Episode 72: The Three Kingdoms Period

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This episode we take a look past the fall of the Han and into the rise of the Three Kingdoms of Cao Wei, Shu Han, and Eastern Wu, followed by reuinification under the Western Jin, followed by the Eastern Jin, when they moved their capital down to the old Eastern Wu capital on the Yangzi River.

In that time, we see the creation of the Nine Rank system for government ranks and offices, as well as a glorification of refusing government service—or even retiring and taking up the arts.

Despite the chaos of this period, there is still a lot happening and a lot of innovation that will make its way over to the archipelago, eventually.

• Rough Transcript

  Welcome to Sengoku Daimyo’s Chronicles of Japan. My name is Joshua, and this is episode 72: The Three Kingdoms Period

  Greetings, and welcome back. We are currently still in a pause on the archipelago while we catch up with what has been happening on the continent. Specifically, right now, we are focused on the various dynasties that arose around the Yellow and Yangzi rivers.

  Last episode we covered the rise of the Qin and then the Han, who ruled for four centuries from the Yellow River region—first in Chang’an, modern Xi’an, and later from Luoyang. These traditional capitals would be used again and again over the centuries.

  This episode we’ll cover turbulent era immediately following the fall of the Han, including the rise of the Three Kingdoms—Shu, Wei, and Wu—and eventual reunification and then dissolution under the Jin.

  This period sees a lot of changes happening, both in population movements and in cultural phenomena. Our focus is going to be on some of those things that would, in one form or another, eventually be transferred over to the archipelago. Things such as the system of government ranks as well as cultural phenomena, like the famed Seven Worthies of the Bamboo Grove.

  Our story starts towards the end of the Han dynasty—the Later Han, sometimes known as the Eastern Han, as the capital had moved to Luoyang, east of Chang’an. At this time, there was massive migration south to the jungles and forest of the Yangzi river region. While there had been ethnic Han emigres to the region in the past, it was nothing on the scale of the millions of people who would seek refuge there during the chaotic fall of the Han dynasty. What they did when they got there was partly dependent on just where they settled along the reaches of the Yangzi river.

  The majority headed to the lower reaches of the Yangzi,. This area must have been both similar to and radically different from the Yellow River Floodplain, where many had come from. The Yellow River floodplain was extremely flat, and the Yellow River was known to regularly overflow its banks, as it was constantly depositing sand and other detritus, which, in turn, raised the bed of the river itself. In fact, there are places today where the Yellow river towers some ten meters—about three stories—above the surrounding countryside due to the constant attempts to pen it in and prevent devastating flooding. When the Yellow River did flood, the flow of the river could shift drastically across the largely flat floodplain.

  In contrast, the Yangzi river was more easily tamed. While it still had problems with flooding, the mountainous and hilly terrain provide more natural containment for the river, and its headwaters in the rocky, mountain regions bring a lot less sediment downstream. How much? Well, one figure I found suggested that the Yangzi, which is Asia’s largest river, has a flow rate of over 30 thousand cubic meters of water every second, and discharges about 480 million tons of sediment every year. Compare that with the Yellow River, which has a flow of only about 2500 cubic meters of water every second, but over a billion tons of sediment. For those trying to do the math in their heads, the Yellow River has a flow rate about ten times less than that of the Yangzi and yet it discharges over twice the amount of sediment every year.

  So, you can imagine that it was generally a less chaotic area for farming, and indeed, many of the peasants who settled in the lower reaches of the Yangzi became farmers, often working for elite families who had set themselves up in the south. This was the location of the ancient state of Wu, which had had ethnic Han inhabitants since at least the eastern Zhou dynasty, so at least the 3rd century BCE, and whose old capital was around modern Suzhou, on the shores of lake Tai, in the precincts of modern Shanghai, at the mouth of the Yangzi river.

  Now we’ve heard of the state of Wu before on this podcast: you may or may not recall that Wu was the state known in Japan as Kure, though where, exactly, that name comes from seems to be a bit of a mystery. Back in Episode 48 we talked about weavers coming to Japan from “Kure” during the reign of Homuda Wake, and then in episode 60 we see envoys from “Kure” coming over in 470, during the reign of Ohohatsuse Wakatake, aka Yuuryaku, though at that time it would have almost certainly referred to the Liu Song dynasty which was still centered on the lower reaches of the Yangzi.Here’s where I should probably note that the name “Wu” itself is the modern reading of the character used, which in ancient Sinitic language was probably something more like “Nguo” or even “Ngwa”. Even today, this area has its own Sinitic language, called “Wu Language” that is occasionally spoken there, though mostly as a “kitchen language” spoken at home, rather than an official language or dialect…and that leads us to some interesting additional connections between this area and the history of the Japanese language.

  We know the Japanese archipelago felt the reach of the continent since at least the Qin and Han dynasties - we have the famous seal of King Na of Wa, as well as the Han dynasty mirrors that came over and which the Japanese were keen to replicate – but how much else they took on of the cultural aspects is somewhat hard to say at this point. But looking at the language, one thing we can observe is how the various Japanese on'yomi readings of Sinitic kanji characters connect to pronunciations of different times and places on the continent, suggesting that different periods and locations of contact are reflected in the Japanese language itself.

  Many kanji have multiple on’yomi readings in different categories – one is the Kan-on, or “Han” reading, while another is the Go-on, or “Wu” reading, “Go” being a reading for the character Wu, likely pulled from the old pronunciation, “Nguo”. (And so for instance the same character read as “Mei” could also be read “Myou” or “Ka” could be read as “Ge”, or even “Jitsu” as “Nichi”.) The Go-on is typically assumed to be the older reading, which likely came over in the 6th century or earlier, while the so-called “Han” reading probably reflected more the Tang dynasty and later. This doesn’t necessarily mean that those Go-on readings came from Wu itself or the ancient Wu language, but more likely that they were simply older or regional readings that differed from the northern dialects in vogue in later centuries. And even though Mandarin and Cantonese didn’t evolve into their current forms until later, there were distinct regional differences in language between the northern and southern areas as early as the 6th century, as Yan Zhitui noted in his writings. The south had a reputation as more culturally refined, though alternatively that could be seen as lazy and archaic, whereas the north had perhaps a coarser dialect, and was also seen as more hard-working and industrious, though one should note that Zhitui was a native of the north and therefore likely prejudiced in his views.

  Language differences aside, over time, of course, the people of the original state of Wu were largely absorbed or replaced by the Han people migrating south, especially with the uptick at the end of the Han dynasty. And as I mentioned before, many who settled in this region became farmers, working for elite families, many of whom had set up around Lake Tai, near the old capital. Eventually another city would come to take precedence, however, and that was the city of Jianye, known today as Nanjing, the Southern Capital, and we will see why in a little bit.

