Episode 114: Public Land and Remote Work

November 1, 2024 Joshua Badgley

Photo of Kawaradera ruins, in Asuka. Today, there is a much smaller, modern temple, called Gufukuji, on the site, but you can see the extent of the ancient temple. This was one of the great temples of the Asuka period. Photo by author.

This episode we are mainly talking about the Equal Fields System that they implemented with the early Taika edicts, and then we’ll look at why this wasn’t the “Naniwa Era”.

Well Field System

In the episode we talk about the “Well” Field system. This is so named because of the character for well: 井 You can see that it looks similar to #.

  
    PRIVATE
    PRIVATE
    PRIVATE
  

    PRIVATE
    PUBLIC
    PRIVATE
  

    PRIVATE
    PRIVATE
    PRIVATE
  

This system appears to work, in theory, with the middle field being used for the common good, such as storing away for periods of drought or famine. However, as the Zhou dynasty fell apart, so did this system.

“Equal Fields” were a little different. Each individual would get an “equal” amount of fields to work, with standard taxes.

Welcome to Sengoku Daimyo’s Chronicles of Japan. My name is Joshua and this is Episode 114: Public Lands and Remote Work

In the early evening, Karu paced through the halls of the inner palace. The grand scale of the construction was impressive, and it was built and furnished with the finest materials available. In all aspects it was the shining jewel. The center of the Yamato world. The entire thing still felt new.
And yet, for all of that, it now felt strangely empty. So many of those who had previously graced its halls were only memories. Karu looked over the halls and wondered: Was it worth it? He had worked with his nephew and others to build a Kingdom worthy of the name. They had instituted reforms to model themselves after the major powers of the day. They had a built a palace to last the test of time. This wasn’t just another place to be abandoned—this was meant to be the bedrock on which the new State would stand. It was the center of ritual and of the government.
But was it? The government was more than just buildings. It was the people who made up the offices and the ministries. It was the entire royal family. It was the scholars and the officials, debating just how things should work.
What would happen when Karu was gone? Would this system last the test of time? Or would it disappear, to be replaced by something new? For centuries, every sovereign had made a new home for themselves every time the previous sovereign passed away. Is that what would happen to Karu as well?
As the sun set, and darkness set in, Karu could only wonder what the future might hold.
So here we are in the Hakuchi era, during the reign of Karu, aka Ame Yorodzu Toyohi, which is to say between the years 650 and 654. The era of Great Change was now the era of the White Pheasant – listen to our last couple of episodes to understand why -- and all of the changes weve been discussing were starting to really come together. Front and center of those changes was the Nagara Toyosaki Palace, a physical manifestation of the new bureaucratic system of government that the sovereign, Karu; the Crown Prince, Naka no Oe; and others had put into place. The work of this government was happening on a stage much grander than anything that had previously been seen in the islands.
This was the start of what we know as the Ritsuryo Era, and it was finally coalescing. In this episode we’ll talk about how, in the Hakuchi era, we see the implementation of the continental system known as the “Equal Field System”, and how the bureaucratic government was extended down to the individual household.
This was all part of what we’ve come to know as the Ritsuryo state, which we talked about back in Episode 108 as we started all of these changes. We are now seeing the foundations of that new state, and we are several years into its implementation, seeing those early edicts finally starting to bear fruit.All of this, of course, was focused on the seat of government in Naniwa.
And yet, spoiler alert, this is not called the “Naniwa Era”. We are still in what many refer to as the Asuka Era. So what happened? Towards the end of the episode we’ll talk about what happened as the era came to a close, or at least as much as we know.
To kick us off, let’s talk about where we stand in the Hakuchi era, and look at the culmination of these early Ritsuryo changes we’ve been talking about. Whatever else had happened, various good omens, crises, and so on – the work of the government was continuing. Once again, we see records of various envoys from the continent —and we’ll get into the international situation, later—but for now, let’s focus on what was going on in the archipelago itself.
Specifically, I want to talk about something called the Equal Field System, another innovation that Karu and his administration introduced to Yamato. The Equal Field System goes back to at least the Northern Wei dynasty, over on the continent, in the late 5th century. It attempted to solve several issues regarding how the government could make sure that land was being worked—and that the government was also getting its cut. To that end, let’s back up a bit and talk about concepts of public versus private land, and how they apply to Yamato at the time.
The concept of “private” land may seem simplistic, as we have an idea of what it means today. Your “private” land is land you own, of course. “Public” land belongs to the government. But in Japan—and in much of East Asia—those concepts weren’t necessarily the same. In many early theories of land ownership, all land belonged to the State—individuals were simply using it. To a certain degree, even today, land is often held only so long as you have a deed or other proof of ownership that is recognized by the State, but concepts like eminent domain can supercede that ownership.
So for our purposes, here, Private land was land where all the produce went to a private individual or private interest, such as a family—or even a temple or shrine. If it was truly privately-owned land, then all of the produce of that land went to the owner. Even if the government technically owned the land, the land could still be considered private, meaning that it wasn’t considered taxable by the government – whoever controlled the land got all the produce.
In contrast to that, public land was land where the government was owed some or all of the produce. It might have been worked by individuals, but was still taxable in part or full.
An early system that goes back to at least the Zhou dynasty was known as the Well Field System. In this system, land was ideally divided into nine squares. The eight squares of land on the outside of the square would all be held and worked by private farmers, who were able to keep whatever they produced on the land. In return, they were to provide labor on the public land in the center, the produce of which went to the State, which could then be stashed away in case of famine or used to help increase the State’s coffers and thus pay for other amenities.
Of course often it just went into the pockets of various aristocrats. I also wonder just how much effort was actually put in to working the public land in the Well Field System.
That name, by the way, comes from how the whole schematic looked when drawn out. The hanzi, or kanji, for a “well”—as in a place where you draw water—is much like a modern hashtag mark. Think two horizontal and two vertical lines, like a tic-tac-toe board. This comes from the fact that wells were often square or rectangular holes, the sides of which could be reinforced with wood. At the top, the well frame was often formed with overlapping wooden beams, forming a shape similar to a hashtag. And so in the Well Field System, the center of the tic-tac-toe board was the public land, and everything else was private.
This system fell apart with the fall of the Zhou during the Summer and Autumn periods, though there were attempts to revive it. After all, it had been mentioned in the Book of Rites, the Liji, and it was praised by Mengzi—the famous scholar and philosopher we known to the West by his latinized name of “Mencius”. As such, it was officially documented as a “good idea” and so there were often attempts to revive it.
The Northern Wei, however, took a slightly different approach. In the late 5th century, they were looking for a way to curb the power of aristocratic families. Since the Qin dynasty and onwards, they had seen the growth of families accumulating land and thus wealth and power. These powerful families were both necessary and a threat, as they held the power to prop up or tear down a government. Farmers would need to rent land from the powerful landowners, paying them a portion of their harvest as rent.
To counter this, the Northern Wei instituted the Equal Field system. Under this system, they claimed government ownership of vast swaths of land and then provided equal parts of that government land to every adult person. Upon a person’s death, their land would revert back to the government, who could then redistribute it to others. The peasants would then be expected to provide a portion of the harvest as tax—they would provide food-rent for the land, as well as payment in cloth and a set number of days of corvee labor. The key was that all of this payment was due to the government, and not to private aristocratic families.
After the Northern Wei fell, the Equal Field system was reinvigorated by the Sui and Tang dynasties, who extended the system across their territories—or at least within the Yellow River and Yangzi River basins. The system did have some allowances for inheritance—especially in instances like mulberry groves, which would be maintained by successive generations. In general, however, most of the land was to be reclaimed by the government upon a person’s death or at the point that they reached 60 years of age, and then it would be redistributed.
This is still a relatively simplistic overview, and there were plenty of different adjustments and changes to the system over the years. Key for us, though, is looking at the adoption of the Equal Field concept in the archipelago.
Up to this point, land ownership in Yamato, such as it was, fell under various family groups. They would own the land and whatever was produced on it, so it was truly private land. “Yake” were set up by the families as central storehouses and administrative centers. In this case, the royal family was, in many ways, just another landowner, and their “yake” are indicated in the Chronicles with the royal “mi” honorific—hence the “miyake”.
As the reformers went about making changes in the period between 645-650, they adopted the concept of the Equal Field System. Prominent figures such as Naka no Oe himself gave up their private fields, and the royal lands were turned into government lands. They instituted the concept that all land in the archipelago nominally belonged to the State, and that others worked it at the Sovereign’s pleasure.
As we talked about in the past several episodes, this made the Sovereign and the State more prominent in people’s lives, and it built bonds with the peasants in that they were granted land on which to work and make a livelihood. They didn’t necessarily have to work out a separate arrangement with some noble family, and the fields and taxes were “equal” for every person.
Of course, surveying the land, taking a census, and distributing the land to the people didn’t happen overnight, and it isn’t even clear how well it occurred outside of the lands originally owned by the royal family, at least initially. We are told that even though the project had kicked off years earlier, back in 646, it wasn’t until the second month of 652 that we are told that the distribution of rice-land had been completed. 30 paces of land—Aston notes that it was 30 paces long by 12 paces wide—made up a single TAN of rice-land, and 10 TAN made up a CHOU. Each TAN or land a person was granted was expected to provide back to the government a sheaf and a half of rice, with each CHOU providing 15 sheaves.
This effort simplified taxation, in a way—everyone owed the same thing, based on their household and how much land they had been granted. However, it also would have required an enormous bureaucratic engine. Scribes would have been in high demand—anyone who could read and write. Without modern computers, they would need to hand count everything in a given district, then send those numbers up to the governor, and then send them again to the capital. Hence the giant government complex set up in Naniwa to oversee all of this and to ensure that the government worked as intended.
In the fourth month of 652, the work continued. We are told that the registers of population were prepared—presumably based on the information that had been previously acquired from around the provinces and sent to the court. The earlier edicts from 646 that outlined this system—which we mentioned back in Episode 109—was finally put in force.
As we noted back in that episode, 50 houses made up a township, or RI—the character used is also pronounced “SATO”, today, and often refers to a village. Each RI had an appointed elder, or head, using the term “CHOU”. This term is still found today in modern parlance: The head of a company, or “KAISHA” is the “SHACHOU”, while the head of a division, or BU, within said company would be the BUCHOU. KAICHOU is the head of an association, or “KAI” and the “GAKUCHOU” is the head of a “DAIGAKU”, a university—basically the University President. In this case the “CHOU” of the “RI” would be the “RICHOU”, using the Sino-Japanese On’yomi pronunciation, though in the vernacular they probably would have been called the “Sato-osa”. All of this just means village head or village chief.
So 50 houses made up a RI, with one RICHOU at the head. In addition, each house would have a senior member appointed as the official head of household, or KACHOU. From there, houses were associated together in groups of five for mutual protection, with one head, or CHOU, per group of five.
And okay, so they were creating groups of people for administrative purposes? Who cares? Well, the thing about this is that it was encoded into the new legal system, and it had several implications. Chief among them was the implication of primogeniture: Since the most senior person was made the KACHOU or head of household (and by “person” I think we can assume that “man” was a given, unless there were no men in the house for some reason), this meant that the eldest person in the household was automatically the one who inherited that position, along with the status and control that came with it. As we’ve seen, up to this point, it was not necessarily the case that the most senior person would inherit in ancient Yamato tradition. Inheritance could pass from a younger brother to an older brother, or to a younger son of a younger son. While there was some apparent concern over lineage and making sure that the individual was of the proper bloodline, at least for royal inheritance, there was not an automatic assumption of precedence for who would inherit.
Of course, as we’ve seen, this set off all sorts of disputes and problems, especially among the elite where wealth and power was involved. However, I think it is fair to assume that these problems weren’t relegated purely to the upper levels of society. Inheritance is always tricky, even in cases where it seems like it should be straightforward.
I imagine that the institution of primogeniture as a legal concept would have had consequences beyond just inheritance. It set up ideas of who was “important” in the family, and the family is often a microcosm of society at large. Primogeniture meant that age and masculinity were both valued over youth and femininity. That isn’t to say that pre-Taika Ritsuryo was a bastion of equality, but we do see more instances where men and women seem to be on closer to equal footing.
In the concept of primogeniture, I believe we can also see the institution of Confucian values—not surprising as this whole thing is cribbed from the continent, with a lot of it being taken from the Tang court. We’ve discussed Confucian concepts of filial piety and how that fed into patriarchal—and frankly monarchical—ideas. The Father and Son, the Ruler and Subject, the Husband and Wife, Elder Brother and Younger Brother, etc. These were the relationships that were important and they defined much of the way people were expected to interact.
As the new system being instituted copied the form of continental government, it would have also been preaching many of its values, as well.
Scholars will continue to debate how widespread the changes actually were. Did the equal-fields system exist all the way out to the edge of Emishi territory? Did it cover the mountainous regions of Honshu? How about to the West of Yamato? We don’t know, but nonetheless, we do see both the expansion and centralization of Yamato power, so there seems to be something to it.
By all accounts, the work that had taken place in this era appears to have been a smashing success. The Taika reforms had taken hold, and the Ritsuryo state seemed to be off to a roaring start. At the center of it was the newly built Nagara Toyosaki Palace, a giant stage for carrying out the business and ritual of the State. One would think that the founders of this new State would have been overjoyed. Naka no Oe, Nakatomi no Kamatari, and the sovereign, Karu, among them. And yet, the story doesn’t seem quite that simple.
The first Ministers of the Right and Left had already passed away. Abe no Oho-omi had passed of what appears to be natural causes, but Soga no Oho-omi, aka Ishikawa no Maro, was undone by slander, accused of treason, and took his own life rather than being killed by the government forces sent after him. And in the 6th month of 653, the sovereign was told that the Priest Min had passed away.
Min—Aston sometimes transcribes it as “Bin”—was one of the sources for much of the information about the continental systems of government. We’ve mentioned him on and off for the last 5 or 6 episodes, though you may not have always caught the reference. Also, since even Aston switches between pronunciations at times, I apologize if I haven’t been consistent. If I said Priest “Min” or “Bin”, we’re talking about the same person. He was a Buddhist priest who had traveled to the Sui dynasty in 608, spending 24 years there, witnessing the change from the Sui to the Tang, returning to Yamato in 632. He was consulted on various omens, and he and Takamuko Kuromaro, who had also been made a State Scholar, or Hakase, at the same time, both worked to set up the eight ministries of the state, the core of the Ritsuryo bureaucracy.
The death of Min was felt across the organs of state. Both the Queen Dowager and Naka no Oe, the Crown Prince, sent messengers to offer condolences. The sovereign commanded the painters, Koma no Tachibe no Komaro, Funado no Atahe, and others to make a large number of figures of the Buddha and Boddhisatvas. They were to be placed in the temple of Kawaradera, though other sources say Yamadadera. Both of these are in Asuka—although the capital had moved to Naniwa, and there was the temple of Shitennoji there, just south of the palace, I can’t help but notice that many of the established temples remained in and around the old capital at Asuka.
653 saw something else, which also seems a bit odd, given the apparent success of the government. We see that in this year the Crown Prince, Naka no Oe, petitioned his uncle, the Sovereign, to move the royal residence back to the Yamato capital, which is to say Asuka—in the heartland of Yamato as opposed to outside the Nara Basin, like Naniwa.
This is quite the request. They had just finished establishing a large palace complex in Naniwa. Why would they pull up stakes and move everything back to Asuka? So the sovereign, Karu, denied Naka no Oe’s petition. Regardless, Naka no Oe took his mother, the Queen Dowager, as well as Karu’s own Queen, Hashibito and the younger royal princes, and he moved all of them back to Asuka, moving into the temporary palace of Kawabe. The ministers and the various Daibu all followed him. He basically moved the royal family and the court back to Asuka, without Karu’s permission, and everyone followed him.
We aren’t told why this happened. Was there a falling out between Naka no Oe and the Sovereign? Was there some other issue that caused Naka no Oe to want to abandon the capital they had worked so hard to build?
Karu was understandably upset by this apparent betrayal. He expressed himself in a poem which he sent to his wife:
KANAKITSUKE / AGAKAFU KOMA WA / HIKIDESEZU
AGAKAFU KOMA WO / HITO MITSURAMUKA
The pony which I keep/ I put shackles on / And led it not out
Can anyone have seen / The pony which I keep?
And if it wasn’t enough that the people had left. We see once more, on the New Year’s Day of 654, that the rats likewise left Naniwa and migrated towards Asuka. This last one I certainly question as to whether or not it happened, but the meaning and symbolism is clear. The Chroniclers are telling us that the effective capital was moving back to Asuka. The time in Naniwa was limited.
This doesn’t appear to have negatively affected the fortunes of Naka no Oe and his supporters. On the contrary: Nakatomi no Kamatari no Muraji, on this same New Year’s Day, was granted the Shikwan, the purple cap, and his fief was increased. The Toushi Kaden, the History of the Fujiwara House, says that it was increased by 8,000 households.
It seems that the business of the government continued apace through 654, though it is a bit unclear just how things worked, given the split between Asuka and Naniwa. Was Karu left alone in the giant complex he had built? Or was it still where all of the government work happened? If so, just how much were the high ministers missed, or were they working remotely, via messenger and post-horse?
Whatever the situation, it would resolve by the end of the year. On the 1st day of the 10th month, Naka no Oe learned that his uncle, the Sovereign, had taken ill. Naka no Oe and the entire court returned to Naniwa to see him. Nine days later, on the 10th day of the 10th month, Karu passed away in the state bedchamber he was around 57 or 58 years old. He was temporarily interred in the southern courtyard, and Mozu no Hashi no Muraji no Doutoko oversaw the palace of temporary interment. He would be buried in the Ohosaka Shinaga Tomb, which was built near the site of tombs associated with Kashikiyahime and others, south of the Yamato river, on the west side of the mountains that separate the Kawachi plain from the Nara basin.
Two months later, Naka no Oe and his mother made it official, and formally moved to the temporary palace of Kawabe in Asuka. Naka no Oe’s mother, Takara Hime, would come to the throne on the third day of the first month of the new year, 655. It would be her second time on the throne. Since she reigned twice, the Chroniclers actually gave her two posthumous regnal names. For the first reign they named her “Kougyoku Tennou”. In the second reign they named her “Saimei Tennou”, to distinguish from her first reign on the throne. As far as I know this has only happened twice—the second time being with Kouken, aka Shoutoku, Tennou in the late 8th century.
Why she took the throne again is not addressed. She had been the sovereign, stepping down during the Isshi Incident, when Soga no Iruka was killed in front of her. At that time, Naka no Oe had been urged to take the throne, but he decided against it. After all, Furubito no Oe was still around at that time, and seems to have had his own claim. Naka no Oe couldn’t take the throne while Furubito was still alive and, at the same time, claim to be the filial person that Confucian theory said he should be. And so his uncle, Karu, took the throne, since nobody could really say anything against it. Now, though, Furubito no Oe and Karu were both deceased. Why didn’t Naka no Oe, the Crown Prince, ascend the throne?
Again, we aren’t given an answer. There is one other thing that is possibly worth noting, however: Karu had a son. This may be whom they are referring to as the “younger princes” who were brought to Asuka when everyone moved there. This was Prince Arima. He is believed to have been born in 640, so he would have been about 15 years old at the time of his father’s death. Naka no Oe was the Crown Prince, but did Arima also have a claim? He was, after all, the male son of the most recent sovereign, Karu, and his queen, Hashibito hime. This is something that we will definitely look at in a future episode.
It should be noted that Naka no Oe was born in 626. He would have been 18 or 19 years old during the time of the Isshi incident, and was only ten years old, 29 years old, when his mother took the throne for the second time, in 655. She, on the other hand, was about 62 years old when she took the throne the second time. The consensus is that even though she reigned as sovereign, the true power continued to rest with the young Naka no Oe and his clique, and they would continue to direct the government for the next several decades.
And with that we largely bring to a close the Hakuchi era. The era ended with Karu’s death, and no new era was declared for Takara Hime’s reign. The period from the Hakuchi era to the start of the Nara period is often referred to as the Hakuho period. An unofficial name taken from the names of the nengo on either side of it. It often is used specifically to reference the art of the period, as more and more continental influence continued to pour in.
Next episode, we’ll take a look at the various interactions with the continent and go a little more into the politics of the time. Takara Hime’s second reign—for which she was posthumously given the name “Saimei Tennou”—dealt a lot with the continent, among other things. Things on the Korean peninsula were heating up, and the Tang was continuing to push against those on their borders, both along the Silk Road to the West, but also against states like Goguryeo, in the northeast. And yet it wasn’t a time of constant warfare, either. We’ll do our best to look at what was happening.
Until then thank you for listening and for all of your support.
If you like what we are doing, please 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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Thank you, also, to Ellen for their work editing the podcast.
And that’s all for now. Thank you again, and I’ll see you next episode on Sengoku Daimyo’s Chronicles of Japan.

References

Aston, W. G. (1972). Nihongi, chronicles of Japan from the earliest times to A.D. 697. London: Allen & Unwin. ISBN0-80480984-4

Episode 113: The White Pheasant

October 16, 2024 Joshua Badgley

A model of the Early Naniwa Palace (likely the Nagara Toyosaki Palace) at the Osaka History Museum, which sits near the Naniwa palace ruins site, which is also near Osaka castle and about 3km due north of Shitennoji temple. This view is from the southern end, just inside the Suzaku gate, looking at the gate for the Chodoin and the Dairi beyond that. Photo by author.

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So the year 649 was so bad that they went and changed the whole calendar to forget about it! In 650 a white pheasant is brought to the court, and they sieze on that as a chance to rename the era from Taika to Hakuchi. That should make things better, right?

This episode we talk about this event--their reasoning, as well as what is recorded as having happened. We also take a look at the completion of the Ajifu no Miya and how it was renamed to the Naniwa no Toyosaki no Nagara no Miya, or the Toyosaki Nagara Palace of Naniwa. This is thought to be what we know today as the Early Naniwa Palace, and it was a real change, and, in many ways, the physical manifestation of the Taika era reforms.

Palaces

A big part of this episode deals with palaces and the palace layout. So let me try to cover some of that here, too, especially as the names can get tricky.

Naniwa Toyosaki Palace (難波豊碕宮) - Declared in 645, but not occupied, as far as we can tell, until

The “Detached” Palace of Koshiro (子代離宮) - Likely referring to the buildings of the government offices for the Miyake of Koshiro in Sayabe, in Naniwa, which were torn down and built into a temporary palace.

The Temporary (or Detached) Palace of Kahadzu ( 蝦蟇行宮 / 蝦蟇離宮)

Wogohori Palace (小郡宮) - Site that was pulled down and a palace erected. See also “Ohogohori”

Ohogohori (大郡) - Site where visiting dignitaries would stay in Naniwa. Also the site that the sovereign occupied before moving to the Toyosaki Nagara Palace.

Temporary Palace of Muko (武庫行宮) - Stayed there after coming back from Arima Onsen, around the time that the Crown Prince’s palace burned down

Ajifu Palace (味經宮) - Used for the New Year’s Celebration on the first day of the first month of 650, but they immediately returned, indicating that the sovereign didn’t stay there.

Naniwa Nagara Toyosaki Palace (難波長柄豊碕宮) - The name given to the “new” palace—presumably Ajifu Palace, but possibly just an update of Toyosaki?

645 - Karu comes to the throne and decides to move to the Toyosaki Palace in Naniwa
646 - 1st month - The sovereign moves to the Koshiro Detached Palace
646 - 2nd month, 22nd day - The sovereign returns from the Koshiro Detached Palace
646 - 9th month - The sovereign occupies the Kahadzu Temporary Palace
646 - During this year, the government offices at Wogohori are torn down to build the Wogohori palace
647 - 12th month, last day - The sovereign occupies the Muko Temporary Palace
648 - 1st month - The sovereign celebrates the new year at the Naniwa Toyosaki Palace
650 - 1st month, 1st day- New Year’s Celebrations are held at Ajifu Palace
650 - 10th month - Aratawi no Atahe no Hirafu sets the boundary posts of “the Palace”
651 - 12th month, last day - 2100 monks and nuns assembled to read the “Issaikyo” at the Ajifu Palace. At the end of chanting the sutras, the Palace is renamed the “Naniwa Nagara Toyosaki Palace”
652 - 1st month, 1st day - After the New Year’s celebrations, the sovereign returned to the Ohogohori Palace.
652 - 3rd month, 9th day - The sovereign moved back to the “Palace” [The Naniwa Nagara Toyosaki Palace?]
652 - 9th month - The “Palace” construction was complete.

Palace layout

Dairi (内裏) - The “Inner Palace” where the sovereign lives. It resides at the northernmost end of the palace compound. In the Early Naniwa Palace, the Dairi was about 10 acres in total size.

Daigokuden (大極殿) - In later palaces it is the main audience hall, where major ceremonies, feasts, etc. would be performed. The Early Naniwa Palace had a “Front Hall” at the southern end of the Dairi, but the Daigokuden would typically be placed at the northern end of the Chodoin.

Chodoin (朝堂院) - Literally the Court Hall Compound. It is a large, rectangular area south of the Dairi. The center is largely open space, and it is surrounded by court halls, or chodo.

Chodo (朝堂) - A court hall, usually set up for one of the offices of the government, where the head of the office would sit and direct the functions of the office. The Early Naniwa Palace had 14—seven on either side of the Chodoin. They were of different sizes, likely based on some ranking of the offices and their functions. Later palaces would standardize on only 8 halls to 12 halls.

Choshuden (朝集殿) - South of the Chodoin was an area with the Choshuden, the court gathering halls. These were areas where the court officers could change into (or out of) their official clothing. It was a waiting area for high ranking officials where they could gather prior to various court ceremonies.

Suzakumon (朱雀門) - The gate at the southern end of the court complex is the Suzaku-mon, named for Suzaku, the vermillion bird of the south.

Welcome to Sengoku Daimyo’s Chronicles of Japan. My name is Joshua, and this is Episode 113: The White Pheasant.

The officials of the court stood sentinel at the palace gates, a formidable line of authority draped in flowing, vibrant robes that signified their rank. Each step down the line revealed a cascade of colors, a living tapestry of power and prestige. Only the envoys from distant shores stood apart, their unique uniforms adding an exotic flair to the proceedings, as well as a certain legitimacy as outside witnesses.

The air crackled with anticipation as the crowd waited, their breath held, until four figures emerged, bearing aloft a magnificent litter adorned with intricate decorations that shimmered as they caught the sun’s rays.

Upon that litter rested a cage, and within it,a dazzling white pheasant, plucked from the untamed wilds of Anato. Whispers rippled through the throng; some questioned the significance of this fragile creature, while others dared to see it as a divine omen. Was this bird as pure as the tales had promised? The capital had buzzed with rumors ever since its unexpected arrival, and those in the back stretched their necks, desperate for a glimpse of this rare marvel.

The past year had cast a shadow over the Yamato court, leaving the air thick with uncertainty. Yet, this ethereal bird, shimmering with the promise of renewal, seemed to herald a shift—an opportunity for rebirth that everyone craved. At the very least it was a much needed distraction from everything that had previously occurred.

As the litter glided past, the courtiers bowed deeply in reverence, forming two disciplined lines that followed through the grand gates. Together, they marched into the palace, hearts pounding with hope. They were not just entering a building; they were stepping into a new era, one that, with a whisper of fate, could rise above the struggles of the past.

