Ice Houses of Ancient Japan

Himuro (氷室) in Tenri city, Nara. Photo by うぃき野郎, CC BY-SA 4.0, via Wikimedia Commons

One of the more surprising features of the narrative this time around might be the mention of an ice house, or himuro (氷室). A “muro” is a type of pit dwelling, and “hi” means ice. Now storing ice in covered pits goes back to at least 3~4,000 years ago, with perhaps the oldest reference being to one in Mesopotamia. But it is still rather incredible. By digging down into the earth, you end up using the natural cooling effects of the earth itself to help insulate the ice, and while they couldn’t necessarily make ice during hot months, they could certainly store ice from the winter months. There is even a shrine in Nara called “Himuro Shrine” that claims to go back to at least the 8th century as being dedicated to a kami of ice houses. Apparently they were on the hook to supply the court and the royal family.

Of course, ice would still have been something precious, at least in the summer months, so it was likely only ever accessible by the aristocracy, but it was something that they had, which is pretty neat. Consider, also, that as you sip on your ice water on a hot summer’s day, you are the envy of so many of our ancient ancestors around the world.

Daisen Kofun

The supposed resting place of Ōsazaki is Daisen Kofun, and you can see a photo of it, above. The truth, however, is that we don’t know who rests in the main chamber. Recently, the Imperial Household has given permission to do rare excavations of portions of the tomb, but mostly it remains off-limits as it is considered a sacred resting place.

That said, there have been people inside the main burial chamber. In the Edo period there were people who went in and catalogued what was there, and another exploration took place in 1876. Some of the items from the tomb are on display in local museums, including the haniwa, and we have an old drawing of the interior. However, none of that definitively identified the occupant.

Drawing of the inside of the main tomb chamber.

Drawing of the sarcophagus inside the tomb.

