Imagawa Yoshimoto sat on the Tang chest atop the low hill at Okehazama, a freshly delivered victory report spread before him. The ink on the paper was not yet fully dry, and between the lines exuded the joy of triumph—Marune Fortress and Washizu Fortress had both fallen; the Oda commanders Sakuma Morishige, Sasa Masatsugu, Sengoku Tadatada, and others were either dead or had fled; the garrison at Ōtaka Castle had been wiped out; and Narumi Castle was firmly in Imagawa hands.
"Ha ha ha ha ha!" Imagawa Yoshimoto slapped the victory report onto the table, and his laughter echoed through the camp in the evening twilight. "That brat Oda Nobunaga—nothing more than that!"
He raised his wine cup and drained it at a gulp. The sake was the finest from Kyōto, "Gyokusen"—clear, sweet, and smooth on the tongue. He loved this sake because it reminded him of Kyōto in spring, of the cherry blossoms along the Kamo River, of the waka poems court nobles recited at their banquets. Though he was on a battlefield, Imagawa Yoshimoto still maintained the taste of a Kyōto aristocrat—his drinking vessels were Tang imports, his chopsticks were of ivory, even the plates for his dishes were blue-and-white porcelain from Ming China.
"Pass my orders," Imagawa Yoshimoto said to a messenger nearby. "Tell Matsudaira Motoyasu that after he takes Marune and Washizu, he is to move his troops immediately into Ōtaka Castle to rest and refit. He is still young and needs experience. Let him guard the castle well; there is no need for him to rush into the subsequent operations."
The messenger bowed and departed.
Yoshimoto thought for a moment and added, "Also order Kudō Nagamasa to join the vanguard and advance together toward Kasadori. Kasadori is the southern gateway to Owari. Take Kasadori, and the gates of Kiyosu Castle will stand wide open."
One by one, the generals received their orders. The camp buzzed with activity—the sounds of horses, footsteps, and scabbards clinking together in a lively cacophony.
Imagawa Yoshimoto leaned back against an armrest and closed his eyes with satisfaction. He was forty two years old, in the prime of life. Though stout, he still had plenty of energy. In his mind, he was already planning the pace of his western advance—after taking Owari, next would be Ise, then Ōmi, and then Kyōto. What expressions would those posturing court nobles in Kyōto wear when they saw the Imagawa's red bird banners appear along the Kamo River? Would they be paralysed with terror, or would they grovel and come forward to flatter?
At this thought, the corners of Imagawa Yoshimoto's mouth curled upward.
The day was drawing to a close. Okehazama lived up to its name—like a long, narrow wooden bucket, surrounded by low hills with a stretch of damp lowland in the middle. On summer evenings, a thin mist always hung over the place, mingled with the scent of grass and earth. Several tens of thousands of Imagawa troops were crammed into this narrow strip; seen from above, they were as thick as ants.
Though Yoshimoto was called the "Number One Archer of the Tōkaidō" and was habitually cautious in his campaigns, today he had indeed grown a little slack. The reason was simple—it had all gone too smoothly. Ever since leaving Sunpu, he had met hardly any real resistance. The Oda's so called "fortresses," under the pressure of forty thousand men, had crumpled like paper. The Imagawa soldiers were high in spirits; every one of them felt that this was merely a practice march, and the fighting was just going through the motions.
Just then, the monks and priests from nearby shrines and temples arrived, drawn by the news.
Near Ōtaka Castle stood a shrine called Okehazama Myōjin. Normally it received few worshippers and was little known. But today, a dozen or so priests in hunting robes appeared from somewhere, carrying sacred sake, rice cakes, fresh fish, and with beaming faces they came to the front of the Imagawa camp.
"Lord Imagawa! We are the priests of Okehazama Myōjin. We have come to offer sacred sake to reward you and the three armies!" The leading priest, about fifty years old, smiled broadly and bowed in a posture of impeccable ceremony.
Imagawa Yoshimoto rose from the Tang chest, straightened his cap and robes, and nodded with a smile. He had always been respectful toward the gods and Buddhas, and besides, these people had come of their own accord to offer gifts—it was an auspicious omen.
"You have taken trouble," Yoshimoto said as he accepted the sacred sake. He sniffed it; the aroma was rich. "This is the sake of Okehazama Myōjin?"