  Before that, though, let’s talk about the rest of the Yangzi. While farmers were moving into the relatively flat and fertile areas in the southern reaches, those in the more mountainous regions often had a different experience. While there were certainly farms producing food, many of the communities in the middle reaches had more of a military focus, setting up various fortified communities, often taking advantage of the mountainous terrain. In the mountains, communities had to be relatively self-sufficient.

  Further upriver is the Min River basin, a relatively flat area, highly suitable for agriculture, but surrounded by mountains. This is the home of the modern city of Chengdu, in modern Sichuan. The relatively flat, fertile land meant that various states could arise here, and many different ones had indeed risen and fallen by this time. There had been a growing Han presence since at least the Qin dynasty, but interactions with others were awkward, requiring the traversal of difficult and mountainous terrain to get out of the river basin. The same things that would allow states to form in this region, often protected by the mountains from outside forces, would also be the things that kept them isolated at the same time, preventing them from expanding and conquering much beyond their own region.

  So these – the southern reaches, the central mountains, and the Min River or modern-day Sichuan basin – were the three areas of the Yangzi that people were moving to in the Han dynasty. And that migration only increased as the turbulence towards the end of the Han dynasty increased.

  After the Yellow Turban rebellion, things in the capital region remained uneasy. A regent attempted to bring in a frontier general, Dong Zhuo, to help check the power of the eunuchs, who had a stranglehold on the court, but before the general could arrive, the regent was assassinated. In retaliation, two officers of the newly created capital army seized Luoyang and massacred the eunuchs. This left a power vacuum, and when Dong Zhuo arrived, he captured the emperor, and took power as a military dictator.

  By this point, military rule was the order of the day, and even though there was still an emperor, the Han dynasty was as much a going concern as a Norwegian blue parrot. Dong Zhuo eventually spirited the boy emperor, Xian, to his home base in Chang’an, while his soldiers burned Luoyang to the ground. This triggered a whole slough of generals to set themselves up as warlords, and for some 30 years, the territories from the Yangzi river north found themselves in various conflicts.

  The north seems to have seen the lion’s share of the fighting, as one of the generals who had opposed Dong Zhuo went on to put down his rivals and unify much of the Yellow River Basin and points north, including the Han commanderies on the Korean peninsula. His name was Cao Cao, and he unified the north under his rule by 207, and then turned his attention to the south.

  At first, things seemed to be going well for Cao Cao. His initial push into the south met with little resistance, and he even gained more men. However, Cao Cao’s sizeable army required food, and it seems his supply lines were drawn out a considerable length, as there are reports of famine, and disease—possibly a result of the subtropical forests that were still considered untamed wilderness, not to mention the many areas of marshy wetlands that had yet to be drained and cultivated. For an army made up of largely northern soldiers, one can imagine how they fared in this humid and unfamiliar terrain.

  Additionally, fighting in the south was not the same as in the north. Battles in the south had to make use of the Yangzi’s extensive river system, meaning that you were looking at a lot of effectively naval warfare. There are many incredible exploits that could be discussed here. About Cao Cao’s inadvisable attempts to chain his boats together to provide a more stable platform for northerners who were not used to sleeping on the water like this, to a feigned defector, who instead of coming to Cao Cao’s side sent a barrage of fire ships—that is ships that were deliberately set on fire and placed on a collision course with Cao Cao’s fleet.

  Eventually, the fate of Cao Cao’s incursion was sealed in the famous Battle of Red Cliffs—an event that has spawned poetry, literature, and not a few movies. There Cao Cao was opposed by rival southern warlords, and he suffered a decisive defeat. It stopped his advance, and provided space for the southern regions to develop.

  And so there developed an uneasy peace. The north was unified under Cao Cao and his successors, under what would become the Wei kingdom, while the south was split into two regions; Shu, in the west, under the command of Liu Bei, and Wu, in the east, under the command of Sun Quan. Eventually Cao Cao’s son, Cao Bi, would set himself up as the emperor of Wei, finally doing away with the charade of the Han dynasty, and Liu Bei and Sun Quan would follow suit.

  This is the period known as the Three Kingdoms in Chinese history. It was a relatively brief period, all things considered—only about 60 years—but it was memorialized in various ways. First off is the Record of the Three Kingdoms, by Chen Shou, which is where we find the Wei Chronicles, which provides our first glimpse into the Japanese archipelago in the stories about the intriguing Queen Himiko. This was also part of the basis for the more fantastical 14th century novel, the “Romance of the Three Kingdoms”, one of the most popular literary works in East Asia, inspiring numerous plays, spin-offs, and even movie and television series. Of course, that is a work of historical fiction, building off of the history, but also incorporating the fantastic and romantic stories that had sprung up around the various characters in those stories.

  The Three Kingdoms—perhaps “Three Countries” is more appropriate—were the three we’ve just discussed: Wei, Wu, and Shu, also known as Cao Wei, Shu Han, and the Eastern Wu to distinguish them from the many other states that had those same names throughout history. Of these, Liu Bei’s Kingdom of Shu is perhaps the least interest to us, centered as it was on the area of modern Chengdu and the Min River basin. As noted above, the mountains provided him refuge, but also limited the Shu kingdom’s ability to truly menace Wu or Wei.

  In contrast, Sun Quan’s Wu held control of the lower reaches of the Yangzi, up into a portion of the middle reaches. Wu’s capital was set up at Jianye, modern Nanjing, as we mentioned earlier. Built along a bend in the Yangzi river, it was naturally fortified with the river and mountains around it. In fact, despite being the capital of one of three warring states, the city was built without walls, relying on those natural fortifications. One consequence of this was that the southern capital was more connected with nature, rather than walled off from it - just one example of the different conditions in the south that would drive cultural innovations often separately from those in the north, cultural innovations that would over the next several centuries make their way as seeds to the archipelago: garden layouts, poetry, and more.

  One such innovation was evolving to the north, in the country known as Wei. As its founder, Cao Cao, pulled together his administration and conquered the surrounding regions, he was determined to correct some of the problems that he saw in the previous Han administration. For one thing, the influence of the Eunuchs at court was broken, but Cao Cao was not about to hand over power to the Great Families and Han dynasty loyalists who might try to restore the Emperor and Imperial power.

  Cao Cao, perhaps given his military experience, wasn’t so interested in all of the Confucian ideals. Filial piety, uprightness, and incorruptibility were not things that really concerned him. He wanted talented men wherever he could find them. Even if that meant, *gasp* promoting commoners.