This episode we kick off the start of a new era—the Hakuchi era, or the era of the White Pheasant. It followed the Taika era, and it does have a different feel. It is less about new edicts and more about how things were shaking out and coming together. And one of the things that was coming together was the Nagara no Toyosaki palace, which is believed to be the same one known to archaeologists as the “Early Naniwa Palace” unearthed in Ohosaka and dated to the mid-7th century. We’ll actually start with a look at this palace, continuing our discussion from last episode, as our sovereign, Karu, aka Koutoku Tennou, seems to have been a bit crazy about all of his palaces, and figuring out just which is which can be an issue in and of itself.
We’ll also touch on the start of this new era, and look at why and what it meant to come up with a new era name—a new “nengou”—in the middle of a reign like this.
And so we catch ourselves at the start of the year 650, still, technically, in the Taika era. The year started well enough, with the sovereign celebrating the new year at the Ajifu palace and then coming straight back—the Ajifu palace was apparently yet another new palace and it seems construction had only recently begun.
Now, There is some confusion between the Ajifu palace and the Toyosaki palace. The Ajifu palace is traditionally thought to have been located on the opposite side o f the Yodo river, in the area of modern Settsu city, on the site of what became the Ajifu Shrine. Others have suggested that it was actually on the Kanimachi plateau, which is where the Toyosaki palace was. Notably the “Toyosaki” palace is not located anywhere near the modern area of “Toyosaki” with which it seems to share a name. From what little information we have, it seems to have been quite the complex. As to why he would need yet another palace, I could not say. And yet, later we see that the Ajifu Palace is eventually named the Nagara Toyosaki Palace. So are they one and the same? Did they move the Toyosaki Palace? Or did they build the Toyosaki Palace and then rebuild it as the Ajifu Palace—aka the Nagara Toyosaki Palace?
At this point the way that the Chronicles talk about it, the Ajifu palace site seems to have been almost purely conceptual, while previous accounts seem to indicate that the Toyosaki Palace was already in use. That would have made for an interesting New Year’s celebration, probably in temporary buildings erected quickly amongst the grass and fields, with some nearby tomb mounds that would need to be leveled or moved to make room, we are later told. It seems they were still surveying the site, but I guess Karu really was looking for a change. And so he celebrated the new year at the Ajifu palace, but quickly returned back to wherever the work of the government was actually occurring.
As to where that was, well, we talked last episode about all of Karu’s meanderings from one palace to the other. The Nihon Shoki text itself is not exactly clear, as I read it. It doesn’t help that the term for palace, or “miya”, appears to refer to both a complex and a single residence, without a clear distinction given between the two. And so, though I mentioned it last episode, let’s recap what we know about the palaces this reign.
So in 645, we are told that Karu decided upon Naniwa and we are told that this is the “Toyosaki” palace. Then in 646, Karu took up residence in the “detached” palace of Koshiro in Sayabe, Naniwa. This was likely him repurposing the Miyake, the government offices with the royal granaries. He was only there for about two months, though, before he returned. Then, in the third month of 646, he issues an amnesty claiming to have taken up residence in the new palace—but we aren’t told which one.
In 647, two years into the reign, the government offices at Wogohori are torn down and a palace was built there. Now this is somewhat confusing because there appear to be two government districts: Wogohori and Ohogohori. You’ll probably notice how similar these two sound, though it may have been more like “wogopori” and “opogopori”. Back in the day. Wo-gohori, or the “Small District”, is mentioned once, but mainly just as a place name. Ohogohori, or the “Big District” has previously shown up as the place with government offices for the envoys from overseas.   Confusing matters, in a later entry, Karu eventually moves out of the palace at Oho-gohori and into the palace that would be known as the Nagara Toyosaki palace. So was he at Wogohori and then later at Ohogohori? Or was there some scribal error such that the two got confused?
And then in 648 we are told that Karu moved into the Toyosaki palace in Naniwa. Two years later, in 650, and he is now celebrating New Year’s at the Ajifu palace, which may refer to a location on the other side of the Yodo river, but is likely in the spot we now think of as the Nagara Toyosaki Palace. We then know that in 651 they were still building a palace. And it isn’t until the last day of 651 that Karu would formally move from Ohogori into the Ajifu palace, which we are told was then renamed the Nagara no Toyosaki no Miya---the Nagara Toyosaki Palace.
I have several thoughts on all of this. One, is that there may have been two “Toyosaki” palaces—there was the Toyosaki palace that he first moved into, and then there is the Nagara Toyosaki Palace. “Nagara” appears to mean something like “Long Handle”, but other than that, I don’t know that there is a good translation. It may refer to the fact that it was meant to last longer, or that it was even larger than the previous palace. It may even be that the original Toyosaki Palace was just a few of the buildings, and that eventually it grew into the larger Nagara Toyosaki Palace, but if that is the case, what is up with term “Ajifu”? Was that just one building in the larger palace? Or are earlier mentions of “Toyosaki” anachronistic, and perhaps it wasn’t until the entire thing was complete that they gave it that name? Many modern accounts appear to conflate the Toyosaki palace with the Nagara no Toyosaki Palace, saying it just took that long to build. That would imply that the Ajifu palace really was there on the Kamimachi plateau, at the known Naniwa palace site. Alternatively, “Nagara” could possibly have been a reference to the fact that the Ajifu palace was an extension of the larger Toyosaki complex, possibly built out of the government offices of either Wogohori or Ohogohori.
For all that we don’t know exactly what was happening here, we have a pretty good idea in the archaeological record about at least one of the palace sites on the Kamimachi plateau. This site has been identified as the Toyosaki palace of Karu, aka Koutoku Tennou, and it would actually be reused at a later date. Sure enough, there are remains of at least two palace complexes on the site, with the one from our period known as the “Early Naniwa Palace” site.
Based on its size and layout, this Early Naniwa palace was the first of its kind. Previous palaces in Asuka had not dissimilar designs in terms of the general arrangement, but this clearly made use of the structure of continental style palace complexes, and was likely intended to be a new, permanent capital.
The north of the palace complex consisted of a rectangular, walled section 185 meters east to west and 200 meters north to south, making up the “dairi”. That’s almost 10 acres of enclosed space, set aside as the sovereign’s personal living quarters. South of that was a smaller area with the front hall, one of the largest for its time. It was 36 meters east to west and 19 meters north to south. This would have been the hall called the “Daigokuden” in later palaces, where official rituals would take place. There was a gate between it and the Dairi, to the north, as well as a gate to the south, flanked by two octagonal buildings, which led to the Chodoin, the main working area of the court complex.
This is part of what sets this palace apart from others, and why it likely took a while to build. It may also explain all the different palace names as there was probably a lot of construction for a long time. In previous instances, as far as we can tell, the sovereign’s palace was both their home and the building where state business was conducted. Think, perhaps, of the White House, in the US, and then imagine that the White House, the Capitol Building, and the Supreme Court were all part of the same compound, with only the barest of concessions to privacy between them. In this new layout, the dairi was reserved to the sovereign, there was a small area for the official throne room, and then south of that was the Chodoin, the court hall complex.
This was a huge change to how things had operated in the past. While the main audience hall was still nominally part of the dairi, so the “private” areas of the palace weren’t entirely “private”, it was still leaps and bounds more separated than in the previous palaces we’ve uncovered. Sure, the idea of lining up buildings from the front gate to the larger buildings towards the back, making people approach successively larger and more impressive buildings, generally seems to have been a thing as far back as the Makimuku Palace near Mt. Miwa, back in the third century, but even then, there is no clearly defined separation between the public and private spaces of the sovereign. There does seem to have been restrictions on who could enter what parts of the compound, with the sovereign’s personal quarters being the most restricted, but now there were walls and gates and guards separating one area from another.
The Chodoin itself, the main “business” or “public” area of the court, appears to have been about 262.8 meters north to south and 233.6 meters east to west—a little over 15 acres. Most of that was open space between the 14 “choudou” halls lined up symmetrically, 7 on either side. These were the individual buildings where the various government officials were to meet and conduct business, as well as conduct rituals, feasts, etc. There was a southern gate that provided the entrance to the Chodoin and led to another large area with the Choshuden, the buildings where officials could change into and out of their formal court uniforms, and otherwise prepare for or close out the day. South of that was the main gate for the entire compound, the Suzaku gate, named for Suzaku, the red bird of the south, one of the four directional guardian spirits.
We know the buildings largely from their post holes. They were made of wood, and it is likely that most of them were thatched. They may have been painted white, vermillion, and green—classic paints that were based on continental styles and which were said to help prevent the wooden pillars from rotting too quickly. It is unsurprising that this would have taken years—but it is also possible that they built some quarters for the sovereign and then built out from there. This also would have been key to a lot of the governmental reforms, providing an actual location for the work that the reforms were directing.
Of course, there was a lot of work to be done, and the halls in the palace were limited, so two areas to the east and west of the complex were set aside and appear to have been built up with other government offices, suitable for carrying out the day to day minutiae that was required.
There is still a question of whether or not they also instituted the larger grid system city layout around the palace complex. Currently we have no evidence for that, though perhaps they were considering it, eventually. Unfortunately, with all of the construction in Osaka over time, I don’t know if we could be able to find or discern such a layout if we did find it. For now, we will stick with what we know: an absolute unit of a court complex that took them several years to build.
Getting back to the Chronicles: Our next entry in the Nihon Shoki, after the New Years celebration, tells us that in the second month, Kusakabe no Muraji no Shikofu, the governor of Anato Province, brought a white pheasant to the court. The report claimed that it had been caught by Nihe, a relative of Obito, the Kuni no Miyatsuko of Anato, on the 9th day of the first month, on Mt. Wonoyama.
For reference, the land of Anato was at the far western end of Honshu, part of the San’yodo, itself a designation for the lands along the Seto Inland Sea coast from Harima, modern Hyogo prefecture, out to Anato, modern Yamaguchi prefecture. It was on the Honshu side of the Shimonoseki strait, which was the main entrance from the Korean Strait and the Japan Sea to the Seto Inland Sea. The area would later be known as Nagato, which would eventually be called Choshu, an area which any students of the fall of the Tokugawa shogunate are sure to recognize.
We discussed back in Episode 94 how white or albino animals—assuming they weren’t normally white—were considered particularly auspicious. So in 598, the land of Koshi sent a white deer they had found to the court of Kashikiya Hime, which is to say Suiko Tenno.
And so the white pheasant from Anato was clearly seen as an omen—but was it truly auspicious. Here we see the court investigating this, and how exactly they go about that is somewhat enlightening as to how the court thought in general.
First, they made inquiry of the lords of Baekje—I would suspect this referred to those recognized as Baekje nobility residing in the archipelago, rather than sending a correspondence to the peninsula and back. That they went to someone from Baekje would seem to indicate the importance they placed on Baekje as a conduit for continental learning. Indeed, the answer they got back—whether from a single, unnamed individual or a group of Baekje nobility—was that White Pheasants were recorded in the 11th year of Yongping, which would be 68 CE to us, during the reign of Ming of the later Han dynasty. Han Mingdi, aka Emperor Ming of Han was born Liu Yang and also known as Liu Zhang, reigned from 57 to 75 CE. Ming and his son, Emperor Zhang oversaw a period of particular prosperity for the Eastern Han dynasty. On the other hand, there was an attempt to curse Emperor Ming in 67 CE, which ended with the death of the ambitious Prince Jing of Guanglin. Then, in 70, Prince Ying of Chu was also convicted of using magic to try and secure blessings while he fomented revolution against the emperor, and he was exiled, where he committed suicide. So I don’t know if this marks the pheasant as particularly auspicious or not.
Asking the Buddhist priests, who frequently studied not just Buddhist canon, but other continental texts, they mostly drew a blank—at least on the specifics of a white pheasant. They did recommend that a general amnesty would not be amiss, as it would bring joy to the people. I guess if you aren’t sure about the nature of an omen you can certainly do something to help it out.
And while they weren’t specifically sure about a white pheasant in Buddhist scripture, a couple of priests did have suggestions. The Priest Doutou recounted a story from Goguryeo, when the court there wished to build a new Buddhist temple, but could not divine a suitable and auspicious site. When someone witnessed a white deer, they chose that spot for the temple, which was then called the Temple of the Park of the White Deer. According to Doutou, this temple established Buddhism in Goguryeo.
Furthermore, he recounted, when a white sparrow was seen on the farmstead of another temple, or when a dead crow with three legs had been brought back from the Tang dynasty, the people had proclaimed both of these to be good omens. So given all of that, Priest Doutou concluded, a white pheasant must be especially auspicious.
The Priest Bin agreed. Bin, you may recall, had been heavily relied upon for his knowledge in setting up the new governmental structure, which would seem to indicate that he was quite well-versed in continental ideas, and he had even traveled there himself. He provided the court several different reasons that a white pheasant might appear.
First, it might appear when a ruler extended his influence to all four quarters.
Second, it might appear when the sovereign’s sacrifices are appropriate, and when his banquets and clothing are in due measure.
Third, it might appear when the sovereign cultivates frugality.
Finally, it might appear when the sovereign was humane.
He didn’t provide any specific examples of how he arrived as his conclusions—at least nothing was recorded—and so he may have been relying on his own expertise. However, he did recount one tale in particular. It was a story from the time of Emperor Cheng Wang of the Zhou dynasty. Cheng Wang is said to have reigned in the 11th century BCE, from 1042 to 1021, and so take that how you will. Important to us is not what happened so much as what the Yamato court believed had happened—what was the historical truth that they were workin with at the time?
According to Bin, during Cheng Wang’s reign, the Yuehshang family brought a white pheasant to the court. Apparently it had been three years without any exceptional storms or rains, and neither the rivers nor seas had flooded. Apparently the old men found this an extremely long time to go without some kind of disaster, indicating that the pheasant was clearly an auspicious omen in deed.
Priest Bin also mentioned other accounts, but the Chroniclers omitted them from the record.
Whatever they were, the court had heard enough. The White Pheasant was declared auspicious, and a new era was declared: the Hakuchi, or White Pheasant, era. They let the white pheasant loose in the royal garden, presumably with clipped wings or otherwise kept from flying off, and then preparations were made immediately to officially inaugurate the new era 6 days later, on the 15th day of the 2nd month of 650.
Before we get into that, though, I want to pause and take a look at something here: The authority of precedent. Time, as conceived of in the continental model, was cyclical. There was the cycle of day and night. The cycle of the year and the repeating seasons. Likewise the planets and heavens all had their own cyclical periods. In addition, there was the idea that the Yin and Yang forces in the universe likewise cycled through predictable patterns—the sexagenary cycle, or cycle of 60 years, being an example of a longer term cycle. And then there was the Buddhist cycle or death and rebirth, at least as long as one remained tied to this mortal plane of existence.
If time is cyclical, then one can look to the past to predict the present.   Stories of the past were seen as holding authority over similar events in the present. Understanding these historical stories and being able to pull from them provided its own kind of power and authority. Rather than attempting to reason from first principles, precedent was often a more convincing argument.
Being able to read and right and recall all of these stories gave scholars the ability to influence events. Of course, who had time to do all that other than people like Buddhist priests or the doctors of the court?
This is also one of the reasons that people would have had to write down histories and, eventually, to keep diaries and accounts of what happened. Those accounts would, over time, become essential records to invoke for moments like this—and even a record like the Nihon Shoki or the Kojiki would have similar significance. In many ways, it is propaganda, but not just in how it describes the past as the Chroniclers wished it to be, but it set the precedent for succeeding eras to look back on. While we may challenge that view, today, for many from the 8th century onward the events described in the Nihon Shoki were considered the gospel truth in more ways than one.
Of course, all that aside, we’ve had plenty of auspicious events before, but why, now, would they be enough to trigger a new era? Why not just note them and move on?
Well, to start with, let’s face it, nobody is likely to name 649 as the greatest year ever, any time soon, and certainly not the Yamato court. The Crown Prince, Naka no Oe, had been tricked into thinking that his co-conspirator, Soga no Kurayamada no Ishikawa no Maro, was a traitor. To be fair, Maro had been more than complicit in the murderous takedown of his own relatives to set up the current government, and history has time and again suggested that those who put someone on the throne can just as easily take them off it. That’s why they are often either brought deeper into the inner circle, or removed—either physically or more euphemistically. In this case, though, it seems that fears of Naka no Oe and others were unjustified, and they sent the royal troops after an innocent man; or at least a man as innocent as any of the other elites at that time. After all, the wealth of the elites came from the rice fields that they owned—or that were at least designated for their stipends—and they certainly weren’t working those fields themselves, so make of that what you will.
All of that had led to the death of Maro, his family, and the rest of his household. That, in turn, led to the death of his daughter, Miyatsuko Hime, who was married to Naka no Oe himself. When they finally did realize what had happened, the best justice they could figure out was to send the scandal-mongering Soga no Musa out to Tsukushi in a form of luxurious banishment. Demotion by promotion, as he was made the Viceroy of Tsukushi, the top man of the court at the edge of the archipelago.
To say that the year 649 had been a bust is an understatement. Don’t get me wrong, it was a far cry from the worst year that the archipelago had ever experienced—or would in the future, for that matter. But that was scant comfort to the folks living in it.
And so it was with some relief, I suspect, that the court welcomed news from the far flung land of Anato, because they really needed a distraction.
With that in mind, let us move on to the events of the 15th day of the 2nd month of the year 650, describing how they inaugurated the new era. Now, if the Chronicles are to be believed, this is not the first time they inaugurated a new era—we are told that year 645 was considered the first year of Taika, or Great Change. But, assuming that did happen, and that it wasn’t just named after the fact, the era would have started at the same time as a new reign. Previously, from everything we can tell, dates were based regnal years. Things are recorded as happening in the X year of Y sovereign. Some of the oldest accounts seem to even note it more as X year of the sovereign who reigned from the Y palace, as the palace was likely more distinct a feature than the names and titles that they used, and the posthumous names, like “Koutoku Tennou” were not actually used until the end of the 7th or early 8th century.
It is possible that Hakuchi is actually the first true nengo—or era name—and the first one that appears in the middle of a reign—though even here some say that the instantiation of “Hakuchi” is anachronistic.
Personally, I see no harm in taking it at face value, at least for now, while acknowledging that everything in the Nihon Shoki is suspect. Still, we are approaching a time when the events being written down may have still been in the living memory of people alive at that time. 720 is only 70 years away, and the project started even before then, so unless there are obvious discrepancies or supernatural events, we can probably assume that the Chronicles at this point are largely truthful, if possibly embellished.
And so it is we are told of what happened. To begin with, the court lined the ministers of the left and right and all of the functionaries in four lines outside the “purple” gate, as they would during a New Year’s reception, like the one they had just had at the Ajifu palace. The “Purple” gate was probably a reference to the southern gate
The fact that the courtiers lined up at the south gate in the same way that they would have during a New Year’s reception would seem to indicate that this was seen as the start of a new year. It was no longer a Taika year—starting on that day it was now the first year of Hakuchi. The month and day would not change, however, so it was still the 15th day of the 2nd month. That means that technically the first year of Hakuchi would only have ten and a half months in the year—maybe eleven and a half, if there was an extranumerary month. Likewise, the last year of Taika would only have one and a half months. And if you are thinking that must make Japanese dates really tricky around the start or end of year, you don’t know the half of it. Sometimes events will get placed in the wrong “era” because they happened a few months before or after the change, and people forget that when they are translating to and from western dates. It also means era names can’t just give you the years of the era, but really need to give you the month and date it starts and ends. Fortunately, most people are quite understanding about the occasional mistake.
But anyway, I digress.
The courtiers were lined up as though for new years, and then they watched as Ahata no Omi no Ihimushi and three others bore a litter with the pheasant on it and went ahead through the gates. The others followed in rank order—with the Ministers of the Left and Right leading the various functionaries. The Baekje prince Pungjang and his uncle, Sesyeong Chyungseung, whom we mentioned back in Episodes 105 and 107, as well as Mochi, the physician to the King of Goguryeo, a scholar attached to the court of Silla, along with other important persons all advanced as well into the Central court of the palace.
The pheasants litter was taken up by Mikuni no Kimi no Maro, Wina no Kimi no Takami, Miwa no Kimi no Mikaho, and Ki no Omi no Maro, who brought it to the front of the hall. There, the ministers of the left and right then took the front of the litter, while the Prince of Ise, Mikuni no Kimi no Maro, and Kura no Omi no Woguso took hold of the rear. Together, they placed it in front of the throne. The sovereign, Kura, and the Crown Prince, Naka no Oe, examined the pheasant together.
The Crown Prince then backed away, and the new Minister of the Left, Kose no Omi, presented a congratulatory address. He gave thanks to the sovereign and claimed that the pheasant was a sign that the sovereign would rule for one thousand autumns and ten thousand years across the Great Eight Islands—the Ohoyashima—of the archipelago and the four quarters of the earth. Effectively, this is a long-winded version of “Banzai”, the congratulatory wish of ten thousand years of life for an emperor.
Karu responded to this address by quoting auspicious times that white animals had been omens of good rule. He then gave credit to the ministers and functionaries, and urged them to continue to provide good service. Then he declared a general amnesty, forgiving various offenses, and noted that the era name would change to “Hakuchi”.
Karu then directed presents to be handed out to the Ministers, the Daibu, the officials of lower rank, all the way down to the clerks. Each received gifts commensurate with their rank. Finally, Kusakabe no Muraji no Shikofu, the governor of Anato, was commended, and granted the rank of Daisen along with what we are told were a goodly number of presents. In addition, the commuted taxes and corvees of Anato were remitted for three years, meaning that Anato would be allowed to keep all of the rice and product for themselves—something that was likely quite significant, though it is unclear whether this means that it was felt down at the level of basic workers or it just meant that the governor was able to keep what he taxed from the people for himself.
And with that, we enter a new era. Forget the unfortunate bloodshed and regrettable decisions of the previous year, this was a new start. And that is often how these eras were seen. Whether it was a new reign or things were just going so poorly that the court felt there needed to be a new start, future nengo would often follow a similar pattern.   And there was no set time for how long an era would last. In fact, here’s a little trivia for you: The shortest nengo in Japanese history was “Ryakunin”, and it lasted just under two and a half months from late 1238 to the start of 1239. It really shows how important it was to come up with a good name of these eras, as “ryakunin”, which seems to mean something like “humane period”, could also be written with characters meaning “abbreviated person”. So they decided to abbreviate the era, instead, changing the era name again.
This first year of the new era of Hakuchi continued relatively normally. In the fourth month there were envoys from Silla—another source, according to the Nihon Shoki, claimed that Goguryeo, Baekje, and Silla sent envoys every year from this reign onward. Then, in the tenth month, we see more work being done on the palace—presumably the Ajifu palace. We are told that presents were given out in respect to tombs that had been demolished to make room for the new construction, as well as for the people who had been moved off their land. Then Aratawi no Atahe no Hirafu was sent to place the boundary posts, no doubt marking out the outer extremities of the new palace precincts.
In addition, that month work began—no doubt at the court’s direction—on a giant tapestry, or mandala, with a sixteen foot tall Buddha image, attendant Boddhisatvas, and figures of all eight classes of beings according to the Buddhist cosmology. That includes Heavenly beings, such as Devas; dragons; demonic Yaksha, Gandharva, and Asura; the bird-like Garuda and Kimnara; and the snake-like Mahoraga. All told, there were some 46 figures. It doesn’t seem to say where it was to be installed, though it may have been made for the new palace complex.
Also in that year we are told that the court ordered Aya no Yamaguchi no Atahe no Ohoguchi to carve one thousand images of Buddha—but once again, we aren’t told where they resided. We do know that the 16 foot tall embroidered Buddha was completed in the 3rd month of 651: it had taken them approximately five months. The day after they were completed, the Dowager Queen, Takara no Himemiko, aka the former sovereign, Kougyoku Tennou, who had stepped down in 645, invited ten Buddhist teachers and prepared a feast and entertainment, likely to bless and show off the completed images.
At the end of 651, the palace itself was finally complete. We are told that over 2100 priests were invited to the Ajifu palace to read the Issaikyo on the last day of the year. The Issaikyo is the entirety of the Buddhsit canon, and so this was probably done in the abbreviated tendoku style, with priests just reading the chapter headings and flipping through the sutras, though with 2100 it is possible they just each red a different portion, all at the same time. As it grew dark, the palace courtyard was kept bright with 2700 lights while we are told that the Antaku and Dosoku sutras were read.
Aston notes that these “sutras” of Antaku and Dosoku don’t appear to reference any actual sutras that we know of, and posits that they may simply be rituals for home safety and the like. Given what we know about the fate of so many of these old wooden palaces, it makes sense.
After the sutras were read, the sovereign, Karu, formally moved from his residence in Ohogohori into the new palace, which was called Naniwa no Nagara no Toyosaki no Miya. As I noted at the beginning, it is unclear if this was the Ohogohori or Wogohori, and it is even somewhat murky as to whether or not it was considered a palace. Not to mention that after the New Year’s ceremonies were completed, the royal chariot—which would have been carrying the sovereign—went back to Ohogohori. I guess things weren’t quite ready yet. He would return on the 9th day of the third month, and even then we don’t see a note that the palace was completed until the 9th month of 652..
There is a lot here where we see things that appear to be scheduled so that they can occur on auspicious days, even if everything else isn’t quite ready. So, for example, reading the sutras and formally “moving” into the palace on the last day of the year so that one could host the New Year’s celebration there the next day. That seems like something that was done purely for ceremonial purposes. You may recall that in 650 they did the same thing.
There are a few more references to the palace. On the 15th of the 4th month of 652, the Buddhist ascetic E’on was invited into the Dairi to explain the Muryouju Sutra, also known as the Sukhavati Vyuha sutra. E’on was made a lecturer, and there were said to be 1,000 ascetics in the audience, listening to his teachings. That apparently went on for five days, being discontinued on the 20th day. And the power of the sutras, and E’on’s teachings, is shown in the weather, because the Chronicles claim that large rains began to fall in a monsoon that lasted for nine days. This wasn’t a gentle “water your crops” kind of rain. This was more like a “demolish your buildings and destroy your fields” kind of rain. There must have been massive flooding as men, horses, and cattle were caught up in the water and drowned.
Given the way this is written, I’m not entirely certain of the takeaway. Were the sutras that powerful that they brought rain, and E’on didn’t understand his own strength? Or was it a punishment for stopping E’on from continuing his lecture? Or was it the rains that caused the lectures to stop, perhaps making it untennable for people to sit out in the courtyard and listen as the rains came down? My rational brain suspects the latter, but I’m not sure how it was read by the people of the 8th century.
On the last day of 652, priests and nuns from around the country were invited to the dairi, to the interior of the palace, and entertained and given a feast. Alms were given and lights kindled to celebrate the new year.
But that’s the last entry I really see for the palace, as such. There was plenty more happening through the era, and we’ll touch on that. We start to see Silla and Tang dynasty getting chummy, and we also see some of the reforms still working their way across the land. We also have Yamato’s own expeditions out to the Great Tang dynasty. But we’ll save that for the next episode, as we continue to dive into the Hakuchi era.
And so, until next time, thank you for listening and for all of your support.
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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.

References

Aston, W. G. (1972). Nihongi, chronicles of Japan from the earliest times to A.D. 697. London: Allen & Unwin. ISBN0-80480984-4

Episode 112: End of an Era

October 1, 2024 Joshua Badgley

Wooden wall found at the site of Yamadadera, in Asuka. Construction on Yamadadera was started in 641, and monks moved in not long after, but the events of 649 briefly halted construction until it was revived again in the 8th century. Unfortunately the temple burned down in the 12th century, but this section of wall fell down and was recovered by archaeologists and is on display at the Asuka Historical Museum. Photo by author.