"Indeed!" The priest's smile was radiant. "The Myōjin appeared in a dream last night and said that Lord Imagawa is the Duke Huan of our age and will surely accomplish the great work of hegemony. The Myōjin wishes to serve you and has commanded us to present this sacred sake to strengthen the army's spirit!"
Imagawa Yoshimoto laughed uproariously. He had heard such flattery often, but today it sounded especially pleasant. He ordered the food and drink accepted, rewarded the priests with several ingots of silver, and invited them to set up their own tables in an open space outside the camp to share in the festivities with the soldiers.
Soon afterwards, the abbot of another nearby temple, Zenpuku ji, arrived with several young novices. The abbot held a scroll of sutras and said he wished to chant prayers for Lord Imagawa's long military fortune. Yoshimoto naturally did not refuse; he had the abbot set up a sutra altar in the camp and light incense.
For a time, the Imagawa camp at Okehazama became as lively as a festival. Cooking smoke rose, the aroma of sake spread far and wide. Soldiers gathered in small groups around campfires, drinking heavily, eating meat, laughing and talking loudly. Some competed in sumo, some played pitch pot, and a few soldiers even found a monkey somewhere and led it around the camp performing tricks.
Imagawa Yoshimoto sat in the main tent, drinking sake and discussing the scenery and customs of Kyōto with his retainers. He spoke of the grand occasion the previous year when he had entertained a Kyōto court noble at Sunpu Castle, how that noble had praised his skill in waka and admired his taste in clothing. The retainers all chimed in agreement, the atmosphere thoroughly congenial.
No one thought that any trouble would arise that night.
"Oda Nobunaga is probably trembling in Kiyosu Castle right now," one of Yoshimoto's retainers said with a laugh. "I hear the fellow is usually so arrogant, but now that the real thing is upon him, he probably can't even sleep."
Another retainer added, "Can't sleep? More than that. I hear that Nobunaga was putting on airs at Atsuta Shrine yesterday, praying for divine protection. Would the Great God of Atsuta extend his protection to a man about to die?"
Everyone laughed.
Imagawa Yoshimoto laughed too, his eyes narrowing to slits. He raised his cup for another sip, then suddenly frowned—why had the sky grown so dark?
He looked up. To the west, an ink black cloud had appeared from nowhere. It rolled in fast as a runaway horse, swallowing half the sky in an instant. Then a fierce wind rose from the ground, snapping the tents, rocking the campfires, scattering sparks.
"It's going to rain," Imagawa Yoshimoto muttered, and ordered his attendants, "Reinforce the tents. Don't let the rain in."
Before he finished speaking, large raindrops began pelting down with a crackle.
It was a summer thunderstorm, arriving swiftly and falling violently. The rain descended like a waterfall, shrouding heaven and earth in a white mist. The wind howled, bending trees, and lightning and thunder exploded overhead, rumbling in the ears. Most of the campfires were extinguished; soldiers scattered looking for shelter, and chaos reigned.
Imagawa Yoshimoto retreated into his tent, took a dry cloth from an attendant, and wiped the rain from his face. The storm had come at an inopportune moment, but it was no great problem—summer thunderstorms came quickly and left quickly, and after the rain the weather would be cool, making the next day's march even more comfortable.
Outside the tent, the wind and rain raged.
Inside, Imagawa Yoshimoto changed into a dry robe, sat down again, and continued drinking. The rain drummed on the tent roof, a dense crackling like ten thousand beans spattering on a drum. The noise was deafening, but precisely because it was so loud, many sounds that should have been noticed were masked.
For example, the sound of hooves in the distance.
Oda Nobunaga's troops were moving at speed through the wind and rain.
When they set out from Nakajima, it had not yet begun to rain. Nobunaga led three thousand men with all torches extinguished, moving silently toward Okehazama through the darkness. The soldiers were tense, palms sweating, but no one talked and no one fell behind. They knew that this time, it would be either life or death.
Halfway along the march, clouds gathered on the horizon. Nobunaga looked up and suddenly smiled.
"Good," he said. "Heaven is helping us, too."
