Pathway to Japanese Literature

There was a period in Japanese history that could be called a Female Era. This story must begin by elucidating the distinctive character of that extraordinary era. When speaking of a Female Era, readers will no doubt primarily imagine the Heian period. It was that era when Murasaki Shikibu, Sei Shōnagon, Izumi Shikibu, and others reigned supreme through their dazzling intellect. However, this cannot particularly be called a Female Era. Because their wisdom and talents ultimately served to make them beloved by men—it was merely that women's inherently distinct sensibilities and intellect found expression in their authentic form toward men.

In other words, it was simply that in the realm of love and desire, feminine emotions were spoken of, sung of, and acted upon without distortion, and that women were not subjected to the warped customs seen today. That said, in today's context, even men find themselves equally distorted—in short, the true nature of men and women's emotions becomes warped through societal customs. In the Heian period, this was not distorted. The exchange of emotions between men and women flowed freely with love and hatred, while passion was refined from instinct into cultivated sentiment—both enjoyed and lived as part of daily existence. In such intensification of carnal desires, it was merely that women's wisdom and delicate sensibilities operated beyond men's tastes and perceptions—throughout all ages and across East and West, the state of peaceful eras without military force is generally as such, where even the status and conduct of men as protectors and strong figures come to be dictated by women's sensibilities and wisdom. To be required is also the privilege of men as strong protectors; it does not mean that the women making demands hold dominant power. In other words, it was simply an era where men and women each found their proper place, freely expressing their emotions in song—a time when humanity’s essential nature was sought, developed, and lived without distortion. It cannot particularly be called a Female Era.

* It was through the Taika Reforms that the Imperial Family came to actually hold real power as rulers over all of Japan. They said one knew of the Soga clan but not of the Emperor; the Soga clan called their residences palaces and their tombs misasagi, were supported by a group of immigrants in Asuka, and their wealth was no less than that of the Imperial Family. Even if the conflict in the Kinai region was not as clear-cut, regional clans throughout the provinces each held private ownership of land, establishing themselves as independent rulers, and the Imperial Family's control over Japan was not necessarily willingly accepted.

The Taika Reforms began first with the destruction of the Soga clan, but their primary purpose was establishing Imperial Family rule over Japan and clarifying sovereign-subject relations. The kubunden system and tax system of grain, labor, and textiles resulted from—rather than aimed to achieve—the strict prohibition of private land ownership under Imperial governance. The immigrant faction supporting the Soga clan comprised most of Asuka's population, wielding formidable power through their monopoly on cultural assets—craftsmanship techniques and wealth. With no means for direct suppression, Emperor Tenji relocated the capital to Ōmi hoping this faction would naturally decline—yet found himself dependent on their expertise for administering his new capital. His younger brother—later Emperor Tenmu—fled to Yoshino fearing imperial wrath precisely because he relied on this faction's backing.

Empress Jitō aimed to sever ties with this faction through the Fujiwara capital relocation but could not achieve it, succeeding only through the Nara capital relocation. Since the Imperial Family's rule over Japan became firmly established at this time, the fact that the compilation of the Kojiki and Nihon Shoki occurred during this period was due to the necessity for documentation legitimizing Imperial rule—and through this inevitable historiography project too, one could infer the establishment of the Imperial Family's foundation during this era.

From that time onward, through the height of the Tenpyō era when provincial temples rose across the land and Emperor Shōmu issued his decree to cast the Great Buddha—up until the resplendent day when he solemnly declared, "We are the one who holds the realm's wealth, We are the one who commands its power"—Japan had been ceaselessly managed primarily through the diligent efforts of empresses. The Imperial Family's rule over Japan had its will sustained through empresses. Emperor Shōmu was both the fruition and spiritual essence of these empresses' governance, and furthermore, that fruition flowed into the blood of Empress Kōken. Historians call that period one of Buddhist politics. No—superficially, that is so. In reality, in the blood and breath of its rulers, it was indeed female governance.

* Emperor Tenji did not ascend to the imperial throne he rightfully should have inherited, instead maneuvering covertly as Crown Prince under three sovereigns: Kōgyoku, Kōtoku, and Saimei. Saimei represented Kōgyoku's re-enthronement—being both Tenji's biological mother and Empress Consort to Jomei—while Kōtoku stood as her younger brother and Tenji's uncle. Until this time, female emperors had existed only in the singular precedent of Suiko. Yet here, significance resided not in empresses themselves, but in Crown Prince Naka no Ōe (later Emperor Tenji) claiming the princedom through sheer will. This prince—driven by grand reforms or rather ambitions of universal dominion—erected puppet emperors for political expediency while retaining his crown princely station. His right hand was Kamatari; every affair unfolded through their shared counsel.

Even if he issued commands himself，authoritative decrees were not readily obeyed. He established a divine emperor one step above himself. And he issued his own decrees in the Emperor’s name，then demonstrated his obedience to those very decrees himself. And through his own submission，he compelled the same obedience from the populace. This method was carried out by the Fujiwara clan of the Heian period，the Kamakura government of the warrior era，the Ashikaga clan，and today’s Shōwa-era military clique government. The emperor was a puppet. The edicts were not his will，but rather that of those who ruled through him—the Fujiwara，Kamakura，and militarists. Yet they enacted their own will through imperial proclamations. By submitting first themselves，they forced universal compliance upon all. This proved an ingenious stratagem. Its prototype had been devised centuries earlier by Prince Naka no Ōe. The Prince installed three sovereigns—Kōgyoku，Kōtoku，Saimei—while retaining power as Crown Prince to implement sweeping reforms.

Therefore, Empress Kōgyoku (Saimei) was Prince Naka no Ōe’s puppet, and the empress herself held no significance. The era of empresses—what could be called the Female Era—began with Empress Jitō.

* When Emperor Tenmu passed away, the Crown Prince (Prince Kusakabe) being still young—as there existed no precedent then for enthroning a child emperor—the Empress Dowager assumed the regency. Three years later, when the Crown Prince too had perished and his son Prince Karu remained exceedingly young, the Empress Dowager ascended to the throne. She became Empress Jitō. Though Empress Jitō's reign centered on nurturing her imperial grandson Karu, she appointed Prince Takechi as Chancellor with Prince Katsuragi in support—a familial government bound in unbreakable solidarity. That Empress Jitō possessed a fiercely composed character may be discerned even from her testamentary act of instituting imperial cremation.

Even today, when science has proven the nonexistence of an afterlife, our intellects remain unliberated from its fantasies and fears. To lie beneath the earth in one’s original form and yearn for future rebirth is humanity’s inherent will; yet even as this stems from Buddhist faith, to consciously will one’s own body to be burned into nothingness is not something ordinary mortals can achieve. Empress Jitō was Emperor Tenji’s daughter, but even when her husband Prince Ōama (later Emperor Tenmu), who was disfavored by Tenji, wandered in exile to Yoshino, she remained by his side—from this, one can discern her intensely composed character.

Imperial Grandson Karu received the abdication and ascended to the throne, becoming Emperor Monmu. The edict issued at this time stated: "We, the Arahitogami and Sovereign Who Governs the Great Eight-Island Land, proclaim: Let all imperial princes, ministers of state, officials of every rank, and citizens throughout the realm hear and obey these great decrees We hereby promulgate." (omitted text follows)

How might readers perceive this resplendent declaration—one that proclaims oneself Arahitogami and styles oneself Sovereign Who Governs the Great Eight-Island Land? I see this as a woman. I see a woman’s will.

