Traveling Through the Ancient Nara Basin, Part 1

February 16, 2023 Joshua Badgley

Torii gate for Ōmiwa shrine in Sakurai. The modern gates tower over the surrounding buildings.

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Ōmiwa Shrine entrance

The entrance to the main Ōmiwa shrine grounds.

Ōmiwa shrine torii

A view of the giant torii of Ōmiwa shrine, looking down the Omote-sando

Hebi no Sugi

A sacred cedar connected to stories of the spirit of Mt. Miwa appearing as a snake. Snakes were common forms of kami in early stories.

Welcome to Sengoku Daimyo’s Chronicles of Japan. My name is Joshua, and this is a special episode: Traveling through the ancient Nara Basin, part 1
First things first, apologies as I had fully intended to jump into the story of Ame Kunioshi Hiraki Hiro Niha, aka Kimmei Tennō. However, I’ve been recently overcome with a bout of Real Life, which has prevented me from doing the full prep work that such an episode deserves. The entry for Kimmei Tennō in the Nihon Shoki is easily one of the longer entries, and there is a lot to digest, and I don't want to jump in until I've been able to do a bit more research.
Instead, I figured I would do something different and introduce you to a little tour of the Nara Basin and all of the wonderful sites that one can go and check out, many of which are still there and quiet accessible. In fact, I recently spent some time there doing *cough* “research”, by which I mean traveling around and walking through the ancient landscape to see what remained.
Now many people may be familiar with Nara, the city which gave the basin its name. Founded in 710, it was the site of the first long term, permanent continental style capital on the archipelago. Today it is a beautiful city, nestled against the mountains, with ancient temples, shrines, and the occasional kofun, which predate the founding of the ancient capital.
It is also home to what we’ve come to call the Nara attack deer. Within the main historical park area, between Kōfukuji Temple, Tōdaiji Temple, and Kasuga Shrine, hunting is strictly outlawed, and the deer wander boldly throughout the streets. Unafraid of humans, they are generally polite, until they find an easy mark: typically a timid soul who has foolishly purchased a set of Shika Senbei, or deer crackers, hoping to gently feed the deer in an Instagram-worthy video post. The deer, however, often have other ideas, especially the young bucks, who might even use their antlers to prod such people, hoping to startle them into dropping all of the crackers.
All joking aside, the deer in Nara are just as much a draw as the rest of the city, which draws thousands of tourists every year, but it is only a small part of a larger area. Today we are going to explore a little bit outside the standard tourist route, in the southeast corner of the basin, between the cities of Tenri and Sakurai.
This is the area mentioned in the oldest stories in the Chronicles, from the time of the “first sovereign”, Mimaki Iribiko, and his successor, Ikume Iribiko. Archaeological excavations have turned up evidence of people from across the archipelago living here—or at least interacting—since the third century, which we talked about in Episode 28. That's right around the time of Queen Himiko and the emergence of the giant round keyhole shaped tumuli, or Zenpō-kōen Kofun, thought to contain the remains of the kings of ancient Yamato.
Today, this area remains relatively rural. Between the cities of Tenri and Sakurai, they still have less than half the population of Nara, their northern neighbor. Urban areas around the train stations quickly give way to rice fields and fruit orchards. The lack of urban development is often a good thing for archaeologists, suggesting that there remain many potential sites under the soil. It can be a bit of a challenge, however, for the modern traveler. While there are trains and local b uses, expect to experience much of the area as the ancient people of Yamato would have: by walking.
To start us off, then, let's imagine ourselves traveling down, by train, to Sakurai, and to the ancient shrine of Ōmiwa. As you approach, keep an eye out for the massive Shintō torii gate that towers over the buildings around it, marking the entrance to the omote-sandō, the outer approach, to Ōmiwa and the sacred Mt. Miwa that is the focus of worship, there.
Even today, Miwa dominates the landscape. While the large torii are clearly modern—and even the famous triple torii gates at the foot of the mountain are probably a later addition—it nonetheless demonstrates the continued importance of the shrine and the sacred mountain in this region.
Fortunately, today, you need not walk the entire approach, as the train station drops you off much closer to the shrine, along the latter part of the omote-sandō.
Speaking of which, I should perhaps describe this common feature at many famous shrines and temples.
The omote-sandō, or outer approach, is both a part of the shrine and yet not at the same time. It is typically the main road to the shrine, or at least the traditional approach. Unlike the main ground of the shrine, these are public roads with numerous shops lining the sides, typically geared towards those making a pilgrimage to the shrine itself. You can usually find various souvenirs, restaurants, as well as local sweets and delicacies to take back as gifts.
These paths may have one belonged to the shrine, especially if it used to be a larger institution that could then use the land rents to help pay for their own upkeep, and you may find auxiliary shrines or temples along the way, but there seems to have always been a kind of symbiotic relationship with places of worship and the merchants catering to the pilgrims visiting them. It is not dissimilar to how restaurants, motels, and gift shops spring up around various attractions anywhere else in the world.
Fortunately, at Ōmiwa shrine, as I said the train station is actually well along the outer approach, meaning you don't have to walk the entire thing if you do not wish.
As you approach the main shrine, you'll come to a second torii gate, leading you into the forested area of the main shrine grounds, which leads you to the Edo period haiden, or prayer hall.
One of the unique things about Ōmiwa shrine is that they never built an actual building to contain the spirit of the kami of the shrine, which in this case is Ōmononushi. Instead, the kami lives on the mountain itself. This is thought to be the older style of worship, where the kami were thought to live in the mountains, close to the sun and the sky. Many stories talk about the kami alighting from the heavens onto mountains, and early depictions of them taking corporal, or visible, form are often as animals—snakes and other such things—living on or near the mountain.
There is a teaching, in fact, that as rice cultivation grew in Japan, many communities would create a sacred space in or near the rice fields, designating a pillar and setting up a sacred fence, and call the kami down from the mountain to reside close to the workers, who were growing there rice. At harvest time, the village would celebrate, offering a part of the harvest to the kami, who had helped it grow, and sending the kami back to the mountain.
Over time, the pillar was covered with a roof, to avoid the rot and deterioration that comes with being outside throughout most of the year, and eventually that grew into a building, where ceremonies could be conducted. This is one story for how the modern shrine came to be.
In most places, even at sacred mountains, they will have an actual shrine building for the key focus of worship, but, as I said, at Ōmiwa they have maintained an older style of worship. Therefore, where most prayer halls are simply placed in front of the main building, where the spirit is enshrined, the haiden of Ōmiwa sits in front of the entrance to the mountain itself. If you find yourself with the time and the inclination, you can hike the trails up Mt. Miwa, though they are clear to indicate that this is a religious place, and not just a hike through the wilderness, and people are expected to treat it appropriately.
Regrettably, when I was there I had limited time, and so I didn't get a chance to hike up, but maybe that will be a trip for another day.
From Ohomiwa shrine, you have several options. The most scenic is to travel north along the Yamanobe no Michi, the ancient mountain road.
This road—though mostly more a walking path—is touted as the oldest road in all of Japan. This designation comes from the fact that it is the first road mentioned in the Nihon Shoki, with various kofun and ancient palaces sited in relation to it over the years. It travels up along the foot of the mountains all the way to Nara city, and takes you through some absolutely beautiful countryside. I was last there in the fall, and people were walking the trail looking for pictures of fall foliage there and in the mountains.
It is unclear to me just how stable the route of this Yamanobe no Michi actually has been over the years. Certainly there have been paths along the foothills, but the designation of this particular path seems, perhaps, arbitrary. What I will not dispute is that this path winds through countryside that has a long history, which you can see all around you. Aside from the larger, more obvious kofun of the ancient kings, the landscape is dotted with smaller examples as well. As I walked along the trail, I made something of a sport of “kofun hunting”—looking for mounds in fields and then checking to see if it was a kofun or a natural feature. Of course, more often then not, it was a kofun—even if it is now in the middle of some farmer’s persimmon orchard. It was fascinating to see just how many were there—especially when you consider that many mounds may have collapsed or been worn away over the years.
Not all of the kofun I wanted to see were along the ancient path ways, however. Specifically, I was on the lookout for one of the oldest of the giant keyhole tomb mounds: Hashihaka kofun.
Hashihaka is a bit of a detour from the old Yamanobe no Michi—if you take the train it is about halfway between Miwa and Makimuku JR train stations. Coming up on it, and not knowing anything else, you might dismiss it as little more than a large, tree-covered hill, though the water-filled moat might alert you that something is up. Of course, from up above, or looking at a map, one can clearly make out the keyhole shaped features of the kofun mound.
As I said, this is thought to be one of the oldest of the keyhole shaped mounds. It has been dated to the mid to late 3rd century, and many people believe that this must be the resting place of the famous Queen Himiko, or at least someone from around her time. The fact that the Chronicles say that there is a woman buried there who demonstrated shaman-like powers in her interactions with the kami lend a lot of credence to that—something we first discussed back in episode 13, when we talked about the evidence for Queen Himiko.
When it was new, of course, the mound would not have been covered in trees. The various levels would have been carefully graded, with clear steps showing the levels up to the top of the mound. It may have started out at its core as a small hill that was then reshaped, or it may have been built from the ground up—I’m not sure if we can tell without more intrusive investigations. The surface would have been covered with small stones, which likely inhibited too much growth, although it still would have required maintenance, and likely some number of households were identified to regularly provide labor and rice for the mound’s upkeep.
An early kofun like this would not have had the elaborate haniwa of later evolutions. There have been found some haji-ware style pots that have holes drilled into the bottom, thus indicating that they were not likely being used to store anything—or at least not in the way a normal pot would. These were along the squarish front shape of the kofun. Later, we find cylindrical stands, which become the basis for the actual haniwa that cover so many other kofun. Still, even without this, the shape and the material and other such aspects would have called out that this was a special place.
Hashihaka kofun sits in the shadow of Mt. Miwa, though it isn’t directly oriented towards it. Possibly there is religious significance in its direction, but some of that may have been dictated by other local features at the time, some of which may no longer be evident, including the shape of any original hill or mound used in the kofun’s creation. It is clear, however, that it would have been visible for quite some distance, and even today it towers over most of the one-to-two storey buildings that surround it.
It would also have been clearly visible from the site of our next stop, at Makimuku JR train station.
Makimuku is a small station, and mostly just a stop in the region for those living in the area. Still, when you are in a land as steeped in history as the Nara basin, there is always something around, and at Makimuku it is the remains of an ancient third century palace.
Uncovered near the JR train lines and the station, the Makimuku palace is largely indicated by postholes, indicating at least three distinct raised buildings on the site. Numerous excavations have been carried out in the area, indicating habitation through the 3rd and 4th centuries, with a shift closer to the mountains in the latter part of the area’s focus. There is indication of trade with people on Korean peninsula, and indication of goods from as far away as Southeast Asia, at least. Many of these excavations are now beneath homes and other buildings that have sprung up over time, but you can still see where the Makimuku palace was, though access is a little strange. From the station, one walks around and through the nearby streets—you actually walk away from the ruins and then eventually back towards them. The actual entrance to the site is more like an empty lot between two buildings, providing access to an area with the location of the main postholes indicated in concrete. There is a small board where someone is ensuring that information about the site is being kept up for any interested travelers.
This is definitely a site for someone with a keen interest in history and not necessarily a site that most tourists would likely come to visit. There are no reconstructed buildings—anything that someone did build would simply be conjecture, as it is merely the postholes and some various fragments of pottery and other trade goods that have been found. And yet from there you can get a sense of the size of how large the Makimuku area, at the foot of Mt. Miwa, might have been. From there to Hashihaka kofun is a comfortable walk, and both Hashihaka and the sacred Mt. Miwa would have been clearly visible at the time. Nearby is the Yamato River, to provide another form of early transportation. And all around is flat land that makes for excellent rice farming, which would have spurred on the ancient economy and may explain how Yamato was able to grow so large so quickly.
Around the countryside, we have plenty of reminders of this period. Besides Hashihaka kofun, there are numerous others, many of them from the late 3rd to 4th centuries and attributed to some of the figures from the Nihon Shoki, including Mimaki and Ikume Iribiko. Of course, there are also various signposts that detail where tradition states this or that palace was or some other event. Given the lack of detail in the chronicles, it is hard to know how accurate any of this is, but walking around at least gives you some idea of the area and where all of this was taking place.
Many of these are just north of Sakurai proper, and in the area of Tenri city, in Nara, but I’m going to hold off on talking about that at this point, as we’ll probably make that the focus of a second part of this little travelogue.
I do want to point out, though, a few more things in the area. For instance, there is a shrine to sumou, recounting the supposed first sumou match mentioned in the Chronicles. There are also several supposed palace sites closer to the mountains themselves.
Looking away from the mountains, across the Yamato River, we can see the flat plain of the Shiki district. “Shiki” is an area that pops up time and again in the Chronicles, and the area of Tawaramoto is well built up, today. Across the flat plain you can see the mountain ridge that would separate the Nara basin and the land of Yamato from the area of Kawachi and modern Ohosaka proper. Beyond them both is the Seto Inland Sea.
I’ll have some photos from this trip up on the podcast website for those who want to get an idea of what it is like on the ground, but it is a fairly easy area to reach from a variety of different locations. North is Tenri and Nara, each with their own areas of historical interest, and west and south you have the areas of Kashihara and Asuka, which both feature prominently in the chronicles, especially in some of the later sections. I’ll try to do a little bit of each of them as I can, interspersing these geographical descriptions in between other episodes to help give a better sense of the area and perhaps give you a bit of guidance for your own travels.
And that is going to do it for this episode. Thanks for taking this detour with me - I’m going to keep looking into the reign of Ame Kunioshi, and hopefully we can get to him next time.
Until then, thank you for listening and 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.
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And that’s all for now. Thank you again, and I’ll see you next episode on Sengoku Daimyo’s Chronicles of Japan.

