Genpei

by Kara Dalkey

  Kiyomori smiled. “News that could not wait until I had returned?”

  “I did not know you were already on your way. But listen, we have captured Yoshitomo’s eldest son, Akugenda Yoshihira.”

  “This is good news indeed.” To have captured the Ason, the heir of the Minomoto clan, meant fewer worries of a Minomoto uprising in the Eastern Provinces. “Was he found on the Tōkkaidō?”

  “No, Father. He has been in the capital quite a while, apparently. He was in disguise and attempting to spy on Rokuhara when we found him.”

  “What have you done with him?”

  Shigemori’s face became more solemn. “Because the Council has put a sentence of death upon him, we have taken Akugenda Yoshihira out to the riverbed. But when I heard you would be coming home today, I held off the execution. Would you like to interrogate him before we carry out the sentence?”

  Kiyomori paused, and then said, “Yes. It would be proper to let him speak his final words to me. He fought bravely and well, I am told, for his misguided father.”

  Kiyomori’s carriage followed Shigemori back to Rokuhara. He noted there seemed to be quite a crowd assembled nearby. When they passed into the main courtyard, Shigemori dismounted and gave his horse’s reins to a servant. Kiyomori got out of the carriage and followed Shigemori to the bank of the Kamo River on the north side of the Rokuhara compound.

  Akugenda Yoshihira was kneeling on the rocky bank, surrounded by Taira retainers. To Kiyomori, the Minomoto Ason looked very young and thin and pale. He remembered the brash young boy who had ridden with Yoshitomo at the Hōgen, the boy who spoke so excitedly about taking heads. And now it is his own head that will be taken. Kiyomori felt both pity and admiration for the young man whose life was soon to be cut short.

  Across the river, Kiyomori saw what the crowd was about. Many of Heian Kyō’s citizens were watching with anticipation. Are they here to see a traitor executed, or are they here to honor the son of a mighty general of a formidable family?

  “So. Akugenda Yoshihira,” Kiyomori said to him, and honored him with a slight bow.

  “So. Taira Kiyomori,” said Yoshihira, defiance in his eyes. “The great schemer. You who made my father kill my grandfather after the Hōgen. I regret only that I do not face you with a sword in my hands.”

  Kiyomori nodded, expecting no less. “You were the finest of your father’s generals, I have heard. Yet my son tells me you were easily caught just outside Rokuhara. What has brought you to this?”

  “Only that my fortune had reached its end, o Lord of the Taira. After we Minomoto had fled, I had become lost in the snowstorms on the mountains. As I did not know my father’s fate, I returned to Heian Kyō. I could have simply killed myself, but instead I hoped to fight to the death and take a few Taira with me. So I disguised myself and tried to get close to Rokuhara, but your watch was too strict, and I had become weak from exhaustion and lack of food. Only my desire to kill some of you has kept me alive. But I’m ill, and that made it easy for your lackeys to capture me. Had it not been for that, no one could have taken me.”

  “No one could accuse you of being without courage, Akugenda Yoshihira,” said Shigemori.

  Kiyomori wondered if his son Shigemori felt akin to Yoshihira, both being the heirs of great warrior clans. Certainly Kiyomori had felt that way at times toward Yoshitomo, though he never allowed such feeling to change his strategy.

  Akugenda Yoshihira blinked up at the bright sun in the sky, then gazed across the river at the spectators gathered there. “In times past, warriors put their enemies to death in the dark of night, so as not to shame them. Yet here I am, defeated and, in the full light of day, shamed. Therefore, let us finish quickly and let my last words be these. May curses fall upon those pale-faced court toadies who told me not to attack you at Abeno. Had I been permitted to carry out my plan, Lord Kiyomori, you and your son would have been long dead.

  “And let my curse fall upon you and your clan, Kiyomori-san. Now you see how the once mighty can fall, overnight. After I die, I shall become a demon like my uncle Tametomo, or the Shin-In. I will become a demon who can throw thunderbolts so that I might strike down each and every one of you. You shall be first, Lord Kiyomori, or”—he looked at Shigemori—“perhaps you. Enough. I will not babble just to live longer. Cut off my head, quickly!”

  He leaned forward, stretching out his neck.

  Shigemori drew Kogarasu from its sheath, and with a swift stroke it was done.