Welcome to Sengoku Daimyo’s Chronicles of Japan. My name is Joshua, and this is Episode 51: Flood Control and Refrigeration.
So before we got interrupted in our narrative by last episode’s diversion into new DNA evidence about Japanese populations, we were about to get into the reign of Ohosazaki no Mikoto, also known as Nintoku Tennou.
As you may recall from Episode 49, when Oho Sazaki no Mikoto’s father, the previous sovereign, Homuda Wake, aka Oujin Tennou, passed away, he left three possible heirs. The eldest brother, known most popularly as Oho Yamamori, though he also seems to be conflated with a prince Nukada—who may or may not be the same person--had been given command of the mountains and forests. Oho Sazaki no Mikoto, the middle brother, had been put in charge of the administration, assisting the Crown Prince, the youngest of the three brothers, known as Uji no Waki no Iratsuko. What should have been a straightforward succession, though, turned into a bit of a muddled mess. Waki Iratsuko didn’t want the job and thought that Oho Sazaki no Mikoto should take it. Oho Sazaki no Mikoto may or may not have wanted the job, but didn’t want to go against his father’s wishes, and so he refused it. Oho Yamamori actually *did* want the job, but nobody else thought he should have it. Oho Yamamori tried to take it from Waki Iratsuko, who turned the tables on him and sent him to sleep with the fishes, quite literally. Then Waki Iratsuko and Oho Sazaki both refused to take up the role of sovereign, which went on for several years, or so we are told. Finally, Waki Iratsuko committed suicide in order to force his brother’s hand, even going so far as to come back from the grave to briefly give his brother his blessing.
And if you don’t believe a word of that whole mess, don’t worry, you are in good company. In all likelihood this story has been twisted, taken apart, and put back together several times over as we are still in a confusing period. Some archaeological evidence points to there being co-rulers, but the narrative says only one, and the lengths of these reigns—those of Homuda Wake and Oho Sazaki no Mikoto—have been generously expanded in order to link Homuda Wake’s mother, Okinaga Tarashi Hime, aka Jinguu Tenno, with the reign of Queen Himiko.
There are little hints here and there, though, as to different underlying truths, particularly in the way that some stories are told in the reigns of different sovereigns, depending on the source. For instance the story of the Karano is given in the Nihon Shoki during the reign of Homuda Wake—that incredibly fast ship that eventually become rotted out and roasted for salt. Well, in the Kojiki the Karano was built during the reign of Oho Sazaki, and the burning for salt happens on his watch. Of course, it is possible that memories simply fade and the exact details of any given activity can’t truly be traced, but there is also the possibility that if Ohosazaki – Nintoku-tenno – and his father Homuda Wake – Ojin Tenno - were in reality acting as co-rulers of some kind, then the Chroniclers were struggling with which events should go under which sovereign.
Despite all of that confusion, however, we can still draw some conclusions. First off, it is very clear that succession at this point was not a settled tradition. It wasn’t necessarily the oldest son who inherited, and so one can only imagine how easily disputes must have arisen upon the death of a sovereign as various factions formed behind one candidate or the other. I’ve seen it suggested that perhaps this was de rigeur for the times, and that the death of a sovereign would have often led to periods of fighting and even civil war as people asserted themselves in the power vacuum.
Eventually, however, Oho Sazaki no Mikoto was the only one left, or at least according to the stories, and so he reluctantly took on the title of Oho Kimi, the Great Lord, or Sovereign.
We’ve talked about 3 brothers, but Oho Sazaki was actually the 4th child of Homuda Wake by a woman known only as “Naka tsu Hime”, or “The Middle Lady”. However, we are told that she was the granddaughter of Ihoki Iribiko, who himself was the son of Oho Tarashi Hiko, aka Keiko Tenno, reinforcing the concept that it was just as important for the maternal line to be of royal blood as it was for the paternal.
Speaking of which, there was one more prince of royal blood that gets mentioned, but isn’t part of all of this ruckus. In the Chronicles he bears the moniker of Futamata no Miko, and at this point in the story we don’t get much other than a strange bit of genealogy, but we’ll get back to him in a future episode. For now, just realize that he is also prioritized in the story, despite a plethora of other sons and daughters listed in those long rolls of begats that all of these sources loved so much.
But for now let’s get back to our main character, the new sovereign. I have to say, some of the information we have on Oho Sazaki no Mikoto feels like pure propaganda. For instance, when he finally took the throne the land was in pretty bad shape, and no wonder, when you think about it. After all, how long had things been going on without a central authority? If there is any truth to the stories, after all, Oho Sazaki and his brother Waki Iratsuko had been playing keep-away with the kingship for a long time. It is likely that quite a few things had been neglected in that time—though presumably they at least had buried dear old dad before they descended into their squabbling over just who wouldn’t sit on the throne in his absence. But now it seems that things weren’t looking too good.