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This episode puts the cap on the Taika era, filling in the rest of what went on. A brief rundown of some of what you’ll find:

Missions to and from Silla—the tribute from Nimna was cancelled, but Silla agreed to send diplomatic hostages
Archery, and a description of the related game of “pitch-pot”
Reinforcing the northeast with barriers and towns to defend the borders against raids by the Emishi
Public works projects gone awry
A work off-site to a popular ancient resort area
Many, many palaces—most of them unburnt
Deadly politics and regrets

Welcome to Sengoku Daimyo’s Chronicles of Japan. My name is Joshua and this is episode 112: The End of an Era
The Crown Prince, Naka no Oe, was fast asleep in his chambers when he awoke to a commotion. In the dark he could hear people running and yelling. Taking in a deep breath, he could smell smoke in the air. In a time when light was provided by burning oil or wood, the smell of smoke would not have been uncommon, but this was different—it was something more. Furthermore, there was a strange glow, almost like an early dawn, but from the wrong direction. Leaping from his bed, Naka no Oe ran outside into the corridor, where he was met with servants who hurried him and the other members of the household outside. There, the Crown Prince could see the flames rising up from the building.
How the fire itjad started wouldn’t didn’t matter much. Perhaps an oil lamp washad been knocked over by the wind, or a stray ember had caught a piece of the thatch on the roof. Once the fire was too large to put out, they could only do so much. Servants grabbed what they could, trying to rescue it from the flames.
Even though he was probably the most powerful man in all of Yamato, the Crown Prince was powerless in front of the rising flames. They consumed his palace, and he could do little more than watch.
Fire is a terrible and frightening natural force, which humans often feel like they have control over, at least in small doses—candles, cookfires, and the like. A small ember, though, can cause an entire house to go up in smoke.
And houses are not the only man-made thing that can be destroyed by a tiny spark. Institutions, and relationships, can likewise be laid low by something small: new ideas can up-end tradition, and slanderous rumors can be fanned into flames that bring nothing but destruction. This is not too dissimilar from our human institutions. They can also be put at risk, though not always in such a physical way. In a politically charged environment, however, a stray word can be just like that ember, and if it isn’t caught quickly, the damage it can do can be immense.
This episode we are going to try and finish up the Taika period. This first official nengo, or official era name, and it covers the period from 645 to 650. We’ve mostly been covering the various edicts from this period, which were bringing major changes to the way that the Yamato government was structured and extended its reach much more concretely down to the lowest levels of society. There are still a lot of questions about how complete Yamato state control was, and time and again we will see that in an age before modern vehicles and communication there was always some level of independence at the periphery, especially as politics tended to turn the attention of the elites away from the rural countryside and more towards the court and the capital. Nonetheless, I think we can say that the state of Yamato really had come together and established itself and its institutions across the entire archipelago.
This episode, however, we are going to go beyond what the edicts tell us, and look at the rest of what was going on across that very same archipelago as all of this was happening—or at least what was recorded by the Chroniclers. This includes diplomatic missions from the Korean peninsula, to the west, as well as defenses set up against the Emishi in the northeast. There was an epic work off-site for the court. And also, there was tragedy. Even as the court became more structured, and many of the older traditions were changing, the politics of the elite were still as deadly as ever.
….
We’ll start in the ninth month of 646, just after the court abolisheding the practice of allowing elites to create their own family units, which we talked about in the last episodeepisode XXX. That month we are told that the sovereign, Karu, took up residency in the temporary or detached palace of Kawazu—possibly pronounced “Koudzu”, according to Aston, who thought it could be in the same area where Ohosazaki no Ohokimi, aka Nintoku Tenno, is said to have had his digs back in the day.
This move may have to do with the Toyosaki palace still being under construction. We know that heKaru moved the capital to Toyosaki, in Naniwa, back at the end of 645, and in the third month of 646 we are told that the general amnesty given out was because of the rites involved with moving into a new palace—presumably the one at Toyosaki. However, it isn’t clear if he moved in to the Toyosaki palace, or if he did sojust resided there temporarily just to make it officially the palace and then moved out as construction continued—or perhaps they needed to make renovations. HeKaru is said to have built another palace at Wogohori in 647, and then he occupied the palace of Kawazu, and later he would occupy the temporary palace of Muko. In fact, it isn’t until the start of 648 that we are next told that he occupied the palace of Toyosaki. , and tThe reasons for all of this moving around are incredibly vague to non-existent as far as the Chronicles are concerned. They are all in or around Naniwa, however.
Speaking of moving capitals, Finally, in a month that was turning out to be quite the end to summer—and the last entry for that entire year—there was a note about the rats in the province of Koshi heading off to the east. You may recall from Episode XXX109 that in the year XXX645, rats were said to have taken flight in the direction of the new capital, Naniwa, and it seems that it was a particularly popular meme at this time. With all of Karu’s moving around, after all, it was doubtful that the rats had any time to unpack. Koshi wasn’t exactly nearthe the capital though, so what could the rats be indicating hereit mean? Well in the following year, 647, we see that the Nutari Barrier was constructed, with a local settlement to support it, presumably as an outpost to defend against possible attacks and incursions by the Emishi. There is some suggestion that the flight of rats was an omen, talking about the creation of athis new settlement—even if not a new capital—to the east of Koshi.
But with those rats, we close out 646. Heading into 647 we pick back up on the 15th day of the first month. While the courtiers were playing archery, we are briefly told that messengers from Goguryeo and Silla came with tribute.
First a note about playing archery at court: archery had long been a sport of the elites, from what we can tell, especially with their penchant for hunting. It was also something encouraged by Confucius as a way to maintain martial training. Certainly archery demonstrations, at the very least, would be something that one would see at court, and the twang of a bow was said to chase away evil spirits.
Even in the time of Confucius, however, there was another game, known in modern Putonghua as “tou hu”, or “toko” in Japanese, or “pitch-pot” in Englilsh. This was a game that often took the place of archery, where arrows weren’t shot out of a bow at a target, but instead they were thrown, by hand, at a narrow-mouthed pot that had two rings on either side of the mouth of the jar. This game is still practiced in some places, usually as part of a celebration of some kind.
As this was a kind of “arrow play”, it was considered by some to be just as good as archery—particularly for court nobles that didn’t really want to have to go through all the effort of actually drawing a bow. This game was something you could do in your court clothing and just about anywhere. Points were given based on whether the arrow landed in the pot, in the ears, or various other conditions.
The game was known in Japan from early times, and we have an extant pitch-pot in the Shosoin repository—one of the many items donated to Todaiji temple by Shomu Tenno in the 8th century and still preserved today. It is quite possible, therefore, that pitch-pot was known and even played in the Asuka era courts.
That said, the terms used in the Nihon Shoki do refer to “shooting” archery, suggesting that the courtiers were was actually using bow and arrow—a much more popular courtly pastime in Japan than the continent, at least.
Anyway, on to the fact that Goguryeo and Silla envoys arrived during the archery fun-times.
First off,To summarize a little bit of the continental politics at the this time: Goguryeo was currently fighting the Tang dynasty on their western border. This conflict would continue, and eventually the Tang dynasty would enlist the help of Silla, though alliances on the peninsula were fickle, and it is common to see various states switch alliances at the drop of a hat, if it suited their needs. At the very least, by sending tribute, Goguryeo was likely courting assistance of some kind from Yamato, but the details are sparse, as per usual.
As for Silla, even though the entry at the beginning of 647 doesn’t give us much info, we do have an entry at the end ofanother entry also dated to 647 regarding a mission that may have been this one or perhaps one that came later in the year—the fact that it was not given a specific date but stuck on the end makes it somewhat difficult to place, chronologically. We are told that Silla sent Kim Chyunchyu, who is noted to be a “superior minister” with the rank of “Greater Ason”. Aston notes that Chyunchyu is mentioned in the 15th century history of the Korean peninsula, the Dongguk Tonggam, giving us some assurances that he may have actually existed.. They were apparently coming backKim Chyunchyu was accompanied by two of Yamato’s emissaries, who had left for Silla on the 9th month of the previous year. a previous mission to Silla, headed by This was Takamuku no Kuromaro as well asand Nakatomi no Oshikumia (named Nakatomi no Muraji no Oshikuma). Those twoey had left in the 9th month of the previous year, 646crossed the strait, with the goal of acquiring a diplomatic hostage from Silla, much as Baekje had apparently done. The answer seems to have been toAnd so now Silla sentd Kim Chyunchyu, who was taken as a diplomatic hostage. It is also noted, though, that with this embassy to Silla, they cancelled the tribute from Nimna. Given the timing, I suspect that was part of the negotiations that they had, which, from Silla’s perspective, meant that they didn’t have to divvy everything up into two bucketscontinue the polite fiction that Nimna was still an independent country.
That said, even if Silla was sending a hostage, they did also thesendt tribute other diplomatic gifts from Silla was still there—a parrot and a peacock, we are told: exotic birds from faraway lands, which would no doubt have been quite the sight in Yamato. How well they dealt with the climate in the archipelago is something the Chroniclers do not comment on.
Before leaving this whole exchange, I’d like to briefly go back to the note on archery, which we told they were performing at court in the first month, when the envoys from Goguryeo and Silla arrived: archery had long been a sport of the elites, from what we can tell, especially with their penchant for hunting. It was also something encouraged by Confucius as a way to maintain martial training. Certainly archery demonstrations, at the very least, would be something that one would see at court, and the twang of a bow was said to chase away evil spirits.
Even in the time of Confucius, however, there was another game, known in modern Putonghua as “tou hu”, or “toko” in Japanese. This was a game that often took the place of archery, where arrows weren’t shot out of a bow at a target, but instead they were thrown, by hand, at a narrow-mouthed pot that had two rings on either side of the mouth of the jar. As this was a kind of “arrow play”, it was considered by some to be just as good as archery—particularly for court nobles that didn’t really want to have to go through all the effort of actually drawing a bow. This game, known in English as “pitch-pot”, was something you could do in your court clothing and just about anywhere. Points were given based on whether the arrow landed in the pot, in the ears, or various other conditions.
The game was known in Japan from early times, and we have an extant pitch-pot in the Shosoin repository—one of the many items donated to Todaiji temple by Shomu Tenno in the 8th century and still preserved today. It is quite possible, therefore, that pitch-pot was known and even played in the Asuka era courts.
That said, the terms used in the Nihon Shoki do refer to “shooting” archery, suggesting that it was actually bow and arrow—a much more popular pastime in Japan, at least. However, I couldn’t help but digress a bit to talk about pitch-pot, a game that is still practiced in some places, usually as part of a celebration of some kind.
You may recall from Episode XXXthe last episode that 647 seemed to be getting off to quite a start. You may recall that this is also when new edicts for how the court would operate were made—including showing up for work literally at the crack of dawn. In addition, the Chronicles tell us about we are told about Yamato no Aya no Atahe no Aratawi no Hirafu. Hirafu had apparently been charged by the court to dig a canal, but there was some kind of a mistake as ithe dug it was dug towards Naniwa and we are told that it caused “distress” among the people. We aren’t, told what kind of distress this wasit caused—it could just be that people were upset about being called up for labor, especially if they didn’t think itthe canal was necessary. Or perhaps they were upset because it disrupted fields and perhaps even caused flooding. Whatever the reason, the complaints made it to the ear of the sovereign, who said they had mistakenly taken Hirafu’s advice—effectively throwing him under the ox-cart, as it were—and that the canal had been dug without an actual purpose, and so they discontinued the work.
I like this entry in part because it shows an apparent mistake, but also talks about the kinds of corvee labor that people would be called up for. Digging canals was certainly something that the various governors were empowered to do, though it was supposed to be based on local advice. I suspect that this entry was intended to demonstrate that the sovereign was listening to the people, though I do wonder how many other projects continued despite people complaining, since you can’t please everyone.
And I imagine that all of this was rather stressful. Which is perhaps why, in the 10th month of the 647, the sovereign and high ministers, including the ministers of the Left and Right, all went to Arima Onsen.
We’ve mentioned Onsen before, and Arima is certainly one of the oldest that we know of. It is positioned just over the mountains to the northwest of Naniwa—modern Ohosaka—and it continues to be a resort town to this day. The natural hot springs have been a draw for centuries, clearly, and they . It must have been particularly relaxing at that time, which is listed as the 10th through 12th months, but was probably more like the modern months of late November to January, assince the lunar calendar started about a month and change later than ours today. That means they sovereign and court would have been up in the hot spring area during the turn to the colder months—as the maple leaves were turning color, and possibly enjoying a bit of snowfall, if the weather cooperated. They spent over a month up in the hot spring area: talk about the ultimate work off-site.
Unfortunately, the relaxing vacation ended on a bit of a sour note. Returning to Naniwa on the 30th day of the twelfth month, the last day of the lunar year, we are told that the Palace of the Crown Prince, i.e. Prince Naka no Oe, caught fire, which shocked everyone. Perhaps this is why the sovereign, Karu, chose to stay in the temporary palace of Muko, or maybe they were unrelated.
Fires were not entirely uncommon in a world of wooden houses. , though that doesn’t make them any less destructive and dangerous. If you wanted light in the dark or at night, you had few options, and all of them required some kind of flame. There were stone and bronze lanterns from at least the 6th century onwards, but inside you still neededhad some kind of fuel and a flame, with buildings built almost entirely of wood. In outdoor spaces you might have even had open metal baskets with wood and pitch which burned bright, but could also lead to dangerous embers floating on the wind. And if something did catch fire, your options to put it out were limited: . Bbucket brigades to help bring water, or you could trying to pull down the burning part of the structure in hopes to contain it. There were no firetrucks or extinguishers like we have today.
ThisThe fire at the princely palace must have been quite a loss, and yet it didn’t stop the work of the government -- . Thatthat had to carry on. We aren’t told where Naka no Oe took up residence next—he may have just had his palace rebuilt on the same site, or perhaps took up residence at another palace. This must have been a massive loss for him, personally, though.
Moving on to 648, we are told that the courty celebrated the new year, Karu moved into the Toyosaki palace, and then, in the second month, student priests were sent from Yamato to the peninsula, presumably to get a better handle on their Buddhist studies. A few days later, Abe no Ohoomi, the Sadaijin, or Minister of the Left, arranged a special ceremony at the temple of Shittennoji. We are told that he invited the “Four Classes”, which likely was a reference to all members of the Sangha, or Buddhist community, and he enshrined four images of Buddha in the main pagoda. He then piled up drums, one on top of the other, to simulate Vulture Peak.
Vulture Peak, or Griddhrakūta, sometimes called “Holy Eagle Peak” is a peak in modern Bihar, and is said to have been one of the historical Buddha’s favorite places. Its name is derived from the shape of the mountain, which was thought to look like a vulture—or I guess one could say an eagle—with its wings folded by its side. This is where the Buddha is said to have given many of his the Buddha’s sermons were said to have occurred, including those written down as the Lotus Sutra, the Heart Sutra, and others. The Lotus Sutra even mentions it Vulture Peak by name, so it would have likely been well known to the Buddhist community.
I would note that this is different from another mountain that often shows up in Buddhist iconography: Mt. Sumeru, or just Mt. Meru. That five-peaked mountain is considered the center of the universe, and it shares this pride of place in Buddhist, Hindu, and Jain tradition. However, whereas Vulture Peak is identified with a particular geographic feature, Mt. Meru is more theoretical, and as far as I can tell there is not single location agreed upon as Mt. Meru by the various traditions.
Two months after Abe builtding his drum-mountain, on the first day of the fourth month, the old cap rankss were discontinued, though the Sadaijin and Udaijin, the ministers of the Left and Right, continued to wear theirs. Of course, in the following year, on the second month of 649, 19 new cap ranks would be established, which we discussed last episode.
Other than that, we aren’t given a lot more details on the fifth through twelfth months of 648, other than to say that another Silla envoy apparently came with tribute—which I’m presuming isn’t the one that had arrived with Kim Chyunchyu. And then there was another barrier and barrier settlement built at Ihabune, with subjects from both Koshi and Shinano moved there to support the border station.
649 kicks off with another new year’s festival, and then the creation of new ranks and the 8 Ministries and 100 bureaus, which we discussed last episode. We are also told that there was a mission this year from the Queen of Silla—but we aren’t told exactly when it occurred, . Jjust that Kim Tasya was sent as a hostage with a household of over 30 people, presumably as a replacement for Kim Chyunchyu. His household included a Buddhist priest, various officials, artists, an interpreter, and sixteen servants to look after him and his household. All of them would presumably stay with Kim Tasya throughout his time as a diplomatic hostage.
A few months into the new year, on the 17th day of the third month, we are told that Abe no Oho-omi passed away.
I suspect that this is connected, in a way, to the extravagant celebration he threw at Shittenoji; if he were old and sickly, it is quite possible that Abe no Ohomi was trying to make sure that he had banked enough good karma before moving on to his next life.
That His death would have changed the power dynamics within the court. The Sadaijin was the more senior position. The Udaijin, or Minister of the Right, was none other than Soga no Kuroyamada no Ishikawa no Maro. As you may recall, he had been enlisted to assist Naka no Oe with the overthrow of Maro’s own kinsmen, Soga no Iruka and Soga no Emishi, and as a reward he had been granted one of the highest positions in the court. Along with Abe no Oho-omi, he had been helping Naka no Oe and his best bud, Nakatomi no Kamatari, implement their vision for a new Yamato. Being at the top, however, is bound to garner you some enemies, and in Soga no Maro’s case, the call was coming from inside the house.
Soga no Hiuga, also known as Soga no Musashi or, apparently, Soga no Musa, was apparently not much of a fan of his fellow Soga family member, : his elder brother and reluctant father-in-law, Soga no Maro. Presuming they are the same person—not always a guarantee in the Chronicles—As we noted in Episode 106, Musa no Omi, or more properly Soga no Omi no Musashi, or Soga no Musa, had taken Soga no Maro’s eldest daughter and eloped with her after she had been betrothed to marry Naka no Oe. Soga no Maro’s alliance with the Crown Prince had only been saved by his youngest daughter offering herself up in her sister’s stead. Given that Soga no Musashi had run away with Soga no Maro’s eldest without asking permission suggests that the two were not on the best of terms, and it seems that Soga no Musashi once again saw a chance to turn the tables against his unwilling father-in-law shortly after the death of Abe no Oho-omi.
For you see, one week later, Soga no Musashi went to Crown Prince Naka no Oe and told him that his elder brother, Soga no Maro, was waiting for the Crown Prince to go to the seaside so that he could do some sort of “mischief”—presumably against the Crown Prince. This alarmed Naka no Oe, who went to his uncle, the sovereign. Karu sent Ohotomo no Koma no Muraji, Mikuni no Maro no Kimi, and Hodzumi no Kurafu no Omi to question Maro about these accusations. Maro, however, refused to say anything to them. Perhaps it was his pride—after all, he was the Minister of the Right, and only a handful of people sat higher in the court hierarchy. In any normal situation, he would have had no reason to explain himself to those beneath him. He told them that he would only talk directly to the sovereign, in a face-to-face interview.
Hearing this, Karu sent Mikuni no Maro and Hodzumi no Kurafu back to try and investigate, despite objections from Soga no Maro. He gave them the same answer as before and sent them on their way.
I cannot begin to fathom what Soga no Maro’s thoughts were. Perhaps he didn’t trust the intermediaries to properly report up. He was, after all, being accused of treason. To the sovereign and the crown prince, however, it looked as though these were the actions of a guilty man.
Karu began preparations to build up an armed force, with the intention of surrounding Soga no Maro’s residence, but before that could happen, Soga no Maro fled via Chinu towards the boundary of the province of Yamato—which is to say the Nara basin. He took with him his two sons, Hoshi and Akagoma.
Maro had a third, eldest son at this point who had moved out. This son, Soga no Koshi, was staying in the Yamada area of Yamato, building a temple—possibly Yamadadera. When he heard that his father was fleeing the capital, he went out to the great Tsuki tree in Imaki to meet him and his brothers, and then they took refuge in the temple.
Koshi demanded the opportunity to stand and face the royal army that was following on his father’s heels. He offered to advance straight on them and oppose them, presumably with men of his own, but Soga no Maro would not allow it.
That evening, Soga no Koshi came up with the idea of burning the royal palace at Woharida, and started the process of assembling troops, despite his father’s insistence that he do no so thing. When his father found out, he was furious. He berated his son, and the priests of Yamada Temple. As Aston translates it he said to them: “Shall one who is in the position of vassal contrive treason against his Lord? Shall the duty of a son to a father be brought to nothing? This temple was originally built, not for me personally, but under a vow for the sake of the Sovereign. I have now been slandered by Musashi, and I fear that I shall be unjustly put to death. With so near a preospect of the yellow springs, I would withdraw from life still cherishing fidelity in my bosom, and the object of my coming to the Temple is that my last moments may be made easier.”
Essentially, he had already consigned himself to the fact that he was probably going to die, but if that happened he was going to do it on his terms, with a clear conscience that he, at least, had remained loyal.
As for the Royal Army, they were getting ready to attack. Ohotomo no Koma and Soga no Musashi were at the head of the army. However, as they came upon Yamadadera, they were approached by two figures: Hashi no Omi no Mu and Uneme no Omi no Onimaro, who had just come from Yamada temple. They told the arriving army what had just happened, and how Soga no Maro and seven of his family members, including his three sons and one daughter, had strangled themselves, rather than submitting to the kind of royal death penalty he figured he had waiting. After learning this, the generals turned the army around and headed back and encamped at Tajihi no Saka as they figured out what to do next.
The following day, the 25th day of the third month of 649, the royal army approached the temple and rounded up all of the Minister’s men. The generals had cangues placed around the necks of the Minister’s supporters—large, wooden boards that would be placed around the neck as a form of public humiliation—and their hands were tied behind them. Mononobe no Futsuta no Shiho was ordered to demean and cut off Soga no Maro’s head, presumably as proof of his death. Several days later, those considered loyal to Soga no Maro were also put to death. Fourteen were executed, while nine were strangled and fifteen were banished.
Later, as messengers were sent to take over Soga no Maro’s property, they were going through his mansion when they found several things with inscriptions indicating that they were valuable items that were noted as belonging to Prince Naka no Oe. When this was reported back, the Crown Prince realized that he had made a mistake—Soga no Maro had not been committing treason, and he apparently held Naka no Oe in such high regard that he considered those things passed down by the Crown Prince had been consideredto be particularly special.
Unfortunately, regret cannot undo the past. Naka no Oe realized that Soga no Musashi must have been misleading him all this time, but there wasn’t actually any hard evidence for this, and so he couldn’t justify executing him. Thus, Naka no Oe took the next best step: He appointed Soga no Musashi as the viceroy of Tsukushi.
Now this would seem to be anything but a punishment. After all, the Viceroy of Tsukushi oversaw all of the island of Kyushu, a seemingly prestigious position. However, even the people of the time realized that this gift was a white elephant. After all, it would mean that Soga no Musashi would be expected to move all the way to Tsukushi—about as far from the court and center of politics as was possible. This was, as the people of the time even figured out, a stealth banishment. This same tactic would be used not infrequently to move political rivals out of the court, where their influence would then be greatly reduced.
The tragedy didn’t end there, however. As you may recall, Naka no Oe’s own wife, Miyatsuko-hime, was the daughter of Soga no Maro. When she heard that heer had been decapitated by Shiho, she took it deeply to heart. She was so distraught that the word “Shiho” would trigger her. Even the mention of salt—also pronounced Shiho—caused her grief, and her attendants used another word to refer to it in her presence: Kitashi. Eventually, we are told that Miyatsuko-hime’s grief overwhelmed her and she passed away. When the Crown Prince, Naka no Oe, heard that, he found himself grieved and shocked.
Nunaka Kawara no Fubito no Mitsu, seeing the Prince’s grief, came forward and presented two verses of poetry, which Aston translates as:
On a mountain-stream
Two mandarin-ducks there be,
Well matched together:--
But the wife who was a like mate for me
Who is it that has taken away?
That first verse makes a reference to mandarin ducks, who were observed to mate for life, and were often considered a symbol of marital fidelity. The other verse is a bit more direct:
Though on every tree
The flowers are blooming,
How can it be that
My darling wife
Does not blossom again?
These verses touched the Crown Prince, reflecting as they did his own deep despair. He praised them, and gave Mitsu his own lute to sing them on. He also presented silk, cloth, and even silk floss—lavish gifts for the impromptu bard’s words.
Words would not change the fact that both the Minister of the Right and of the Left were now both dead and gone. On the 20th day of the 4th month, Kose no Tokodako no Omi was raised up as Minister of the Left, or Sadaijin, and Ohotomo no Nagatoko no Muraji, also called Umakai, was made the Minister of the Right.
The positions may have been filled, but this episode must have had a traumatic effect on the court. That This was a lot of people to be killed or banished in a short time, many of them from the upper echelons of society. And perhaps that is why, with the close of the year 649, we also see the close of the Taika era.
TThe era had certainly brought great change—and much of it would shape the direction of history for centuries to come. However, it ended on something of a sour note, with the presumably natural death of the Minister of the Left, and then the unjust slander and death of the Minister of the Right. One can only imagine that these were uneasy times for the court.
And perhaps that is why, starting in 650, we’ll get a new era name: Hakuchi. But that is something we will touch on in future episodes.
And so, until next time, thank you for listening and for all of your support.
If you like what we are doing, please 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 reach out to our Sengoku Daimyo Facebook page. You can also email us at the.sengoku.daimyo@gmail.com.
Thank you, also, to Ellen for their work editing the podcast.
And that’s all for now. Thank you again, and I’ll see you next episode on Sengoku Daimyo’s Chronicles of Japan.

References

Aston, W. G. (1972). Nihongi, chronicles of Japan from the earliest times to A.D. 697. London: Allen & Unwin. ISBN0-80480984-4
Knox, George William (1903). The Early Institutional Life of Japan, a Study in the Reform of 645 A. D. By K. ASAKAWA, Ph.D. The American Historical Review, Volume 11, Issue 1, October 1905, Pages 128–129

Episode 111: Names, Ranks, and Court Caps

September 16, 2024 Joshua Badgley

A wooden "mokkan" tablet found at the ruins of the Naniwa no Miya site in modern Osaka and displayed at the Osaka History Museum. It includes a Buddhist phrase, "Shukuse". Mokkan were wooden tablets used to jot ancient notes or similar, and were likely used by the officials working at the palace site in Naniwa. (Photo by author)

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This episode we finish out the Taika reforms, or at least the edicts of the Taika era. Some were around names, and others about the formation of the court, the various ministries, and new rank and cap systems. The latter went through at least two iterations, updating the previous twelve rank system developed under the 17 Article Constitution.

12 Rank System

The 12 Rank system that was purportedly developed by Umayado was as follows:

Daitoku (大徳) - Greater Virtue
Shōtoku (小徳) - Lesser Virtue
Dainin (大仁) - Greater Humanity
Shōnin (小仁) - Lesser Humanity
Dairai (大礼) - Greater Propriety
Shōrai (小礼) - Lesser Propriety
Daishin (大信) - Greater Faith
Shōnin (小信) - Lesser Faith
Daigi (大義) - Greater Justice
Shōgi (小義) - Lesser Justice
Daichi (大智) - Greater Wisdom
Shōchi (小智) - Lesser Wisdom

Cap Rank System of 647

Six of the ranks were divided into Greater and Lesser and the rest were

Shoku-kwan (織冠 - woven crown): It was made of woven stuff and embroidered on the borders. The color of the clothing was dark purple.
Shu-kwan (繍冠 - embroidered crown): Made of embroidered stuff. Otherwise the edges and the clothing were the same as Shoku-kwan.
Shi-kwan (紫冠 - purple crown): Made of purple material and a border of woven stuff. The clothing was light purple.
Kin-kwan (錦冠 - brocade crown): The Greater cap was made of Dai-hakusen brocade (大伯仙錦) and the cape border of woven stuff. The lesser cap was made of Shou-hakusen (小伯仙錦) brocade with a border of Dai-hakusen brocade. The clothing for both was dark red.
Sei-kwan (青冠 - blue crown): Made of blue silk. Border of Dai-hakusen brocade. The color of the clothing was deep violet [kon]
Kok-kwan (黒冠 - black crown): Made of black silk. Greater rank cap had a border of wheel-pattern brocade and the lesser cap had a border of diamond-pattern brocade. The color of the clothing was green [midori]
Kembu (建武 - establish valor) aka Risshin (立身 - Advancement): The cap was made of black silk and a border of dark violet.

They also made tou-kwan (鐙冠 - stirrup caps) with a "tail" of varnished gauze behind. A kanmuri, like the tsubo-kanmuri.

Distinctions of rank were indicated by the border and hair ornaments in the shape of a cicada. The hair ornaments of the grades from Lesser Kin-kwan upwards were a combination of gold and silver. The hair ornaments of the Greater and Lesser Seikwan were silver, and the hair ornaments of the Greater and Lesser Kok-kwan were copper. Kembu caps had no hair ornaments.