I contemplated the will of a single, intensely composed woman. The woman waited for her grandson to come of age. That grandson dreamed of the day he would become the Sovereign Who Governs the Great Eight-Island Land and attain adulthood as Arahitogami. With the tenacity of a creature bound by familial destiny, she dreamed, prayed, and nurtured him. All people might pray for their descendants' prosperity, but women—particularly women of intense composure—ceaselessly pursued tangible, corporeal prosperity and majesty. The same will as Hōjō Masako existed here. And unlike Masako, they did not face hardships. They were carried along by favorable winds.

What we find here is not government, but family—and the will of that family.

*

Emperor Monmu passed away at twenty-five. Since Prince Obito was still young, the mother of Emperor Monmu (consort of Prince Kusakabe) assumed the throne until he came of age. She was Empress Genmei. She was the daughter of Emperor Tenji and younger sister of Empress Jitō.

Empress Genmei subsequently abdicated in favor of Empress Genshō. This was because Prince Obito had not yet reached adulthood. Empress Genshō was the eldest daughter of Empress Genmei, the older sister of Emperor Monmu, and the aunt of Prince Obito.

Thus, Prince Obito—whose coming of age as an arahitogami had been hoped for, prayed for, and awaited by two generations of empresses, the grandmother and aunt—was the later Emperor Shōmu.

Under the empresses’ will, Japan’s politics, Japan’s dominion—in other words, the Imperial Family’s power—advanced without hindrance. The Taihō and Yōrō Codes were promulgated. The Fudoki provincial gazetteers, the Kojiki, and the Nihon Shoki were all compiled. The relocation of the capital to Nara was also carried out. Coins were also minted.

However, behind the willpower, vigor, and talent of these empresses, there had worked most powerfully the influence of one woman. That woman was Tachibana no Michiyo. She was the formidable woman who wielded her political prowess at court across six successive reigns—from Emperor Tenmu through Empress Jitō, Emperor Monmu, Empress Genmei, Empress Genshō, and Emperor Shōmu.

There are not a few examples of remarkable women who were loved by male emperors. However, examples of remarkable women who were more deeply cherished and loved by female emperors than even by male emperors are exceedingly rare. Michiyo first married Prince Mimakiō and gave birth to Prince Katsuragi (later Tachibana no Moroe), then remarried Fujiwara no Fuhito and bore Empress Kōmyō. In the first year of Empress Genmei’s Wadō era, when a tachibana fell into Michiyo’s cup as she attended an imperial banquet, she was granted the surname Tachibana no Sukune in commemoration of this event.

Historians have speculated that Michiyo may have served as something akin to Emperor Monmu’s wet nurse, and that she occupied a similar position regarding Prince Obito as well. However, Tachibana no Michiyo’s political genius—having served through six dynasties to hold paramount influence at court, being cherished by both male and female emperors alike while maintaining that power undiminished throughout her life—somewhat transcends our comprehension.

However, this much can be said. What remains beyond our comprehension is the precise nature of Tachibana no Michiyo's immediate political genius—that which enabled her to serve through six dynasties while maintaining undiminished paramount influence at court throughout her life. However, half the reason Tachibana no Michiyo’s status and influence remained unchanged also lay in the very nature of the imperial court itself. The successive reigns up until Emperor Tenmu were a history of domestic disturbances. Emperor Tenmu himself was hated by his elder brother Emperor Tenji and ascended to the throne after fleeing through exile and enduring civil war. However, from Empress Jitō through Emperor Shōmu, there were only faint signs of domestic disturbances early in Jitō’s reign that were preemptively quelled; thereafter, the very foundation of the "house" showed no instability. Although male heirs happened to lack longevity—with empresses continuing as regents for infant emperors—they placed every hope and dream in those rulers’ coming of age, while the imperial family’s authority and Japan’s dominion steadily advanced, all carried by a favorable tide. The Six Dynasties’ will underwent no change, and their character remained consistent.

From husband (Tenmu) to wife (Jitō).

From grandmother (Jitō) to grandson (Monmu). (The father [Prince Kusakabe] in the middle died young.) However, his mother remained and she, in turn, ascended as the next Emperor). From son (Monmu) to mother (Genmei). (This mother was simultaneously the younger sister of Jitō.) From mother (Genmei) to daughter (Genshō). (This daughter was the older sister of Monmu).

From aunt (Genshō) to nephew (Shōmu). The will of Empress Jitō that had nurtured Emperor Monmu formed the prototype for the wills of Empresses Genmei and Genshō in nurturing Emperor Shōmu, and there should have been no difference whatsoever. Empress Genmei was Empress Jitō’s younger sister. And Genshō was Genmei's daughter. The three elderly women awaiting two young emperors' coming of age passed down identical blood and character along with an insect-like tenacity of will devoted solely to preserving the house name. Even as eras changed and people passed on, there remained almost no difference in their respective blood and will.

Their will to protect the house name proved more resolute than in the case of male patriarchs. For their free will had become wholly immersed in nurturing these young emperors, with every last one of their dreams entrusted solely to the rulers' eventual coming of age. When women suppress their free will and desires, contenting themselves as solitary sacrifices to devote themselves to a single purpose, no man can demonstrate more thorough ingenuity or impartial observation than they.

Historians call Michiyo a remarkable woman. Depending on what one means by "remarkable woman," Michiyo was likely not a schemer. For she had endured the composed scrutiny of female sovereigns who had renounced personal desires, thereby earning their utmost trust. She was undoubtedly virtuous, incorruptible, and loyal. She undoubtedly possessed exceptional talent from the start, yet remained virtuous. She was undoubtedly gentle.

Around the composed female rulers' meticulous ingenuity and scrutiny, men's schemes found no soil in which to take root. The minister was gentle. Fujiwara no Fuhito was upright. They were honest stewards. All wills were dedicated to the Imperial Family's name, single-mindedly advancing their purpose. ＊ Nurtured by these intense wills, Prince Obito grew like a spirit. He was Emperor Shōmu. The Empress was Yasuku, the eldest daughter born between Michiyo and Fuhito. Her entire body seemed to radiate light, so she came to be called Kōmyōshi and was also called Empress Kōmyō. She was the same age as the Emperor. When he was still Crown Prince, Empress Genmei had selected and bestowed it.

Until that time, the position of Empress had been restricted to imperial princesses and princesses of the blood, with women from subject families decreed unable to rise above the rank of consort. Six years after Emperor Shōmu’s accession, when he summoned officials of fifth rank and higher along with the heads of all ministries to the Inner Palace to issue the imperial decree establishing Empress Kōmyō, even if others’ wills were involved, it must have been predominantly Emperor Shōmu’s own will. For he was passionately devoted to Empress Kōmyō above all else. Yasuku was educated as if she were the foremost woman in the realm. That was Michiyo's fervent wish. Fuhito’s daughter (though not by Michiyo) Miyako entered the imperial court and became Emperor Monmu’s consort. Emperor Monmu took neither consorts nor empresses; Miyako served as his de facto empress, but the emperor passed away at twenty-five. Prince Obito, namely Emperor Shōmu, was their sole offspring.

Yasuku possessed innate grace and keen intelligence. Her age was also fitting for Prince Obito, and from birth she manifested the destiny of becoming the Emperor’s consort. But Michiyo harbored one further desire. That was her once-in-a-lifetime ambition. Michiyo was already elderly. Her entire life had been one of sincere devotion to loyalty alone; she had never pursued improper personal desires. Her eldest son Prince Katsuragi relinquished his imperial status to enter subject nobility as Tachibana no Moroe and became a minister—a natural progression—and Moroe proved a gentle and loyal minister. But Michiyo had aged, and now could do nothing about this irresistible ambition that had seized her in her twilight years. It was her desire to make Yasuku not merely a consort but empress.