  One aspect of this system was to set up a series of ranks—nine ranks in particular, although these ranks, themselves, would be divided into junior and senior, and some eventually would be further divided with “upper” and “lower” divisions. Individuals in government service were given a rank and that came with a government stipend, paid in “stones”, or “koku”, in Japanese. As we discussed last episode, this was a carry-over from the Han dynasty system. There, government positions were paid stipends, but this seems to have been decided on a case-by-case basis.

  Under the Nine Rank system that developed under the Cao Wei state, government jobs were also ranked, and generally speaking a person of a given rank was expected to perform a particular job, though there were situations where the rank of the individual and the rank of the position might not exactly line up. This helped to standardize positions and awards. This same system—with modifications—was eventually adopted by other states attempting to emulate the Sinic style of government, including those on the archipelago and on the peninsula. It even went so far as to dictate the amount of space one would get for an estate in the capital district, something we’ll see in the Nara period in Japan.

  Now, in theory this seems ideal. It appears to be a meritocracy, and that was certainly the stated goal. You find talented people, put them in positions, and you get good government. You don’t worry about where they are from, you just worry about getting the best and you put them in charge.

  Since the sovereign couldn’t oversee every application, and he wanted to draw from across the realm, how to do this effectively. In the Han dynasty, men were recommended to government service by local administrators, but by the time of Cao Wei, war and turmoil had displaced many of the locals, so the local system of recommendation didn’t exactly make sense. And so they instituted a system of “impartial judges”, who were assigned specifically to go to the home commanderies to recruit officials and assign them rank. And this was great in theory, but the question remained: how do you know who is the most talented?

  This is where Confucian thought began to again enter into the picture. Scholars and philosophers debated about what made an extraordinary person, and what they came up with, well…here’s where we see Cao Cao’s pure meritocracy idea start to backslide a little bit.

  Mark Edward Lewis uses Liu Shao as an example. Writing in the mid-3rd century, he made the argument that talents were hidden, and could only be perceived by extraordinary judges of character. They would see external signs—in the face and the voice, for instance. On top of that, Liu Shao claimed that talents were inborn—nature, not nurture—and therefore it was largely a matter of heredity. Finally, these characteristics would manifest in moments of change.

  This all sounds rather suspicious to me. In practice, it meant that your family connections played a huge part in getting a job, as did your ability to show things that were considered cultured and refined—Cao Pi would add literary achievements, meaning that poetry was a standard for office holding. Cao Zhi, another of Cao Cao’s sons, attempted to impress a visiting scholar with such things as dancing, juggling, fencing, as well as talking up various topics.

  This effectively meant that, however much Cao Cao may have wanted to draw from all strata of society, the path to holding office was effectively barred to anyone without the privilege of being born into a noble, or at least wealthy, household, where they could be educated in these things as well as be afforded the luxury of leisure time to study and perfect these arts.

  All of this was further modified by the Sima family, who would eventually become more powerful than the Cao family themselves, and wrest power away by 266 to set up the Jin dynasty – which expanded and conquered Eastern Wu by 280, briefly reunifying the Yangzi and Yellow River basins.

  The Sima allowed modifications to the Nine Rank system, many of which provided greater control to the Great Families. Local governors were removed from the judgment and selection process, which left the highest ranking local nobles—typically members of local and powerful families—with the greatest say in who was judged worthy of a government post. In addition, the sons of high ranking nobility were granted automatic entry into the rank system. This was based on their father’s rank—members of the imperial family, whether they were directly in the line of succession or not, entered into service around ranks three and four—rank one being the highest in the system—while nobility could guarantee placement for their own children, but only if they were rank five or higher.

  Similar practices were found in the Japanese version of the system, which is often accused of having bastardized the meritocracy that they had imported from the continent to fit the needs of their own elite families on the archipelago. And while certainly family often took precedence in Japan I’d like to note that the idea of hereditary succession in the nine rank system is hardly something new. In fact, I’d argue that the idea of the nine rank system as a meritocracy was more of an ideal than a realized system of government.

  With the unification of north and south under the Jin, the Nine Rank system spread. And when the Jin dynasty itself fell to internal politics and infighting, and they were forced to flee Chang’an and reestablish their court at the old Wu capital of Jianye on the Yangzi, they continued to use this rank system, at least nominally speaking.

  During the Jin dynasty, those without hereditary access would likely top out at ranks four or five, while those who had a lofty pedigree might *start* their careers at ranks four and five. We see a similar thing with the rank system in Japan, where there were eventually so many people being born into the upper ranks there was no headroom for people in the lower ranks to advance, which meant that it was eventually hard for one’s children to even succeed, let along surpass, their parents.

  Furthermore, just because people were of the right rank due to their birth did not mean that they were actually suited to do, well, anything. And so we see another thing happening in the Jin, where some offices come to be known as substantive offices—in other words, you had actual power and responsibilities that would have a real affect on the state—while others were merely sinecures. In addition, you had another quality attached to positions, and that was whether they were considered “sullied” or “pure”.

  This term was a marker of whether a given post was considered socially acceptable for someone of good breeding. A sullied post was considered acceptable for someone of a lower social status, while only a pure post would do for a member of the hereditary elite. And it wasn’t that all pure posts were simply sinecures and vice versa. There were certainly posts that were considered pure and substantive while others were pure and insignificant. Others, like a censor, was considered sullied by the nature of the work they had to do, but was also highly substantive and meant that the individual could wield some actual power.

  This system, which does not appear to have been a part that was imported into the archipelago, seems to have placed a check on the formation of a full on aristocracy. As new men came in, they could gain posts and make a name for themselves through government service, rising through the ranks such that their children would also be granted a high position. But for members of the hereditary elite—those families who had already built their reputation and who often had their own sources of income, they were often praised for refusing to serve in the government, instead devoting their time to more cultural and artistic endeavors.

  This is, in part, the paradox that many people see in the dual nature of a society that practiced both Confucianism and Daoism, often side by side, and without apparent contradiction. Confucian thought praised the family and government service, but in Daoism you see a kind of Hermitism that was much more highly praised. Laozi, himself, is said to have written his famous Dao De Jing just before heading off into the western frontier at the venerable age of 80, and in the works attributed to Zhuangzi in the late 4th century BCE you get stories such as that of the turtle in the mud.

  In that story, Zhuangzi is fishing by the Pu river when two ministers come with a message from the Prince of Chu, asking Zhuangzi to join his court and work for him. Zhuangzi retorted that he had heard that in Chu there was a sacred tortoise which was said to have died 3,000 years ago, but which the Prince of Chu kept in a box in his family temple, covered with a cloth. He asked the ministers whether they thought that tortoise would have preferred its fate—to die and have its shell venerated—or would it preferred to have lived out its life, dragging its tail through the mud.

  “Of Course,” the ministers replied, “it would have preferred to live, dragging its tail through the mud.”

