Memoirs of the Warrior Kumagai. Donald Richie
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