Pathway to Japanese Literature

There was a period in Japanese history that could be called a female era. This narrative must begin by expounding on the unique character of that special era. When speaking of a female era, readers would no doubt primarily imagine the Heian Court. That was the period when Murasaki Shikibu, Sei Shōnagon, Izumi Shikibu, and others like them took the world by storm with their brilliant talents. However, this cannot be called a particularly female era. For their wisdom and talents were ultimately meant to make them loved by men, and women’s inherently distinct senses and intellect toward men were merely expressed in their true form.

In other words, in the realm of love and desire, feminine emotions were articulated, celebrated, and enacted without distortion—it was merely that women had not yet been subjected to the warped conventions seen today. However, in today’s world, the same holds true for men—in short, the true nature of both men’s and women’s emotions is being distorted by social conventions.

In the Heian Court, this remained undistorted. The exchange of emotions between men and women—their loves and hatreds—flowed freely; passion was elevated from instinct to refined sentiment, becoming both playful diversion and lived reality. In such heightened ardor, it was simply that women's wisdom and delicate sensibilities operated beyond men's tastes and perceptions—for in any peaceful age devoid of martial force, whether East or West, past or present, such would be its aspect: even the position and conduct of men as protectors and strongholds came to be shaped by feminine sensibilities and intellect. Yet being thus molded remained the privilege of those masculine strongholds; it did not mean women who did the shaping held dominant power. It was rather an era where each sex occupied its natural place, freely voicing and versifying their hearts—a time when humanity's essential form was sought without distortion, cultivated without artifice, inhabited without pretense. To call this especially a female era would be mistaken.

* The Imperial Family first came to hold actual power as rulers over all of Japan during the Taika Reforms. It was said that people knew of the Soga clan but not of the Emperor; the Soga clan called their residences palaces and their tombs imperial mausoleums, supported by a community of immigrants in Asuka, and their wealth was no less than that of the Imperial Family. Even if not as stark as this conflict in the capital region, regional clans across the provinces each privately held lands, entrenching themselves as independent rulers, and the Imperial Family’s dominion over Japan was not necessarily willingly accepted.

The Taika Reforms began with the destruction of the Soga clan, but their primary purpose was the establishment of the Imperial Family’s dominion over Japan and the solidification of the distinction between ruler and subject. Systems such as kubunden land distribution and soyocho taxation were a result of the strict prohibition of private land ownership—that is, the Imperial Family’s dominion over Japan—not their purpose.

The community of immigrants who supported the Soga clan comprised the majority of Asuka’s population, possessed all the cultural achievements of the time—craftsmanship techniques and financial power—and their influence was formidable. Having no means to directly eliminate this faction, Emperor Tenji sought their natural dissipation by relocating the imperial seat to Ōmi, yet without their assistance, he could not freely manage the new capital. That Emperor Tenmu—his younger brother who would later reign—fled to Yoshino fearing the hatred of his brother the Emperor was also undertaken in reliance on the support of this faction.

Empress Jitō attempted to sever ties with this faction through the relocation to Fujiwara-kyō but failed; it was only with the move to Nara that she finally succeeded in cutting them off. It was during this time that the Imperial Family’s dominion over Japan became firmly established; the fact that the compilation of the *Kojiki* and *Nihon Shoki* occurred in this period was due to the necessity of documents legitimizing the Imperial Family’s rule, and through this inevitable undertaking of historical compilation, one can infer the solidification of the Imperial Family’s foundation during this era.

From that time onward, through the zenith of the Tenpyō era when provincial temples rose across the land and Emperor Shōmu issued his edict to cast the Great Buddha, until the day he grandly declared, “The one who holds the wealth of the realm is I; the one who wields the power of the realm is also I,” Japan had been administered with unrelenting diligence primarily through female emperors. The Imperial Family’s dominion over Japan was sustained through these female emperors’ will. Emperor Shōmu stood as both the culmination and embodiment of their governance; this legacy flowed further into Empress Kōken’s very veins. Historians call this period Buddhist statecraft. No—outwardly, it was so. In reality—in the vital pulse of its rulers’ blood—it remained undeniably female governance.

* Emperor Tenji did not ascend to the throne he rightfully should have inherited, instead maneuvering behind the scenes as crown prince under three sovereigns: Kōgyoku, Kōtoku, and Saimei. Saimei was the re-accession of Kōgyoku, being the birth mother of Tenji and Empress Consort of Jomei, while Kōtoku was her younger brother and Tenji’s uncle.

Until this time, there had been no example of a female emperor apart from Suiko. Yet at this time, it was not the female emperor who held significance, but rather the fact that Prince Naka no Ōe (later Emperor Tenji) had chosen by his own will to remain Crown Prince. Under the banner of grand reforms—or rather, his ambition to rule the realm—he established a puppet emperor for political expediency while retaining his position as Crown Prince. His close associate was Kamatari, and everything was carried out through their joint consultation.

Even if one issued commands in their own name, authoritative orders were not readily obeyed. One established a divine Emperor as a tier above oneself. And then one issued commands in the Emperor’s name and demonstrated submission to those very commands oneself. By submitting oneself, one compelled the same obedience from the populace. This method was carried out by the Fujiwara clan of the Heian Court, the Kamakura government of the warrior era, the Ashikaga clan, and the militarist government of today’s Shōwa era. The Emperor was a puppet. The edicts were not the will of the Emperor but rather that of the Fujiwara clan, the Kamakura shogunate, and the militarist government. However, they acted on their own will in the name of the Emperor. And by submitting themselves first and foremost to it, they compelled the same obedience from all the populace. This was a clever method. And it was Prince Naka no Ōe who devised this prototype. The prince established Emperors Kōgyoku [Saimei], Kōtoku [Kōgyoku], and Saimei [Kōtoku] and，as crown prince himself，undertook major reforms.

Therefore, Empress Kōgyoku (Saimei) was a puppet of Prince Naka no Ōe, and the female emperor herself held no significance.

The Era of Female Emperors—what might be called a women’s era—began with Empress Jitō.

*

When Emperor Tenmu passed away, the Crown Prince (Kusakabe) was still young—as there had been no precedent for enthroning a child emperor—so the Empress Dowager assumed the regency. Three years later, when the Crown Prince too had passed away and his son Prince Karu remained exceedingly young, the Empress Dowager ascended to the throne. She became Empress Jitō. Empress Jitō’s reign focused on nurturing her imperial grandson Karu; she appointed Prince Takechi as Great Minister of the State with Prince Kadeno assisting—a family government of extraordinary cohesion. That Empress Jitō possessed a fiercely composed character could also be inferred from her own testamentary decree instituting imperial cremation.

Even today, when science has proven the nonexistence of an afterlife, our minds remain bound by its fantasies and fears. To lie beneath the earth in one’s original form, yearning for future rebirth, is humanity’s primal desire—yet to willfully reduce one’s flesh to ashes through Buddhist faith lies beyond the capacity of ordinary mortals. Empress Jitō was Emperor Tenji’s daughter. When her husband Prince Ōama (later Emperor Tenmu) fell into disfavor and wandered in exile to Yoshino, she followed him—in this we can discern her fiercely composed character.

Imperial Grandson Prince Karu received the abdication and ascended the throne as Emperor Monmu. In the edict of this time: "The Manifest Deity and Sovereign Who Rules the Great Eight Islands proclaims: 'All princes, ministers, officials, and citizens of the realm who have gathered to receive this grand decree—hear and obey.'" (Excerpt)

How might you, esteemed readers, regard this grand declaration—this proclamation of oneself as Manifest Deity and Sovereign Who Rules the Great Eight Islands? I regard this as the work of a woman. I discern a woman’s will at work here.

