do we owe the pleasure of your visit?”
The company commander had thick eyebrows and a weak chin. His mouth wore a slight but permanent frown thanks to the chin, and between that and his eyebrows he had a perpetually scowling look. He pulled a roll of paper from a bamboo scroll case tethered to his sword belt, keeping his eyes on Daigoro the whole time. “His Eminence the lord regent Toyotomi no Hideyoshi presents you with an edict, sir.”
Sir, Daigoro thought. That was good. This man held him in some esteem. He wasn’t thinking of Daigoro as a target—or at least not solely as a target. Then again, Daigoro supposed, if these were assassins, he would have known by now. They’d have started the killing already.
He looked over the edict, which was not addressed to him or even to the daimyo of Izu, but rather to all of Japan. It was a new Sword Hunt, and in substance it was not much different than the one declared by Oda Nobunaga some years before. That one had been effective in disarming the peasantry, and like the last one, this one banned pole arms and firearms as well as swords. This one would no doubt be as effective as its predecessor; peasant revolts were much harder to stage if no one but samurai went armed. Hideyoshi’s own success was itself a peasant revolt, a fact he would not soon forget. Evidently he had no desire to be supplanted by some upstart with ambitions similar to his own.
Like the last one, this Sword Hunt applied countrywide too, but this one also specified three mountains by name: Koya, Tonomine, and Soshitake. Though Daigoro had never seen either of them, he knew Mount Koya and Mount Tonomine by reputation. They were monastic havens far off in the Kansai; Koya lay not far from Sakai, and Tonomine was quite close to Nara. Strategically, economically, and politically, Sakai and Nara were nearly as important as Kyoto itself. If the neighboring monks kept arsenals, it was reasonable for the regent to see them as a threat.
But Soshitake was nowhere near the Kansai. Daigoro’s own home sat on it. So did Katto-ji, home to the abbot who inspired such hate and fear in Hideyoshi’s peacock, Shichio.
So that’s what this is about, he thought. A new Sword Hunt as a masquerade for attacking the abbot—and me too, I suppose. He read the rest quickly. Accompanying this hunt was an order for national census, a ban on relocating during the term of the census, an expulsion edict against the southern barbarians, and a promise to melt down all weapons seized in the Sword Hunt into bolts and nails for a massive statue of the Buddha. True to form, Hideyoshi was nothing if not grandiose. But Daigoro saw an easy escape from this extravagant trap.
“Commander,” he said, “I’m sure you’ve noticed that my home sits on Soshitake. But the regent’s Sword Hunt is a ban on peasants owning weapons. You’ll find no armed peasants in this house.”
“My orders were most specific, sir.” The commander’s tone was stiff without being gruff. Daigoro sensed some hesitation in him. “Most specific. We are to disarm all residents on Soshitake.”
Daigoro forced a smile and did his best to include some warmth in it. “Surely the regent can’t have ordered you to disarm samurai. A samurai without his swords is no samurai at all.”
“Understood, sir. But the edict stands.”
“Of course it does. Come, won’t you sit down? You and your men have marched a long way. And I’ve learned just this morning that I’m to be a father. Let us open a few casks of sake for your men and we officers can sit in the shade for a while.”
“No, sir. My orders were most specific. Most specific. We’re to move from here to the next compound as quickly as may be, sir.”
The next compound. So they hadn’t been to Katto-ji yet; they’d marched right past it to come here. And there wasn’t a second company deployed there either; this one was tasked with disarming both compounds. What was Hideyoshi thinking? Or, closer to it, what was Shichio thinking? Daigoro had no doubt it was Shichio whose orders were “most specific.” The man had an ax to grind, plain and simple. But his motivation wasn’t yet clear. These men could easily have overwhelmed the tiny garrison Daigoro had stationed at Katto-ji. They could have been marching back home with the abbot’s head in a sack before Daigoro could ever have marshaled his troops to stop them.
Shichio couldn’t possibly expect Daigoro and all his men to simply hand over their weapons. Better to ask them all to commit suicide; at least there would be some honor in that. So, Daigoro wondered, if he was never really after our swords, what did he want?
Only two answers were possible. One: he hoped Daigoro would resist. He hadn’t sent enough men to overwhelm House Okuma. In fact, Daigoro had no doubt that his own commanders had already reached the same conclusion, and deployed their troops in every room facing the courtyard. Daigoro had only to give the order and scores of samurai would burst out from every building. The company arrayed before him would be dead in minutes—taking some of Daigoro’s own men with them, to be sure, but if Shichio’s goal was Toyotomi blood on Okuma blades, he had certainly set the stage for it. And if Daigoro’s current predicament degenerated into combat, Shichio could convince Hideyoshi to wage war on the Okumas.
