Читать книгу Memoirs of the Warrior Kumagai - Donald Richie - Страница 9

TO BEGIN AT THE BEGINNING, NOW SIXTY-FIVE YEARS AGO, I WAS born in the sixth year of the Hōen era [1140] on the plains of Musashi, a flat land of marshes and meadows two weeks' march east of the capital. Back then many of the forests were still standing and none of the fens had been drained. There were consequently many animals— rabbits, badgers, bears. It was one of these last that my father killed, an act through which I came to carry the name that I do.

It happened in the following manner. One of these bears was ravaging Ōsata on the Musashi plain. After my father had killed the animal he was given an amount of land. Since the place was fittingly called Kumagaya— Bear Valley—he took its name for his own.

A name was needed. Though we were a Taira family and though my grandfather had held high office, exile to Musashi left us unknown. This was interpreted as punishment, since my grandfather had received an imperial order to kill himself. He loyally did so and my infant father would doubtless have died as well had not his nurse carried him off from the capital. Eventually brought to Musashi, he was adopted as a son by a local magnate, Nariki Tayu, of the Hisashita family, and upon attaining sufficient years married the daughter of the house.

Kumagai Naosada he was called. The name must have had a new and raw sound to it. If so, it fitted us well, living out there on the plains in a clump of huts dignified by the title of manor, surrounded by peasants and by soldiers no longer allowed to fight.

Perhaps that is the reason my father killed the bear. He desired to distinguish himself, to rise in the world. Killing bears was, to be sure, no especial feat in Bear Valley, but some notice was given this deed, perhaps because he was only sixteen at the time. Thus my parent received the right to the lands that became known as the family estate, and upon his death two years later much was made of the bear story and he was mourned as a great hunter.

Though I was only two at the time, I remember something of the ceremony—the long speeches, the great funeral pyre, and the invocation to the spirit of my disgraced grandparent. Later, when appropriately older, I was more fully informed about this person. He, a true Taira, had been loyal to the imperial cause and his enforced suicide was the result of slander. The emperor had been misled by the Fujiwara family, always meddling in government, and by the Minamoto clan, always maneuvering for power.

One result was that my father, who otherwise should have achieved fame as a great warrior, became known only as a local hunter. Another was that, after my elder brother had died— soon after our father's funeral, some childhood ailment—I was left with few prospects. Upon my mother's death, when I was six or so, I was given as a deserving orphan to one of the sons of old Nariki, a man named Hisashita Naomitsu.

My father had lived his short life lying always in the shadow of his family's history, and so initially did I. Though I swam in the river, climbed the old quince tree, trapped rabbits, caught fish, and snared pheasant like any country boy, in the evenings I would sit around the hearth with my adoptive relatives and listen to stories of the old days in the capital when my family had prospects and when my grandfather was still a great man.

It was during these long summer evenings, far from the capital, that I made my resolve to better myself. Having now no father, no elder brother, no one at all to assist me, I realized early that my future lay entirely in my own hands and that I must make my own success.

To this end, I, alone among these rustic children, attempted to educate myself. Old Nariki Tayu also believed that this would assist me in prospering and discovered a priest in a distant temple who would cheaply enough teach me my letters.

So I eagerly trudged through the winter cold and the summer heat to where the yawning priest attempted to inculcate sodoku, my reading of Chinese characters. In this he was not successful—to this day I cannot properly read, or write, a page. Fortunately, katakana was also taught as a help to reading the kanji, and this I successfully made mine. This simplified script still remains my main means of written communication. Nonetheless, despite my lack of aptitude, I remain grateful to old Nariki for thus beginning an education. Not, however, to his son.

Already I had learned that I could not look to this adoptive uncle of mine, Hisashita Naomitsu, for assistance. He had taught me to ride and to use the spear and the short sword but would take no further responsibility for my future. A cold man—avaricious too, as I was later to learn—he told me one evening that he would feed me until I was eighteen, the age at which my father had died, and that I must then look after myself.

* * *

And so I did, and here I sit, nearly forty years later, brush in hand, contemplating my past. I left Musashi, journeyed to distant Heiankyō [Kyoto] to become a warrior, and now sit here in that capital, at Seiryōji in Kurodani, a lay priest preparing for a somewhat longer journey.

A pleasant place, this temple. The paneling is seasoned, the lintels are worn, and the carved grill over the door is nicely fashioned. It reminds me of that country temple where I first learned to read and to write while the priest fell asleep and the fat summer flies buzzed.

The resemblance is all the stronger in that I am still learning. Occasionally an acolyte comes and helps me with my Chinese characters: late learning, necessary if I am to make my successful way in what is left of this world. I am fond of my temple. It has, like myself, seen much life.

It continues to—it is even lively. Now that Hōnen is in exile and no one is any longer in charge of church affairs, a number of young people have been moved in. Really they are laymen who have taken to wearing the robes and are given leave to stay. I do not know why—perhaps because they draw a congregation.

They are really no better than itinerant entertainers. Mostly they improvise ballads, accompanying themselves on their lutes. They have few duties, none of them devotional, and how they expect to rise in the church I do not know.

I can hear them now, strumming away, testing this verse or that—so typical of our youth these days: callow, feckless. They are so confident too. Listen to them singing away:

While yet governor of Aki, on a pilgrimage from Ise to Kumano, he was much surprised when a great sea bass jumped into his boat. Remembering that just such a fish had jumped in ancient days into the vessel of King Wu, he declared an auspicious event, and though it was a time of abstinence and observance of the ten prohibitions, they all partook of this felicitous fish. Perhaps that is why he was blessed with luck and why he and his sons and grandsons rose in office faster than a dragon mounts the clouds.

Commander Kiyomori—that is their subject this morning. As usual, they have it wrong. That large sea bass jumped into his boat, if it did, much later. Also, though it was eaten on a day when such was prohibited, this did not result—as the young know-nothings have it—in one stroke of luck after the other. Rather, as I know, having served under Kiyomori, it would have seemed rather to presage the end of all good fortune.

But, no. Glory is what the young want. Just listen to them. Sons and grandsons rose to office more swiftly than dragons to the clouds. This is what they sing—maybe because now the ambitious young have difficulty rising in the world. Perhaps that is why they come to out-of-the-way temples and sing about it. In my day, so unlike now, there was a need for ambitious youths, particularly those of us who had no parents, no money, and no prospects. We felt this, even in far Musashi. The times were unsettled, a change was upon us.

Long before I was born, the rapacity of Heiankyō was infamous. Local administrators appeared, always with soldiers, and carted off whatever they could find in lieu of taxes. Punishments and fines were much dispensed and many landowners were ruined. We daily heard of more and more land seized upon one pretext or another.

Manors were taken, along with livestock and the peasants themselves—whole families turned from the fields they had once tilled. Then the newly confiscated lands were deemed imperial, hence tax free. Whether the royal coffers received much of the money is doubtful. Our oppressors were the administrative officials who had gained independence from the court itself. And as more fields were freed from tax, those left were taxed the higher. Such greed seemed to fill the entire country.

We saw this happening. A neighboring farmer was ruined and his children were sold, a manor house was seized along with the owner and his wife, both still hanging from its eaves. Things could not continue as they were. Something must change. Something did—provincial families turned to the military for protection, and this meant work for local warriors from local clans, either Taira, from my part of the country, or from Minamoto soldiery. It was wiser to hire this protection than to lose everything to administrative agents.

Consequently, this patronage eventually turned straggling groups of soldiers into standing armies. I can only tell what I saw in Musashi among the Taira, but I presume the same thing occurred in Minamoto lands as well. Though units of both families had traditionally served as guards in the capital—my grandfather was one of them—and though troops were kept both in and around the city to ensure order, there had been until then no actual armies, nothing like the one we have now, as I write.

When I was fifteen or so, however, I saw them forming, these armies. I would run to the gate to watch a group of soldiers marching somewhere or other. Often a traveling platoon would present itself at the door and demand to be fed. While eating our millet, they would sometimes tell us of the great things going on in the capital.

I was, of course, wild to join these youthful troops. Though the fish in the streams and the animals in the woods were more real to me than all the grand families of the capital, I knew that merely shooting at the deer with my child's bow would not advance me in the greater world.

Having learned to use a sword, a rusty old blade, its edge long dulled, I already longed to be a soldier and was happiest dueling with the farm children, with their equally cast-off weapons. We would go into the fields and announce ourselves to our opponent, giving name, family, and rank. I, Kumagai Jirō Naozane of the Taira ... I can still hear my adolescent voice. Then the farmer's boy would invent some name for himself and after such formality we would begin hacking away at each other.

That was the way men fought back in the old days. It was formal. One knew whom one was fighting. Not like now—masses of men milling anonymously about. To be certain, this formality was exercised only by the leaders, grand warriors all. Nowadays, when there are so many grand warriors, they no longer have the time for such lengthy preambles.

Back then no soldier—not even an officer—was considered grand. Rather, these new soldiers were all despised. They were thought to be useful only for settling land disputes and keeping order in the provinces. The imperial house was perhaps grateful for their protection, but the Fujiwara regents held the new soldiery in disdain.

Nobles and Fujiwara leaders alike used this new military then as we use servants now, with the difference that we order our good domestics carefully while back then the artistocracy exerised no care at all. They simply sent their soldiery into small and local battles where they were eventually butchered, and the roads made safe for the tax collectors. These warriors were, after all, only simple boys who merely hoped for spoil and, like myself, an escape from the farm.

How different now—a mere lifetime away. The warriors' estate is high indeed. There are ranks, and ranks within those ranks. There is protocol and something of an imitation-of-court ceremony. The peasant's son is now a high-ranking officer and has learned to use the new recruits as he himself was once used. And there is a rise in prestige as well. The warrior is now truly grand and even the rich merchants are in awe. Different indeed from the scruffy lot that first shuffled into the capital.

All this occurred during my time, one that destroyed a world and created another. Two strong military clans—the Taira and the Minamoto—each holding some claim to authority, finally turned against each other, and it was during these years that I played my part and attempted to rise in this world—I who as a boy had once stood in the paddy and called out: I, Kumagai Naozane of the Taira. . . .

* * *

Perhaps I should here say some words about myself and my character. I was born with good health and was blessed with a strong constitution which has not, until recently, failed me. I am of middling height and middling appearance and am unexceptional in most things.

