A Time Traveller's Guide To Feudal Japan

He drew his blade from his scabbard, alone now. He took great interest in his reflection that looked so grimly back. He tested its edge, drawing blood from his thumb. The wound evoked more interest than it did pain. He was armoured, fully. Not for the purpose of battle. At least, not yet.

Men were needed, he knew that much. But to win the hearts of so many people when the stakes were so high. He hoped with all his heart that he retained that ability. Confidence was all well and good, but things had been flowing so smoothly lately, that he could not help but expect an unexpected rock along the river.

"Tadakata?" Akiko called from outside his door. They were all ready. He’d eaten with them, and shared their humour. They all placed their trust in him. So heavily it weighed, but the warmth of it was undeniable. Like a mild blanket of tempered lava.

She too was dressed, as he emerged, sporting that black armour. She wore it so well, and evidently took care of it. The black leather had been polished so that it shone like a mirror. A man would not spend too long complimenting the armour, when they beheld the face that was adorned in it. How lucky he was to have her.

He wore the same black armour as them, as per their insistence. Despite his strength, they worried that the enemy would target him specifically, and pursue victory by that route.

"Here." He announced with a characteristic smile, departing from his newly captured castle, and heading out towards his men.

Fifty of them were gathered, all of them mounted. The mon of the Miura clan flew high from their five flag bearers. It was unlikely that those that would look upon it would recognise it, but they would learn to. That was all he could promise.

"All ready?" Jikouji asked, holding a flag of his own, a proud look on his face, youthful despite his grey hair and wrinkles.

"Ready." He agreed, unusually solemn.

"Yah!" They lead by the front. He was a Daimyo now. They insisted he sit in the centre. He obeyed, for now at least. His was not the disposition suitable to play the protected leader, and it did not seem likely that he would obey for long.

They rode for a time, under the bright sun. Months had passed, but it still shone just as powerfully. The sound of their beating hooves was murderously imposing. One could not hear such a sound and feel completely at ease. Even a hardened warrior would loosen his sword. It seeped into your blood, the result of many battles. It altered every single thing about you. It was not something a man could fake, nor was it something he could control.

With each bound, their horses leapt high, and they were cast up with it, and then they would come clattering to the saddle, their sixty-five pounds worth of equipment falling along with them, its noise rhythmic after a while.

There was a serious tone in the air. No one had expressed what kind of pace they should set, and so they ended up galloping, all out, their horses opening their mouths wide, negotiating with the bit, gasping for what air they could. Their salvia foamed and fell back against their sweaty sides, tickling the feet that swung there.

An authoritative dispatchment if there ever was one. They cut through the grassy plains, carefully avoiding the rice fields and their young shoots. It would not be long till their white gold could be harvested.

In that silence, their thoughts were not quiet, and their expressions reflected that kind of seriousness. Their route was something preorganised, and they headed to the village nearest them. What would they tell the people, when they rode in, so high and mighty on their stallions? How would they convince them that they were of the same field as they? That they had been nourished under the same conditions? It would be difficult to believe.

It came into view. A lone village in the centre of endless grassy plains. The land was not especially fertile here, but nor was it meagre. It was enough. Enough to survive. A hard life, perhaps, as was always the case for peasants.

People are not honest. By and large. The ability to lie is difficult to deal with. The morality of it not concerning a ruler. By law, peasants were required to go to war at the order of the Daimyo. That was not to say that every man did. In each village, there was a hierarchy, and in exchange for a certain fee, it was as though certain farms did not exist. They would pay their landholder rather than the Lord himself.

There were simply not enough resources to ensure that every man did what he was meant to do. Not when a Daimyo was so focused with his eyes set upon other promises, and more land, so that he did not spare the manpower to consolidate that which he already owned.

This well-known fact was the reason they still dared to hope that they might be able to glean some more men, despite the continual calls for enlistment in the recent times.

They plunged down the village roads, right into the heart of the village itself, where the majority of the houses were cl.u.s.tered, though there was a fair space between them. Looking upon them, the men could not help but reminded of their own homes, and the village which they came from.

There were already numerous eyes on them. Fearful eyes. Aggressive ones amongst them. Men with swords by their waists. Men charged with protecting the people.

Jikouji was the first to dismount, taking the lead. He held his flag high, making contact with all the people as he plunged it into the earth, embedding it into the soft soil. It stayed there, even as he moved away from it.

"Behold, Miura Tadakata, Daimyo of Mikawa province!" His voice reached all corners of their little settlement. More people began to gather. They had seen them ride in as they worked the fields, and they chased after them, fearful that they had come to seize their homes. They held their hoes anxiously and breathlessly, looking from the old man, following that gloved finger with which he pointed.

His words were met with silence, as a single man – a scruffy beard at his neck, and a bald spot dominating his head – leaned against the side of a building, loudly cleared his throat, and spat the fluid out onto the floor. "The f.u.c.k’s a Miura? The Daimyo’s Imagawa. If you could all kindly f.u.c.k off, we’re getting back to work. We’ve got a collapsed field wall to deal with, and you f.u.c.kers aren’t helping."

There were murmurs of agreement from amongst the people. Gengyo sat upon his horse, observing. A little boy stood in front of his mother, her hands placed on his shoulders protectively. He stared up at Gengyo, unflinchingly, as the man returned his gaze. He seemed more curious than anything else. There was no fear or aggression there. Just the questioning gaze of a youth observing the world.

Tensions were rising. They knew their leader to be a great man. To disrespect him so directly – that was unforgiveable. Mounted men loosened their jaws, and prepared to retort, venom tainting their tongues. Their swords were loosened along with them. Examples should be made, they felt. They did not climb all the way up here to be spoken to as such by such lowly folk.

Inside Gengyo’s head was a reverberating silence and stillness. Truly the observer. His mimicked the young boy’s disposition, and in that disconnection, it became painfully apparent that by the way things were going, they would not be heading in a productive direction.

He removed his helmet. He wanted them to see his face in its entirety. He dismounted his horse, placing his hand on Jikouji’s shoulder to still his words before anything broke out.

His foot sank deeply into the wet mud, but he plunged forward, ignoring the various puddles that intruded upon his feet.

Slowly, but surely, he drew his sword, allowing all to gaze upon it. As one might expect, it was interpreted as an aggressive gesture, and the people stepped back despite themselves, or at least shrank slightly. They were under no illusions. No matter how many of them there were, they wouldn’t stand a chance against a dispatchment of fifty mounted, armoured and experienced warriors. It would be cowardly, but it would not be unheard of.

Despite their expectations, he brought the sword high, and plunged it into the earth. With the power of his thrust, it was embedded halfway up the blade.

A deep breath, and then he spoke.