Year of the Demon (12 page)

“Oh, but I’m not,” said the abbot, his face as innocent as a newborn kitten. “The man you call ‘the regent’ changes names as often as most men change clothing. When I fought under him his name was Hideyoshi. Before that it was Hashiba, and before that the Bald Rat, and before that it was Kinoshita, and before that it was who-knows-what. Now it is the Monkey King, or Imperial Regent, or Chief Minister. Most recently it is Toyotomi Hideyoshi. Who knows what name his mother gave him? I call him by the name he had when I met him.”

“Very well,” said Daigoro. “I am grateful for your explanation, but you’ll forgive me if I feel I’m no closer to understanding why this man should want me to deliver your head.”

“I’ve explained that already,
neh
? He doesn’t. Shichio does.”

Daigoro closed his eyes. It was all he could do not to strangle the abbot. “All right,” he said through gritted teeth, “so why does Shichio want your head?”

“I expect he’s recently met a man with a scar across his forehead. Years ago I watched that man receive his scar. As a result, an army of ghosts handed Shichio a defeat, and because Shichio was routed, Hideyoshi lost the day as well. And if Hideyoshi were ever to learn of this story, I expect he would seek Shichio’s head, not mine.”

Daigoro pounded his knee with his fist. “Damn you and your bewildering words! Is this as plainly as you can speak?”

“My lord, if you’ll just wait one moment more—”

“I’m through with waiting. Don’t you understand? I could end this conversation with one stroke of my sword. And I’d be better off if I did it, too. I have only to deliver your head and life will suddenly become very easy—for me, for my family, for the whole damned peninsula. Yet you want to play more word games. Enough with these stories and fairy tales! I don’t want to hear another word of any ghost armies.”

“Not even if it was your father’s ghost army?”

Daigoro groaned, massaging his forehead with his left hand. He was ready to shout at the old monk again—how dare he play on Daigoro’s heartstrings by dredging up memories of his father?—but then he remembered: his father and the abbot once faced each other in war.

Daigoro knew virtually nothing of that encounter, nor of any of his father’s battlefield exploits. His father had never spoken much of war; he’d always been careful not to glorify it overmuch for his sons. He’d never been one to test his mettle by entering into needless combat—or so was Daigoro’s impression anyway. Daigoro’s guesses vastly outweighed what he knew for certain.

And with the pressures of running the clan pushing in on him from every side, now more than ever Daigoro needed to
know
what his father was like. His father had always known what to do. The right path had always been clear to him, and so what Daigoro needed was to know his father’s mind.

“Very well,” Daigoro said. He pushed himself to his feet because he’d burned up what little tolerance he had left for sitting still. “Tell me about my father. But on the Buddha’s mercy, I beg you, be brief and be clear.”

The abbot bowed his head. “What do you know of Hideyoshi?”

“He is a master tactician. A master manipulator too, they say, more likely to win a battle with words than with swords. He is said to be uncommonly ugly, uncommonly canny, and uncommonly fond of both drinking and pillowing. And now that Oda Nobunaga is dead, he is the greatest general this side of China.”

“The greatest? I think not. Better to call him the mightiest. But let us begin where you began. Do you know where he garnered his reputation of being a master tactician?”

“Of course. He conquered the whole of Shikoku in a matter of months. Kyushu in a matter of weeks.”

The abbot shrugged. “Unimpressive. Swift victories come easily against unprepared enemies, and more easily still when enemies decide to become allies instead. One does not become a great general by bribing greedy men.”

“What of his battle at Takamatsu Castle? As I heard it, he was trapped between the fortress and an incoming force of superior numbers. Survival would have been an admirable goal in and of itself, yet Toyotomi outmaneuvered both sides and claimed victory on the day. There are other examples. The list goes on and on.”

“So it does. But those who compose the list tend to leave out his defeats. I was witness to one of them.”

“I asked you to be brief,” said Daigoro.

“Yes, yes. We were camped at Gakuden, in Owari. Not far south lay a hill called Komaki, where Tokugawa Ieyasu had just established a garrison and headquarters. Do you know Tokugawa?”

“Of course. My father fought with him in the Battle of Mikatagahara. The Tokugawas have looked favorably on us ever since.”