In one, however, I am not. I have a temper, which I frequently lose, and doing so has lost me a number of advantages that ought to have been mine. It has consistently worked against my best interests.

My best interests are devoted to making a career for myself in climbing to the top of my chosen profession. That I have now had several—farmer, soldier, lay priest—would indicate perhaps that my success has been partial. Indeed, I so regard it. However, as my deposition indicates, I still attempt to reach the top. My aim right now is to get to the highest paradise.

This life of striving has, I must admit, been questioned. Hōnen, my mentor in matters religious, himself wondered why the opinion of the world should mean so much to me. He thought, you see, that my aiming at eminence was to ensure regard. It is not, however, the opinion of the world that matters to me. Rather, it is my opinion of myself. And it is with this that my famous temper interferes.

It—and another weakness. I am all too often able to look behind or beyond the proffered motive, able to see the other side. This makes me needlessly question. It may also lead to a kind of fellow feeling—a sentiment continually curbing my advantages. Try as I have to reform my character I have not been able to do so. It is the stubborn beast, a mind of its own, upon which I am forced to ride.

And finally, to end this list of afflictions, there is a regard for truth which will not be subdued, no matter how I try. An example of this is the dilemma I experience when I find myself credited with the head of Atsumori. Truly, I took it, and the fact is noted in the military lists. My argument is that I do not wish to see myself regarded as a villain—although one who, according to rumor, attempted a kind of restitution. I am not a bad man— in fact, I am a worthwhile one, and I desire to be known as such. At the same time, however, rumor gets the matter wrong and it is this which upsets me, even though getting the manner right would perhaps go against my best interests.

This is what I am like, always working against my true aims in this life. Having ruined my chances for the military life, I am sitting here plotting the ruin of an ecclesiastical career as well. For in these times, to be discovered writing so plainly of the past, as I intend to, would result in serious censure.

Yet here I sit, scribbling away, and for the most paltry and impractical of reasons. I want to make some sense of this past, and of myself; and I want to tell the truth. Is this not ridiculous? But, then, I am like that.

And now I have dwelt enough upon the sage person I have become. Let me return to the unformed youth that I was.

* * *

After a number of such military visits—bands of warriors on the road—we in the provinces understood that both the Taira and the Minamoto were gathering troops and that something important was about to occur.

Something did—a war. It began in the first year of the Hōgen era [1156] in the autumn. To it went my fencing instructor, an excellent man named Kurō. He was accepted by the Minamoto to train recruits. Having long looked with envy at the passing soldiery, fine youngsters off to make their fortunes in the world, I took advantage of Kurō's going to join him.

My adoptive uncle, Naomitsu, had no objection; indeed, he was pleased to see his expensive little charge go off. And so, one ripe day in early autumn I set out with a sword but no mount, walking the curving country road between the orchards of glowing persimmons, on to where I had never before been.

The road led to the Minamoto encampment, the only one in our part of the country. There I joined Kurō and made myself useful. It might now be thought strange that a Taira boy should attach himself to a Minamoto camp, but back then we did not yet know that the two clans would finally seek to destroy each other. Rather, we saw our families as united in seeking to protect the imperial house from the rapacity of the Fujiwara regents. It was thus not unusual for brothers to attach themselves to these different houses, or for father and son to join their respective troops only shortly to find themselves on opposite sides.

Clan loyalty was, unlike now, unimportant. Opportunity was what counted. If, as one strode into the capital to defend his imperial majesty, one could attach oneself to a rising officer— no matter his clan—then one's fortune was made. Thus, I saw that becoming a soldier under a Minamoto officer was of practical value. At the same time, however, this customary lack of family loyalty led to complications.

My own commander, Minamoto Yoshitomo, was the only member of his family who had close relations with the Taira. These he was later to demonstrate when, during the Hōgen War, he was the only Minamoto to side with Taira no Kiyomori. Consequently, in order to protect the emperor, Yoshitomo (as we will see) besieged the imperial palace at the very time that his own father and brother were defending it.

Though I too, through Kurō's influence, found a place in Yoshitomo's ranks, I was too young and too low ever to move close to our leader. He was then in his early thirties and going about his business with that air of earnest preoccupation, which I now recognize as a family trait. Nonetheless, I thought him a great man (since my own fortunes were now so attached to his) and longed to prove myself of worth. I followed him about with shining eyes.

Finally word came. Our troops were to move to the capital to protect his imperial majesty. It was, I remember, one of the last days of autumn, and I yet retain the musty smell of grain, the sudden scent of apples. We marched through forests, over mountains; we forded rivers and strode through villages much the same as those we had left.

When possible, we camped in these hamlets and treated the inhabitants not much differently from the way those traveling troops had treated us. Food, drink, even girls, we took. We were already soldiers: we ate what we had and fucked what we could.

I use the word precisely—that was the way we talked. Now that the late Yoritomo has so cleaned up the army—even instituted baths—such plain terms are no longer heard. But back then we farted at will, pissed where we were, shat where we slept, and smelled to high heaven. We were an unpretentious lot.

After days of marching, one cold, late afternoon, rounding a high crest, we saw lying in the valley the great capital, Heiankyō. It is now much changed, but I well remember my first sight of the city, lying there below us in the low sun of early winter.

The city was square, which surprised us, and it had long, straight avenues, quite different from the straggling roads of even our larger towns. And these cut through each other, creating great rectangles. The city was so large, so planned, that we stopped to gape.

It lay there before us and we could see, tiny in the distance, the gates and the larger roofs of temples, the squares of green lawns that held the palace enclosures, and block upon block of dwellings. The smoke from the cooking fires rose into the air and the late sun turned it to gold.

This was a view with which I was shortly to become very familiar and eventually much irritated by. This was because it was there, in that pass, that we stayed. The ostensible reason was that we were to stand guard lest armies of mountain warrior-monks, suborned by the Fujiwara, should attempt to storm this pass into the capital. The real reason was that this Hōgen Incident (as it is now called, having been downgraded from being called a war) was essentially a local fracas. Calling in the troops from as far away as Musashi had not been warranted. Therefore we were kept out.

My reader will understand our chagrin as we observed the battle laid out before us yet remained stuck up on the hill, unable to descend into the capital to make our fortunes. All we could see were the fires as they blazed, though occasionally we made out the lines of soldiery and the scattered ranks of the fleeing populace.

Later we learned what had happened. Our war had been occasioned by disagreements within the imperial house. Emperor Toba had retired—as was the custom. This common process of retirement was variously seen as a Fujiwara ploy intended to weaken the imperial house and strengthen this family line, and as a reasonable imperial decision. Reasonable because the ceremonial duties of an emperor were such that the only possibility of actually having the leisure to rule was to abdicate and then, in time-honored fashion, wield power as retired authority.

The now-retired Toba announced the ascension of another son, Go-Shirakawa, who duly took the throne at the age of twenty-eight in the second year of Kyūju [1155]. No sooner was this decision made than ex-Emperor Toba died and his son, Lord Sutoku, at once challenged Go-Shirakawa. This rivalry between the two was soon known to all. Nothing like this had ever before occurred, though the court librarians at once embarked on fruitless search for precedents. Each of the two claimants had his own faction. The Fujiwara believed that strength lay with Sutoku, as did the Minamoto, already agreeing with these regents whom they were eventually to supplant. The Taira, on the other hand, lent their support to Go-Shirakawa. Thus, though troops were there to defend the emperor, the problem was which emperor. All parties were thus to a degree rebels, and which side had been all along truly loyal would be determined only by victory.

It was this process that I impatiently watched from my hilltop perch, looking with longing at the billowing flames and straining my ears to hear the distant neighs and cries. Then it was over. One morning I awoke and saw only smoke and the tiny lines of the military, like ants at parley. These were the victorious supporters of the Emperor Go-Shirakawa. This meant that the Taira had won: the Taira, Kiyomori, Yoshitomo, and myself—for at once I saw the advantages of being by birth a Taira, despite my presently wearing Minamoto colors.

Down below there seemed to be much activity. I could not decipher it from my distance, but it turned out to be the executions. There was such a blood-letting in the capital that back on the farm that year even the tax collectors failed to appear. Everyone was busy at the execution grounds.

Among those being dispatched was Tameyoshi, the father of my commander, who had been on the losing side. Yoshitomo pleaded for his father's life; but Taira no Kiyomori sensibly asked him how otherwise the victors were to deal with that pretender, Sutoku, and strongly suggested that he do something about his troublesome parent. I was told that the son was forced to call the palanquin into which his father was placed and carried off. To safety it was assumed, but the soldiers stopped the palanquin on a mountain path and made the old man get out and kneel. Following orders, they then cut off his head. Tameyoshi was said to have behaved in a composed manner and occasioned no difficulty, and the head was then brought back to the capital but not displayed.

Other heads certainly were. Soon most of Tameyoshi's sons— Yoshitomo's brothers—all had their faces on view. One who had escaped, the eighth and last son, Tametomo, famous as the greatest archer of his day, was soon captured, the tendons of both arms were severed and he was banished to the distant island of Ōshima, never again to bend the bow.

This living death excited favorable comment, since it was not bloody. Both the imperial house and the Fujiwara regents had been taken aback by all this post-battle carnage. For centuries, punishment had been by custom restricted to flogging and banishment. Now, however, the law having been changed, something as permanent as beheading was becoming so common that people no longer even turned to look at the staring eyes of former acquaintances.

Thus, while we were perched up on our hill over a hundred had their heads chopped off. It was said that the executions halted only because no more necks were available. As for my commander, Yoshitomo, he became infamous as the man who had executed his own father. The Fujiwara minister Michinori, due to marry, had refused the proffered hand of Yoshitomo's daughter and accepted that of Kiyomori's.

Our forgotten band on the hill was also disappointed, because we had attached ourselves to a now disgraced leader.

When Lord Yoshitomo finally remembered us and came to review our resisting ranks, we were a sullen lot. I no longer gazed at him with shining eyes. He had lost all attraction since he could no longer assist me—could not even get me into Heiankyō. I was ready to seek my fortune elsewhere. This resolve proved fortunate, for it was not four years before the man lost his own head as well.

* * *

Here, now, as I write in these newly spartan times, the Minamoto—the reigning family I later had the good fortune to join for a second time, otherwise I would not now be sitting here—have simplified history by smoothing the complications of what actually occurred.