Episode 80: The Asuka Period

February 1, 2023 Joshua Badgley

Marker indicating the spot tradition holds was the site of Senka Tenno’s palace at Ihorino in Hinokuma. Photo by Takanuka, CC BY 3.0, via Wikimedia Commons

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This episode we take a look at the reign of Takewo Hiro Oshikuni Tate, aka Senka Tenno, and we take our first steps into what is referred to as the Asuka Period, due to the large number of rulers who had courts in the region of Asuka in the southern Nara Basin.

Welcome to Sengoku Daimyo’s Chronicles of Japan. My name is Joshua and this is Episode 80: The Asuka Period Begins!
When last we looked at the Chronicles, we were in the reign of Magari no Ohine, aka Ohoye—though we’ve gone with Ohine so I’m going to stick with that—aka Ankan Tennou. Assuming the dating in the Chronicles is correct, he was born about 465, and would have come of age in the era of Wakatakiru no Ohokimi, aka Yuuryaku Tennou. When his father, Wohodo no Ohokimi, first took the throne in 507, Ohine would would have been in his early forties—his father only in his mid to late 50s. And so when his father passed away about 25 years later, Ohine was already into his late 60s, himself. It is unclear whether his father reigned for 25 or 28 years; the Chronicles say 25, officially, but then note that there is another source that claims it was 28. It goes on to skip over about three years, during which Ohine himself didn’t take the throne, allowing for 28 years to have passed. That discrepancy of three years may not seem like much, but it is still curious.
Realistically, though, he had his hand on the tiller of the ship of state for much longer. We see his hand in stories dated to about 513, when he is shown politicking on national issues, taking a royal princess as his wife, and being established as the heir apparent. So he is actively participating in the government, and while it does appear that the long tradition of co-rulership, which we’ve discussed a few times, may have died out around this period, there seems little doubt as to his influence in the court.
And yet, Ohine’s reign only lasted two years. He was perhaps 68 or 69 years old when he took the throne, and he would die in the following year. Despite his influence, his father’s long reign had kept him off the throne for much of that time, and he was likely considered venerable even as he took the throne. He was succeeded by his maternal brother, the second eldest son of Wohodo no Ohokimi, who full name was Take-wo Hiro Kunioshi Tate. Based on his age and the dating in the Chronicles, he was only about one year younger than his older brother. So everything I said above about Ohine coming to the throne at a late age applies to Takewo as well - he would have also been through almost 7 decades by that point, so he was no spring chicken.
It is unclear what Takewo’s role was, growing up. He was the second son. His older brother was the heir apparent, and had his elder brother had children, no doubt those children would have been expected to inherit. However, such as not meant to be, as Magari no Ohine died childless.
Here I should point out that there were other brothers, since in the stories we’ve seen so far there has not necessarily been an insistence on the eldest brother taking the throne. One of these brothers was the young Ame Kunioshi Hiraki Hiro Niwa no Mikoto. Born to Wohodo and his formal queen, Tashiraga, he would have been 26 at the time of Magari no Ohine’s death. Young, in comparison to Takewo, but not impossibly so, and certainly old enough to have taken the throne. In fact the Chronicles treat it as a forgone conclusion, though that is likely more twenty-twenty hindsight than anything else. Besides, although his mother was queen, that appears to have been a blatantly political marriage, designed to join Wohodo’s line with that of the previous sovereigns. Even Ohine had married a royal princess from the previous ruling line, and Takewo would be little different.
Still, it seems likely that Takewo and Ohine were likely from the more favored line, at least at the time, and as they took the throne, had they had heirs who could follow after them those heirs would have likely been the new royal lineage.
So: both Ohine and his brother came to the throne quite late in their lives, and neither would hold it for very long. That doesn’t mean, though, that there aren’t some important tidbits for us in their stories. As we’ve discussed in the last few episodes, a lot happened during Ohine’s reign, particularly with the establishment of various royal granaries. His entry in the Nihon Shoki is over twice the length of Takewo’s, even though the latter’s reign was longer, though not by much—lasting from the twelfth month of 535 to the spring of 539—a little more than three years, all told.
Still, Takewo’s reign has a few notable events. First such thing is the enthronement ceremony in the twelfth month of 535, as the Ministers of the court delivered up to Takewo the regalia—the sword and the mirror. Notice that there is no mention of the jewel, and neither is their mention of the seal, which was the item given to Takewo’s father, Wohodo, on *his* ascension, which we discussed back in Episode 75. This continues something of a trend, where the sword and the mirror are the truly public regalia.
Then, they moved the palace, as was customary. The Chronicles say that they set it up in Ihorino, in Hinokuma. This has traditionally been identified as being in the Hinokuma district of Asuka, near Omiashi jinja. Omiashi jinja claims to be the family shrine of the Aya, one of the families that trace their lineage back to the weavers brought over from the Korean peninsula. That family, much like the current dynasty, traced their own lineage back to the time of Homuda Wake, and I wonder if there wasn’t some kind of connection that would have made Hinokuma important to the sovereign and the court back in the early 6th century.
It is also near the site of the ruins of Hinokuma temple, said to have been established over a century later, in 686. Temples often were their own kind of symbol, and likely spoke to some importance for this area at the time it was founded, though it is likely that was coincidental to the site’s use by Takewo and his court, assuming the Chronicles can be trusted on that point.
Now some of you, like me, may have picked up on the location of this palace; that is to say, Asuka. As in the Asuka period. This is the period, between the 6th and 7th centuries, when many of the sovereigns based their capitals out of this region south of Kashihara in the Nara Basin, and hence the name. We’ll talk more on this periodization—as well as the various dates and what they mean—later on in the episode. For now, just know that this area, which is rich in archaeological evidence for this period, is going to be of particular importance to us—so much so that scholars have named an era after this region.
After setting up the palace, we are told that Takewo appointed his ministers. Two of the names are no surprise—Ohotomo no Kanamura and Mononobe no Arakahi were still around, and had continued in positions of power. Two new names join the list, however: Soga no Iname no Sukune was made Oho-omi, and Abe no Ohomaro no Omi was made Daibu.
Soga no Iname comes from the famous Soga clan. They claimed descent through none other than the famous Katsuragi no Sotsuhiko, and have popped up now and again. For more on Sotsuhiko, check out episode 47. The last mention appears to be during the reign of Wakatakiru no Ohokimi, when they mentioned Soga no Karako—which looks like it may be talking about someone born on the Korean peninsula. Given their connections to the continent and their eventual connection with Buddhism—as we’ll see in later episodes they played a large role in bringing it over and popularizing it in Japan—it seems quite likely that they had ties to the Korean peninsula. Here, we see Soga no Iname being made Ohoomi, the head of the Soga no Omi family, and what appears to be a rank of prime minister, although so far the actual authority of the Oho-omi in State affairs seems a bit hit or miss.
Abe no Ohomaro, on the other hand, is being made Daibu. This term is interesting—they are not making Ohomaro the head of the Abe clan, which would also be Ohoomi, one assumes, just like the Ohomuraji of the Ohotomo and Mononobe, though there are a lot of “Omi” ranked families that have been mentioned, but only a handful who have been mentioned as Oho-omi. The term “daibu” has shown up a few times in the Chronicles before, and generally just seems to refer to high ranking court officials, generally, though here it seems to be a specific court title. It would certainly be used that way, later, but it is also possible that, like Omi, it was originally just a more general term for high ranking ministers.
The Abe family has shown up here and there. Much like the Mononobe, their family name appears to suggest that they were originally formed as one of the “-Be” corporate family groups, though of course they show up in the Chronicles well before that would seem to have been the case, and have been prominent enough to marry daughters off to various sovereigns, so they at least claim something of a pedigree. They would continue to be important at court, and appear to have been close allies with the Soga clan, at least in this period.
There are a host of famous Abe throughout history. From the poet, Abe no Nakamaro, to the famous Onmyoji, or Yin-yang diviner, Abe no Seimei. There was a branch of Abe in the Tohoku region that regularly caused problems for later courts. And of course there is the modern political dynasty, as well, including the late Prime Minister, Abe Shinzo. However, it is somewhat difficult to know just who is actually related. The poet Nakamaro may be named for a village, rather than for his relationship to the court family. There are even different ways of spelling and pronouncing the Abe name, even in the Nihon Shoki itself. The Abe family was large enough that it would not have been difficult for someone to claim a relationship that didn’t exist, particularly in some of the more chaotic times. Still, we’ll try to keep track of them as best we can, at least as they interact with our narrative. In this case, that means keeping an eye on Abe no Ohomaro and his position at court.
Besides affirming the ministers, there was also the appointment of a queen. Here we again see the trend to connect this dynasty with the previous, as Takewo’s primary wife was none other than Tachibana no Nakatsu, a daughter of Ohoke no Ohokimi, aka Ninken Tennou. Together they had one son and three daughters, so technically it would appear that he did have an heir when he passed, but as we’ll see, that isn’t quite how the succession ended up working out.