Cap Ranks of 649

Dai-shiki (大織 - Greater Woven Stuff)
Shou-shiki (小織 - Lesser Woven Stuff)
Dai-shuu (大繍 - Greater Embroidery)
Shou-shuu (小繍 - Lesser Embroidery)
Dai-shi (大紫 - Greater Purple)
Shou-shi (小紫 - Lesser Purple)
Upper Daikwa (大華上 - Greater Flower, Upper)
Lower Daikwa (大華下 - Greater Flower, Lower)
Upper Shoukwa (小華上 - Lesser Flower, Upper)
Lower Shoukwa (小華下 - Lesser Flower, Lower)
Upper Daisen (大山上 - Greater Mountain, Upper)
Lower Daisen (大山下 - Greater Mountain, Lower)
Upper Shousen (小山上 - Lesser Mountain, Upper)
Lower Shousen (小山下 - Lesser Mountain, Lower)
Upper Daiotsu (大乙上 - Greater Tiger [OR Kingfisher], Upper)
Lower Daiotsu (大乙下 - Greater Tiger, Lower)
Upper Shouotsu (小乙上 - Lesser Tiger, Upper)
Lower Shouotsu (小乙下 - Lesser Tiger, Lower)
Risshin (立身 - Advancement)

We aren’t given the specific color combinations of caps and garments for these ranks as we had with the others, above.

Welcome to Sengoku Daimyo’s Chronicles of Japan. My name is Joshua, and this is episode 111: Names, ranks, and court caps.

In the early hours of the morning, the locked gates of the palace were dark against the sky. A few torches provided flickering illumination, as a crowd of officials gathered to the left and right of the doors. As they waited outside, a low murmur could be heard as they made small talk with their co-workers. Stragglers continued to join the crowd as the sky itself began to lighten, and though the sun still rested below the horizon, the stars had already given way. As the light grew, and the torches were extinguished, a few late arrivals rushed up just as sun began to peek over the horizon. At that, the doors were opened from inside, and the officials streamed in, heading to their offices where they would get to work running the country—their main tool in this task being little more than brush and paper, as they worked to bring order to the chaos.

Here we are, still in the second year of Taika, aka 646, and still going through the changes being made to the Yamato government. Last episode we went through many of the edicts made in and around the third month of the year. These include proscriptions on the size and content of various tombs, down to how many people they could have work on them and for how long. Other edicts impacted who could actually control the labor of the people. While it is likely that local officials remained in charge, there was at least a nominal understanding that the people’s labor—whether in the form of corvee labor or rice and similar products of the agricultural labor of the people working the fields—all that labor belonged to the State and, by extension, the sovereign. There were many other, specific edicts, many having to do with marriage and various instances of harai—not to mention the invention of “escrow”.
One of the themes through much of this was at least the nominal extension of the sovereign’s direct authority down to the lowest levels of society. This was accomplished by setting up offices down to the village level that would report up the chain all the way to the court. These “officers” were likely pulled from individuals who were already part of the elites, but instead of being paid by income from their own lands, they now had stipends coming directly from the court.
That was a theme that continued in the edicts that came out in the 8th month, which is where we’re going to start with today’s episode.
Before we get into that, though, a quick caveat: I am still not convinced that I fully understand what is going on with some of these edicts, especially around names. I’m not even sure the Chroniclers fully comprehended what they had put together and pulled from various sources at times, which occasionally seems like it is contradictory or repetitive. So I’ll do my best to explain it as I see it, but if you really want to get into this topic you probably will want to dig into it for yourself.
Now I want to start with Aston’s translation of part of the edict as recorded in the Nihon Shoki. Following a rather flowery introduction talking about sage kings—a topic we should touch on at some point—they get to the heart of the matter:
“Now as to the names of the early Princes: the Omi, Muraji, Tomo no Miyatsuko and Kuni no Miyatsuko have divided their various Be and allotted them severally to their various titles (or surnames). They afterwards took the various Be of the people, and made them reside in the provinces and districts, one mixed up with another. The consequence has been to make father and child to bear different surnames, and brothers to be reckoned of distinct families, while husbands and wives have names different from one another. One family is divided into five or split up into six, and both Court and country are therefore filled with contentious suits. No settlement has been come to, and the mutual confusion grows worse and worse. Let the various Be, therefore, beginning with those of the reigning Sovereign and including those in the possession of the Omi, Muraji, etc., be, without exception, abolished, and let them become subjects of the State. Those who have become Tomo no Miyatsuko by borrowing the names of princes, and those who have become Omi or Muraji on the strength of the names of ancestors, may not fully apprehend our purport, and might think, if they heard this announcement without warning, that the names borrowed by their ancestors would become extinct. We therefore make this announcement beforehand, so that they may understand what are our intentions.
The children of rulers succeed one another in the government of the Realm, and it is well known that the names of the actual Sovereign and of his Royal ancestors will not be forgotten by the world. But the names of sovereigns are lightly given to rivers and plains, or common people are called by them. This is a truly fearful state of things. The appellations of sovereigns, like the sun and moon, will float afar: the names of those of the Royal line will last for ever, like unto Heaven and Earth. Such being our opinion, we announce as follows:--'Do ye all, from those of the Royal line down to the Ministers, the Daibu, Omi, Muraji, and Tomo no Miyatsuko, who do Us service, (in short) all persons of whatever Uji [One book has 'royal subjects of whatever name'], give ear to what We say. With regard to the form of your service, We now abolish the former offices and constitute afresh the hundred bureaus. We shall, moreover, grant grades of rank and confer official dignities.”
Whew. That is a lot, and I want to try to break it down as best I can.
First off, I believe this ties in to the earlier edict, in the third month, that we mentioned last episode. In that edict, the sovereign abolished the “Iribe”—those families made for the princes and ostensibly around to keep certain names alive, though quite probably they were family groups meant to keep previous princes and others rolling in their rice payments. This new edict is continuing that trend – of abolishing the Be – but is coming at it from a different perspective.
As a reminder, the “Be” and the various “Uji”, while they were longstanding Yamato tradition by this point, were originally imported traditions from the continent. By all accounts the “Be” were the first to be created, with the “family” system creating a hereditary structure through which people would be born into particular jobs, with a familial “head” that would then organize the various members across the realm. The more aristocratic “uji” formed out of that.
Based on this edict, it seems that not only the sovereign of Yamato was using this system. In fact, I suspect that the various local “sovereigns” of other lands had adopted it for their own purposes as well, and it sounds like even the Yamato courtiers had taken to using a version of this system within the lands that they controlled. The Be and Uji system were, by this point, ubiquitous across the archipelago, at all levels, from what we can tell.
Family names, however, were not a native system in Yamato. Prior to the introduction of the Be and Uji, as best we can tell people were known by where they were from, what they did and the titles they held, and by their given names. A father and son would not necessarily have shared a name, other than those other factors that they held in common by way of ancestry.
I further suspect that ancestor worship was not so much a thing, either. Not that people in Yamato didn’t revere their parents or remember those that passed on, but there weren’t the same ideas about family as among, say, the ethnic Han, for whom ancestor worship was important, and carrying a family name was tied to larger cultural and ritual implications. In early Yamato, names were tied to jobs and position in society. If that changed, then someone could easily create a new family—a new “Be”—and people placed in that group would have both a new name and new responsibilities.
If a particular elite uji, like the Abe, the Ohotomo, the Nakatomi, or the Mononobe, needed people to set up a new income stream for a particular person—perhaps a son or daughter—or they wanted to start a new industry in their territory, they might just have easily called up various people and reassigned them from one Be to a newly created one. That would surely explain the breaking up of fathers and sons, such that each had a different name.
At the same time, this would have likely been anathema to the Confucian dogma that underlay much of the reasoning behind the reforms. Confucian theory gives much weight to the concept of filial piety, that a son should be loyal to the father. Thus to cause a father and son to be split into different families without good reason was likely at odds with what the elite were telling themselves was the proper way of Heaven.
So now we come back to the edict, which treats the entire traditional naming system as though it was in line with Confucian ideals. Moreover it places the authority to regulate these families and family names in the sovereign. This wasn’t actually a new thing: the Chronicles previously had mentioned regulating names under the reign of Woasatsuma no Ohokimi, aka Ingyou Tennou, in the 5th century. This was covered back in episode 56, where we talked about the importance of names, how they determined who you were and your position in society. This was changing, as was the concept of family, which was, once again, much more closely tied to Confucian notions of family. So controlling the names of the families was another form of power that further emphasized the position of the sovereign. Through the regulation of these corporate families, their labor, was now being brought under the nominal control of the sovereign and the state.
This edict also removed the tradition of naming corporate groups after a person. Previously that traditions seems to have started as a way to create groups that actually supported a given individual with their labor. Those groups would often persist beyond the individual, however, and I suspect that’s where they became thought of as a kind of memorial, maintaining the memory of that individual. And I can see the power in that kind of thing, especially prior to having any kind of decent written records. It is interesting to see how the practice had come to be viewed by the 7th century.
There is a mention in the edict of something that runs contrary to how we understand things actually happened, and that was in the comment that lakes and rivers and more had been named after sovereigns. The Chroniclers here are referring to the way that placenames, such as Hatsuse, or Hase, as well as Okinaga or Katsuraki, show up in the names of various sovereigns. Aston notes something that seems obvious to me, when you think about it: These places weren’t named after the sovereigns, but the other way around. Assuming that many of the names we see in the Chronicles were actually titles, they told you things about the person they were attached to, possibly where they were from. Of course, that interpretation doesn’t fit as well into the narrative of the 7th and 8th centuries and the idea that the royal lineage was a largely unbroken line back to the earliest ancestors, instead of a broken lineage of different people from different places.So with all of that, the court abolished the practice of creating all of these different family names. The edict almost makes it sound like they were abolishing those families, as well, though they make a clarifying point about that: there is a note about how some of the tomo no miyatsuko—a general name for those families that served in court—took their position by ‘borrowing the name of a prince’, and how the court didn’t want those people to be worried about how this change would affect them. The meaning would appear to be that courtly families would be unaffected, and this only affected families going forward or those that were created that were apparently below the level of the Tomo no Miyatsuko. That said, this is where it is good to remember that we are reading a Sinified version of the ancient Japanese as told by biased Chroniclers and trying to interpret it through a modern lens, often going through yet another translation in the process.
The second part of the edict mentions abolishing the former offices and constituting afresh the hundred bureaus. This is a bit difficult to parse, but Aston suggests that it refers to abolishing any actual authority attached to the old titles, many of which had become nothing more than names. So when we see things like Wake and Mimi and other such things that appear to be old titles, the court was likely making sure that everyone now understood that those no longer had any actual authority. The kabane or family ranks stayed, at least for now, greater emphasis was placed on the newly established positions that were set up as part of the new state bureaucracy, as well as the rank and stipend that was likewise given out. Aston also suggests that this change means that the rank and the title were not necessarily one and the same, though high rank often did come with a high position.
The edict doesn’t stop there, however. After talking about names and families, it goes on to talk about governors and the kuni-no-miyatsuko handing out rice land per previous edicts. It is noted that the rice land should be handed out equally to the people, and that those who live on or next to the land should be the ones to get it. I wonder about the actual execution, but at first blush, at least, this seems to make sense—don’t make families hike all the way across the village or region to till the field, but try to locate their land near their home.
It also notes that alternate taxes—when it is labor or something else in lieu of rice—should only be collected from men, presumably the head of the household. This was likely part of the shaping of patriarchal attitudes that assumed the men were the head of household and the chief laborers.
The edict went on to call up corvee labor—one from every fifty houses, as had been previously mentioned—to help survey the various provinces and create maps of the provinces and districts. This is a rather monumental task, and it is unfortunate that no actual map survives from this time as far as I’m aware, but it is one more effort to try to bring the entire realm under the control of the state. In this case you are, in a way, capturing the realm on paper and setting up a basis on which to discuss later things like land ownership and use even though the actual land might be far away from the political and administrative center.
Finally, the edict makes note that uniform provision would be made for any canals, embankments, or rice land that needed to be brought into cultivation. This likely varied in each district and province, so there is just a general note that would have required local officers of the court to determine exactly what was needed.
And that was it for the 8th month, and for edicts that year. There was more that we will cover in later episodes—rats marching to the east, the last gasps (perhaps) of Nimna as a consideration, and other such things. But no more edicts.
At least not that year. The following year, Taika 3, or 647, we see the issue of names comes up again. This time the edict came out in the fourth month, and the claims now seem similar but slightly different from before. The issue in the 4th month appears to be that some family names were derived from the names of kami or even sovereigns. Moreover, people were apparently using that connection to claim that they had certain authorities to continue to make people their slaves or to avail themselves of their labor.
In the case of the names related to sovereigns, I suspect that ties in directly with the previous discussions of creating corporate groups to support a given prince or other royal family member. As for the kami, there seems to be some idea that groups that claimed descent from a particular kami would take that kami’s name. So those claiming descent from Oho-kuni-nushi, the Lord of the Great Land, used the name “Oho-kuni-nushi” as their family name. We aren’t given specific examples, however.
There are numerous possible explanations I could see for these, especially given the way that early power structures tied themselves to the ability to appease powerful spirits. The Ohomiwa family name, for example, likely refers to their connection to the religious activities on Mt. Miwa. I also would not be surprised to learn that some of these families were ancient royalty in their own lands—the lands that Yamato now claimed as provinces.
There is the possibility, though, that all of this is just people taking names for themselves and putting on airs—trying to be important. After all, in a time before documentation, whos to say when you actually arrived at a particular name and how. This is a phenomenon seen in parts of America, especially in the early days, when many people struck off to make a life, often without the baggage attached to a previous identity. Prior to more rigorous systems of documentation, how would you know if the person you met really was “Mr. Underhill” and not someone entirely different?
Most important, to me, is the act of the sovereign, as head of the state, in actively claiming authority over these issues as well as putting a stop to the way that people were using such names to apparently make claims to certain entitlements. The message seems clear: Moving forward, everything has to go through the sovereign and the court. The previous systems of rule and governance will no longer be tolerated.
Of course, it isn’t exactly clear how this was enforced. Was it purely through the court? Or was there also some threat of force and violence if people didn’t conform? Or was it enough to make the edict and then have local governors handle it? Other than the example that was made of several of the governors, which we talked about over the last couple of episodes, I’m not sure that we fully know how it all went down.
There were a few other edicts mentioned that year, but apparently the chroniclers didn’t know exactly when they had been instituted, and so just claimed that it occurred during that year. It seems that there was a new palace built, replacing the old government offices at Wogohori, in Naniwa, and there were new rules for how the court would operate. That entry is placed between the entries of the 4th and 10th month, suggesting it was instituted around the summer period. Then, after a few more entries, including one for the last day of the year, there was the the institution of a new rank system.
As for the new court rules: all courtiers were to show up to work at the Hour of the Tiger—the period of roughly 3 to 5 AM by modern standards—and they were to stand at the gates of the palace until dawn, at which point the doors would be open and people would be allowed in. Once everyone was in, the doors would be shut, and anyone who was late, well, I guess you were calling out for the day.
We talked a little bit about this practice back in Episode 95, when we were going over Umayado’s 17 article constitution, which exhorted the court officials to arrive early and stay late. This was clearly based on continental models, and as I mentioned back in that episode, it was likely done to make sure that officials had the most daylight possible to complete their tasks.
Not that there were so many tasks. The workday ended around noon—the Hour of the Horse, which technically spanned 11 AM to 1 PM. A bell would be rung, letting everyone know that it was time to go home. Realistically this means that you are lining up at 4 AM and going home at noon—roughly an 8 hour day, not including the commute. And if 4 AM seems early, this was not an uncommon time for people to get up and prepare for the day when they didn’t have artificial light to keep them going so much later. In Medieval Europe it wasn’t uncommon for servants to be up and about by 3 or 4 am to go get food to start cooking. If you consider that it was dark by 6 or 7 pm, and you go to bed around 8 pm, you just might wake up at 4 in the morning—going to bed a little earlier, or just going with a bit less sleep, and you can be up and about by that time.
This also gave the court officials time for everything else they would need to do. From noon until sunset would have been time for the social functions; what we might consider “networking” in a modern corporate environment. Today we can shift these considerations to much later due to electricity, but when light meant fire and fire meant the possibility of burning down your entire house, then using the light you had makes sense. In fact, one has to wonder if this is what led to the fire that destroyed Naka no Oe’s own mansion—but we’ll probably want to save the rest of that story for another episode.
The other thing happening this year, and in many ways closely tied with the new court ceremonies, was the implementation of a new rank and cap system.
The previous rank system from the time of Umayado was replaced with a system of seven kinds of court caps and 17 grades. It is often assumed that court caps and clothing were instituted for the earlier system, though there isn’t a clear mention of uniforms and colors associated with the earlier ranks are largely conjecture. It isn’t clear that the court had yet picked up the continental clothing styles. By 647, however, it seems that the court was considering official court clothing.
The Tang Dynasty had instituted color regulations for clothing in the the 4th year of Zhen Guan. The style of robe, the panling lanshan, was borrowed from the Xianbei—a robe with a round-necked collar that originally appeared in the Northern dynasties. It had been previously adopted by scholars and officials in the Tang dynasty, and in the edict of 630 the Tang emperor dictated specific colors that could be worn based on the rank of the individual. Coincidentally, 630-632 is when Inugami no Mitasuki was there as an envoy of the Yamato court. He would have seen the style of the imperial Tang court.
Uniforms at the Tang court would have been quite the sight, especially if you weren’t used to it. People in the same style and cut of robe, not just for fashion purposes, but coordinated, like a modern sports team. You could immediately tell someone’s rank, and when they lined up, it would have been particularly striking.
It is unclear to me just how similar the Yamato implementation of this system was to the continental version. This may have been more like the “we have a rank system at home” version of courtly outfits. It also must have been quite the task to have all of the proper caps made from different materials for all of the various ranks and individuals. And these weren’t caps you wore all the time—only at major court ceremonies, including when official dignitaries were visiting or during various Buddhist ceremonies.
What’s more, only two years later they would change it again. This time we have the edict pegged to the second month of the year 649, with 19 court cap-ranks initiated. I’ll put the ranks themselves up on the podcast blog at sengokudaimyo.com if anyone is interested in the specifics, but a few notes.
First, the names of the ranks were based on various things, such as the color of the cloth of the cap itself and whether it was plain or embroidered. Some of the classes are based on things like “Flower”, “Mountain”, or “Tiger”, though they possibly meant “Kingfisher” for that last one. The first three classes are broken up into Greater and Lesser, or Dai and Shou, while the lower classes—ranks 7 to 18—were further broken into Upper and Lower. So you would have Upper Daikwa, Lower Daikwa, Upper Shoukwa, and Lower Shoukwa, as an example. That method of breaking the lower classes of ranks into more was something that would persist into later rank systems. The last rank, “Risshin”, just meant “Advancement” and seems to refer to the lowest grade on the scale.
In addition to the ranks, in the 2nd month of 649 Takamuku no Kuromaro and the Buddhist Priest Bin presented their work on the 8 Ministries—or Departments—and the 100 bureaus. This is work they had been tasked with at the beginning, and the eventual structure is definitely based closely on the Tang dynasty’s court, but is not necessarily a one for one adoption. At the top of it all are the 8 Ministries, or Shou, which oversaw the various bureaus—the text says one hundred, but they aren’t actually enumerated and so I think we can assume that they just meant that there were a lot of them.
The actual 8 Ministries are as follows:
Nakatsukasa Shou – the Ministry of Central Affairs
Shikibu Shou – the Ministry of Civil Office
Jibu Shou – the Ministry of Ceremonies
Mimbu Shou – the Ministry of Popular Affairs
Hyoubu Shou – the Ministry of War
Gyoubu Shou – the Ministry of Justice
Ohokura Shou – the Ministry of the Treasury
Kunai Shou – the Ministry Imperial Household
Many of these ministries would last for centuries, even as their power was eclipsed by other government institutions. Still, they would continue to be important, and today the Kunai Shou still exists, though now it is the “Kunai CHO”, often translated as the Imperial Household Agency.
These ministries each had officials at their head who reported up to the Ministers of the Left and Right. These 8 ministries would make up the core of what would come to be known as the Daijo-kan, sometimes referred to as the Great Council of State, which operated the secular government, as opposed to the Jingi-kan, which would come to oversee national Shinto, or kami-related, affairs and ritual.
And with that, we largely come to the end of what appears to be the Taika reforms. The rest of the reign could be thought of as a “burn in” period, I guess, as we assume that they continued to implement these reforms and build up this new government. It is likely relevant that the following year, in 650, they changed the era name, something that we’ll eventually want to talk about.
For now, I think we should call it here. Next episode we’ll backtrack a bit and go back to some of the other, non-edict related events in this period. It wasn’t exactly clean. There was intrigue, murder, and more. Politics at the time were anything but dull.
Still, the reforms had brought about a real change in the administration of Yamato, a change that would influence the entire nation for centuries to come. The centralization of power and the adoption of continental models would not stop simply at administrative tasks, but would find their way into many different facets of life. Naka no Oe himself would continue to refine the system, as would those who came after him. The reforms touched just about every facet of life across the archipelago, and in many ways it finally brought the archipelago under the control of the State, with the sovereign at its head.
And so, until next time, thank you for listening and for all of your support.
If you like what we are doing, please 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 reach out to our Sengoku Daimyo Facebook page. You can also email us at the.sengoku.daimyo@gmail.com.
Thank you, also, to Ellen for their work editing the podcast.
And that’s all for now. Thank you again, and I’ll see you next episode on Sengoku Daimyo’s Chronicles of Japan.

References

Aston, W. G. (1972). Nihongi, chronicles of Japan from the earliest times to A.D. 697. London: Allen & Unwin. ISBN0-80480984-4
Knox, George William (1903). The Early Institutional Life of Japan, a Study in the Reform of 645 A. D. By K. ASAKAWA, Ph.D. The American Historical Review, Volume 11, Issue 1, October 1905, Pages 128–129

Episode 110: Manual Labor, Mounded Tombs, and Marital Missteps

September 1, 2024 Joshua Badgley

Takamatsuzuka kofun from the outside. This tomb would have been one of those built after the edicts that closely regulated the size and what could be done for different members of the royal family and the aristocracy. Inside it is richly decorated in a style similar to that of Goguryeo.

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This episode covers just the first three months of year 2 of the Taika reforms, but there is a lot in the various edicts. The labor of the elites was being moved under the purview of the State, which would have wide ranging consequences. And there were restrictions placed on the size of mounded tombs—though those appear to have been falling out of vogue around this time, replaced with familial temples.

Tomb measurements were made in shaku (尺) and hiro (尋). A shaku is considered equivalent to about 1 foot, with a conversion, today, of about 0.99 feet to a shaku. A hiro was about 5 shaku. Later, a hiro would be made roughly equivalent to a European fathom, and so today it is often 6 shaku, instead. However, given that it was actually based on the distance between a grown man’s outspread arms, 5 shaku is a more reasonable distance for what we are discussing.

  
    Rank
    Interior
    Exterior
    Labor
    Time
    Other allowances
  

    Royal Prince
    9尺ｘ5尺ｘ5尺
    9尋ｘ9尋ｘ5尋
    1000人
    7 days
    White cloth hangings and transport by funeral cart
  

    Superior Ministers
    9尺ｘ5尺ｘ5尺
    7尋ｘ7尋ｘ3尋
    500人
    5 days
    White cloth hangings and transport on men's shoulders
  

    Lower Ministers
    9尺ｘ5尺ｘ5尺
    5尋ｘ5尋ｘ2.5尋
    250人
    3 days
    White cloth hangings and transport by funeral cart
  

    Ranks Dainin to Shonin
    9尺ｘ4尺ｘ4尺
    No mound (level ground)
    100人
    1 day
     
  

    Ranks Dairei to Shochi
    9尺ｘ4尺ｘ4尺
    No mound (level ground)
    50人
    1 day
  

One of the key concepts this episode is that of “harai”, or “purification”. This is a term often used in Shinto, today, often in relation to things like “tsumi”: ritual pollution. It seems to have been a bit broader in the past, however, and was something that people actively attempted to avoid having to do, likely because of the social and/or fiscal costs associated with it. Unfortunately, what it was isn’t exactly laid out, but we can make some guesses based on later centuries.

Welcome to Sengoku Daimyo’s Chronicles of Japan. My name is Joshua and this is episode 110: Manual Labor, Mounded Tombs, and Marital Missteps.
Maro sat by the small campfire he had made along the river’s edge. The water nearby was going to be the catalyst for the gruel that he was making with some of the last bit of food that he had. As he stirred the pot, he looked over at his friend, lying out, his head propped up against the rock.
Maro and Sumi had been working on one of the large tombs in Asuka at the commandof their lord, who had built it for his deceased father. Now they were released and headed back to their village, still two days out. Unlike their superiors, they didn’t get horses to ride across the landscape, so it would be a few days before they returned home. Unfortunately, Sumi had grown ill, and he was now almost delirious with fever. Maro couldn’t bear to leave his friend, but he also cursed his luck.
What if Sumi were to die? It was one thing to die at home, or even when they were working on the tomb. But now they were travelers—strangers on the road. If something happened to Sumi, Maro knew he couldn’t just leave him, but neither could he go trudging through the countryside with a dead body. Even association with death would bring problems for him, and if local villagers were to find out, they could force him to pay for the necessary ritual purification—or worse. Heck, even something as simple as cooking rice on the side of the road could bring problems for a poor traveler—hence why Maro had found some place off the beaten path and away from prying eyes.
Under his breath he prayed to whatever powers were listening to help Sumi recover. If they could only make it back to their village, then everything would be alright.
Once again, we are looking at the second year of Taika, 646. As we heard in the past couple of episodes, the first year of Taika saw a plethora of edicts that would bring radical change to the way that the sovereign interacted with the land and the people. These provided the start of much more direct rule,   and yet also set the stage for a new bureaucratic state, with various new officials up and down the hierarchy.
This episode we are continuing to look at what happened in the first several months of 646, largely because there was so much going on that it’s worth focusing in on this short time period.   For one thing, we really should talk a little bit more about how this entire Taika era is reflecting the culmination of what appears to have been a major change to Yamato’s cultural identity over the preceding century or so—a change in perspective that may not have even been entirely apparent to them, but which allowed Naka no Oe and the sovereign, Karu, aka Koutoku Tennou, to get away with these pronouncements that restructured the basic foundations of the Yamato state. These changes include the death knell of the kofun period, with new restrictions on how mounded tombs were to be created, including how large they were allowed to be. We’ll also look at a litany of items being called out in the third month of the year—many of which directly affected people at the lowest ends of the economic spectrum and which give us a view of some of the practices that had presumably been going on prior to the edict.
As we’ve already discussed, the early part of the year 646 saw quite a few quote-unquote “normal” things happening. The sovereign moved into a new detached palace, perhaps while the Toyosaki Palace was being built. This was the Koshiro Palace of Sayabe, in Naniwa. Emissaries were sent out to restore—or possibly build—the arsenals; you may recall that the governors were supposed to gather up all of the weapons and armor in a single place so that it could be available, just in case. Envoys from the Emishi came to do homage, and there was another round of envoys from Goguryeo, Baekje, and Silla. Apparently, this time, there were no complaints about the tribute. That was all in the first two months. By the third, the governors had been called to account for their misdeeds, but also pardoned – we talked about this two episodes ago, when we explored the new system of governors, but this is when their pardons happen – and the sovereign moved out of the Koshiro Palace, presumably to take up residence in the shiny new Toyosaki palace that was just getting blessed and which was the nominal reason for the general amnesty across the land.
And with all of that over… well, it was time to get back to figuring out what part of the traditional order they would overthrow next. And apparently, Karu, our sovereign, had an idea. He sent a question to the Crown Prince, Naka no Oe, to see what he thought about it, and we are given the Prince’s response in a letter back to the crown on the 20th day of the 3rd month of 646.