The abbot nodded and smiled. “If ever you get the chance, ask Lord Tokugawa what your father did to earn House Okuma such special favor. But that story is for another time. For now, Tokugawa is at Komaki and Hideyoshi is in Gakuden—as am I, serving as a scout under his commander, Shichio.
Neh
?”

“Go on.”

“You mentioned that Hideyoshi is a master manipulator. His man Shichio makes him look like a deaf mute. Shichio knew that Tokugawa harbored a great love for his homeland of Mikawa, and that with so many Tokugawa divisions in Komaki, Mikawa was relatively undefended.”

Daigoro nodded. “He attacked Mikawa?”

“No, but he enticed another general into doing so. Shichio is not the type to stretch out his neck where others might take a swipe at it. He finds it safer to voice his ideas through others, taking credit when they succeed and laying the fault with them when they fail.”

“This story does not seem to be getting any shorter.”

“Forgive me. Shichio manipulated a general named Ikeda Nobuteru into attacking Mikawa. Hideyoshi approved, and sent Ikeda, his sons, and Shichio to spearhead the assault. We rode out expecting little resistance. Little did we know that one of Tokugawa’s minor allies, an unknown daimyo named Okuma Tetsuro, had anticipated a move against Mikawa. He placed informants weeks in advance, in every village surrounding Mikawa, and he received word of our sortie almost as soon as we set out. So there we were, the hammer’s head, expecting to strike an overripe melon and finding an anvil instead.” The abbot dropped a fist into his palm.

Daigoro nodded. “So instead of striking directly at the enemy’s heart . . .”

“We marched straight into a Tokugawa slaughterhouse. Ikeda, his son, and his son-in-law were killed before we knew it. But Shichio is not one to lead the charge. He remained in the rearguard, and deployed me and four other riders to scout out a flanking option. To our right we found only a swollen river. To the left a forest of banner poles, all bearing the bear claw of Okuma.”

“So you retreated?”

“Oh no. I don’t wish to cause offense, my young Bear Cub, but yours was a minor house in this war. Tokugawa’s advance was the one we had to fear. If the little house of Okuma were the only one guarding his flank, we thought we might press through.”

“But Father anticipated that too, didn’t he?”

The abbot gave a wry chuckle. “He was just getting started. All of a sudden we were surrounded on all sides, a hundred arrows trained on our throats. He stripped us, dressed two of his men in our armor, and mounted them on our horses. They rode back to tell Shichio their comrades had been slain and the Tokugawas could not be flanked. Shichio fled with what little remained of his column. He reported to Hideyoshi, who made a hasty retreat. Hideyoshi is embarrassed by it to this day.”

Daigoro smiled. Never before had he heard a tale in which the name Okuma loomed as large as names like Tokugawa and Toyotomi. Those were the houses that defined the shape of the empire. To think a little-known horseman from Izu had lent his banners to the cause! Daigoro had never felt such pride.

But now that he thought about it, he saw the story had holes. “You know too much for a common cavalryman. You must have had Hideyoshi’s ear, or Shichio’s at the very least.”

“I was Shichio’s top-ranking scout. Of course I had his ear.”

“Then how could he mistake my father’s rider for you?”

“Aha,” said the abbot, as proud as Daigoro’s own father had been when one of his sons tamed his first horse. “Very good, my lord. How many head wounds have you seen?”

“What?”

“The forehead bleeds terribly when cut. A slice above the eyebrows masks a man’s face so completely that even his own brother might not recognize him.”

“Hm,” Daigoro said. At first it sounded like the utmost betrayal: his father had bloodied his own men. Worse, he did it for the sake of deceit. Daigoro wondered what it would feel like to draw a sharp knife across his own forehead, and worse yet, what it would feel like to order another man to do the same. But then he saw the truth: any one of his samurai would do it without hesitation. It was the samurai’s duty to obey, and the lord’s duty never to give an order unworthy of obeisance.

Still, Daigoro wondered how desperate a situation would have to be to order his men to mutilate their own faces. Was such an order ever just? Yes. He had to admit it was conceivable. But could he live with giving the order? Daigoro hoped he would never have to find out.

“I’m disappointed,” Daigoro said.

“In your father?”

“Never. My disappointment is with you. You’ve left out the army of ghosts you promised me.”

The abbot’s cheeks crinkled in a smile. “Begging your pardon, Okuma-dono, but I haven’t. The ghosts were critical to the story.”

