Kiyomori was typical of the unpolished, indigent, and unlettered warrior youth, and for that reason despised by the young aristocrats. He was well liked, however, by the young men of his own class. For those who left the academy there was a university, but the sons of warriors were excluded from it on the pretext that their future lay in training as men-at-arms, so Kiyomori and his friends were among those who, on leaving the academy, enrolled with the Department of Military Affairs and eventually were assigned to guard the Cloister Palace.
For Kiyomori, whose father shunned society and whose mother had neglected him, the Guards provided a convenient and easy occupation for indulging his indolent and aimless habits, and his fellow Guards rarely saw him report for duty. Following Yasuko's departure, however, Tadamori was a changed man and made up his mind to start his life anew. To Kiyomori he confided: "I am still in my forties, we must make a new beginning."
And soon after this, Tadamori once more resumed his duties at Court.
"Isn't Morito coming? I thought I saw him with you."
Looking round, Kiyomori replied: "He's somewhere about— shall I call him?"
Wataru quickly interposed: "No, don't bother him. He seems anxious to avoid me these days. But, Heita, have you seen that four-year-old? What do you think of him—splendid, isn't he?"
Kiyomori snorted, drawing down the corners of his full mouth, then slowly shook his head. "That black one? Not that one—he's no good."
"Eh? Why—that fine colt?"
"No matter how fine, those four white fetlocks bring bad luck."
Wataru was taken aback at this reply, which drew his attention to the white markings on the colt. Whether in the stirrup or appraising a horse at sight, Wataru was confident that he was as good a judge of horseflesh as any. Four white fetlocks had always been regarded as a bad omen in even a chestnut or bay, and Wataru had failed to notice this. Though he quickly concealed his chagrin, he was a little nettled to have Kiyomori, who was younger, give him a lesson in the fine points of a horse; he was also aware that Yoshikiyo sat near by, grinning.
Wataru laughed. "So those white fetlocks are no good—and what of warriors who are cross-eyed, pock-marked, and red-nosed, are they, too, no good?"
Kiyomori bristled. "Now, now, why draw comparisons between horses and my father? That's going a bit far—"
But Wataru broke in. "So even you are superstitious like those bloodless aristocrats who live in those sunless Palace rooms, talking of things that 'pollute,' things that are 'unclean,' things that are of 'good omen,' of 'bad omen'—forever preoccupied with silly fears, while we young ones who have sprung from the good sunlit earth would not own to such superstitions! Ill-omened—some aristocrat long ago must have owned such a horse and had his insolent chin bitten, or was pitched off his horse and had his thigh bones cracked! That's where the superstition must have started."
Wataru continued doggedly: "Let me tell you about Tameyoshi of the Genji, who was chief of the Police Commission in 1130, when the monks of Mount Hiei rioted. He went to suppress that uprising on a chestnut with four white fetlocks, and everyone knew it was his favorite horse. Then again, the year before last, I swear it was a bay with white fetlocks that came off victorious in the race between the Palace horses and those of Lady Taikenmon."
"Yes, yes, I know. I was casting no slurs at that fine colt by being superstitious," Kiyomori replied.
"I had hoped to get a name for myself by riding that horse at the Kamo races," Wataru explained.
"So that was what made you lose your temper?"
"I wasn't angry, I only wanted to make fun of superstitions. I can see how a superstition might even be in my favor. It's possible they'll not find anyone willing to ride him."
Kiyomori made no reply. For one so sanguine, he was at times curiously sensitive about trifles. Perceiving that he was in no mood for further talk, Wataru turned to Yoshikiyo, only to find him completely oblivious of the conversation and absorbed in watching an occasional white petal come fluttering and floating to earth.
"Ah, there's the imperial carriage!"
"Oh, his majesty looks this way!" All three instinctively leaped to their feet and started running in the direction of the paddock, where crowds thronged to meet the arriving carriage.
Like no other epoch that preceded it, this age gave itself up entirely to pleasure and gambling, poetry tournaments, the blending of perfumes and incense, pageants, miming, dice-games, outings at the four seasons to view the beauties of nature, cockfighting and archery matches. Earlier, court circles regarded seasonal excursions and poetry parties as the natural complement to living; yet never had men at large regarded all things as its playthings as during this new age which sought to transmute even its religion and politics into exquisite pastimes—all, with the exception of war. At the word "war," both high and low trembled, for the seeds of conflict were now sown far and wide: among the powerful armed clergy; to the east; to the west, where the pirates of the Inland Sea periodically made their forays; and close at hand in the very capital itself, where the Court and the Palace were at odds with each other. Lately it was openly rumored that the Genji and Heike in distant provinces were mobilizing their soldiers, and that a storm was brewing.
