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.”