For me, crowds are scarier than battlefields. On a battlefield, the enemy is in front of you. But in a crowd, you can't tell where the enemy is. The man bowing his head right next to you—who's to say he doesn't have a blade tucked in his robe?
On the morning of the funeral, the grounds of Bansho-ji were packed with people. Never in my life had I seen so many people at once.
Monks. Senior retainers. Local lords from the neighboring lands. Mourners whose names I didn't even know. Hundreds—no, more than that? A dark mass of heads filled the space before the hall like waves.
It was a sea of people.
At the entrance, my legs froze.
"My lord. You are the chief mourner. Please, go before them."
Urged on by a retainer, I was pushed out into that sea. With every step, countless eyes gathered on me.
So that's the Great Fool we've heard about. That's who's succeeding Lord Nobuhide? How pitiful. This is the end of the Oda. Even without saying it aloud, their eyes said so.
My breath went shallow. There were people behind me. Beside me, in front of me. No way out. Whichever way I turned, people, people, people. Any one of them could attack me at any moment, and it wouldn't be strange. The thought set my heart leaping around inside my ribs.
Cold sweat ran down my back. Not just one trickle. It seeped out all over my body, clammy. I could feel myself getting soaked under my mourning clothes.
Calm down.
I told myself.
These are mourners. People who've come to grieve for Father. No one's come here to kill you. In my head, yes, I knew that. But my body wouldn't listen.
The presence of people pricks me like a bed of needles. Hundreds of people all looking at me at once—the weight of that alone was enough to crush me. My knees began to buckle. My teeth wouldn't stop chattering.
I clenched my back teeth desperately. They mustn't see me shaking. If word got out that the chief mourner had been shaking like a leaf at his own father's funeral, that really would disgrace the Oda name. So, to choke down the shaking, I kept my face, at least, rigid. Furrowed my brow, pressed my lips tight, and just glared straight ahead.
I was so scared it was all I could do.
But then.
I happened to hear one of the senior retainers, looking at that face of mine, whisper to the man beside him:
"...Behold. Amid so great a gathering, he does not so much as twitch an eyebrow, but stands composed. Any ordinary young lord would be overawed, and rightly so."
"Indeed. I had scorned him as a Great Fool... but that gaze, glinting from the depths. Even having lost his father, he is not shaken in the least. He may be no ordinary man."
No.
That's not it.
I'm not standing composed at all. I'm so shaken, shaking so hard, that my face has frozen solid. That's all. I want to escape this sea right now and shut myself up in a room with the doors closed. That's the only thing I'm thinking.
So why does it turn out like this? Why does my utmost terror turn into "a gaze glinting from the depths"?
I held back the urge to scream.
Just then, the monks' low chanting of the sutras began. Incense smoke rose, wavering. And the attendant in charge stepped forward before me and announced:
"My lord. It is time for offering incense."
Here it was. My turn.
Before my father's memorial tablet. Into the very center, where everyone was watching, I was to step forward and take a pinch of powdered incense. Hundreds of eyes were now fixed on me alone.
On unsteady feet, I took one step forward.