And Yasuku was educated by her mother—a genius of her generation—as though she were to become the foremost woman in all the realm. She was raised as Prince Obito's destined consort, imbued with the fervent conviction that she must become empress regardless of circumstance. Her luminous beauty shone through silken robes; her magnanimous spirit and keen intellect rose above worldly matters; in nearly all respects, Michiyo found her expectations fulfilled rather than betrayed. Prince Obito, nurtured by these composed female rulers who entrusted their dreams to him, had been instilled with their values—abhorring what they abhorred, upholding what they deemed righteous. What these women rejected was licentiousness; what they upheld as virtue was faith.

When Empress Genmei bestowed Yasuku upon Prince Obito, she added these words with particular emphasis: “This is the daughter of a man who served as a pillar of the imperial house, a peerless loyal servant who turned white-haired and knew sleepless nights in service to his liege. Do not regard her as merely a woman—cherish her accordingly.”

However, even such words proved unnecessary. The Prince's heart was filled in all things by Yasuku. Beauty and talent went without saying. Particularly in the stature of her soul. In the foremost stature of the soul within the realm.

They were indeed that peerless pair—longed for, prayed for, dreamed of, and raised precisely as such. The ones who raised Prince Obito were his grandmother and aunt, but more so Michiyo. And Michiyo raised Yasuku while constantly keeping Prince Obito in mind. Prince Obito recalled the shadow of having been nurtured by Michiyo’s fulfillment in his childhood, and found himself fulfilled anew within the actual charm of a younger and more beautiful Yasuku. In Yasuku’s natural demeanor, he discovered the dignity befitting the foremost in the realm that had once been instilled by the surrounding women, enabling each aspect to be fulfilled even more profoundly.

In Tenpyō 18, when casting the Great Buddha, Emperor Shōmu proclaimed: "We are the one who holds the wealth of the realm. We are the one who holds the authority of the realm." Having completed this casting, he made an imperial visit to Tōdai-ji Temple where he stood beside Empress Kōmyō facing northward toward the statue. Solemnly confronting the colossal Buddha, he commanded Tachibana no Moroe to declare "We shall serve as humble servants of the Three Treasures," then worshiped with profound reverence. People truly discover their own superiority through acts of worship when self-love reaches its zenith. This became their ordained game of fate - a Great Buddha surpassing five jō in height swathed in peerless splendor, Provincial Temples and Nunneries rising across every province through wealth drained from the realm until its coffers stood utterly exhausted.

He was posthumously named Emperor Shōmu. The *Bu* [Martial] signified the suppression of civil unrest, while the *Shō* [Sacred] inherited the virtuous deeds of Emperor Jimmu, serving as the character denoting a wise sovereign who brought prosperity to the realm no less than his divine predecessor. This character *Shō* [Sacred] had been bestowed solely through the voices of Buddhists both within and beyond the palace walls, his sacred virtues likewise extolled by those same devotees. Even within the imperial court were those who turned their thoughts to the people's destitution. Had the realm truly prospered? Indeed, Buddhism prospered. Nara's capital prospered. Provincial Temples rose throughout the land, the Great Buddha was cast, and Tōdai-ji Temple gleamed against the capital's sky. The Emperor became a servant of the Three Treasures.

However, due to those enormous expenditures, the provinces fell into the depths of exhaustion, and the common people suffered in poverty. The imperial court became the target of bitter resentment; vagrancy and flight to evade heavy taxes rapidly arose across regions; manorial estates naturally expanded while state-owned lands declined; and thus were sown the seeds of the Heian nobility’s monopolization of power, the subsequent rise of military houses, and the imperial family’s downfall.

However, the two children of destiny did not even turn to look at such matters. There existed only the grandest and most splendid diversions in all the realm. That was not solely the will of the two. It was the obsession of a family name spanning six reigns—the will of its mistresses. It was also the spiritual essence born from the meticulous hearts of those composed female rulers.

And to the two destined ones, a child was born. The child was a daughter. From Empress Jitō's era of intense, composed resolve through six generations, the final vital essence had coalesced. That was Empress Kōken.

＊

In July of that year after having served as a humble servant of the Three Treasures and worshiped at the Great Buddha’s feet，Emperor Shōmu abdicated his throne to his beloved daughter and assumed status as Retired Emperor. The new empress was thirty-three years old at that time.

There had never been an empress so colossally incomplete. For she had been reared as the realm's foremost paragon - its most august living deity - yet remained untaught about those very men from whom a woman's heart naturally seeks completion. Neither instructed in marriage nor expected to contemplate it. Her parents, the Emperor and Empress, had nurtured her thus while placing reckless faith in her noble maidenly constitution. Our daughter. A singular daughter. "There could be no conceivable need for men," they maintained.

The grandmother who raised Prince Obito—Empress Genmei—and his aunt—Empress Genshō—were both widows who remained unmarried. Their moral conduct stood unblemished. Emperor Shōmu had never once doubted the dignity of these female rulers with their naturally solitary dispositions, trusting what he had grown accustomed to seeing. He remained utterly unaware— That both his grandmother and aunt had had their free will as women extinguished. That they had willingly resigned themselves to being sacrifices. That their passions had been wholly consumed by the purpose of raising Prince Obito, every aspect fulfilled through that purpose's intensity. That they were but insects clinging to the family name, never truly sovereign mistresses.

Emperor Shōmu failed to perceive the fundamental differences in nature between these two female rulers.

＊

The beginning of the new empress's reign, watched over by her still-living parents, was without peril. Politics was not difficult. It amounted merely to being landowners of nationwide agricultural estates—allocating and collecting taxes in kind for their annual expenses. The Retired Emperor had shaved his head and taken monastic vows, devoting himself single-mindedly to faith, while the Empress, driven by a leisured woman's instincts, poured money into temple complexes through her grand diversion—this plaything called faith—cherishing rituals, loving Buddhist chants, and adoring ceremonial grandeur.

The Retired Emperor died. Then her mother, the Empress Dowager, also died. The Empress finally found freedom for herself. The Empress rapidly became a woman. After ascending the throne, Empress Kōken renamed the Empress's Household Agency to Shibi Chūdai and appointed Great Councillor Fujiwara no Nakamaro as its director. Nakamaro was already over fifty. He was the younger brother of Udaijin Toyonari. His elder brother was a gentle patriarch, but Nakamaro was a man who could conceive of neither moral obligation nor human affection beyond his own advancement. The Empress possessed no models whatsoever for the form of love—no criteria for selecting men based on beauty, age, or temperament. The standard of her soul’s nobility was supreme, yet the thoughts of her flesh—the emotions dwelling within that very body—were more naive than those of a mountain-born maidservant.

The Empress found that simply knowing Nakamaro—the man attending most closely upon her—was her most intimate male companion made her melt with delight whenever she saw him. It was a first love nearing forty. Until her mother the Empress Dowager died, she had still restrained herself. There could have been no one who discovered such original beauty as she did. To her, every aspect of Nakamaro was endearing. She needed only to favor what she herself favored. She had neither standards nor models. Everything she found in Nakamaro was so dear, so beloved, that she simply couldn't contain herself.