The wind grew stronger, rustling the trees by the roadside. Nobunaga ordered the pace quickened; the three thousand men almost ran. Then the rain poured down in earnest. The cold rain soaked them to the bone, but not a single man complained. On the contrary, many soldiers felt relieved—the sound of the rain and wind would cover every sound of their advance. Even if the enemy sentries strained their ears, they would hear nothing but the wind, the rain, and the thunder, never the hoofbeats and footsteps.
"The Great God of Atsuta has shown his power!" someone called out from the ranks.
"A divine wind! A divine wind!" the soldiers murmured, their morale surging.
Nobunaga did not stop them. He had never believed in divine protection, but at this moment he was happy for his men to see the wind and rain as a blessing from heaven. Morale was sometimes more important than swords and spears.
Near Okehazama, Nobunaga slowed the column and took a few scouts to a high vantage point. Looking down, he saw the Imagawa camp sprawling over the low ground of Okehazama. Torches were sparse; most of the campfires had been extinguished by the rain, with only a few flickering points of light in the storm. Tents leaned askew, sentries were few, and most of the men were sheltering inside their tents or already insensible with drink.
Nobunaga's heart pounded.
He returned to his men, drew his tachi, its blade glinting coldly in the rain. He did not speak; he simply pointed the sword forward—the signal to charge.
Three thousand soldiers, like a drawn blade, lunged silently toward the Imagawa camp.
The distance closed—five hundred metres, three hundred, one hundred.
The sentries at the camp gate finally sensed something. One sentry rubbed his eyes and peered into the darkness; he made out a dark mass surging toward them. He opened his mouth to shout, but an arrow flew from the darkness and struck him in the throat. His mouth remained open, no sound coming out. He swayed and fell.
The other sentry reacted more quickly. He turned and ran, screaming as he went, "Ene—"
Before the word "my" was out, several tachi cut into him.
"Kill—!"
Oda Nobunaga was the first to burst into the Imagawa camp. Behind him, three hundred cavalry poured in, and three thousand foot soldiers flooded in like a tide. The shouts of battle exploded amid the thunder, as if the Thunder God himself had joined the fight.
The Imagawa camp was thrown into utter confusion.
The soldiers who had been sheltering from the rain snatched up their weapons in panic. Many did not even have time to put on their armour and rushed out bare chested. But they had been drinking all night; most could barely stand, let alone fight. The Oda samurai fell upon them like tigers into a flock of sheep, cutting and slashing. Blood ran in the rainwater, soon turning patches of mud red.
In his tent, Imagawa Yoshimoto heard the commotion outside. At first he thought the soldiers were fooling around in the rain. He frowned and was about to send someone to look when the tent flap was suddenly torn open and a blood soaked retainer stumbled in.
"L-Lord! Terrible news! The Oda army—the Oda army has attacked!"
The wine cup fell from Imagawa Yoshimoto's hand with a clatter, spilling amber sake on the ground. He sprang to his feet, the composure vanishing from his face, replaced by incredulous astonishment.
"What? The Oda army? Here?" His voice cracked. "Impossible! How could they know we are here? How did they get through the lines?"
No one could answer him.
Outside, the shouts of battle grew nearer. Imagawa Yoshimoto's bodyguards quickly organised a defence, forming a ring around his main tent, with swords and spears raised, fighting fiercely against the attacking Oda troops.
Imagawa Yoshimoto was no ordinary man. After the first shock, he quickly regained his composure, picked up the great sword that lay beside him, and strode out of the tent. The rain poured down his powdered face, washing the cosmetics into rivulets that revealed the pale skin beneath. He looked utterly bedraggled, but his eyes were still sharp.
"Form ranks! Form ranks!" Yoshimoto shouted. "Don't panic! They are few—hold the line!"
Yoshimoto's bodyguards were indeed elite. Though caught off guard, they were well trained samurai and soon organised their defence. Using supply wagons and abatis as barriers, they resisted desperately. The Oda troops were high in morale, but the bodyguards' defence was tenacious, and a fierce back and forth struggle erupted before the main tent.
Seeing that Yoshimoto was still in his command post, Nobunaga led his cavalry in repeated charges, trying to break through the bodyguards' line. But Yoshimoto's personal guards were picked men, each worth a hundred; they threw themselves in front of their lord, blocking Oda swords and spears with their bodies. One charge, two charges, three charges… Oda Nobunaga launched four or five violent assaults, and each time the bodyguards drove them back.