People were uneasy. Something ominous permeated the air itself. Still, in the midst of that foreboding and effeteness, a feverish hunger for pleasure seemed to consume everyone, and the crowded Kamo racecourse was one sign of it. According to the old chronicles, horseracing became a royal sport about the year 701, indulged in by Guards on the grounds of the Imperial Palace during the May Festival. In these troubled times, however, horse-racing was no longer confined to the course at Kamo in May, but took place in shrine compounds, on the estates of the courtiers and noblemen who entertained the Emperor or the ex-Emperor and their ladies, on the broad stretch of Second Avenue, or were even improvised at imperial picnics. As races were held on straight courses, wide enough for ten horses to run abreast, it was even possible to have contests on any of the main avenues of Kyoto.
One sovereign, it was also written, was so carried away by his fever for horseracing that he set aside twenty of his manors in the provinces for the breeding of racehorses, and in the capital itself ordered the building of lavish stables requiring an army of grooms and attendants to maintain them. The late monarch as well as his son, the present ex-Emperor, were no less addicted to this sport, and the royal visit today to Kamo was to select a horse, in anticipation of the races in May, from all the thoroughbreds sent from numerous stud farms in the provinces.
"Is Tadamori here?" the ex-Emperor inquired, ignoring the courtiers around him. "I see no exceptional ones today. What do you think?"
Tadamori, who stood modestly apart, merely raised his head to reply: "Your majesty, there is just one."
"Just one—that black colt from the manor at Shimotsukй?"
"Yes, your majesty."
"The one I have been watching for some time—the colt tethered to that post? Yet these gentlemen and horse-fanciers all warn me against him; they say those four white fetlocks bring bad luck."
"A common saying, your majesty, but not worth considering—" Tadamori began, regretting his habit of plain speaking. "Of all these horses, I see none equal to that colt; that fine head, that eye and the sweep of the tail."
The monarch hesitated. He was anxious to have the black colt taken to his stables and trained for the May races, at which he hoped to win against the Emperor's horses. But, like his courtiers, he also was superstitious.
"If your majesty wishes, I will take the colt to my stable and keep him until the day of the races," Tadamori ventured, recalling his own impulsive words and the effect they had had on the assembled noblemen.
"That should do no harm. Take him and be sure of his training until the races," Toba replied.
The story of the black colt spread throughout the Cloister Palace, where many of the courtiers were ill-disposed toward Tadamori. Though a mere warrior, he was permitted near the i
mperial dais, the only warrior singled out for such honor, and the jealous courtiers resented him. They feared that the Squint-Eyed One would usurp their privileges, and distrusted him, believing that Tadamori knew the secret of ingratiating himself with the ex-Emperor. In spite of the years that Tadamori had held aloof from the Palace and refused invitations to the seasonal entertainments and observances, the ex-Emperor's regard for him had not diminished. Not only did Tadamori continue to receive tokens of the abdicated monarch's attachment, but further honor was shown him by Toba's eagerness to accept Tadamori's opinions as final. Tadamori's reinstatement at the Palace once more roused the suspicions and distrust of the courtiers.
On returning home, Tadamori stood by the black colt stroking its nose, saying: "Ah, what pettiness! Nothing has changed in that old pond where those courtiers croak."
"Father, there's no way to live in this capital except by ignoring the slander. Just laugh at the fools."
"Heita! Back already?"
"I saw you leave the Palace and followed you, since I'm not on duty tonight."
"Heita, never show your resentment."
"No, but I'm waiting for my revenge, and I haven't forgotten your words about starting a new life. We are much happier here at home now."
"I'm afraid you've been lonely since your mother left."
"Remember, Father, we promised not to talk of that. . . . Now about that colt—"
"Hmm—a fine horse. Better exercise him morning and evening."
"I have that in mind. To tell you the truth, Wataru of the Genji who is with me in the Guards, tells me he wants to train the colt. He's been begging me to ask you to obtain his majesty's consent, for he wants to ride that colt in the Kamo races."
Tadamori thought for a moment and then said: "Wataru— but don't you want to ride him yourself? You, rather than Wataru?"
"Those four white fetlocks—if it were not for them—-" Kiyomori hesitated, drawing his thick brows into a nervous frown that startled his father. Tadamori was surprised by the discovery that this careless son of his had ideas of his own.
"I'm sure Wataru can be trusted. I can't say how his majesty will feel about this, but I shall ask—that is, if you still have no intention of riding the colt yourself," Tadamori said, a little disappointed. Calling some retainers, he gave them directions for the feeding and grooming of the four-year-old, and shortly after went to his rooms, now empty of his wife and her reproaches. Resting in the lamplight, he called his young sons to him and played with them, as had now become his habit.
