by I. J. Parker
Sire? Yamada swung around, shocked. The stranger looked delighted by his confusion. Panicked by his mistake, the doctor knelt, touching his head to the boards. “I beg your pardon, Your Majesty.”
A soft laugh. “Of course, of course. How could you know, Doctor? Please get up and continue. Your examination is most instructive.”
Yamada sat up. So this was the retired emperor? This unassuming man in the gray silk robe, sitting on the floor beside his cook? He looked at him nervously. The Emperor smiled. He has bad teeth, Yamada thought and felt a little better.
“I suffer occasionally from an excess of wind,” the emperor told him affably. “Naturally I blame it on Kosugi’s terrible cooking, but I don’t have the heart to throw out the fat slug. What do you recommend, Doctor?”
Before he could stop himself, Yamada said, “Throwing out the fat slug would solve two problems, Sire, yours and his. He eats too much of his own rich cooking.”
The emperor laughed heartily. “You hear him, Kosugi? He is a learned man. Who are we to question his wisdom?”
Kosugi looked shaken. He scrambled to his knees and clasped his hands beseechingly. “Sire, please don’t listen to him. He’s only a quack. What does he know about fine cooking? Lord Kiyomori praises my dishes, and Her Majesty always asks for my sweet dumplings when she visits.”
The Emperor waved a hand. “Don’t worry. I like your dumplings, too. But the doctor is quite right. Rich food does not agree with a man’s constitution. A beggar’s life is hard, but at least he will not die from overeating. Is that not so, Doctor?”
Yamada was angry with both of them. He was normally mild-mannered and did not stand on his dignity, but when a mere cook, who only yesterday had been weeping and begging for relief, called him a quack, he drew the line. And having just visited a young woman who was dying, not from excess but from abject poverty, he said harshly, “Men die as easily from hunger, sire. But since Kosugi thinks so little of my skills, I shall leave him to his fate. I have more deserving patients waiting.” He bowed very deeply to the emperor, then snatched up his case and left the room.
No doubt, they were too astonished to stop him.
Yamada strode off, still fuming, past the elegant halls and out through the palace gates. Halfway home, it occurred to him that he had just lost his only respectable patient and that Otori would blame him. And next he realized that he no longer had any excuse to see Toshiko again.
That he might also have offended the emperor did not bother him at all.
The Dragon King
The Retired Emperor sat on his dais, his feet crossed at the ankles, and his stiff black silk robe spread neatly around him. A step below him kneeled the men who ruled the nation under his direction. Though the meeting was formal and of great significance, most of them had just realized it was a token affair.
The Fujiwara regent was in attendance, along with the three great ministers, and three high-ranking councilors. They were all middle-aged men. The regent represented the reigning Emperor -- who was the Retired Emperor’s little grandson -- and looked unhappy but resigned.
Except for Chancellor Kiyomori, they were all senior Fujiwara nobles who had survived two turbulent purges and had earned their high ranks and positions because of their loyalty. The Retired Emperor knew that they respected him and feared Kiyomori. He was, as always, intensely aware that, but for Kiyomori, none of them would be sitting here today. Kiyomori had saved all their lives and the throne.
Twice.
Listening with half an ear to the regent’s recital of the laws of succession, the emperor watched Kiyomori.
The Taira clan chief and the nation’s chancellor was nearly fifty, a large man who dominated any crowd and had been a fine warrior like his father before him. But these days, Kiyomori was a courtier-official, someone who wore fine silks and brocades and who perfumed his robes with rare incense and carried painted fans. Yet he was as deadly in the political arena of the council chamber as on the battlefield.
At the moment Kiyomori was staring at the floor, tapping his fingers, impatient with the painstaking way in which Kanezane was citing every last precedent for choosing a crown prince. He had brought a fan when he arrived, an exceptionally fine one made of cedar wood and covered with painting and calligraphy, but when the Retired Emperor had admired it, Kiyomori had pressed him to accept it as a gift. So now Kiyomori tapped his fingers instead of fanning himself.
The Emperor looked at the fan and pursed his lips. The painting was a scene from the tale of the dragon king’s daughter in the Lotus Sutra. A religious theme. Or was it? The colors were very rich, especially the figure of the dragon king, who was covered with jewels and pearls. The landscape was lovely also. It showed Kiyomori’s family shrine at Itsukushima on the shores of the Inland Sea — the Inland Sea which was the legendary home of the dragon king who was also the clan deity of the Taira family.
The Lotus Sutra told the story of the dragon king’s eight-year-old daughter who won salvation because she was both devout and clever. She changed herself into a male in order to fulfill qualifications that can be met by men only. Women liked this tale and spent much time copying the passage and presenting it to their favorite temples to remind Buddha that even a woman may have a chance at eternal life.
The Retired Emperor did not think that religious significance had been in Kiyomori’s mind when he had commissioned the fan. He, too, was the father of a girl, and Noriko was about eight by now, like the dragon king’s daughter.