The men around Nobunaga grew fewer and fewer. Some had been killed, some wounded and had fallen back, some had been separated in the chaos. Nobunaga looked back. The three hundred cavalry that had been with him now numbered fewer than a hundred. And in front of him, the Imagawa bodyguards still stood layer upon layer, like a wall of flesh.
Nobunaga gritted his teeth.
"Dismount!" he roared. He swung his leg over and dismounted, threw the reins to an attendant, and gripped his tachi with both hands. "Follow me—charge forward—Kill!"
Oda Nobunaga went first, the foremost among the foremost. He did not ride; he ran on foot through the muddy ground, soaked with rainwater and blood. He swung his tachi, cutting left and right, each stroke carrying the force of a thunderbolt. The Imagawa soldiers saw this blood soaked, demon like figure charging at them and felt a gnawing fear; their ranks began to waver.
The Oda samurai, seeing their lord at the very front, were inspired. With a great cry they followed Nobunaga, driving like a dagger into the bodyguards' line. The iron ring defence finally showed a crack under Nobunaga's suicidal assault.
At this critical moment, a Hatano Heihyōe—the same scout who had found Yoshimoto—charged through the chaos to Yoshimoto's side.
Hatano Heihyōe, a low ranking samurai under Nobunaga, was not tall, had an ordinary face, and was usually unremarkable. But today he was like a mad beast, his eyes bloodshot, his spear thrust straight at Imagawa Yoshimoto.
"Imagawa Yoshimoto—your life for mine!"
The spear point gleamed in the rain as it drove toward Yoshimoto's chest.
Though stout, Yoshimoto was from a warrior family and reacted swiftly. He dodged aside, avoiding the point, while drawing the tachi at his waist with his right hand and slashing fiercely at the spear shaft.
Crack! The spear shaft broke.
Hatano Heihyōe felt the shaft go light in his hands and froze for an instant. In that instant, Yoshimoto's blade swept sideways and struck Hatano Heihyōe in the knee. Blood spurted; Hatano screamed and fell to one knee, the wound in his knee so deep the bone showed.
His spear broken, his leg wounded, Hatano Heihyōe did not give up. He gritted his teeth, wrapped his arms around Yoshimoto's leg, and held on with all his strength, while screaming hoarsely behind him, "He's here! Imagawa Yoshimoto is here! Come quickly!"
Imagawa Yoshimoto was terrified. He raised his sword to cut off Hatano's head, but Hatano clung too tightly, and Yoshimoto's heavy body was not nimble. The blade cut a gash across Hatano's back but did not kill him.
In that flash of an instant, another figure rushed out from the rain.
It was another of Oda Nobunaga's men—Mōri Hidataka.
Mōri Hidataka was also a low ranking samurai, lean and quick. Seeing Hatano Heihyōe holding Yoshimoto immobile, he charged forward without hesitation, gripped his tachi in both hands with the blade pointing down, and threw all his strength into a stroke aimed at Imagawa Yoshimoto's head.
Imagawa Yoshimoto felt a rush of wind from the side and tried to dodge, but his leg was pinned fast by Hatano. He could only watch as the tachi cut an arc through the rain—and then the whole world went black.
Crunch—
The sound of a blade shearing through neck bones—dull, clean, a gritty sound that set the teeth on edge.
Imagawa Yoshimoto's head flew from his shoulders, tumbled twice in the air, trailing a string of blood droplets, and then fell with a plop into the muddy ground.
On that head, the painted eyebrows were still glossy black; the powdered cheeks were streaked by the rain; the mouth was slightly open, as if still trying to speak. Those eyes, once so composed, so proud, had not been able to close.
Mōri Hidataka, swift as lightning, grabbed the head and raised it high over his own. The rain washed over the trophy; blood dripped from the hair onto Mōri's face and body.
He took a deep breath, gathered all his strength, and shouted—
"Imagawa Yoshimoto is dead!!!"
The voice exploded through the wind and rain, rolling across the battlefield like a thunderclap.
Mōri Hidataka drew another breath and shouted again—
"Imagawa Yoshimoto is dead!!!"
