The stalker raised his sword in both hands and swung it in a swift, sideways arc. The blade sliced cleanly through the old man’s neck. It severed his head, which hit the ground and rolled a few paces before coming to a halt faceup in the muddy street. A great gush of blood, black in the dim light, spewed from the neck as the body crumpled and fell.
Filled with the sweet fire of conquest, the stalker beheld the carnage that lay at his feet. He saw the remains of his present-day enemy; he could also see the fallen bodies of dead and wounded soldiers in the gorge. He longed to stand there and play out in his mind the short remainder of the Battle of Okehazama.
But he must not let his fantasy make him forget where-and in what time-he was, or the danger of remaining at the scene of a murder he’d just committed. Besides, he had much work to do before the gates closed. Sheathing his sword, he picked up the severed head and tucked it under his cloak. Then he hurried away through the misty streets and alleys.
☼
The returning troops swarmed into Kiyosu Fortress on a wave of riotous excitement. Cheers and laughter rattled the stockade walls. Glee replaced the morning’s despair. The Battle of Okehazama had ended moments after it began-with Oda the victor. Lord Imagawa was dead; those few of his troops not killed in the gorge had fled in panic. Mikawa, Totomi, and Suruga Provinces belonged to Oda now, and the way was cleared for his march on Kyōto, the capital. The celebration would last through the night, with much drink, song, and revelry. But first would come the solemn ritual to mark Lord Oda’s brilliant triumph.
☼
Alone in a cramped room lit by a single guttering oil lamp, the stalker knelt and unwrapped the severed head. Tenderly he washed his bloody prize in a bucket of water and dried it with a clean cloth. Beside him sat a square board with a sharp iron spike thrust up through the middle. He mounted the head on this contraption, grunting with the effort as he forced it down upon the spike. At last the point penetrated the brain, and the neck was flush with the board. Carefully he combed the wispy gray hair and tied it in a pigtail with a piece of white string. He applied rouge to the pale, wrinkled cheeks to restore the color of life, and buffed the bald crown. He prodded the eyeballs with his fingers until they gazed downward in the manner considered most auspicious. Lighting a stick of incense, he waved it around the head to sweeten its odor. Finally he added the most important touch: the white paper label inked with black characters that explained the purpose of his deed. This he fastened to the dead man’s pigtail. Then he stood and surveyed his work. His heart swelled with pride as he gazed upon the head. His bundori. His war trophy.
☼
On the ramparts of Kiyosu Fortress, banners swayed in the evening breeze beneath the setting sun’s red globe. War drums boomed; singers’ chants rose to the heavens. Flaring torches lit the yard inside the stockade, where Lord Oda Nobunaga, still clad in full armor, sat on a stool, flanked by his generals. Arranged in ranks before him knelt his troops. Lord Oda nodded solemnly, ordering the ceremony to begin.
From the fort came a procession of samurai. Each brought a mounted head, which he placed at his lord’s feet, then bowed before returning to the fort to fetch another. The stalker was fourth in line. His spirit soared skyward with the chants and drumbeats; he could scarcely contain his joy. Today he’d distinguished himself in battle by killing forty men singlehandedly. His reward: a place of honor in the procession and the recognition of his lord and peers.
This is only the beginning, he thought deliriously. He envisioned the future, seeing himself first as a commander, then as a general. And, when his end came, he would die in the glory of battle, paying his lord the ultimate tribute: his life.
Now it was his turn to pass before Lord Oda. Squaring his shoulders and looking straight ahead, he stepped forward, his bundori extended in both hands.
☼
Outside the mist had thickened; the rain continued. Bent under the weight of the large basket on his back, the stalker hurried through the empty streets toward the resting place he’d chosen for his precious trophy.
“Hurry home now,” a night sentry called to him as he slipped through a gate. “Almost time for closing.”
The stalker ignored him. He must place the bundori where everyone could see and admire it and know the great deed he’d done. His time was rapidly slipping away; every moment increased the risk that someone might stop him. Yet he felt no fear or anxiety-only a yearning for completion.
Quickly he scaled the rungs of a ladder that climbed up a shop’s wall, above roof level to the platform of a tall, rickety wooden fire-watch tower. The mist enfolded him, obliterating his view of the city below. He opened his basket and took out the head. His mind populated the night with shadowy figures and filled the dripping silence with drumming and chanting. He placed the head carefully on the platform and bowed deeply.
“Honorable Lord Oda,” he whispered. An almost sensual satisfaction overwhelmed him. “Please accept this, my first tribute to you.”
Then he shouldered his basket and descended the ladder. Head high, he started homeward, feeling as if he’d slain not just one man but a legion of enemy soldiers, all the while dreaming of future victories.
Chapter 1
In the vast, deep pond at Edo Castle ’s martial arts training ground, Sano Ichirō trod water furiously, trying to stay afloat. The two swords and full suit of armor he wore-tunic and shoulder flaps made of leather and metal plates, chain-mail arm shields, metal leg guards, helmet, and mask-threatened to drag him to the bottom. In his left hand he held a bow; in the right, an arrow. His lungs heaved with the effort of keeping these and his head above the water. Around him bobbed other samurai, fellow retainers of the shogun Tokugawa Tsunayoshi, attending this morning’s training session to practice the skills they would need in case they ever had to make war in a river, a lake, or at sea. At the pond’s other end, more men fought a mock battle on horseback. Their movements churned the pond. A big wave washed over Sano’s head. Water, foul with mud and horse droppings, gurgled into his helmet and mask. He gasped, spat, and barely managed to gulp a breath of air before the next wave hit him.
“You, there!” the sensei yelled from the bank of the pond. A long pole rapped sharply upon Sano’s helmet. “Body straight, legs down. And keep that arrow dry! Wet feathers don’t fly straight!”
Mustering his strength, Sano gamely tried to follow the orders. His legs ached from executing the circular kicks necessary for maintaining an upright position. His left arm, recently wounded in a sword fight, throbbed; the other arm had gone numb. Each painful breath felt like his last. And he was freezing. The uncertain spring weather hadn’t warmed away the pond’s winter iciness. How much longer would this torture last? To take his mind off his physical distress, he squinted upward at his surroundings.
Man-shaped straw archery targets dotted the grassy space beside the pond. To Sano’s right loomed the dark green pines of the Fukiage, the forested park that occupied the castle’s western grounds and surrounded the training area. On his left, he could see the stands of the racecourse, from which came shouts, cheers, and hoofbeats. In the distance directly ahead of him rose the high stone wall that surrounded the inner castle precincts, where the shogun, his family, and his closest associates lived and worked in luxurious palaces.