Whenever the Empress saw Nakamaro, she became so cheerful that she had him change his name to Emi no Oshikatsu. Oshikatsu was an expression of valiant bearing—meritorious deeds signifying prohibiting violence, overcoming strength, halting spears, and quelling disturbances. She appointed him as Grand Guardian and even granted reckless permissions that made no distinction between politics and love—permitting arbitrary use of the Emi family's private seal for coinage minting and tax collection.

＊ Empress Kōken's Crown Prince was Prince Dōso, a grandson of Emperor Tenmu. Emperor Shōmu—having no other children—had particularly cherished him and selected him as Crown Prince. This was Emperor Shōmu's will. Empress Kōken, who left governance entirely to her parents, at that time cared little about matters like the Crown Prince and refrained from imposing her own preferences or meddling. Emi no Oshikatsu (though he was still Fujiwara no Nakamaro at that time; we shall not dwell hereafter on chronological changes in names) had his eldest son die young. A widow remained. Therefore, he invited Prince Ōi—a cousin of Crown Prince Dōso—to his residence, had him marry this widow, and supported them. He knew the Empress held no affection for the Crown Prince and considered deposing him to install Prince Ōi as Crown Prince instead.

The Retired Emperor on his deathbed had realized that his daughter—who should have been the realm's singular woman—was after all merely a mortal child of fate bearing physical form. He was terrified. He wished to remain unseeing and unknowing of all things. Yet despite this, he wanted at any cost to believe in his daughter. Why must a body exist? For that noble soul. For that noble heart. He could think only that granting her this flesh had been his sin. Nor could he endure even the cruelty of delivering transient admonishments upon his daughter's corporeal being.

He summoned Oshikatsu to his deathbed. He had him sit so close that had he stretched out his arm, his fingertips would have reached him just by his knees. And then he stared at the face. "After my death," he said slowly, word by word, as though carving each one into the man's chest. "Princess Abe—Empress Kōken—and Prince Dōso are to govern the realm." "Princess Abe and... well... Prince Dōso—it's them." "Do you have any objections to this?" "Yes, I consider it a truly splendid matter." "Very well." "Then drink the sacred sake." "Then swear your oath." Oshikatsu drank the sacred sake and swore the oath. The Retired Emperor's eyes glittered. "Do you understand?" "If you defy these words, the hatred and wrath of the heavenly and earthly deities shall befall your entire body." "Immediately, it will tear your entire body apart." The Retired Emperor glared at Oshikatsu, convinced of his defiance, and shouted.

The Retired Emperor passed away.

Oshikatsu gave no thought to the words he had sworn at the Retired Emperor’s deathbed. Even so, the opportunity arrived too soon. During the imperial mourning period, the Crown Prince had an illicit affair with a lady-in-waiting. Though the Empress issued a reprimand, his conduct still did not improve. Sneaking out from the Crown Prince's residence to carouse at night, returning alone; heeding women's words to commit numerous rough acts; allowing state secrets to leak outside—these constituted all his crimes. She gathered the ministers and consulted them on whether to depose the Crown Prince. "If it be Her Majesty’s will, none may defy it"—such was the answer from the Chancellor down to all officials. That very day, they deposed the Crown Prince and sent him back to his residence.

When it came time to establish a new Crown Prince, the Minister of the Right Toyonari and Fujiwara no Nagate recommended Prince Shiaku. Fumiya no Chinbu and Ōtomo no Furumaro recommended Prince Ikeda. Oshikatsu alone deliberately refrained from naming anyone, stating that "None know a subject better than his sovereign, nor a child better than his parent," and that it would be best to respectfully abide by Her Majesty's selection. Though galling, it was an irrefutable argument. When they sought the imperial decision, all already understood what would be declared before Her Majesty even spoke. Prince Funao’s private conduct remained unreformed, Prince Ikeda lacked filial devotion, and Prince Shiaku had incurred the Retired Emperor’s detestation through his discourtesy—yet Prince Ōi alone, though young, stood blameless of recorded transgressions. Thus unfolded Oshikatsu’s design: what he willed now aligned perfectly with the Empress’s will. If this was divine mandate—they conceded—then naturally no minister could raise objection.

＊ The Minister of the Left was Tachibana no Moroe, and the Minister of the Right was Fujiwara no Toyonari. Toyonari was Oshikatsu's older brother.

When Retired Emperor Shōmu lay on his deathbed, a man named Samimiyamori seized upon certain remarks that Tachibana no Moroe had drunkenly let slip and reported that the Minister of the Left might harbor rebellious intentions due to having made such disrespectful statements. The Retired Emperor sought to investigate the matter, but when the Empress Dowager interjected, admonishing that such a thing could never be possible from that upright Moroe, he did not pursue it further.

However, Moroe feared Oshikatsu's ambition and schemes.

The ones who had placed their trust in him were the Retired Emperor and the Empress Dowager, and he had foreseen that after their passing, Oshikatsu's schemes could become all-powerful. He disliked conflict. He was Michiyo's eldest son and Empress Kōmyō's half-brother; though having become Minister of the Left—a role ill-suited to his disposition—he harbored no political ambitions beyond the heartfelt duty of serving as the family government's honest steward, nor did he possess any exceptional talents. He held not a shred of stubborn resolve that would compel him to vie with others or elbow his way forward to cling to status. He resigned without ceremony. Without regret, he abandoned the capital's ways and retired to Ide Village where kerria flowers bloomed; then in the following year, he passed into eternal rest.

The remaining obstacle was his own elder brother, the Minister of the Right Toyonari. He searched for grounds to bring down his elder brother, but could find no direct fault to pin on the benevolent and magnanimous Minister of the Right—a venerable elder statesman.

At that time, among the young nobles who resented Oshikatsu’s tyranny, there was a rumor that an assassination plot was being advanced.

One day, Ōtomo no Furumaro turned to Ono no Azumahito and asked, "If there are those plotting to kill Oshikatsu, will you join their side?" To this, Azumahito reportedly answered, "I most certainly will." Then, it is said that when Minister of the Right Toyonari heard this account, he declared: "Since my brother is naive in the ways of the world, I shall personally deliver proper admonishments. You must not rashly kill him." Naramaro, son of Tachibana no Moroe, hated the slanderous accusations Oshikatsu had brought against his father. Moreover, he harbored resentment and righteous indignation toward the politics of the time. That is, he harbored unbearable discontent over how all the sacrifices and sufferings were burdening the people for the construction of Tōdai-ji Temple and the Provincial Temples. He intended to assassinate Oshikatsu and Prince Ōi, establish a crown prince who desired righteous governance, and reform Japanese politics. His partner was Ōtomo no Furumaro, and there were rumors that they were planning a coup d'état and preparing weapons. The reports repeatedly reached Empress Kōmyō’s ears.

However, Empress Kōmyō did not act upon those reports. She simply summoned those implicated in the rumors and declared, "I myself have never believed such things. However, as national law exists apart from me, I expect all of you will take care not to bring disgrace upon your family honors." "Since you are none other than my close kin," she admonished, "heed my words well." Yet before long, Prince Yamashiro's denunciation could no longer be ignored. It was reported that Deposed Crown Prince Dōsoō, Prince Kōbun, Prince Anshuku, Tachibana no Naramaro, Ōtomo no Furumaro, Ono no Azumahito, and others were plotting a coup d'état to assassinate both the Crown Prince and Oshikatsu.