Two: he wanted not the Okumas’ swords but Daigoro’s sword. A sudden vision flashed in Daigoro’s mind: Shichio’s demonic mask, its angry scowl cut with deep shadows in the moonlight, and Daigoro’s own shadow running parallel to Shichio’s across the snow-white stones of the Okuma family courtyard. The
n came another vision: his brother facedown in the snow, slain in a duel after claiming Glorious Victory for his own. It was Ichiro’s unrelenting desire for the sword that had killed him. Shichio felt the same hunger. He believed it was his sinister mask that made him need the blade; Daigoro thought otherwise, but he supposed the truth didn’t matter. One way or the other, that haughty peacock was willing to destroy House Okuma to acquire Glorious Victory, and Daigoro wasn’t sure how much more punishment his family could take.
Yet there he was with fifty hostile samurai in his own home. They were all trained killers, and no doubt they’d all seen more combat than Daigoro’s own men. These warriors had come up from the west country, where the fighting was hardest. Yes, the Okumas outnumbered these men, and yes, the Okumas would carry the day, but not without bitter losses.
But Daigoro could not give up his sword—the sword his father had bequeathed to him as his last act in life—and he certainly couldn’t disarm his entire clan. He read the edict once more.
“See here,” he told Hideyoshi’s commander, “your orders are to disarm the residents of Soshi-take, not Soshi-san. San means mountain, as in Koya-san. Take means peak. And Mount Soshi has two peaks. You just came up the saddle between them. Katto-ji, that monastery you passed on the way here, sits on Zensoshi-take. My home is on Gososhi-take. So which of the two Soshitakes are you to disarm?”
“My orders were most specific,” the commander said, but now doubt crept into his voice.
“Not specific enough, I’m afraid.” Daigoro motioned toward his sitting room. “Come, let’s have a seat and I’ll have Tomo here fetch us a map. Your men look weary; let’s give them a bit of a rest, shall we?”
As soon as Daigoro saw the commander’s shoulders relax, he knew he’d won. He’d given the man a way to keep his honor, fulfill his orders to the letter, and not disgrace a samurai family by asking them to give up the unthinkable. In short, he’d given the commander a way out. The man wasn’t stupid, and clearly he was uncomfortable with the orders foisted upon him. Did he know of Shichio’s madness? If Daigoro had noticed it, surely an officer under Shichio’s command must have seen it. The commander’s permanent frown had not left his face, but up until a few seconds ago he’d been visibly on edge. Daigoro felt his own muscles loosen too, and a cool wave of relief washed over him. “Tomo,” he said, “send a few girls for sake, and then bring my chest of maps.”
Then a Toyotomi soldier drew his katana and leveled it at Tomo’s throat. “This boy isn’t going to fetch any maps,” the swordsman said. “He’s not going anywhere.”
33
“Sir, we have our orders,” the soldier said, the tip of his sword a handsbreadth from Tomo’s jugular. “We’re to disarm this house.”
Armor clattered like a thousand metal birds taking flight. All the Toyotomi samurai sprang to the ready. None drew swords, but all were tensed, crouching, ready to attack. Their commander rounded on Tomo’s captor, furious. “You’ll sheathe your weapon this instant,” he said. “Stand down or I’ll have your head.”
“No, sir,” said the samurai. He had a lean, quick, runner’s body and a face like a mouse. He was just out of striking range; if the commander drew on him, Tomo would die.
Daigoro’s feeling of relief evaporated instantly. He studied Tomo’s face, which had gone utterly white. He studied the commander and the rest of his troops, their hands on their hilts, knees bent to pounce. No eyes were on Daigoro.
Tomo and his captor were out of reach for the commander, but not for Glorious Victory. “Patience,” Katsushima whispered.
Had he read Daigoro’s mind? Glorious Victory was long and heavy, very slow on the draw. But with no eyes on him yet, he might be able to draw and cut and save Tomo’s life. Maybe.
It was bad enough to draw a weapon in another man’s home. That by itself violated every convention of civility and honor, and Daigoro was well within his rights to kill this boor. But worse yet, the man had threatened one of his own. Daigoro could not let that stand.
Then again, neither could Hideyoshi’s commander. Tomo’s captor had disobeyed a direct order. Under no circumstances would he leave the courtyard alive. His commander would strike him down, and all Daigoro had to do was watch him kill Tomo.
Or he could strike. Save Tomo and take his chances on what happened next.
That was assuming his draw was fast enough. It assumed he’d judged rightly in reading the commander’s intentions. If any of his estimations were even slightly off—of his speed, of his reach, of the commander’s mind—then by trying to save Tomo he would only draw Toyotomi blood, guaranteeing a fight.
