spittle with his sleeve. He looked around for his brush, then gave up. ‘It’s you, Lord Sugawara,’ he said and made an attempt to struggle up, but Akitada gently pushed him back.
‘Don’t disturb yourself. It’s a small thing and hardly worth interrupting your work. Still, I would be very grateful for the information. Do you happen to know anything about a Kiyowara Kane?’
Kunyoshi blinked. ‘Certainly. He’s a new man. His first lady is the chancellor’s second lady’s sister. You haven’t met? He’s very eager, they say.’ Kunyoshi compressed his lips. ‘Being a provincial no doubt has something to do with it.’
Some of this made sense to Akitada. Kiyowara had garnered an important position in the central government because of his connections to the new chancellor’s wife. Since life in the provinces held little charm for the nobility, Kiyowara was now very eager to make a name for himself. The old guard, like Kunyoshi, despised such men. But why was this provincial gentleman bent on persecuting him? Unless it fell under the heading of busywork to impress his brother-in-law and others in power. Akitada thought his case might look a little more hopeful if Kiyowara simply labored under a misconception and could be made to see reason.
‘What exactly is his position?’ he asked.
The archivist made a face. ‘Junior Controller of the Right.’
Impressive. That put him in the senior fifth rank, many steps above Akitada and several above Kaneie. More importantly, as a controller he had a significant voice in the administration of those ministries that formed the right arm of the government, and that included the Ministry of Justice.
‘I see,’ said Akitada. ‘Do you happen to know where he lives?’
Kunyoshi cackled. ‘You should know his house well. It used to belong to your former chief.’
Akitada was taken aback. The Soga villa had been the home of his old nemesis, the late Minister of Justice, Soga. The knowledge brought back memories of being ordered to report there to feel the lash of Soga’s tongue and hear threats of immediate dismissal.
Under the circumstances, it was a very bad omen.
It suddenly struck Akitada that he was reliving the past. A little more than a year ago he had also faced dismissal. And though he had kept the position, while Soga had died, the same plague that took Soga had taken Akitada’s son. He was not by nature a superstitious man, but fear seized him again: a year ago he had lost Yori. Would he lose Tamako and another child this time?
Akitada left Kunyoshi with muttered thanks.
His earlier determination now quite undermined, he set out to make the acquaintance of this official who had happily destroyed a stranger in order to make himself appear conscientious and hard-working.
The Soga house had always been far more luxurious than his own, which had fallen on hard times. The Sugawara family had suffered the disfavor and persecution of the Fujiwara rulers and had eventually sought refuge in the anonymity of poverty. Thus, the Soga villa occupied a much larger property, allowing for extensive gardens, many courtyards, and separate service buildings. The new owner had found it necessary to embellish the property further. The thatched roofs of the main hall and front gate had been replaced with shiny new green tiles, and fresh white sand covered the entrance courtyard. Trim, railings, and banisters were newly lacquered in brilliant red.
Numerous servants in white uniforms with black sashes were busy placing tubs of ornamental trees about. An older man in a dark silk robe, who had a long, pale face, supervised them. When he saw Akitada, who wore his second-best silk robe and his court hat with the rank ribbons, he came to greet him.
‘Sugawara Akitada,’ said Akitada in the brusque manner likely to get service. ‘From the Ministry of Justice. I’m here to see Lord Kiyowara.’
The man bowed deeply, identified himself as Major-domo Fuhito, and led him past the main hall, through an interior courtyard with artistically placed rocks and bamboos, down a hallway, and into a reception room, where he offered him a silk cushion and promised to announce him.
The room was elegant but sparsely furnished. Akitada looked around at a number of handsome paintings, one of which depicted a large manor house surrounded by rice fields cultivated by many peasants. No doubt this was Kiyowara’s provincial home, here displayed to demonstrate a background of wealth and importance.
Open doors to a veranda overlooked a part of the private garden. There, too, improvements had been made. The shrubberies were neatly trimmed; an elegant pagoda-like roof with gilded bells rose above them – by its size and decoration it was probably a garden pavilion in the Chinese style – and water glistened between tree trunks where he could not remember seeing any before.
