disemboweled; our commander took an arrow in the sleeve. And all accompanied by a noise so great— shouts, cries, yells, screams—that eventually one no longer heard it, as one no longer hears the rush of a nearby waterfall.
The battle was going much against us, but we were saved by the foresight of Shigemori's lieutenants who now returned to the palace and took it, killing those who had remained on guard. When news of this reached Yoshitomo, he realized that he had no place upon which to fall back and so, with Rokuhara all but assured, he began a retreat.
He did not, to be sure, know how desperate our position was. Plans had already been made that it would be we who retreated—back up the hills toward the Kiyomizu Temple. But we well knew of this desperation, and so when the unwise Minamoto showed us their backs we swarmed out of our gates like angry hornets in full pursuit.
So close had we been to defeat and death that our sudden reprise was like wine. We became instantly drunk and, leaping the small gap we had made in our bridge, we raced over the dead and the dying and set out in pursuit. From all of Yoshitomo's company only fourteen, it is said, reached the far hills alive.
I remember running after a wounded foot soldier, dragging himself along as swiftly as he could, and slicing through his neck—then being surprised that killing was so simple.
Even Tamamaru, who stayed near me all day, frightened but elated, became carried away. He had found a sword and with it went limping about attacking the fleeing soldiers. He pinned to the ground a boy not much older than himself, then cut his throat. It was strange to see this fourteen-year-old page, blood-covered, his silk garments in shreds, grimace ferociously as he sliced through the living flesh and then look up to me for approbation.
Eventually there were no more to kill. The dead lay deep in the streets, in the river, and they were piled like earth-filled sacks around the snowy ramparts of Rokuhara. We went back to the fortress, my captured head bumping against my thigh— secured by its hair to my scabbard belt. Tamamaru's was held fast in his bloody fist, since his silken belt was lost. Already, the servants were making cooking fires, soldiers were pulling arrows from the gates, and valets were rolling bodies into the river where the winter current carried them away. It was sunset.
We soldiers were assembled in the big courtyard and Kiyomori himself addressed us, praising our fidelity to the emperor. This imperial personage was then brought out. No longer dressed as a girl, he now carried a ceremonial sword, and we all knelt and bowed.
Then we turned in our trophies. Mine was marked beside my name and added to the growing pile. Tamamaru's was not, since he was but a page. I thought I might get credit for his as well but it was instead added to a separate pile, later allocated to the credit of our leader. We were then given something to eat and sent to our barracks and to bed.
Mine was again my own. Tamamaru was herded back to the apartments of the young emperor and when I next saw him he was in a new silk outfit, purple on a cream background, and he looked straight through me. Again he was an imperial page and I was a common subaltern. The delightful disorder of battle was over.
* * *
The Minamoto were now in full rout. Yoshitomo and his sons attempted to flee to the farther side of Lake Biwa; Nobuyori tried to reach Ninnaji to ask the retired emperor for pardon— neither succeeded.
Kiyomori's soldiers were everywhere and found nearly everyone. Officers, nobles, soldiers alike, all were decapitated the following day. The headless corpses were stacked like firewood and the heads were neatly laid out, as in a pumpkin field, scribes busily attaching labels and marking which was accredited to whom.
The following day Kiyomori ordered an inspection of the imperial palace and a ceremonial reinstatement of the Emperor Nijō, so we all bathed, put on clean uniforms, and made ourselves a splendid sight as our grand procession left Rokuhara, proceeding up from Gojō to the palace, the emperor and his sister in a ceremonial oxcart flanked by an honor guard. Along the way, homes and stores were unshuttered and the people of the city appeared, also all dressed up. The winter sun shone. It was like a holiday—as indeed it was, since that day no work was done.
At the palace there was an amusing occurrence. After the fighting, the place had been deserted and into it poured the destitute, all the orphans, beggars, and criminals of the city. Here they made themselves at home, dressed themselves up in silks and brocades, and built bonfires in the chambers. Not finding food, they butchered and barbecued some horses and left the remains. A corner of the council chamber was their lavatory, but in general they relieved themselves wherever they happened to be and cleaned themselves with whatever came to hand.
When our procession arrived, they were still deep in their revels, having located the imperial 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
