Memoirs of the Warrior Kumagai. Donald Richie

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      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 СКАЧАТЬ