Earlier political machinations are not now mentioned, since it was, you see, the will of Hachiman, great god of war, that occasioned the Minamoto rise. With the imperial family now so tractable here in ruined Heiankyō, where foxes walk the boulevards and badgers roam the palaces, the rise of the Minamoto is seen as something preordained, the defeat of the Taira certain from the beginning.

The Minamoto may have saved the country as they claim, but they also ruined it. Much that was natural, innocent, and simple, vanished when the Taira were finally run to ground. A new suspicion, complicated by political considerations, by distrust, entered when the Minamoto acquired more power than had even the once powerful Fujiwara.

This I know I should not ponder, much less write. It is careless of me. After all, it was the Minamoto clan that won this war. For me to feel this fondness for another time, an era beyond recall, can obtain me no gain. But then I am sometimes like that: practical, looking properly to my own interests and then, in a moment of weakness, feeling for the lost, the gone—the vanished world of the Taira, even the head of little Atsumori bobbing in the surf. It is doubtless a grave defect.

* * *

The Hōgen Incident over, our Emperor Go-Shirakawa properly enthroned, we were dispersed and I spent a despondent time in the wandering entourage of the humiliated Yoshitomo.

I languished—it was as though my life had not yet begun; I was a farmer who could not return to his land, a soldier who had never fought. Though I did not despair, such emotion being thankfully foreign to my character, I was certainly not pleased with what I had so far been allotted in this existence.

It was then that I heard a rumor which interested me. The Taira, victorious, were in need of further troops in the capital in order that the person of his imperial majesty, Emperor Go-Shirakawa, should be safe from harm. Such numbers were necessary, since the Minamoto were again moving their soldiery into Heiankyō on the pretext of guarding the same emperor.

This being so, Taira warriors were being called to service and one of them was my uncle Naomitsu back in Musashi. Being no warrior and, further, as will transpire, no man of honor, he much preferred to sit by the manor hearth. It was a simple matter to have me made his substitute. It was also easy for me to mention my grandfather, innocently dead because of the discredited Fujiwara and the now diminished Minamoto.

Thus, eighteen years old, I was finally descending into Heiankyō—even, thanks to the influence of my martyred grandfather, in charge of a small group of men. Impersonating a seasoned soldier, I fittingly disciplined my marching troops, convincingly lost my temper when necessary, and at the same time attempted to hide the wonder I felt when I finally entered the gates of the capital.

Yet, truly, I was astonished. The people—never had I seen so many in one place at one time. Everywhere I gazed were men, women, children. Wherever I looked were warriors on horseback, foot soldiers with halberds, merchants with servants carrying bundles, women strolling, ladies riding in oxcarts or palanquins, little boys running errands, girls playing games with each other, and beggars of all descriptions. I remember the first simple question I asked myself upon viewing this unexampled spectacle: What could all of these people find to do?

We stared at them more than they at us. Already they were becoming used to the sight of daily arriving raw recruits led by gangling boy sergeants. Even the beggars, having learned that nothing was to be gained, did not approach. We, however, gaped at everything and found a stout merchant's wife as much of a marvel as a fully mounted officer.

We were dazzled by the new colors—vermilion armor, indigo cloaks, jet-black lacquered bonnets—sights never seen on our dun farms. And we were intoxicated by the odors—the tang of cut cedar, the scent of fine incenses, and spices we had never before smelled: cinnamon, nutmeg, aloe.

And so, on that first day we wandered the long, wide avenues of the capital and it was already late afternoon before I found where it was we were supposed to go. This was in the eastern part of the city, across from the new Gojō Bridge, and out into what had until recently been open country.

Here our commander, Taira no Kiyomori, had built his residence—at Rokuhara. More a separate city than a house, building after building, courtyard after courtyard, it covered what had been groves and meadows and now extended up the hills leading to the Kiyomizu Temple. Everything was still quite new and the smell of raw lumber hung in the afternoon air.

Approaching the main gate of this vast Rokuhara residence, we met a group of smartly marching troops and then glimpsed through the dust several men on horseback. I ordered my men off the road—we had no idea whose soldiers these were and our heads were still full of stories of Hōgen happenings. And at that moment the man on the lead horse passed us.

Thus, on our very first day, we saw Commander Kiyomori. I remember that moment well for this sight was the main marvel in a day filled with wonders. He was in black armor and rode a black horse, while his black helmet was carried by a page who paced beside the man and his mount. Of his person I remember mainly the nose. It was large and strong. And his ears. They also were large and stood out in a manner which might have been comical had his appearance been otherwise less impressive. He must have been around forty at the time and he was a fine figure of a warrior.

There he was, the mighty leader of whom we had so much heard, the head of our clan, the man responsible for the new ascendancy of the Taira. I gazed and my eyes shone.

* * *

In those early days in Heiankyō, during that year before the Heiji War, I recall that soldiers were everywhere: Minamoto troops—all traitorously working for the disliked Fujiwara, we said; or our own—staunchly protecting his majesty. Every grand building in the capital seemed to have a guard post; troops were forever trotting from one section of the city to another, officers on horseback cantered by and members of the high court military were jogged to and fro in palanquins. Everything was surprisingly disciplined.

Where we had come from, soldiers had the reputation of being unruly. Back in Musashi, farmers hid when troops went through. Shutters were put up and so remained until they had passed—usually carrying off with them whatever they could lay their hands on: barley, yams, the occasional peasant girl.

The only value of a soldier seemed to lie in his ferocity. The Minamoto were openly the teeth and claws of the Fujiwara and we Taira were likened to the fabled dogs of Chang-an in distant China. Like these animals, our soldiers were encouraged to bark and to bite. Yet now, in Heiankyō, we were suddenly civil, and able to take our proper place in a proper society.

This had been ordered by Kiyomori—we were to behave as befitted our new station. Previously, having no wealth, few military men had been allowed financial dignity. The fiefs given deserving army officers were notoriously in barren mountains or on desolate moors, where the unhappy recipients existed on what the court threw their way. Now all of this was changed. Kiyomori, to suit his own dignity, took to rewarding and disciplining his troops. Never had I seen soldiers so clean, nor so ready to obey commands.

It was thus a heady season. For the first time we soldiers had a future. Kiyomori had been one of us—and now look at him. His opportunity was ours. And in this possibility dwelt hope. We thought well of our prospects and became, for the first time, well behaved. We were on the right side, the one on the ascendancy.

There were various accountings of our leader's rise to power. One of our favorites was that he was in actuality the son of the Emperor Shirakawa, now dead these twenty-five years. This meant that royal blood flowed in the veins of our leader and that in protecting the present emperor he was also performing a filial duty. Another accounting—this one popular among our enemies—was that he was the unfortunate issue of a deranged priest who had gotten to his mother. We called this a typical Minamoto story. Back then anything contrary to the Taira cause was called Minamoto.

Lord Kiyomori was himself careful to appear the best-bred warrior the capital had ever seen. He showed great concern never to infringe upon any of the imperial prerogatives and was always punctiliously laying this or that idea before his highness. In this he was conspicuously different from the Fujiwara regents, who were often overbearing to all, including the emperor, and from their Minamoto lackeys, who were always surly.

The good manners of our leader were not, I think, actually due to any especial reverence felt for the imperial person. Back in those days an emperor was just another man, an important one, one to whom duty was owed, but quite mortal. Thus it was not at all like these Kamakura days when the emperor—though of little political significance—is treated as though he were a deity.

No, Lord Kiyomori behaved respectfully because it was politic to do so. I think any man in his position might have so behaved. I certainly would have

* * *

All this chronicling. For whom, I wonder, am I writing? Certainly not for the ballad boys whose racket I daily endure, though they might gain by my sober example; they are getting everything wrong as they turn history into entertainment.

For whom, I wonder—not, certainly, for the young louts now in charge up in Kamakura. They know nothing of history. For them the world began with Yoritomo. Even Kiyomori, his great enemy, means nothing. But one can understand this. When the infant Antoku went into the depths, he carried with him an age. A civilization was swallowed and nothing is as it was. For the soldiers now in Kamakura everything earlier is useless.

Not for me, however. I experienced those days and, though I do not want to be one of those doddering ancients forever bewailing necessary change, I cannot believe that my years have meant nothing. That is why I now wish to put them—my life— into some kind of order.

Also to create a permanence where none unfortunately exists. I well realize that impermanence is our natural state, one that we would—as the Lord Buddha suggests—be wise to accept. Nonetheless, I am human enough to resent such eternal evanescence. So I scribble to explain myself to myself, though none but perhaps a few of my descendents will read this after I am gone. Yet, like everyone else who has ever lived this sorry life, I want to be remembered. And I want myself and my times to be remembered accurately, which is among the reasons I resent those sensationalizing scribes down the hall.

Things as they then were ... as I write, I remember how Kiyomori appeared that first day, sitting there, black upon his black horse. He seemed so much himself. That is how I thought of him: this man is entirely who he is. And behind this thought was my own idea of myself—so unformed. Kiyomori could experience no doubts, and I was myself at the time composed of little else.

To become a consistent, understandable person; all of a single piece, standing firm against the tides of time; one who logically looks after his own interests—steadfast and memorable, a worthwhile person. That is what I am still wicked enough to want, priest though I am.

* * *

Time passed swiftly. It was now two years after the Hōgen War and its grand head-display, and there had been many changes. The imperial palace, fired during the disturbances, had been rebuilt, and there were new departments, new ministers. Traditional court ceremonials not practiced for a hundred years were revived; the music academy and the training school of court dancers were again opened; wrestling contests were once more seen in pavilions in the palace park; the pleasure houses were filled with ever younger girls; and Commander Kiyomori policed the capital so well that there was the promise of lasting peace.

A part of this welcome change was ascribed to the ascension of the new emperor. His Imperial Majesty Go-Shirakawa retired and in his place was installed the young Nijō. The welcoming of a sixteen-year-old was in part due to dissatisfaction with his predecessor. It was not so much Go-Shirakawa's taste for low-life, though he did tend to fill the palace with popular singers and stay up till all hours. Rather, it was felt that with such popular tastes went a certain inclination toward intrigue and machination. In addition, it was well known that Go-Shirakawa had his own wealth—he was a major landlord. The new emperor, on the other hand, was said to be properly poor, possessed of a probity much beyond his years and of a conservative turn of mind, which much resembled that of earlier rulers.