I consider the will of a single fiercely composed woman. The woman was waiting for one grandson to come of age. That grandson dreamed of the day he would come of age as the Sovereign Who Rules the Great Eight Islands and Manifest Deity. With the tenacity of an insect bound by her household’s fate, she dreamed, prayed, and nurtured him.

All people may pray for the prosperity of their descendants—but women, and especially strong, composed women, never cease seeking tangible, physical prosperity and dignity. The same will as Hōjō Masako resided here. And yet, unlike Masako, she did not face hardships. She was carried along by a tailwind.

What we discern here is not a government, but a house—and the will of that house.

*

Emperor Monmu passed away at the age of twenty-five. Since Prince Obito was still in his minority, 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 the younger sister of Empress Jitō.

She 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—hoped for, prayed over, and awaited by two generations of female emperors, his grandmother and aunt, to come of age as a manifest deity—was the future Emperor Shōmu.

Under the will of the female emperors, Japan’s governance, Japan’s rule—in other words, the Imperial Family’s influence—advanced without delay. The Taihō and Yōrō Ritsuryō Legal Codes were enacted. The Fudoki regional gazettes, the Kojiki Records of Ancient Matters, and the Chronicles of Japan as well were compiled. The relocation of the capital to Nara was also carried out. Currency was also minted.

However, behind the will, vigor, and talent of these female emperors lay the power of one woman that had worked most strongly. It was Tachibana no Michiyo. She was a formidable woman who had wielded influence at court over six generations since Emperor Tenmu—through the reigns of Jitō, Monmu, Genmei, Genshō, and Shōmu.

Examples of remarkable women loved by male emperors were not few. However, examples of remarkable women who were cherished and loved—even by male emperors, and all the more deeply by female emperors—were rarely found. Michiyo first married Prince Miminoō and gave birth to Prince Katsuragi (later Tachibana no Moroe); later, she remarried Fujiwara no Fuhito and gave birth to Empress Kōmyō. In the first year of Empress Genmei’s Wadō era, during a royal banquet she attended, a tachibana citrus fell into Michiyo’s cup; thus, she was granted the surname Tachibana no Sukune in commemoration of this event. Historians have speculated that Michiyo might have served as something like a wet nurse to Emperor Monmu, and that she had occupied a similar position regarding Prince Obito as well. Be that as it may, Michiyo’s talent—having served six successive reigns to hold the foremost influence in the court, being cherished by both male and female emperors alike while maintaining that power undiminished throughout her life—somewhat eludes our comprehension.

However, this much can be asserted. As for the precise nature of Michiyo's talent—she who served six successive reigns while maintaining undiminished her position as the foremost power in the court throughout her life—it remains beyond our comprehension. Yet it must be acknowledged that half the reason Michiyo's status and influence endured unchanged resided in the very character of the court itself.

The successive reigns up to Emperor Tenmu were a history of domestic disturbances. Emperor Tenmu himself—hated by his brother emperor—had ascended the throne after fleeing into exile, wandering through displacement, and enduring civil war. However, from Jitō’s reign through Shōmu’s, there had been only faint signs of domestic disturbances early in Jitō’s rule—all preemptively quelled—and after that, no tremors ever shook the very foundation of the “house” itself. Though male heirs happened to lack longevity—necessitating female emperors’ regencies over infant rulers—the imperial household’s authority saw Japan’s governance steadily advance as all hopes and dreams were entrusted to their coming of age, everything borne along by favorable tides. The will of the Six Reigns underwent no alteration; the character of the Six Reigns remained consistent throughout.

From husband (Tenmu) to wife (Jitō).

From grandmother (Jitō) to grandson (Monmu). (The father in the middle [Prince Kusakabe] had died young.) However, the mother remained, and she in turn became the next Empress.)

From son (Monmu) to mother (Genmei). (This mother was also the younger sister of Jitō.)

From mother (Genmei) to daughter (Genshō). (This daughter had been the elder sister of Monmu.)

From aunt (Genshō) to nephew (Shōmu). The will of Empress Jitō—who had nurtured Monmu—was the prototype for that of Empresses Genmei and Genshō, who nurtured Shōmu; there should have been no difference whatsoever. Genmei was Jitō’s younger sister. And Empress Genshō was Empress Genmei’s daughter. The three elderly women awaiting the coming of age of two child emperors inherited the same blood and temperament, and transmitted solely an obstinate will—vermin-like in its tenacity—for the sake of the imperial house’s name. Even as eras shifted and rulers changed, there remained scarcely any divergence in their respective bloodlines or wills.

Their will to protect the house’s name was more resolute than that of male family heads. For their free will was wholly immersed in the matter of nurturing child emperors, and all their dreams had been entrusted solely to those rulers’ coming of age. When women suppress their free will and desires, resign themselves to being sole sacrifices, and devote themselves to a single purpose, no man can demonstrate more meticulous ingenuity and impartial observation than they.

Historians call Michiyo a formidable woman. Depending on what one means by "formidable woman," Michiyo was likely no schemer. For she had endured the composed scrutiny of female sovereigns who had renounced personal sentiment, thereby earning their utmost trust. She was undoubtedly virtuous, immaculate in conduct, and unwaveringly loyal. Of course, she possessed excellent talent, but she was undoubtedly kind. She was undoubtedly gentle. Around the composed female rulers’ meticulous talent and observation, there was no room for men’s schemes to thrive. The Chancellor was mild-mannered. Fujiwara no Fuhito was upright. They were honest stewards. All will was dedicated to the Imperial Family’s name, advancing single-mindedly toward their purpose.

＊

Under these piercing wills and like a spirit incarnate, Prince Obito grew up. He was Emperor Shōmu.

That empress was Yasuko, the eldest daughter born to Michiyo and Fuhito. Because her entire body seemed to shine radiantly, she was called Kōmyōshi and also came to be known as Empress Kōmyō. She was the same age as the Emperor. When he was still Crown Prince, she had been selected and bestowed by Empress Genmei.

Up until that time, the Empress had been limited to imperial princesses or princesses of the blood, and it was established that daughters of subjects could not rise above the rank of Consort. Six years after Emperor Shōmu’s accession, he summoned officials of the fifth rank and above along with the heads of various ministries to the imperial palace and issued an edict establishing Empress Kōmyō. Though there may have been the wills of several others involved, it was undoubtedly Emperor Shōmu’s will that held the greatest sway. For he loved Empress Kōmyō above all else. Yasuko was educated as if she were the foremost woman of the realm. That was Michiyo’s heartfelt wish. Miyako—Fujiwara no Fuhito’s daughter (not from Michiyo’s womb)—entered the court and became Emperor Monmu’s consort. Emperor Monmu took neither consort nor empress; Miyako was his de facto empress, but the emperor passed away at twenty-five. Prince Obito—namely Emperor Shōmu—was the sole offspring of that.

Yasuko possessed an innate grace and a keen intellect. Her age was also fitting for Prince Obito, manifesting from birth the destiny of becoming the Emperor’s Consort. Yet Michiyo harbored one further desire. That was her once-in-a-lifetime desire. Michiyo was already elderly. Her entire life had been one of sincere devotion, dedicated solely to loyalty; she had never sought improper personal gain. Her eldest son, Prince Katsuragi, descended from imperial status to become Tachibana no Moroe and assumed the role of Minister—a natural progression—and Moroe proved to be a gentle and loyal minister. But Michiyo, now elderly, could do nothing about her irrepressible once-in-a-lifetime desire. That was her desire: to make Yasuko not a Consort, but Empress.