  And so Zhuangzi dismissed them and the prince’s request, telling them to go, and that he would keep dragging his own tail in the mud.

  Here we see the kind of glorification for refusing government service that would come about in the Cao Wei and Jin dynasties.

  This all gave the elite noble families a certain cachet, and they redefined their relationship with the court. By refusing service they had a certain independence. They were also able to set up their own cultural institutions, such that celebrated artists and poets might gather around a particular figure, and the idea of going out into the woods—or perhaps even better, the safety of a well-crafted garden—groups could get together and practice their cultured hermitism, together.

  An exemplar of this imagined ideal can be found in the depictions of the Seven Worthies of the Bamboo Grove. These are seven historical (or mostly historical) figures from the 3rd to 4th century, mostly centered around the philosopher poet, Xi Kang and his friends. Xi Kang was a critic of Confucianism, and died in 262 at the age of 39, executed by a military general, though the circumstances are unclear. His other six compatriots include Shan Tao, a holder of one of the highest ranks in the land, and some 18 years Xi Kang’s senior, as well as Xiang Xiu, who was 5 years his junior. Then there is the drunkard, Ruan Ji, who corresponded with Xi Kang, at least, and Ruan Xian, a renowned musician. Then there is the enigmatic Wang Rong and the early naturist, the eccentric Liu Lang, who wrote the poem Ode to the Virtues of Wine. A fifth century anecdote about him records that on many occasions Liu Ling, under the influence of wine, would divest himself of all of his clothing and sit naked in his room. One day he was spotted and chided for this habit, to which Liu Ling retorted: “I take heaven and earth for my pillars and roof, and the rooms of my house for my pants and coat. What are you gentlemen doing in my pants?”

  While all of these individuals lived around the same time—they would have probably been about 18-57 years of age between the years 252-262—and certainly many had connections to Xi Kang, it is unlikely that they all actually gathered in one place together to drink a share stories, and that is more likely early fanfic by a poetry superfan of the era, much as authors and screenwriters today love putting together individuals who might have met each other all in one place, forming a super hero team of famous people in history.

  In this case, it was popular fanfic, and we have visual representations of the seven from at least the 5th century, and they show up in Japan at least as early as the 9th century. Their model of a life devoted to friendship, poetry, music, drinking, and, dare I say, drugs, all outside the confines of the urban setting and traditional morality, was something that appealed to people for centuries, regardless of the actual truth behind it. You can see in this kind of image many of the things that were praised by the Nara and Heian aristocracy, and it was around this time that such concepts were arising that would eventually have such an influence on our archipelago.

  And when it comes to the mindset of those interacting with the archipelago, and what the people there were hearing about the mainland, it’s important to understand how the Han dynasty was held up as a period of unity and remembered as a high point on the continent and beyond—and given what came afterwards we can understand why. Talking about this period gets confusing and does not lend itself to an easy, straightforward story. Philosophy from the previous Warring States period had been recovered and many of the ideas were added to or expanded upon in the Han, and that would continue into the period of disunity. Much of what we think of in terms of Daoism or Confucianism went through changes during these period, including bouts of syncretism, where philosophical ideas that were initially distinct and different were brought together and rationalized in such a way that they would be seen as one. An area known as “Dark Studies” actually attempted to blend such things as Confucianism and Daoism, both of which claim to speak about the “Dao” or “Way”. The difference is that Confucianism attempts to define the “Dao” as a way that people can follow, modeling certain virtues and living life or running the state or just a family in a particularly virtuous way. Daoism, on the other hand, eschews any attempt at defining the Dao, elevating it to a cosmic principle. The Dao De Jing actually opens with the famous lines: “Dao ke dao feichang Dao”, often translated as something like “The Dao that Can be Defined is not the True Dao”, automatically calling out Confucianism as a false doctrine. And yet, centuries of philosophers would use them together, side by side, attempting to reconcile their innate differences in some larger theory, like a philosopher’s version of the Grand Unified Theory.

  And so, the Jin and later dynasties had other things to contribute, and we’ll touch on those in later episodes, but the movement of the court to the south—the period known as the eastern Jin—is important for our purposes. As noted, they moved into the old Wu capital of Jianye—which they later renamed Jiankang—in about 317. The north devolved into fighting as warring tribes and factions sprang up and were almost as quickly extinguished, with many so-called dynasties not lasting much beyond a single ruler, or perhaps only controlling a small area. This led to the period known as the sixteen kingdoms, in the north, which lasted until the rise of the Northern Wei around 386. Meanwhile, the south seemed to generally thrive, though they had their own issues and their own infighting. The south, the Jin held on until 420, when it was replaced by the Liu Song, though it seems as though, for the most part, even that was more a change of who was at the top of the heap. The Liu Song period is, of course, where we see the Five Kings of Wa that show up in the Song dynasty chronicles—see Episode 58.

  During the eastern Jin and the Liu Song, it is likely that the archipelago was primarily dealing with the court on the Yangzi River, rather than traveling to the courts of the various and ever-changing states along the Yellow River itself. This path would have also been an easier trip from the southern tip of the Korean peninsula, avoiding the perils of sailing through Goguryeo’s territory.

  It seems likely that this area, despite the change in dynasties, continued to be known as Wu, or Kure, to the Wa. After all, from their perspective it was all in the same space. This, then, was likely where Yamato and Baekje had their connections to the mainland, and so likely to be a focus of our studies, although we can’t entirely ignore the north, as much as we might want to.

  Next episode we’ll continue looking at the impacts of all of this, including what it meant to have many Great Families from the north seek refuge in the south, where the local elites may have been glad enough for the status bump their region would receive, hosting the imperial court, but that was balanced by these northerners with their own systems and ideas.

  Until then, thank you for all of your support. If you like what we are doing, tell your friends and feel free to rate us 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 on Patreon or through our KoFi site, ko-fi.com/sengokudaimyo, or find the links 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. It is always great to hear from people and ideas for the show.

  And that’s all for now. Thank you again, and I’ll see you next episode on Sengoku Daimyo’s Chronicles of Japan.

References

• Lewis, Mark Edward. (2009). China Between Empires: The Northern and Southern Dynasties. ISBN 978-0-674-02605-6

• Kohn, Livia (ed.) (2004). Daoism Handbook: Volume I. ISBN 0-391-04237-8.

• Ebrey, Patricia Buckley (ed.) (1993). Chinese Civilization: A Sourcebook. ISBN s0-02-908752-X.

Episode 71: The Yellow River and the Birth of Han Culture.

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This episode we start our more in depth look at what is happening on the continent, breezing through the Qin and Han periods. We focus on the culture that grew up along the floodplains of the Yellow River, and how that really became the touchstone for Han culture, which then spread outwards in many directions—though our primary focus is on the Yangzi river system to the south.