Louder this time, so loud that even the Oda soldiers across the camp heard it clearly.
And a third time—
"Imagawa Yoshimoto is dead!!!"
Three shouts, each louder than the last, each more deafening. Everyone on the battlefield heard them—the Oda soldiers and the Imagawa soldiers alike.
For a moment, it seemed only the echoes of those three shouts filled heaven and earth.
The Imagawa soldiers were stunned. They turned their heads and saw, held high in Mōri Hidataka's hand, the head of their own lord. The crested helmet with the red bird motif, the powdered face, the once majestic, unrivalled Imagawa Yoshimoto—now just a bleeding head held aloft in the rain by an unknown Oda samurai.
"Our lord… our lord is dead?"
"Lord Imagawa… has been killed?"
"Impossible! Impossible!"
"But that… that is certainly our lord's helmet!"
In that moment, the morale of the Imagawa army shattered completely. The bodyguards who had been fighting so desperately dropped their swords and spears. Some stood rooted to the spot; some covered their faces and wept; some turned and ran; and some simply fell to their knees and threw away their weapons.
The mighty army of forty thousand simply dissolved.
They broke and fled without fighting, defeated utterly.
Oda Nobunaga stood in the rain, soaked with blood—no telling whether it was the enemy's or his own. He panted heavily, looking at the scene before him. Then a grin spread across his face—a grin of wild joy, of release, a kind of nearly mad satisfaction.
He did not order a pursuit.
"Don't chase a desperate enemy," Nobunaga said to Shibata Katsuie beside him. "Let them run. We go back."
Shibata was puzzled. "My lord, this is the perfect opportunity to pursue! While they are broken, we could—"
"Our men are almost spent as well," Nobunaga cut him off, his voice surprisingly calm. "Three thousand against forty thousand—to have survived and taken Imagawa Yoshimoto's head is already a gift from heaven. If we chase any farther, they might get their wits back and eat us instead. Know when to stop, Katsuie."
Shibata said no more.
Oda Nobunaga led his army back the way they had come. From the moment of the attack to the fall of Imagawa Yoshimoto, the fighting had lasted barely two hours. But those two hours changed the fate of all Japan.
The rain stopped around midnight.
Nobunaga's force made its way back toward Kiyosu Castle. The roads were thick with mud, horses' hooves slipping constantly. The soldiers were soaked through and exhausted, but every face wore a smile. They were alive, they had won, they had killed Imagawa Yoshimoto.
It was a miracle.
Nobunaga was riding when he suddenly reined in his horse. He turned to look southwest—toward Atsuta Shrine. In the darkness he could see nothing, but it was as if he could see the ancient torii of Atsuta standing majestic in the moonlight.
"Someone," Nobunaga called, "bring my horse."
The attendant was confused. "My lord, you are already on horseback."
"I mean that horse—the chestnut, the best one."
The chestnut was Nobunaga's favourite mount, glossy coated and strong, so precious that he usually let no one else ride it. The attendant led the horse to Nobunaga. Nobunaga dismounted, patted the horse's neck, then turned to face Atsuta Shrine, pressed his palms together, and closed his eyes.
A moment later, he opened his eyes and said to the attendant, "Take this horse to Atsuta Shrine. Offer it to the Great God."
"My lord, this is your favourite horse…"
"The favourite horse for the most effective god—what's wrong with that?" Nobunaga laughed, mounted another horse, and rode on.
Behind him, the chestnut horse was led away and vanished into the night.
News of Imagawa Yoshimoto's death spread like wildfire, reaching every corner of the Tōkaidō in a single night.
After the rout of the Imagawa army, its commanders scattered. Those samurai who had followed Yoshimoto all the way from Mikawa, Tōtōmi, and Suruga—some had fallen at Okehazama, some fled back to their homelands, and some went over to other daimyō.
The first to learn of Yoshimoto's death was Matsudaira Motoyasu, who was resting his troops in Ōtaka Castle. He had entered Ōtaka from Marune according to Yoshimoto's orders and was counting the spoils when a blood soaked fugitive staggered into the castle, threw himself at Motoyasu's feet, and wailed, "Lord Motoyasu! Lord Imagawa—Lord Imagawa was attacked by the Oda at Okehazama… he has fallen in battle!"