And Yasuko was educated by her mother—a once-in-a-generation talented woman—as if she were the foremost woman of the realm. She was raised to naturally become Prince Obito’s Consort and, ultimately, with the fervent wish that she must—no matter what—ascend to Empress. Her radiant beauty shone through her robes; her magnanimous disposition and talent transcended the mundane; Michiyo could find nothing in her that would betray the greater part of her expectations.

Prince Obito—who had been raised with dreams entrusted by composed female rulers—had been instilled through these women's tranquil sensibilities with a mindset that mirrored their own: despising what they despised and upholding what they deemed righteous. What these women's serene dispositions abhorred was licentiousness; what they affirmed as righteous was faith.

When Empress Genmei bestowed Yasuko upon Prince Obito, she particularly added these words: “This woman is a pillar of the imperial house, a peerlessly loyal vassal, and the daughter of one whose hair turned white and who lost sleep through many a night in service to our family. Do not regard her as merely a woman; treat her with utmost care.”

However, even such words were unnecessary. Prince Obito’s heart was filled entirely by Yasuko. Her beauty and intellect went without saying. Especially in the nobility of her soul. In the foremost nobility of her soul in all the realm.

The two were indeed yearned for, prayed for, dreamed of, and raised precisely as such—an unparalleled pair. Those who raised Prince Obito were, besides his grandmother and aunt, even more so Michiyo. And Michiyo, with Prince Obito ever in mind, had always been raising Yasuko. Through Yasuko’s younger, more beautiful charm made manifest before him, Prince Obito recalled the influence instilled through Michiyo’s fulfillment during his childhood—and found himself fulfilled anew. In Yasuko’s natural demeanor, he discovered the aura of preeminence in the realm that had once been impressed upon him by the women surrounding him—each quality now fulfilled to even greater heights.

In Tenpyō 18, as work commenced on casting the Great Buddha, he proclaimed: "The one who holds the realm's wealth is I." The emperor who had declared, "I am also the one who holds the realm's power," completed the casting, made an imperial visit to Tōdai-ji, stood side by side with the Empress to face the northern statue, solemnly confronted the Great Buddha, commanded Tachibana no Moroe to announce "I shall serve as a slave to the Three Treasures," and then worshiped with utmost reverence. People truly find their own superiority in worship when self-love reaches its zenith. That was the play of destiny for those two.

The Great Buddha towering over five jō; the architecture of peerless beauty and splendor encasing it—built with the realm’s wealth—and across every province rose Kokubun-ji temples and Kokubun-niji nunneries: all of this truly drained the realm’s riches to their dregs.

He was posthumously named Emperor Shōmu. The character for "martial" (*bu*) signified the suppression of civil unrest, while "sacred" (*shō*) denoted inheriting the divine virtues of Emperor Jimmu and being no less than a wise ruler who brought prosperity to the realm. The character for "sacred" (*shō*) came solely from the lips of Buddhist devotees both within and beyond the palace walls, and his sacred virtues too were praised exclusively by those same Buddhists. Even within the imperial court, there were those who turned their thoughts to the people’s destitution. Had the realm truly prospered? Indeed, Buddhism prospered. The capital of Nara prospered. Kokubun-ji temples rose across the provinces, the Great Buddha was constructed, and Tōdai-ji gleamed against the capital’s sky. The Emperor became a slave to the Three Treasures.

However, due to those enormous costs, the provinces had sunk to the depths of exhaustion, and the common people suffered in poverty. The imperial court became the target of resentment and curses; to escape heavy taxes, vagrancy and flight rapidly arose across the land; manors naturally swelled; state-owned lands declined—thus were sown the seeds of the Heian court nobles’ monopolization of power, the subsequent rise of military houses, and the imperial family’s downfall.

However, the two children of destiny did not so much as glance back at such matters. There was only ever the grandest and most magnificent play in all the realm. It was not solely the will of the two. A parasite staked across six reigns to the family name—it was the will of the mistresses. It was also the refined essence of spiritual energy, infused with the meticulous care of those composed female rulers.

And to the two of destiny, a child was born. The child was a daughter.

Six generations after Empress Jitō had poured forth her intensely composed will, the final vital energy had coalesced. That was Emperor Kōken.

＊

In July of that year, after declaring himself a slave to the Three Treasures and worshiping the Great Buddha, Emperor Shōmu abdicated in favor of his beloved daughter and became Retired Emperor. The new female emperor was thirty-three at that time.

There was no more grandiose cripple than this female emperor. For she had been raised as the foremost personality in the realm and as the world’s most exalted and singular living deity—yet had never been instructed about the men whom a woman’s heart should naturally seek. She had not been taught about marriage—nor had it ever been anticipated. The Emperor and Empress, her parents, had raised her in that manner—and with utter recklessness had blindly believed in her noble daughterly disposition. She was our daughter. She was a special daughter. There should be no need for men or such.

Both Empress Genmei, the grandmother who had raised Prince Obito, and Empress Genshō, his aunt, were widows who remained unmarried. Their chastity was steadfast. And Emperor Shōmu, regarding the dignity of female rulers who naturally possessed solitary dispositions, had believed what he grew accustomed to seeing without ever questioning it. He remained completely unaware—that both his grandmother and aunt had had their free will as women extinguished. They had willingly chosen to resign themselves to being victims. Their passions were wholly subsumed by the purpose of raising Prince Obito, everything consumed in the fervor of that aim. They were parasites clinging to the family name, not truly free mistresses.

Emperor Shōmu did not perceive the fundamental difference in character between these two mistresses.

＊

At the start of the new female emperor’s reign, watched over by her still-living parents, there was no peril. Politics was not a difficult matter. Merely being nationwide landowners of vast fields, politics consisted of allocating and collecting tax goods each year to cover those annual expenses. The Retired Emperor shaved his head, took monastic vows, and immersed himself solely in devotion; meanwhile, the Empress, driven by the instincts of a woman of leisure, within the grand pastime bestowed upon her—this play called faith—poured gold into temple complexes, cherished rituals, reveled in Buddhist chants, and adored grandeur.

The Retired Emperor died. Following that, the Mother Empress Dowager also died. The Empress had at last found her own freedom. The Empress rapidly became a woman. After ascending the throne, Empress Kōken renamed the Empress’s Household Agency to the Shibi Central Office and appointed Major Counselor Fujiwara no Nakamaro as its head. Nakamaro was already past fifty. He was the younger brother of Minister of the Right Toyonari. His elder brother was a gentle and benevolent man, while Nakamaro was one who could not consider duty or human feelings beyond his own advancement. Regarding the style of romance, the Empress possessed no models whatsoever—no standards of beauty, age, or temperament by which to choose men. The standard of her soul's dignity was of the highest order, but the thoughts of her flesh—the emotions dwelling within the body itself—were more artless than those of a mountain-bred servant girl.

The Empress felt that simply because Nakamaro, who attended her most closely, was the man nearest to her—merely seeing him melted her into delight. It was a first love nearing forty. Until the Mother Empress Dowager died, she had still restrained herself. No one had ever discovered a beauty as singular as hers. To her, every aspect of Nakamaro was dear. She needed only love what pleased her. She had neither standards nor models. It was simply that everything she found in Nakamaro was so endearing, so precious, that she could not help herself.