One of the major events of this reign seems rather substantial. That’s the creation of a government house—basically an administrative center—in northern Kyushu, specifically in Nanotsu no Kuchi. Ostensibly it was to organize granaries to consolidate and distribute food as necessary. Of course, it can’t be forgotten that rice was not just food, but also the basis of the economy. So granaries were just as much a place that taxes could be collected, and that would have given officials there a tidy sum, some of which was no doubt destined for Yamato, but which I imagine was also used to help grease the wheels of local government.
We’ve seen this coming for some time. We see the military subdual of Kyushu in the old stories, and we see various people sent out to bring it to heel or otherwise administer at least the northern areas, which would have been part of the critical trade routes between Yamato and the mainland. Mononobe no Arakahi had been sent down with what we are told was a “battleax” of office to put down the Iwai Rebellion. That was about ten years ago, and we see Arakahi still in the government. Now, however, Yamato seems to be consolidating its hold over the area, instituting economic controls, beyond just the threat of military force.
There are also the various areas and families that they drew upon to fund and kickstart this venture. Most of it is from the Yamato region—Mamuta, in Kawachi; Owari, near modern Nagoya; Nihinomi, likely near Ohosaka; and Iga. The families in charge of this include Aso no Kimi, who must have had some leverage in Mamuta; Soga no Iname, who held influence of the Owari no Muraji; Mononobe no Arakahi, who apparently was in charge of the Nihinomi no Muraji; and then the Abe family, who directed the Iga no Omi. Of these, I find the Aso no Kimi most intriguing, as the others are all related to the great ministers of state. Aso no Kimi feels out of place, to me. It may be a reference to Mt. Aso or similar. But I also can’t help but notice that we have one Great Minister missing: Ohotomo no Kanamura, though not for long.
The rest of the setup of this government house—what sounds suspiciously like the area we’ll later come to know as the Dazaifu—included commandments that the local regions of the island of Kyuushuu also provide funds, which is to say rice. They consolidated reserves from Tsukushi, Hi, and Toyo, which is mostly northern Kyushu.
This was all in the year 536. Whether that is when it was commanded or that is when it was setup is not quite clear to me. One suspects that it would have fallen to Mononobe no Arakahi to administer things from this new government center, if it weren’t for that fact that Arakahi passed away only about a month later.
It is unclear who administered this new government house immediately, but in the year following, 537, and with Silla breathing down Nimna’s neck, Takewo’s government assigned Ohotomo no Kanamura’s sons, Iwa and Sadehiko, to assist Nimna. Iwa took charge of the government in Tsukushi, which would have been supplying any adventures on the peninsula, including raising troops and making preparations. Meanwhile his brother, Sadehiko went to Nimna and, we are told, “restored the peace” there, as well as lending aid to Yamato’s ally, Baekje.
This is rather vague. I don’t see anything in the Samguk Sagi that clearly equates to this. In 532, the Silla Annals talk about the King of Keumgwan Kara surrendering to Silla, though Kara would continue to be a going concern for at least another sixty years or so. It is possible that this had something to do with this new expedition around 537, but it isn’t clear.
Takewo would pass away in 539. His kofun near Mt. Unebi, just a little ways north of his palace at Hinokuma. It is identified as one in modern Toriyacho. It is said that he was buried together with his wife, Tachibana, and one of their children, who died while still quite young.
And that’s where we might end things, but there are a few other points to note for this period. For one thing, this is a great time to discuss periodization in Japanese history, since some people claim that the Asuka period started during this reign—specifically referencing the date of 538.
Periodization of historical eras often seems straightforward, but more often than not it is anything but. Periods may be designated for political reasons or even cultural. Political reasons may include things like a change in government, or even a change in the location of government. Certainly the Nara period, starting in 710, is based quite squarely on the foundation of Heijo-kyo, the continental style capital in modern Nara city. Likewise the Heian and Kamakura eras are often dated from the founding of the governments in those areas.
However, just because the government moved does not necessarily mean that things changed overnight, or even much at all. Likewise there were smaller changes that often happened within these periods, so within the Heian and Kamakura periods, you get terms like the Fujiwara and Insei periods to denote specific aspects of who was controlling the government at any given time.
For some, that means that the Asuka period doesn’t start until the reign of Toyomike Kashikiya-hime, aka Suiko Tenno, in 593, and by the narrowest definition only continues until the Taika reforms in 645, which are easily defined political dates with broad agreement across the scholarship for when they occurred.
And yet, we know that there were governments based out of the Asuka period before that, if the Nihon Shoki is to be at all believed. So if this is about the location of the capital, why not start it with Takewo and his palace? Shouldn’t that be the start of the so-called “Asuka Period”? After all, during this period the sovereigns continued the practice of building new palaces upon their ascension, with most, though not all, being in the Asuka area. And yet, that probably wouldn’t really help break up the period in the most meaningful ways. After all, if we go with that idea, why not start when Wohodo no Ohokimi built his palace in Iware, just a little to the north? What was so different from one to the other?
On the other hand, cultural periods tend to focus on changes in things like art or even thought. These often overlap well, but not exactly, with political periods. For instance, you may hear about the Higashiyama period, a time in the Muromachi when the Higashiyama era of Kyoto was ascendant, and it was influencing artistic growth and evolution across the country. But even that is a hard thing to tack down.
For the Asuka period, perhaps the biggest change – and one we will spend a lot of time discussing – was the introduction of Buddhism, that foreign religion from India, transported across Eurasia to the Korean peninsula and then over to Japan. The primary figure to whom the spread of Buddhism in Japan is attributed is the enigmatic Shotoku Taishi, who served as a regent for Toyomike Kashikiya hime, and instituted myriad reforms, often along continental models. And yet, if we want to look at the start of Buddhism, that actually goes further back—and for many it goes back all the way to the years included in this reign—specifically the year 538.
Now the year 538 in the Nihon Shoki contains no mention of Buddhism. In fact, the Nihon Shoki wouldn’t have a record of anything related to Buddhist teachings coming to Japan until about 13 or 14 years later, in the reign of the following sovereign, known as Kimmei Tenno, whom we will be getting to shortly. This chronicle states that it was in about 552 when an envoy from Baekje brough an image of the Buddha as well as Buddhist scriptures to the court.
However, these days it seems that many scholars prefer a date of 538 for this particular event. The 538 date comes from the records of Gangoji Temple—the Gangouji Garan Engi—as well as the Jouguu Shoutoku Houou Teisetsu, aka the Jouguu-ki. This latter is purported to be a biography of Shotoku Taishi, and comes from the 8th century, so contemporary with the Nihon Shoki, the Kojiki, and the Sendai Kuji Hongi. Both of these sources lend credence to the idea of 538 being when these Buddhist icons first came over, and so many people will start the Asuka period at this date.
To be clear, it isn’t as if Buddhism came over once and that was the end of it and everybody became Buddhist. This is just the first recorded instance of Buddhist items and ideas entering Japan—it wasn’t until later, as the court was adopting more and more continental ways, that Buddhism really gained acceptance and spread. Eventually it seems that state sponsorship of temples would override the construction of large kofun, as economic resources and labor were shifted to these new institutions of the state, bringing the Kofun era to its eventual end. But that is still down the road for us. Right now we are just at the beginning of the introduction of Buddhism, and while things are changing and the state is definitely growing, life didn’t suddenly take a turn one way or the other.
As for the date of 538—why was this, in hindsight, incredibly important religious and cultural event not mentioned in the reign of Takewo? Why was it instead mentioned in the reign of his successor? I’ve seen a few theories, but nothing that can concretely answer this question. Of course, there is the possibility that Takewo just wasn’t as impressive. The Chronicles seem to take issue with both his lineage and his elder brother’s, suggesting they weren’t true heirs because they did not have the full pedigree that someone like their brother, Ame Kunioshi, had. Of course, that could also have something to do with the path history took—to the Chroniclers it only made sense, but I think we can all see how that could have turned out differently.
There is also a theory that Ame Kunioshi, aka Kimmei Tenno, was actually co-ruling. Some have even suggested that Takewo and his brother, Magari no Ohine, were fictional, though why they would need to pad things out is anybody’s guess. It certainly does not seem unreasonable to think that some tradition of co-rulership had briefly continued in some form. As such, it may be that it did happen during Ame Kunioshi’s reign, but that said reign overlapped with his brother. If that were the case, the Chroniclers may have been teasing the two apart to provide a more direct narrative.
In the end, it is hard to know exactly why the dates don’t correspond between the different documents, but for our part I think we can say that we have now at least dipped our toes into the Asuka Period, especially as we get into the reign of Takewo’s younger step-brother, the youngest son of Wohodo no Ohokimi, or so we are told: Ame Kunioshi Hiraki Hiro Niwa, aka Kimmei Tennou
But that will be for another episode, and there is so much to talk about: More contact with the continent, further discussion of the coming of Buddhism, and perhaps a look at some of the archaeology, including some volcanic events that don’t seem to have made it into the Chronicles themselves. All of that, coming up.
Until then, thank you for listening and 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.
And that’s all for now. Thank you again, and I’ll see you next episode on Sengoku Daimyo’s Chronicles of Japan.