Oshikatsu stationed guards at his residence and immediately dispatched messengers in all directions to make arrests. One of their captains was Fujiwara no Nagate. He received Oshikatsu's orders and set out, demonstrating a henchman-like loyalty worthy of a trusted confidant. The ringleaders—both princes and ministers—were apprehended. However, only Ono no Azumahito confessed. And it was Nagate who compelled Azumahito's confession. Neither the princes nor ministers nor anyone else confessed. They claimed they had merely gathered because Azumahito invited them, insisting they knew nothing of the meeting's purpose. When Azumahito proposed performing worship and they asked what deity to venerate, he answered they should revere heaven and earth—so they worshiped as instructed, though this differed fundamentally from pledging allegiance to conspiracy through such rites. Their testimonies matched perfectly in every particular.

There, they were tortured: Deposed Crown Prince Dōsoō and Prince Kōbun were beaten with rods and perished in agony, while Furumaro and Azumahito too died under torture. The survivors were sentenced to exile. With Azumahito having been beaten to death by rods, the truth could no longer be known to anyone. And at this time, Toyonari’s son Otonawa had also been complicit in the conspiracy. Thereupon his father—the Minister of the Right—was charged with having known yet neglected to report this conspiracy; demoted to Supernumerary Governor-General of Dazaifu and cast into distant exile in Kyushu.

Not only had he annihilated all enemies in one stroke, but he had even managed to remove the thorn in his side—the elder brother and Minister. How immense must Oshikatsu’s satisfaction have been.

Meanwhile, at that very hour, there was a faction exchanging glances and grinning. Fujiwara no Nagate, Fujiwara no Momokawa, and other young nobles of the Fujiwara clan. They were none other than Oshikatsu's trusted aides. They had demonstrated unwavering loyalty, pledged fealty, and taken the lead in arrests, torture, and interrogations.

However, they were raising toasts of celebration. They were cautious youths akin to aged foxes. From the veiled words of celebration, we could extract no secrets whatsoever. Even if Oshikatsu had secretly slipped in to eavesdrop on that scene, he would have heard nothing but words celebrating the conspiracy’s downfall and the advent of peace.

＊

Fujiwara no Fuhito had four sons. Each established houses: Muchimaro the Southern House, Fusasaki the Northern House, Umakai the Ceremonial House, and Maro the Capital House, with each assuming key government posts. Lady Anshuku became Empress Kōmyō; Michiyo’s influence stood unrivaled in the inner court, and it had reached a state where those not of the Fujiwara clan were deemed non-persons. The smallpox that had broken out in Tsukushi spread to the capital. It was the ninth year of the Tenpyō era.

Along the Kamo River and outside the city gates—needless to say—even the capital's main streets reeked of discarded corpses. The four Fujiwara brothers too had perished simultaneously from illness. The scions of the four Fujiwara houses still possessed shallow official careers, thus being unable to inherit their deceased fathers' pivotal positions. This was why Tachibana no Moroe became Minister and Kibi no Makibi rose to prominence. The descendants of ancient noble houses—Abe, Ishikawa, Ōtomo, and Kose—advanced to suitable stations, while even the formidable Fujiwara clan found itself temporarily compelled to withdraw from the core of court administration. Moreover, Hirotsugu—eldest son of the Ceremonial House—had his wife violated by Genbō; enraged beyond measure, he raised rebellion only to be executed, thereby staining his entire clan with the disgrace of being declared enemies of the court.

From the outset, the imperial court and the Fujiwara clan had maintained a special relationship since Kamatari’s time through Empress Kōmyō’s era, and the restoration of their influence had been only a matter of time. First, Toyonari became Minister of the Right, and his younger brother Oshikatsu assumed the position of Director of the Shibi Central Office. They were from the Southern House of Muchimaro, the eldest son among the four houses, and were particularly advanced in age, being over fifty. Toyonari’s rise had been natural, but Oshikatsu’s was unprecedented. Not satisfied with this unprecedented rise, relying on imperial favor, he removed Moroe, deposed the Crown Prince, crushed his enemies through conspiracies, and even ousted his own brother. He succeeded as Minister of the Right, and two years later, was promoted to Chancellor.

The young Fujiwara nobles had been advancing through their rightful official ranks each year while envisioning their clan’s former glory, but now they found themselves compelled to defeat their immediate enemy. The immediate enemy was Oshikatsu. For although Oshikatsu was indeed of their own clan, he had become far too despotic, acting as if he were their paramount chief.

All of them were individualists and egoists. They united in the name of their clan, but this solidarity held no meaning beyond being a mere expediency to defeat their common enemy. They loved only their own interests and their own advancement. And they possessed an innate propensity for intrigue and ruthless blood that knew only love for their own selves. That crafty penchant for intrigue and coldness was the blood of Kamatari’s line. The protagonist of the conspiracy was not the elder Nagate, but rather the young Momokawa. Nagate was their eldest and had advanced to Middle Counselor, while Momokawa had just turned twenty-five and held an insignificant post. However, his crafty strategies and tenacious execution stood out.

All of them were Oshikatsu's trusted confidants. They flattered Oshikatsu, zealously performed their duties, and received promotions in rank as rewards. They believed duplicity was humanity's natural behavior. They were in fact more malicious, cunning, and brazen than Oshikatsu himself. Momokawa succeeded in a conspiracy to install his preferred emperor after dismissing Dōkyō. Furthermore, after deposing the Crown Prince through his schemes, he found the Emperor disinclined toward his recommended prince. They besieged the Emperor's gate for over forty days and nights without rest, shouting ceaselessly until they broke his resolve.

They were rather more masterful strategists, sagacious thinkers, conspirators, and egoists than Oshikatsu himself, and as they lacked both propriety and restraint, they found it intolerable to endure his tyranny and remain subservient beneath his shadow. Their shared objective was Oshikatsu’s downfall. Then, at that very moment, an unexpectedly convenient figure made his appearance. That was Yuge no Dōkyō.

＊

Dōkyō was the son of Emperor Tenji’s child, Prince Shiki, and a royal grandson of Emperor Tenji. Dōkyō studied Buddhist teachings under Gien in his youth and had mastered Sanskrit. In his youth, he secluded himself on Mount Katano to devote himself to ascetic practices, attaining mastery in Nyoirin-ji rituals and Sukuyō esoteric methods, while gaining renown for the spiritual efficacy of his medicinal baths used in nursing the sick. Both his spiritual power and his unwavering commitment to Buddhist teachings were highly renowned, and thus he was summoned to the Inner Sanctum of the Imperial Palace.

His soul was lofty. His knowledge was profound. And he was unversed in worldly cunning. He was as simple as a child. His chaste body, tempered through ascetic rigors, stood robust, while the Buddhist hymns he chanted brimmed with solemn pathos that evoked the poignant austerity of daily and nightly rituals in those remote mountain depths. He was already of an age not inferior to Oshikatsu’s, yet through the rigor of his soul, the depth of his insight, and the austerity of his ascetic practices, a freshness untouched by age emanated from him.

The Empress had been drawn to Dōkyō for some time. The Empress had already abdicated the throne to the Crown Prince and was now Retired Emperor. However, the new emperor’s accession was in name only, and government affairs remained in the hands of the Retired Emperor.

The destined blood prayed for through six generations of sorrowful lamentations—that spirit of the ancient houseworm—had taken root in the aged Empress’s heart. Her body grew ever more licentious, yet within her heart, the eyes of the houseworm’s blind destiny surveyed and fixed their gaze upon all around. Many things had become clear. It had become visible. Through the blind eyes of destiny belonging to the ancient houseworm. The new Emperor and Chancellor Oshikatsu were one and the same. The new Emperor belonged neither to her nor to the nation—he was Oshikatsu’s Emperor. That she could comprehend such matters was because a distance had arisen between Oshikatsu and herself; and she realized her own ineptitude in having lost even the capacity to view matters with detachment.