Under his reign, then, people hoped that things would be like the good old times, when the emperor smiled upon his subjects and all went well: a time of eternal peace. The people, however, did not have the opportunity to discover if this would actually have come about. Late in the last year of Hōgen, the first year of Heiji [1159], this lasting peace ended.

It ended on the fourth day of the twelfth month on a cold and windy night. We were all in the guardhouse. It was too chilly to wander the streets or to go to the pleasure quarters, so most of us were asleep. To be sure, we should not have been, we were on guard duty, but the Commander had left the week before on a pilgrimage to Kumano Shrine and had taken a large number of officers with him, so our discipline was relaxed.

Though a full complement of guards was on watch, none of us expected anything but more days and nights of nothing happening, and so we were unprepared. At midnight I was sound asleep, and it was just at this time that the Minamoto attempted their coup.

Later we discovered how. Vice-Councilor Nobuyori, a Fujiwara courtier, formerly favored by Emperor Go-Shirakawa, had earlier in the year applied for a higher position. The retired emperor, no longer favoring the man, had refused. In this he had been counseled by yet another Fujiwara, Councilor Michinori, a man who had the imperial ear—and who had, incidentally, also had the death penalty reinstated and was consequently responsible for the executions at the end of the war.

Michinori was also, in addition, something of a joke. His wife, a large, stout woman, had been the nurse of Go-Shirakawa and thus enjoyed special privileges at the cloistered palace. A great gossip, she was always running in and out with this story or that. This amused the low tastes of the retired emperor and so she was eventually able to forward her husband's career. The joke consisted in how she so obviously managed her spouse—the bossy wife and the henpecked husband are usually figures of fun. What made it more amusing was that he had earlier chosen the tonsure and had become very holy. It was said he had taken holy orders in order to escape from her, but if so the ruse had not succeeded and now we were daily diverted by the sight of this man of the cloth being led about by the nose.

The aspiring Nobuyori was incensed that advice from this upstart priest had kept him from what he believed to be a deserved appointment. Not that he deserved much. Already Captain of the Outer Palace Guards, he could not even ride properly. There was a now famous incident (a part of those disturbances for which he was himself largely responsible) where he could not successfully hoist his considerable bulk to mount his horse, while a group of his own guards stood about and hid their smiles.

Still, though indolent and overweight, Nobuyori was not without a political sense. He decided upon a coup that would chasten Go-Shirakawa and ruin Michinori. Taking his case to the aggrieved Minamoto, he received discreet sympathy. Indeed, he and his chief sympathizer, my former commander, Lord Yoshitomo, kept their plot so successfully secret that few in the court, and no one among the Taira, knew what they were about.

In this peaceful interlude no one was thinking of dissent. There were, to be sure, many Minamoto officers and soldiers in the capital, but there had been no recent incidents between them and us. Everyone knew that the Retired Emperor Go-Shirakawa favored the Taira—one had but to look at the grand state allowed Lord Kiyomori—but the opinion was that our two families had gotten their various allegiances so confused in the Hōgen War of two years before that there was little likelihood of our again fighting each other. In current Kamakura terminology, the necessary polarity had not yet been achieved.

But such opinion was mistaken. Yoshitomo continued to be angry at the slights suffered at the conclusion of the Hōgen War, and hence had entered into this plot with Vice-Councilor Nobuyori. Thus, on that cold night, the vice-councilor took his troops and went and hammered at the gates of the palace. His majesty was still awake, late as it was. Always fond of night life, he and two of Michinori's sons were watching the court dancers practicing for a performance scheduled for the New Year's celebration. When they first heard the racket outside they thought it was a fire.

Everyone was thinking about fire that evening. It had not rained, the air was dry, and the wind was strong. Also, less than a month before there had been a conflagration in one of the riverfront palaces and a young princess scheduled to dance at New Year's had burned to death. Now, hearing the noise, Retired Emperor Go-Shirakawa became perturbed and it was then he learned that an armed Nobuyori was author of the commotion, that he had—having perhaps been hoisted onto his animal—ridden over with all of his soldiers, and that he was now demanding audience.

There are various versions of his reception, but the most likely one finds Vice-Councilor Nobuyori complaining that Councilor Michinori had brought false charges against him and that this same person was going to have palace troops come to arrest him. It was upon Nobuyori's having learned this that, escaping, he had come to bid farewell to his imperial patron.

As was intended, the retired emperor was confused by this explanation. He said there was no truth in such allegations and that he would himself go and see the reigning emperor—the sixteen-year-old Nijō—and make certain that such rumors were silenced.

Nobuyori well knew Go-Shirakawa's habit of pretending pow-erlessness and referring all decisions to the inexperienced Nijō, so he could now say that this seemed an excellent thought and if his majesty would but get himself ready then he—Nobuyori— would loyally accompany him.

The retired emperor, angry at this, asked what he meant, to thus order about an imperial person. Several of the attending officers indicated what was meant by seizing him, shoving him into a palanquin, and rushing him out of the gate. Michinori's two sons were then dispatched, and the palace set on fire.

In the meantime, the Emperor Nijō had been awakened by Yoshitomo and his men entering the palace they were supposed to have been guarding. He was taken to an outlying building and locked up just as the retired emperor arrived and was secured in the palace archives. All of this was completed by two in the morning.

The Minamoto were now in command. They had both reigning and retired emperors, they controlled the guards' office, the heads of the councilor's two sons were already on view at the east gate, and now all the rebels had to do was deal with Michinori himself, with the absent Kiyomori, and with us.

By the following morning, Vice-Councilor Nobuyori was installed in the offices of the Police Commission, issuing proclamations in the name of the reigning emperor. Soldiers had already surrounded Michinori's mansion and burned it down with everyone in it, including the bossy wet-nurse wife. Her husband managed to escape but was several days later discovered in Uji and decapitated.

The tonsured trophy was brought back and displayed on the banks of the river. After that, any household members remaining—some nineteen, we later heard—were one by one beheaded under the sightless eyes of the man who had himself revived the death penalty.

The morning after the insurrection the wind had dropped, but it was still cold and the capital remained shuttered. We too at Rokuhara did not venture out far. Our leader was away and Minamoto soldiers stalked the streets. We were safe—Rokuhara had been designed as a fortress, there were several wells and enough food—but we were confused.

And so we remained. Though messengers had been at once dispatched to Kiyomori, our commander was still far distant and he had so made himself sole leader that without him none of us knew what to do.

While we remained inactive in our fort, there was over at the Fujiwara residences a scramble among the usurpers for the various offices of state. Nobuyori finally obtained his wished-for title of General of the Imperial Guards and a ministerial post as well; Yoshitomo was given the province of Harima, and at the following banquet a triumph for the Minamoto was officially announced.

Why at this point an attack was not launched against us at Rokuhara I do not know. It was later said that Yoshitomo had so counseled but that the indolent Nobuyori overruled him, saying that it was an unlucky day for such an enterprise and that, in any event, he—still the cautious Fujiwara courtier in all things— thought they had best wait to see what the forces of Kiyomori would do.

We did nothing—stayed inside and so remained for ten whole days. It was a strange period—now sharply cold and us holed up in our fortress like wasps in winter. Except for the cooking fires one would have thought the place deserted. Then on the nineteenth day of the month, Kiyomori returned.

How happy we were to see him. All of us cheered and his wife ran to greet him just as she was, barefoot, right out into the snow of the courtyard. He had with him many more men—soldiers from Ise—and though this meant that room had to be found for them in our already crowded encampment we were pleased to welcome them.

At first we thought it was their vast number that had intimidated the Minamoto into letting them through to Rokuhara. Later we learned that this was rather the doing of Nobuyori himself. He reasoned that, since he held both emperors, Kiyomori could do nothing. And so this newly appointed General of the Imperial Guards allowed his enemy safely to return.

Others did not reason that the leader of the Taira could do nothing. By the morning of the twentieth day of the month, Nobuyori was all alone in his palace, except for Lord Yoshitomo and his men. All the others, terrified of the anger of Commander Kiyomori, had deserted. The peace had ended.

* * *

This war between the Taira and the Minamoto officially began in the early morning of the twenty-seventh day. At three, a group of masked soldiers entered the palace archives and roused the retired emperor. They took him—again protesting, it is said—from the northwest gate, eventually depositing him at the Ninnaji, a temple well outside the city gates. Just how easily this was accomplished I myself learned, since I had been ordered to serve on a like mission: the liberation of the Emperor Nijō.

Accompanying us were two Fujiwara officers—Tsunemune and Korekata, head of the police. That they had come over to our side was a surprise, yet there they were, right in our compound, their horses shaking the snow from their manes. They then rode out again, our men following, to lead us to the enemy, now unlawfully occupying the imperial palace.

Entering the grounds was simple. We were unchallenged. Either Nobuyori was asleep or, more likely, the guards had already defected. Once inside, Korekata led us directly to a small building on the north side. There he battered at the doors until they were opened by the terrified retainers, and in we marched.

When his imperial majesty the Emperor Nijō appeared, I did not recognize him. To be sure, I had never seen him before— still, I was not prepared for this pale and beautiful sixteen-year-old with eyebrows plucked, lips painted, lacquered teeth shining in the candlelight. Only when this wonderful figure moved did I see that it was a boy. With him was a real girl—his sister.

They made no complaint but entered their palanquins and we traversed the entire length of the city unchallenged until we came to Gojō. Here a group of Minamoto soldiers guarding the avenue to Rokuhara halted us, and the wisdom of Korekata's disguising the emperor became apparent.

The soldiery was told that two palace entertainers were being escorted to their homes by express orders of Nobuyori.

Suspicious, they demanded to be shown. And so the young emperor and his sister were ordered out. Here, while the guards were looking at them, I also had the opportunity of gazing at his majesty.

He made a boyish girl when one knew he was a boy. While his sister cowered, his confusion was masculine, resolute. I felt a strong emotion—I was only three years older than he—which I set down to reverence. It began again to snow and there he stood, flakes in his locks. I gazed at the sight and my eyes shone.

Satisfied, the guards let us pass and we proceeded up the road and eventually reached Rokuhara at four in the morning. And about an hour later there came another knocking at the gate. After the lookouts signaled that there was no danger, we unbarred it to a most miserable and bedraggled lot. It was the emperor's household, whole dozens who, having no place else to go, had followed us out, wandering after their emperor in all their finery through the slush and sleet.