References

Kim, P., & Shultz, E. J. (2013). The 'Silla annals' of the 'Samguk Sagi'. Gyeonggi-do: Academy of Korean Studies Press.
Bentley, John. (2006). The Authenticity of Sendai Kuji Hongi: a New Examination of Texts, with a Translation and Commentary. ISBN-90-04-152253.
Best, J. (2006). A History of the Early Korean Kingdom of Paekche, together with an annotated translation of The Paekche Annals of the Samguk sagi. Cambridge (Massachusetts); London: Harvard University Asia Center. doi:10.2307/j.ctt1tg5q8p
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

Episode 79: Ankan's Glass Bowl

January 16, 2023 Joshua Badgley

Glass bowl from central Asia, said to be from the tomb of Ankan Tennō. Photo by author.

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This episode we talk about the bowl (above) said to be from the tomb of Ankan Tennō, but we also talk about more than that. The above bowl is said to be from an early 6th century tomb, and appears consistent with at least 5th century Sassanid glassware.

Similar glassware is found elsewhere and in a Sassanian context

Sassanid glass bowl fragment found on Okinoshima island

Glass fragment found on Okinoshima island, forming part of a Sassanid glass bowl. From the National Museum of Japanese History in Sakura. Photo by author.

Glass plate and bowl

Glass plate and bowl, with origins in Central Asia (likely Sassanid Persia), excavated from Niizawa Senzuka Kofun and on display at the Tokyo National Museum. Photo by author.

Sassanid Glass Bowl

From the British Museum. Photo by Geni, CC BY-SA 4.0, via Wikimedia Commons

Sassanid Glass Bolws

From the Tabriz Museum. Photo by Alborz Fallah at English Wikipedia, CC BY-SA 3.0 , via Wikimedia Commons