One of Oho Sazaki’s first orders of business was to build the new palace building. As we’ve seen during this time, it was common to build a new palace as the seat of the court when a new sovereign came to the throne. This would continue for the next several centuries. This may have had to do with the belief that the previous court buildings were polluted with the death of the previous sovereign, which is the most common explanation we have. Truth be told, though, there are a lot of questions, including the actual location of the various court buildings. This practice could also have just been practical—in the same way that the shrine at Ise was, and continues to be, rebuilt every 20 years, it may be that by the end of a given reign the palace would have that much more age, with possible structural issues that just couldn’t be easily repaired, and building it anew, in a different location, may have been a way to keep things relatively fresh. No doubt much of the materials would be recycled if they could be.
Still, for whatever reason, we are told that Oho Sazaki no Mikoto established a new palace in the Naniwa area, but that he did so quickly—more quickly than was typical. The Nihon Shoki tells us that his palace was built “without plaster or paint” and that the thatching was “uneven”. The plaster and paint may reference later architectural features—I don’t know if that was being done at the time—but I think we get the general impression that things were a bit slapdash, and they didn’t take the time to ornament the palace as usual. This was in order to spare the workers for the fields. After all, the communal nature of the harvest meant that it was more or less all hands on deck at certain parts of the season, and pulling people away for other projects, even projects for the court of Oho Kimi, risked them not being available for their agricultural duties. It sounds like things were already pretty bad.
In fact, there is another part of the record that claims Oho Sazaki climbed up to a high place—possibly a mountain—and viewed the country. We’ve talked about this in past episodes, where sovereigns real and mythical would climb to high point and perform kunimi, or a viewing of the countryside. This seems to have been an important aspect of rulership, and Phillipi notes that it may have practical roots in looking out from a high place to help determine which fields needed to be planted or harvested and helping to generally direct the activities of the surrounding area. Of course, later this activity would become more of a diversion, as the role of the sovereign changed. Mizoguchi notes how the elites gradually changed from the time of the Yayoi, when they were actually valued for their skills in performing work for the community, whether administrative or spiritual, to an attitude in the Kofun period where the elites came to see themselves as generally deserving of their position based on the nature of their birth rather than any specific work they were doing. This was part of a general slide away from the more egalitarian society of independent groups to a more centralized model with more despotic tendencies, a process that the archipelago was still in the midst of, in many ways.
Anyway, as Oho Kimi was performing this ritual-slash-royal field trip to the mountains, he was crestfallen to note a distinct lack of smoke rising up from the valley. This was extremely puzzling, as it meant that there was a dearth of activity.
Now this may not be something we all immediately see. After all, smoke and smog are so often things we hope not to see in the world, especially given what we now know about the state of the climate. But back in the Kofun era, smoke would have been a key indicator of human activity. From casting terracotta figures to smelting metals, to simply cooking food, one would normally expect to see a good deal of smoke. But if the hearth fires weren’t operating, that meant that there were problems.
Sure enough, we are told that there was a severe drought that affected the crops. Without food to cook, why build a fire? And while we know that in the Jomon period people had been able to live off the land, the Yayoi and Kofun populations had already grown well beyond what hunting, gathering, and basic horticulture could sustain. They needed their agricultural harvests if they were to feed their people.
And this was likely one reason for the less than glorious construction of the palace, but it went even further. We are told that Oho Sazaki excused forced labor for three years, and he let the palace and other administrative buildings fall into disrepair. This wasn’t just for Kawachi and neighboring Yamato provinces, but for all of those who submitted to Yamato hegemony. He is even said to have rationed his own food and that of the court. Though not everyone agreed with his actions, he felt that it was the role of the sovereign to provide succor to the people in times of need so that they could deal with the situation and get back on their feet.
And sure enough, it seems to have worked. Three years later, Oho Sazaki went back to look out over the land and the smoke was rising up once more, indicating that the people had something to cook. Realizing that his people were flourishing once again, he returned to the palace, satisfied that he and his people were prosperous once more.
Of course, not everyone felt quite the same way, and one of the more vocal opponents to Oho Sazaki’s position was actually his own queen: Iwa no Hime.
Now Iwa no Hime is someone we’ve mentioned previously, as her father was none other than the famous Kadzuraki no Sotsuhiko. In fact, it is her place as the official queen that make people wonder if there wasn’t more to Sotsu Hiko himself than we are really led to believe.
