As he observes the Chosokabe army spread out across the plain, advancing slowly but irresistably towards them like a black tidal wave, he thought of the number of times when he put his enemies in just such a position. Cornered, outnumbered and helpless, like prey beneath the paw of the tiger. For this, he was known as the Tiger of Kyushu. And now, here he was - a tiger caught in a trap.
For days Mori Takamoto, and the wounded survivors of his army, sought to evade the pursuing Chosokabe. But the plains offered them no shelter and the Chosokabe knew their country well. They were never out of sight of the Chosokabe outriders. They pressed on desparately toward the beaches where their fleet waited to bring them to safety, until, eventually, exhaustion forced them to stop.
His men begged him to go on without them but Takamoto refused to abandon them. And it is thus that the Chosokabe find them on the edge of a corpse without hope and without strength.
That morning, Mori Takamoto gathered his men about him and he sat down in their midst like a school teacher giving a lesson. Many of the men were not samurai, so he spoke to them about the code of Bushido and the honour of the samurai. He said that any man who stands by him on that day will be a samurai of the highest order, and he will remember him and honour him in the afterlife. They listened to all this with blank faces, emotionless. Yet here they all are, no one abandoned him.
As the fiery arrows of the Chosokabe engulf his men in flames, he thinks of his son and heir, Mori Sanemune, and how fearlessly he rode under the rain of arrows at the Battle of Higa. He knows that the Mori legacy will be safe in his hands.
On his left, he sees a company of Chosokabe yari cavalry detach from the main body and charge straight at him, their spear points glinting in the sunlight. Which one of these spearpoints, he wondered, will run him through?
~ ~ ~
When the 21 year old Mori Sanemune received news that his father was slain at Battle of Aso, and that he was now Daimyo of the Mori and master of 11 provinces, he gulped, took a deep breath, and then formally acknowledged the obeisance of the retainers gathered around him.
He was still too young, and his mind too tender, to be fully conscious of the political dimensions of life. But already tendrils of suspicion grew in his mind as he heard the account of how his uncle abandoned his father at Imabari to chase after a phantom Chosokabe army. As he gazed upon the severed head of the metsuke who had made that false report, he thought, the head of a lowly metsuke is hardly sufficient recompense for the life of a daimyo.
But for the moment, Mori Motoharu was in Shikkoku with the largest army the Mori possessed. Let him finish his work in Shikkoku, Sanemune thought, there will be time for questions later.
~ ~ ~
When told of the death of Mori Takamoto, his brother, Motoharu sank to his knees before a tall Gampi tree and bawled like a baby. His captains looked at each another awkwardly, no one daring to venture to console him.
~ ~ ~
Daimyo Tamehisa of the Chosokabe looked at the box sitting on the table before him. Already, he knew what was in it. He looked around the room at the excited faces of his gathered kinsmen and retainers, then he lifted the lid and saw the pale, blood stained head of Mori Takamoto. Some cheered, others, perhaps remembering that fateful battle of Takamatsu where so many clansmen were slain by the Mori, wept. How many times had he dreamed of this moment, and yet he felt no elation now as he looked upon the severed head of his slain arch enemy, only emptiness.
I died at the hands of lesser men, the head of Mori Takamoto seemed to say to him, and your demise will not be long in coming, my dear enemy.
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