Welcome to Sengoku Daimyo’s Chronicles of Japan. My name is Joshua, and this is Episode 79: Ankan’s Glass Bowl.
We are currently in the early part of the 6th century. Last episode was our New Year’s wrapup, but just before that we talked about the reign of Magari no Ōye, aka Ohine, aka Ankan Tennō. According to the Chronicles, he was the eldest son of Wohodo, aka Keitai Tennō, coming to the throne in 534. For all of the various Miyake, or Royal Grannaries, that he granted, his reign only lasted about two years, coming to an unfortunate end in the 12th month of 535. The Chronicles claim that Ohine was 70 years old when he died, which would seem to indicate he was born when his father, Wohodo, was only 13 years of age. That seems rather young, but not impossibly so.
It is said that Ankan Tennō was buried on the hill of Takaya, in the area of Furuichi. And that is where my personal interest in him and his short reign might end, if not for a glass bowl that caught my eye in the Tokyo National Museum.
Specifically, it was the Heiseikan, which is where the Tokyo National Museum hosts special exhibitions, but it also hosts a regular exhibition on Japanese archaeology. In fact, if you ever get the chance, I highly recommend checking it out. I mean, let’s be honest, the Tokyo National Museum is one of my favorite places to visit when I’m in Tokyo. I think there is always something new—or at least something old that I find I’m taking a second look at.
The Japanese archaeology section of the Heiseikan covers from the earliest stone tools through the Jomon, Yayoi, Kofun, and up to about the Nara period. They have originals or replicas of many items that we’ve talked about on the podcast, including the gold seal of King Na of Wa, the Suda Hachiman mirror, and the swords from Eta Funayama and Inariyama kofun, which mention Wakatakiru no Ōkimi, generally thought to be the sovereign known as Yuuryaku Tennō. They also have one of the large iron tate, or shields, on loan from Isonokami Shrine, and lots of bronze mirrors and various types of haniwa.
Amongst this treasure trove of archaeological artifacts, one thing caught my eye from early on. It is a small, glass bowl, round in shape, impressed throughout with a series of round indentations, almost like a giant golf ball. Dark brown streaks crisscross the bowl, where it has been broken and put back together at some point in the past. According to the placard, this Juuyo Bunkazai, or Important Cultural Property, is dated to about the 6th century, was produced somewhere in West Asia, and it is said to have come from the tomb of none other than Ankan Tennō himself.
This has always intrigued me. First and foremost there is the question of provenance—while there are plenty of tombs that have been opened over the years, generally speaking the tombs of the imperial family, especially those identified as belonging to reigning sovereigns, have been off limits to most archaeological investigations. So how is it that we have artifacts identified with the tomb of Ankan Tennō, if that is the case?
The second question, which almost trumps the first, is just how did a glass bowl from west Asia make it all the way to Japan in the 6th century? Of course, Japan and northeast Asia in general were not strangers to glassmaking—glass beads have a long history both on the Korean peninsula and in the archipelago, including the molds used to make them. However, it is one thing to melt glass and pour it into molds, similar to working with cast bronze. These bowls, however, appear to be something different. They were definitely foreign, and, as we shall see, they had made quite the journey.
So let’s take a look and see if we can’t answer both of these questions, and maybe learn a little bit more about the world of 6th century Japan along the way.
To start with, let’s look at the provenance of this glass bowl. Provenance is important—there are numerous stories of famous “finds” that turned out to be fakes, or else items planted by someone who wanted to get their name out there. Archaeology—and its close cousin, paleontology—can get extremely competitive, and if you don’t believe me just look up the Bone Wars of the late 19th century. Other names that come to mind: The infamous Piltdown man, the Cardiff Giant, and someone we mentioned in one of our first episodes, Fujimura Shin’ichi, who was accused of salting digs to try to claim human habitation in Japan going back hundreds of thousands of years.
This is further complicated by the fact that, in many cases, the situation behind a given find is not necessarily well documented. There are Edo period examples of Jomon pottery, or haniwa, that were found, but whose actual origins have been lost to time. Then there are things like the seal of King Na of Wa, which is said to have been discovered by a farmer, devoid of the context that would help to otherwise clear the questions that continue to surround such an object. On top of this, there are plenty of tombs that have been worn down over the ages—where wind and water have eroded the soil, leaving only the giant stone bones, or perhaps washing burial goods into nearby fields or otherwise displacing them.
So what is the story with the tomb of Ankan Tennō, and this glass bowl?
To answer this, let’s first look at the tomb attributed to Ankan Tennō. The Nihon Shoki tells us in the 8th century that this tomb was located at Takaya, in the area of Furuichi. This claim is later repeated by the Engi Shiki in the 10th century. Theoretically, the compilers of both of these works had some idea of where this was, but in the hundreds of years since then, a lot has happened. Japan has seen numerous governments, as well as war, famine, natural disaster, and more. At one point, members of the royal household were selling off calligraphy just to pay for the upkeep of the court, and while the giant kofun no doubt continued to be prominent features for locals in the surrounding areas, the civilian and military governments of the intervening centuries had little to no budget to spare for their upkeep. Records were lost, as were many details.
Towards the end of the Edo period, and into the early Meiji, a resurgence in interest in the royal, or Imperial, family and their ancient mausoleums caused people to investigate the texts and attempt to identify mausoleums for each of the sovereigns, as well as other notable figures, in the Kojiki and the Nihon Shoki. Given that many of those figures are likely fictional or legendary individuals, one can see how this may be problematic. And yet, the list that eventually emerged has become the current list of kofun protected by the Imperial Household Agency as imperial mausolea.
Based on what we know, today, some of these official associations seem obviously questionable. Some of them, for instance, are not even keyhole shaped tombs—for instance, some are circular, or round tombs, where the claim is often made that the other parts of the tomb were eroded or washed away. Still others engender their own controversy, such as who, exactly, is buried in Daisen-ryō, the largest kofun, claimed to be the resting place of Ōsazaki no Mikoto, aka Nintoku Tennō. Some people, however, claim that it is actually the sovereign Woasatsuma Wakugo, aka Ingyō Tennō, who is buried there, instead. What is the truth? Well, without opening up the main tomb, who is to say, and even then it is possible that any evidence may have already been lost to the acidic soils of the archipelago, which are hardly kind to organic matter.
By the way, quick divergence, here—if you look up information on Daisen-ryō, aka Daisen Kofun, you may notice that there are drawings of a grave, including a coffin, associated with it. That might get you thinking, as I did at one point, that Daisen kofun had already been opened, but it turns out that was a grave on the slopes of the square end of the kofun, and not from the main, circular burial mound. Theoretically this may have been an important consort, or perhaps offspring or close relative of the main individual interred in the kofun, but most likely it is not for the person for whom the giant mound was actually erected. So, yes, Daisen kofun remains unopened, at least as far as we know.
As for the kofun identified for Ankan Tennō, today that is the tomb known as Furuichi Tsukiyama Kofun, aka Takaya Tsukiyama Kofun. While the connection to Ankan Tennō may be somewhat unclear, the kofun has had its own colorful history, in a way. Now most of the reports I could find, from about ’92 up to 2022, place this kofun, which is a keyhole shaped kofun, in the correct time period—about the early to mid-6th century, matching up nicely with a 534 to 535 date for the reign given to Ankan Tennō. But what is fascinating is the history around the 15th to 16th centuries. It was just after the Ounin War, in 1479, when Hatakeyama Yoshihiro decided to build a castle here, placing the honmaru, the main enclosure, around the kofun, apparently incorporating the kofun and its moats into the castle design. The castle, known as Takaya Castle, would eventually fall to Oda Nobunaga’s forces in 1575, and most of the surrounding area was burned down in the fighting, bringing the kofun’s life as a castle to an end.
Some of the old earthworks still exist, however, and excavations in the area have helped determine the shape of the old castle, though there still have not been any fulsome excavations of the mound that I have found. This makes sense as the kofun is designated as belonging to a member of the imperial lineage.
There are, however, other keyhole shaped kofun from around the early 6th century that are also found in the same area, which also could be considered royal mausolea, and would seem to fit the bill just as well as this particular tomb. In addition, there are details in the Chronicles, such as the fact that Magari no Ohine, aka Ankan Tennō, was supposedly buried with his wife and his younger sister. This is, however, contradicted by records like the 10th century Engi Shiki, where two tombs are identified, one for Ankan Tennō and one for his wife, Kasuga no Yamada, so either the Chronicles got it wrong, or there were already problems with tomb identification just two centuries later. So we still aren’t entirely sure that this is Ankan Tennō’s tomb.
But at least we know that the glass bowl came from a 6th century kingly tomb, even if that tomb was only later identified as belonging to Ankan Tennō, right?
Well, not so fast.
The provenance on the bowl is a bit more tricky than that. You see, the bowl itself came to light in 1950, when a private individual in Fuse, Ōsaka invited visiting scholar Ishida Mosaku to take a look. According to his report at the time, the bowl was in a black lacquered box and wrapped in a special cloth, with a written inscription that indicated that the bowl had been donated to a temple in Furuichi named Sairin-ji.
There are documents from the late Edo period indicating that various items were donated to Sairin-ji temple between the 16th to the 18th centuries, including quote-unquote “utensils” said to have been washed out of the tomb believed to be that of Ankan Tennō. Ishida Mosaku and other scholars immediately connected this glass bowl with one or more of those accounts. They were encouraged by the fact that there is a similar bowl found in the Shōsōin, an 8th century repository at Tōdai-ji temple, in Nara, which houses numerous artifacts donated on behalf of Shōmu Tennō. Despite the gulf of time between them—two hundred years between the 6th and 8th centuries—this was explained away in the same way that Han dynasty mirrors, made in about the 3rd century, continued to show up in burials for many hundreds of years afterwards, likewise passed down as familial heirlooms.
Still, the method of its discovery, the paucity of direct evidence, and the lack of any direct connection with where it came from leaves us wondering—did this bowl really come from the tomb of Ankan Tennō? Even moreso, did it come from a 6th century tomb at all? Could it not have come from some other tomb?
We could tie ourselves up in knots around this question, and I would note that if you look carefully at the Tokyo National Museum’s own accounting of the object they do mention that it is quote-unquote “possibly” from the tomb of Ankan Tennō.
What does seem clear, however, is that its manufacture was not in Japan. Indeed, however it came to our small group of islands on the northeastern edge of the Eurasian continent, it had quite the journey, because it does appear to be genuinely from the Middle East—specifically from around the time of the Sassanian or Sassanid empire, the first Iranian empire, centered on the area of modern Iran.
And it isn’t the only one. First off, of course, there is the 8th century bowl in the Shousoin I just mentioned, but there are also examples of broken glass found on Okinoshima, an island deep in the middle of the strait between Kyushu and the Korean peninsula, which has a long history as a sacred site, mentioned in the Nihon Shoki, and attached to the Munakata shrine in modern Fukuoka. Both Okinoshima and the Shōsōin—at least as part of the larger Nara cultural area—are on the UNESCO register of World Heritage sites, along with the Mozu-Furuichi kofun group, of which the Takaya Tsukiyama kofun is one..
Okinoshima is a literal treasure trove for archaeologists. However, its location and status have made it difficult to fully explore. The island is still an active sacred site, and so investigations are balanced with respect for local tradition. The lone occupant of the island is a Shinto priest, one of about two dozen who rotate spending 10 days out at the island, tending the sacred site. Women are still not allowed, and for centuries, one day a year they allowed up to 200 men on the island after they had purified themselves in the ocean around the island. Since then, they have also opened up to researchers, as well as military and media, at least in some instances.
The island is apparently littered with offerings. Investigations have demonstrated that this island has been in use since at least the 4th century. As a sacred site, guarding the strait between Kyushu and the Korean peninsula, fishermen and sailors of all kinds would make journeys to the island and leave offerings of one kind or another, and many of them are still there: clay vessels, swords, iron ingots, bronze mirrors, and more. The island’s location, which really is in the middle of the straits, and not truly convenient to any of the regular trading routes, means that it has never really been much of a strategic site, just a religious one, and one that had various religious taboos, so it hasn’t undergone the centuries of farming and building that have occurred elsewhere.
Offerings are scattered in various places, often scattered around or under boulders and large rocks that were perhaps seen as particularly worthy of devotion. Since researchers have been allowed in, over 80,000 treasures have been found and catalogued. Among those artifacts that have been brought back is glass, including glass from Sassanid Persia. Pieces of broken glass bowls, like the one said to have come from Ankan’s tomb, as well as what appear to be beads made from broken glass pieces, have been recovered over the years, once more indicating their presence in the trade routes to the mainland, although when, exactly, they came over can be a little more difficult to place.