Image showing Sinitic civilization around the time of the Qin dynasty. You can see how it is mostly concentrated in the north along the Yellow River, with some pockets along the Yangzi. That would extend farther south, especially in the later Han period. Image by User Yuninjie on en.wikipedia, CC BY-SA 3.0 <http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/>, via Wikimedia Commons.

This episode is fairly broad, only lightly touching on various subjects. Expect to dive into it again. In the meantime, here are some artifacts from the period that may be of interest:

Han TLV mirror from the Forbidden City in Beijing

This mirror has a pattern that looks suspiciously like the game known as liu bo, which may have arisen from some kind of divination. It is unclear just how the game would have been played, but it seems to be connected with Sinitic concepts of the universe. TLV patterns would make their way to Japan on the backs of these mirrors, although there is no record of liu bo having also made the journey, and it may have simply become a common decorative feature.

Stone carving of liu bo, from the Tokyo National Museum

Here we see a carving of two people playing the game liu bo in a Han era carving.

Han figures playing liu bo, from the New York Metropolitan Museum

Here we see figures playing liu bo, from a Han era tomb.

Han musicians, Shanghai Museum

Here we see a pair of Han dynasty musicians. One is playing the qin, or an early relative thereof. This zither would come to Japan and eventually become the koto, a vital part of Japanese court music.

Terracotta Warrior, Shaanxi History Museum

Here we see a typical member of the terracotta army set to guard the tomb of the first emperor of the Qin dynasty.

Terracotta Warrior, Shaanxi History Museum

Face of one of the terracotta warriors from the tomb of the first Qin emperor. Each one was unique, with its own features and exquisitely detailed. They even had slightly different hairstyles.

Terracotta Warrior, Shaanxi History Museum

Another example of one of the unique terracotta warriors.

Terracotta Warrior, Shaanxi History Museum

Face of one of the terracotta warriors from the tomb of the first Qin emperor. Each one was unique, with its own features and exquisitely detailed. They even had slightly different hairstyles.

Terracotta Warrior-boots, Shaanxi History Museum

Here we can see the pattern on the soles of the shoes of one kneeling feature—even this detail was preserved by the unknown artists who created these statues.

Terracotta General, Tomb of Qin Shihuang

Example of a general, wearing a different type of armor. His armor was probably less effective, but it is also unlikely he would have been fighting on the front lines. There are similarities here with conjectured armor in Japan between the Nara and Heian periods.

Terracotta Warrior - Pigmentation, Tomb of Qin Shihuang

Here we see some of the remaining pigmentation on the red cords of the armor. It was likely black, to represent lacquer, with red cords to help hold it together. The armor itself may have been metal or simply lacquered leather plates.

Terracotta Warrior - Pigmentation, Tomb of Qin Shihuang

Here we can see evidence of the pigmentation that the original statues would have had. Unfortunately, oxidization typically causes the colors to fade, quickly, after exposure, leaving the grey remains that most people know.

Terracotta Warrior - Pigmentation, Tomb of QIn Shihuang

Another example of pigmentation that seems to be remaining, in this case on the face. Still, there is only a little left at this time.

More photos by the author from various museums can be found at the following links:

Qin Dynasty

Han Dynasty

• Rough Transcript

  Welcome to Sengoku Daimyo’s Chronicles of Japan! My names is Joshua and this is Episode 71: The Yellow River and the Birth of Han Culture.

  Before we get started a quick shout out to Arnold for donating to support the show. If you would like to join him you can do so over at our Ko-Fi site, that’s Ko-Fi.com/Sengokudaimyo, or find us on Patreon.

  So we’ve been working our way through the Kiki—the Japanese chronicles—and we’ve made it through to the very start of the 6th century. In that time we’ve seen the state of Yamato grow, though in all likelihood its direct influence likely remained contained in the area immediately around the Nara Basin and out to the area of modern Ohosaka. Which isn’t to say that they weren’t a leader in their confederation, or that their dealings were confined to that area any more than later daimyo would be confined merely to the area of their own domains. It is still a question as to just how much influence Yamato had, but clearly they were a trendsetter, and had connections with the other lands of the archipelago and the continent.

  And from the continent, the archipelago was receiving new technologies and new ideas. Envoys from Yamato were being sent, all the way to the court of the Liu Song, near modern day Nanjing, along the easternmost reaches of the Yangzi river. And they, as well as continental visitors and immigrants, were bringing back horses, writing, weaving, and more, including ideas of statecraft. Over the coming centuries we’ll see more and more of this, as Yamato grows and becomes ever more connected with the mainland.

  And because of that, I want to once again take a detour away from our islands, and focus for a time on what was happening in the mainland at the beginning of the 6th century, as a lot of this is prelude to what we will see going forward in the archipelago. The governmental systems being used, refined, experimented with, and, some might say, corrupted, on the continent would become the model on which the future Japanese court would base their own system—with some twists of their own.

  And yet it’s important to remember that the continent was not a monolith - it was home to various groups and ethnicities and cultures. However, just as the Roman empire had its impact on the various cultures of Europe, eastern Eurasia was heavily impacted by the culture that arose out of the Yellow River Basin.

  Speaking of the Yellow River basin, I’d like to start by painting a picture. When we started this whole project, we talked about the islands of Japan and their geography, which impacted the development of Japan and continues to be a factor today. Therefore I figure it is likewise useful to talk somewhat about the geography of the continent.

  If we start with the Korean peninsula, we see that it is similar to the archipelago—mountainous, with areas of flat land. In fact, like Japan, some 70% of the land is mountainous. This continues into modern China until you hit the Liao River basin in the west and the Amur River to the north. We know this as a home to Tungusic speaking people, as well as Mongols, and the Nivkh on the coast, but there is little enough in the written record, though there has been archaeological research in the area. This is likely where the people of Goguryeo came from, and Amur and West Liao DNA has been seen in the people on the archipelago, so we know there was contact.

  This may be an area to explore more. Certainly the area played a large role in more recent historical events. But for now, I want to turn south, to the main part of what is known today as China.

  That name, by the way, is something I’ve touched on before: “China” is something of an overloaded term, as is the concept of “Chinese”. It can be used for just about anything within the bounds of the modern state of China, which includes much of the area from the Amur River in the north all the way down to modern Vietnam in the south and all the way west to modern Kyrgystan and Tajikistan. At the same time, there are clearly differences between the Uighur, Mongol, Tibetan, Han, and many other cultures, as China is a nation with many cultures and ethnicities living within its borders.