Iwa no Hime could hardly believe her husband. Here he was, rejoicing at how prosperous they were all because he saw some smoke. Perhaps he might have been a little too close to the wrong kind of smoke, though, if you know what I mean. After all, their palace was so dilapidated that it could not even be repaired—they were going to have to completely rebuild it. The roof leaked, they were still rationing their food, and their belongings had become worn out and threadbare. She was the Queen, dammit; she was supposed to be living in luxury and having people wait on her. They were supposed to be the upper crust—the elite. Instead they were barely any better off than the farmers who grubbed around in the dirt! How could Oho Sazaki claim that they were at all prosperous?
But to all of these accusations, Oho Sazaki merely replied that as the sovereign, if the people are prosperous, then the ruler can’t help but be prosperous as well. And even though the provincial administrators were starting to petition the court to once again allow them to start collecting taxes in goods and labor so that they could repair their administrative buildings, still, Oho Sazaki held off for just a little bit longer to give the people time to fully recover. Eventually, though, with life back on track, he did reinstate policies of forced labor and taxation, roughly six years after he first noticed the problem.
I may not need to mention this, but this whole thing seems quite dubious an account, and it is filled with language that is very continental in its outlook and thinking. Clearly later Chroniclers were placing into Oho Sazaki’s mouth a very Sinified explanation for his actions, describing him in terms that well-read scholars would recognize as aspects of the coveted sage-kings of old, following the Way of Heaven. It is possible that this was just the 7th and 8th century language for describing the way that Oho Sazaki no Mikoto was adored as a wise ruler. It is also entirely possible that he was dealing with things like drought and famine, but perhaps not for six years—that may be an exaggeration to just fill in some of the dates.
Whatever the facts may have been, the Truth that the Chroniclers wanted to convey was just how much he earned his posthumous name of “Nintoku”. The first character, “Nin” actually means duty or responsibility—literally carrying a burden. The second character, Toku, is the same one seen in the name “Tokugawa”, as in the Edo period shoguns, and it means “virtue” or even “benevolent”. Duty and Virtue—that is the name that later generations would ascribe to this sovereign based on the stories that were told about him.
Stories of his virtue weren’t limited to the austerity measures he imposed on himself in times of need for his people though. The Chronicles also talk about his projects and great works. For instance, the water-slash-irrigation works he had performed, such as building a channel in the plains north of the palace. Now, granted, this seems to be fairly common stuff for a ruler and a modern day comparison might be, I don’t know, something along the lines of a large infrastructure project. Where we might invest in roads, electricity, and broadband, back then it was more often than not an investment in water. Either ponds, to hold water, or channels to help get water from point A to point B, thus opening up more land for cultivation. Since land—and the rice it produced—was wealth, this was directly contributing to the bottom line of his people.Of course, it doesn’t hurt that continental sage kings were also praised for the ways in which they tamed the waters. In their case it was usually the Yellow River or the Yangtze, whose banks would regularly overflow and flood the surrounding areas if not kept in check, but nonetheless I think we can safely assume that the focus on water projects was anything but accidental.
Now this period likely had plenty of water works to focus on. You may remember how I mentioned that Kawachi province was once the home to a large bay that stretched from the mountains to a small strip along the inland sea shore between the areas of the modern Yamato and Yodo Rivers. This bay emptied out around the port of modern Ohosaka, where it joined the Seto Inland Sea. Over the centuries, however, it silted in, and the shallow, estuarine bay likely became more of a lake by Kofun times. This process continued as it likely became more of a swamp, and eventually a marsh and then dry land. No doubt as that happened, workers would, on the one hand, be needed to convert the new lands into rice fields, but there would also need to be works to help move the water, draining swampy areas and irrigating those that were too dry, while also preventing unexpected or excess flooding.
All that to say that controlling the water was more than just an ancient form of virtue-signaling: It was dealing with a real problem. And some times things required a little extra intervention.
For example, one of the problems that the Kawachi plain no doubt had as it silted up was that it was still extremely low-lying terrain. Since it silted up it was likely just at or even slightly below sea level. And so it no doubt wouldn’t take much flooding along the Yodo river to spill over and down into those low-lying areas. Given the numerous tributaries that feed into the Yodo River before it dumps out into the Seto Inland Sea, it is easy to understand how this may have been a quite thorny problem. And so a decision was made to build up an embankment along the river to help keep it from spilling over. This was called the Mamuta embankment, and tradition seems to indicate that it went from Neyagawashi, in the north, down to somewhere around the Asahi district of modern Ohosaka. A portion of this embankment is even thought to lie behind the main shrine building of Tsutsumine Jinja—“Tsutsumi” meaning “embankment” in Japanese.