That might be helped by two other glass artifacts, also found in the archaeological exhibit of the Heiseikan in the Tokyo National Museum: a glass bowl and dish discovered at Niizawa Senzuka kofun Number 126, in Kashihara city, in Nara.
This burial is believed to date to the latter half of the 5th century, and included an iron sword, numerous gold fittings and jewelry, and even an ancient clothes iron, which at the time looked like a small frying pan, where you could put hot coals or similar items in the pan and use the flat bottom to help iron out wrinkles in cloth. Alongside all of this were also discovered two glass vessels. One was a dark, cobalt-blue plate, with a stand and very shallow conical shape. The other was a round glass bowl with an outwardly flared lip. Around the smooth sides, the glass has been marked with three rows of circular dots that go all the way around, not dissimilar from the indentations in the Ankan and Shōsōin glass bowls.
All of these, again, are believed to have come from Sassanid Persia, modern Iran, and regardless of the provenance of the Ankan bowl, it seems that we have clear evidence that Sassanian glassworks were making their way to Japan. But how? How did something like glass—hardly known for being the most robust of materials—make it all the way from Sassanid Persia to Yamato between the 5th and 8th centuries?
To start with, let’s look at Sassanid Persia and its glass.
Sassanid Persia—aka Sassanid or Sassanian Iran—is the name given to the empire that replaced the Parthian empire, and is generally agreed to have been founded sometime in the early 3rd century. The name “Sassanid” refers to the legendary dynastic founder, Sassan, though the first historical sovereign appears to be Ardeshir I, who helped put the empire on the map.
Ardeshir I called his empire “Eran sahr”, and it is often known as an Iranian or Persian empire, based on their ties to Pars and the use of the Middle Persian, or Farsi, language. For those not already well aware, Farsi is one of several Iranian languages, though over the years many of the various Iranian speaking peoples would often be classified as “Persian” in English literature. That said, there is quite a diversity of Iranian languages and people who speak them, including Farsi, Pashto, Dari, Tajik, and the ancient Sogdian language, which I’m sure we’ll touch on more given their importance in the ancient silk road trade. Because of the ease with which historical “Iranian” ethnic groups can be conflated with the modern state, I am going to largely stick with the term Persian, here, but just be aware that the two words are often, though not always, interchangeable.
The Sassanid dynasty claimed a link to the older Achaemenid dynasty, and over the subsequent five centuries of their rule they extended their borders, dominating the area between the Caspian Sea and the Persian Gulf, eastward to much of modern Afghanistan and Pakistan, running right up to the Hindu Kush and the Pamir mountains. They held sway over much of Central Asia, including the area of Transoxiana. With that they had access to both the sea routes, south of India and the overland routes through the Tianshan mountains and the northern and southern routes around the great Taklamakan desert – so, basically, any trade passing between Central and East Asia would pass through Sassanid territory.
The Persian empire of the Sassanids was pre-Islamic—Islamic Arab armies would not arrive until about the 7th century, eventually bringing an end to the Sassanid dynasty. Until that point, the Persian empire was largely Zoroastrian, an Iranian religion based around fire temples, restored after the defeat of the Parthians, where eternal flames were kept burning day and night as part of their ritual practice.
The Sassanids inherited a Persian culture in an area that had been dominated by the Parthians, and before that the Hellenistic Seleucids, and their western edge bordered with the Roman empire. Rome’s establishment in the first century BCE coincided with the invention of glassblowing techniques, and by the time of the Sassanid Empire these techniques seem to have been well established in the region.
Sassanid glass decorated with patterns of ground, cut, and polished hollow facets—much like what we see in the examples known in the Japanese islands—comes from about the 5th century onward. Prior to that, the Sassanian taste seems to have been for slightly less extravagant vessels, with straight or slightly rounded walls.
Sassanid glass was dispersed in many different directions along their many trade routes across the Eurasian continent, and archaeologists have been able to identify glass from this region not just by its shape, but by the various physical properties based on the formulas and various raw materials used to make the glass.
As for the trip to Japan, this was most likely through the overland routes. And so the glass would have been sold to merchants who would take it up through Transoxiana, through passes between the Pamirs and the Tianshan mountains, and then through a series of oasis towns and city-states until it reached Dunhuang, on the edge of the ethnic Han sphere of influence.
For a majority of this route, the glass was likely carried by Sogdians, another Iranian speaking people from the region of Transoxiana. Often simply lumped in with the rest of the Iranian speaking world as “Persians”, Sogdians had their own cultural identity, and the area of Sogdia is known to have existed since at least the ancient Achaemenid dynasty. From the 4th to the 8th century, Sogdian traders plied the sands of Central Eurasia, setting up a network of communities along what would come to be known as the Silk Road.
It is along this route that the glassware, likely packed in straw or some other protective material, was carried on the backs of horses, camels, and people along a journey of several thousand kilometers, eventually coming to the fractious edge of the ethnic Han sphere. Whether it was these same Sogdian traders that then made their way to the ocean and upon boats out to the Japanese islands is unknown, but it is not hard imagining crates being transferred from merchant to merchant, east, to the Korean Peninsula, and eventually across the sea.
The overland route from Sogdia is one of the more well-known—and well-worn—routes on what we modernly know as the Silk Road, and it’s very much worth taking the time here to give a brief history of how this conduit between Western Asia/Europe and Eastern Asia developed over the centuries.
One of the main crossroads of this area is the Tarim Basin, the area that, today, forms much of Western China, with the Tianshan mountains in the north and the Kunlun Mountains, on the edge of the Tibetan plateau, to the south. In between is a large desert, the Taklamakan desert, which may have once been a vast inland sea. Even by the Han dynasty, a vast saltwater body known as the Puchang Sea existed in its easternmost regions. Comparable to some of the largest of the Great Lakes, and fed by glacial run-off, the lake eventually dwindled to become the salt-marshes around Lop Nur. And yet, researchers still find prominent boat burials out in what otherwise seems to be the middle of the desert.
Around the Tarim basin were various cultures, often centered on oases at the base of the mountains. Runoff from melting ice and snow in the mountains meant a regular supply of water, and by following the mountains one could navigate from watering hole to watering hole, creating a natural roadway through the arid lands. In the middle of the Basin, however, is the great Taklamakan desert, and even during the Han dynasty it was a formidable and almost unpassable wasteland. One could wander the sands for days or weeks with no water and no indication of direction other than the punishing sun overhead. It is hardly a nice place and remains largely unpopulated, even today.
While there were various cultures and city-states around the oasis towns, the first major power that we know held sway, at least over the northern route, were the Xiongnu. Based in the area of modern Mongolia, the Xiongnu swept down during the Qin and early Han dynasties, displacing or conquering various people.
An early exploration of the Tarim basin and its surroundings was conducted by the Han dynasty diplomat, Zhang Qian. Zhang Qian secretly entered Xiongnu territory with the goal of reaching the Yuezhi—a nomadic group that had been one of those displaced by the Xiongnu. The Yuezhi had been kicked out of their lands in the Gansu region and moved all the way to the Ferghana valley, in modern Tajikistan, a part of the region known as Transoxiana. Although Zhang Qian was captured and spent 10 years in service to the Xiongnu, he never forgot his mission and eventually made his way to the Yuezhi. By that time, however, the Yuezhi had settled in to their new life, and they weren’t looking for revenge.
While Zhang Qian’s news may have been somewhat disappointing for the Han court, what was perhaps more important was the intelligence he brought back concerning the routes through the Tarim basin, and the various people there, as well as lands beyond. The Han dynasty continued to assert itself in the area they called the “Western Regions”, and General Ban Chao would eventually be sent to defeat the Xiongnu and loosen their hold in the region, opening up the area all the way to modern Kashgar.
Ban Chao would even send an emissary, Gan Ying, to try to make the journey all the way to the Roman empire, known to the Han court as “Daqin”, using the name of the former Qin dynasty as a sign of respect for what they had heard. However, Gan Ying only made it as far as the land of Anxi—the name given to Parthia—where he was told that to make it to Rome, or Daqin, would require crossing the ocean on a voyage that could take months or even years. Hearing this, Gan Ying decided to turn back and report on what he knew.
Of course if he actually made it to the Persian Gulf—or even to the Black Sea, as some claim—Gan Ying would have been much closer to Rome than the accounts lead us to believe. It is generally thought that he was being deliberately mislead by Parthian merchants who felt they might be cut out if Rome and the Han Dynasty formed more direct relations. Silks from East Asia, along with other products, were already a lucrative opportunity for middlemen across the trade routes, and nobody wanted to be cut out of that position if they could help it.
That said, the Parthians and, following them the Sassanid Persians, continued to maintain relationships with dynasties at the other end of what we know as the Silk Road, at least when they could. The Sassanid Persians, when they came to power, were known to the various northern and southern dynasties as Bosi—possibly pronounced something like Puasie, at the time, no doubt their attempt to render the term “Parsi”. We know of numerous missions in both directions between various dynasties, and Sassanian coins are regularly found the south of modern China.
And so we can see that even in the first and second centuries, Eurasia was much more connected than one might otherwise believe. Goods would travel from oasis town to oasis town, and be sold in markets, where they might just be picked up by another merchant. Starting in the fourth century, the Sogdian merchants began to really make their own presence known along these trade routes. They would set up enclaves in various towns, and merchants would travel from Sogdian enclave to Sogdian enclave with letters of recommendation, as well as personal letters for members of the community, setting up their own early postal service. This allowed the Sogdian traders to coordinate activities and kept them abreast of the latest news.
And so this is how our glass bowls and other goods likely made their way from Sasanid Persia. Most likely they were sold to merchants who took them to Afrasiab, known today as Samarkand, in modern Uzbekistan, a Sogdian city that would become one of the major cosmopolitan centers on the Silk Road. From there they likely traveled through the Ferghana valley, where the Yuezhi had once settled. This area was renowned for its horses, known as “Heavenly Horses”, which fetched high prices in Eastern markets.
To pass from Ferghana into the Tarim Basin, one must cross over the Alai mountains and descend to the city of Kashgar. From there one can take the southern route, through Khotan and the area generally controlled by Tibet or the northern route, hitting the oases of Aksu, Kuqa, and more. Unless one looped further north to pick up some famous hami melons, the merchant caravan would likely find its way to Dunhuang, where the various routes through the Tarim basin converge. From there, it was a matter of taking the roads through the Gansu corridor to the Yellow River and beyond.
I’m not sure we have a clear indication how long this trip would take. Theoretically, one could travel from Kashgar to Xi’an and back in well under a year, if one were properly motivated and provisioned—it is roughly 4,000 kilometers, and travel would have likely been broken up with long stays to rest and refresh at the various towns along the way.
I’ve personally had the opportunity to travel from Kashgar to Turpan, though granted it was in the comfort of an air conditioned bus. Still, having seen the modern conditions, the trip would be grueling, but not impossible back in the day, and if the profits were lucrative enough, then why not do it—it is not dissimilar to the adventurers from Europe in the 16th century who went out to sea to find their own fortunes.
And so the glass bowl likely made its way through the markets of the Tarim basin, to the markets of various capitals in the Yellow River or Yangzi regions—depending on who was in charge in any given year—and eventually made its way to the Korean peninsula and from there to a ship across the Korean strait.
Of course, those ships weren’t simply holding a single glass vessel. Likely they were laden with a wide variety of goods. Some things, such as fabric, incense, and other more biodegradable products would not be as likely to remain, and even glass breaks and oxidizes, and metal rusts away. Furthermore, many of the goods had likely been picked over by the time any shipments arrived in the islands, making things such as these glass bowls even more rare and scarce.
Still, this bowl, whether it belonged to Ankan or not, tells us a story. It is the story of a much larger world, well beyond the Japanese archipelago, and one that will be encroaching more and more as we continue to explore this period. Because it wasn’t just physical goods that were being transported along the Silk Road. The travelers also carried with them news and new ideas. One of these ideas was a series of teachings that came out of India and arrived in China during the Han dynasty, known as Buddhism. It would take until the 6th century, but Buddhism would eventually make its way to Japan, the end of the Silk Road.
But that is for another episode. For now, I think we’ll close out our story of Ankan and his glass bowl. I hope you’ve enjoyed this little diversion, and from here we’ll continue on with our narrative as we edge closer and closer to the formal introduction of Buddhism and the era known as the Asuka Period.
Until then, thank you for listening and 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.
And that’s all for now. Thank you again, and I’ll see you next episode on Sengoku Daimyo’s Chronicles of Japan.