  So I’ll try to be specific, and often speak in terms of ethnic Han people and Sinic culture, broadly referring to the ethnic group and cultural norms that grew up largely along the Yellow River, which is one of two main rivers that run through the area of China – the other being the Yangzi, to the south.

  Looking at a modern map, you can largely divide eastern China into roughly four regions. First, there are the northern region of Inner Mongolia and Manchuria.

  Second, south of this, there is the Yellow River. The Yellow River starts up in the mountains and flows through the Loess Plateau, the source of the sediment that gives the river its brownish-yellow color—and thus its name. It then passes through a mountainous region and then the lower regions of the Yellow River flow largely through wide, flat land, before the river empties out into the Yellow Sea – likewise named for the color of the sediment that the river disgorges into it. The Yellow Sea opens out past the Shandong peninsula and is bordered on the east by the Korean peninsula until it reaches the East China sea. This Yellow River area was the homeland of the Han ethnic group, and the origins of the Shang and Zhou dynasties—as well as many of the dynasties up to the Han.

  The third region, south of the Yellow River is the Yangzi River and its surroundings . Compared to the flatlands of the lower Yellow River, the Yangzi tends to be more hilly. In the east it is relatively flat, along its lower section, where it empties into the East China Sea around modern day Shanghai. The central region is more mountainous, and in the west is the Sichuan basin, a largely flat area surrounded by mountains, which proved both a help and a hindrance to people living there. Originally, the Yangzi was populated by numerous ethnic groups, who are often lumped together as the Bai Yue, or Hundred Yue. We will talk more about them, later.

  Last there is the far south, which is a largely mountainous region that extends to the South China Sea. This was largely considered foreign or frontier region through most of the time we will be talking about, with some outposts and commandries, like those in the Korean peninsula, but for our purposes, right now, we will largely leave them be.

  And so, let us go back to the Yellow River region. As I noted, the river brings down sediment from the Loess Plateau, and deposits it along the river bed. This was particularly true when the riverwould flood—due to either heavy rains or melting ice in the mountains near the river’s source. These floods would inundate the flat lands of the lower Yellow River, and deposit that soil across the land. This made the land incredibly fertile, but the unpredictability of the floods was a constant danger. This, in turn, led to settlement patterns where people built communities on the occasional high ground in an attempt to avoid the floods.

  Early organization appears to have been built on the idea of taming the waters, and yet it was a constant battle. Dikes would be built and the sides of the river could be built up, but over time the sediment would deposit on the riverbed, raising the riverbed. Without constant dredging and building up of the riverbanks, the river would eventually flood. Sometimes this could change the location of the river—or at least its main branch—by over 400 km or more.

  In many ways, then, good government in and around the Yellow River basin was, indeed, tied to mitigating natural disasters—or at least flooding. A government that kept up work on the river and ensured that it was properly managed would reduce the damage caused by flooding, while a government that was negligent would eventually allow the precautions to collapse. This is a theme we see early on in Chinese documentation, and it prompted the German philosopher Karl Wittfogel to form a theory called the “hydraulic hypothesis” which says, basically, that people banding together to manage flooding and irrigation was what prompted the formation of complex states. The real explanation is more complex, but it’s easy to see where this idea comes from.

  The Shang and then the Zhou were early, powerful states. Much as with Yamato, the question of just how powerful is still somewhat up in the air, but this does appear to have been the foundation of early Sinic thought, and in particular the Duke of Zhou was often credited with creating the various rites and rituals that were considered at the core of good statesmanship.

  In some ways, I’d say this was similar to what we see in Yamato, in that there were certain rituals that the sovereign was expected to perform that, along with administrative and military might, helped maintain the state. But the geography of the Yellow River Basin allowed for larger populations and, in some ways, allowed for greater control by the state, at least early on.

  From what we know about the Zhou, it appears to have been a feudal system, with a social hierarchy. The sovereign sat at the top, with courts of nobles—members of elite families. These families were given control of large territories themselves—they were basically the hegemons of their own states, with Zhou at head of the coalition. And that seems to be part of the Zhou’s eventual downfall. While the nobility initially owed their place and lands to the ruling sovereign, over time they amassed their own, independent power. Combined with external threats, the Zhou weakened, and the situation quickly deteriorated. The various families became insular, and each state set against each other.

  Many of these states would have names that will become all too familiar in later eras—names such as the Song, the Jin, and even the Wu, read in the archipelago as “Kure”. This turbulent time led to a certain diversity of thought and ideas. Confucuis, Laozi, Sunzi, and many other famous philosophers came from this period.

  This is the Warring States Period, from about the 5th to 3rd century BCE—and yes, it is the same name as the period in Japanese history, the Zhanguo Shidai, or Sengoku Jidai. This is no accident, but rather a deliberate call-back by Japanese of that era and later periods to connect their own turmoil with that of China’s classical age. This era of conflict and division on the continent would eventually be brought to an end by forced unification under the state of Qin, the westernmost of the various kingdoms, situated around modern Xi’an, along the Wei River, which runs east to the Yellow as it heads out onto the plains of the lower reaches.

  It was the Qin who unified the warring states through military conquest and instituted a harsh regime. The ruler of Qin took the name of Emperor, or Huangdi, and is still remembered as Qin Shihuangdi, the First Qin Emperor. He instituted a state based on the legalist system that had brought Qin to power, and he did well for himself. After all, his is the tomb of the terracotta army in Xi’an, a tomb on par with that of Daisen kofun in Japan, in size, and even moreso considering everything else in the complex – which is still being actively mapped and excavated, although the main tomb remains undisturbed at this time. The terracotta warriors themselves are truly remarkable, each one with unique features and tremendous detail down to the hobnails in their boots. These statues were originally vividly painted, though the pigments rarely survive long after being exposed to the open air. They provide us an unmatched view of what the Qin army looked like, such that it is suspected that each statue—or at least their head—was likely a depiction of an actual soldier in the army.

  As I mentioned, the Qin state was organized around Legalist principles. Legalism insisted that all people follow exactly the rules and laws of the state. The theory was that if everyone played their role exactly, then the state would run smoothly. Ideally it eschewed favoritism and familial ties for a strict interpretation of the laws that applied to everyone, equally. It enforced this through draconian punishments. For example, there is a story that the emperor was out one day enjoying himself, and he fell asleep. He had with him two servants, one who was responsible for his cloak, and another who was responsible for his umbrella. As time dragged on, the servant responsible for his umbrella fell asleep as well, and so did not notice that the sun had shifted and the emperor was exposed. The other servant, thinking little of it, simply moved the umbrella so that the emperor remained in the shade.

  When the emperor woke up and found out what had happened, he had both men punished. The one for falling asleep and not doing his job, but the other for trying to do someone else’s job instead of tending just to his own.

