Genpei

by Kara Dalkey

  Therefore, Toba became the Cloistered Zenjō Emperor Toba, also called Toba-In, and he shaved his head and put on the drab robes of a monk. He moved out of the Imperial palace into a mansion of his own. All the attention of the Fujiwara was then directed to the new child Emperor, Sutoku.

  But Toba-In did not, in any way, give up interest in worldly matters. He surrounded himself with his most trusted advisors, some of whom were junior members of the Fujiwara clan itself who were also unhappy with Fujiwara control, and created a new government separate from the Imperial palace. Without the burdens of ceremonial duties, Toba-In could devote his attention fully to political matters. Toba-In refused to relinquish the right to give promotions to whomever he chose, and thereby slowly filled the government with those who obeyed him instead of the Fujiwara Regent of his son. Because the person and law of the Emperor, even a former Emperor, were sacred, there was nothing the Fujiwara could do to stop him.

  But Toba-In made a mistake. Truly it is said in the sutras that the desires of this world are man’s downfall, and here we see that it is so. For Toba-In had a mistress that he doted on, Bifikumon, and sixteen years after Toba-In’s retirement, she presented him with a son. So besotted with this new son was Toba-In that, even though there had been no fault in the reign of his first son, Sutoku, Toba-In arranged to have Sutoku forced into retirement himself at the age of twenty-two and the new son, who eventually was named Konoe, placed upon the Jeweled Throne at the age of three.

  Again, the Senior Council of Nobles was shocked. Rumors spread that Toba-In had been unhappy with Sutoku, believing that the boy was not truly his child. Again the council was forced to search the annals of history for precedent. Toba-In made sure that precedent was found, amid the tales of the ancient kings of China. Again, there was nothing the council could do, and so Konoe, barely able to speak, was set upon the throne.

  Sutoku, on the other hand, who became known as the New Retired Emperor, or the Shin-In, was still young, in the very prime of life. He found himself set adrift, dismissed and discarded by his father, whispered about by the people, no longer needed by his kingdom. The Shin-In felt no calling to holy orders, and he knew his rule had been moderate and fair. What was he to do? Remember him well, listener, for his decision forms a cornerstone of the Genpei War.

  Tall Clogs

  As for young Lord Kiyomori, all began to come to pass as Benzaiten had foreseen. His father Tadamori and he had served the Imperial Throne in rebuffing riots caused by the monks of the temples of Ninna-ji and Mount Hiei, and the government saw that they were well rewarded for this. At age twenty-five, two years after Konoe came to the throne, Kiyomori was made Chief of the Central Office, a governmental post, which required him to have residence in the capital city of Heian Kyō. Kiyomori began to build a mansion to the southeast of the capital. A few years before, a fine bridge, named Gojō, had been built to better serve the road south to Kiyomizu Temple. It was near this bridge that Kiyomori had grasses cut and hillocks leveled to have his great house built, which he named Rokuhara.

  So proud Kiyomori became of his accomplishments and the good fortune of his clan, that he began to wear wooden clog shoes with taller supports than those worn by most others, and thus he earned the nickname Koheda. He would not allow any to speak ill of the Taira within his hearing, and any who did could soon expect a thrashing from Kiyomori or one of his retainers.

  Tokiko, by that time, had borne him three sons, who would come to be called Shigemori, Motomori, and Munemori. As promised, she began to train them from a very early age in the ancient arts of poetry and flute playing, and how to properly dress and speak. She even taught Kiyomori, though he was a reluctant pupil at best. It was remarked upon by senior members of the Taira clan that Kiyomori seemed to pay too much attention and deference to his wife—an eccentric thing in a Taira. But Kiyomori told no one of Tokiko’s true origins, and had sworn those of his men who had been at Miyajima to secrecy. Instead it was said she was a younger daughter of a once-noble but now much-fallen family, and this explanation satisfied most of the curious.