We had no room for them. With us, the Ise army, the imperial suite, and now these; there might be food and drink enough, but where would everyone lie down? Quite a number had no beds, but I was permitted my pallet because I had had the duty that night. And with me under the coverlet I took a young page who would otherwise have had no place to sleep. He was about fourteen, knew nothing but life in the palace, but was anxious for his own safety and hence willing to please.

His name was Tamamaru and though he came from common folk he had been chosen for imperial service because of his beauty, which was great—cold, wet, and crying though he was. I thought he looked just like my young emperor, though his teeth were white and his eyebrows his own. At any rate he was frightened enough to do whatever I made him, and we then fell into an exhausted sleep. Which was just as well, as I got no more sleep for some time.

By dawn the torpid Nobuyori awoke to what had occurred and in the snow and the dark called for a review of his troops. Two thousand lined up, icicles doubtless on their visors. With the awakened general were Yoshitomo and his three sons— including the thirteen-year-old Yoritomo, whom I would come to know so well. Nobuyori gave his orders and Yoshitomo left with a mere battalion of soldiers to declare war.

They reached our bridge shortly after dawn and stood there in the white light on the other side of the river, a smallish group of men. Then Lord Yoshitomo rode forward and delivered his challenge.

It was a stirring one. A Minamoto, he shouted, was true always to the throne. And now that his majesty was in mortal danger due to the ambitions of the Taira, he—Minamoto no Yoshitomo—was ready to engage in righteous battle on behalf of his imperial majesty.

After this, he was, we later learned, to have been suddenly joined by Nobuyori and his two thousand men. The resulting sight—masses of armed men in the cold light of dawn—would have thrown Rokuhara into confusion and the attack upon this stronghold would have at once begun.

In the event, however, Nobuyori dawdled. He was still in the palace with his two thousand soldiers. And so the day dawned, the snow stopped, and it was a bright and sparkling morning— not at all appropriate for a sudden, nocturnal attack.

Kiyomori took advantage of this indecision. In fact, he had already dispatched his eldest son, Shigemori, with five hundred horsemen to take the palace, Nobuyori, and Yoshitomo's three sons.

When Shigemori galloped into that courtyard, Nobuyori turned and ran. Only Yoshihira, one of Yoshitomo's sons, held his ground and challenged Shigemori. This resulted in their famous duel, right outside the great hall, just in front of the sacred cherry tree.

Then, when Shigemori was getting the worst of it, some of the Minamoto horsemen who had run off with Nobuyori returned and attacked the Taira warriors. At that point, the chronicles tell us, the snow turned the color of cherry blossoms—a phrase which doubtless occurred to no one during the actual battle.

As more Minamoto returned to fight, more Taira were sent up from Rokuhara and the war raged. Four times the Taira were repelled and even the lazy Nobuyori, encouraged, returned to take the field. When Shigemori received an arrow there was a general rout and our men were forced back all the way to the Gojō bridge.

At this point I was wakened, and both Tamamaru and I were sent up to the wall to repell the invaders and, when none came, were sent outside to begin tearing down our side of the bridge.

It was a stirring sight that met our eyes. The far side was alive with men, all fighting in the slush. Horses were milling and slipping, and sometimes one of the horsemen would give a great cry as he fell with his mount into the black and icy river.

There was no telling which army was which, all the uniforms were wet and muddy and the flags had become indistinguishable, but we knew that the Minamoto must at all costs be kept out and so we all—soldiers, valets, pages, housemaids—worked to destroy the bridge.

Hard work it was too. That bridge had been made to last, and here we were trying to tear it apart with our hands. Since we were frantic, however, we managed to do so, throwing the loosened planks, the uprooted posts, one by one into the ice-filled stream below.

The housemaids' fingers were soon bleeding and Tamamaru dropped a railing on his foot. We worked hard and well but it seemed all for nothing because the enemy circled about and a group of men, led by Yoshihira, crossed downstream and was attacking us from the south.

Then Commander Kiyomori himself took full control. He seemed everywhere, his large nose and big ears all around us. He even found time to gather together the children onto the parapets and have them throw rocks down upon the invaders. Tamamaru, limping about in his torn silks, hit a climbing Minamoto squarely in the face with a paving stone.

Though this invader fell back, joining his fellows at the base of our walls, still the soldiers came, slipping in the mud and blood, wading through the slush and slime, climbing on the bodies of their comrades. Soon we were tearing the very tiles from the roofs because both our arrows and our stones were gone.

This desperate battle lasted all day. I saw a child slip and fall on the soldiers beneath, where it was at once butchered; a young serving girl was disemboweled; our commander took an arrow in the sleeve. And all accompanied by a noise so great— shouts, cries, yells, screams—that eventually one no longer heard it, as one no longer hears the rush of a nearby waterfall.

The battle was going much against us, but we were saved by the foresight of Shigemori's lieutenants who now returned to the palace and took it, killing those who had remained on guard. When news of this reached Yoshitomo, he realized that he had no place upon which to fall back and so, with Rokuhara all but assured, he began a retreat.

He did not, to be sure, know how desperate our position was. Plans had already been made that it would be we who retreated—back up the hills toward the Kiyomizu Temple. But we well knew of this desperation, and so when the unwise Minamoto showed us their backs we swarmed out of our gates like angry hornets in full pursuit.

So close had we been to defeat and death that our sudden reprise was like wine. We became instantly drunk and, leaping the small gap we had made in our bridge, we raced over the dead and the dying and set out in pursuit. From all of Yoshitomo's company only fourteen, it is said, reached the far hills alive.

I remember running after a wounded foot soldier, dragging himself along as swiftly as he could, and slicing through his neck—then being surprised that killing was so simple.

Even Tamamaru, who stayed near me all day, frightened but elated, became carried away. He had found a sword and with it went limping about attacking the fleeing soldiers. He pinned to the ground a boy not much older than himself, then cut his throat. It was strange to see this fourteen-year-old page, blood-covered, his silk garments in shreds, grimace ferociously as he sliced through the living flesh and then look up to me for approbation.

Eventually there were no more to kill. The dead lay deep in the streets, in the river, and they were piled like earth-filled sacks around the snowy ramparts of Rokuhara. We went back to the fortress, my captured head bumping against my thigh— secured by its hair to my scabbard belt. Tamamaru's was held fast in his bloody fist, since his silken belt was lost. Already, the servants were making cooking fires, soldiers were pulling arrows from the gates, and valets were rolling bodies into the river where the winter current carried them away. It was sunset.

We soldiers were assembled in the big courtyard and Kiyomori himself addressed us, praising our fidelity to the emperor. This imperial personage was then brought out. No longer dressed as a girl, he now carried a ceremonial sword, and we all knelt and bowed.

Then we turned in our trophies. Mine was marked beside my name and added to the growing pile. Tamamaru's was not, since he was but a page. I thought I might get credit for his as well but it was instead added to a separate pile, later allocated to the credit of our leader. We were then given something to eat and sent to our barracks and to bed.

Mine was again my own. Tamamaru was herded back to the apartments of the young emperor and when I next saw him he was in a new silk outfit, purple on a cream background, and he looked straight through me. Again he was an imperial page and I was a common subaltern. The delightful disorder of battle was over.

* * *

The Minamoto were now in full rout. Yoshitomo and his sons attempted to flee to the farther side of Lake Biwa; Nobuyori tried to reach Ninnaji to ask the retired emperor for pardon— neither succeeded.

Kiyomori's soldiers were everywhere and found nearly everyone. Officers, nobles, soldiers alike, all were decapitated the following day. The headless corpses were stacked like firewood and the heads were neatly laid out, as in a pumpkin field, scribes busily attaching labels and marking which was accredited to whom.

The following day Kiyomori ordered an inspection of the imperial palace and a ceremonial reinstatement of the Emperor Nijō, so we all bathed, put on clean uniforms, and made ourselves a splendid sight as our grand procession left Rokuhara, proceeding up from Gojō to the palace, the emperor and his sister in a ceremonial oxcart flanked by an honor guard. Along the way, homes and stores were unshuttered and the people of the city appeared, also all dressed up. The winter sun shone. It was like a holiday—as indeed it was, since that day no work was done.

At the palace there was an amusing occurrence. After the fighting, the place had been deserted and into it poured the destitute, all the orphans, beggars, and criminals of the city. Here they made themselves at home, dressed themselves up in silks and brocades, and built bonfires in the chambers. Not finding food, they butchered and barbecued some horses and left the remains. A corner of the council chamber was their lavatory, but in general they relieved themselves wherever they happened to be and cleaned themselves with whatever came to hand.

When our procession arrived, they were still deep in their revels, having located the imperial wine. Once it was discovered that we were there, however, they all emerged, looking like mice when the pantry door is opened. There they stood, still clutching their stolen finery, teeth chattering. However, much as they may have deserved it for so desecrating the imperial chambers, they were not executed. Rather, they were made to clean and repair their damage as best they could. This took the rest of the day.

I know—since I was there—that the guards considerably savaged the beggars while they were attempting to remove the mess they had made. And I know—because I saw it—that one pretty outcast girl, kicking and screaming, was raped by five soldiers in the back of the state chamber itself. Nonetheless, the townsfolk thought this all a marvelous leniency on the part of the stern Lord Kiyomori, and mercy was welcome after all the killing.

Perhaps further seeking to ingratiate himself with his subjects, at the end of the day our lord actually ordered that each of the laboring beggars should be given a measure of cooked millet. This sat well with the citizens of Heiankyō, who reasoned that if our new lord was this understanding and generous with the lowest, then they—somewhat higher—would have little to fear from him.

Then, finally, the Emperor Nijō—who had spent the day waiting in an undespoiled pavilion—was reinstated. It was not really a ceremony, since there was no precedent for it, but Kiyomori saw to it that it at least appeared ceremonial.

There were torches that made the palace rooms even brighter than day, and musicians were ferreted out, and the dancers who had been practicing their New Year's numbers when the disturbance began were brought forward and made to perform—and so with great pomp and splendor the sixteen-year-old emperor again ascended his throne and the Heiji War was over.

* * *

The day after that we were assembled by the Kamo River and the conclusion of hostilities was signaled by the tallying of the heads. These, somewhat preserved by the weather, were laid out in long lines and the scribes read out their names, if they had any, and those to whom they were credited.

It occurs to me as I write that my reader may well no longer be familiar with this particular military custom. Routine beheading after battle is no longer practiced because in this era of peace we have no more battles. Back then, however, the taking and cataloging of heads was an important part of military life.