Whenever the Empress saw Nakamaro, she would beam with delight, so she renamed him Emi no Oshikatsu. Oshikatsu was an expression of heroic dignity—a name signifying merit in suppressing violence, overcoming the strong, halting spears, and quelling chaos. She appointed him Grand Guardian and even granted reckless permission that made no distinction between politics and love, allowing the Emi family’s private seal to be freely used for coinage and tax collection.

＊

The Crown Prince of Empress Kōken was Prince Dōso, a grandson of Emperor Tenmu; Emperor Shōmu—who had no other children—particularly loved this man and selected him as Crown Prince. This was Shōmu’s will, and Empress Kōken—who left politics to her parents—at that time cared little for matters like the Crown Prince, neither imposing her preferences nor interfering. Emi no Oshikatsu (still called Fujiwara no Nakamaro at that time—we shall henceforth disregard the chronological shifts in his name) had his eldest son die young. And a widow was left behind. Thereupon, he invited Prince Ōi—a cousin of Crown Prince Dōso—to his residence, had him marry this widow, and provided for them. He knew that the Empress held no affection for the Crown Prince, so he considered abolishing that position and wished to install Prince Ōi as Crown Prince.

The Retired Emperor, lying on his deathbed, had come to realize that his daughter—who should have been the sole woman in all under heaven—was after all merely a mortal child fated to possess an ordinary body. He was simply terrified. He wished to stay blind to all things, ignorant of all truths. Yet despite everything, he wanted to believe in his daughter. Why must there be flesh? For that noble soul. For that heart of such exalted dignity. He could not help but see the granting of that body as his own sin. Nor could he bear even the fleeting cruelty of imparting final admonitions upon his daughter's mortal form.

He summoned Oshikatsu to his deathbed. Close enough that if he extended his arm, his fingertips would reach, he had Oshikatsu sit right near his knees. And he stared at his face. “After my death,” he said slowly, word by word, as though carving each syllable into the other’s chest, “Princess Abe—Empress Kōken—and Prince Dōso are to rule the realm.” “It was Princess Abe and Prince Dōso.” “Do you have any objections to this?” “Yes, I consider it truly splendid.” I see. “In that case, drink the sacred sake.” “And then, you shall swear the oath.” Oshikatsu drank the sacred sake and swore the oath. The Retired Emperor’s eyes glittered. “Is that clear?” “If you dare defy these words—mark my words—the hatred and wrath of the heavenly and earthly gods shall befall your entire body.” “Instantly, your entire body will be torn asunder.” The Retired Emperor glared at Oshikatsu, convinced he had trapped him, and shouted.

The Retired Emperor passed away.

Oshikatsu gave no thought to the words he had sworn at the Retired Emperor’s sickbed. Even so, the opportunity had come too soon. During the mourning period, the Crown Prince had an affair with a lady-in-waiting. The Empress issued a reprimand, but even after that, his conduct did not improve. Sneaking out of the Eastern Palace for nighttime revelries and returning alone; committing numerous violent acts swayed by women’s words; allowing state secrets to leak—these constituted the entirety of his crimes.

She gathered the ministers and consulted them on whether to depose the Crown Prince. "If it is Her Majesty’s will, it cannot be opposed"—such was the answer of the ministers and officials below the Chancellor. On 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, Minister of the Right Toyonari and Fujiwara no Nagate recommended Prince Shiwaku. Fumiya no Chinutsu and Ōtomo no Furumaro recommended Prince Ikeda. Oshikatsu alone deliberately refrained from naming any candidate; "None know a vassal better than his sovereign," he declared, "none know a child better than his parent. It would be wisest to reverently follow whomever the Emperor selects." Though frustrating, it was a valid argument. When they sought the imperial decision, it was understood from the outset that the Empress’s words would not be heeded. Prince Funao’s private conduct was not in order; Prince Ikeda was found lacking in filial piety; Prince Shiwaku had been detested by the Retired Emperor for his rudeness; and only Prince Ōi—though young—had never been heard to commit any fault. Thus, just as Oshikatsu had scripted, his intentions now proved no different from the Empress’s will. "If it is the imperial will," they said—and of course, the ministers could not argue against it.

*

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 Emperor Shōmu was lying on his deathbed, Moroe drunkenly let slip some words; seizing upon this utterance, a man named Samimiyamori secretly reported that the Left Minister, having made such-and-such disrespectful remarks, might harbor rebellious intentions. The Retired Emperor attempted to interrogate the circumstances of the matter, but when the Empress Dowager interjected, admonishing him that such a thing could never be possible from that upright Moroe, he refrained from pursuing it.

However, Moroe feared Oshikatsu’s ambition and schemes.

The trust he commanded came solely from the Retired Emperor and Empress Dowager; having foreseen that Oshikatsu’s schemes would become omnipotent once they were gone... He disliked conflict. He was Michiyo’s eldest son and Empress Kōmyō’s half-brother; though he had become Left Minister despite his disposition, he harbored no political aspirations beyond the warm-hearted duty of serving as the honest steward of a family-led government, nor did he possess any exceptional talent. He had not a shred of stubborn resolve that would compel him to fight others, push them aside, and cling desperately to his position. He resigned without hesitation. Without reluctance, he abandoned the winds of the capital, secluded himself in Ide no Sato where mountain roses bloomed, and the following year, passed away.

The remaining obstacle was his biological older brother alone—Minister of the Right Toyonari. He searched for grounds to bring down his brother, but against that benevolent and magnanimous elder statesman who served as Minister of the Right Toyonari, he could find no direct pretext to level censure.

Around that time, among the young nobles who detested Oshikatsu’s tyranny, there was a rumor that an assassination plot was underway.

One day, when Ōtomo no Furumaro asked Ono no Azumahito whether he would join those plotting to kill Oshikatsu should such a scheme arise, Azumahito reportedly answered, "I would indeed." When Minister of the Right Toyonari heard this story, he reportedly said: "Since my brother is naive to the ways of the world, I shall thoroughly admonish him myself. You must not act rashly and kill him." Naramaro, son of Tachibana no Moroe, detested the slander that Oshikatsu had levied against his father. Moreover, he harbored resentment and righteous indignation toward the politics of the time. That is to say, he harbored unbearable discontent over the fact that all the sacrifices and suffering for the construction of Tōdai-ji and Kokubun-ji temples were being borne by the people. He considered assassinating Oshikatsu and Prince Ōi, establishing a Crown Prince who desired righteous governance, and reforming Japanese politics. His partner was Ōtomo no Furumaro, and there were rumors that they had planned a coup d’état and prepared weapons. Repeated denunciations reached Empress Kōmyō’s ears.

However, Empress Kōmyō did not act upon these denunciations. She simply summoned those who had become subjects of rumor and declared: "I myself have never believed such things—yet since the laws of state exist apart from me, you must all take care not to bring disgrace upon your house's honor." "As you are none other than members of my own close kin," she admonished, "you would do well to heed my words with gravity."

However, before long, Prince Yamashiro’s denunciation could no longer be dismissed. It was reported that Prince Dōsoō (the deposed Crown Prince), Prince Kōbun, Prince Yasuko, Tachibana no Naramaro, Ōtomo no Furumaro, Ono no Azumahito, and others were plotting a coup d’état to assassinate the Crown Prince and Oshikatsu.