  At the age of twenty-seven, Kiyomori was made Governor of Aki Province. Unlike most who received a provincial governor’s post, however, Kiyomori was not merely content to stay in the capital and collect the income from taxes. He went to the maritime province itself and worked to improve the harbors and encouraged trade with foreign kingdoms, especially the mighty land of China to the east. This was thought eccentric as well until it was noted how much wealth this brought to Aki Province, which only increased the Taira fortunes further. It was clear that the Taira were able to improve shipping by keeping the pirates and brigands at bay. It was not understood how those merchants favored by the Taira always managed to have good winds and smooth waters whenever they passed through the Inland Sea.

  Lord Kiyomori gave no more thought to the promise he had made to Tokiko, to return the sword Kusanagi to Ryujin. After all, there was nothing he could do about it until he was closer to those of the highest circles of government. Even though he was a lord of Fourth Rank, Kiyomori still was not permitted to sit in the Imperial Presence, or even to enter any building in the Imperial Compound without the express permission of some higher-ranked nobleman. So he contented himself with amassing wealth and leading the occasional attack upon pirates or rebellious monks in the name of the Emperor.

  And before long, all in the land marveled at the increasing success of the Ise Taira, and how Lord Kiyomori’s fortunes seemed to rise faster than the ascent of a startled bird.

  A Flight of White Doves

  The very year Kiyomori was made Governor of Aki Province, a son was born to the great general and head of the Minomoto clan, Yoshitomo. When the boy turned four, Yoshitomo brought this youngest son to the shrine of their clan kami. Like the Taira, the Minomoto were powerful warriors of the provinces, possessing many shōen. They, too, sought increased power in the capital, fighting brigands and insurgents for the Emperor and nobility, earning the nickname of “the teeth and claws of the Fujiwara.” The Minomoto traced their lineage back to the Emperor Seiwa, who had ruled three centuries before, and therefore the main line of their clan was known as the Seiwa Genji. But unlike the Taira, who honored the goddess of fortune Benzaiten, the Minomoto worshiped the kami Hachiman, the god of war.

  Yoshitomo brought his son to the Grand Shrine of Hachiman at Tsurugaoka, the Hill of Cranes, near the seaside village of Kamakura. At first the little boy was frightened by the great pillars hung with billowing ghost-white banners, the stone koma-inu lion-dogs who guarded the stairs leading up to the main shrine, and most especially by the fearsome image of Hachiman himself. Inside the shrine, the gilded wooden statue of the god scowled down from atop his great wooden warhorse, as if saying “prove yourself to me, unworthy one.”

  When he saw the kami’s image, the boy whined as if about to cry and pulled back on his father’s sleeve, wanting to leave. But General Yoshitomo crouched beside the boy, and said, “Do not be afraid. Hachiman is our clan guardian and he watches over us. He was once a man, a great man … an Emperor known as Ōjin. He was the son of Empress Jingo, she who defeated the Koreans and brought back for us the sacred Jewel of the Sea. These are the same Sacred Jewel our Emperor now has in his care, and it is said the gem can control the tides and great armies of fishes.

  “So great was Emperor Ōjin that he was made a kami when he died. Our clan banner is white because his sacred color is white. So you see, there is no reason to fear him. Rather honor him, and promise to him that you will become a great warrior to make him and me proud.”

  The boy listened with great seriousness to all his father told him, then turned to face the statue. He bowed to it, and said, “I promise. I will be a great warrior.”

  General Yoshitomo grinned and rubbed his son’s head. “That is good. That is the way to be.” Then Yoshitomo himself bowed and left offerings of rice, and he had the priests write prayer tags, asking Hachiman to bless his son and give him good fortune in
battle.

  As the general and his son were leaving the shrine, the little boy, filled with childhood spirit, ran ahead of his father down the the stone path. Just as he came to the high torii gate leading out of the shrine, a great flock of white doves burst out of the nearby gingko trees. The flock seemed endless, wings filling the sky like a rippling banner of white as they flew off toward the east, though a few flew to the north.

  But as Yoshitomo caught up to his son, the direction of the doves’ flight abruptly changed to the north, with some flying to the northwest. Father and son watched this display together with awe.

  The shrine priests, resplendent in their long pure white garments and tall black hats, came running into the courtyard and stared up in amazement at the sky, pointing and exclaiming to one another. They shouted to Yoshitomo and his son to wait while they discussed the extraordinary event, for surely it could only be an omen of great import.