References

小寺知津子 (2023)。「カラス来た道:古代ユーラシアをつなぐ輝き。ISBN 978-4-642-05963-3
徳田　誠志 (2020).「伝安閑天皇陵出土ガラス碗」再発見の経緯と東京国立博物館への収蔵について ― 加藤三之雄教授（第二代社会学部長）の関与。「関西大学博物館紀要」。Vol. 26, pp 1-15. http://hdl.handle.net/10112/00020235
劉東波 (2017)。井上靖「玉碗記」論 : 対の器物から生まれた人物。http://hdl.handle.net/10191/5053
井原稔 (2014)。羽曳野市教育委員会 2014 『羽曳野市埋蔵文化財調査報告書73：古市遺跡群35』羽曳野市教育委員会。https://sitereports.nabunken.go.jp/17337
吉澤則男 (1992)。羽曳野市教育委員会 1992 『羽曳野市埋蔵文化財調査報告書27：羽曳野市内遺跡調査報告書平成3年度』羽曳野市教育委員会。 https://sitereports.nabunken.go.jp/en/17369
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

New Year's Recap 2023

January 1, 2023 Joshua Badgley

View of the top of the mound (or the treetops atop the mound) of Daisen kofun, from a pedestrian overpass near the northwest corner of the site. Photo by author.

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Greetings! And welcome to our New Year’s Recap Episode for 2023, where we look back at the past year, and a little at what is to come. We also talk a bit of the behind the scenes