Work on the embankment seemed to be going well except for two areas where they had continual problems, as no matter what they did the embankment kept rupturing. Workers and overseers on the project were at a loss for what to do and turned to Oho Sazaki no Oho Kimi to figure something out.
And here is where Oho Sazaki used decidedly traditional methods to solve the problem. After giving the matter some thought, he apparently slept on it. And the next morning he awoke refreshed, but also with a potential answer to this thorny problem, as apparently he had been visited at night by the spirit of the river. Of course, the River Kami didn’t bring a new form of hydrological engineering, nor did it promise to hold back the flood waters itself. No, rather the kami demanded a sacrifice. And not just any sacrifice, mind you—you couldn’t just ride over to the nearest village, find a couple of unlucky stiffs and throw them into the river. No, these two were specific, named individuals. The first was Musashi no Kowakubi—aka Mr. Strong Neck of Musashi province. The other was a local man, Kawachi no Mamuta no Muraji no Koromo no Ko—aka Mr. Garment Child of the noble Mamuta clan of Kawachi.
I know we’ve talked about this rather morbid practice before, known as hito-bashira. It was the idea that, in extreme cases, a human being might be sacrificed in order to help prop up or protect a building or location. Of course, it should be noted that many of those locations eventually were identified as being haunted by the very spirits of the people who had been sacrificed in the first place, so I’m not sure that one could say this was in any way a sound architectural practice. Furthermore it is unclear just how often this practice was actually carried out vice simply stories that it happened. Still, that appears to be a part of the tradition that we see here.
Now Musashi no Kowakubi was a devout and loyal individual, from all we can gather, and he appears to have accepted his fate with some amount of acquiescence, grace, and dignity. They say that even though he wept, he jumped into the waters himself and drowned. That was in the area of the Asahi district of modern Ohosaka, or so tradition states, and there is a rock and a sign back in one of the neighborhoods there commemorating the incident at what is called Kowakubi no Taema—Kowakubi’s Gap.
Meanwhile, it seems that Koromo no Ko was a bit more hesitant. He apparently was not convinced by the sovereign’s dream and demanded proof of the River Kami’s divine nature. He made the claim that whatever kami had whispered in the ear of the sovereign as he was dreaming it was not actually the kami of the river. And so when we was called to sacrifice himself he showed up with a couple of calabash gourds.
Now no doubt the officials who were there to oversee the ritual were a bit confused, but Koromo no Ko quickly explained his logic. The gourds were not meant, as one might initially assume, as some kind of ancient floatation device to help him stay afloat when he went in. Rather the two gourds would be his test to ensure that it really was the river kami who demanded his sacrifice. He said to those that were gathered there: “If this river-god is a true god, then it will sink these calabashes, and I will enter of my own accord. But if they do not sink, then this kami is not a true god and why would I waste my life in vain?”
And so saying he threw the two guards into the river. Immediately a whirlwind formed, and it seemed that some force was trying to pull or perhaps push the gourds under, but it was no use—they eventually floated away on the wide waters. Given the evidence before them, the officials agreed to let Koromo no Ko go free and then they eventually did finish the embankment without need for further sacrifice.
The area where Koromo no Ko was going to be sacrificed be came known as Koromo no ko no Taema and is traditionally held to be around the site of modern Taema bridge in Neyagawa.
Of course, beyond just the implications for how the water works fit in with Oho Sazaki’s status as a continental style sage-king, this story really has some fascinating details. First off, there appear to have been no recriminations against Oho Sazaki for getting it wrong. They don’t even touch on the fact that he almost sent a man to his death. Apparently that is just how things worked and sometimes you got a sign that didn’t work out as it should have. His reputation seems untarnished by this incident.
Second, it is notable that there seems to be no particular blame or questioning of Kowakubi’s sacrifice. If anything, I would suggest that his sacrifice was probably considered the cultural norm—or at least the cultural norm that the court wanted to emphasize. If your sovereign called you to do something dangerous and foolhardy that might require you to give up your own life, it was perfectly acceptable—even admirable—to be loyal to a fault. The tragedy of the possibility that such a sacrifice wasn’t actually needed doesn’t really play into the narrative as far as I can tell, which memorializes both men equally.
And that’s the other side of the coin. Despite the fact that Koromo no Ko appears to have proved Oho Sazaki wrong, his cleverness is rewarded, and he is able to continue living. He even gets a section of the embankment named after him, just as Kowakubi did.
Of course, I think I know who I’d rather be in this particular story, but I still wonder how people of the time saw it.