The sword in Matsudaira Motoyasu's hand clattered to the ground.
He stood stunned for a long time, his expression shifting repeatedly. He was eighteen years old, full of youthful vigour, yet at this moment his face showed a composure and calmness beyond his years. He did not panic, did not weep. He was silent for a moment, then said quietly, "Pack up. Withdraw to Okazaki."
Matsudaira Motoyasu led his remaining men out of Ōtaka Castle that night and slipped back to Okazaki Castle in Mikawa. Okazaki was the old Matsudaira domain, where his grandfather and father had once lived, but now it was a ruin—its walls dilapidated, its population sparse. Motoyasu moved into Okazaki Castle with his remnants, beginning his difficult path of self reliance in the chaos.
Okabe Motonobu, on the other hand, did not retreat.
Okabe was a fierce general of the Imagawa, holding Narumi Castle. When he heard of Yoshimoto's death, instead of withdrawing he strengthened his defences, determined to fight to the end. He told his soldiers, "Our lord is dead. I, Okabe Motonobu, cannot flee alone. Either the Oda kill me, or I avenge our lord. There is no third way."
Narumi Castle became the last Imagawa stronghold in Owari.
Oda Nobunaga sent a messenger to persuade Okabe to withdraw. The messenger read Nobunaga's letter aloud beneath the castle walls: "Lord Okabe, Imagawa Yoshimoto is dead, and the Imagawa cause is lost. What is the point of holding this isolated castle? Withdraw to your home province and save your life. I, Oda Nobunaga, respect you as a true man and would not like to see you throw your life away."
On the castle tower, Okabe listened in silence.
Not long afterwards, an order from the Imagawa themselves arrived from Sunpu Castle. Imagawa Ujizane—Yoshimoto's legitimate son and the new head of the Imagawa—wrote: "Narumi Castle is isolated in enemy territory and cannot be held for long. Lord Okabe, withdraw your force to Suruga. Do not sacrifice yourselves in vain."
Okabe Motonobu read Ujizane's letter and sighed deeply.
At last, he opened the castle gate.
But before pulling out, he sent a messenger to Oda Nobunaga with a request—a somewhat unexpected request.
"What does Lord Okabe request?" Nobunaga raised his eyebrows when he heard the messenger's words.
The messenger bowed. "Lord Okabe says that the head of Lord Imagawa is now displayed outside Kiyosu Castle. He wishes to recover his lord's head and take it back to Suruga to be properly buried. This is… as a retainer, the last service he can perform for his lord."
Nobunaga was silent for a moment.
He walked to the window and pushed it open. Outside Kiyosu Castle, on the square, the head of Imagawa Yoshimoto hung high from a tree branch. After several days of wind and sun, the features had grown indistinct, but the red bird helmet still glittered in the sunlight.
"Okabe Motonobu…" Nobunaga murmured the name, remembering the several times he had tried and failed to take Narumi Castle. A fierce warrior indeed, a true man.
"Granted," Nobunaga said. "Give Okabe Motonobu the head of Imagawa Yoshimoto."
His retainers were astonished. "My lord! The head of Imagawa Yoshimoto is our greatest trophy! How can we give it to the enemy?"
Nobunaga turned to look at them and said calmly, "Imagawa Yoshimoto is dead. That head is of no further use. For Okabe Motonobu to go to such lengths is not easy. I respect him as a true man. Give him the head and let him bury it properly."
The retainers exchanged glances, but in the end they complied.
Nobunaga did something else that surprised everyone—he sent ten monks together with Yoshimoto's head to Suruga. These monks were to chant funeral sutras for Imagawa Yoshimoto, as a sign of Oda Nobunaga's respect for his fallen opponent.
"When a man is dead, enmity dies with him," Nobunaga said to a close attendant. "Imagawa Yoshimoto was an enemy, but after all, he was a hero of his age. Having a few sutras chanted for a hero's soul is no disgrace."
When Okabe Motonobu received the head, his hands trembled and tears streamed down his face. He knelt before the head, bowed three times reverently, then carefully placed it in a wooden box and led his remaining men back to Suruga Province.