Oshikatsu stationed guards at his residence, and messengers for apprehension were immediately dispatched in all directions. One of the captains was Fujiwara no Nagate. He received Oshikatsu’s command and departed, demonstrating the fervent loyalty of a trusted henchman. The masterminds—princes and ministers alike—were apprehended. However, the only one who confessed was Ono no Azumahito. And the one who made Azumahito confess was also Nagate. The princes, the ministers—none of the others confessed. They claimed they merely gathered because Azumahito invited them, insisting they knew nothing of the meeting’s purpose. When Azumahito proposed that they worship, they asked what they were to worship; he replied that they would worship heaven and earth. Thus, they worshiped as instructed, but this was different in meaning from worshiping to pledge themselves to a conspiracy—such was their answer. Their answers were all completely identical.

Thereupon they were tortured; Deposed Crown Prince Dōsoō and Prince Kōbun were beaten with rods and died in agony, while Furumaro and Azumahito also perished under torture. The survivors were sentenced to exile. Since Azumahito had been beaten to death with rods, the truth of the matter could no longer be known by anyone. And at this time, Otsunawa, Toyonari’s son, had also been involved in the conspiracy. Consequently, his father, the Minister of the Right, was charged with the crime of neglecting to report the conspiracy he had known about, demoted to Dazai no In’ōshi, and exiled to distant Kyushu.

Not only had he annihilated all his enemies in one fell swoop, but he had even managed to remove the thorn in his side—his elder brother, the Minister. Oshikatsu’s satisfaction was immeasurable.

Meanwhile, at that same moment, there was a group exchanging smirks. They were Fujiwara no Nagate, Fujiwara no Momokawa, and other young nobles of the Fujiwara clan. They were none other than Oshikatsu’s most trusted confidants. They were the ones who had demonstrated their sincere devotion, pledged their loyalty, and taken the lead in arrests, interrogations, and investigations. However, they were raising a toast. They were young men as cautious as old foxes. From the veiled words of their toast, we could extract no secrets. Even if Oshikatsu had secretly eavesdropped on that scene, he would have heard only words celebrating the conspiracy’s downfall and the advent of peace.

*

Fujiwara no Fuhito had four sons. They each established houses: Muchimaro founded the Southern House, Fusasaki the Northern House, Umakai the Ceremonial House, and Maro the Capital House, all participating in pivotal government affairs. Lady Yasuko became Empress Kōmyō; Michiyo’s influence in the rear palace stood unmatched, creating an environment where those outside the Fujiwara clan were scarcely regarded as people.

The smallpox that had arisen in Tsukushi spread even to the capital. It was the ninth year of Tenpyō.

Along the Kamo River, not to mention outside the city gates, even the capital's main streets reeked of discarded corpses. The four Fujiwara brothers too succumbed to illness all at once. Because the scions of the four Fujiwara houses were still early in their official careers, they could not assume their late fathers' pivotal roles in government. It was for this reason that Tachibana no Moroe became Minister and Kibi no Makibi was appointed to an important position. The scions of old noble families—Abe, Ishikawa, Ōtomo, and Kose—also advanced to appropriate positions, and even the Fujiwara clan was forced to temporarily withdraw from central government affairs. Moreover, Hirotsugu, the eldest son of the Ceremonial House, had his wife violated by Genbō; in his fury, he raised a rebellion only to be executed, even bringing upon his clan the disgrace of being branded enemies of the court.

From the outset, the imperial court and the Fujiwara clan had maintained a special relationship dating back to Kamatari and extending through Empress Kōmyō, and the recovery of their influence was ultimately a matter of time. First, Toyonari became Minister of the Right, and his younger brother Oshikatsu assumed the position of Chief of the Shibi Central Office. They hailed from the Southern House of Muchimaro, the eldest son among the four Fujiwara branches, and were of particularly advanced age, being over fifty. Toyonari’s rise was natural, but Oshikatsu’s was unprecedented. Not content with this ascension, he relied on imperial favor to remove Moroe, carried out the deposition of the Crown Prince, crushed his enemies through conspiracy, and even ousted his own brother. He succeeded his brother as Minister of the Right and was promoted to Chancellor two years later.

The young nobles of the Fujiwara clan had been advancing year by year through their due ranks while envisioning their clan’s past dreams, but now they found themselves compelled to defeat their immediate enemy. The immediate enemy was Oshikatsu. For although Oshikatsu was indeed one of their own clan, he had grown far too despotic, acting as if he were their chieftain.

They were all individualists and egoists. They united under the name of their clan, but this held no meaning beyond mere convenience to defeat their common enemy. They cared only for their own benefit and their own advancement. And they possessed an innate propensity for conspiracy and cold-blooded veins that knew only love for themselves. That crafty propensity for conspiracy and cold-bloodedness were the bloodline passed down since Kamatari’s time.

The central figure of the conspiracy was not the elder Nagate but rather the younger Momokawa. Nagate was their eldest and had risen to the position of Middle Counselor, but Momokawa had just turned twenty-five and held a minor post not worth mentioning. However, his crafty schemes and relentless execution stood out.

All of them were Oshikatsu’s confidants. They flattered Oshikatsu, eagerly devoted themselves to loyal service, and received promotions in rank as their reward. They believed that outward compliance and inner betrayal were a natural human act. They were rather more ruthless, crafty, and blatant than Oshikatsu. After removing Dōkyō, Momokawa succeeded in his plot to install an emperor of his choosing. Furthermore, after succeeding in deposing the Crown Prince, the Emperor did not favor the prince he recommended. They harassed the Emperor, persisting at his gate for over forty days without sleeping even at night, continuing to shout until they wore down his resolve.

They were schemers surpassing even Oshikatsu, wise men, conspirators, egoists, and moreover lacked both courtesy and restraint; thus, they could not endure resigning themselves to Oshikatsu’s tyranny and remaining beneath his shadow. Their common purpose was Oshikatsu’s downfall. Then, there appeared an unexpectedly convenient figure. That was Yuge no Dōkyō.

*

Dōkyō was the son of Prince Shiki—himself a child of Emperor Tenji—and thus an imperial grandson of Emperor Tenji. Dōkyō studied Buddhist teachings under Gien in his childhood and had mastered Sanskrit. In his youth, he secluded himself on Mount Katsuragi to undergo ascetic training in ritual practices, mastered the Wish-Fulfilling Wheel Ritual and esoteric astrological methods, and gained renown for the miraculous efficacy of his healing baths and medicinal concoctions. His mystical powers and his unwavering devotion to Buddhism—both were highly esteemed, and thus he was summoned to the inner sanctum of the imperial palace.

His spirit was exalted. His scholarship was profound. And he was unaccustomed to the cunning of the secular world. He was as naive as a child. His chaste body, having endured ascetic practices, was robust, and the Buddhist chants he sang were filled with a poignant solemnity that evoked the daily and nightly anguish of those mountain rituals. He was already of an age no less than Oshikatsu’s, yet through the rigor of his soul, his insight, and his ascetic practice, an ageless vitality lingered about him.

The Empress had been drawn to Dōkyō since some time. The Empress had already abdicated the throne to the Crown Prince and was Retired Empress. Yet the new emperor’s accession was in name only, for government affairs remained in the hands of the Retired Empress. The destined blood that had been prayed for through six generations of sorrowful yearnings—that ancestral worm’s spirit had taken root in the aged Empress’s heart. Her body grew ever more wanton, yet within her heart, the blind eyes of that ancestral worm’s destiny surveyed and fixed their gaze upon all around.