The question Karu had askedwas roughly: what should be done about a group of families called the Iribe, including the Koshiro no Iribe of the Omi, Muraji, the Tomo no Miyatsuko, and the Kuni no Miyatsuko; and the Mina no Iribe of the Royal Princes. Karu had also evidently asked what should be done about the Miyake.
Now the question reading as “what should be done about these people” sounds a bit ominous, so before we get to Naka no Oe’s suggestions, let’s explore just who were the “Iribe” mentioned here. As far as I can find, there doesn’t appear to be another use of that word in the Chronicles, but the other terms around it provide clues and we have a general consensus about what this is all about. “Koshiro”—the Child’s Generation—and the “Mina”—the exalted name—suggest that the Iribe were those families set up in the name of a given prince or person. As we’ve talked about on the podcast in the past, from the start of the various “Be” families, there was a longstanding tradition of creating specific families to support given individuals: for former queens, princes, and more. These families often took the name of the palace where these individuals resided. The output of these families and worker groups would then go to support that individual and their relatives.
The language used in Naka no Oe’s letter, here, suggests that various other elites had set up similar groups for themselves or their own relatives This is supported by the fact that the Miyake are also mentioned. The Miyake were the royal granaries, and while they had a political significance in extending the presence of the Yamato throne, they were also supplying income, in the form of rice, to the throne and various members of the royal family.
So, Karu’s question basically boiled down to: what do we do about all of these groups that exist purely to support elite families? Naka no Oe’s response reflects the new order that he was pushing for in this period. He notes that there is only one sovereign, and only the sovereign was owed the labor of the populace—suggesting that the labor of the Iribe and those otherwise conscripted into labor should be done according to the new labor laws they had just enacted. This also suggested that even the Miyake should be abolished.
This was another Big Change in the Taika era, and once again, this would have large ramifications, as it suggested, once again, that the traditions of people providing labor to these elite families would go away—although not entirely. As we will see, elites would still get an income, but it would no longer be based on your hereditary rank and position and provided by groups bound to your service alone, but instead based on your appointed rank and position in the new government. Those serving in government would continue to receive a stipend based on the labor of agricultural workers on land allotted to such purpose by the state, and in fact we’ve already seen where stipends were increased for some officers.
This goes along with the idea, at least, of a more merit-based society. Those who worked hard and proved themselves would find their way to the highest positions and thus the greatest income for themselves and their families. In reality, these promotions were highly political affairs, and most likely to go to those who came from the families already in power. How that was envisioned, though, changed in this period, and it really emphasizes the shift that must have occurred within the cultural imaginary of the time.
I’ve mentioned before the concept of the cultural imaginary, and it is something that I think we really need to talk about during this period—during the Great Change. It is clear that, even if the term “Taika” was applied after the fact, people recognized that there was a sea change going on. That change is externally represented by the edicts and the change going on in the way the government was operating. However, this couldn’t have happened without at least the tacit approval of the rest of the elites. If Naka no Oe had just been a lone voice preaching the benefits of a more centralized state, with the sovereign at the top of a bureaucratic system that had never before been seen in the archipelago, then he could easily have been dismissed. The other members of the court could have effectively revolted, refusing to comply and possibly even forcing a change in government. And of course, that may have been part of what was behind the attempted revolt around Prince Furubito no Ohoye, which we talked about last episode.
However, enough people continued to side with Naka no Oe and Nakatomi no Kamatari and their ideas that any opposition was unable to overcome their momentum. So why?
I would suggest that this was the result and culmination of a new way of envisioning—of imagining, if you will—the Yamato state. It is an image that would have been familiar to the Chroniclers, and we see it throughout their narrative: the image of an imperial state, with the sovereign—known to the Chroniclers as the Sumera no Mikoto, or Tennou—at the very top. The Sumera no Mikoto, as the sovereign would eventually be known, held authority not only in the secular realm, but also in the spiritual—in the Buddhist and in matters of the kami. It envisioned the sovereign as the natural ruler of all of the archipelago, and even beyond.
This was an image that is very much in line with the thinking of continental scholars. It conforms, to a point, with Confucian and Buddhist ideas of what a Good Ruler should be, and, by extension, what the role of the State was and how the people should operate within that realm.
Prior to the 6th century, there had been another image of the sovereign—the image of the Oho-kimi. There are similarities—after all, power is power and humans are going to human. But there were clearly other prevailing ideas in play back then. We’ve talked about the idea of co-rulers, who ruled in tandem. And we’ve seen examples of female and male rulers at various levels of society. Spiritual authority came from the ability to intercede with the kami, and there were no native Buddhist traditions prior to 538—despite attempts by the Chroniclers to paint prior generations with the brush of Buddhist and Confucian morality. One’s place in society wasn’t dictated by their own personal accomplishments as much as it was the accomplishments of their extended family, though even some of that may have come about as late as the 5th or 6th centuries.
Perhaps more importantly, prior to the 6th century, the sovereign’s direct control only extended so far. They were the sovereign of Yamato, and though they may have had influence over others in the archipelago, they did not necessarily have direct control over their lands and people. By all accounts, the people owed their service not to the sovereign in Yamato, but to their local elites, who in turn may have had duties to those above them.
But along with books and immigrants from the continent, the people of the archipelago got new ideas of what the government should look like. These may have been foreign ideas, but over time we had new generations growing up with new and different examples of how things should work. These new ideas worked their way into their thinking about how elited should behave and act, and colored their image for what a proper State should look like. Sure, they understood how their own traditions worked, and that is still the mode under which they operated, but they were ready to change.
Some of this change started back in the era of Prince Umayado and the sovereign, Kashikiya Hime. Umayado’s purported 17 article constitution, as we noted, didn’t exactly lay out specific laws and punishments. It wasn’t a true legal code, though it was accompanied by a few legal changes, including the first attempt at a rank system for individuals. More importantly, though, it articulated a set of values on which the government should be founded. Whether or not these values were actually articulated to Prince Umayado, aka Shotoku Taishi, or even whether they were written down before the Chronicles were put together is debatable, but that whole episode certainly suggests that these kinds of ideas, which were rife with continental thought, were making their way into society.
And thus, Naka no Oe was able to suggest his and Karu’s reforms based on arguments that no doubt resonated with the people of the time, as many of those in government would have been reading similar texts. So even while it was seemingly against their immediate interests to give up control of labor or production, they had already been provided an exemplar of how this would work. They had a new imagination of what their culture should be and look like.
And that’s why I bring up the idea of a new cultural imaginary taking hold. A cultural imaginary is the collection of various shared values and concepts that a group envisions for themselves. If we think of modern countries, one can look at American culture, where there are shared values of freedom, individuality, etc. These are backed by common, shared ideas and stories—stories of the Founding Fathers, separating themselves from Great Britain, but also ideas of the Old West and concepts of the rugged cowboy on his horse. These stories and images help us to determine our shared values and understanding. It also tends to define the “us” versus “them”. Why are we the way we are and why are they different?
To be clear, these stories are not always true, and can change over time. Early visions of America included some people, but not everyone. Stories turned George Washington into an almost mythical figure, with an emphasis on his heroic qualities and his honesty. Our modern version of the Old West is often driven by what we saw in movies, which in turn were influenced by dime novels of the late 19th and early 20th centuries. The historical Old West tended to be quite different—and much more complex and diverse—than our modern visions of it.
We can see similar forces at work in the Nihon Shoki and the Kojiki. These were written with the cultural values of the 8th century, and deliberately or not, their values are reflected back into the past, which is then what later generations would hold onto, defining their own image of who they were and how things should be.
When the cultural imaginary of what your society or culture should be conflicts with what people actually see happening, that often creates tension. That tension can be resolved in a variety of ways, but it often requires something to change. In this case, the cultural imaginaries of the elite had been flooded with examples of Confucian and Buddhist morals. The stories and values had been passed along with knowledge of astronomy, mathematics, and more, in the media they were consuming from the continent. There were also those who had come from the continent—from Baekje, Silla, and beyond—who no doubt also had absorbed some of these stories and values and were passing them on, as well.
And so it wouldn’t have taken that much for Naka no Oe to point out how the system that they were laboring under differed from what a so-called “good” government should look like. So in a way, there was already buy-in for a change, at least at the top. And thus it appears as though Naka no Oe and Karu were able to get many of the elites to give up a measure of their own autonomy under the old system for the benefits of the new system that was being created. Mind you, it likely didn’t hurt that the throne was also ensuring that they gave out lavish gifts of silk, gold ingots, and hefty stipends to many of the more influential members of society as well.
There are still questions as to how much actually changed, initially. Sure, we see the edicts and an intent to change, and the local elites of Yamato seem to have been going along with it, but we don’t quite see how quickly these edicts were accepted in places like Izumo or Kibi, and I wouldn’t be surprised to learn that, at least initially, many people just paid the edicts lip service, waiting to see whether or not they would actually be enforced. Still, these are definite changes away from the previous cultural norms.
Which leads into the next big edict, which focused on regulating tombs.
While the ancient burial mounds which could be called “kofun” continued to be built into the 8th century in one form or another, by most timelines, the Kofun period ended around 538 with the introduction of Buddhism and the start of what is known as the Asuka period. As we’ve noted, even the kingly tombs of the royal family from the end of the 6th century stopped relying on the round-keyhole shaped tomb shape. By the early 7th century the building of temples had become the new memorial for the ultra-wealthy of Yamato—a temple being a memorial that could be built before you passed and carry on your memory to later generations as a place of worship. This was no doubt helped by the idea that you would also accrue a fair bit of karma, the spiritual capital of the Buddhist worldview.
However, a mounded burial was still de rigeur for the elites and certain families, including those who had come over from the continent. The last keyhole style tombs known to have been built appear to be out in modern Chiba prefecture, in the Kanto region, in the first half of the 7th century. From then on, we largely see round, square, or octagonal tombs. Some of the latest tombs that we know of, in the late 7th and early 8th centuries, show clear signs of continental influence. Kitora kofun and Takamatsuzuka Kofun, both in the Asuka area, are decorated in ways similar to tombs in Goguryeo, including paintings of the four directional animals mentioned in the Liji, the Confucian Book of Rites: Suzaku, the red bird of the south; Byakko, the white tiger of the west; Genbu, the black tortoise of the north; and Seiryuu, the blue dragon of the east. Takamatsuzuka also contains murals of courtiers dressed in clothing that would be quite at home on the continent and which looks quite different from the clothing seen on haniwa figures from only a century or so earlier.
Tombs were also more likely to be clustered together, and often only contained a single burial, rather than evidence of a double burial. This was likely influenced by the edict of 646. That edict also gives us ideas on what was considered to be reasonable for that era, and provides some of our best descriptions in the written record to help us better understand tomb construction.
I would also note that the court had moved to Naniwa, and near to Naniwa were some of the largest of the kofun, including Daisen-ryo, the largest kofun in Japan and one of the largest mausoleums in the entire world. So perhaps that was also influencing their thoughts.
The edict starts out noting that large, mounded tombs are wasteful. This shouldn’t be a surprise: large tombs were always about conspicuous consumption as a sign of the wealth and power of the occupant and their family. As noted earlier, however, a lot of that seems to have shifted to the building of temples, and as such, tombs were no longer seen as something to waste resources on. However, since it was still tradition, it was still happening, hence the edict.
And so it goes on to limit the size of the tombs. At the largest, it says a tomb should be no more than about nine shaku wide and 5 shaku wide on the inside—one shaku being approximately 1 foot—and no more then 9 hiro to a side and 5 hiro in height. A “Hiro” was an ancient measure that was generally the length of two outspread arms. This was about 5 shaku, or 5 feet.    That means that we are still talking about a mound 45 feet on a side, which is nothing to sneeze at. But this size was reserved for princes and up. The Daijin—the great ministers of State—could have similar inner dimensions for their sarcophagus, but the outside was limited to only seven hiro to a side and three hiro in height. Lesser ministers only got 5 hiro to a side and 2.5 hiro in height, while others were allocated no mound at all, and a smaller inner chamber.
In addition, the number of laborers and how long they could work on a tomb was also capped. The largest tombs were allotted 1,000 laborers for 7 days. The Daijin received 500 laborers over 5 days. Other ministers received 250 laborers for 3 days, while below that you received 100 laborers for 1 day or 50 laborers for no more than 1 day. Here we see the state once again asserting itself into the relationship between the various individuals and the laborers—previously, an elite family would have just used as many laborers as they had private access to, but now things were being regulated and it was all based on your rank and position within the civil service of the new government.
In addition, how the deceased was delivered to the monument also was regulated. A carriage was permitted for the highest ranked individuals—the members of the royal family. Ministers could be placed on a bier and carried by pall-bearers. No mention is made of people of the lower class, with the assumption that they likely didn’t get such a ceremony.
White cloth hangings were allowed in many cases—white is practical, in that it isn’t dyed and so it wouldn’t be as expensive, but it was also considered the color of death in Buddhist and continental tradition, so not surprising. They also allowed small stones to be used for princes down to the rank of “sho-chi”—that was the lowest official rank. These stones could refer to several things, and we aren’t quite sure. According to Aston, the compilers of the “shukai” edition of the Nihon Shoki attributed this to memorial stones set up with inscriptions about the deceased, but as he points out, we haven’t found anything that really correlates to that. Aston instead suggests that what is meant are the stones used to build the roof of the main chamber. If you look at tombs like Ishibutai kofun, you can see the large stones used there, but this may be referring to something similar, possibly using smaller stones that took less effort to haul into place. There were also stones used on the outside to decorate the kofun back in the day, and I suppose that they could have meant that as well.
More than just regulations, there were prohibitions placed on burials. For one thing, the concept of a temporary interment was discontinued for everyone. In the past, a body would be buried or even placed in a hut for some time and then the burial would take place at a later date. There are several reasons this may have been done in the past, from the purely ritual to the more practical. However, that was no longer considered to be appropriate. Likewise, commoners were required to be buried within a day of their death. This goes along with talk about reducing “pollution”, which may have referred to spiritual as much as physical pollution, and so plots of ground were set aside specifically for burials, and people were not allowed to be buried outside of those official locations. That could certainly help explain why we see more clusters of burials in this later period. Using the sides of hills and ridges may have also meant that the tombs didn’t take up important agricultural lands.
There were also prohibitions on sacrifices to the dead. For one thing, nobody was permitted to sacrifice themselves through strangulation—which apparently had been a thing even though we are told that human sacrifice was prohibited back in the time of Mimaki Iribiko, and the reason that haniwa were invented. You also weren’t allowed to sacrifice someone’s horse or bury valuables along with the dead. These are all things that we see in the early mounded tomb culture, including burials in the Kara, or Gaya, region of the Korean peninsula, and we certainly find plenty of grave goods in the archipelago. It makes me wonder if this is one of the reasons that painted tombs, like Kitora and Takamatsuzuka, were used, perhaps in place of more lavish grave goods going into the burial. There was also a prohibition on an apparent custom where people would cut their hair and stab themselves in the thigh prior to pronouncing a eulogy. Similar traditions are found elsewhere, often to emphasize that people were grieving the dead.
And since you can’t punish the dead, if there were any problems then it would be the dead person’s relatives who would be punished, instead.
Speaking of punishments, this starts to get into a part of the Taika reforms that really focuses on the various offenses that people were apparently committing and needed to be stopped. It is unclear to me how often these offenses occurred, and in some cases I wonder if they were things that were actually happening or if they were carryovers from the continental tradition. Still, I tend to come down on the idea that these were likely things that were actually happening, and didn’t fit in with the social norms and values that Naka no Oe and his cohorts were attempting to put in place. Some of these will likely resonate with us, today, but others are a bit more difficult to fully grasp.
One of the things that is perhaps most difficult for us to grasp today is the concept of “harai”, which Aston translates as “purgation” and is most commonly translated, today, as “purification”. “Harai” is an important concept in Shinto, and has been something that seems to have been there in some form from the earliest times.
In Shinto there is a concept of “pollution” or “tsumi” that can occur, and it may or may not be something that a person has control over. For example, blood and death are forms of pollution—which also means that, by extension, birth also includes pollution in the form of blood. “Tsumi” can also be something that occurs because of things that a person does, where they break the social mores or norms. A number of examples are contained in the stories provided during the Age of the Gods. In particular, you can see in the tales of Izanagi and Izanami, where Izanagi, coming back from the land of the dead, dips himself into the ocean to wash away any impurities—any pollution. We talked about that back in episode 14. In episode 15, we talked about some of the not-so-great actions of Susano’o. Some of these, like the backwards flaying of the colt and flinging it through the roof of his sister’s building is somewhat obvious. But then there were things like moving the stakes delineating the rice fields, or letting livestock in to trample the young growth. Those were some other examples of tsumi that were part of the many things that got him kicked out of Takamagahara, the High Plain of Heaven.
An important thing here is that tsumi is not necessarily about a person’s intentions, motives, nor responsibility. For all types of tsumi, some form of harai, or purification, is called for. Today, there are various ceremonies that can be performed by Shinto priests to help remove the effects of tsumi, and that seems to have been the case back in the Kofun and Asuka periods as well, but there was a catch: it wasn’t without costs. And apparently those costs could be significant—significant enough that it was almost like a kind of punishment. Aston suggests that harai could include various payments, perhaps seen as a kind of sacrifice, but that could be more than some people could afford. If we look back on the story of Susano’o, he had to have his hair and nails cut as part of his penance—his harai. There is also some thought that this may have just been a literal payment to the community, like a fine. I would note that “harai” can mean either purification or payment, depending on the kanji used.
So just keep that in mind when we talk about “harai”.
Now here are some of the things that, according to the new edicts, people were to stop doing.
First, there were people who saw or heard something—presumably something important—and yet they wouldn’t say anything. That wasn’t going to fly anymore. So I guess this is the pro-snitching rule—if you see something, say something.
Then there were enslaved people who apparently would leave poor masters to find someone wealthier to serve, hoping to improve their lot. Again, this was right out. We are reminded that Yamato was a slave-holding society, and they weren’t going to allow that.
On the other hand, the new rules also put a stop to husbands who would dismiss their wives and then, when the wives remarried, try to make a claim on the new husband’s property. Similarly, there were some men who demanded a family’s daughter for his wife, but before they consummate the marriage, she marries someone else. In some of those cases, the men would, again, make demands on the property of the new husband’s family as well as the wife’s family. The new edict put that strictly out of bounds.
Following on a theme of women and marriage: there was a tradition in some places that widows who, when they married after 10 or 20 years, or even unmarried women got married for the first time, they would be forced by the community to pay for some kind of “harai”. This, along with the other practice mentioned, was forbidden. No longer would they have to pay for getting married.
Now in some cases, it looks like men who wanted to divorce their wives wouldn’t just let them out of the arrangement. Rather, they would sell their wives into slavery—another thing that the new edicts said would no longer be tolerated.
And then there was the case of a man who believed his wife was having an affair. In that case he now had to obtain at least three credible witnesses before bringing it up to the authorities. One presumes this was to protect women from men simply making a baseless claim with no proof. Not that a determined man couldn’t find—or even bribe—three witnesses to come forward and accuse his wife, but it at least upped the ante a little bit. Whether this was to provide protection to women or whether it was just to reduce the amount of work on government officials who would have to investigate and come to a decision isn’t exactly clear.
I would note that while many of these new rules were coming down on the side of protecting women, to some degree, there is still a very heavy patriarchal bias demonstrated throughout.
In addition to all the information on marital affairs, there were a few other, unrelated issues, but all of them were connected to the need to do harai. And now we come back to our story about poor Maro and Sumi from the beginning of the episode: let’s say a man, finishing his forced labor, is returning back when he falls ill on the road and dies in some village. According to established traditions, the people there could then require his companions or even family members to perform harai—presumably meaning that they would have to pay the village something or at least pay for the ritual cleansing, to compensate for the tsumi that the death caused. Similarly, if someone were to drown, his companions would be held responsible. Even if someone were to stop and cook rice by the roadside while traveling, they could be made to perform harai. And the harai for all of this was so onerous that we are told that even a younger brother might completely ignore the body of his elder brother, just to avoid being associated with him and thus forced to perform harai.
In all of these cases, the edict said that this would no longer be acceptable. You couldn’t just put the squeeze on someone to perform harai just because their companion happened to pass away.
Being on the road and traveling—especially for official government service—was clearly something that was on their mind. Moving on from the list of things that were to be discontinued without exception, there were a few other cases that were dealt with in the same edict.
First, there was the case where peasants, heading to the capital, would leave their horses with someone in Owari or Mikawa, for example. They would leave cloth and bundles of hemp as payment for the person to look after their horses, and even procure a spade as a gift when they returned. However, when they got back, they would find that their horse had died, or else the horse had been sold, but the owner was told it had died. The last trick, if it was a mare, was to get the mare pregnant and then claim that the pregnancy had polluted their house, therefore the owner would have to do harai, meaning that the horse usually ended up staying with the person who was supposed to be holding onto it.
The solution was to use the new bureaucracy. The owner and the person who agreed to keep the horse would make their statement to the village elder and the owner would hand over the renumeration to the elder as the third party. This payment would be held by the elder until the owner returned, at which point it was handed over to the person who had kept the horse. This way the person keeping the horse knew that he would be paid for his troubles, but only if the horse was still around when the owner returned.
So they effectively invented the concept of escrow.
I suspect that such a system could be applied to many other such endeavors as well, where there was otherwise no guarantee of payment at the end of a task nor guarantee that the task would completed as agreed if they got the money up front.
Besides that, the edict also had a short note about dues payable to Market Commissioners for main roads and to ferrymen—likely various fees. Instead, these kinds of positions would be granted rice-land which could be cultivated and they could receive a stipend from that.
Finally, during the key agricultural months, everybody was to be working on cultivating rice-land. The edict specifically calls out that they should not eat dainty food nor drink sake, I suspect because dainty food wouldn’t give you enough energy and drinking sake would impair your ability in the field. Each quarter, the Kuni no Miyatsuko were to send messengers to remind the people of this edict—a kind of human public service announcement.
So all of that was part of an edict on the 22nd day of the 3rd month of 646. I am not sure that there is a clear theme to all of it, other than calling out old practices and describing how things would be done from here on out. There is clearly a concern with harai and how it would affect people’s willingness to do the right thing.
The next set of pronouncements would come almost five months later, and a lot of that had to do with names, as well as further work on the creation of the government bureaucracy, but that is going to take a lot more time, and so I think that for now we’ll end this here: The link between the state and laborers has been changed, the tomb-building has been strictly regulated, and a series of rather specific pronouncements and prohibitions has been issued.
And so, until next time, thank you for listening and for all of your support.
If you like what we are doing, please 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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Thank you, also, to Ellen for their work editing the podcast.
And that’s all for now. Thank you again, and I’ll see you next episode on Sengoku Daimyo’s Chronicles of Japan.

References

Aston, W. G. (1972). Nihongi, chronicles of Japan from the earliest times to A.D. 697. London: Allen & Unwin. ISBN0-80480984-4
Knox, George William (1903). The Early Institutional Life of Japan, a Study in the Reform of 645 A. D. By K. ASAKAWA, Ph.D. The American Historical Review, Volume 11, Issue 1, October 1905, Pages 128–129

Episode 109: Radical Reforms, Resourceful Rats, and Precarious Princes

August 16, 2024 Joshua Badgley

Model of Kawaradera, the temple where the clergy were gathered to hear how some of the reforms would affect them.

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This episode we continue with the first year of the Taika era and discuss more of the reforms as well as other such things that were going on. We cover what became of Prince Furubito, the previous Crown Prince and rival to the throne, as well as looking at international and internal relations. We see some of the most concerted policy edicts as well, which will radically transform the relationship between the sovereign and the people and land of the archipelago.

In much of what is happening we can see the change in the cultural imaginaries of the people of Yamato, who have been influenced by continental ideas through both trade and through the various books brought over. Reforms were geared towards a more Sinified concept of government, one heavily influenced by Confucian and Buddhist ideas.

Welcome to Sengoku Daimyo’s Chronicles of Japan. My name is Joshua and this episode 109: Radical Reforms, Resourceful Rats, and Precarious Princes.
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Prince Furubito no Ohoye looked out over the changing autumn leaves of Yoshino. Where the mountains had been painted pink in cherry blossoms just seven months earlier, the mountains were now covered in garments of red, yellow, and orange. Seven months. A lot could happen in seven months. Seven months ago, Prince Furubito had been in line for the throne. His main contender for the position was dead, and he had the support of the most powerful men in the court. Then it had all come crashing down in an instant.
After the turmoil of the court earlier in the year, life in the countryside was no doubt a welcome respite. The former Crown Prince had narrowly avoided sharing in the fate of his Soga relatives, who had been killed in front of him.
Furubito was no stranger to the literally cutthroat politics of the day. Soga no Iruka had killed Yamashiro no Ohoye, son of Shotoku Taishi, ostensibly to place Furubito on the throne, no doubt with the expectation that the Soga descended prince would be easier to control. Furubito himself had not been entirely out of the loop on that whole thing, either, specifically advising Iruka that he should make sure to send subordinates to do the dirty work and keep himself out of harm’s way.
Now Furubito’s seemingly untouchable supporters, Soga no Iruka and his father, were, themselves, dead at the hands of Furubito’s younger brother, Prince Naka no Ohoye. Their mother, Takara, had immediately abdicated, and Prince Furubito was suddenly in the crosshairs, potentially standing between his murderous brother and the throne. And so he took himself out of the picture and retired, becoming a monk at a temple in Yoshino, a mostly wild area south of Asuka and the traditional heartland of Yamato, where sovereigns of the past had sometimes gone to get away.
Furubito had spent the last several months there in the mountains, out of the political center, but that didn’t mean he was completely on his own. Not everyone was against him, and he still had people bringing him news. He may have retired from the world, but he wasn’t without his resources. And there were those still in his camp, who thought he should be on the throne. They just had to keep it under wraps until it was too late for Prince Naka and his cohorts to do anything about it.