The Retired Empress contemplated the imperial family. No—it was the houseworm that now contemplated itself. She thought of Oshikatsu. With a subject—that is to say, merely a man—why had it come to such sorrowful ruin? I could no longer endure my own ineptitude and anguish, yet found myself overwhelmed by this flesh's endearing frailty and my desires' tender ache. She found Oshikatsu repulsive. It became a sudden loss of all interest. All defilement of my being appeared to rest solely upon Oshikatsu. Oshikatsu seemed as though filth itself had become his entirety.

The Retired Empress thought about Dōkyō. During quiet nights, and in the still noontide when all human presence had died away. She strove not to recall that body. And indeed, there were times when she contemplated Dōkyō without summoning thoughts of that body. On the depth of his insight. On the loftiness of his soul. On the pathos and solemnity of his Buddhist hymns. On that simple heart. At such times, there would occasionally be a quiet clarity within her—like taking a deep breath and exhaling fully. But her thoughts did not cease there. And finally, the Retired Empress shuddered. Then, for a time, she could comprehend nothing. She prayed. Yet more than prayer, she had resolved. This was her body's resolve.

If it were he. For his soul was lofty and exalted. And his insight was profound, transcending all worldly concerns. But above all, he was Emperor Tenji’s royal grandson. He was not a subject, but a king. When she thought of that, her female body would always shudder as if already permitted by the gods.

＊

In the fifth year of Hōji, as it coincided with the fifth anniversary of Empress Kōmyō’s passing, in August, the Retired Empress took the Emperor to worship at Yakushi-ji Temple, proceeded to the residence of Fujiwara no Mitate—Oshikatsu’s son-in-law—where a banquet was held.

After completing the mourning period, in October, the Retired Empress made an imperial visit to Hora Palace. The Emperor also accompanied her, and Dōkyō followed as well. Oshikatsu remained in the capital. The Retired Empress’s body was already filled with resolve. The Retired Empress’s stay at Hora Palace was one of convalescence in sickbed. Only Dōkyō remained at her bedside, never leaving day or night, performing esoteric rites, preparing medicines, and tending to her care. And the Retired Empress made a full recovery. For her heart had been fulfilled. For the long resolve had been fulfilled. The Retired Empress found herself astonished by how drastically the world had transformed during her brief sojourn. It was neither the sight of winter clouds racing across the sky, nor the appearance of mountains and fields drenched in late autumn rains. It was people's hearts. And upon realizing that it was her own heart, the Retired Empress was astonished. The Retired Empress looked up at the winter sky and gazed upon the cold fields and mountains of winter. She was filled with that nobility and clear atmosphere. She had already given both body and soul to Dōkyō.

The Emperor feared the relationship between the Retired Empress and Dōkyō. He feared for Oshikatsu’s sake. The Emperor knew little of love. He underestimated Dōkyō. No—more than that—he had placed excessive faith in, had blindly believed too much in, the past intimacy between the Retired Empress and Oshikatsu. The Emperor, acting unlike his usual self, personally attempted a tactful remonstration with the Retired Empress. How immense was the Retired Empress’s wrath! On that day, the two of them became completely estranged.

＊

The Retired Empress took monastic vows, adopted the name Hōki, and had now become completely one in body and soul with Dōkyō. She appointed Dōkyō as Junior Prelate and kept him constantly at her side, while Oshikatsu was kept at a distance. He had now become a being of no consequence to the Retired Empress. Oshikatsu spent his days in torment, seething with resentment toward Dōkyō and harboring bitterness against the Retired Empress. Consumed by jealousy and terrified of downfall, his heart grew frenzied. Those who conspire themselves dread others' schemes even more. Driven mad by the terror of downfall and frenzied by the shadows of others' conspiracies, he himself plotted rebellion.

He stole the official seal of the Daijō-kan to issue orders and secretly increased his military forces. When an informer came forward and the charges were exposed, Oshikatsu fled to Ōmi. The retreat was cut off, and the pursuit army closed in. Oshikatsu reluctantly fled to Echizen Province where his son Shinkachi was stationed, installed Prince Shioyaki as emperor, conferred court ranks upon his partisans to boost morale, and had no moment to spare for pity at the futility of it all. The pursuit army stormed in. The allied forces had fled before even engaging in battle. It was autumn. A drizzling rain swept through, and the mountains were carpeted with dead leaves. He held no sword in his hand and staggered toward the enemy. He stared at his opponent’s face as if utterly bewildered. The sword was struck into his shoulder. A short, unintelligible cry—as if startled into leaping up—vanished into the void. He pressed his cut shoulder with one hand. Then a clump of blood spurted up as though flicked from fingers. And then he collapsed heavily and died.

Prince Shioyaki was killed, Oshikatsu’s wife and children were slaughtered, and his daughter—a girl celebrated for her peerless beauty—was violated by a thousand soldiers before lying cold as a corpse beneath the muddy feet of the thousand-and-first.

The Emperor's palace was surrounded by soldiers. In the imperial decree read by the envoy were written the words: "Unfit to bear the title of Emperor, [you] conspired with Nakamaro to devise schemes that would topple Our throne." He was immediately ordered to abdicate and exiled to Awaji Province. And the following year, he died in exile.

＊

The Retired Empress reascended the throne in priestly vestments and became known as Empress Shōtoku. When she decreed that "A sovereign who has taken holy orders ought to have a minister likewise ordained," Dōkyō was granted the newly-instituted official position of Minister-Preceptor.

In the following year, he became Minister-Preceptor of the Great Council of State, and two years later, Dharma King. This was the Empress's will. The Empress had wanted to demonstrate to the realm—through tangible proof—that Dōkyō was no mere subject but rather a royal descendant. And their very relationship as lovers. Because he was of imperial lineage. And because he was her lover. The Empress rejoiced at having discerned the supremely apt title of Dharma King. The Dharma King’s monthly stipend matched the Sovereign’s own provisions, his garments and meals identical to those of imperial use. When passing through palace gates, he rode in a phoenix-drawn palanquin; an Office of the Dharma King was established; governance itself lay in his hands. All stood as testament to the affection the Empress had bestowed. Yet this woman who bound herself with titles proved an even truer believer in substance. Titles—the very words from others’ mouths—the Empress had long ceased to heed. The singular truth remained—Dōkyō was her husband.

Dōkyō had been able to suppress his remorse over corruption. The Empress's female body was one of voluptuousness. And Dōkyō’s carnal desires, having now first come to know the female body, were equally wanton. The two of them never tired of their amorous play. Yet the austere intensity of her soul's spirit and the noble elegance of her grace never ceased to startle Dōkyō. It was a hallucination that struck his eyes—the Empress of the nocturnal boudoir and the Empress of daylight as two utterly disconnected forms. The nocturnal Empress was flesh, but the diurnal Empress was a fragrant soul.