  “Most significant is the direction in which the doves flew,” the high priest explained. “For when your son was at the torii, the birds flew in the direction that indicates great power and leadership, the dragon strong upon the mountain, and this can only indicate good fortune. Yet some of the flock flew to the north, which is a more troubling direction.

  “When you reached the torii, Lord Yoshitomo, the birds flight changed entirely to the north. This is the way of difficulty and cold spirits and darkness—the tiger lurking by the river. We interpret these signs thus: for the son, great power but there will be danger; for the father, success but at great cost.”

  General Yoshitomo nodded gravely. “I will take what you say to heart. I will send more offerings to this shrine regularly, so that Hachiman will see fit to guide my son and me. And I will keep my son near me, and teach him all that I know.”

  “May good fortune follow you both,” said the priests, and they all bowed as one to Yoshitomo and his son.

  The general took the hand of his son, who was to become known as Yoritomo, and led him out of the shrine. Though we will not speak of this boy again for some while, remember his name, too. Yoritomo. For he, too, will make a decision that will turn the tide of history.

  Scroll 2

  Hōgen and Heiji

  Winter Smoke

  The warmth radiating from the fire of the funeral pyre was strangely welcome to Lord Kiyomori. It was the only warmth in the air. A last gift from his father.

  It was the First Month of the third year of the era Ninpei. Kiyomori’s father, Tadamori, had died after a brief illness. Now Kiyomori would become Chief of the Taira clan at thirty-five years old. He held his robes tight around himself to ward off the biting winter cold.

  Though he would greatly miss his father, Kiyomori dared not shed a tear or moan. He knew he was being watched closely by others of his clan, particularly his brothers Tadanori, Norimori, and Tsunemori. And his uncle, Tadamasa, who had never truly approved of Kiyomori, given the rumors that Kiyomori was not of Taira blood at all, but an Emperor’s castaway bastard. He felt their chill, appraising gazes upon him even as he watched the fire burn. Kiyomori dared not show any sign of weakness. No one had yet challenged his right to become Chief of the Taira, and Kiyomori intended to keep it that way.

  Kiyomori had even instructed his eldest son, Shigemori, to display no emotion. But as Kiyomori gazed down on his fifteen-year-old son’s impassive face, he knew he need not have worried. Already many were remarking on how accomplished and poised the boy was. Although, to Kiyomori’s dismay, Shigemori was more adept at reciting history and poetry and Buddhist sutras than he was at the arts of the sword and the horse.

  The chanting of the Buddhist monks made the hair on the back of Kiyomori’s neck stand on end. He watched the smoke rise into the dark winter sky, wishing he could call it back, wishing he could still consult his father’s wisdom. Though by blood, he might be the son of an Emperor, Kiyomori still considered Tadamori his true father. Fondly he remembered Tadamori’s squat, squint-eyed, ugly face as his father patiently taught him how to fire a bow and arrow from a rocking ship’s deck, how to put on armor correctly, how to ride a horse, how to be a leader of men. The last would be most important in days to come.

  How I wish you had lived long enough to see the fruition of the Dragon King’s promise. To see your constant humiliation by the nobles at court avenged. You did not believe me when I told you of the prophecies of my destiny. Now I wonder if it will even come true. Can I become grandfather to an Emperor without your guidance?

  As the chanting ended and the ashes were gathered for burial, Kiyomori turned away and walked back with Shigemori toward the ox-carriage where his wife Tokiko and his other children awaited him. Kiyomori’s high clogs kept the snow from drifting over his swaddled feet, for now.

  Rotting Fruit

  Two years after Lord Kiyomori became leader of the Taira clan, in the autumn of the second year of the era Kyūju, a great calamity befell the country. The Emperor Konoe, beloved son of Cloistered Emperor Toba-In, fell ill, became blind, and then died at the age of seventeen.