Various things had become clear. They had come into view. By the blind eyes of the ancestral worm’s destiny. The new emperor and Chancellor Oshikatsu became one entity. The new emperor was neither hers nor the nation’s—he was Oshikatsu’s emperor. That she could perceive such things was due to the distance that had arisen between Oshikatsu and herself—and she had come to realize her own inadequacy in having lost even the capacity to observe from a distance.

The Retired Empress thought about the imperial house.No—it was the ancestral worm that thought about herself.She thought about Oshikatsu.How had it come to this sorrowful state with a subject—that is to say, a mere man?I could scarcely endure my own ineptitude and anguish,yet I found myself overwhelmed by the pitiable tenderness of this flesh and the dearness of my own desires.

She found Oshikatsu disgusting. It was a sudden disillusionment. All my own defilement now seemed to rest solely upon Oshikatsu. Oshikatsu appeared as nothing but filth.

The Retired Empress thought about Dōkyō. In the quiet nights, and in the desolate noons when all human presence had died away. She forced herself—her body strove not to recall it. And indeed, there were times when she thought about Dōkyō without thinking of her body. Regarding the depth of his insight. Regarding the loftiness of his soul. Regarding the poignancy and solemnity of his Buddhist chants. Regarding that simple heart. At such times, there were moments when her heart grew quiet and clear, like taking a deep breath and exhaling fully. Yet her thoughts did not cease with that alone. And finally, the Retired Empress shivered. Then, for a time, she could comprehend nothing. She was praying. However, more than that, she had resolved. That was the resolution of her flesh.

If it were that person. For his soul was noble and exalted. And his insight was profound, removed from worldly concerns.

But above all, he was Emperor Tenji's imperial grandson. He was not a subject, but a prince. When she thought of that—as if divinely sanctioned—her woman’s body would shudder.

*

In Hōji 5 [765 CE], as it coincided with the fifth memorial of Empress Kōmyō’s passing, in August, the Retired Empress took the Emperor to worship at Yakushi-ji Temple, visited the residence of Fujiwara no Mitate—Oshikatsu’s son-in-law—and held a banquet.

After concluding the mourning period, in October, she made an imperial visit to Hora Palace. The Emperor accompanied her, and Dōkyō joined the retinue. Oshikatsu remained in the capital.

Already, the Retired Empress's body had been filled with resolve. Her stay at Hora Palace became one of bedridden illness. Only Dōkyō kept constant vigil at her pillowside—performing mystic rites, compounding medicines, tending her through day and night. And she recovered. For her heart had been filled. For her long-held resolve had been fulfilled.

The Retired Empress was astonished by the ferocity of the world's transformations during her brief days of travel. It was neither the sight of winter clouds racing across the sky nor mountains and fields drenched in passing showers. It was the human heart. And when she realized this heart was her own, the Retired Empress was astonished once more. She looked up at the winter sky and gazed upon the cold wilderness. They were imbued with sublimity and crystalline clarity. She had already given over both body and soul to Dōkyō.

The Emperor feared the relationship between the Retired Empress and Dōkyō. He had feared because of Oshikatsu. The Emperor knew little about matters of love. He underestimated Dōkyō. No—more than that—he had overrelied on the Retired Empress and Oshikatsu’s past intimacy and had too blindly believed in it.

The Emperor, unlike his usual self, attempted to personally admonish the Retired Empress. How furious the Retired Empress must have been! From that day forth, the two were in complete discord.

*

The Retired Empress took Buddhist vows under the name Hōki, becoming utterly one in body and soul with Dōkyō. She appointed him Minor Bishop, keeping him constantly at her side while Oshikatsu was pushed away. To her now, he meant nothing at all. Oshikatsu endured days of torment, seething at Dōkyō and raging against the Retired Empress. Jealousy burned through him; terror of downfall left his mind unhinged. Those who scheme themselves grow most fearful of others' plots. Maddened by dread of disgrace and paranoid of conspiracies swirling about him, he resolved to stage his own rebellion.

He stole the official seal of the Great Council of State to issue orders and secretly increased troop numbers. There was an informant; when the charges came to light, Oshikatsu fled to Ōmi. His retreat had been cut off, and the pursuing army closed in. Oshikatsu had no choice but to flee to his son Shinkachi’s post in Echizen, where he proclaimed Prince Shioyaki as emperor, bestowed ranks upon his followers to stir their morale, and found no time to pity its futility. The pursuing army attacked. The allied forces had already fled before the battle could begin. It was autumn. A passing shower swept through as dead leaves carpeted the mountains. He staggered toward the enemy without even gripping a sword. He stared at his opponent’s face as though utterly bewildered. The blade was driven into his shoulder. A short, strangled cry—like that of a man startled mid-leap—vanished into emptiness. He pressed his slashed shoulder with one hand. Then a clot of blood spurted out as if flicked from fingertips. And he toppled over dead.

Prince Shioyaki was killed, Oshikatsu’s wife and children were slaughtered, and his daughter—a girl renowned for her peerless beauty—was violated by a thousand soldiers; beneath the mud-caked feet of the thousand-and-first soldier, she lay as a lifeless corpse, cold.

The Emperor’s palace was surrounded by soldiers. The imperial edict proclaimed by the envoy stated: "He is not fit to be Emperor, having conspired with Nakamaro to devise schemes that would overthrow me." He was immediately ordered to abdicate and exiled to the province of Awaji. And the following year, he died in exile.

*

The Retired Empress reascended the throne in Buddhist robes and was called Empress Shōtoku. It was decreed that "An emperor who has taken Buddhist vows may well have a minister who has also taken vows," and Dōkyō was granted the newly created official position of Minister-Zen Master. The following year, he became Great Minister-Zen Master, and two years later, he was made High Priest.

That was the will of the Female Emperor.

The Female Emperor wanted to make clear to the realm that Dōkyō was an imperial grandson—not merely a subject—and to proclaim this as evidence. And their romantic relationship itself as well. Because he was an imperial grandson. And because he was her lover. The Female Emperor was pleased to notice the extremely apt term "High Priest."

The High Priest’s monthly stipend was equivalent to the Emperor’s provisions, and his clothing and meals were identical to the Emperor’s. When entering or exiting the palace gates, he rode in an imperial palanquin; the High Priest’s Palace Office was established; and he personally decided governmental affairs. All of that was a testament to the affection the Female Emperor had bestowed. The woman was bound by titles; however, she was furthermore a true believer in substance. Titles—and people’s tongues—the Female Emperor no longer heeded. The fact was only one: Dōkyō was her husband.

Dōkyō could suppress his regret over corruption. The Female Emperor's body was lascivious. And Dōkyō's carnal desire—having known a woman's form for the first time—proved equally unrestrained. The two never wearied of their play. Yet the fierce spirit and noble elegance of her soul never ceased startling him. What struck his vision was this hallucination—the Female Emperor of nocturnal chambers and her daylight counterpart—two utterly disconnected forms sharing no thread between them. The nocturnal Empress was flesh; her diurnal self a soul exuding fragrance.

He could not regret the nocturnal debauchery with his daytime heart. Because the fierce spirit of the Female Emperor’s soul would decisively sever the nocturnal heart before his very eyes. His soul was elevated, and his awe was stirred. That was no woman. That was a dignity at once great, noble, lovely, and absolute—a singular existence.