He could not repent of nocturnal debauchery with his daylight conscience. For before his very eyes, the Empress's piercing spiritual essence would cleanly sever that nocturnal self. His soul became exalted; his reverence grew inflamed. This was no woman. It was dignity incarnate—great yet refined, delicate yet absolute—an existence transcendent in its nature. And her nighttime flesh knew only abandon. No restraint remained, no decorum persisted, no remorse lingered. All was cast forth raw—spent without thrift, squandered without care, enacted without pause. Nothing existed that could be regretted in itself. Nothing was withheld; nothing fell short; nothing knew constraint. Tears flowed. Sighs escaped. Laughter rang. Exultations sounded. Strength surged. Minds wandered. Sorrows weighed. Limbs collapsed. They raged and pouted; they cherished and were cherished.

Dōkyō’s remorse over his corruption grew hazier with each passing day, until it vanished entirely. And even when he did recall their nocturnal dalliances in solitary reverie, he now thought of them as a scene of utmost naturalness and innocent abundance—like the babbling of a river beneath the radiance that bathed the mountain fields of Katsuraki under the vast sky.

He loved the Empress. He felt her as sacred and exalted. He sat formally before the Buddha statue in the inner chapel's private Buddhist hall, no longer fearing divine punishment. No—he did not think of divine punishment. Sitting side by side with the Empress, reverently worshipping, reciting Buddhist sutras—his heart was elevated without self-abasement, became omnipresent, returned to nothingness like incense smoke, towered like stone cliffs, and prayed single-mindedly like cascading waters. For the Empress's blessed repose.

He did not think of himself. He thought only of the Empress. He loved the Empress. His heart and his body became utterly immersed in every aspect of the Empress. The Empress was his everything. His soul was like that of an infant—guileless and pure.

* The scheming scions of the Fujiwara clan were watching all developments with cold eyes. Through the unforeseen emergence of Dōkyō, without them having to lift a finger, Emi no Oshikatsu self-destructed. Dōkyō was simpler than Oshikatsu. And there was no fear of anyone taking vengeance upon them. They merely needed to wait calmly for their opportunity. There was no need to rush.

They worshipped Dharma King Dōkyō as the Son of Heaven, prostrated themselves, and revered him. They did not utter a single word of backbiting. It seemed they understood that becoming Dharma King was Dōkyō’s natural destiny. However, with the utterly unexpected emergence of the human-bestowed title “Dharma King,” Momokawa’s stratagem received a divinely inspired revelation. It was a stratagem that first incited in Dōkyō the ambition to become emperor, then crushed that very aspiration to topple him in one decisive blow. At this very moment, their trusted confidant Nakatomi no Naruaya no Asomaro was appointed as chief priest of Dazaifu and departed for Kyushu. The chief priest was the superintendent governing all rituals within Dazaifu’s jurisdiction, not some minor functionary like the shrine priest of a single Usa Hachiman.

Momokawa conveyed his instructions to him.

Asomaro, having taken up his post, returned to the capital a year later. He was carrying what was called the divine oracle of Usa Hachiman. It declared: "Should Dōkyō be made to ascend the imperial throne, peace shall reign throughout the realm."

Dōkyō was half-believing and half-doubting. He had never even dreamed of harboring the ambition to become emperor. The fact was, he had no need to desire it. The Empress already existed. The person he loved most. The person who was his everything.

However, the Fujiwara clan's conspiratorial scions were relentless. They first extolled Dōkyō's destiny and virtue as blessed by the divine oracle. And since Dōkyō was an imperial grandson, they unanimously asserted he should naturally ascend to emperorship. Honeyed words hold power to unravel any heart. Even were Dōkyō himself troubled by such flattery, they could scarcely refrain from delighting in it.

“However,” one of them said. “Since this concerns the imperial succession, we cannot settle the matter through Asomaro’s divine oracle alone.” “We must dispatch a proper imperial envoy to verify the authenticity of the divine oracle,” he said. Of course, this was an inevitable conclusion that would compel anyone’s agreement. Except if Dōkyō were to suppress that divine oracle and let it pass without question. Dōkyō wavered. However, he was simple. If that truly was the divine oracle, he thought.

And when he agreed to dispatch the imperial envoy, he failed to realize that this would inevitably lead others to conclude he harbored ambitions to become emperor. The decision regarding the dispatch of the imperial envoy had to be made by Dōkyō himself. He consented.

* The Empress who passionately loved Dōkyō as a treasure of this world and took boundless pride in that affection had never once even dreamed of making him emperor. The Emperor was herself. That fact had never been doubted or subjected to introspection.

The Empress had bestowed upon him the title of Dharma King. She granted him a monthly stipend equal to the Son of Heaven’s, garments and provisions matching the imperial court’s, a phoenix carriage, and established the Dharma King’s Palace Office for him. He was already the de facto emperor. At the very least, had she been a male sovereign, Dōkyō would have been her empress consort.

The Empress realized. The blind yearning of that gloomy household guardian had never permitted even a shadow of doubt about her being Emperor—unshakable from the very beginning. The Empress pitied Dōkyō. He was pitiable. And it was both dear and heartrending. In every household, don't women follow men? Why must I alone? Why must Dōkyō not become emperor?

The Empress resolved. "If Usa Hachiman’s divine oracle proves true," We thought, "and if the imperial envoy faithfully reports that oracle, then We shall willingly yield the throne to him." Because he was an imperial grandson. The ministers also acknowledged that. Was he not also a grandson of Emperor Tenji? The Empress found happiness through that resolution. By placing the beloved man in his rightful position, We too could finally assume Our proper form as a woman—or so We believed.

The crown prince had not yet been designated for the Empress. The adorable man was now her crown prince as well! A Retired Emperor being both the husband of a lady-in-waiting and the Emperor was truly remarkable. The Empress found most delightful her fantasy: Couldn't an emperor become an empress consort? If Dōkyō became emperor, she would throw a grand tantrum to vex him. She wanted to sulk extravagantly, cling desperately, and become an utterly unmanageable creature of caprice. And imagining Dōkyō's oblivious, straight-faced look of consternation, she burst out laughing.

*

Wake no Kiyomaro returned. The divine oracle he brought overflowed with an unexpectedly human tone and was concluded with a peculiar final passage. "The unrighteous must be swiftly purged," it declared.

Dōkyō flew into a rage. Because he had merely sought to verify the authenticity of the divine oracle. He would never have claimed to want to become emperor. Rather, he had no recollection of ever desiring such a thing—not even in the remotest corner of his heart. Kiyomaro’s official report had been delivered like an assassin’s blade aimed solely at Dōkyō—coldly, loftily, imbued with hatred, anger, and righteous conviction. The first person to notice this strangeness was the Empress. What was Dōkyō’s position? He was merely a character within the narrative who had been denounced by the false oracle. The first to be condemned must be the false oracle. The divine oracle made no mention of that matter. Neither Kiyomaro’s tone nor demeanor showed the slightest hint of censure directed at Asomaro.

Kiyomaro's attitude clearly concluded that Asomaro was a puppet who had brought forth the forged oracle under Dōkyō's directive. The content of Kiyomaro's divine oracle itself would make no sense unless that were the case. The Empress knew Dōkyō. He had no strategies whatsoever. Suppose we remove our own subjectivity and assume that Asomaro was truly Dōkyō's puppet. What was Wake no Kiyomaro? Was he not merely an envoy sent to verify the authenticity of the divine oracle? Was he not merely a messenger conveying the unaltered words of the gods? There was no justification for personal bias. There was no justification for such a tone. There must be only words and meaning.

Kiyomaro’s tone slashed through Dōkyō like a blade, inflamed and unhinged by anger, hatred, and righteousness—was this not madness? In other words, what existed there was not a divine oracle—it had to be the words from his own heart.