So, with that little snapshot of life in Yoshino, let’s get into it. We’re talking about the Taika era, so let’s first start out with a recap of last episode and some things to keep in mind, and then continue with the story of the reforms, looking at what else was happening in that first year, as well.   We’ll talk about the diplomatic missions from the Korean peninsula, the edicts focused on the Yamato elite and the clergy, as well as the strategic use of the change in the capital. We’ll also address just what happened with the “other” crown prince, Furubito no Ohoye.
First off, let’s quickly recap: So last episode we started talking about the Taika era and the Taika reforms. In particular, we looked at how the governance of the archipelago had changed—as best as we can tell, at least, from the evidence available to us—and we looked at some of the very first edicts that went out. According to the Nihon Shoki, things started with the appointment of the Ministers of the Left and Right, the Sadaijin and the Udaijin. As later institutions were created, these ministers would each take a portion of those institutions into their portfolio, effectively dividing the management of the government. Although the Sadaijin, or Minister of the Left, was considered senior to the Udaijin, the Minister of the Right, at least in later years, it should be noted that this system would prevent, at least on paper, a single prime minister from taking the reigns of the entire government, as the Soga seem to have largely done. Presumably this meant that the sovereign, as head of state, would have the ultimate authority over the realm.
Still, from the very get-go, we see that there are positions set up outside of this dynamic. For one thing, you have the creation of the seemingly nebulous “Naidaijin”. This is interpreted as the Minister of the Interior, meaning inside the royal house, and it was first granted to Naka no Ohoye’s bro and best bud, Nakatomi no Kamatari—the co-conspirator who had helped make all this possible in the first place. While the Sadaijin and Udaijin nominally had most of the power—and we see them referenced executing that power on a not infrequent basis—the position of Naidaijin appears to be almost extra-numerary, and is rarely mentioned, and yet he seemed to have wielded considerable power and influence. This pattern of creating or using positions to exalt a singular individual, who would effectively run the affairs of state, is something that we’ll see repeated multiple times in the future. Whether this positionwas something like dajo daijin or kampaku, powerful individuals would often find their way, regardless of the bureaucratic norms.
In addition to the Naidaijin, however, the position of the royal princes—especially the Crown Prince—seem to be untouched. These were another class of elites often with wealth and influence, but who are largely outside the system of court ministers.
In fact, the bureaucratic system of government only really covered those positions by the so-called “commoner” families—elite families that nonetheless were not considered to be in a direct line of succession for the throne. These were the members of the various be and uji corporate families that were created to serve the Yamato government. After all, you don’t hear of Royal princes taking on the position of a minister or anything similar, and presumably they managed their own affairs and estates as members of the extended royal family, with the sovereign as the familial head.
And then there were the peasants—the agricultural workers and truly common people who were so far removed from court business that they weren’t even part of an uji clan or official familial unit other than their village, serfs or semi-free people—as free as anyone was in those days, though they were likely tied to the land by tradition and necessity—who owed service to some group of elites.
One of the things we are seeing in these reforms is a move to redirect the responsibilities of those serfs and semi-free people more directly to the state, with edicts directly addressing their status and their responsibilities. That’s something we’ll talk about more as it comes up.
But before that, let’s get caught up on some other things happening in the first few months of the Taika era. Sure, Naka no Oe and Kamatari were working closely with our sovereign, Karu—aka Koutoku Tennou—to get their reforms in place. As we talked about last episode, they were sending out governors, hanging bells outside of the palace, and otherwise trying out all kinds of new stuff. However, as that was going on, they still had to deal with the day to day of the government. Life didn’t just stop while they ramped up their transition to a new, bureaucratic monarchy.
One such routine event for a new reign was the designation of Karu’s wife, Hashibito, as the queen. In the fine Yamato tradition of keeping it all in the family, Hashibito was Karu’s niece, the daughter of Karu’s sister, Takara, aka Kougyoku Tennou, and her late husband, the sovereign Tamura, aka Joumei Tennou. That made Hashibito a sister to Prince Naka no Oe, who was now his uncle’s brother-in-law and, since he was named Crown Prince, his heir. Probably don’t think about it too much.
There was also the matter of foreign envoys. As you may recall, the murder of Soga no Iruka and his father, known to us as the Isshi Incident, kicked off during a court reception for peninsular envoys. Two months later, we are told that envoys from Baekje, Goguryeo, and Silla all arrived with tribute. These appear to be separate from those who had witnessed Naka no Oe’s bloody coup d’etat, and given the time it took to travel, they may have already been on their way when everything went down. They arrived in the 7th month of the year, not quite a full month since Karu had taken the throne.
This might have been a regular visit, but we get some interesting information from the Chronicles about it. Kose no Tokuda no Omi addressed the envoys, at least those of Goguryeo and Baekje. Although it is also noted that Silla envoys arrived as well, communications with them are not recorded. There was also a slight problem in that one of the envoys (whose name Aston transcribes as “Chaphyong Yonbok”, suggesting that he was actually the Minister of the Left, Yonbok) apparently traveled all the way to Yamato just to come down with an illness. He stayed at Naniwa and rested while the other envoys made the journey onward, presumably to the palace in Asuka, where the court received the tribute.
As for Goguryeo, Kose notes that Yamato and Goguryeo had not had formal relations for very long. This is unsurprising, given that Goguryeo was on the far north of the peninsula, and would have had to go through either Silla or Baekje controlled territory to get to Yamato, and they weren’t always on the best of terms with either of the other countries on the peninsula. There were some attempts to reach the archipelago by landing on the northern edge of Honshu, along the Japan sea coast, landing near Tsuruga, on the western edge of the land of Koshi, but still, Yamato’s relationship with Goguryeo does not appear to have been as old or as consistent as Yamato’s dealings with their less distant neighbors. Tokuda, the Yamato officer addressing the Goguryeo envoys, wished for long and continued interactions, but that was about it.
Baekje, though, was another story, and a bit of a conflicting one. The speech that Tokuda gives according to the Chronicles is likely heavily edited to sound more regal and to be in line with the Chroniclers’ ideas of Japan’s place in the world, but it is also possible that they were just using flowery, continental style pronouncements. It starts off with the somewhat audacious statement that Karu is a God-incarnate, which tracks with the idea that he is descended from the Heavenly Grandson, who came down from Takama no Hara. This same language was used with Goguryeo, earlier. Then Tokuda repeats the claim that Baekje is a vassal state of Yamato, claiming that they were considered an “internal Miyake”, likely referring to a land that was supposed to be directly controlled by Yamato. One is left to wonder just how Baekje felt about all of this, but then again, things may have been lost in translation from one court to the other.
Finally, Baekje was admonished for not bringing sufficient tribute from Nimna, since it had theoretically been placed under Baekje’s care.
And here’s where I see some conflicting information. After all, we know that Silla had absorbed Nimna well before this period, and Silla had been made to bring two ships during tribute missions or to meet the Yamato delegation with two ships to preserve at least the fiction that Nimna was still an independent country and ally to the archipelago. That was all back in the reign of Kashikiya Hime, aka Suiko Tennou, or earlier . Of course Baekje would not have any tribute from Nimna, and yet the Yamato court seem to have expected something unless, of course, they were just putting on some kind of show for Silla’s sake? It seems like the matter of Nimna, which was no longer a going concern on the peninsula, was still something that Yamato was keeping front and center in their mind.
Whatever the logic, Tokuda says that the sovereign pays special attention to the tribute from Nimna, and as it was deficient, they returned the tribute back to Baekje until they could bring the expected amount.
There is plenty of ink that has been spilt on the subject of the diplomatic tribute systems that were set up across East Asia, largely as part of or in imitation of those systems set up by dynasties like the Han and the Tang. As we understand it, diplomats were expected to come to a foreign sovereign’s courts as petitioners, bringing with them “tribute”—basically trade goods—to grease the wheels of international relations. The receiving country would reciprocate with lavish gifts on the envoys, in turn, often in excess of the “tribute” they had brought—at least, that is how the central Sinic dynasties operated. In this way, diplomatic missions were not only profitable for international relations, but also for acquiring elite goods that could not easily be otherwise obtained, and for that, envoys were willing to go along with the polite fiction that they were truly subordinate to the power they entreated.
It is unclear whether or not this went both ways. I suspect that the Han or Tang dynasties would not have accepted the idea that their own ambassadors would be bringing tribute to any “lesser” nation. However, amongst nations like Yamato, Baekje, Silla, and Goguryeo, were there similar concerns? Unfortunately, we don’t really have a clear, contemporary record of these interactions, and can only make assumptions based on what sources do exist. I suspect, however, that Baekje, though willing to indulge Yamato’s fantasies, did not actually consider itself an “inner miyake” of Yamato—though they were a trusted ally. Most of the time.
Which makes me wonder how they took such a snub. Unfortunately, both Baekje and Yamato sources appear to be quiet on that front.
The envoys did not leave empty-handed, however. They sent away the wife and children of a man identified as “Wisa”—likely hostages being held at the Yamato court as part of the other diplomatic system between Baekje and Yamato. We are not told why, however, so we are left only to speculate on what actually happened.
Later that month, and into the next, the reforms were really kicked off, sending out the governors to the eastern provinces and proclaiming some of the early edicts we talked about last month
And while the court was waiting for news to come back from those governors, there was another issue that they were tackling, and that was further incorporating the Buddhist clergy and temples into the state government. Yeah, if you hadn’t already guessed, Yamato at this time didn’t exactly have a principle of the separation of church—or in this case temple—and state. In fact, quite the opposite. For a little over two decades at this point the court had assumed the authority to appoint individuals at the head of the Buddhist clergy, presumably to keep them in line ever since that one incident with the axe—and if you want a reminder, check out Episode 102.
And so a messenger was sent from the court to Kudara-dera to gather all of the clergy there. That was the temple near where Tamura had built his palace, Kudara no Miya, and it reportedly had an absolutely jaw-dropping pagoda, so perhaps little wonder that it was a central location. After recounting the history of Buddhism in the archipelago, the court representative appointed chief priests to ten different temples, as well as the chief priest of Kudara-dera. They then made a promise that the Sovereign—which is to say the State—would pay for the repairs of any of the temples built by the Tomo no Miyatsuko; the courtly families. At the same time, the court also appointed temple commissioners, and expected them and the chief priests to report out the number of priests and nuns, as well as acreage of cultivated temple land. Interestingly, these commissioners were to report directly to the state, rather than through the local governors, indicating that the temples appear to have been somewhat exempt from the local civil authorities, though still under the thumb of the sovereign and the national government. This was likely done through the “Houtou”, or “heads of the Law”, another set of positions for people appointed to oversee Buddhist practice.
In the following month, the court moved on from the clergy and focused on the courtiers: the Omi, Muraji, and the Tomo no Miyatsuko, and not in a fun way: These leading families were called to the carpet for what was seen as a host of offenses. They were accused of compelling their own vassals to labor at their pleasure, and appropriating land for their own private use, denying it to the people. This included mountains, hills, ponds, and even portions of the sea, which they turned into their own private hunting and fishing reserves. They would take prime rice-lands—land that could be brought under cultivation—and use it purely for themselves. They would take portions of the public land, divvy it up, and sell it off as if it were their own. Or they would just rent it out, so that they would collect rent on the property and those who farmed it wouldn’t actually own anything, making them a kind of tenant farmer or even something like a sharecropper. Furthermore, when they collected taxes from those in areas they oversaw, they were accused of taking a portion off the top for themselves before turning over the rest to the government.
And finally, they would take their own people and build palaces for themselves. This practice, though probably nothing new, went against the direction the new state was headed, and if it was allowed to continue, it would potentially reduce the number of laborers available for government projects.
To be clear, not all of the noble families were doing this, but enough that a broad edict was required. This edict not only called out these practices, but specifically banned the private sale of land—likely meaning that it was up to the State to decide how land was apportioned—and it forbade anyone making themselves into a landlord.
Now for anyone who has been following along—or simply looked at human history—the way that the elites had been concentrating power is hardly surprising. History books are filled with examples of those in power using it to aggregate more and more to themselves, especially without some kind of regulation. While the Taika edict treats this like an aberration of the way things should be, it is more likely that this is actually how the system had been designed to work up until this point. There were elites who operated at different levels in an hierarchical structure. Those above provided legitimacy and preferential treatment to those they considered their vassals. Those vassals were left to largely run things as they saw fit at the lower levels, as long as they maintained an expected flow of tribute up the chain. As long as things didn’t get out of hand—no rebellions, famine, etc.—then there was little reason for those at the top to be concerned.
Here, though, we are seeing a different imagining of the state: one where the governance of the state truly does flow from the sovereign down to the people. Those who had been studying the Buddhist and Confucian canons from the continent had been introduced to new ideas of what a state ought to be, and now that they were in power, they were determined to implement those ideas.
One has to imagine that this ruffled more than a few feathers, and I have to wonder if it didn’t contribute, at least in some way, to what else was happening around the same time. Remember, all of this—the tribute missions, the governors, the gathering of the clergy, and dressing down the courtiers—all happened in the first three months of the new reign—the Taika era. But in the ninth month, the court’s attention was also turned to another matter, when a man named Kibi no Kasa no Omi no Shidaru came to Naka no Ohoye with a confession: He claimed he had been party to a meeting in Yoshino with none other than Prince Furubito no Ohoye, along with members of the Soga, the Yamato no Aya, and the Yechi no Hata. They were all disillusioned with this new reign and how they got here, and were plotting to put a stop to it by overthrowing Karu and putting Prince Furubito on the throne.
So, yeah, this is where we circle back to where we started the episode – imagining Prince Furubito, hanging out in the mountains of Yoshino, enjoying his near escape and contemplating his retirement. Things weren’t quite that peaceful.
I’d note that another source claims that the guy who spilled the beans, Kibi no Kasa no Omi, instead went to the Daijin, the Great Ministers, Abe no Oho-omi and Soga no Oho-omi, the ministers of the Right and Left. Regardless of who he spoke to, he ratted out all of his co-conspirators.
The details are sparse on just how everything unfolded from there, but we know that Naka no Ohoye appointed two generals to go and arrest—by which I’m pretty sure he meant assassinate—Prince Furubito no Ohoye. Whether or not the Prince had actually kicked off discussions or had even participated in any significant way, Naka no Ohoye’s brother was too dangerous as a symbol around which anyone discontented with the new order could try and rally.
And it’s not at all surprising to imagine that there are those who were not exactly happy with where things were going.   The throne was exerting greater control than it had in some time—perhaps more than it ever had, at this scale. The foreign ideas that had come in the way of books and learning may have, at first, been just another way for the elite to demonstrate their own superiority, but now these ideas were starting to affect the way they, themselves, had to operate. You could either accept it as the way forward or you could resist.
Those who would resist, though, needed someone to rally around. Since the Sovereign and the Crown Prince were both pushing for change, anyone opposed would need to find a new sovereign to uphold their own ideas. To that end, Furubito no Ohoye must have been an enticing figure. He really was from the old school. Sure, that was a Soga dominated school, drenched in the blood of other members of the royal family, but it was still something that those who wanted to conserve their old way of life could use to legitimize their position.
And that made Furubito no Ohoye dangerous, regardless of whether or not he encouraged such individuals or not.
And so Uda no Yenomuro no Furu and Koma no Miyachi departed with a sizeable force to take out the Prince. Which, spoiler alert: they did.
There are some conflicting accounts on this. Some records claim that the attack force didn’t set out until more than two months later, on the 30th day of the 11th month. Others say that the generals were actually Kosobe no Omi no Abe and Sahekibe no Komaro, at the head of only thirty men. It is possible that both accounts are correct in some way, or that various family records retroactively claimed credit for the attack. It may also be that the time from the conspiracy’s discovery to the eventual resolution—the killing of Furubito and his household—took a little over two months to complete; a not unreasonable situation.
This whole event is often talked about as Furubito no Ohoye’s revolt, and if we take the Chronicles at face value, that is largely accurate. However, we don’t have many actual details, and we do know about Naka no Ohoye—we know that he hadn’t been afraid to kill Soga no Iruka in broad daylight, in the middle of the court. Would it have really been too much for him to manufacture a conspiracy to provide him an excuse to take out his older brother and thus prepare his own eventual rise to the throne? On things like this, the Chronicles are largely silent, and we can only speculate as to what was actually going on. Still, I have to wonder.
Following the death of Furubito no Ohoye, and the suppression of the rebellion in his name, the sovereign, Karu, announced that he had settled on a location for his new palace. While most of the edicts at this time broke new ground, this one did not, following a tradition that, if we believe the Chronicles, had been around for centuries. Each new sovereign would designate a location for their new palace, moving out of the palace of their predecessor. Usually this would beannounced at the very start of a reign, but as we’ve seen, this reign had gotten off to a busy start, and so we don’t see mention of the new palace until the twelfth month.
The tradition of moving out of an old palace and into a new one is thought to have typically been due to the ritual pollution, or tsumi, attached to the palace of a sovereign who has died -- often in the palace itself, if they were lucky enough to pass away in their sleep. Of course, in this case the throne didn’t pass on the occasion of the sovereign’s death, but there had certainly been plenty of blood spilled in the palace, recently, so I imagine that moving the palace was to be expected.
Less expected was exactly where he moved the palace to, since Karu decided not to stay put in the Asuka region, and instead chose to move the palace to the port of Naniwa, where the continental envoys came.
There are numerous examples throughout Japanese history where a change was made to move the capital, or at least the seat of government, to somewhere new. In many cases, this was to get away from various political forces that had become entrenched in the capital region. Courtiers and their retinue would settle near the palace, and soon an entire area was controlled, physically and politically, by a few powerful families or institutions. The Asuka region, for example, had started out as the ancestral stronghold of the Soga clan, and for the past century had operated as the seat of Soga controlled sovereigns. Tamura, or Jomei Tennou, had seemingly tried to move a little ways outside, near the site of Kudaradera, but his wife and successor, no doubt with the assistance and counsel of Soga no Emishi, had moved back into the Asuka valle, proper.
Moving to Naniwa would have been quite the undertaking, as it didn’t just mean moving the palace, but it meant moving the whole infrastructure of the government. Granted, this wasn’t exactly on par with the size and complexity of the Imperial dynasties in what we now know as China, but it did mean that the powerful families would need to make sure that they had a residence of some sort near the new capital if they wanted to be close to the reins of power. That meant that they would need to also expend some of their own resources, as well.
Also, it would be a good time to provide a sense of renewal for the era. The Chroniclers added a line, taken from various Chinese histories, that shortly after the announcement of the new capital’s location, rats were seen moving across the countryside in the direction of Naniwa. At its most basic level, this likely recognized that when the people abandon a capital for a new city, that new city quickly has its own population. No doubt it was felt that the rats had simply followed the people there. The migration of rats would figure into several other movements during this reign, as well. It was apparently a popular trope.
The movement started in the twelfth month of the first year of Taika, or 645, and would be completed in the third month of the following year, 646. That was around the same time that word was coming back from the lands in the east about just how things were going with the newly appointed governors. Giventhe killing of Furubito no Ohoye in the 11th month of 645, as well as everything else that was now happening, the capital would be the catalyst for a fresh new slate in more ways than one. The building of the new palace, and the need to entreat the kami, that would be used as an excuse to issue a general amnesty -- the “Get out of jail free” card for the governors and others who hadn’t quite gotten on board, which we talked about last episode. They were shown the stick, but offered a carrot. While not explicitly stated, this may have also been a time to bury the hatchet for the pro-Furubito faction as well, giving them a chance to move on.
And there was a lot of movement to be had. We are told that there was a proclamation in the first month of 646—a proper edict of reforms. These are laid out in four articles, and are perhaps the closest we have to a true “code” of the reforms from this era. And warning: this is where the reforms get really radical.
The first article was on land ownership and allocation. Specifically, it abolished the various royal Miyake and the previously established “representatives of children”—which I’m guessing refers to the various families that were tasked with supporting some of the various royal princes and other royal descendants. It also abolished various farmsteads of serfs and abolished the bonds of those serfs who owed their service to various royal families; the ministers, the Omi and the Muraji; and general courtiers, the Tomo no Miyatsuko; as well as the various lords of the lands, the Kuni no Miyatsuko, and even down the villages, to the level of the Mura no Obito.
In place of these mechanisms of bringing in rice and other goods, various fiefs were created out of the previously held land and redistributed to various princes and officials on a descending scale, with those at the top of the courtly rank system getting the most productive, and less for those further down. To sweeten this deal, gifts of cloth were also given at the time of the edict, likely as a way to offset any harsh feelings.
In the end, this article completely rewrote how land was owned in the archipelago, at least in principle. The land belonged to the sovereign, who apportioned it out as required. The fiefs would then supply incomes to government officials, effectively providing them a salary. Those higher in the court system, which is to say those with a higher court rank, would have a larger stipend. Some version of this system, which wasn’t always as strictly enforced, would continue right up until it was abolished in the early Meiji era.
The second article of the reforms largely targeted the capital and the “Home Provinces”, recognized, today, as the area from modern Iga city in the east; to Mt. Seyama, in Wakayama, to the south. It extended westward past modern Kobe to the Akashi area, and north to Afusakayama, on the southwestern shores of Lake Biwa, due east of modern Kyoto city. These correspond largely to the areas that were traditionally under Yamato’s direct rule, and where many of the noble families had their base of operations. Actual governors were appointed to the home provinces, like Kii, Kawachi, Harima, Yamashiro, etc., with various roads, barriers, outposts, and more created to secure the home territories. Post horses were included, and this is the first mention of the creation of bell tokens, a kind of bronze amulet with various round “bells” incorporated into the design. These bell tokens would become a kind of badge of office for anyone traveling, as they would be used at government posts along the road to determine what kinds of and how many horses a given official was entitled to during their official travel.
The area within the capital itself was divided into “wards”, or “Bo”. Each ward would have an “wosa” appointed from the population. Aston translates this as “alderman”, though it feels like “magistrate” is more appropriate. For every four wards, an unagachi, or chief magistrate, was appointed. These wosa and unagachi were charged to watch over the people and investigate criminal matters. They were supposed to be people of “good character and solid capacity”, and if nobody in the ward could serve, then someone could be chosen from an adjoining ward, instead.
Throughout the rest of the home provinces, the land was divided up into “townships” (RI or Sato), rather than wards, and townships would be gathered into “districts” (GUN or Koori). Large districts were those with over forty townships. Middle districts were those with anywhere from four to thirty townships. And districts of three or fewer townships were considered Lesser Districts. The Japanese for these would be Tai-gun, Chuu-gun, and Shou-gun, but I should note that it is unclear whether that was the actual term used or just the way to write it in the Sinitic style of the Chronicles. The governors of these areas were the Tairei and Sharei, glossed in Japanese as the Koori no Miyatsuko and the Suke no Miyatsuko, though Aston suggests those were just translations, and the Yamato court was probably using the On’yomi for the names as this was an attempt to copy continental governance.
For these positions, you were expected to be not just good, but of “unblemished” character. They were assisted by clerks and others who were skilled in writing and arithmetic. I suspect a lot of this was also applied to the governors discussed in the previous episode, though we did not see such a clear list of qualifications for them and their staff at the time.
So that set up the governance of the capital and the capital region, in a model that would be followed elsewhere.
The third of the four articles provided for drawing up accounts of the land and people—much as the governors were doing in the east. They also create The Books, as in the accounting books for the government. These were to record the state of, well, the State. How many people, what land was out there, in what condition, and to whom did it belong. It would be the official register of receipts telling everyone what land belonged to whom.
It also defined the townships, or Ri, as being made up of 50 households, with one magistrate per township, as above. However, given that these townships were in the countryside, the magistrate was also responsible for the direction of sowing the crops and the cultivation of mulberry trees, used primarily for silk production. It also fell to the magistrate to enforce the payment of taxes, both in rice and forced labor.
And here we see just how much those taxes were. Rice fields were measured by “tan”, sometimes translated as “kida”, which was an area of thirty paces by twelve paces. That comes out to somewhere between 9,000 to 11,000 square feet, depending on the size of the pace—a modern “tan” is figured at 10,800 square feet, or a little over one thousand square meters or a bit under one quarter of an acre. From there, ten tan would make a CHO, the largest land unit mentioned here. All of this was only true of flat land, however. For steep and wooded land, the various officials in charge would need to make special arrangements. Afterall, a thousand square meters of cliff face wasn’t exactly producing a ton of rice—or mulberry trees, for that matter.
The tax for each tan of cultivated land was 22 bundles of rice on the stalk. A single bundle was the amount that a person could reasonably grasp in one hand. Ten bundles made up a sheaf, so actually it was 2 sheafs and 2 bundles. The edicts then laid out the math to verify that for a CHO it was 22 sheafs, or ten times that of a TAN.
And all of this can be pretty boring and, well, academic, but it starts to get us a glimpse into life outside of the elite courtiers. We can see that they assumed a community was about 50 households in rural areas, and you likely would have gotten to know your neighbors, as they were the ones you were planting and harvesting with. While I’m not sure that a TAN was equivalent to a single field, we can see that four TAN would have been roughly an acre of land—an acre itself being an agricultural unit that was about as much land as a single individual could work in a day.
What isn’t clear from all of this is what was the expected gross yield of the field—in other words, how much of the crop would the farmers themselves be able to keep? In later centuries, farmers often couldn’t afford to keep their own crop of rice, and had to settle for eating millet and other, cheaper grains, with almost all of the rice they grew going to pay their taxes
Besides taxes on the fields, there were also other taxes to be considered, but these were dealt with in the fourth and final article of the reforms of 646. Up front, this article abolished any earlier taxes that may have been imposed, clearing the way for a new tax structure. From there, it first laid out a series of alternatives to rice for paying your taxes. One was the ability to pay in cloth, so for instance, if you had a single TAN of land, you could pay the 2 sheafs and 2 bundles of rice OR you could pay 10 feet of fine silk, 2.5 feet in width—the width of most home looms at the time. Alternatively there were conversions into coarse silk (double it to 20 feet) or another bast fiber cloth (double again, to 40 feet). Silk thread or silk floss are not mentioned as a substitute for the rice tax on land.
But: this Article also laid out additional taxes to those on the fields. Each household would have to also produce at least 12 shaku—roughly 12 feet—of bast fiber cloth each year. There were also other taxes such as salt, etc., all depending on what was locally produced. And on top of that, for every 2 townships of 100 people, they had to produce a single horse for the government. A particularly fine horse could be used to cover the taxes for up to 4 townships. And if they could not produce a horse, they would need to provide up to 12 feet of cloth per household to offset the cost of the government buying one. That is 12 feet of cloth in addition to what they already had to pay.
In addition to that, every person was expected to supply a sword, armor, bow and arrows, a flag, and a drum. This may have only been for those able-bodied men called up for service, though—it isn’t exactly clear.
And then, when there were public works to be done, each township had the responsibility to offer up a single, able-bodied individual, and to provide 22 feet of cloth and 5 masu of rice for their service, to keep them clothed and fed. This was actually an improvement on previous corvee labor requirements, which required one person per thirty households, who were all supposed to support them.
Finally, there is a note about Uneme—the handmaidens at the court. Uneme were drawn from the sisters or daughters of district officials of the rank of shorei and upwards. Each Uneme was expected to be furnished with one male and two female servants to attend to their needs. They would be provided cloth and rice similar to laborers, except that the cost was to be spread out across one hundred households, not just fifty.
Again, we get a glimpse of what life under the new regime was like—or at least what it was supposed to be like. We saw mention of taxes and other such things early on in the Chronicles, but this is the first time we really get to see what kinds of taxes would be levied on the common households. A single agricultural household would likely be responsible for some portion of the town’s field-tax, as well as a tax of cloth on their own home, and possibly supporting a laborer or even the purchase of a government horse. Finally, they could also be responsible for providing for one of the handmaidens of the court.
It was clear that the state was extending its reach in new ways. In some cases this would have clearly been an improvement: there was a reduction in the amount of labor that people had to provide, and things were being standardized. There were bureaucratic lines being built from the townships and wards up through to the sovereign, providing a clear connection between sovereign and vassal. On the other hand, this trod on the ancestral traditions of certain groups. We saw the attempted revolt around Prince Furubito no Ohoye, but after his death, the opposition didn’t really have a central figure to rally around. And so the reforms would continue.
Although the reforms at the start of 646 may have been some of the most formal, there is still a lot of change to come and we’ll deal with that in the next few episodes.
Until then, thank you for listening and for all of your support.
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Thank you, also, to Ellen for their work editing the podcast.
And that’s all for now. Thank you again, and I’ll see you next episode on Sengoku Daimyo’s Chronicles of Japan.

References

Van Goethem, E. E. M. A. (2009). Capital and Countryside in Japan, 300-1180: Japanese Historians Interpreted in English (Joan R. Piggott, ed.). Journal of Asian Studies, 68(3), 988–90.
Kracke, E. A. (1976). Early Visions of Justice for the Humble in East and West. Journal of the American Oriental Society, 96(4), 492–498. https://doi.org/10.2307/600081
Aston, W. G. (1972). Nihongi, chronicles of Japan from the earliest times to A.D. 697. London: Allen & Unwin. ISBN0-80480984-4
Knox, George William (1903). The Early Institutional Life of Japan, a Study in the Reform of 645 A. D. By K. ASAKAWA, Ph.D. The American Historical Review, Volume 11, Issue 1, October 1905, Pages 128–129

Episode 108: The Great Change

August 1, 2024 Joshua Badgley

Memorial to Ki no Tsurayuki at the site believed to be the governor’s office of ancient Tosa. Ki no Tsurayuki, a famous poet who is credited with compiling the Kokinshu anthology also wrote the Tosa Nikki or Tosa Diary. Though fictionalized and written from the point of view of a woman of Tosa province, it is thought to be based on Tsurayuki’s own travels between the capital and Tosa when he was sent there as a Kokushi, or Provincial Governor. Those Governor positions were one of the things that were created as part of the Taika reforms. Though initially they were very limited in power and scope, that would change over time, especially as the central government began to take a more direct role in the governance of the provinces.

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This episode we jump into the Taika Reforms, also known as the Great Change. This would really kick off the movement to remake the Yamato government into the bureaucratic state that became known as Japan. This is definitely a period of Great Change, as the name “Taika” implies. At the same time, we don’t actually have an extant law code until much later: early on the administrative “code” of rewards and punishments is more of a series of royal edicts.

The “provinces” of ancient Japan are the old “kuni”. These provinces are still something people use, today, to describe certain areas of Honshu, Shikoku, and Kyushu. The early provinces likely evolved from lands that were either conquered by Yamato or who at least agreed to some nominal level of subordination. Later, many of the provinces would be carved up into smaller, more manageable sizes.

It isn’t exactly clear to me which of the many provinces existed when the eight kokushi were sent out, but it refers to the Eastern Provinces. This is probably meaning the Azuma no Kuni, which seems to reference the Kanto region, but we aren’t given specifics.