  As one might imagine, this was considered a mite harsh by many, and it tended to rub people the wrong way. Still, Qin Shi Huangdi maintained power over a unified nation for nine years, despite numerous assassination attempts. He was eventually undone not by assassins, but by his own quest for immortality—the same quest that had him send people out looking for the famed Island of the Immortals, which we discussed back in episode 10. He was apparently drinking elixirs made with mercury, which likely poisoned him.

  After his death in 210 BCE, court ministers tried to hide the news and eventually planned to have his son rule as a puppet sovereign. But this left the court weak, and fighting and rebellion once more broke out.

  This could easily have devolved back into the Warring States period, which would have made the Qin dynasty simply a blip in the record, if it weren’t for a peasant-born commander named Liu Bang.

  Liu Bang was a local Qin official who was working as a penal officer. We are told that he was taking prisoners to go work on the tomb of Qin Shi Huangdi when some of them escaped. Under the Legalist penal codes of the time, allowing prisoners to escape was considered a dereliction of duty, and punishable by death, and the court was not known to be merciful. With no other options, Liu Bang decided to voluntarily free the rest of the prisoners—after all, it wasn’t going to get any worse for him—who were so grateful that they joined him. Together they took up residence in an abandoned fort in Mangdang, where they set up to resist any who might be sent after them.

  But the death of Qin Shi Huangdi, and the subsequent rebellions that broke out the year after, provided an opening for the ambitious Liu Bang, who fought for the state of Chu, but eventually ended up taking power for himself. Thus Liu Bang, son of a commoner, became Emperor Gaozu of the Han dynasty.

  The Han dynasty maintained much of the political apparatus of the Qin dynasty, but changed it in subtle, yet significant ways that would keep it in power for the next four centuries—minus a brief interregnum by one Wang Mang. This is one of the reasons why, while the Qin dynasty is the root of the English word for “China”, many Asian sources refer to Han—such as Hanzi, or Kanji in Japanese, for Sinitic writing—and it is generally used to refer to the ethnic Han people, or Hanren, in Mandarin, a term that appears to have been used since the period after the fall of the Han dynasty to refer to the major Sinitic speaking ethnic group of that and later dynasties. That’s how much of an impact this period had on the development of the people and thought of China.

  Although the Han dynasty inherited the Qin governmental structures, it did away with the strictly legalist interpretation. This allowed some of the philosophical thought that had been oppressed under the Qin to flourish. In particular, Confucian classics had been confiscated by the Qin, and most were lost when the library they were stored in burned down, though some were saved by scholars who defied the Qin orders. Later, an official hunt would be made to find as many of these old works as possible, and by the end of the first century BCE, Han policy was that government officials had to be men trained in the Classics—generally speaking that meant Confucian classics, espousing Confucian values.

  Setting up the government so that officials had to be trained typically meant that there had to be tests. It set up the semblance of a meritocracy—where one’s learning and cultivation would lead to jobs with the government, and thus access to political and social power. This would theoretically ensure that men in government positions—and, yes, generally speaking, it was only men who were considered, thanks to the patriarchal structure Han society inherited from past generations—so these government officials were, theoretically, men of learning and good character, and not just men from Great Families, who still had considerable power in their local areas. Government officials would be provided a stipend, often assessed in terms of the amount of grain that their stipend provided. The term for this, “dan”, would later be used in Japan as well, with the character, which also means “stone”, pronounced as “koku”.

  Early on, the Han court knew it had to find a way to either blunt the power of hereditary families or at least get them working for the good of the state. The Zhou had done this through feudal bonds of fealty, and the Qin had attempted to do it through draconian legal measures after crushing them with their military force. Indeed, I suspect that many were still rebuilding after first falling to the Qin and then the rebellions thereafter.

  So the Han attempted to tie families more firmly to the State. First, they recognized many of the ancient kingdoms, but placed members of Liu Bang’s own family in charge. Theoretically, the family ties would keep them loyal, but over time, this would break down. At the same time, Confucian values, growing at court and with anyone who wanted to hold social or political power, also emphasized the family. The concept of filial piety, expanded through all social relationships, formed the ties that bound people to the families and the families to the government, thus incorporating them and making them an extension of the government system.

  This may have worked for a while, but nothing lasts forever, and there are almost always unintended consequences. For one, the court was still located along the Yellow River. A rising population, no doubt assisted by high yields from the Yellow River and the relative stability of the Han dynasty, put pressure on the land, and the Han expanded into frontier territories—for instance, settling large numbers of people on the Ordos plateau, with outposts far out in the western deserts, and the commandries in the Korean peninsula and the far south. And yet, despite this expansion the court, and thus, political power, remained concentrated largely in the capital regions. This included Chang’an, modern Xi’an, near the capital of Qin on the Wei river. Later, they would move to the capital of Luoyang, just a little further to the east. This was the center of power and prestige in the empire, and the families that were closer to the center had an advantage in playing the politics of the court. This was further emphasized by a worldview that placed the court at the center of the world. The further out from that center, the more uncultured and barbaric the people were thought to be. Han elite who were too far from the capital often found themselves as political outsiders—seen as country bumpkins and hicks. In turn, these outside families would often set themselves up at the center of their own cultural sphere. This idea of the center of the Court versus those on the periphery has some rather direct similarities with actions that would take place in Japan, as well. Great families were part of the ruling court, but outside families built up their own bases of power.

  Back in the capital, the growing influence of certain families seemed to be a threat. How could even the emperor know whether someone’s loyalty was to themselves or to their family? And so they came up with a strategy that they thought would overcome this problem. To ensure that certain positions were only loyal to the court and the emperor, the court employed eunuchs—men who, through birth, accident, or voluntary action, had been castrated, losing the ability to reproduce. The theory seems to have been that men who could not produce an heir would not be so busy playing politics for their family, and they would be solely devoted to the court.

  This really was a thing—and one part of court culture that I don’t believe Japan ever attempted to reproduce. Eunuchs could do well for themselves in the court, however. In fact, they could do so well that men voluntarily underwent castration so that they could apply for a position.

  And, of course, many found ways around the idea that castration would prevent them from having heirs, too. In some cases, men would undergo castration after having fathered children, in the hopes that their service could provide a better life for their family. In other cases, eunuchs would “adopt” an heir. This was important in a society where it was your ancestors who were supposed to carry out the proper rites after you passed away, and keep your memory alive. Without heirs to perform the rites, what would your afterlife be like? Probably not pretty.

  That said, without heirs, and without the hope of better life in the hereafter, it seems that some eunuchs were, instead, tempted to acquire social and material power in the here and now. In fact, it grew so bad that even today the trope of the evil, greedy, court eunuch is still quite common, despite the fact that it was likely only a small number for whom that was true—or at least no more true than for any other elite official anywhere in the world.