The reason was that promotions and other rewards were allot-ed to those of greatest valor, but the determination of just what that consisted was difficult. Hence this quota system. He who had the most heads was most valorous.

In theory, the system gave greater credit for better heads. If you killed an enemy officer you got more points. In practice, however, since there were so many fewer officers than soldiers, numbers as well began to count.

As a consequence, though collecting heads was important, whose heads these were became less so. Indeed, the innocent passerby was sometimes slain so that he could contribute his head to a soldier's account. As in this war where, I was told, there were five heads all labeled: Traitorous Monk Enshin Akamatsu.

Heads being this important, there was no question of taking prisoners of war. Surrender in battle ceased to be a soldierly option. The head was taken and the corpse was sometimes used for weapon practice. It was then thrown away, but the head was kept.

While still a common soldier, I had sometimes been assigned to the washing of a head or two. These round objects soon ceased to be human. One caught them by the ears or by the nose to turn them around and scrub away the gore. Occasionally, a dead eye would blink at the indignity and this always brought a laugh.

Naturally, each of us foresaw the possibility that our own heads would be handled in this disrespectful fashion. And when the thought occurred we would be rougher than ever, slapping that pale cheek or scrubbing away at those young lips.

There is nowadays none of this. Indeed the entire quota system that supported all of these decapitations has disappeared. One is judged not by the number of staring heads collected but by more abstract trophies: diligence, perseverence, loyalty.

Perhaps I am again being old fashioned, but there was something reassuring about those melonlike objects bumping about the knees, held by their long hair from the belt or the saddle pommel. At least it was something to see and to smell. It was not, like loyalty, invisible. And there was something satisfying about the scrubbed face staring at one—for all the world like a small son—as the scribe called out, To Officer Kumagai Naozane— one head: name unknown.

* * *

Here in this time of peace I should perhaps say something further about war, specifically about killing. It is not something we often go about these days, and if we do, it is in an impersonal and executive manner. One side in a skirmish is sent against another and in the muddle a number, indeed, are killed. This is the result of administrative considerations. At the same time, however, it divests the slain of a kind of dignity that is his due, and it deprives the slayer of distinction. Let me enlarge.

Back in the time of which I am speaking, he who was killed had been chosen and he had had the opportunity of defending himself. Thus, due to misfortune or ineptitude, he could himself observe the transition from life to death and this conferred upon his position a sort of dignity—one which we demonstrated by the removal of his head.

He who killed was acknowledged as being better at his job, always a welcome compliment, and he was proved so at considerable risk of discomfort, always the sign of a competent craftsman. Hence the satisfaction at a job well done, as signified by all the smiles of those gathered around the piles of heads.

I was to be found there, grinning away with all the rest, for I had just returned from the excitement of battle. I had chosen my man (or been chosen—that sometimes happened as well) and we had chased each other about the field. With my sword held high, two hands gripping its handle as my two thighs gripped the heaving side of my mount, I experienced the full glory of battle.

How can I best describe it to you who have perhaps never felt it? First, perhaps by suggesting that the glory of battle is no empty phrase. What I felt was a kind of resplendence, a kind of bliss or, if you will, perhaps happiness. Racing away, sword in air, I knew I had never been more myself.

I might compare this feeling, in myself, to the loss of temper to which I am prone. When I allow this to occur I am as though filled with a liquor which fleshes me out, defines me. I am gratefully engorged and become a single entity. No longer do I reason and consider, doubt or worry. Rather, I am solid all the way through, as my sword is. I am utterly and only myself.

This feeling is defining, but now imagine it amplified until it eclipses even any consideration of the matter. Solid, now more a part of the mount than the mere rider, more the sword than the simple wielder, I am so entirely consistent that thought is stilled.

That blessed state—when thought is stilled. There are only a few occasions when the miracle can occur. When deep in prayer, when engaged in love, when lost in anger, and when committed to battle. To be filled with faith, with lust, with ire— it is all the same: one is filled.

Without a thought I urge my mount, I must be first in battle, first to burst upon the enemy, first to kill. Racing, my steed leaping over the barricade, I am inside the camp, my sword swirling as I grip my mount and see my adversary as he, as mindless as myself, comes racing to meet me.

We are so much more similar than we are different, but we have designated each other, and we must now fight. I grab at his bridle, he makes a fast pass at my sword arm; I wheel, aim for his neck, that exposed sliver of flesh just under the back rim of his helmet; he whirls and aims at my neck, that small V-shaped wedge of flesh between my cuirass and my collar.

If we miss, we wheel and try again. If one of us does not miss, the other falls slowly from his mount and lies in the dust, still or writhing—awaiting the coming sword and the final separation of spirit from body.

I have known only victory, never defeat (on the battlefield, that is) and so cannot share with you the emotions of the loser, but I wonder if these are so different from mine. I am filled still with my purpose. So is he with his. I have not returned to that dappled person I was. Nor has he gone back to any previous self. We are there, still alike—heroes, if you will, in that we have surmounted our petty persons to become these armored beings still filled with pure purpose.

You may wonder that I, a priest, would continue to so express myself. Yet it is something akin to this feeling I have been describing that I expect to discover in myself as I enter the blessed land—this sense of being whole, this miracle of the sundered parts together assembled.

I remember the forty-eight vows of Amida Buddha and dwell upon the eighteenth, the Namu Amida Butsu, Amida's "Original Vow." It is this I invoke to allow me passage. And it is I who opened this very road to those whom I bested in battle. My ambition to stay behind and guide the dead is perhaps best understood when one remembers that I have already led so many.

* * *

There followed a long era of peace—a full decade. It was, to be sure, an uneasy one, but I wonder if there is any other kind. These years of Taira peace were so filled with dissent and intrigue that I was not surprised the other day to hear one of our ballad-making novices singing away about the bad old times of which I am now writing.

Back then, sang this young voice, men both high and low lived with no peace of mind, lived as though walking always upon the thinnest ice or treading the narrow ledge above a precipice. The world had waxed corrupt and lax, and vice had outstripped virtue.

And so it had. To begin at the very top, there was an unusual discord between the retired emperor and the Emperor Nijō. The younger would not defer to the older, and Go-Shirakawa in turn could not countenance such disrespect in the younger.

The retired emperor would deprive the reigning emperor of several of his most trusted officers. Nijō would retaliate by decimating the attendants of Go-Shirakawa. This intercine and largely bureaucratic warfare made life difficult for those in the imperial service. A lord one day, banished the next, men's fortunes so fluctuated that great houses came tumbling down, whole families were sent weeping into the wilds, and suicides grew common.

With imperial bickering in plain view, political machinations, usually decently hid, slid into sight. The customary intrigues and maneuverings of the court cast off their shrouding layers of ceremony and flaunted themselves. One result was that the imperial house lost an amount of respect. Another was that the court of Kiyomori, himself so carefully circumspect, gained a like amount.

At the same time, though the Taira had supported the now-retired emperor against his elder brother during the Hōgen War of five years before, Lord Kiyomori presently desired that Go-Shirakawa should be deprived of some of that new power. Consequently, the imperial sniping pleased him.

Not that his pleasure was obvious. No one was more solicitous of both emperors than was Kiyomori, no one more punctilious in regard to visits and presents, no one more patient during long, closeted sessions than he.

I was often a member of the retinue that accompanied our lord on these imperial visits. We used to believe that our accompanying throng was so large because we had little else to do and so had somehow to be given employment, but I now think the real reason was that our numbers were meant to intimidate the court and to impose upon their majesties.

We would stand around in the grounds of the new palace while Lord Kiyomori was being entertained by the retired emperor. The sun hot on our helmeted heads, we waited, our noses filled with the smell of freshly cut lumber, which this modest little palace still exuded. Nor were we allowed to amuse ourselves. No talking, neither with each other, nor with the sometimes pretty palace servants who came to gawk. We stood or squatted or knelt, holding our flags and halberds and making a fine show while the higher officers were offered refreshment in one of the outer rooms where the future was being decided.

All to the Taira advantage. In recognition of our great service against the insurgents, Kiyomori was elevated to the senior grade of the third court rank. And over the years further promotions came fast; he was made member of the court council, then captain of the police commissioner's division, then vice-councilor, councilor, and finally state minister. Further, upon entering palaces he was no longer required to dismount from his carriage—a grand if cumbersome affair drawn on these occasions by a large ox, on others by us.

His privileges were those of premier, though that title was still withheld him. It was one he wanted because it promised ulti-mate power. In practice, however, the position was vacant. It was waiting for the proper person to be found. Since this person— someone capable of instructing the young emperor, someone who could govern in his stead, someone who was a model to the people—was scarcely ever found, the title usually went empty.

I well understood our Kiyomori's ambitions and his irritation at having the title withheld. After all, it was the ultimate indication that he had made something of himself. This was also my intention. And I too had my share of irritations.

My small platoon, originally boys from Musashi, now included city youths as well, and all had in this lazy peace grown insubordinate. They could not accustom themselves to being supervised by someone as rustic as myself. Their leader—me— they said, was such a country boy that he could not read even the simplest Chinese character. Jocular remarks about radishes were made, horse manure as well. And cow patties. Even my father's bear was joshed over.

I caught one of the men at such pleasantries and had him publicly flogged. The gathered men stared at the red muscle as a buttock split and there was a respectful hush—disturbed to be sure by the culprit's screams. Though this display muffled the ridicule, it did not increase my popularity.

Since I was determined to make something of myself, however, a good reputation was called for and so I continued to enforce discipline. I detained the entire group for the remark of a single man and had numbers of them locked up, beatings were common. During such sessions I became terrible in my wrath, and thus, in a modest way, emulted our respected Lord Kiyomori.

* * *

Our Taira policies were successful. In less than two years, by the second year of Ninnan [1167], Lord Kiyomori had assumed the highest position in the civil government and had finally received the coveted premiership. And in the years to come he would marry his daughter, Tokuko, to the new emperor, Takakura, and their son, the child-emperor Antoku, would be our lord's own grandchild.

In this our leader proved that he had learned well from our former foe, the now much diminished Fujiwara, for it had long been their policy to so intermarry their women with the imperial house that relations of fealty became those of family.