All this flashed through Daigoro’s mind in the space of a single breath. His pulse pounded hard and fast. Apart from that the courtyard was deathly quiet.
Daigoro’s mind raced with a thousand calculations. Had he misjudged Glorious Victory’s reach? How long would it take to clear her from her scabbard? It should have been so simple. Daigoro felt a flash of anger at himself: all he had to do to prevent a bloodbath was sacrifice a servant. For other lords this would have been easy. Others would never have befriended a lowborn peasant like Tomo.
But now that he thought about it, he realized he’d have to exact vengeance for Tomo one way or the other. If he let this commander report back that his men had killed an Okuma without reprisal, Shichio would know he could abuse the Okumas however he liked. Daigoro had no choice but to defend his own. And yet if he drew Toyotomi blood, that would invite retaliation from Shichio too.
The best solution was to order Hideyoshi’s commander to kill Tomo’s assailant. But that should have been obvious to the commander already. In fact, the man should already have bloodied his blade. Daigoro could hardly issue orders to an officer from the regent’s own house.
He was trapped, plain and simple. There was no reaction that would not invite further aggression. And yet the right reaction might still save Tomo’s life.
Hideyoshi’s commander shifted his fingers on the grip of his katana. Was he preparing to draw? If so, Tomo was dead. Daigoro needed more time to think.
“Whom do you serve?” he asked the mousy man with the sword to Tomo’s throat.
“Shut up!”
“You’re Shichio’s lackey, neh?”
“I said shut up!” The man started shaking.
“Stand down,” the commander said, saying each word as if it were its own sentence.
Eyes flicked between Daigoro, the commander, and Tomo’s captor. Sand shifted underfoot. Armor plates clacked like bamboo. Daigoro’s heart hammered at his ribs like the hooves of a galloping racehorse.
Tomo’s captor took a deep breath and released it. He stopped shaking. Daigoro knew that look. He’d felt it himself. It was the look of a man who had given himself up for dead—a man who no longer had anything left to lose.
Daigoro pulled hard and fast, clearing Glorious Victory from her scabbard. Tomo recoiled as the blade at his throat drew back to strike. Hideyoshi’s commander drew his blade.
Glorious Victory fell. She took a sword with her, a fist still closed around it. Daigoro still had but one hand on her grip. She was too heavy; he stumbled forward.
The commander whirled, chopping at Daigoro’s extended arm. His stroke went wide; a kick from Katsushima caught him in the kidney and sent him rolling. Fifty Toyotomi swords flashed from their scabbards. Three of them hacked at Daigoro.
Glorious Victory was long enough to parry them all. His left hand finally found Glorious Victory’s grip. He turned the blades aside and cut low. Three men fell in a torrent of blood.
Daigoro couldn’t say how he found his way to the heart of the Toyotomi formation. His mind was reeling; he’d never fought like this before. Single combat was nothing at all like a swirling melee. It was as if his mind had no relation to his arms. He cut, blocked, deflected, counterstruck, all on raw instinct. By the time he figured out what was happening, he and Katsushima were standing back to back in the middle of the courtyard, surrounded by
Toyotomi samurai.
The enemy formed an impenetrable hedgerow of red armor, gold plating, and shimmering steel. Surrounding them was another circle, this one russet and black and silver: over a hundred samurai adorned with the Okuma bear paw.
Somehow amid the chaos there came a lull, a standoff, and Daigoro found he could hear and see with amazing clarity. Every sword and spearhead shone as distinctly as stars on a moonless night. Katsushima was breathing heavily; his broad shoulders pressed against Daigoro’s back, hot and heaving and stinking the coppery reek of blood. A wry laugh made Katsushima’s body quake. He said, “What did I tell you about patience?”
Daigoro twisted his fists tighter on Glorious Victory’s cloth-bound grip. The circle of enemies drew tighter.
“It’s been an honor,” said Katsushima.
“Likewise,” said Daigoro, suddenly thinking of Akiko and the baby in her belly. Today of all days, it seemed a terrible shame to leave her.
Again the circle tightened. Daigoro readied himself to strike. Then a voice broke the eerie silence, bellowing “Stand down!” There came a clicking, clanking commotion through the ranks of samurai, and then the Toyotomi commander muscled his way to the center of the circle.
“Hold,” he yelled, sensing his men’s uneasiness. “Lord Okuma! What is the meaning of this?”
“Your man started it,” Daigoro said. As soon as the words left his mouth they sounded childish. It took him a moment to regain his breath before he could speak again, and only because his words failed him did he notice that he was panting hard enough to make his lungs burn.
“Not your man,” he said finally. “General Shichio’s. He was planted in your ranks. I’m sure of it. Shichio wants a fight with me, whatever the cost.”