  There were audible gasps from the spectators across the river, and Kiyomori could hear sutras being chanted for the brave Yoshihira.

  As they were leaving the riverbank, Shigemori said, “It is a curious thing, Yoshihira’s final speech.”

  “Curious? How?” asked Kiyomori.

  “The curse he laid upon us.”

  “By now you should know that is nothing unusual, my son. Warriors often curse their enemies at their deaths. It is the last weapon they have.”

  “But he mentioned the Shin-In. Nobuyori, before his death, also spoke of the Shin-In. He said he had seen the former Emperor in dreams.”

  “What of that? What criminal would not prefer that his misdeeds be blamed upon demons? And blaming an Emperor who has turned himself into a demon is all that more impressive, neh? As for Akugenda Yoshihira, he was probably only hoping to frighten us, to seem brave at the last. Do I believe he will turn into a demon as well? Hah. All this talk of demons. Superstitious nonsense. It means nothing.”

  After a long pause Shigemori said, “My mother claims to be a daughter of the Dragon King of the Sea. Is this superstitious nonsense as well?”

  Kiyomori looked away and did not reply.

  Changing Winds

  Tokiko watched the sun rising over the hills to the east from the verandah of her quarters at Rokuhara. Already the kami known as the Lady of Mount Sano was weaving her tapestry of spring. The willows in the mansion gardens were bringing forth yellow-green leaves, and the scent of new-opened cherry blossoms drifted on the air. Spring was traditionally a time of joy, for many. But spring was a young woman’s season, and Tokiko was no longer young.

  She shifted within her voluminous brocade kimonos, feeling the looseness of her hips and the slight ache in her back, testimony to the fact that she had borne Kiyomori ten children. Tokiko reflected again on the odd bargain she had made with her father, the Dragon King. “Live as a mortal,” he had asked her, “marry a mortal and give him sons and daughters, and we may yet save mankind from its folly.”

  Tokiko had spent little time in the mortal realm before, and the stories that the drowned sailors and noblemen had brought to her father’s undersea palace had made her curious. So she had agreed. But there was much the sailors had not said, of sorrow and loss. For the sailors had not been women.

  A servant brought Tokiko morning green tea, and a bowl of onion broth with shredded daikon and some grains of rice. Tokiko could not miss the look of embarrassment and pity on the serving woman’s face, and Tokiko dismissed her quickly. Tokiko had no wish to be consoled into shame.

  The former mistress of the late general Yoshitomo, Tokiwa by name—and how Tokiko hated that similarity—had finally surrendered herself to the Taira in hopes of sparing her mother from torture and her sons from death. Surrendered herself in more ways than one. Kiyomori had gone to “interview” the woman and had stayed the entire night. Tokiko had heard the servants whispering as to Tokiwa’s beauty, how she had sweetly pleaded for the life of her three little boys, one of whom was still a suckling babe. The servants spoke of how Kiyomori was enraptured and promised the woman her sons would be saved. How it was natural that the man who was conqueror was entitled to the former possessions of the conquered.

  Tokiko was coldly enraged by what she had heard and therefore had not slept the entire night. Though she had never loved Kiyomori as the poems describe mortals who love, she had developed a strange fondness for him, a steadfast concern for his fate. Tokiko faced the spring dawn with aching eyes
and heavy heart. Her mind kept saying over and over, The fool. The fool!

  Kiyomori had had mistresses before, of course. Many of them. Tokiko had learned that older wives must accept these things. But this woman, this Tokiwa, was different.

  Tokiko remembered how her father, the Dragon King, had searched the mortal world of Nihon for a man with the cunning and strength and sheer pigheadedness to achieve what needed to be done. Every dragon that swam among the coastal rocks, every turtle and koi in ornamental ponds, every snake and worm slithering in rain puddles had been put to the task. And the answer had been sailing over their heads all along. It could be Taira Kiyomori and none other. And now all of Tokiko’s guidance and teaching, which had led the Great Kiyomori to the brink of being the powerful leader the kingdom needed, was to be rendered useless. By a woman. The irony was cold as a sword thrust through her gut.

  What more could I have done to prevent this? thought Tokiko. Even the hissing of the wind in the willow boughs seemed to chide her for her carelessness.