The resemblance of the new Taira clan to the old Fujiwara was openly commented upon. It was said Premier Kiyomori and his family controlled almost half the country. At that time the land was divided into sixty-six provinces and those governed by the Taira certainly numbered more than thirty. Too, Kiyomori's sons were all ministers, all of his daughters were married to royalty, sixteen of his close relatives were nobles, and thirty more were courtiers, while others—his was a large family—were made provincial governors or the heads of imperial guards.

He became as grand as he was powerful. Our Rokuhara fortress was transformed into a palace, at night as bright as day, lanterns everywhere. The most brilliant was the chamber housing our master's gem collection. It was so stuffed that there was no room for further offerings, though such appeared daily. People said the place shone even in the dark.

In the corridors the attendents were so brilliantly costumed that the popular song of the day called the palace a garden and these servants butterflies. The splendor spilled into the courtyards, which swarmed with horses and carriages, visitors and petitioners. And in the apartments were rare woods, incenses, spices, brocades, embroideries, jewels, gold, silver. By comparison the imperial palaces, homes of the emperors Go-Shirakawa and Nijō, were shabby. It was in regard to this successful splendor that Lord Kiyomori's brother-in-law, Tokitada, famously said: If one is not a Taira, one is not a man.

This was a sentiment to which the general populace enthusiastically subscribed. A rage for things Taira swept the capital. Our winning color (red—the Minamoto color was white) was everywhere: red flags, red bunting, even a few red robes on the more patriotic wives of merchants. There were also a number of fads—a way of wrapping the kimono sash, of doing the hair, of twisting the brim of the headdress: these were found to be in the Taira manner and became the fashion.

So overweening was this new regard that when Kiyomori took up with a young dancer named Gio, other young dancers began calling themselves by such names as Gini and Gifuku and Gitoku and Gichi. Equally, there was a gradual move of the capital to the east of the city, where stood the Rokuhara, now a palace in itself with a splendid new bridge leading to it. Property around the Kiyomori estate, in particular the Gojō gate, became extremely expensive as the gentry bought to build.

In consequence the western part of the capital, never much, became even more unfashionable. It was here that the beggars found their homes. They swarmed everywhere but were mainly about the temples. Guards had to be posted to protect the faithful in their prayers, since those in need of alms became more and more demanding.

Yet, for those already prosperous, these years of peace were indeed rich times. Money (newly minted, ordered by the new premier) was to be made from almost every enterprise, and the newly rich set about aping their ruler. Here the house of Kiyomori set very high standards. Take, for example, the sudden fad for learning it engendered.

As I remember, it began around the first year of Eiryaku [1160]. Younger officers were encouraged to visit the Imperial Academy and there read the Confucian classics, long moldering in their old Chinese bindings. Few, of course, could, but such is the power of fashion that there shortly appeared an entire race of military scholars whose sole purpose was to make simplified adaptations into the native tongue and to indulge in learned disputation on this arcane point or that.

The officers passed the fad onto their men who shortly memorized a few tag-lines with which they now decorated their observations. From here the craze descended to members of the merchant class. Having soon become learned as well, they in turn passed it on, and eventually even the cooks and postillions could supply a sage quote if so required.

I remember that ladies' letters—I was paying some attention to a daughter of the minor gentry at the time—became almost impossible to read. Due to the cost of paper, they were always crammed with afterthoughts, but they now became even more illegible, since the new learning had to be given a place. Confucian precepts, historical quotations, Chinese poems—the letter would arrive so scribbled over that it would appear entirely black.

Attempting to read one of these indecipherable missives was doubly difficult for me in that I knew no more Chinese characters than did my correspondent. I could read kana script but my rural upbringing and her sex had kept us both from learning the cumbersome kanji When I answered her, I had to go to a common scribe, and perhaps my correspondent was forced to a similar extreme.

I, however, unlike her, could otherwise better my estate. With the rage for learning burning so brightly, it was simple to receive permission for further schooling and easy to find a teacher. I again chose a priest and he was happy to get the money. In return, this elegant personage, much given to aphorism, weekly drilled me in the intricacies of our written language.

Consequently, I could at last finally get through one of those letters of hers in which she elegantly remembered on the back of page two to remind me to honor my parents and observe the laws of society, all in Chinese characters. And I thought how wise of Kiyomori to have insinuated these conservative observations of the venerable Confucius, since, if followed, they made ruling an easier task than it might otherwise have been. Such a thought was mine alone, however. One does not question the naturalness of a new fashion—its very attraction lies in its apparent spontaneity.

There was, however, nothing spontaneous about Kiyomori and the men with whom he now surrounded himself. Everything was nicely calculated. And he who commanded two emperors had small difficulty in ruling a willing and bemused populace.

For so doing he fashioned many tools. One of the most effective was his young cadet corps. This consisted of three hundred boys, all from fourteen to sixteen years old. They had their hair cut in a distinctive bobbed fashioned and they wore a special costume—a quite dazzling shade of purplish-blue elegantly called azure. These lads were the rage of the city, feted, dined, welcomed everywhere, since it was they who in large part created the various diverting fashions that kept everyone agog.

It was well known, of course, that they were also spies and that it was through them that Kiyomori and his court learned of covert happenings in the capital. But it made small difference to the populace that the boys were little tattletales, puffed up with their own importance. And the small spies could also be used for benefit as well. If Kiyomori heard a lot that the merchants would prefer he had not, he also heard much that they wanted him to. Since the Rokuhara lists of preferment were based largely on the reports of the boy-spies, it was merely proper management for merchants and the middle classes to court them and then send them home with messages of exemplary faithfulness and undying fidelity.

We in the army did not take so well to this effective little corps. They were always running about self-importantly in their azure outfits, combining within themselves the sullenness of adolescence and the stupidity of childhood. They were all uncommonly good looking, it is true, but none were to be trusted.

Nor did they much take to us. Hence I was surprised when one of their mentors—all of whom had been pages or red-robed spies themselves—came to the barracks to call upon me. Several years younger than myself—I was then in my later twenties—he looked to be plumply dissipated and seemed to be full of himself.

Though his ostensible purpose was to speak of a minor matter concerning a certain platoon, his questions were so pointless and his methods so circuitous that I soon realized that it was I who was being investigated.

Such had become routine and, as I afterward learned, I was up for a promotion and this always required routine investigation. In the platoon in question was a soldier who was friendly with two of the young men in the retired emperor's imperial guard. Official suspicion of myself was, however, unwarranted. I knew none of the people involved and was, perhaps consequently, promoted.

During our talk, my interlocutor sat there staring at me and fanning his bulk with his fashionable red-lacquer fan. Did I not remember a certain night, the night the Heiji War began? Think now, didn't I remember?

It was little Tamamaru whom I had befriended some dozen years before, now quite unrecognizable. I should never have known him had not some impulse made him tell me. He lowered his eyes, then looked up through his lashes.

If this casual and by me almost forgotten episode was known to Rokuhara, then what, indeed, was not known? Tamamaru had been sent to me because of our casual meeting when we were boys. Though disturbed by the implications of the investigation, I was nonetheless moved by admiration for Premier Kiyomori and his administrative system. He had become truly successful.

* * *

Since I had been in the service of Kiyomori for nearly a decade now, my fortunes had risen with his. From a provincial foot soldier turned troop leader, I became a subaltern and, eventually —my fidelity tested by Tamamaru—I was made lieutenant.

Among the reasons for the appointment was that it was discovered, with some help from myself, that my family had long been firmly Taira. Also, that my imperial-guard grandfather had indeed been forced into suicide by the scheming Fujiwara. Making me officer to the near-imperial Premier Kiyomori was a way of righting ancient wrongs and, at the same time, affirming the benevolence of the current reign.

Further, I had learned to put myself before my superiors, to be always there, always seemingly occupied with my duties. Lord Kiyomori liked his men to be busy, to serve long hours, to prefer to remain on post even when nominally free. Having little otherwise to do, I often stayed behind the others and this after a time attracted admiring notice. I kept my men on an uncomfortably short leash and was obviously dedicated.

The promotion to lieutenant meant more money, a new uniform, increased prestige, and not much more responsibility. It did not, however, increase my popularity with my men. Rather than congratulate me upon my success in my chosen profession, they made yet more jokes about bumpkins in uniform. For this they received welts upon their naked backs and were thus encouraged to slander more quietly. But I never became a popular officer.

We officers were, however, popular with the populace. For one thing we kept our men in order and prevented rapine and pillage. For another, we belonged to the most powerful man in the empire and there was no telling when any of us might be further elevated. In addition, we were decorative and entertaining and gave the townspeople the pretexts they needed for parties and excursions.

I was consequently often invited out, and often accepted, having now accomplished my purpose in having stayed inside working overtime. At one such tea party I had the pleasure of again meeting my old fencing teacher, Kurō. Now he sat cross-legged on a round cushion expertly balancing a teacup on his knee and expressing surprise at how big I had gotten. And I— though I did not say so—was equally surprised at how this provincial sword teacher had become such a polished fencing master, now fit for the best Fujiwara society.

Perhaps, however, it was just our lingering rustic airs that so capitivated those folk in the capital. One proper matron, I remember, asked my name and, when I courteously replied, she was not able to repress a small shiver. It must have sounded barbaric to her—that bear reference—and this both alarmed and attracted the lady.

Popular, we were commanded to the homes of the minor aristocracy to attend lengthy dance recitals followed by delicate fare served with becoming modesty by well-born daughters, or were invited to the richly ostentatious homes of merchants, offered Chinese wines and other delicacies from distant climes, and had commoner daughters thrust upon us.

The desired ends were identical. Both aristocracy and merchants wished to connect their houses with that of Kiyomori in anyway that they could. Marriage with one of his lieutenants was a tenuous connection but was thought better than none. And there was not that much choice. All of Kiyomori's proper offspring were reserved for the imperial line.

Then too, we young officers were also occasionally invited to the imperial palace—not Emperor Go-Shirakawa's but Emperor Nijō's. While we did not view the young emperor himself—I was never to see him again after those early glimpses—we saw a lot of his court.

It was not all that much fun. There were moral readings and the slower of the court dances. Flirting was not encouraged. The Emperor Nijō had grown up serious. Far different, we heard, were the evenings at the retired emperor's palace. Here the rooms were brightly lit far into the night and the air rang with those popular tunes of the day, the imayō, which Go-Shirakawa so loved. There were contests where singers vied with each other, and dances to go with all the music. I imagine that dalliance was encouraged as well. To these, however, we were not invited—only the higher-ups from Kiyomori's court were.