Several days later Tadamori told Wataru himself of the ex-Emperor's consent, and later instructed Kiyomori to take the colt to Wataru's home. Leading the horse by its reins, Kiyomori started on his way to Iris Lane on Ninth Avenue. Passers-by turned to remark: "A magnificent horse—for the Court or the Palace?" But Kiyomori spoke to no one, glad to be rid of an ill-omened horse.
Wataru was expecting Kiyomori and was cleaning out the stable when his friend arrived. He was beside himself with joy.
"It's almost dark. I'm sorry my wife hasn't returned yet, but you must stay and drink with me. This is an occasion to celebrate. We shall drink to it in imperial wine!"
Kiyomori stayed until the lamps were lit and the wine made him tingle to his fingertips. Looking round, he found himself comparing his surroundings with his own home, and noted that the house had little in the way of furnishings, but was exquisitely clean. The polished beams gave out a dark gleam; comfort pervaded the air; a sheen lay over everything—undoubtedly the industry of the young wife whom Wataru had married at the end of the past year. Kiyomori was envious. He listened to Wataru and his praises of his wife. When he finally left, Wataru accompanied him to the gate, one like that of any other warrior's house with its thatched roof and wattled-clay wall, and there came face to face with Wataru's wife. On seeing the departing guest, she quickly drew off her outer cloak and bowed. Kiyomori was conscious of the scent in her hair and sleeves. With difficulty he stammered out his greetings as Wataru presented his wife.
"You're back just in time. Heita, this is my wife, Kesa-Gozen, who once served at Court," Wataru said eagerly, stopping to tell her of the black colt in the stable.
Although this was his friend's wife, Kiyomori felt shy and awkward. Aware of his flushed cheeks, he unsteadily resumed his way along the now dark Iris Lane. Kesa-Gozen's face haunted him. Was it possible that so lovely a woman really existed? Her image hovered before him as he walked on. A new star had bloomed for him in the spring skies above him. . . . Then an arm suddenly reached round and gripped him silently. A highwayman! People talked about being attacked at this crossroad at night! Kiyomori's hand slid to his sword.
"Don't be alarmed, Heita. Come with me to the house we visited that other night." There was a low laugh at Kiyomori's ear. It was Morito. Kiyomori could hardly believe his ears. What was Morito doing in this deserted quarter of Kyoto, his face muffled up like a brigand's?
"Surely, you'll come along to that house on Sixth Avenue?" Morito persisted. Kiyomori's thoughts leaped at the proposal, but a sudden distrust of this fellow made him hesitate.
"Come, I saw you this evening on your way to Wataru's, and I followed you," Morito added, as he began to lead the way. His suspicions allayed, Kiyomori followed him, drawn by something compelling in Morito, and soon felt that good luck had waylaid him.
In the house of call near the Palace they drank recklessly, and caroused as they had done that other night. When he was alone at last with one of the women, Kiyomori, a little bolder than at his last visit, ventured to ask:
"Where is my friend? Where does he sleep?"
The woman tittered. "He never spends his nights here."
"Has he gone home then?"
The woman appeared sleepy and too tired to reply. "He's always like that. How should I know what he does?" she said, flinging her arms round Kiyomori's neck.
Kiyomori struggled free. "I'm leaving, too! That Morito is playing some trick on me!"
Kiyomori quickly left the house, but the gentle ghost of Iris Lane no longer walked with him.
The following day Morito did not report for duty at the Guards, nor did he appear for several days, and Kiyomori brooded over this. Now, whenever he arrived at the Palace, it was Kesa-Gozen's husband, Wataru, who always greeted him eagerly whenever they met in the Palace corridors, and with a look that bespoke his happiness.
At the servants' gate of the Nakamikado mansion on Sixth Avenue, a cluster of women peddlers, balancing baskets or boxes of silk cords, flowers, and cakes on their heads, peered into the premises laughing and chattering noisily.
"We want nothing, nothing today, you wenches!"
"Come, buy some cakes for the May Festival!"
"We're too busy with work for the feast tonight. We're dizzy with work! Come tonight, tonight. . . ."
"You fools! You vulgar slaves!" the peddlers jeered.
A steward suddenly appeared at a door, bawling and scolding at the backs of the under-servants. "Here, here! Enough of that chaffing with those women! Who has charge of the bathhouse today? The lady's impatient. The steam in the bath isn't hot enough!"
At the sound of the bellowing, two menservants separated themselves from the group and fled toward the east wing. The fire for the bath had turned to ashes. They scurried about in great agitation, gathering twigs and faggots to start the fire.
One of Yasuko's maids appeared on the veranda; wrinkling her nose and blinking at the smoke, she called out: "Here, what are you doing there! You careless slaves, what if my lady takes cold?"
The bathhouse with its low ceiling and latticed floor was quite dark. The naked bodies of the two women gleamed through the steam, dripping with perspiration.
The Heike Story Page 5