  “He must be ruthless,” Ryujin had counseled Tokiko. “You must see that Kiyomori follows the straight path, for only in that way will he gain command of the sword Kusanagi and be able to return it to us.” And so Tokiko had counseled Kiyomori, earning her many dark names among the Taira, although some respected her for her will of steel. It was a given, among the samurai, that the sons of your foe must not be spared, no matter how young. They must not be allowed to rise to wreak vengeance when they are older.

  But the boy Yoritomo had been found and taken to the Imperial Prison with all courtesy and kindness. He had not been brought to Rokuhara to be at the mercy of the Taira, Tokiko noted. Many nobles were already pleading with Kiyomori that Yoritomo be spared. Yoritomo was fourteen, and had fought beside his father! Surely an adolescent whose heirloom sword had tasted blood would dream of nothing but vengeance for his clan. And now the seductive concubine Tokiwa whored with Kiyomori in order to save three more of Yoshitomo’s sons. If Tokiwa were to succeed in softening Kiyomori’s heart … Tokiko had thrown the bones and observed the stars. She had spoken to the fish in the lotus pond. If Kiyomori changed, it would bring disaster.

  Tokiko had sent word to every servant that Kiyomori was to be requested to speak with her as soon as he would. But already the sun’s disc hovered above Otowoyama, and Kiyomori had not presented himself at her shōji. It was possible, Tokiko reflected, that he might not return to her at all.

  The destruction of the mortal realm would not extend to her, of course. When the time came, Tokiko would return to her father’s undersea palace, to be young again and still immortal. It made the aging of her earthly body easier to bear. But she had become fond of the beauty of Heian Kyō, the earnest striving of the mortal people against the most horrible tragedies of fate. Their poetic dreams, their enchanting gardens, their singing and dancing, had charmed Tokiko into caring about their future. She now understood why her father wished to save them. She could not abandon them just yet.

  Tokiko raised the bowl and sipped the onion broth. But it had turned cold and was no longer pleasing to the throat. Tokiko set the bowl aside and waited.

  The Wandering Monk

  Yoritomo sat calmly on the floor of his prison cell, sketching with charcoal on rice paper the design for a memorial stupa for his father. He expected he did not have long to live.

  He had done all he could to escape the Taira. He could not remain with the mountain monk for long without being discovered, so he had to wander from village to village, heading eastward, hoping to reach the Kantō. In one village, a family had taken him in, and fed and housed him for a time. Rumor soon arrived that the Taira were coming in search of him, and Yoritomo had exchanged his fine clothing for a plain cotton jacket and straw sandals. But Yoritomo would not give up the sword, Hagekiri, and that proved to be his undoing. As he had run up the road to evade the searchers, his sword caught in the bushes and the Taira had easily found him.

  Yoritomo did not try to deny who he was to his captors, for that seemed dishonorable. He allowed himself to be brought back to Heian Kyō to await his fate. Hachiman had guided him this far. If it was Hachiman’s will that he die beneath an Imperial sword in the capital city, then it would be so. Yoritomo chose to face it bravely and peacefully, so as not to bring shame to the Minomoto clan.

  But all of the samurai and noblemen who had brought Yoritomo to his cell had been very kind, even deferential. They spoke highly of his father, praising his courage and his honor, and recounting with remorse the terrible manner of Yoshitomo’s death.

  Yoritomo sensed there was growing dislike among the nobles for the Taira. Perhaps it was the way the Taira swiftly punished any percieved slight, sending gangs of young men to cudgel anyone thought to have uttered slander against the clan, or starting brawls in the street if the carriage of a lesser family would not give way. Perhaps the nobles believed the coarse Taira were rising higher in rank than their blood deserved. Perhaps many among the nobility believed Kiyomori had arranged Yoshitomo’s betrayal and murder.

  Were I older, thought Yoritomo, I would make use of this somehow. He did not know how many of his brothers and half brothers still survived. He had heard that Akugenda Yoshihira had been executed and had died well. For all Yoritomo knew, he himself might now be Ason, heir to the chieftainship of the clan when he came of age. But given that he expected to die soon, Yoritomo thought little of it.

  A guard came to the cell door, morning sunlight glinting off his helmet. “Ho, there, young lord. I hope you have slept well. We bring you tea and rice cakes from the Imperial kitchens themselves.” The door opened, and a servant placed a tray within just beside the door. The servant bowed and left silently.

