Memoirs of the Warrior Kumagai. Donald Richie
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