And the nocturnal flesh was again far too licentious. There was no restraint, no dignity, no regret. Everything was simply cast forth as it was—unreservedly released, wantonly expended, carried out, and brought to fruition. There could be nothing to regret in itself. There was nothing to lament, nothing lacking, nothing constrained. There were tears. There were sighs. There was laughter. There were cheers. There was strength. There was blankness of mind. There was sorrow. There was numbness. They grew angry and sulked; they loved and were loved.

Dōkyō’s thoughts of corruption faded day by day and were lost. And even if he did recall their nocturnal games during solitary reveries, he would now think of them as a rich vista—utterly natural, utterly innocent—like a stream’s babbling beneath the radiance of Katsuragi’s mountains and fields under the open sky.

He loved the Female Emperor. Preciously, loftily, he felt.

He sat upright before the Buddha in the inner chapel’s private Buddhist hall and no longer feared divine punishment. No, he did not even think of divine punishment. Sitting side by side with the Female Emperor, reverently worshipping and chanting Buddhist sutras, his heart was elevated without self-abasement, became omnipresent; that heart returned to nothingness like fragrance, towered like a rock, and prayed single-mindedly like a waterfall. For the noble repose of the Female Emperor’s soul.

He did not think of himself. He thought only of the Female Emperor. He loved the Female Emperor. His heart, his body—both were utterly immersed in every aspect of the Female Emperor. The Female Emperor was his everything. His soul was like an infant’s—honest and unalloyed.

＊

The Fujiwara clan’s scheming scions were gazing upon all unfolding events with frigid eyes.

Through Dōkyō’s unforeseen emergence, they themselves required no scheming—Emi no Oshikatsu had brought about his own ruin. Dōkyō was more straightforward than Oshikatsu. And he had no cause to fear their retaliation. They simply needed to wait calmly for their opportunity. Because they had no need to rush.

They worshipped High Priest Dōkyō as if he were the emperor, prostrated themselves, and revered him. They did not utter a single malicious rumor. They seemed to know that becoming High Priest was Dōkyō’s natural destiny.

However, with the emergence of the High Priest—a human-conferred title of utmost unexpectedness—Momokawa’s stratagem received a divine revelation. It was an orchestrated drama to first instill in Dōkyō the ambition to become emperor and then, at that very moment, crush it—thereby toppling him in one fell swoop. At that time, their trusted confidant Nakatomi no Naruane Asomaro was appointed as Chief Priest of Dazaifu and set out to assume his post in Kyushu. The Chief Priest was the chief administrator overseeing all rituals within Dazaifu’s jurisdiction—no minor post like the mere shrine custodian of a single institution such as Usa Hachiman.

Momokawa imparted the gist to him. Asomaro, having taken up his post, returned to the capital after a year. He was presenting what was called the divine oracle of Usa Hachiman. It stated: “If Dōkyō is made to ascend to the imperial throne, the realm shall know peace.” Dōkyō was half-convinced and half-skeptical. He had never even dreamed of harboring the ambition to become Emperor. He had no need to desire it. The Emperor already existed. The one he loved most. The one who was his everything. However, the Fujiwara clan’s scheming scions were relentless. They first praised Dōkyō’s destiny and virtues that had been blessed by the divine oracle. And because Dōkyō was an imperial descendant, they unanimously asserted that he should naturally be able to become emperor. Sweet words have the power to unravel even the most steadfast of hearts. Even if Dōkyō found it rather bothersome, he could hardly fail to be pleased by it.

“But,” said one of them. “Since this concerns the Emperor of the realm, we cannot settle matters based solely on Asomaro’s divine oracle.” “We must dispatch a proper imperial envoy to verify the authenticity of this divine oracle,” they said.

Naturally, that was a conclusion anyone would nod in agreement to. Except in the case where Dōkyō were to suppress that divine oracle and dismiss it without investigation.

Dōkyō hesitated. However, he was naive. "If this truly is a divine oracle," he thought.

And he failed to realize that if he agreed to dispatch the imperial envoy, it would inevitably be concluded that he harbored the desire to become Emperor.

The decision regarding the dispatch of the imperial envoy was one that Dōkyō himself had to make. He agreed. ＊

The Female Emperor, who loved Dōkyō as her greatest treasure in this world and took boundless pride in that affection, had never even dreamed of making him Emperor. The Emperor was herself. That fact had never been doubted or reflected upon. The Female Emperor bestowed upon him the title of High Priest. She granted him the same monthly stipend as the Emperor, the same food and clothing as the Emperor, a phoenix palanquin, and established the Office of the High Priest to confer upon him. He was already the de facto Emperor. At the very least, had she been a male emperor, Dōkyō would have been her empress consort.

The Female Emperor realized. The blind yearning of that gloomy house-protecting insect had unshakably—from its very bedrock—never permitted even a moment’s doubt that she was Emperor.

The Female Emperor pitied Dōkyō. She felt compassion. And she loved him dearly, ached with longing. Didn't women follow men in every household? Why must it be me alone? Why shouldn't Dōkyō become Emperor?

The Female Emperor resolved. If the Usa Hachiman Oracle was genuine, and if the imperial envoy indeed reported that divine message, then she would willingly yield the throne to him. Because he was an imperial grandson. The courtiers also acknowledged it. Moreover, was he not a grandson of Emperor Tenji?

The Female Emperor found happiness through that resolution. By placing her beloved man in his rightful position as a male sovereign, she thought, she too could finally assume her proper form as a woman.

No crown prince had yet been designated for the Female Emperor. The beloved man was now also her Crown Prince! For a Retired Emperor—who happened to be the husband of a lady-in-waiting—to ascend as Emperor was unprecedented. The Female Emperor’s fantasy delighted her: Could one not transition from Emperor to Empress? If Dōkyō became Emperor, she wanted to throw such an extravagant tantrum it would leave him flustered. She longed to sulk outrageously, act spoiled beyond measure, and transform into an utterly unmanageable creature of whimsy. And envisioning Dōkyō’s dull-witted, strained, utterly confounded face—she would burst out laughing.

＊

Wake no Kiyomaro returned. The divine oracle he had brought back overflowed with an unexpectedly human-like tone and concluded with an odd final clause. It declared that the unprincipled must be swiftly eradicated. Dōkyō flew into a rage. Because he had done nothing but seek verification of the oracle's authenticity. He should never have spoken of wanting to become Emperor. Rather, he retained no memory of ever having desired it, even in the deepest recesses of his heart. Kiyomaro's report had been delivered like an assassin's blade aimed solely at Dōkyō—coldly, loftily, saturated with hatred, fury, and self-righteousness.

The Female Emperor was first to notice this peculiarity. What exactly defined Dōkyō's position? He existed merely as a character proclaimed by this fabricated oracle—a figure within its narrative construct. The primary culpability lay with the counterfeit divine message itself. Yet the oracle remained silent on this crucial point. Neither Kiyomaro's tone nor demeanor betrayed even a particle of censure toward Asomaro. Kiyomaro's stance unequivocally pronounced Asomaro to be Dōkyō's puppet—a conduit for delivering this false oracle. Only through such framing could Kiyomaro's reported divine message hold any coherence. The Female Emperor understood Dōkyō intimately—this man possessed no capacity for scheming whatsoever. Let us temporarily suspend subjective judgment and hypothesize that Asomaro truly acted as Dōkyō's marionette. What then defined Wake no Kiyomaro's role? Was he not simply an envoy tasked with verifying the oracle's authenticity? A mere transmitter of divine pronouncements? There existed no justification for personal bias—no allowance for emotional inflection—only words and their unadorned meaning should remain.