Welcome to Sengoku Daimyo’s Chronicles of Japan. My name is Joshua and this is Episode 108: The Great Change
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The Kuni no Miyatsuko, hereditary leader of his lands, likely heard the news before they arrived. Apparently Yamato was sending out an official—a kokushi—who was going to be doing some sort of survey. Whatever. Just another person from Yamato’s court—what did it matter? His family had been in charge of the local lands for as long as anyone remembered, and while they might give nominal fealty to the Oho-kimi in Yamato, along with the occasional bit of taxes, paid in rice, what consequence was it to him? Some might say he was a big fish in a small pond, but it was his pond. Always had been, and always would be.
Wouldn’t it?
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And we are back with our regular chronological podcast, and we are finally going to pick back up on the fall out from the events of 645, the Isshi Incident, when Prince Naka no Oe orchestrated the murder of Soga no Iruka, and later his father, Soga no Emishi, in full view of the court, including his mother, Takara, aka Kougyoku Tennou. That incident would be the start of Naka no Oe’s own rise to power and the reshaping of Yamato from the its longstanding clan based system of government to a new national government of laws and punishments, known generally as the Ritsuryo system. This episode we’ll dive into this new system and the so-called “Taika reforms” that brought it about, the changes it ushered in, and the ripples this sent throughout the entire archipelago.     The term “Taika” itself means “Great Change”, and it isn’t clear to me if it was picked because they expected to be making big changes or after the fact, but in the minds of most Japanese historians it is quite accurate.
The entire system actually took about a century or so to really come together—we often think of the Ritsuryo system as it was in its final version. This period, though, is where things kicked off, so we’ll be setting the stage and talking about some of the edicts during this period that eventually became the written code of the Ritsuryo system. This was started by Naka no Oe who, spoiler alert, would eventually reign as sovereign and be known as Tenchi Tennou. The system he helps put into place would continue to be used and refined even after his death and even after the end of the period covered by the Nihon Shoki.
So after some background, we’ll get to some of the very first edicts this episode, and then spend more time on them again, in the future.
The RitsuryoThe Ritsuryo system was based largely on continental models, with Confucian ideals and the legal code of the Tang dynasty having particular influence. And as we discuss these changes, which were huge, I’ll start with some clarifications and caveats. This was a system of government based largely on continental models, with Confucian ideals and the legal code of the Tang dynasty having particular influence. That   One of the first things to emphasize is that said, itthis wasn’t exactly an immediate revolution and reformation. Based on the entries in the Nihon Shoki, some of the work had already been started long before Naka no Oe came on the scene, largely attributed to the influence of Prince Umayado, aka Shotoku Taishi, and things like the 17 article constitution and rank system, which we discussed back in episode 95. And even after its initial implementation, there would come various tweaks to the system. Although there are numerous edicts made in the initial years of what is known as the Taika era, leading this change to often be given the nickname of the “Taika reforms”, the earliest formal administrative codes would come much later, firming up in the 8th century.
Another thing to keep in mind as we realize, as we start looking at these changes is that the Yamato courtit didn’t necessarily discard the old system, either. Changes like this take time, and something even if it is implemented for a year or two , it might not stick. This is one of the reasons that it is important that two of the apparent architects of the new system for these changes were there present through much of its implementation, actively guiding and shaping the process direction that the changes would take. These two individuals at wereas Prince Naka no Oe and Nakatomi no Kamako, later known in this reign as Kamatari, which is the name I’m going to use from here on out as it is the much more well known in case anyone decides to look up information later.
Finally, I would also note that many of these changes were being applied at the level of the elites of society, how they organized power and how they approached governance – but we should also spare a thought for how this affected the majority of people. After all, it was the majority of people who were working the fields, cutting the wood, or fishing the seas. The elites were often otherwise engaged, and whichthat isn’t to say that they did nothing. Often they were coordinating and bringing things together, but that was a smaller part of the overall population. In these reforms we get to see some rare glimpses into how all of thisit may have affected people beyond just the court elites.
To set this up, let’s start with a look at what brought us here, and how things changed over time and how they had governed things up until now—or at least as best as we can make out from our various sources. From there we can take a look at some of the earliest edicts related to the changes evolution in the government, focusing how they focused on consolidating the power and support at the center of the Yamato court and starteding to make more concrete Yamato’s control across the rest of the archipelago.
We’ve covered much of the development of complex society in Yamato this in previous episodes: How Yayoi society came with or at least introduced a form of stratification evident in graves, grave goods, as well as other patterns of lifeways. Local elites rose up to oversee communities, and eventually extended their influence, creating the various “kuni”, or countries—regional collections of communities that came together under a leadership structure and some shared cultural values.
Some of the earliest stories give us the Hiko-Hime leadership structure, often with a male and female head of state, though sometimes shown as elder and younger co-rulers.
This is backed up by some evidence in the kofun era, as we see large, single-purpose tomb mounds built for what we can only assume are the elite. Their construction would have required control of a large labor force, indicating a certain amount of their power, and their shape and various burial goods have further suggested, at least to scholars like Kishimoto, that there may have been a division of rulership, at least early on.
We’ve talked about the spread of Yamato style round keyhole shaped kofun through the archipelago and how the popularity of that kofun shape demonstrated Yamato’s influence but in the shape of their kofun, but that didn’t necessarily accompany a change in change the actual dynamics of local government, other than demonstrating Yamato’s increased influence.
The next thing we see in the record, I would argue, is the change to a familial based system, or the Bemin-sei. This is what we’ve talked about periodically in terms of both the uji, familial groups or clans, and the “be” familial or occupational groups, but here I’ll give an overview of the whole practice and what its development means in the sense of changing approaches to organizing and governing a complex society.
The Bemin system was a means of further dividing and categorizing people in society, . It is rooted in continental concepts of a familial group. Prior to the 5th century, there isn’t a clear indication of familial clans in Yamato, though that doesn’t mean people didn’t know where they were from. They still remembered who their ancestors were, and that was important, often tracing back to mythical and legendary individuals who are recorded as gods, or kami. I suspect, however, that in the smaller communities of the Yayoi period, where you were from was as a good an indicator of your relationships as anything else. Farming is a pretty sedentary lifestyle, and if you know all of your neighbors there isn’t as much need to divide each other up into specific familial groups. It was more important that I’m from this village or region than I’m from this particular family.
And so the oldest stories in the Nihon Shoki and the Kojiki only refer to individuals by their names or by locatives. Occasionally we will be told that so-and-so was an ancestor of this or that uji, or clan, but it is telling that they don’t use the clan name with that person.
Surnames do become important, however, in the Bemin system. But they are only really important for those in the upper tiers of society. Amongst the farmers and other commoners—the heimin—you often won’t find specific surnames, or people will use pure locatives or something similar to refer to a person. Surnames were for people a little further up the social food chain.
From what we can tell, the uji structure likely started with the “-Be” families, trying to set up groups of individuals who were in charge of certain economic activities beyond just farming the land. The Imbe, the Mononobe, the Abe, the Kuratsukuribe, and the Kusakabe are all examples of family names ending in “-Be”. Some, like Kuratsukuribe, Inukaibe, and Umakaibe are all fairly straightforward: These are groups that were set up around particular industries. Kuratsukuri literally means “saddle-making”, so the Kuratsukuri-be are the saddlemakers. Inukai and Umakai refer to the ones who kept or raised the dogs and horses.
Setting up a familial or clan unit around a certain profession was one way of organizing society so that you had the things that you needed. Such jobs were often inherited, anyway, passing from father to son, mother to daughter, etc. So it makes some sense. And the clan, or uji, structure meant that there was a person or persons at the head of the familial unit who could be responsible for coordinating efforts across different, sometimes dispersed, groups of people.
The thing is, there is no indication that the people in these professions were necessarily related to each other prior to this organization, and in many ways the idea that they were a family with a common ancestor was a created fiction. There may have been some relationship—for instance, weaver groups were often centered on immigrant groups that came over from the continent with knowledge of specific techniques, so there was likely some pre-existing relationship, but they weren’t necessarily what we would consider family, related by blood, to one another.
Over time these groups became actual clans—children were born into them and remained, unless they specifically were split off into a different uji for some reason. Some of them dropped the “-Be” part of their name—in some instances it seems this may have created a distinction between the line at the head of the clan vice the other members, but that distinction isn’t entirely clear. Furthermore, members of these clans were not, ultimately, restricted to the hereditary jobs for which the clan had been created.
There are also clans that appear to be more about location, possibly local rulers or magnates. For example, there are the Munakata and the Miwa, referring to local chiefs or lords of the Munakata and Miwa areas, both important ritual areas.
The clans formed another function as well, as each clan had a kabane, which was an early form of social rank. Some of these ranks appear to have come from titles or positions. So, for instance, you have the Omi, the Muraji, the Kimi, and the Atahe. Early on, Muraji appears to be the more prestigious title, with the Ohomuraji being the head of a Muraji level house that was also a key member of the government. Omi, meaning minister, eventually came to be seen as more prestigious, however. Meanwhile, both were more presitiousprestigious than the term “Kimi”, although that may have originated as a term for the rulers of the local countries, which makes sense if you consider that the Yamato sovereign was the Oho-kimi, or the Great Kimi, much as the Oho-omi was in charge of an Omi group and the Ohomuraji was in charge of a Muraji level house. There are also Omi and Muraji households for whom there is no Oho-omi or Oho-muraji ever mentioned, but only members of the Omi and Muraji ranked families were considered for positions at the top of the court hierarchy.
This All of this clan and rank system began to change in the 6th century during the reign of Toyomike Kashikiya Hime, aka Suiko Tenno, with the introduction of the 17 article constitution and new rank system. While both of these developments are of debatable veracity, since the chroniclers likely made this change seem much more structured than it actually was in practice, —there is probably at least something to the idea that the Yamato court y werewas adopting more continental ideas regarding state governance. The rank system, in particular, was a step towards recognizing individuals above simply their inherited social position. While kabane rank was applied to an entire uji, the new rank was applied to individuals alone, meaning that an individual could be recognized without necessarily rewarding every other person holding their same surname.
At the same time, more and more books were coming in from the continent. Some of these were focused on the new Buddhist religion, but there were also other works, based on a variety of subjects and introducing the Yamato court to some of the philosophical ideas of what government should be. And then there were various envoys sent to the Sui and Tang courts in the early 7th century, where they would have seen how things were working there.
Nonetheless, to be clear, we don’t know it is unclear just how far Yamato control extended across the archipelago. We know that in the 5th century there were individuals who considered themselves part of the Yamato court structure from the Kantou to Kyuushuu. In the Nihon Shoki, we also see the establishment of Miyake up and down the archipelago, from as far out as Kamitsukenu, aka Kozuke, to the western edge of Kyushu, in the early 6th century. These were areas of rice-land which owed their output to the Yamato court or a particular endeavor. They would have had officials there tied to the court to oversee the miyake, providing a local court presence, but how much this translated into direct Yamato control is hard to say.
Then there is the Dazai , the Yamato outpost in Kyushu, set up in the area of Tsukushi, modern Fukuoka Prefecture, largely following the Iwai Rebellion, and which we . We talked about this some in the Gishiwajinden Tour episode about Ito and Na, extending a more directand how the Yamato government extended a more direct, and explicitly military, presence in Kyushu.
Still, the individual lands of places like Hi, Toyo, Kibi, Owari, or Musashi were all governed by the Kuni no Miyatsuko, the Yamato court’s term for the various chieftains or rulers of the different lands.
And that gets us roughly to the situation where we are now, in 645. Prince Naka no Oe hadand been talking with his good friend Nakatomi no Kamatari about how things should be, ever since the day that Kamatari had helped him out at a kemari game—something akin to group hackey-sack with a volleyball. As we’ve discussed in past episodes, a lot of this sense of “how things should be” related to nipping the power of Soga no Iruka and Soga no Emishi in the bud, cutting off what they no doubt saw as a thread to imperial power and the ”right way of doing things”. But Tthe two had also been taking lessons from the Priest Minabuchi, and, like students everywhere, they thought they had figured this whole government thing out as well. They’d been reading the classics and would have had access to the reports from various envoys and ambassadors to the Tang court. The last one had left in 630 and returned in 632. They would no doubt have seen the workings of the Tang dynasty law code of 624 and the subsequent update in 627. Naka no Oe and Kamatari may have even heard news of the update in 637.
Thise law code, implemented by Tang Taizong, relied on Confucian and Legalist theory. It wasn’t the first law code in East Asia, or even the Yellow River basin , but it is one of the most significant and influential, and the earliest for which we have the actual code itself—though the extant version is from 653, about eight years after the events of 645., butHowever, as we’ll see, all of this was well withing the timeframe which the Ritsuryo system was used and updated, itself.
So, Naka no Oe and Kamatari have a shiny new document in their hands, promising an organized system of government very different from the status quo in Yamato to date. However, the Tang law code did have a problem: It was undeniably centered in the imperial culture of the Yellow River and Yangzi River basins. These areas had long had the concept of empire, and even in the chaotic period of the Sixteen Kingdoms and the Northern and Southern dynasties, the concept of an empire that ruled “All Under Heaven”, or “Tianxia” was something that people generally accepted. The Wa polities of the Japanese archipelago, even as they were now consuming media from the continent, still operated under their own cultural imaginaries of how the world was ordered and how government operated. And so the code couldn’t just be adopted wholesale: It would have to be adapted to the needs and demands of the Wa polity.
I should note that this was unlikely the reforms that took place in Yamato were sole effort of Naka no Oe and Kamatari, and much of what is written suggests that this wasn’t done simply through autocratic fiat, but included some key politicking. This started even before the Isshi Incident. Kamatari already had close ties with Prince Karu before he met with Naka no Oe. Kamatari and Naka no Oe had also brought Soga no Kurayamada no Ishikawa no Maro into their confidence, a member of the Soga family. The Fujiwara family history, the Toushi Kaden, compiled by Fujiwara Nakamaro in the 8th century, describes Maro—referenced as Soga no Yamada—as a man of particular and upright character. He also appears to have had a beef with his cousin , Soga no Iruka, and was ambitious.
I’m not sure just how much Naka no Oe and Kamatari were sharing their plans about reforming the State at this point, or if they were simply concentrating efforts on bringing down—that is to say murdering—Soga no Iruka. The Toushi Kaden mentions that others were also brought around to at least the idea that something had to be done about Soga no Iruka, though nobody was quite willing to speak out for fear of Soga no Iruka and his father, Emishi, and what they could do to someone’s reputation—or worse. After all, Soga no Iruka had only   recently killed the Prince Yamashiro no Oe, reportedly as part of a plot to ensure Prince Furubito would be next elevated to the throne. On the other hand, not much information seems to be given about the reforms until they are enacted.
And so after the Isshi Incident, we see our murderous firebrands taking the reins of power. As we noted back in episode 106, Prince Karu was encouraged to take the throne, while Prince Furubito no Ohoye retired from the world and took orders at a temple in Yoshino. Naka no Oe had been offered the throne, we are told, but turned it down, as the optics on it would not have been great. Not only because he was clearly responsible for the death of Soga no Iruka and his father, and thus his mother’s abdication. However, he could still be made Crown Prince, and keep right on going with his ambitions to change up the way things were done in the Yamato government.
Although Naka no Oe and Kamatari get most of the credit, the work required the cooperation—or at least consent—of the newly made sovereign, Prince Karu, also known as Ame Yorozu Toyohi, later styled as Koutoku Tennou. After all, it would be his edicts that would lay out the new system, and his name that would be attached to it.

One good example is a change that came immediately: Meanwhile, in place of Soga no Iruka as Oho-omi, Karu selected two individuals to take his place, dividing up the position of Oho-omi into ministers of the Left and Right. The first was Abe no Omi no Uchimaro, as Minister of the Left, and then Soga no Kurayamada no Omi no Ishikawa no Maro, Naka no Oe’s recently made father-in-law, was made the Minister of the Right. These positions, later known as the Sadaijin and Udaijin, would continue to be two of the most powerful civil positions in the Ritsuryo and later Japanese governments. The Minister of the Left, the Sadaijin, was often considered the senior of the two.
By the way, “Daijin” is just a sinified reading applied to the characters used for “Oho-omi”, or great minister. This means that the Minister of the Left, the Sadaijin, could just as easily be called the Oho-omi of the Left, or something similar. This actually causes a bit of confusion, especially in translation, but just realize that this is effectively just a rebranding, and not entirely a new name. What was new was this idea that they were broken into the Left and the Right a distinction that would mean a lot more once more of the bureaucratic offices and functionaries were properly defined.
Who were these two new ministers? Abe no Uchimaro has popped up a few times in the narrative. He was an experienced courtier. The Abe family had been moving within the halls of power for some time, and had even stood up to the Soga family when Soga no Umako had tried to acquire their lands in Katsuraki, making an ancestral claim. Uchimaro had also been involved in the discussions regarding Princes Tamura and Yamashiro no Oe after the death of Kashikya Hime, hosting one of the dinners during which the delicate issue of succession was discussed. He was clearly a politician of the first order.
Of course, Soga no Kurayamada had clearly earned his position through his connections with the conspirators.
, bBut what about Nakatomi no Kamatari? Well, he wasn’t exactly left out in the cold. Nakatomi no Kamatari was made the Naijin, the Minister, or “Omi”, of the Middle or the Minister of the Interior, implying that he had some authority over the royal household itself. This feels like a created position, possibly to allow him the freedom to help with the primary work of transforming the Yamato government.
Although Naka no Oe and Kamatari get most of the credit, the work required the cooperation—or at least consent—of the newly made sovereign, Prince Karu, also known as Ame Yorozu Toyohi, later styled as Koutoku Tennou. After all, it would be his edicts that would lay out the new system, and his name that would be attached to it.
One of the first things that is recorded in the Nihon Shoki was the declaration of a nengo, or era name. Up to this point, years in Yamato were remembered by the reign of the sovereign—typically based on their palace. So you would see things like the second year of the reign of the sovereign of Shiki palace, or something like that. In addition, at least since about the 6th century, if not earlier, years would eventually be given the appropriate sexagesimal year name, combing one of the ten stems and twelve branches. For example, 2024, when this episode is coming out, is the year of the Wood Dragon, or Kinoe-tatsu. This is still used for various Japanese traditionspractice still continues today in Japan for various reasons.
The Nengo was something newly introduced to Japan, however: . Aan era name would be chosen by the sovereign, often based on important changes that either had occurred or even as a wish for something new. So you would we see a new nengo with the ascension of a new sovereign, but it couldan also come because of an auspicious omen or because of a terrible disaster and hope for something new. The current nengo, which started with the reign of Emperor Naruhito a few years back, is “Reiwa”.
This very first nengo, we are told, was “Taika”, meaning, as I said up front, “Great Change”. It certainly was apropos to the work at hand. So let’s go through the Chronicles and see some of the “great changes” occurring at the Yamato court now that the intention had been made clear.
We already talked about the change from an single Oho-omi to ministers of the Left and Right, but there were many other Some of the first things were to set up various newly created officials and positions. An example is , such as two doctors, or Hakase – doctors in the sense of learned experts, not medical doctors, although medicine was certainly revered. One of these new Hakase was the Priest Min, presumably the same one who had brought back astronomical knowledge from the Sui dynasty, possibly the same as the one known as Sho’an. The other was Takamuko no Fubito no Kuromaro, who had gone to the Sui Dynasty with Min and others and come back with knowledge of how things worked on the continent. The Takamuko family had immigrant roots as descendants of the Ayabito, and Kuromaro was well traveled, returning from the Sui court by way of Silla. These two were well positioned to help with the work at hand.
Now that the rudiments of a cabinet were in place, Oone of the first problems set before things after setting up their cabinet, as it were, was to askthe their new Ministers of the Right and Left, as well as the various officials, the Daibu and the Tomo no Miyatsuko, was how tohey should get people to acquiesce to forced, or corvee labor—the idea that for certain government projects villages could be called upon to provide manual labor in the form of a healthy adult—typically male—to help as needed. This was a thorny problem, and evidently it was thought best to get expertise beyond the purely human. The following day, tThe Udaijin, Soga no Ishikawa no Maro, suggested that the kami of Heaven and Earth should be worshipped and then affairs of government should be considered. And so Yamato no Aya no Hirafu was sent to Wohari and Imbe no Obito no Komaro was sent to Mino, both to make offerings to the kami there for their assistance, it would seem, in setting up a good government.
This is significant, in part, as it shows the continued importance of local traditions focused on appeasing the kami, rather than the Buddhist rituals that they could have likely turned to, instead.
FinallyThree weeks later, on the 5th day of the 8th month—about three weeks later— camecomes the first truly major edict of the Taika era, which and it wasis to appoint new governors, or kokushi, of the eastern provinces. Note that they specifically mention the Eastern Provinces, presumably meaning those east of Yamato, since they only sent out eight of them. They also did not send them to usurp control, necessarily, from the Kuni no Miyatsuko of those areas. The Kuni no Miyatsuko were still nominally in charge, it would seem, but the court was getting ready to make some major changes to the relationship.
These governors were expected to go out and take a census of the people—both those free and those in bondage to others. They were also to take account of all of the land currently under cultivation, likely to figure out how to tax it appropriately. As for things other than arable land, such as gardens, ponds, rivers, oceans, lakes, mountains, etc., the edict commands the governors to consult with the people—presumably the people of the province—to get a better idea of what should be done.
And this doesn’t sound so bad. It is basically just a tally of what is already there. That said, anyone who has worked in a modern office probably knows about the dread that comes over a workplace when people show up from the Head Office with clipboards in hand. However, apparently many of the people had not yet heard of a “clipboard” and likely didn’t realize that this was only a precursor to greater and more centralized bureaucratic control.
Now in addition to taking a zero-baseline review of provincial resources, there was also a list of what these new governors y were to avoid – clear boundaries around the power they were to wield. For one thing, they were not to hear criminal cases. They weren’t there to be an extension of the Yamato court in such matters or to usurp the duties of the Kuni no Miyatsuko, one supposes. Furthermore, when they were traveling to the capital, they were only to bring themselves and district officials, but not a huge retinue. Whether they realized it or not, these kokushi were early bureaucrats in a burgeoning bureaucratic state, and they weren’t supposed to be going out there to become minor kings in their own right; their power came from and was limited by the royal edict. They also did not send them to usurp control, necessarily, from the Kuni no Miyatsuko of those areas. The Kuni no Miyatsuko were still nominally in charge, it would seem, but the court was getting ready to make some major changes to the relationship.
When traveling on official business, the governors could use appropriate government resources, such as the horses and food that they were entitled to. Remember that post stations were set up, previously, to help better facilitate official travel and communication. In a later edict it would be clarified that officials would be given a bronze token with bell-like figures on it. The shape of the token would indicate what kinds of resources the individual was entitled to.
This applied to governors and their assistants.
Those who follow the rules could be rewarded with rank and more, while those who disobeyed would be reduced in rank, and any stipend that came with it.
Furthermore, any government official who was found taking a bribe would be liable to pay twice the amount, as well as being open to criminal punishment.
The Chief Governor was allowed nine attendants, while the assistant was allowed seven, and a secretary—for which think more of the head of a branch office or department under the governor—could have five. Any more, and the governor and followers could be punished for it.
While in the provinces, the governors were expected to look into any claims of potentially false inheritance. This included anyone using a false name or title to claim rights that were not theirs. Governors were to first investigate what was going on before submitting their findings up to the court.
Governors were also to erect arsenals on waste pieces of ground—ground that could not be cultivated for some reason. In those arsenals they were to gather the various weapons and armor of the provinces and districts, presumably so that soldiers could be called up quickly and everyone could just get their equipment from one place, but it also looks like an attempt to take control of the means of violence. Whether or not that was their direct intention I cannot say. There was a provision for those on the frontier, with the Emishi, to allow the owners to keep their weapons, probably because the situation was potentially volatile, and it could turn at any moment.
And so that was the first major piece of legislation: Sending out governors to what are translated as “provinces”—though we are still using the term “kuni”, which equally refers to a state or country—ostensibly for the purposes of assessing the land, its value, the number of people, etc, but also to . They are centralizeing military assets.   and they are given status as true court representatives. I do notice that it was explicitly stated that these governors were for the eastern lands, . presumably meaning those east of Yamato, since they only sent out eight of them These are areas that historically appear to have relied more on Yamato or else been something of a frontier area for the ethnic Wa people. They may have been more open to Yamato’s demands on their sovereignty.
There were two more pieces to thise edict that didon’t directly apply to the governors. First off was the institution of a bell and a box to be set up at the court. The box was basically a place to receive complaints about how things were going in the realm. They are careful to note that complaints should be vetted by the Tomo no Miyatsuko, one of the hereditary government officials, or at least to the head of one’s uji, if possible. If they couldn’t come to a decision, though, the complaints would be collected at dawn and then the government would look into them. If anyone thought that there was a problem with how a complaint was being handled—for example, if they thought there was malfeasance involved or even just neglect, with officials not addressing it in a timely fashion, then the plaintiffs could go to the court and ring the bell, officially noting their dissatisfaction with the process.
This idea of a bell and complaints seems to be a wide-ranging practice throughout Asia. During the reign of the Legendary Yao, people were encouraged to nail their complaints to a tree. Other edicts suggest that bells and drums were hung in royal palaces to allow common people to voice their grievances. We have examples of the practice showing up in the Sukhothai kingdom of Thailand, during the 13th century reign of King Ramkhamhaeng, and then a 16th century example in what is now Myanmar, aka Burma. While they differ in specifics, they are all related to the concept of royal justice even for the lowest of the people. Granted, if you are a farmer in Owari province, I don’t know how easy it was going to be to make your way over to the royal palace and ring that bell, but at least there was the idea that people could submit complaints.
This was apparently used relatively soon after, as recounted in the second month of the following year, about six months later. Apparently some person had placed a complaint in the box stating that people who had come to the capital on government business were being put to work and ill-used. Basically it sounds like they were being rounded up for corvee labor even though they weren’t local residents, they were just passing through. In response, the sovereign, Karu, put a stop to forced labor at various places—presumably where the offending action was taking place, so I guess the complaint system it was working.
The last part of this first set of edicts, kicking off the change was about inheritance. Not all people in Yamato were free, and the law saw a difference between the status of free and unfree persons—that is to say enslaved persons. And so they made laws that only the child of two free persons would be considered free. If either parent was in bondage, then the child was also considered in bondage to their parent’s house. If two enslaved persons of different houses had a child, then they would stay with the mother. Temple serfs, though technically bound to service of the temple, were made a special case, and their children were to be treated as if the temple serf was a free person.
Slavery is something that doesn’t always get talked about regarding ancient Yamato, and the Chronicles themselves don’t tend to mention enslaved peoplethem often, but more because they belonged to a class of society that was largely outside of the scope of the narrative. In cases where they are discussed, such as in these edicts, the Chronicles are unapologetic of the practice. These may have been people who were captured in raids, or their descendants, or people who had been enslaved as punishment for some offence, although it isn’t quite clear just what would count. We know that Himiko sent enslaved persons as part of the tribute to the Wei Court, as she was trying to curry favor, and mention of them certainly shows up now and again.
It is unclear how many people were enslaved up to this point, but some estimates suggest that it may have been five to ten percent of the population. As I’ve mentioned before, this practice continued up until the Sengoku Period, and was only abolished by Toyotomi Hideyoshi in an attempt to stop the Portuguese from buying enslaved Japanese people and transporting them away from Japan. That didn’t meant that other forms of bondage, often economic in nature, didn’t happen, however.
So that was the content of the first edict—one of many. The court sent out newly appointed “governors” to the provinces, but these governors were, so far, limited in their scope. There is even some evidence that these may have been initially seen as temporary positions, and there was mention of “kokushi” in the previous reign. Still, this was part of a clearly concentrated effort to assume central authority over the archipelago. There were even officials appointed over the six districts of Yamato province, the core of the Yamato state, who were likewise expected to prepare registers of the population and the cultivated land.
Even the idea that the sovereign had the right to make these appointments was something a bit radical, and indicated a change in way that the court, at least, would view the sovereign. It likewise placed the sovereign in a position to dispense justice, through the vehicle of the court, and it began to define the citizens of the realm as well.
That said, this all could have been argued for by using the Sui and Tang as examples of what government should look like and what a true nation should look like.
It is also possible that this didn’t all happen of a sudden in the 8th month, as the Chronicles describe it. This is suggested at based on a separate account, mentioned in the Nihon Shoki, that the gathering of weapons, for instance—one of the things that the governors were charged with—actually took place between the 6th and 9th month, so some of this likely started before the date listed for the edict, and that may just have been one part of the whole. The Chroniclers often do this, finding one particular date and throwing in everything rather than giving things piecemeal—depending on the event.
In addition, on the 19th day of the 9th month, officials were sent out to all of the provinces—not just the eastern provinces—to take a proper census. At this same time, the sovereign, Karu, issued another edict, which seems related to their work as well as that of the governors, or kokushi, sent to the east. In it he noted that the powerful families—the Omi, the Muraji, the Tomo no Miyatsuko, and the Kuni no Miyatsuko—would compel their own vassals to work at their pleasure. They would also appropriate for themselves various pieces of land, so that people could only work it for them. Not everyone was doing this, though. Some unnamed persons were accused of hording thousands of acres of rice-land, while others had no more land than you could stick a needle into. Furthermore, these powerful families were collecting taxes for themselves, first, and then handing a portion over to the government. They likely compelled their vassals to work on their own tombs, and such. And so, the sovereign, Karu, forbade anyone from becoming a landlord and forcing people to pay rent. Presumably he was also dealing with some of the other aspects, though that may have proved more difficult. After all, from what we’ve seen, everything that Karu is complaining about—things that no doubt were considered antithetical to good government based on pure Confucian values—were the norm for the elite at the time. Heck, the Kuni no Miyatsuko had no doubt thought of the land and the people on it as their own, not Yamato’s. However, things were shifting, and once again we see Yamato exerting royal prerogative over the land and people, something that they would do more and more as the system of laws and punishments eventually came together.
Now the big question is how did this all pan out? Well, it took some time, but we get a report on the second day of the third month of the following year, 646, and to be honest, it doesn’t sound like things were going too well. Of the high officials sent out as kokushi to govern the eastern provinces, six listened and did what they were told, but two did not, and then there were numerous other issues. A more detailed list was given on the 19th of the month, including a clearer idea of punishments.
The decree was given to the “Choushuushi”, apparently other government officials sent to check on how things were going, though it was clearly about various officials.
The decree starts by reminding officials that they were not to use their position to appropriate public or private property. Anyone of Assistant governor rank or higher would be punished by being degraded in rank, and presumably their stipend. Those officials of clerk, or secretary, on down would face flogging. If anyone was found converting public property (or someone else’s) to their own use, they would be fined double the value of the property, just as with bribes. So the Yamato government was They were really trying to tamp down on people trying to make a profit from their position.
Here are a few of the specific things that the Choushuushi reported back:
-             Hozumi no Omi no Kuhi taxed individual families for his own use and though he gave some of it back make, it wasn’t all. His two assistants were at fault for not correcting him.
-             Kose no Tokune no Omi did something similar, taking away horses from the farmers for his own use. His assistants not only did not correct him, but actually helped him. They also took horses from the Kuni no Miyatsuko of the province. One of the officials tried to remonstrate with him, but he finally gave in to the corruption.
-             Ki no Marikida no Omi sent men to Asakura no Kimi and Inoue no Kimi to look at their horses for his own use. He also had Asakura no Kimi make him swords and provide bow-cloth. He also took the payments in lieu of weapons offered by the Kuni no Miyatsuko but didn’t properly report it. As a somewhat strange addition to these charges, he apparently was guilty of allowing himself to be robbed of a sword in his own province as well as in Yamato, presumably one that was actually government property. Apparently being held up at sword point wasn’t considered sufficient justification for letting it go. This was facilitated by his assistants and their subordinates.
-             Adzumi no Muraji apparently made the Kuni no Miyatsuko send government property to someone when they were ill, and he took horses belonging to the Yube clan. His assistant gathered items at his house that were paid in lieu of hay, and he took the horses of the Kuni no Miyatsuko and exchanged them for others. At least two other brothers were found guilty as well.
-             Ohochi no Muraji broke the decree of not personally judging the complaints of the people in the districts under his charge. He took it on himself to judge the case of the men of Udo and the matter of the enslaved persons of Nakatomi no Toko, who was also considered guilty.
-             Kishida no Omi, as with Ki no Marikida, also allowed his sword to be stolen, showing a want of circumspection.
-             In one of the strangest put-downs in this list, Womidori no Omi and Tanba no Omi weren’t guilty of anything, but were just considered incompetent. So make of that what you will.
-             Imbe no Konomi and Nakatomi no Muraji no Mutsuki also committed offenses, we are told, but the nature is unclear.
-             Hada no Omi and Taguchi no Omi, on the other hand, were free and clear. Apparently they hadn’t committed any offenses.
-             Finally, Heguri no Omi was guilty of neglecting to investigate the complaints of the men of Mikuni.
A big to-do was made about the punishments to be meted out to all of these individuals, as well as to the Kuni no Miyatsuko who may have enabled them. However, instead of prosecuting them, Karu declared a general amnesty. This was like a mass pardon of offenses—a do-over if you would. Not that anything would be forgotten. On the other hand, six individuals who did as they were told were all commended for their service. He also took the lent-rice for the maintenance of the late Kibishima, the dowager queen who had passed away in 643, and distributed her official-rice lands amongst the ministers down to the Tomo no Miyatsuko. He also gave rice-land and hill tracts, which weren’t suitable for farming, over to various temples which had previously been omitted from the official registers for some reason.
Over all, this seems to be a rather powerful message: We’re not They weren’t fooling around with these changes, and people better get on board or get out of the way. Whereas previously things in the provinces may have operated under a sort of Vegas Rules, that was no longer going to be tolerated. On the other hand, Karuhe demonstrated mercy, likely realizing that too harsh an approach would bring the wrath of the other powerful nobles. Nonetheless, he elaborated what each person had done and effectively put them and anyone else harboring thoughts that they could just ignore these edicts on notice. These reforms weren’t going away.
So we’ve talked about where we were and we can see the powers at the Yamato court starting to make changes. For now, this is probably going to be a good place to take a break for this episode, but there are a lot more of these reforms to get to, not to mention the rest of the intra-palace politicking at the court, as well as the changing situation on the continent and in diplomatic channels. We are going to keep looking at these changes as we move forward through the period of Great Change, known as the Taika era.
Until then, thank you for listening and for all of your support.
If you like what we are doing, please 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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Thank you, also, to Ellen for their work editing the podcast.
And that’s all for now. Thank you again, and I’ll see you next episode on Sengoku Daimyo’s Chronicles of Japan.