Everything had become clear. Asomaro and Kiyomaro were conspirators. This had all been a snare to overthrow Dōkyō.

Dōkyō trembled with rage. His complexion had turned deathly pale—with each breath, it seemed miraculous that flames of fury didn’t erupt from his nostrils and eyes. The Empress had never seen such an anguished expression on Dōkyō. Her chest went numb with pain. All at once, anger surged upward. Why must you all deceive, humiliate, and torment this simple soul—this noble soul? The Empress’s face transformed abruptly. She fixed Kiyomaro with a glare that pinned him like a spear.

Since Kiyomaro had already prostrated himself with bowed head, the Empress’s furious gaze went unnoticed by him. However, Momokawa saw it. A cry of turmoil welled up in his chest. Damn it! . However, at that moment, the Empress stood up smoothly and vanished from sight. *

Kiyomaro had overplayed his act. By having exposed his raw emotions too honestly. Precisely because there had been no falsehood whatsoever. He had been too honest. Momokawa could not help but realize that the framework of the scheme had already been discerned by the Empress.

There was not a moment’s delay to be had. He immediately arranged for Kiyomaro to shoulder full responsibility—encompassing all karmic consequences—for the entire mechanism behind forging the divine oracle. Immediately, Momokawa reported to the throne and announced that Kiyomaro had already confessed to the crime of forging the divine oracle. Otherwise, the entire scheme would be exposed.

Kiyomaro was stripped of his official position, renamed Betto no Kegaremaro, and exiled to Ōsumi Province.

Momokawa’s secret stratagem was a complete failure. This incident caused the Empress’s favor and trust in Dōkyō to deepen into something supreme. Dōkyō was peerless. That, however, had been the case since ancient times. The Empress firmly resolved. Dōkyō is Our successor, Crown Prince, and next Son of Heaven—that is the meaning here. The world’s speculations were of no consequence. She did not fear even the ancestral spirits.

Not only that, but from the outcome of this incident, the rumors in the world concluded that Dōkyō could become emperor, and before long, there arose talk that Dōkyō would be the next emperor. The fact that the appointment of the Crown Prince had still not been carried out made this rumor seem unquestionable. And the people became convinced. Before long, Dōkyō would be emperor—so they believed.

Momokawa had once again seized upon a revelation. As long as this absolute trust from the Empress endured, there remained no prospect of dislodging Dōkyō during her lifetime. After the Empress's death. That alone held significance. Momokawa had discerned a method to invert the prevailing Dōkyō Emperor theory. Dōkyō possessed a guileless nature and credulous disposition. They must propagate the Dōkyō Emperor theory ever more vigorously. To such an extent that commoners would accept it as truth without skepticism. And thus make Dōkyō himself believe it. That he would assuredly become emperor. Court nobles, low-ranking officials, commoners—all supposedly yearned for this, they claimed. And he rested in perfect complacency. He believed utterly. Through the people's collective will, he would naturally ascend as emperor—be installed as emperor, so they declared. That very complacent certainty became the sole chink Momokawa might exploit at the last.

Momokawa curried favor with Dōkyō. All the Fujiwara nobles also fawned upon him. No, all people were like that.

Dōkyō’s hometown was Yuge in Kawachi. Momokawa specifically entreated Dōkyō and had himself appointed as Governor of Kawachi Province, the Dharma King’s prestigious homeland. Dōkyō advised the Empress and established Yuge Palace in his birthplace of Yuge, designating it as the Western Capital. Kawachi Province was promoted in status, and the Kawachi Office was established. Momokawa was also promoted accordingly and became the Senior Director of the Kawachi Office. The Empress also made an imperial visit to Yuge Palace. A song and dance festival was held. Then Momokawa, the governor of this land—as if it were his greatest duty—voluntarily performed the Yamato dance. The dance movements were not particularly skillful but possessed solemnity. With each movement he poured his sincerity into the performance, focused his full attention, and overflowed with pure-hearted devotion—a determination to satisfy the noble audience through this utmost sincerity if only slightly.

Dōkyō was satisfied. And he came to believe wholeheartedly in Momokawa's sincerity, never once thinking to doubt it.

*

The Empress passed away. Her Imperial Majesty’s lifespan was fifty-three. Dōkyō's grief was unsparing. For it was indeed the shadow of spiritual discipline—born of ascetic trials endured in the rocky caverns of the Katsuraki mountains—that manifested. It was a heretical lamentation. It seemed as if his lifelong hope had ended. What could he cling to and weep? There was nothing left to cling to. What is nothingness? Could it be loss? He lost everything. He believed without doubt that the people sought his enthronement. What would it matter if he sat in the void of the Imperial Palace without the presence of this great person, this noble person, this exquisite person—this soul of unyielding purity and dignity? His heart did not seek the emperor's empty title in the slightest. He did not return to the Imperial Palace. He did not attend court sessions. He did not want to see people's faces either. He could not bear to let even the slightest fragments of their words reach his ears.

He built a hermitage at the foot of the Empress's mausoleum, where whether on rainy days or stormy nights, he remained seated day and night without departing, continuing to pray for her peaceful repose.

The opportunity Momokawa had long awaited arrived. However, the tension had gone slack. Because it had become too slovenly and utterly absurd. Because the very person in question had built a hermitage at the foot of the mausoleum and, forgetting the mundane world, was spending all day and night engrossed in sutra chanting.

However, Momokawa maneuvered in the shadows. Maneuvering in the shadows was his sole raison d'être. The Minister of the Right Kibi no Makibi attempted to install Dainagon Fumiya no Kiyosumi, a grandson of Emperor Tenmu. However, as Kiyosumi adamantly refused on the grounds of having already descended to subject status, they put forward his younger brother Ōichi instead; an imperial edict was drafted, and public opinion had largely settled. However, Momokawa did not act. He was a man who could not accept anything unless he himself wrote the script. He appointed Shirakabe-ō, conspired with Left Minister Nagate and his elder brother Councilor Yoshitsugu, pretended to dispatch imperial envoys, replaced the edict establishing Ōichi with one proclaiming Shirakabe-ō's ascension, and fabricated arbitrary phrases declaring it the late empress's testament.

And Shirakabe-ō ascended the throne. At this time, the new emperor's reign age was sixty-two. Momokawa was, at that time, finally thirty-nine.

The winds of the fleeting world—all these happenings—Dōkyō paid no heed. Day and night within his hermitage, he remained utterly unaware.

And the first tidings from the winds of the transient world that came blowing to his ears were a notification—not that he would ascend as emperor, but that his death sentence would be commuted by one degree, he would be demoted to Superintendent of Shimotsuke Yakushi-ji Construction, and ordered to depart immediately. Shimotsuke Yakushi-ji stood alongside Tōdai-ji in Nara and Kanzeon-ji in Tsukushi as one of the realm's three great ordination platforms—founded by Ganjin and numbered among Japan's most celebrated temples. To be made superintendent of this illustrious temple scarcely qualified as exile. He was likely regarded as a nuisance, yet not truly despised. It was probably that people simply shared the same wish—to remove him from the seat of power.

Apart from the thought of leaving the mausoleum's foot, nothing tormented him. Everything had already ended. There remained nothing to discard. When he saw clouds, clouds pierced his chest; when he looked up at mountains, mountains pierced his chest. Yet he clung to one unyielding nobility within his breast and would not release it. This was more precious than any Buddha statue, more precious than all things. Holding this, he needed only wait idly for life's end—that sufficed.

(Shōwa 22 [1947] "Kaizō" Issue 1)