For these projects, Oho Sazaki conscripted local labor, but also foreigners—as in previous reigns we see Men of Silla, supposedly part of a diplomatic envoy, conscripted and put to work on the Mamuta embankment. Again I have to wonder about just how much of a “diplomatic” mission this really was or if these were more captives—people enslaved during raids on the peninsula.
Other works included canals, such as the one in Kurikuma in Yamashiro. But it wasn’t just water that was important. The Nihon Shoki mentions a variety of public works and infrastructure projects: bridges, roads, irrigation, etc. Oho Sazaki even established granaries at Mamuta for the first time—possibly taking advantage of land reclaimed by the embankment.
An interesting note is that the vast majority of all of this building activity takes place quite specifically in the Nihon Shoki—perhaps the most Sinified of the Chronicles. The Kojiki, built as it was around the performance of these tales at court, seems much more focused on the torrid love affairs, the likes of which would no doubt make for near perfect daytime TV serials. Meanwhile, the Kujiki runs through the story with an almost montage-like pacing, providing highlights of a few of the key stories, but still skipping over a lot of the public works projects that the Nihon Shoki enjoys so much.
Much of this preference in the Nihon Shoki only seems to further emphasize its authors’ preference towards a certain type of Continental narrative. While they all clearly praise Oho Sazaki’s virtues, and many pull from the Big Book of Confucian Cliches to demonstrate it, only the Nihon Shoki seems to translate so much of it into the kind of work that would be expected of a continental sovereign. Unfortunately, that also brings into question just what sources were they drawing on for this information, and how much of it was just propaganda stuck in there to fill up pages—and decades—with material is hard to say.
Likewise, the Nihon Shoki doesn’t just focus on the internal issues that Oho Sazaki was dealing with, but also with the external foreign relations as well. There were raids on Silla, and the so-called tribute—probably just the normal diplomatic gifts that were part of the international trade system—from a variety of places. They even claim that there was tribute from Goguryeo and from the Jin court itself.
Many of these stories are fanciful, and don’t really say much about Oho Sazaki no Mikoto. For example,at one point, in the Nihon Shoki’s account of this reign, we are given the story of Lord Chyu, grandson of the King of Baekje. We discussed this in the episode on Katsuraki no Sotsuhiko. Lord Chyu had been extremely disrespectful to Ki no Tsuno no Sukune, and was sent back to Japan with Sotsuhiko in chains. Of course, rather than going to the court he made his escape and sought refuge with Nishikoro no Obito no Koroshi, where he claimed that he had been pardoned and asked to be taken in for “maintenance”. Eventually the sovereign forgave him.
One day a strange bird was caught and offered up to Oho Sazaki no Ohokimi, but nobody seems to have known what it was. Lord Chyu, however, identified it as what he called a “kuchi”, which was swift and could easily be tamed. And so Oho Sazaki gave the bird—which may have been a goshawk, or taka—to Lord Chyu to train, and this seems to be the first account of falconry in the archipelago. Eventually they set him up at the village of Takaama. Now Aston translated this as “Hawk” and “Sweet”, but I can’t help but notice that our fishermen from previously were also called “Ama”. So is this then the village of “Hawk Fishermen”? Regardless of the precise etymology, Lord Chyu is held as the founder of the Takaama-be, the group presumably set up to supply falconers for the court, though for a long time it seems that the very best falcons themselves were imported from the continent.
Some of these stories we may put in a later episode, telling the exploits of various individuals and some of the wonders from the period, but for now let’s keep an eye to the works of Oho Sazaki no Ohokimi, the sovereign of Yamato.
Perhaps one of the more surprising things from this account is the mention of a type of storehouse, but not one for grain. Rather, it is in this account that we get the first mention of an early icehouse. It seems that one of the royal princes, Nukada no Oho Naka tsu Hiko, who was apparently conflated in other stories with the late royal brother, Oho Yamamori, was out hunting in the country of Tsuke when he looked down from top of a mountain or hill onto a nearby moor where he noticed a shape like a hut. He sent a messenger to go take a look at it and the messenger told him it was some kind of muro, which is to say a pit dwelling. Specifically it was an ice-muro. The people of that land had learned to dig a deep hole—over ten feet deep, compared to a normal muro which was typically only several feet deep—and over that giant hole they had placed a thatched roof, which from ground level made it look just like any other hut. In the winter time they would lay down thick layers of reed grass on dirt floor and then ice would be stacked upon the mat. Doing so, they found they could keep ice even through the heat of the summer months, and during the hottest months of the year they could take the ice and place it in water or sake to create cool drinks. News of this was taken straightaway to the court, and Oho Sazaki instituted his own ice muro and rules to always store ice from the last month of winter until the second month of spring, when the ice would melt away.