Shinnen akemashite omedetou gozaimasu! Happy New Year!
Welcome to Sengoku Daimyo’s Chronicles of Japan. My name is Joshua and this is our New Year’s Recap Episode for 2023.
This year we covered topics from the 5th to the 6th centuries—from the time of Woasatsuma Wakugo no Sukune, aka Ingyou Tennou, back in episode 56, all the way up to Wohodo and his son, Magari no Ohoye, aka Keitai and Ankan Tennou, in episode 78. These are the 19th through 25th and 26th sovereigns, according to the official reckoning, though as we’ve mentioned there are possibly a few missing—and maybe even a few added. Still, in this time, we’ve seen the growth of the Yamato state, as well as various changes involving their relations with those on the other side of the continent. So let’s take a moment to look back at this and pull up from the individual stories to see how the larger narrative is coming along.
Before we get into that, a quick note of thanks for all of our listeners out there. We appreciate you—thank you for staying with us through this journey. It is just so great to know there are others out there who are interested in all of this. Also thanks to those who’ve reached out with assistance or with suggestions. While not everything fits into the format or what we are currently doing, I have a list of things that I’m looking for ways to do or insert into the narrative at some point.
I also thought I’d try to lift the curtain for you all a bit on the production of this little show, to help you understand a bit more about what goes into it.
So first off, for those who haven’t realized already, we aren’t part of a major podcast network and we don’t have a crew of people putting this together. For the most part it is me and my wife, both of whom have other jobs and responsibilities, doing our best to put it out there. Typically I’m looking for downtime to do the research and put a given episode together, and after I write my first draft I give it to her for a sanity check and editing. Once she’s had time to go over it, I record the podcast, which isn’t always smooth, and edit out as many of the mistakes as I can. Then we upload it—we are currently using Libsyn for distribution, and schedule it for release on either the first or the sixteenth of every month.
Once the episode is recorded, that’s usually where we start working on a blog post for the episode; I’m not sure how much people read the blogposts, vice just listen, since this is an audio medium more than anything else, but that is where I’ve tried to put up various names and individuals for people to follow along with what is going on, since we have so many different characters.
One of the things that takes the most time is searching through and finding the images for the podcast blogs. In some cases, I pull from our own extensive library of photos taken at various times and places, and otherwise I usually am looking for images in the public domain or at least using a license that can be used on the website.
Depending on the amount of time all this takes, I try to focus first and foremost on getting the audio out on a consistent and regular basis, and sometimes I have to come back to the blog post later.
I am hoping to add into this the transcripts for the show, to make things more accessible, as well as adding content up on YouTube, though that requires turning things into “video” which is all doable, just time consuming, especially with 78 episodes to update. The transcripts should also allow me to add captions on YouTube, but I’m still figuring that out.
And of course all of this is done as a labor of love at the moment—I still have a day job that pays the bills for hosting, new research material, etc., though Patreon and Ko-Fi donations are always appreciated.
So those are the things that go into making the podcast. If you have thoughts, advice, or questions, please feel free to reach out.
Now, looking at the past year, we’ve spent a lot of time with the family that many scholars know as the Kawachi dynasty. This is a term derived from the fact that early on they are said to have ruled from around the Naniwa area, and the giant keyhole tombs that popped up were largely in the Mozu-Furuichi tumulus group in modern Osaka, in the old land of Kawachi. This includes the largest tumuli ever built, including Daisen-ryou.
Daisen-ryou is the largest kofun in Japan and about the largest mausoleum for a single person in the world—on par with tomb of the Qin Shihuangdi, the first emperor of Qin, in modern Xi’an, for sheer size. It is several stories tall, and really is like a man-made mountain. It is also surrounded by numerous other kofun.
Compare this to the Great Pyramid, in Egypt. The Pyramids are taller, rising over 140 meters in the air compared to Daisen’s 47 meter height, but the pyramid rises from a square base about 53,000 square meters. Daisen’s mound, meanwhile, covers about 100,000 square meters, and with the moats, covers approximately 460,000 square meters in total.
I finally had the opportunity to visit the Mozu tumulus group in November this past year and it really is impressive. One thing about these tombs is the manpower that was clearly required to build them. They are *massive* and it required an enormous engineering effort. Before all the trees grew up on the mound and the surrounding earthworks—not to mention all of the modern buildings—these tombs would have been clearly viewable from miles around. This ability to mobilize individuals in a single effort is one of the key factors that archaeologists look at to assess the strength of the early state in the archipelago.
One other thing about these mounds, and something I’m not quite sure we addressed—recent investigations appear to indicate that most of them were built with solar and lunar considerations. While this might not be entirely obvious when looking at a map—they appear almost to be random at that point—a team out of Italy published an article in the journal, Remote Sensing, in January of this past year, 2022, that used satellite imagery to study the orientation of the major keyhole tombs in the Japanese archipelago. They determined that the orientations were not random, and that there appears to be a connection to both the sun and the moon, so that the main corridor would be illuminated by both throughout the year. Daisen Ryou is even oriented specifically to the summer solstice sunset.
Of course, some of these astronomical alignments may be affected by other factors. For example, those kofun near the eastern edge of the Nara basin won’t see the sunrise until it crests over the mountains, which may affect their orientation. Others may have also been influenced by things like proximity to sacred sites, like Mt. Miwa. And of course, subsidiary tombs, like the others in the Mozu Kofun group, were oriented in relation to the main tomb. None of this was done willy-nilly; there is still a lot to be considered, and it is also possible that the importance of various directions and points on the calendar changed over the centuries of kofun building and even with differences in local practice. There is still a lot of work to be done here, but it is fascinating to see continued work on this topic, including the use of modern technology, especially with the restrictions placed on modern archaeologists when it comes to excavating these kofun that remain so closely tied to the Japanese imperial family.
For all that we don’t know, the Mozu and Furuichi kofun groups do leave their mark on this period, which covered much of the last year. Even the Chronicles, as questionable as they may be in their narrative, describe courts at least attached to the Kawachi area, especially Naniwa, generally identified as modern Ohosaka, where the Yodo river empties into the Seto Inland Sea.
The first tenno we talked about in 2022 was Woasatsuma Wakugo no Sukune, aka Ingyou Tennou—curious for the apparent use of a courtly title, Sukune, in his name. Woasatsuma was supposedly disabled, although then miraculously healed, I guess? Either way, he wasn’t exactly expected to succeed his brothers, and yet he did.
Woasatsuma’s own death led to the kind of violent succession struggle that we’ve come to associate with this period. His own son, Anaho, aka Ankou Tennou, took the reins, but immediately went after the Kusaka line, supposedly because of some dastardly deeds by a rogue courtier, named Ne no Omi. After Anaho’s forces killed Prince Ohokusaka, it was only later that they found out it was all just a big misunderstanding. However, that’s not how Ohokusaka’s son, Mayuwaka, saw it, and he, at an extremely young age, took revenge and killed Anaho. This set off yet another bout of bloodletting that saw Anaho’s brother, Ohohatsuse Wakatakeru, murder his way through the royal family until he was the only surviving viable heir to the throne.
The rise of Wakatakeru, aka Yuuryaku Tennou, would seem to make him out as quite the villain. The Chroniclers certainly spill plenty of ink telling his story, but in hardly the most flattering of terms. And yet, his reign is one of the lengthier and more impactful reigns. He is also the first or second sovereign who appears to be confirmed by contemporary sources. The first might be Woasatsuma Wakugo, though this is questionable – the famous mirror from the Suda Hachiman Shrine has an inscription that can be read in several different ways, but may recall his marriage in one interpretation. For Wakatakeru, however, we have at least two swords from different parts of the archipelago that mention his name. This seems to confirm that there was not only a sovereign named Wakatakeru—or possibly Wakatakiru—around the right time, but they had enough influence that their name was apparently known across the archipelago.
This is also the time of the Five Kings of Wa from the Liu Song chronicles. How exactly these sovereigns line up with the Ohokimi of the Chronicles is still unclear—many assume that Bu must be Wakatakeru, since Bu and Takeru use the same character, at least in modern interpretations. A wrench in this theory is that Wakatakeru’s name on the two swords, mentioned above, use characters in a phonetic, rather than meaningful, way. So it isn’t entirely clear that Wakatakeru used that character during his reign. In fact, it is possible, though seemingly unlikely, that the five kings mentioned could be from another area of the Wa ethnic sphere altogether.
Whosoever the Liu Song were interacting with, the discussion of the Wa and their requests give us some interesting detail about their ambitions on the peninsula and the archipelago. Clearly someone on the Wa side was gathering enough support to not only make a trip to the Liu Song capital, situated as it was on the Yangtze river, but they were apparently credibly powerful enough for the Liu Song to take them seriously. It is interesting that they were willing to also grant them titles over groups like Silla, Nimna, and Kara—titles that, arguably, the Liu Song had no authority to actually enforce, let alone grant—and yet they balked at legitimating titles over Baekje’s territory. Of course they also continue to refer to the territories of Mahan and Jinhan, which may not have actually been a going concern at the time. They also differentiate between Nimna and Kara, which many later scholars would conflate into a single territory. As such, most of this just brings up more questions for the 5th century than it answers.
The archipelago’s relationship with the continent in the fifth century is complicated. Men of famous families are listed as having served in wars and fighting over on the continent, and there was certainly influx in the other direction, as well. There is plenty of evidence for Baekje and other groups moving to the continent and making a name of themselves.
They seem to have brought with them ideas for expanding Yamato’s control over the archipelago. For instance, we see the corporate -Be groups, groups created as a familial unit but geared around production of a specific good or service. Some of these, like the horse keeper’s Be, and the Jewel-maker’s Be, are based around particular professions, but others are groupings of peasant groups, whose agricultural output was designated for a specific function—either the support of a royal individual or the support of an institution, such as the maintenance of a royal kofun.
In particular, those groups created around production of a specific good or service could be made up of individuals throughout the archipelago, who reported, it seems, to a single courtier and their family. This nominally gave the court centralized control over these production groups, and blunted the rights of local lords to make demands of them. It was a truly impressive claim, one that I am hesitant to say was fully enforceable, but which nonetheless spoke to the aspirations of the court to become a central government.
An example of this was the Hata family, whose name seems to reference cloth production, something that was sought after on the continent, but who also use the character for the Qin dynasty, often claiming that they came from there, or possibly from “Jin-han” on the Korean peninsula, where a similar story claims the Qin name as the origin of that “Jin” moniker. Hata no Sake, a courtier who had an in with Wakatakeru, was placed in charge of all members of the Hata lineage—so theoretically all of those weaver families who had come over from the continent. In turn, he ensured that they turned out goods as taxes for the central court. The Hata family themselves would build a power base in the area of modern Kyouto, and a district in Kyouto still carries their name: Uzumasa, the name given to Hata no Sake and spelled out with the characters of “Great Hata”, or “Ohohata”.
This is also the era of numerous stories, including the first instance of the story of Urashima Tarou, Japan’s very own Rip Van Winkle character, although the story here is only in its infancy. Fact and fiction were still quite clearly interwoven, making it difficult to tell what was actually going on and what are just stories of a time long long ago.
Love him or hate him, Wakatakeru’s reign largely defines the 5th century. Before his death he placed the Ohotomo and the Mononobe in positions of great authority. Ohotomo no Muruya, and his descendant, Ohotomo no Kanamura, wielded considerable power—arguably more than the sovereigns that followed after Wakatakeru. Of those we saw Wakatakeru’s son, aka Seinei Tennou, but then he was followed by two sons—and even the daughter—of Prince Ichinobe, who was, perhaps, a sovereign in his own right.
Ihitoyo briefly took the throne—she is remembered as a short-lived regent, but in all honesty was likely a sovereign ruler in her own right—and then her two brothers, Woke and Ohoke—aka Kenzou and Ninken Tennou. They came to the throne through adoption, rather than birth, we are told, having gone into hiding after their father’s murder at the hands of Wakatakeru. Their reigns would not be extremely long, however, and eventually the throne passed to Ohatsuse Wakasazaki, aka Buretsu Tennou, the capstone on the Kawachi dynasty, which, despite its name, had theoretically moved back to the area of modern Sakurai, in the southeast corner of the Nara basin.
With Wakasazaki’s death, the court, under Ohotomo no Kanamura’s apparent leadership, sought out a new candidate, and they had to go pretty far afield to do it. They eventually settled on Wohodo, aka Keitai Tennou, and set him up on the throne. While there are some who doubt even the existence of Keitai Tennou, considering him a potentially legendary founder of yet another dynasty, he is the bridge the Chroniclers use between the Kawachi dynasty and our last line of Yamato sovereigns—ones that would lead us up through to the present day. Not that there weren’t schisms and weird branchings or power-sharing arrangements between various lines after this time, but from about this point on we generally agree that the sovereigns appear to be related back to a common ancestor in at least the 6th century. Beyond that, well, let’s just say that we don’t exactly trust everything that the Chroniclers put to paper.
This new dynasty brought in new traditions, including abandoning the burial mound groups in the Mozu and Furuichi regions, and possibly abandoning, as well, a tradition of co-rulership, which appears to show up in the burials, but is not exactly attested to in the written Chronicles, possibly because it was too messy. Such simplifications can be seen even in the modern day. For instance, in some of the old martial arts, or koryu lineages, where there once were two distinct lineages, they may be conflated when they later came back together, with different generations interspersed amongst each other in an attempt to honor all those who came before. Those without access to the history might look and think that it demonstrates a single, unbroken line, whereas the truth is messier and much more complicated. Given what the Chroniclers had to work with, and the distance they were from the 6th century at that point, one has to wonder just what they actually knew.
Although it may have been new, this dynasty appears to have acted much as the prior one did, possibly thanks to the continued presence of the Ohotomo family—specifically Ohotomo Kanamura. He would continue to guide the ship of state as it entered a new era.
All of this covers a critical period of state formation, as Yamato has gotten larger and more powerful, and exerts more and more influence it is also finding new ways of governing. The key is that none of this happens at once, or in a vacuum. It isn’t like one day a chieftain had an idea: Hey, let’s build giant mounds and then proclaim ourselves rulers of everything on these islands! It was an evolution, and one that didn’t necessarily always trend in a single direction towards a foregone conclusion, though of course that’s how it often appears after the fact.
At many points during this process, something could have happened—and sometimes did. For instance, an unexpected death with no heirs, or military defeats on the continent. Shifting alliances and changes in the balance of power could also destabilize things. And yet, here we are, with court in Yamato sitting as at least primus inter pares, if not more, and with enough prestige to influence most of the archipelago, from the Kantou plain to Kyushu, and even to make an appearance in continental politics.
And that’s where stand, so far. As we look into the New Year, we stare out into a new era of Japanese history. This is still the Kofun era, yes, but in the coming year we can make out shapes of what is to come. Influences from the continent will continue to shape the archipelago, including the influence of foreign thoughts from even beyond the edge of the upcoming Sui and Tang dynasties. We see figures like the illusive, and possibly even fictitious, Shotoku Taishi, and the establishment of courts in the Asuka era. This is the era of the coming of Buddhism, the rise of the Soga, and all of the benefits and strife that would bring to the archipelago and to the court. All of that an more, soon to come.
That’s all for now. I just want to wish all of you, once more, a bright New Year—Shinnen Akemashite Omedetou Gozaimasu—and thank you again for listening. Episode 79 we’ll continue with this new dynasty, and look at possible connections with the continent, including some rather distant lands, next time on Sengoku Daimyo’s Chronicles of Japan.

References

Baratta, Norma Camilla, Giulio Magli, and Arianna Picotti. 2022. "The Orientation of the Kofun Tombs" Remote Sensing 14, no. 2: 377. https://doi.org/10.3390/rs14020377

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