At Sunpu Castle, Imagawa Ujizane personally welcomed Okabe's return. When Ujizane saw his father's head, he wept loudly, heart rendingly. He lavished rewards on Okabe Motonobu, granting him lands and promotion, praising him as "the first loyal retainer of the Imagawa."
But as Okabe knelt before Ujizane, his heart was cold. He knew that the glory of the Imagawa had ended with the death of Imagawa Yoshimoto, never to return.
The death of Imagawa Yoshimoto was like a great stone thrown into a still lake, sending out waves that would not cease.
After Imagawa Ujizane took charge, the situation rapidly deteriorated. Ujizane was not a bad man, but he was mediocre in ability and none too clever. He inherited his father's position at the age of twenty three—an age when he should have been striving to grow—but he had neither his father's great talent nor his father's diplomatic skills. He was careless with government affairs, inconsistent in rewarding and punishing his retainers. Among the generals who had fought so desperately at Okehazama, some received generous rewards, some meagre ones, and some were ignored entirely.
What was even more disheartening was Ujizane's volatile temper. One day he would think you loyal; the next he would inexplicably suspect you of treason. He had around him a host of capable men—Okabe Motonobu, Asahina Yasuyuki, Katsuraya Nobusada, all seasoned warriors—but Ujizane trusted none of them, preferring instead a few flattering sycophants. When his retainers remonstrated, he would not listen; sometimes he flew into a rage and drove the remonstrator out of Sunpu.
Matsudaira Motoyasu, in Okazaki Castle, heard of these things and wrote several letters to Ujizane, urging him to reform internal affairs, employ loyal ministers, unify people's hearts, and wait for the chance to avenge his father. But his letters vanished like stones dropped into the sea, never receiving a serious response.
"The Imagawa are finished," Matsudaira Motoyasu said as he set down his brush and sighed deeply. He glanced at the carefully written remonstrance on his desk, but in the end, he did not send it.
He decided to place no more hope in the Imagawa.
Matsudaira Motoyasu began, in his own name, to contact the former Matsudaira retainers scattered across Mikawa. When those old vassals heard that the young Matsudaira lord had returned, they came flocking to him. Some were tired of the Imagawa's constant changes of orders; some were frightened by Oda Nobunaga's rise; some simply wanted a strong lord to serve. But whatever their reasons, they came.
Matsudaira Motoyasu welcomed them all equally. He attended diligently to governance, cared for the common people, and was fair in rewards and punishments. Before long, he had put Okazaki Castle in good order and stabilised the situation in Mikawa. His power grew day by day, like spring vegetation shooting up silently.
Those lords who had once served the Imagawa now turned to the Takeda, the Hōjō, the Oda, or—many of them—to Matsudaira Motoyasu. They could see clearly: Imagawa Ujizane could not be relied upon, but Matsudaira Motoyasu, this eighteen year old, was a true rising star.
Not long afterwards, Matsudaira Motoyasu changed his name to Tokugawa Ieyasu.
But that was later.
The summer after the Battle of Okehazama, the skies over Owari were exceptionally clear. The rice in the fields outside Kiyosu Castle was beginning to turn golden; the autumn harvest was in sight. The farmers worked in the ridges, occasionally looking up at the castle flying the "Eiraku Tsūhō" banner.
The lord of that castle, Oda Nobunaga, stood at the highest point of the tenshu. In his hand he held a folding fan, which he waved slowly. His gaze passed over the fields beyond the castle, over the distant mountains, toward the far west.
There lay Kyōto.
There lay his next target.
Imagawa Yoshimoto had fallen, but the realm was far from pacified. The Saitō of Mino had not yet submitted, the Rokkaku of Ōmi were still watching, and the Miyoshi of the capital region were eyeing the situation hungrily. Ahead lay more enemies, more battles, more blood waiting for him.
But at least for this moment, he could breathe a little easier.
Oda Nobunaga closed his folding fan, tapped it lightly twice on his palm, and the corners of his mouth lifted.
"Imagawa Yoshimoto," he said quietly, as if speaking to a departing enemy, "you lost your head at Okehazama, and you didn't die unjustly. Rest assured—I will walk the rest of your road for you."
Outside the window, the summer breeze swept over the rice paddies, raising waves of green. The sound of cicadas came from afar, noisy and passionate, as if the whole summer was cheering for this great victory.