This is really incredible when you think of it—we so often equate ice in our drinks with technology like refrigeration and here they had ice for their drinks back in at least the 8th century. Pretty remarkable if you think about it.
And there is one last major work that we are told Oho Sazaki no Ohokimi instituted, and that was to choose the size of his own tomb. He is said to have sited it at Mozu, or Mozuno. The Nihon Shoki says that construction started in the 67th year of his reign, and that he died twenty years later.
Now it is quite probable that the dates are an exaggeration, but the idea that he was responsible for his own tomb, not so much. After all, as tombs grew larger and more elaborate, it must have taken more and more time to build them. Timber and labor that a future sovereign may not wish to lavish on his predecessor, regardless of his filial piety. It makes a lot more sense to build your own tomb, so you have it just as you like it.
And, if tradition is correct, he certainly got his money’s worth. Many believe Oho Sazaki, aka Nintoku Tennou, to be buried in Daisen Kofun, which is not only the largest kofun in Japan, but it is one of if not the largest manmade burial structures on the planet. Because of its shape, it may not seem as large in some contexts, but it is only three meters shorter than that great pyramid of Giza, and over twice as long. It stands with the Great Pyramids and the tomb of the Emperor Qin Shihuangdi as one of the three largest tombs in the world.
It must have been quite the site, and a bit of memento mori, being erected, as it was, during Oho Sazaki’s own lifetime. It isn’t exactly sitting directly outside of Naniwa palace itself, but it was still likely a well known landmark pretty early on in its construction.
However, very little is actually known about Daisen Kofun—we aren’t even sure if it is the tomb mentioned in the Nihon Shoki or not. It is possible that it belongs to one of the other sovereigns of the era. Unfortunately, as the supposed burial site of one of the ancestors of the Imperial Family of Japan, the site has been off-limits to any but the most cursory of surface examinations. Nonetheless, excavations do occasionally occur, often as part of some kind of repair, and recently teams have been given the green light to perform new excavations on the tomb, though don’t expect them to be opening up any treasure rooms. From what I can tell, the excavations seem focused on the structure of the tomb, which is still largely covered in the forest that has grown up on it over the centuries, and it will examine some previously discovered features, such as rock pavement and possible looking for more haniwa, or clay figures. I haven’t seen any indications that they are actually going to disturb the burial chamber, however—whoever lies interred in that monumental structure shall continue their slumber unhindered.
Still, this is really fascinating, and we’ll be waiting to see what is found. It is unlikely that anything will directly state “Oho Sazaki sleeps here,” but one can hope. More likely they’ll be looking to get greater insights into the construction of one of the most massive man-made structures of the pre-industrial era. Good luck to all of those working on the project!
With that, I think we will bring this episode to a close. I wanted to focus on Oho Sazaki and some of those things that helped garner him a reputation as a wise and virtuous ruler. There are still plenty more stories to tell from this period, though. For one thing, we hardly touched on the drama in the “hinter palace”, and it certainly seems that love and lust were high on the list of things people were interested in knowing about the ancient sovereigns. And no doubt the nobles’ own desire for a genealogical link to the royal family only helped fuel interest.
And then there are the fantastical and heroic stories and tales. Many of these are focused on other players, and the sovereign and the court is merely the backdrop. There are numerous stories of wars, fighting, magic, and revenge from beyond the grave. So we’ll get into that as well.
But that’s all for this episode, so until next time, thank you for all of your support. If you like what we are doing, tell your friends and feel free to rate us on iTunes, Spotify, or wherever you listen to podcasts. If you feel the need to do more, and want to help us keep this going, we have information about how you can donate through our KoFi site, kofi.com/sengokudaimyo, or find the link over at our main website, SengokuDaimyo.com/Podcast, where we will have some more discussion on topics from this episode.
Also, feel free to Tweet at us at @SengokuPodcast, or reach out to our Sengoku Daimyo Facebook page. You can also email us at the.sengoku.daimyo@gmail.com. We would love to hear from you and your ideas.
And that’s all for now. Thank you again, and I’ll see you next episode on Sengoku Daimyo’s Chronicles of Japan.

References

- (2020). Website: 仁徳天皇陵古墳百科. Last visited 14 October 2021. 文化観光局博物館学芸課. https://www.city.sakai.lg.jp/kanko/hakubutsukan/mozukofungun/kofun.html
Ō, Yasumaro, & Heldt, G. (2014). The Kojiki: An account of ancient matters. ISBN978-0-231-16389-7
Bentley, John. (2006). The Authenticity of Sendai Kuji Hongi: a New Examination of Texts, with a Translation and Commentary. ISBN-90-04-152253
Chamberlain, B. H. (1981). The Kojiki: Records of ancient matters. Rutland, Vt: C.E. Tuttle Co. ISBN4-8053-0794-3
Aston, W. G. (1972). Nihongi, chronicles of Japan from the earliest times to A.D. 697. London: Allen & Unwin. ISBN0-80480984-4
Philippi, D. L. (1968). Kojiki. Princeton, N.J.: Princeton University Press. ISBN4-13-087004-1

Ice Houses of Ancient Japan

Daisen Kofun

Rough Transcript

References