Akitada sat for a while, pondering this visible wealth and the power that went with it, and felt his anger fade to despair. Ostentation was meant to impress, but now he saw that it also intimidated. The best he could hope for in the coming encounter was that he might convince Kiyowara that it was better to sacrifice someone else to his ambition. There had probably been nothing personal in Kiyowara’s actions. The irrational notion that somehow Soga’s vengeful spirit had taken possession of Kiyowara’s body in order to continue his persecution was ridiculous. He bent his thoughts to making a convincing argument for reinstatement.
The sudden appearance of another visitor interrupted this. He was an older man, as formally dressed as Akitada, but with rank ribbons that caused Akitada to kneel and bow deeply. The other man gave him only a casual glance, nodded, and sat down. After a moment, Akitada did the same. He knew Prince Atsunori, Minister of Central Affairs, from the official meetings he occasionally attended. A son of the late Emperor Reizei, the prince was said to be reserved, efficient, and trusted by the young emperor. He also appeared to be haughty, for he refused to speak or look at Akitada beyond the first glance.
How important was Kiyowara if he could make a man like the prince wait? It was not a long wait, however, for the door opened again and a harried-looking Fuhito dashed in, bowed very deeply, and muttered, ‘Sincerest apologies, Your Highness. The stupid servant made a mistake. My master asks that you join him.’
The prince rose, lips compressed with irritation. Both left without speaking to Akitada.
Time began to hang heavy, especially when Akitada’s thoughts turned again to Tamako’s condition and their precarious finances. After a while, he rose and stepped out on to the veranda to distract himself with a look at Kiyowara’s grounds.
He saw now that the water was an artificial lake, fed by a small stream that seemed to meander around the various buildings that made up Kiyowara’s villa. It was the sort of stream where nobles would gather during poetry month to compose verses and drink cups of wine sent floating downstream by servants.
The sound of a woman’s laughter made him look towards the pagoda. A moment later, the figure of a gentleman appeared on the narrow path that skirted the stream. He was about Akitada’s age and handsome in the smooth-faced way that was much admired at court. As he strolled closer, he glanced back over his shoulder and smiled. He touched his narrow mustache, perhaps to make sure that the encounter with the woman had not left tell-tale traces.
Akitada turned away, embarrassed, but the gentleman suddenly exclaimed, ‘The crickets cry: I sense the coming cold.’
Akitada swung back, but the stranger was not looking at him – was, in fact, unaware of him. He stood, his arms spread a little and his head cocked as if he were listening. Then he nodded. ‘Yes. Not bad.’ He walked closer to the small stream and paused to stare into the water. After a moment, he raised his hands once more and declaimed, ‘Everywhere the wind moves through dead grasses, and I shiver in the darkening night.’
It seemed a madman’s comment on this hot and humid summer’s day, and Akitada watched him nervously. Just then the man looked up from the stream and saw him. Far from being embarrassed, he called across, ‘Hello, there. I’m Ono. Well, what do you think? Will it do? What about “darkening night”? Is that too repetitious? I was thinking of loneliness and thoughts of death.’
Not a madman then, but a poet. Perhaps there was little difference. Akitada suppressed a smile. He had never been consulted about poems before, because his lack of talent and interest in that direction was too well known among his friends. After a moment’s hesitation, he said, ‘I like it, but how do you find the inspiration in this weather?’
Ono looked astonished. ‘What does the weather matter?’ he asked and walked away.
Akitada returned to his cushion. So this was Ono Takamura, the famous poet who was said to be working on a collection of poetry to be presented to the emperor this year. What had he been doing in Kiyowara’s women’s quarters? But it was none of his business.
Surely the prince’s visit could not have lasted this long. The sun was already high in the sky, he was hungry and thirsty, and he had been kept waiting for almost two hours. That was insulting. Even high-ranking nobles could