He raised his eyes from the fan to glance at Kiyomori. Their eyes met, and Kiyomori smiled and nodded. At that moment the Retired Emperor caught a glimpse of the future envisioned by Kiyomori and understood why Kiyomori had brought this particular fan today, knowing full well that he would ask to see it.
He disliked being manipulated, especially by Kiyomori.
It was tempting to judge a man by his actions. In some ways, Kiyomori’s character was transparent: he was motivated in all his actions by the relentless pursuit of power. Such men should be feared. They were dangerous and, when successful, easily hated. Kiyomori had been very successful and had gained for himself the hatred of many men.
But the bonds between them were very old, and very strong and close. They were alike in many ways: in their faith, in their love for all the arts, and in their single-minded desire to rule the nation. But there was more: Kiyomori was said to be a son of Emperor Shirakawa. If the story was true, they had the same blood, and they shared a past and the bitterness of being a rejected by their fathers. Emperor Shirakawa had seen fit to bestow his pregnant concubine on Taira Tadamori, his favorite general, as a token of his gratitude.
Had Tadamori been appreciative? And how had she felt? Did Kiyomori know the truth of the matter? Had his parents explained it to him?
When Kiyomori had been a boisterous young warrior, he had taken potshots at the armed monks of Enryakuji, and when the Retired Emperor had been a very young Prince Masahito, he had idolized him for it. Kiyomori had been his hero. He had wanted to be like him. He had wanted him for his brother instead of the cold and arrogant Emperor Sutoku.
But Kiyomori had played the role of a favored subject — politely and with due respect for the young prince and humble acceptance of his own inferior place.
Now the Retired Emperor sat on his dais and wondered how a man like Kiyomori dealt with such disappointment. He had risen to unimaginable power since those days. The young Taira warrior from the western provinces had quickly become a general, a governor, a court noble of the third rank, and now the chancellor. He was his brother-in-law, because Kiyomori’s wife’s younger sister was his Consort and the mother of Prince Norihito who was the subject of this meeting.
Kiyomori’s hair was thinner and gray now, and his skin was pale from spending most of his time inside. He was a warrior no longer, and he never acted on impulse these days.
All this fuss about naming a crown prince. The Retired Emperor himself had been passed over for the sickly
Konoe, and would have been passed over again if his father had not finally felt embarrassed. But he had been made to abdicate after only three years.
It was his turn now to name a crown prince. That was why they were meeting.
Kiyomori, who had dominated the discussion from the beginning, now forced the decision. The others nodded. Kiyomori glanced at the Retired Emperor, who also nodded, thinking that perhaps he had let Kiyomori have his way in too many things.
The meeting broke up. Motofusa, the regent, still looked unhappy. He would have preferred to keep the succession in Nijo’s family. Motofusa prostrated himself and departed. Kanezane and Tsunemune, ministers of the right and left, and the three councilors followed suit. The Retired Emperor muttered his thanks.
Only Kiyomori remained behind. The Retired Emperor was mildly irritated. It was done on purpose, of course, to impress the others with the fact that Kiyomori was closer to him than they were. As if there had been any doubt in their minds.
Yes, Kiyomori’s ambition had borne fruit. His obsession with power was natural if he knew of his imperial blood – if he knew that he might have been emperor but for the thoughtless way in which his natural father had passed his pregnant mother to a Taira general. On a whim. When the same whimsical disposition might have had the boy adopted by Shirakawa’s empress, or Toba’s, and named crown prince.
There had been a time when the Retired Emperor had believed that Kiyomori loved him unselfishly. Kiyomori had always been loyal and supportive. He had come to his aid against Sutoku. He had taken up arms again and rescued him when the Minamoto had made him and Nijo their prisoners. For that alone, Kiyomori deserved his rewards.
Kiyomori cleared his throat and startled him out of his distraction. “Yes, Kiyomori,” he said. “What is on your mind?”
“Now that the succession is settled, sire, we should consider that the Emperor is only two, a delicate age. It will be years before he can father an heir, and many things may happen in the meantime. The nation is in unrest.”
Ah, yes. Here it was. And he had no reason to oppose it. He wanted another son on the throne as soon as possible. But Kiyomori did not want Mochihito to succeed, though he was the oldest and the obvious choice. Kiyomori wanted Norihito, the fourth prince, because he had Taira blood. And so it was to be Norihito. Only, Kiyomori wanted more. He wanted a Taira emperor on the throne so that he could rule through him.
For form’s sake, he muttered, “Emperor Nijo intended his own line to continue, and my father, Emperor Toba, and his consort, Bifukumon-in, had the same wish. Surely all is well now that we have named a crown prince in case of an unforeseen tragedy.”
“Neither your father nor his consort could have predicted what would happen, sire. The security of the nation requires that we have an able ruler and a secure succession as soon as possible.”
We? The Retired Emperor sighed. It was all fixed, of course. Now that Norihito had been named crown prince, the little Emperor would abdicate, and Kiyomori’s nephew would ascend the throne. And Kiyomori would be made regent. The Retired Emperor opened the fan and looked at the image again.
Kiyomori, the Dragon King.