  Even for those times, it was a very young age at which to depart this world, and there were whispers that the death was unnatural. Rumors spread that Konoe was killed by a curse. It was said that the image of the Tengu Demon at the shrine on Mount Atago had had spikes driven into its eyes. Could that not be the cause of the poor Emperor’s blindness? It was not unknown for those with wealth and thwarted ambitions to pay a monk or priest to beseech higher powers to bring misfortune upon another. But who would do such an evil deed? Perhaps it was to be expected that suspicion fell upon the displaced first son, the Shin-In.

  In truth, the Shin-In had done no such thing. Now thirty-six years of age, the Shin-In had spent the years since his dethronement in quiet seclusion in the East Sanjō Palace, raising a family, dabbling in music, philosophy, and poetry, though excelling in none of them. After learning of Konoe’s death, the Shin-In sat on the verandah of his small palace and watched the falling gold gingko leaves in the garden with the same melancholy as any other subject of the Emperor.

  “Even the brightest ones fall,” said an advisor, sitting beside him.

  “Even they,” the Shin-In agreed.

  “Yet even cold winter brings hope of a following spring.”

  The Shin-In sighed. “And another winter to follow that spring. More sorrow to follow hope. What of it?”

  “Your Retired Majesty does not understand. Misfortune to one may bring good fortune to another. It is unfortunate, is it not, that Konoe left no heir?”

  The Shin-In turned and frowned at the advisor. He was a modest, shriveled little monk of the sort that always seemed to attach themselves to members of the Imperial Court, earning their keep by being clever or seeming wise, able to quote Buddhist scriptures at the appropriate times. The Shin-In had even forgotten this one’s name. “Whatever might you be implying? I cannot become Emperor again. No man has ruled on the Jeweled Throne twice. There is no precedent for such a thing.”

  The little monk bowed. “Forgive me if I mispresent myself, Majesty. I meant no such thing. But … there is your son, Shigehito.”

  “Yes. But my father Toba-In has other sons whom he will surely prefer over any of my lineage. I wish I knew why he despises me so.”

  “There can be so many misunderstandings between offspring and parent, Majesty. Perhaps it is not that he hates you so, but that he loves his concubine the more, and therefore favors her children.”

  “Perhaps. There are those who say his concubine is the one spreading the rumors that it was I who cursed Konoe to death.”

  “Rumors build on rumors, Majesty. Who can say which are true? Of course, it does not help that Bifikumon’in is, herself, ambitious. Perhaps Your Majesty has heard that she wishes one of her daughters to be made Empress.”

  “To marry some cousin prince, you mean?”

  “No, Majesty. To rule.”

  “What? There has been no woman on the Jeweled Throne for four centuries! That would be
completely unacceptable to the council.”

  “Precisely, Majesty. Such meddling in political affairs is, of course, unattractive in a woman. Because of her outrageous suggestions, your father may have difficulty entirely having his way in determining the succession.”

  The Shin-In narrowed his eyes and studied the little monk. His face and shaved head reminded the Shin-In of the capering demons carved in the lintels and doorways of various temples. Uncharitable of me, thought the Shin-In. It must be my mood.

  Any rise in the Shin-In’s fortunes would lift those of his advisors, retainers, and servants, of course. It was natural that this advisor would try to encourage ambition in him. But are there not times in history, the Shin-In reminded himself, when events hang in a scale so finely balanced that the slightest breath of wind might change who is up and who is down? It is true that at this time the succession is not clear, and if his concubine’s reputation makes my father’s choice unpopular …

  A breeze blew in from the garden, redolent with the odor of the fallen gingko fruit, which had begun to rot. The Shin-In wrinkled his nose and waved his fan energetically before his face. “I must find someone to clear away that stinking mess,” he muttered.

  “Majesty?” asked the monk, eagerly.

  “I meant the gingko berries.” The Shin-In gathered his robes of vermilion brocade silk around him and stood to go in search of more pleasant-smelling quarters.

  “Ah. I had misunderstood.”

  The Shin-In paused. And then spoke softly, almost to himself, “Nevertheless, it might be helpful, to all concerned, if I could learn who would support my cause if matters with my father became … difficult. Though I have left the throne, it is still my duty to look after the peace and well-being of my people, neh? It would be remiss of me to allow discord to come to Heian Kyō. A list of loyal and valiant men would be valuable, in such circumstances, don’t you think?”