  Still, according to the histories, the fall of the Han came at the hands of just such eunuchs, whose desire for worldly comfort led them to play fast and loose with the empire’s finances.

  You see, as the eunuchs were amassing power, there was another dynamic going on. Much as the Roman empire did in Europe, the Han dynasty often enlisted and employed ethnic groups from outside of their own borders and brought them in. The idea was to let barbarians fight barbarians, and so they would resettle nomadic groups inside of Han territory, giving them land in exchange for fighting on their side.

  However, these outside cultures were literally foreign, and they often clashed in contact with their Han neighbors, often leading to raids inside of Han territory by the very same people that had been brought in to protect them.

  With no other recourse, local communities had to create their own armed groups to fight off these horse-riding warriors. Some of these groups would be organized around more than just local community pride. After all, in times of chaos, religious zeal often brings people together, and this seems to have been the unifying factor of more than one group. Organizing around a place usually meant that you attracted people from that place, but organizing around religion or around an idea meant that you could bring together disparate groups from all over.

  One such idea was the Way of Taiping, or Great Peace. This is unrelated, by the way, to the Taiping Rebellion of the late 19th century, in case you were wondering. In this instance, the Way of Taiping was based on Daoist ideas, though, despite their name, they were anything but peaceful. Their adherents were militants, and they believed that, with the disorder in the land, a millennium of Great Peace was due to either reform the Han or sweep it away.

  A series of rebellions broke out, often known by the headgear that these adherents wore: A yellow piece of cloth, wrapped around their head. Thus the name, in English at least, of the Yellow Turban Rebellion—sometimes also the Yellow Cloth Rebellion, for a more accurate but less romantic description.

  Of course, people begged the Han court for assistance against these rebels, but the Han coffers were empty—there wasn’t enough money to raise an army. This was compounded by the fact that Yellow Cloth adherents and sympathizers were found even among the palace guards and amongst the powerful eunuchs. Armed rebellion eventually broke out in the 16 commandries, largely in the area immediately surrounding the Yellow River basin. Without a centralized military response, private armies, led by members of powerful families who were in opposition to the powerful eunuchs at court, ended up putting down the rebellions themselves.

  This, of course, brought nominal praise from the Han court, and the generals were lauded for their success. But then, almost immediately, they were removed from their posts and shoved aside, with eunuchs taking over, as they were the ones officially in charge of the army.

  Infighting continued, and the weakened Han dynasty never recovered. The Han dynasty would effectively end in 190, which led to a period of warlordism known as the Three Kingdoms, which in turn would lead to the era of the northern and southern dynasties, during which the empire largely remained fractured, with only short periods of unification. This would last into the late 6th century. It was in this environment of fractured and warring states that the Japanese archipelago—and specifically Yamato—would be conducting most of their early interactions. This includes Himiko and the Wei, as well as the Jin and later the Liu Song dynasties—not to mention those interactions we don’t have records for. Many aspects of continental culture, often filtered through the Korean peninsula, would be arriving during this time. .

  And speaking of arriving in distant foreign lands, the archipelago wasn’t the only place that was getting new ideas. While the Han dynasty imported new ideas and people from the outside—mostly from the north and west—there were also pressures sending people—and ideas—out in all directions as well. The Han culture complex was an amalgamation of different philosophies and cultural ideas, brought together in one place, but even as that was happening, conflict and population pressures were also pushing people out to the frontier areas. In the west and north, Han people were often the minority, but in the southern regions, especially along the Yangzi, Han people began to emigrate in droves. This escalated towards the end of the Han, especially in the period of violence that surrounded its downfall.

  It is estimated that several million people—mostly ethnic Han peasants—headed south in the last century of the Han dynasty, settling along the Yangzi river basin. As they moved in they would start the process of draining swamps and wetlands and making the region more habitable for rice paddy farming. This area had been the southern frontier for years—described as a place of jungles and strange people and cultures, but now it was becoming Sinicized in ways that it had not before.

  The majority likely took the easiest path, from the Yellow River floodplain to the Huai River basin in central China, and then on to the Yangzi river, mostly ending up in the fertile lower reaches. Some, however, settled further upriver, in the more mountainous reaches of the central Yangzi. This was accessible from the Han capitals of Chang’an and Luoyang via a daunting route that included traversing the Qinling Mountains at Wuling pass—a 7,000 foot climb that traversed a plank road built along the cliff walls.

  That was nothing compared to the third path, however. The truly adventurous took the famous Road to Shu. This road went west out of Chang’an to Baoji, and then turned southwest to the Min River basin—modern Chengdu, in Sichuan. It was 270 miles, about a third of which were those same type of cliff-side trestle roads. Historically speaking it was the least important—it wasn’t exactly likely that someone would be marching their armies down it any time soon—but it was immortalized by the Tang poet Li Bai—known as Ri Haku in Japan—in a poem entitled Shu Dao Nan—the Difficult Road to Shu.

  In the course of these migrations, the ethnic Han farmers tended to monopolize the flat lowlands for growing rice, leaving the highlands for forestry products. This drove the indigenous people—various ethnic groups generally lumped together as the baiyue, or hundred Yue—up into the more mountainous and less desirable areas. The Yue are thought to be the ancestors of the Vietnamese people, who once ruled large swaths of areas from the Yangzi river south.

  Those mountain tops and highlands would make a good location for temples and fortresses, creating myriad small, and independent communities.

  This will all play out in our next episode as we talk about the aftermath of the fall of the Han, the rise of the Three Kingdoms, and the cultural changes that came with it—all happening at the same time that Yamato was being born and starting to take its own place out in the archipelago.

  I’m thinking this will probably take at least 3~4 episodes to get through, which is a bit, and I’m going to do my best to avoid getting too far into the weeds, but as we go I think there are a few important facets of continental culture that we want to focus on, especially as the 6th century will start to see even closer ties. So we’ll try to condense several centuries into just a few episodes for you.

  Until then, thank you for all of your support. If you like what we are doing, tell your friends and feel free to rate us 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 on Patreon or through our KoFi site, ko-fi.com/sengokudaimyo, or find the links 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. It is always great to hear from people and ideas for the show.

  And that’s all for now. Thank you again, and I’ll see you next episode on Sengoku Daimyo’s Chronicles of Japan.

References

• Lewis, Mark Edward. (2009). China Between Empires: The Northern and Southern Dynasties. ISBN 978-0-674-02605-6

• Kohn, Livia (ed.) (2004). Daoism Handbook: Volume I. ISBN 0-391-04237-8.

• Ebrey, Patricia Buckley (ed.) (1993). Chinese Civilization: A Sourcebook. ISBN s0-02-908752-X.