At one of the imperial parties at Emperor Nijō's palace there was a pretty girl, daughter of a minor official, who had apparently been told to interest me. Though her parents were forward in their attentions, I grew to like her because she neither fawned nor complimented, but went about pouring my cup full just as she had been ordered.

After the graces of the others, her undemanding and straightforward manner was strangely attractive. Indeed, her very lack of interest interested me. Ten years as a rising and likely officer candidate in what had become an increasingly dissolute capital had accustomed me to easier conquests.

Most of our evenings out were given over to dissipations of various sorts. We young officers gambled, drank, quarreled, and ended up under the coverlet with someone we did not know and often enough did not even desire. Under such circumstances, making love becomes as ordinary as eating and when food is plentiful one does not think of hunger.

As a consequence of my disordered life, I was thinking of some alliance that would bring domestic comfort and at the same time would strengthen my chances of rising further in my career. So I looked into the background of this girl who, unlike the others, paid so little attention to me.

Her name was Ōto and she was of good Taira stock, of blood fine enough for her to serve as lady-in-waiting to Fuji no Kata, the wife of Tsunemori, a younger brother of Kiyomori.

He was, as I have indicated, encouraging courtly ways, so we now had our own nobility, and both Ōto and I were on the edges of it. Her parents thought that marriage to one of Kiyomori's lieutenants would forward their daughter in the world, and I believed that an alliance with a close associate to the wife of Tsunemori would elevate me. Consequently, it was a union made in heaven, as they say, and we were shortly wed.

It was winter, cold and dry, the air smelling of charcoal fires. She was in her red-brocade ceremonial garb and this brought out the color in her cheeks. On my side were a fellow officer and my old instructor, Kurō. On hers were her parents and her patron, the pregnant Fuji no Kata—though the lady's distinguished husband, brother to the Nation's Protector, as we were now styling the Lord Kiyomori, did not appear.

This wife of mine turned out to be as truly indifferent to me as she had originally appeared. She had married me because she had to marry someone and I seemed the best of the lot. I had a parcel of land in Musashi, I did not drink too much, and though I had a temper, I rarely quarreled. She had probably heard I slept about, but that was no problem. She now had her husband, her own small house, and the promise of a child. And she was, I must say, an excellent wife. They called us an ideal couple—and I suppose we were.

* * *

There they go again—always the same time, and every morning. Initially I thought their chantings were acts of devotion to allay the spirits of the dead. After all, these youngsters have the reputation of being able to appease the beyond. But now I am not so certain. Perhaps there is some popular demand for their efforts, since these are all war tales. But if so, the future audience is going to receive some peculiar historical information.

Right now they are still going on about times under Kiyomori. All obeyed his commands. As the grass bends before the wind, they received his favor as the earth welcomes the rain—pretty figures of speech. The singers down the hall are fond of the poetic; they are not, however, very accurate. No one welcomed anything—they were made to put up with it, but the methods used were much more subtle than those the scribes are busy ascribing.

The pageboy spies, for example. As they have it, if one word was heard against the Taira, the pretty horde would burst into the offending house, confiscate the belongings, and march the owner off under arrest. Not at all. Their methods were much more sure, and much more successful. I wonder why our young balladeers do not take the trouble to ascertain their facts.

Having just returned from down the hall, I now know why. As I was rounding the corner one of these musical youths ran into me. Blind as a bat. Turns out the majority of them are. Consequently, they can't ascertain anything.

Ah, there they go again. Singing away about a time they have never seen, and never could have.

* * *

When I remember those last days of the Taira at the capital, they have something about them of a golden autumn, of the fullness of an orchard just past its prime, where the late sun is reflected in the fat cheek of the apple and winter is still only a thought. It was the end, but none of us saw it, though it was plain, standing there before us.

It is said that when a man reaches his mid-term he falls prey to doubt. This afflicted Kiyomori in his later years. To find the answers to the questions plaguing him he was filling his chambers with shamans and rural magicians of various sorts; he even moved his palace (and hence the capital itself) for a time to far Fukuhara on the sea, certainly to attend to trade relations with China but perhaps also to escape from such doubts and demons as had possessed him. I remember the very stink of magic in the place, all that smoke and incense, the stench of burned hair and the smell of blood from the little animals he had slaughtered to placate those demons.

They possessed us all because this was a time of great doubt. The reason was that while we were lolling in the capital, the end of the world was approaching. Though we saw this shadow we did not yet guess its cause. We did, however, recognize our forebodings.

There were, I remember, signs of this event even when I was still a child. An oak, older than the oldest family, withered; a spring failed; a horse had a two-headed colt. In the second year of Kyūan [1146] there was a comet. It was viewed as a dire portent, coming at it did from the unfortunate northeast. I, being six or so at the time, remember it well as it sailed over us during the hot, late summer nights.

There were, in addition, other reminders: an intractable younger generation, a lowering of morals, an absence of bravery, things not as they had once been, and so on. These are all common enough events but we saw them as portents.

Nor were we wrong to, for we had divine proof. According to the Buddhist faith, we would pass through three ages—we had, in fact, already done so. First had been the era when there was divine law and enlightenment; then came the period when the laws existed but there was no more enlightenment; and, finally, this time, when the law itself dissolves and there is no enlightenment because we have fallen away in the far reaches of time from the Lord Buddha's example. Radiating from so long ago, his divine light can no longer reach us.

As to just when these latter days of the law were supposed to have begun there was disagreement. Chinese priests from long ago are said to have calculated that they were beginning even back then, but our own clergy seem to have early moved this unhappy era as far forward as possible. Even so, more recent clerics were eventually forced to conclude that the latter days could not be held off much longer. That, indeed, they were now upon us. Should anyone keep to Buddha's precepts, they lamented, he would be as rare as a tiger in the marketplace.

Our church in making this pronouncement proved it. A belief in the three stages of the law is itself doctrine. We of this degenerate third age—mappō—can no longer experience enlightenment, for the law says that we cannot. And now, as I write, with the dissolving of even this law within the law, the world indeed turns dark.

To live at the end of things is to prefer the sunset to the sunshine, to view each birth with pity and each death with satisfaction: we grow more expectant of failure than success; we prefer our petty known to the great unexpected; and we hover near our hearth now that it is about to flicker and die.

How singular I now find our fears. We had expected devastation and ruin, but these in our minds took the forms of conflagration and earthquake. Yet it was not these that destroyed our world, but something quite different from what we could have imagined.

As I look now from my retreat, I see that a whole new world has taken the place of ours: new ways of thinking, of acting; few of our cherished beliefs observed; gone our superstitions and our fears, gone too our solaces.

* * *

In order to explain the onset of mappō, the downfall of the Taira, and the consequent vanishing of our world, I must now return to that story which I have neglected in following the anecdotes of my own fortunes.

Only a year after the Heiji War, the Minamoto lost their leader. Lord Yoshitomo in exile was slaughtered naked in his bath by one of his own men, one presumably in the pay of the capital—the Taira, the Fujiwara, or some imperial agency.

His head was exhibited in the capital. And there I viewed for the last time my former commander. Here was the man who had fought against his brother and killed his father, led a great coup and almost succeeded. I stared at that empty face—the hair loosened for the fatal bath, the fine ash used for washing still whitening one ear, the features holding that oddly expectant expression that decapitated heads often carry—and wondered if, had he lived, the Minamoto might have sooner won. We used to joke about this. When something displeased us Taira we would say: Oh, if Yoshitomo had never taken that bath.

Lord Kiyomori would not have appreciated our joke. He understood the danger that still-living Minamoto members represented. This was the reason for his policy of extermination. It began directly after the final battle, as I have recounted, with the decapitation of the eldest son. They say that he wept—the youth, not Kiyomori—because he was to be beheaded rather than allowed to kill himself in proper military fashion. These tears were cherished by the vanquished for a quarter of a century.

Kiyomori would not have wept. He was a great leader with great ambitions who looked after his own people and must, for that reason, exterminate the enemy. Though he is now, in this Kamakura world of the Minamoto, regarded as a great villain, Kiyomori was but doing his duty. He thought the killings a necessity.

Ah, but history is now merely the Minamoto version or, rather, the Hōjō version of the Minamoto version, now that that family rules us. The ballad makers here have Yoshihira not only refusing to weep but also seeking to confront his executioner. Ah-hah, he cries, it is you who will behead me. Well, get on with it, for if you do not do it right my head will fly up and bite your face. What? asks the warrior whose duty it is to behead him: How could a severed head bite my face? And Yoshihira says: Just do it right or in a hundred days I will kick you to death. And so the head was sloppily decapitated and just one hundred days later the decapitator was kicked to death by his horse—who was really, you see, Yoshihira's divine incarnation. And so on.

So, Kiyomori knew that killings were a necessity. This is what he had Retired Emperor Go-Shirakawa told, that this continued chopping off of heads was part of national security. After a time, however, the decapitations ceased. It was becoming impolitic for Kiyomori to continue, since the sight of blood—at least in such quantities—was becoming repellent now that peace was at hand. Also, head chopping was time-consuming. Our lord was required to be present at each execution and he could no longer spare the time, what with the press of those other administrative duties upon which the prosperity of the Taira now rested.

Twenty-five years later it was said that he stopped too soon. If he had but persevered, then the Taira might have ruled forever. Executions are indeed necessary, but when he halted, two of the enemy's sons were left alive. The elder, Yoritomo, thirteen when his father was killed, was sent to—of all places—the eastern provinces where his own father had ruled. Though the officers there were now all newly appointed by Kiyomori and hence Taira, the people themselves—soldier and peasant alike—were all Minamoto, and it was upon these that, when old enough, Yoritomo worked. The youngest son—Yoshitsune—was kept in the capital. Again this was not wise, but he was only one year old at the time and infants are not thought dangerous.

Lord Kiyomori's reasons for such uncharacteristic restraint remain obscure. Now it is said that he fell in love with the boys' mother, a beautiful lady, who became his concubine upon the understanding that her sons' lives be spared. Perhaps, but that would have been unlike Kiyomori, for it is impossible to imagine the man ever falling in love. His only stipulation was that the boys become priests—as though that would ensure their pliability. He need only have looked to the priests of Mount Hiei to have seen that war and devotion are scarely incompatible. And, even if Kiyomori had his reasons for sparing the infant, what could possibly have been those for leaving the elder boy, Yoritomo, alive?