  “And you have a visitor come to speak with you,” the guard went on.

  Another, thought Yoritomo with a patient sigh. Many nobles, lords and ladies both, had come into the prison to see him and say words of encouragement. He wondered if they merely wanted to touch someone who had been close to the greatness of the Minomoto. Or if they merely wished to gaze with pity upon the doomed little warrior before Yoritomo’s short life was snuffed out. “Who is it?”

  “A monk, my young lord.”

  Yoritomo wondered if it might be the same monk who had housed him on the mountain. “From what temple?”

  “Er, Hiei-zan, I believe.”

  Yoritomo could sense from the guard’s hesitation that he was lying. No monk kept his temple secret, just as no warrior would hide the badge of his clan. But what did it matter? “Very well. I will speak with him.”

  The guard left, closing the door after him. Soon a conical straw hat appeared at the barred window, hiding the face beneath. “Minomoto Yoritomo?”

  “I am he, Holy One.”

  The door opened, and the monk entered. He still held his head low to shadow his features, and he walked with stooped shoulders. But Yoritomo could tell by the way the gray robe hung on the monk’s shoulders that he was well muscled and strong. A warrior-monk, perhaps, thought Yoritomo. If he wishes to learn fighting secrets from me, I must disappoint him.

  “You are a fine-looking lad,” said the monk.

  The accent and timbre of his voice was not of the East, or even much of the capital, although this monk had clearly tried to learn cultured ways.

  “Thank you, Holy One. Have you come to pray with me?”

  “Perhaps. But I have first come to take your measure. Are you prepared to meet the fate you have earned?”

  “I am prepared,” said Yoritomo, bowing his head.

  “What is that you are drawing?”

  “A stupa for my father, to honor his memory. When I am executed, I will give this to the Taira and ask them to see that it is built.”

  “A stupa. A most peaceable last request. Are you not thinking on vengeance for your clan?”

  “Why should it be my place to think on vengeance?” said Yoritomo. “I am only fourteen. I am a captive of the Taira. I surely will be executed soon. Wh
at better way to spend my time than this?”

  “And what if … you are not to be executed?”

  Yoritomo blinked. “Holy One, that would surely be a gift from Hachiman and the Buddha. And I do not think it will happen. But if they did, then they must send me into far exile, which would be like this, neh?” Yoritomo gestured at the cell around him. “What vengeance could I plan from a faraway island? Exiles do not receive letters or visitors.”

  “So if you were sent into exile, what would you do?”

  “I would become a monk like you, Holy One. I would study the sutras and see that a stupa for my father is built.”

  “You would not plot and plan?”

  “That would only bring greater danger to whoever of my family still lives. And the Taira serve the Emperor. It would be great treason to fight against the Imperial will. My father did so because of oaths he made to Nobuyori. I have made no such oaths.”

  The monk nodded. “You speak wisely and well, young Yoritomo. Perhaps I will visit the Taira and plead for your life to be spared. I have been known to have access to even the Great Kiyomori’s ear.”

  “That would be kind of you, of course, Holy One. But my life is in the hands of Hachiman and the Buddha. And Lord Kiyomori is a brute, everyone knows it. My father said that Kiyomori was to blame for the great killings of the Hōgen. How can I expect mercy from the Taira?”

  The monk blustered, “W-well, sometimes people can surprise you, boy. And not everything you hear is true. Be patient and we will see what can be done. Good day to you.” The monk inclined his head and was out the door before Yoritomo could say good-bye.

  A strange one, thought Yoritomo, and then the truth hit him. A Taira spy! Trying to find out if I am plotting. Oh, and I said hateful things about Lord Kiyomori. I am doomed for certain. He went back to work on his sketch with greater speed, wondering if he had lifetime left to finish it.

  Black Robes

  Kiyomori stormed out of the prison, tearing off the straw hat and flinging it at a servant. Of course I am a brute, boy, he thought darkly. Is that not how one achieves respect and gains power? What sort of Minomoto are you if your father did not teach you this? He passed under the Traitor’s Tree, still bedecked with rotting heads, and strode toward the gate called Kōgamon, where his ox-carriage awaited him.