And the “Dragon King’s” daughter would be the next empress. It had all worked out perfectly for Kiyomori, and he saw no reason to object.
“Another abdication?” he asked, fanning himself.
Kiyomori bowed. “An excellent idea, sire. The prince is in every respect worthy.”
The Retired Emperor sighed again. “I am getting old,” he said peevishly. “Norihito is only five. I have lost one son and seen my grandson become emperor. And now another son will take over. Where will it end? I am weary of ruling for children.”
Kiyomori made a strange noise. It almost sounded like suppressed laughter. The Retired Emperor frowned at him.
“Forgive me, sire,” said Kiyomori, looking abashed. “Something caught in my throat. As for Your Majesty’s age, why, you are in the prime of your life.” He paused, then added, “I hear there is a new lady in your household.”
The Retired Emperor’s brows contracted. “What?”
“Again, your pardon, sire. Oba Hiramoto, one of my vassals, approached me on behalf of his daughter. It seems the young woman is very unhappy. She pines for your favor.” Kiyomori smiled a little and made a dismissive gesture. They were both men of the world.
The Emperor flushed. “Since when is it your custom to enquire about my household arrangements?” he demanded.
Kiyomori bowed very deeply, keeping his head down. “I have offended again. It was only my intention to prove that Your Majesty is very far from being old.”
The Emperor cleared his throat. He knew he was being flattered. With his nephew in line for the throne, Kiyomori engaged in a little pandering. No doubt, he thought that a new affair would preoccupy him and leave Kiyomori a free hand to arrange the government as he wished.
But winter was coming, and he felt old. His mind drifted to the Oba girl. She was fourteen, at the beginning of life.
“I am tired,” he said and dismissed Kiyomori.
The Letter
At first, Toshiko’s shame and grief knew no bounds. She wept all night, silently so that the others would not hear, and at daybreak, she did not emerge from under her covers until they had gone about their own business.
By then, she had had time to come to terms with her ruined life and stiffened her resolution. All might be lost, but no Oba surrendered meekly. She knew now that she was surrounded and outnumbered by her enemies. Children of warriors, both male and female, were raised to fight to the death, and if the battle was lost and death did not come to them, they knew how to end their lives rather than live in shame.
Toshiko had thought of using the sharp dagger that rested, wrapped in a fine piece of figured silk, among her possessions in her trunk. It had been her father’s gift to her when she was born and had marked his acceptance of her as his daughter. Her brothers had received swords, but she and her sister got daggers. She knew its purpose. Both her father and her mother had explained it and shown her the place on her neck where the sharp point of the dagger must enter with a quick push. They had explained the need for force and speed and warned against hesitation or half-hearted attempts, for these only prolonged the pain and revealed her cowardice. Toshiko was not afraid, but toward morning she decided that the battle had barely begun and she had lost only the first skirmish. To be sure, her defeat had been shameful because she had exposed her nakedness to a man, and that man the emperor, but with courage she might still regain some honor, and that would be better than to die now. She had this small hope because the nun had been kind to her and had praised her song.
So she rose, determined not to let her enemies see her beaten. A sort of sacred fervor seized her. Gone was the Toshiko who played with kittens and even the one who yearned hotly for the touch of the man she loved. All that was over. Indeed, her love had been doomed before it had begun. Her father’s words and her mother’s letter had made that very clear.
She also accepted that she was no longer the carefree girl who rode with her brothers along the river, though she would always owe obedience to her family. She was an Oba, and no Oba was afraid to face what life demanded of her.
As she dressed, she swore to herself that she would never be caught off guard again. A woman’s preparations were not unlike those of a warrior going into battle, though her “armor” was altogether more insubstantial: gauzy silks in many layers, paints for the face, scented oils for her hair, and a cloud of incense to surround her. In her silver mirror, she saw that her face was blotchy and swollen from crying and applied the white paste thickly. Her eyes, she outlined in kohl and she brushed in the moth eyebrows above her real ones. Then she painted small crimson lips over her own. When she was done, the false face hid the real one as well as any visor. She brushed her tangled hair, working in the oils to straighten the kinks left behind from lying on it while it was still moist, making it shine with a bluish, metallic glos
s. Finally, she dressed in one of her most flattering costumes, layering the colored gauzes carefully, tying a sash firmly around her small waist, and covering all with a finely embroidered jacket. The colors were bright and cheerful, as if she were celebrating a special day.
The others glanced her way and whispered but they did not speak to her. She was glad. She was no longer of them. She was Oba no Toshiko who fought her own battles.
Only Shojo-ben approached her a little later when they were served their morning rice.
“May I join you?” she asked a little shyly, bringing her tray with her.
This was not Shojo-ben’s usual manner. They had become good friends and normally chatted easily. But all was different now, and the new Toshiko welcomed the distance.
“Of course,” she said, moving aside politely to make room for Shojo-ben’s full skirts.
Shojo-ben knelt daintily and took a little sip from her bowl. She did not seem to know how to start. Finally she said, “Lady Sanjo told us that His Majesty sent for you to ask about songs.”