Kiyomaro’s tone had become a blade that cut down Dōkyō, rising and becoming unhinged through anger, hatred, and righteousness—was it not? In other words, what existed there was not a divine oracle—it had to be the words from his own heart.

Everything was already clear. Asomaro and Kiyomaro were both in on it—it had been a trap to bring down Dōkyō. Dōkyō trembled with rage. His complexion had turned deathly pale; with each breath he took, it seemed miraculous that flames of fury did not erupt from his nostrils and eyes. The Female Emperor had never seen such torment on Dōkyō’s face. Her heart stiffened with pain. All at once, anger surged within her: Why must you deceive, humiliate, and torment this simple soul—this noble soul? The Female Emperor’s countenance shifted abruptly. She fixed Kiyomaro with a piercing glare.

Since Kiyomaro had already lowered his face and was waiting in attendance, the Female Emperor’s angry gaze went unnoticed. However, Momokawa saw it. A frenzied scream welled up in his chest. Damn it! And.

However，at that moment，the Emperor stood up swiftly and had already vanished.

＊

Kiyomaro overdid his performance. By exposing his raw emotions too honestly. Because there was too little deception. He was too honest.

Momokawa could not help but realize that the framework of the scheme had already been detected by the Female Emperor.

He could not spare even a moment's delay. He immediately arranged to make Kiyomaro shoulder both cause and effect—the entire mechanism of forging the divine oracle. Without delay, Momokawa submitted a report to the throne stating that Kiyomaro had already confessed to the crime of forging the divine oracle. For otherwise, the entire mechanism would be exposed.

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

Momokawa’s secret stratagem had been a complete failure. Due to this incident, the Female Emperor’s favor and trust in Dōkyō deepened to a supreme level. Dōkyō was irreplaceable. That, however, had already been true since ancient times.

The Female Emperor had firmly resolved. Dōkyō was to be her successor—the Crown Prince, the next Emperor of Japan. The world’s calculations held no weight. She did not fear the ancestral spirits either.

Not only that—rumors in society, from the outcome of this incident, came to conclude that Dōkyō could become Emperor, and before long, there was talk that the next Emperor would be Dōkyō. 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. Eventually, it became accepted that Dōkyō was the Emperor—so it was said.

Momokawa had once again seized upon a revelation. As long as this absolute trust of the Female Emperor endured, there existed no prospect of dislodging Dōkyō during her lifetime.

After the Female Emperor’s death.

That alone remained.

Momokawa had discovered a way to turn the popularity of the Dōkyō Emperor theory to his advantage. Dōkyō was simple-minded and prone to trust others. They would spread the Dōkyō Emperor theory even more vigorously. Until the common people accepted it unquestioningly. And make Dōkyō himself believe it utterly. That he would inevitably become Emperor. That court nobles, low-ranking officials, and peasants alike all wished for this. He grew completely at ease. He became wholly convinced. That through the people's collective will, he would naturally ascend as Emperor—that they would place him there. This very complacency born of assurance became the sole chink Momokawa could exploit in the end.

Momokawa ingratiated himself with Dōkyō. All the Fujiwara nobles also curried favor. No, all people were like that.

Dōkyō’s hometown was Yuge in Kawachi. Momokawa earnestly pleaded with Dōkyō and had himself appointed as governor of Kawachi Province, the illustrious High Priest’s birthplace. Dо̄kуо̄ persuaded*¹* **the Empress**, established*²* **Yuge Palace** in his birthplace of **Yuge**,*³* and designated*⁴* it **the western capital**. Kawachi Province was promoted in status, and the Kawachi Office was established. Momokawa was also promoted accordingly and became the Chief of the Kawachi Office.

The Female Emperor also made an imperial visit to Yuge Palace. A song and dance festival was held. Then Momokawa, the governor of this land, as though it were his greatest duty, voluntarily performed the Yamato dance himself. The dance movements were not particularly skillful, but their solemnity— With each movement poured forth sincerity, gathered all his attention—his wholehearted desire to at least somewhat satisfy the noble people’s interests through that utmost sincerity overflowed visibly. Dо̄kуо̄ was satisfied. And he believed wholeheartedly in Momokawa’s sincerity, never doubting a thing.

*

The Female Emperor passed away. Her august age was fifty-three. Dо̄kуо̄’s grief was unrelenting. It was precisely because of the shadow cast by those ascetic trials—the bitter practices he had endured in the rocky caverns of the Katsuraki mountains. His wailing was that of a heretic. It was as though his life’s hope had ended. He did not know what to cling to as he wept—there was nothing left for him to cling to. What is nothingness? Is it loss? He lost everything. He believed without a doubt that the people were demanding his accession to the throne. What would he be—sitting in the void of the Imperial Palace—without the presence of this great person, this noble person, this lovely person, this dignified spirit of piercing clarity? His heart sought not a shred of the emperor’s empty vessel. He did not return to the Imperial Palace. He did not take his seat in the political court. He did not want to see people’s faces either. He could not bear to let even the faintest fragments of their words enter his ears.

He built a hermitage at the foot of the Female Emperor’s mausoleum and, whether on rainy days or stormy nights, sat there day after day without leaving, continuing to pray for her peaceful repose.

The opportunity Momokawa had long awaited arrived. However，the drive had drained away. Because he was too slovenly，too utterly preposterous. Because this very person of interest had built a hermitage at the mausoleum’s foot，forsaking worldly affairs，and now spent every waking hour engrossed in sutra chanting.

However, Momokawa schemed in the shadows. He lived solely for scheming in the shadows.

Minister of the Right Kibi no Makibi attempted to support Major Counselor Fumiya no Kiyosumi, the grandson of Emperor Tenmu. However, Kiyosumi firmly declined on the grounds that he had already been demoted to subject status, so they put forward his younger brother Ooichi instead. An imperial proclamation was drafted, and public opinion had largely been settled.

However, Momokawa did not act. He was a man who could not acquiesce unless he himself wrote the script. He installed Shirakabe-ō, conspired with Left Minister Nagate and his brother Councillor Yoshitsugu, used the imperial envoy as a pretext, replaced the proclamation to install Ōichi with one declaring Shirakabe-ō’s ascension, had it proclaimed, and arbitrarily appended phrases claiming it was the late Empress’s will.

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

The winds of the mundane world—all these schemes—Dо̄kуо̄ had nothing to do with; day and night in his hermitage, he remained completely unaware.

And the first news from worldly affairs that came rushing to his ears was not his accession to the throne, but a notification that his death sentence had been reduced by one degree, he had been demoted to Administrator of Shimotsuke Yakushiji Temple, and was to be dispatched that very day. Shimotsuke Yakushiji Temple—alongside Tōdai-ji in Nara and Kanzeon-ji in Chikushi as one of the Three Great Ordination Platforms of the Realm, founded by Jianzhen—stood among Japan’s most eminent temples. To be appointed administrator of this renowned temple could hardly be called exile. He was likely seen as a nuisance, yet not particularly hated. The sole shared intent among the people had probably been to remove him from the seat of power.

Apart from the thought of leaving the foot of the mausoleum, there was nothing that tormented him. Everything had already ended. There was nothing he needed to discard. When he looked at the clouds, they pierced his heart; when he gazed up at the mountains, they pierced his heart.

However, he clung to a single unwavering dignity within his heart and refused to relinquish it. This was more precious than any Buddha statue—more precious than anything. Holding fast to this, he needed only to wait passively for his life to end—that sufficed.

(Shōwa 22 [1947], *Kaizō*, No. 1)