Daigoro thought for a moment. Then he said, “To your right was the river, and to the left . . .”

“Precisely. Imagine my shame when I learned the forest of Okuma banner poles was just that: banner poles, with no battalions beneath them. Your father dedicated nearly all of his men to the ambush, with just a handful deployed over the next rise to give the illusion of an army.”

“His ghost army.”

The abbot chuckled and shook his head. “As I say, imagine my shame. My own master routed, not by Tokugawa’s legions but by the imaginary army of an insignificant house. Bested without a single sword being drawn. Your father showed me what it truly meant to be samurai. Well, I couldn’t very well keep my topknot after that.”

“So what happened?”

“I asked him permission to shave my head. He did me the greatest honor of my life: he cut off my topknot with Glorious Victory Unsought, the very sword you carry today. I joined the monastery. My four comrades were taken as prisoners. The two samurai who cut their own foreheads at your father’s command were rewarded handsomely for their bravery and selflessness. And one of them, it seems, has been dwelling too much on the old days.”

“What do you mean?”

“Some years ago your father released his four prisoners. Hideyoshi had become too powerful for your father to risk his ire, and the prisoners could no longer do any harm—at least not to the house of Okuma. But Shichio had them crucified anyway. All of them. Why?”

“Because they knew the truth,” Daigoro guessed. Thinking aloud, he said, “But that would only matter if . . . no. It can’t be. Are you suggesting that Shichio still hasn’t told his master what happened that day?”

“Never forget, Okuma-dono, Hideyoshi and Shichio are both the sons of farmers. They were not raised as you were, born to a code. Shichio tells the truth only when it suits him.”

“So even to this day Hideyoshi thinks he was routed by Tokugawa Ieyasu?”

“A name great enough to rival his own,” said the abbot. “Even that must vex him terribly. Imagine Shichio’s fate if Hideyoshi were ever to learn exactly how he was defeated. Imagine his wrath if he ever learned his most embarrassing defeat should have been a victory.”

Daigoro thought about it and felt his heart swell with pride. One of the regent’s top generals, living in fear of execution simply because he was outfoxed by Okuma Tetsuro. Execution was no way for a samurai to die, but this Shichio deserved no better. If he were truly samurai, he would have opened his own belly years ago, in the very hour that he failed.

“Be careful what you take joy in, young Bear Cub.” Daigoro looked up and saw the abbot studying his face. “The Red Bear of Izu earned an enemy in Hideyoshi’s court. Now you have inherited that enemy. One of your father’s men has been telling tales of the old days.”

“No. Our men are loyal.”

“What else explains my death warrant? Shichio has learned that I am still alive. I attended to your father’s funeral and your brother’s; any one of your men could have seen me there.”

“I won’t believe it.”

“Then you are in need of another explanation. Your father’s scouts were young men when they deceived Shichio. Unless some accident has befallen them, there is no reason to doubt they still live.”

“No.” Daigoro searched his memory, trying to envision an Okuma samurai with a scar across his forehead. No faces came to mind—but then, Daigoro did not know his every vassal. He knew every man at his own compound, but the Okumas had lesser houses too, scattered across southern Izu.

“Perhaps one of them was drunk,” the abbot said. “Perhaps he felt you slighted him somehow. Perhaps he felt House Okuma has somehow become unworthy of his loyalty.”

Oh no, Daigoro thought. Mother.

The debacle with the Soras had cost Daigoro the most, but it was hardly the first of its kind. Her outbursts were becoming more frequent, more acute, and all too often they happened in public. Could that have been enough to turn a loyal samurai astray? Daigoro hated to think so. But after losing his father and his brother, House Okuma was undoubtedly weaker. Now its matriarch was a madwoman, its lord her crippled teenage son.

No. Loyalty was loyalty. It if failed even once, it did not exist at all. Father had trained his men better than that. Hadn’t he?

“Somehow Shichio knows I am alive,” the abbot said, as if he read Daigoro’s thoughts. “How else might he have discovered this?”

“Augury,” said Daigoro. “Divination. A
kami
speaking to him in his dreams.”

“Perhaps. But the more likely explanation is one of this world. A loyal man uttering one word too many after drink loosened his tongue. One of Shichio’s own men, crossing paths with yours by happenstance, recognizing a scar.”