References

Bauer, M. (2020). The History of the Fujiwara House: A Study and Annotated Translation of the Toshi Kaden. Amsterdam University Press. https://doi.org/10.2307/j.ctv125jv4q
Van Goethem, E. E. M. A. (2009). Capital and Countryside in Japan, 300-1180: Japanese Historians Interpreted in English (Joan R. Piggott, ed.). Journal of Asian Studies, 68(3), 988–90.
Kracke, E. A. (1976). Early Visions of Justice for the Humble in East and West. Journal of the American Oriental Society, 96(4), 492–498. https://doi.org/10.2307/600081
Aston, W. G. (1972). Nihongi, chronicles of Japan from the earliest times to A.D. 697. London: Allen & Unwin. ISBN0-80480984-4
Knox, George William (1903). The Early Institutional Life of Japan, a Study in the Reform of 645 A. D. By K. ASAKAWA, Ph.D. The American Historical Review, Volume 11, Issue 1, October 1905, Pages 128–129

Gishiwajinden Tour: Ito-koku and Na-koku

July 16, 2024 Joshua Badgley

Example of the large bronze mirrors found in the area of Ito-koku. Is this the same kind of mirror as the Yatakagami held at Ise Shrine? What does it mean for them to have had such a mirror in the 3rd century?

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This episode we covered the final leg of our trip to Ito and Na—which is to say Itoshima and Fukuoka. There are a few photos, below, and the famous mirror at the start of this post.

Agricultural equipment

Various agricultural tools found in the area of the ancient Itokoku. From Itokoku Museum.

Hirabaru Mound

The Hirabaru burial mound, where they found a kingly burial with the very large mirrors. Today, it is largely just the mound, and not the other accompanying buildings.

Seal of the King of Na

The seal of the King of Na of Wa, granted by the Han dynasty as recorded by the Houhanshu and rediscovered in the 18th century on Shika Island. It was kept by the Kuroda family, rulers of Fukuoka Han, until the Meiji period, when the family donated it to the Fukuoka City Museum.

Seal for Dian (Replica)

Replica of an extant Han seal to Dian, which also uses the snake backed motif similar to that used in the seal for the King of Na.

Dazaifu Tenmangu

Tenmangu shrine for the spirit of Sugawara Michizane on the site of the old Dazaifu, where he once served. Although the government buildings are no longer there, the area is still known as Dazaifu.

Kourokan layout

Model of what the Kourokan, the foreign guest house in Fukuoka, may have been like based on archaeological investigations.

Kourokan reconstruction

At the site of the old Kourokan, they have rebuilt a life-sized model of a part of one of the buildings, demonstrating the construction techniques of the time.

Welcome to Sengoku Daimyo’s Chronicles of Japan. My name is Joshua, and this is Gishiwajinden Part Five: Ito-koku and Na-koku
This episode we are finishing up our Gishiwajinden Tour, focusing on our journey to Ito-koku and Na-koku, or modern day Itoshima and Fukuoka. We’ll talk about what we know from the records of these two areas in the Yayoi and early Kofun periods, and then look at some of the later history, with the development of the Dazaifu, the build up of Hakata and Fukuoka, and more. A key thread through all of this will be our discussion about why it was Yamato, and not these early states, who eventually became paramount. If this is where things like wet paddy rice agriculture started, and they had such close ties to the continent, including sending a mission to the Han dynasty, why did the political center shift over to Yamato, instead? It is certainly something to wonder about, and without anything written down by the elites of Na and Ito we can only really guess based on what we see in the histories and the archaeological record.
We ended our tour in Na for a reason: while the Gishiwajinden—the Japanese section of the Wei Chronicles—describes the trip from the continent all the way to Yamatai, the locations beyond Na are largely conjecture. Did ancient travelers continue from Na along the Japan Sea coast up to Izumo and then travel down somewhere between Izumo and Tsuruga to the Nara Basin? Or did they travel the Inland Sea Route, with its calmer waters but greater susceptibility to pirates that could hide amongst the various islands and coves? Or was Yamatai on the island of Kyushu, and perhaps the name just happens to sound similar to the Yamato of Nara?
Unfortunately, the Wei Chronicles have more than a few problems with accuracy, including problems with directions, meaning that at most we have some confidence in the locations out to “Na”, but beyond that it gets more complicated. And even “Na” has some questions, but we’ll get to that later.
Unlike the other points on our journey, we didn’t stay overnight at “Ito-koku”, , and we only briefly stayed at Na—modern Fukuoka, but I’ll still try to give an account of what was going on in both places, and drawing on some past visits to the area to fill in the gaps for you.

Both the Na and Ito sites are believed to be in the modern Fukuoka prefecture, in Itoshima and Fukuoka cities. Fukuoka prefecture itself actually spans all the way up to the Shimonoseki straits and includes the old territory of Tsukushi—Chikuzen and Chikugo—as well as the westernmost part of Buzen, the “closer” part of the old land of “Toyo” on the Seto Inland Sea side of Kyushu.
When it comes to locating the country of Ito-koku, we have lots of clues from current place names. The modern Itoshima peninsula, which, in old records, was known as the country of Ito, and was later divided into the districts of Ito and Shima. Shima district, at the end of the peninsula, may have once been an island—or nearly so. It is thought that there was a waterway between the two areas, stretching from Funakoshi bay in the south to Imazu Bay, in the north, in Fukuoka proper. Over time this area was filled in with deposits from the local rivers, making it perfect for the Yayoi style wet rice paddy agriculture that was the hallmark of the growth in that period. And indeed there are certainly plenty of Yayoi and Kofun era ruins in the area, especially in eastern reaches of the modern city of Itoshima, which reside in the valley that backs up to Mt. Raizan. There you can find the Ito-koku History Museum, which tells much of the story of Ito.
The Weizhi, or the Wei Chronicles, note that Ito-koku had roughly a thousand households, with various officials under their own Queen, making it one of the few Wa countries that the Chroniclers specifically noted as being a “kingdom”, though still under the nominal hegemony of the queen of Yamatai or Yamateg.
If you continue eastward along the coast from Itoshima, you next hit Nishi-ku, the Western Ward, of modern Fukuoka city, which now continues to sprawl around Hakata Bay. Nishi-ku itself used to also be known as “Ito”, though spelled slightly differently, and you can still find Ito Shrine in the area. So was this part of Ito-koku also? It’s very possible.
Na-koku, or the country of Na, was probably on the eastern edge of modern Fukuoka, perhaps around the area known as Hakata down to modern Kasuga. Much like in Karatsu, this area features some of the earliest rice fields ever found in Japan – in this case, in the Itazuke neighborhood, just south of Fukuoka airport. The land here is mostly flat, alluvial plains, formed by the rivers that empty out into Hakata Bay, another great area for early rice agriculture.
Locating the country of Na is interesting for several reasons. For one, unlike all of the other Wei Chronicles sites we’ve mentioned, there is no clear surviving placename that obviously matches up between “Na” and the local area. It is a short enough name that it may simply be difficult to distinguish which “Na” is meant, though there is a “Naka” district in Kasuga that may show some promise. There certainly is evidence for a sizeable settlement, but that’s much more tenuous than the placenames for other areas, which remained largely in use in some form up to the modern day, it would seem.
The name “Na” shows up in more than just the Weizhi, and it is also mentiond in the Houhan-shu, or the Record of the Later Han, a work compiled later than the Weizhi, but using older records from the Late Han dynasty period. There it is asserted that the country of Na was one of the 99 some-odd countries of Wa, and they sent an embassy to the Later Han court, where they received a gold seal made out to the “King of Na of Wa”.
We talked about this in Episode 10: The Islands of the Immortals: That seal, made of gold, was seemingly found in the Edo period—1784, to be precise. A farmer claimed to have found it on Shika island, in Hakata Bay, which is quite prominent, and connected to the mainland with a periodically-submerged causeway. The description of the find—in a box made up of stones, with a large stone on top that required at least two men to move it—seems like it could have been an old burial of some kind. The island certainly makes sense as an elite burial site, overlooking Hakata Bay, which was likely an important feature of the lifeways of the community.
While there have been questions about the authenticity of the seal, if it is a forgery, it is quite well done. It looks similar to other Han era seals, and we don’t really have a way to date the gold it is made of. Without the actual context we can’t be quite sure.
This certainly seems like pretty strong evidence of the country of Na in this area, somewhere – probably not on the island itself, then close by.So unless something else comes along, I think we can say that this is at least the vicinity of the old country of Na.
Okay, so now that we’ve talked in general about where these two places were, let’s go back and look at them in more detail.
The Ito-koku site is just up the coast from where we stayed for Matsuro-koku, in Karatsu, which all makes sense from the position of the Chronicles in that it says the early envoys traveled overland from one place to the other. Of course it also says they traveled southeast, which is not correct as the route is actually northeast. However, they had traveled southeast from the Korean peninsula to Tsushima and then Iki and Matsuro, so that direction was well established, and this is an easy enough error that could have been made by the actual envoys or by later scribes, as it would be a one character difference.
For Ito-koku, as with Matsuro-koku, we have no large, reconstructed sites similar to Harunotsuji on Iki or Yoshinogari, further inland in Saga prefecture, where we have an entire, large, so-called “kingly” settlement. There is evidence of settlements, though, both near the major burial sites as well as around the peninsula. And as for those burial sites, well, Ito has a few, and they aren’t merely important because of their size. Size is often an indication of the amount of labor that a leader must have been able to mobilize, and so it can be used to get a general sense of the power that a given leader or system was able to wield, as they could presumably turn that labor to other users as well. However, it is also important to look at other factors, like burial goods. What kind of elite material was the community giving up and placing with the deceased?
That is the case with the first site we’ll discuss, the Hirabaru burial mound. At first glance it isn’t much—a relatively unassuming square mound, about 12 by 14 meters, and less than 2 meters in height. It was discovered in 1965 by a farmer who started digging a trench to plant an orchard and started pulling up broken pieces of a bronze mirror, one of the first clues that this was someone important. They later found various post holes around the site, suggesting that it was more than just an earthen mound, and as they excavated the site they found pottery, beads, mirrors, and more.
Let’s start with those post-holes. It looks like there was at least one large pillar set up due east of the burial. We don’t know how tall it was, but it was likely of some height given the size of the pillar hole—I’ve seen some estimates that it could have been up to 70 meters tall. A tall pole would have provided visibility, and it may also be significant that it was east, in the direction of the rising sun. We know that the ancient Wa had a particular connection with the sun, and this may be further evidence of that. There are other holes that may be a gate, and possible a storehouse nearby, presumably for various ritual items, etc. Suddenly, even without knowing exactly what was there, we start to see a picture of a large, manmade complex that seems to be centered on this burial and whomever is there.
On top of that, there was a mirror in the tomb that was larger than any other ever found in Japan at that time—certainly the largest round mirror of that period. It is not one of the triangular rimmed mirrors that Yamato is known for, but may have been part of another large cache brought over from the mainland. About 40 mirrors in total, many of them very large, were found buried in the tomb, some of which appear to have been broken for some reason. Furthermore, the large mirrors appear to fit within the dimensions given the Great Mirror—the Yata no kagami—housed at the sacred Ise Shrine. There is a document in 804, the “Koutai Jingu Gishiki Chou”, detailing the rituals of Ise shrine, which describes the sacred mirror sitting in a box with an inner diameter of 1 shaku, 6 sun, and 3 bu, or approximately 49.4 centimeters, at least using modern conversions. The same measurements are given in the 10th century Engi Shiki. So we can assume that the mirror in Ise, which nobody is allowed to actually see, let alone measure, is smaller than that, but not by much, as the box would have been made to fit the mirror, specifically. It isn’t like you can just grab a box from Mirror Depot. The mirrors found at Hirabaru Mound measure 46.5 centimeters, and have a floral pattern with an eight petaled flower on the back. Could this mirror be from the same mold or the same cache, at least, as the sacred mirror at Ise? At the very least, they would seem to be of comparable value.
In addition, there were many beads, jars, etc. Noticeably absent from the burial were swords and weapons. Based on this, some have argued that this was the burial of a queen of Ito-koku. There is evidence that this may be the case, but I don’t think the presence of weapons, or the lack thereof, is necessarily a good indicator. After all, we see in the old stories that women were also found wielding swords and leading troops into battle. So it’s dangerous to make assumptions about gender based on this aspect alone.
I wonder if the Hirabaru tomb assemblage might have more to do with something else we see in Yamato and which was likely applicable elsewhere in the archipelago: a system of co-rulership, where one role might have to do more with administrative and/or ritual practice, regardless of gender. This burial assemblage or mirrors and other non-weapons might reflect this kind of position. The Weizhi often mentions “secondary” or “assistant” positions, which may have truly been subordinate to a primary ruler, or could have just been misunderstood by the Wei envoys, who saw everything through their particular cultural stratification. In a similar fashion, early European explorers would often name people “king”—from the daimyo of Sengoku era Japan to Wahunsenacawh, known popularly as “Powhatan” for the name of his people, on what would become known as North America. That isn’t to say that these weren’t powerful individuals, but the term “king” comes with a lot of Eurocentric assumptions and ideas about power, stratification, etc. Is there any reason to believe that the Wei envoys and later chroniclers were necessarily better at describing other cultures?
And of course we don’t have any physical remains of the actual individual buried there, either. However, there is a good reason to suggest that this may have been a female ruler, and that is because of something in the Weizhi, which specifically says that the people of Ito lived under the rule of a female king, aka a queen, using a description not unlike what is used for Queen Himiko. In fact, Ito gets some special treatment in the record, even though it isn’t the largest of the countries. Let’s look at those numbers first: Tsushima is said to have 1,000 households, while Iki is more like 3,000. Matsuro is then counted at 4,000 families, but Ito is only said to have 1,000, similar to Tsushima. Just over the mountains and along the Bay, the country of Na is then counted at a whopping 20,000 households, so 20 times as many. These numbers are probably not entirely accurate, but do give an impression of scale, at least.
But what distinguishes Ito-koku in this is that we are told that it had a special place for envoys from the Korean peninsula to rest when they came. It makes you wonder about this little place called Ito.
Hirabaru is not the only kingly tomb in the area. Walk about 20 to 30 minutes further into the valley, and you might just find a couple of other burials—in particular Mikumo-Minami Shouji, discovered in 1822, and Iwara-Yarimizo, which includes artifacts discovered in the 1780s in the area between Mikumo and Iwara as they were digging a trench. Based on evidence and descriptions, we know that they pulled out more bronze mirrors and other elite goods indicative of the late Yayoi paramounts. In these areas they have also found a number of post holes suggesting other buildings—enough to perhaps have a relatively large settlement. As noted earlier, we do not have a reconstructed village like in Harunotsuji or Yoshinogari, given that these are private fields, so the shape of the ancient landscape isn’t as immediately impressive to people looking at the area, today.
The apparent dwellings are largely found in the triangle created between two rivers, which would have been the water source for local rice paddies. The tombs and burials are found mostly on the outskirts, with the exception of the kingly burial of Mikumo-Minami Shouji. This is also interesting when you consider that the later Hirabaru mound was situated some distance away, raising a bunch of questions that we frankly do not have answers for.
The area of these ruins is not small. It covers roughly 40.5 hectares, one of the largest Yayoi settlements so far discovered. Of course, traces of other large settlements—like something in the Fukuoka area or back in Yamato—may have been destroyed by later construction, particularly in heavily developed areas. This is interesting, though, when you consider that the Weizhi only claimed some 1,000 households.
There are also other graves, such as various dolmens, across Ito and Shima, similar to those found on the peninsula, and plenty of other burials across both ancient districts. And as the Yayoi culture shifted, influence of Yamato can be seen. While Ito-koku clearly had their own burial practices, which were similar to, but not exactly like, those in the rest of the archipelago, we can see them start to adopt the keyhole style tomb mounds popular in Yamato.
During the kofun period, the area of Itoshima built at least 60 identified keyhole shaped tombs, with a remarkable number of them from the early kofun period. Among these is Ikisan-Choushizuka Kofun, a large, round keyhole tomb mound with a vertical stone pit burial, estimated to have been built in the latter half of the 4th century. At 103 meters in length, it is the largest round keyhole tomb on the Genkai coast—that is to say the northwest coast of Kyushu.
All of these very Yamato-style tombs would appear to indicate a particular connection between Ito and Yamato—though what, exactly, that looked like is still up for debate. According to the various early Chronicles, of course, this would be explained because, from an early period, Yamato is said to have expanded their state to Kyushu and then even on to the Korean peninsula. In particular, the Chronicles talk about “Tsukushi”, which is both used as shorthand for the entirety of Kyushu, while also indicating the area largely encompassing modern Fukuoka prefecture. On the other hand, this may have been a sign of Ito demonstrating its own independence and its own prestige by emulating Yamato and showing that they, too, could build these large keyhole tombs. After all, the round keyhole shape is generally thought to have been reserved, in Yamato, for members of the royal family, and Ito-koku may have been using it similarly for their own royal leaders.
It may even be something in between—Ito-koku may have recognized Yamato’s influence and leadership, but more in the breach than in actuality. Afterall, until the standup of things like the various Miyake and the Dazai, we aren’t aware of a direct outpost of the Yamato government on Kyushu. The Miyake, you may recall, were the ”royal granaries”, which were basically administrative regions overseeing rice land that was directly controlled by Yamato, while the Dazai was the Yamato government outpost in Kyushu for handling continental affairs. On top of a lack of local control in the early Kofun, the Weizhi appears to suggest that the Yamato paramount, Himiko, was the “Queen of the Wa” only through the consensus of other polities, but clearly there were other countries in the archipelago that did not subscribe to her blog, as it were, as they were in open conflict with Yamato.
This all leads into something we’ve talked about in the main podcast at various times, but it still bears discussing: How did Yamato, over in the Nara Basin, become the center of political life in the Japanese archipelago, and why not somewhere in Kyushu, like ancient Na or Ito? While we don’t entirely know, it is worth examining what we do and some of the factors that may have been in play.
After all, Kyushu was the closest point of the main Japanese islands to the mainland, and we see that the Yayoi culture gets its start there. From there, Yayoi culture spread to the east, and if we were to apply similar assumptions as we do on the spread of the keyhole shaped kofun, we would assume that the culture-givers in the west would have held some level of prestige as groups came to them to learn about this new technology, so why wasn’t the capital somewhere in Kyushu? We likewise see other such things—Yayoi pottery styles, fired in kilns, rather than open fired pottery; or even bronze items brought over from the continent. In almost every instance, we see it first in Kyushu, and then it diffuses eastward up to the edge of Tohoku. This pattern seems to hold early on, and it makes sense, as most of this was coming over from the continent.
Let’s not forget, though, that the Yayoi period wasn’t simply a century: by our most conservative estimates it was approximately 600 years—for reference, that would be roughly equivalent to the period from the Mongol invasions up to the end of the Edo period, and twice as long as the period from Mimaki Iribiko to the Naka-no-Oe in 645, assuming that Mimaki Iribiko was ruling in the 3rd century. So think about all that has happened in that time period, mostly focused on a single polity, and then double it. More recent data suggests that the Yayoi period may have been more like an 1100 to 1300 year range, from the earliest start of rice cultivation. That’s a long time, and enough time for things in the archipelago to settle and for new patterns of influence to form. And while Kyushu may have been the first region to acquire the new rice growing technology, it was other areas around the archipelago that would begin to truly capitalize on it.
We are told that by the time the Wei envoys arrived that the state of Yamato, which we have no reason not to believe was in the Nara Basin, with a focus on the area of modern Sakurai, had approximately 70,000 households. That is huge. It was larger than Na, Ito, and Matsuro, combined, and only rivaled in the Weizhi by Touma-koku, which likely referred to either the area of Izumo, on the Japan Sea coast, or to the area of Kibi, along the Seto Inland Sea, both of which we know were also large polities with significant impact in the chronicles.
And here there is something to consider about the Yayoi style agriculture—the land determined the ultimate yield. Areas with more hills and mountains are not as suited to wet rice paddy agriculture. Meanwhile, a flat basin, like that in Yamato, which also has numerous rivers and streams draining from the surrounding mountains into the basin and then out again, provided the possibility for a tremendous population, though no doubt it took time to build.
During that time, we definitely see evidence of the power and influence of places like Na and Ito. Na sent an embassy to the Han court—an incredible journey, and an indication of not only their interest in the Han court and continental trade, but also their ability to gather the resources necessary for such a journey, which likely required some amount of assistance from other, nearby polities. Na must have had some sway back then, we would assume.
Meanwhile, the burial at Ito shows that they were also quite wealthy, with clear ties to the continent given their access to large bronze mirrors. In the absence of other data, the number and size of bronze mirrors, or similar bronze items, likely only useful for ritual purposes, indicates wealth and status, and they had some of the largest mirrors as well as the largest collection found for that period. Even into the stories in the Nihon Shoki and the Kojiki we see how mirrors, swords, and jewels all are used a symbols of kingship. Elite status was apparently tied to material items, specifically to elite trade goods.
Assuming Yamato was able to grow its population as much as is indicated in the Weizhi, then by the 3rd century, they likely had the resources to really impress other groups. Besides things like mirrors, we can probably assume that acquisition of other goods was likewise important. Both Ito and Yamato show evidence of pottery shards from across the archipelago, indicating extensive trade networks. But without any other differentiating factors, it is likely that Yamato, by the 3rd century, at least, was a real powerhouse. They had a greater production capacity than the other states listed in the Weizhi, going just off of the recorded human capital.
And this may answer a question that has been nagging me for some time, and perhaps others: Why did other states acquiesce to Yamato rule? And the answer I keep coming back to is that it was probably a combination of wealth, power, prestige, ritual, and time.
For one thing, wealth: Yamato had it. That meant they could also give it. So, if Yamato was your friend, you got the goods, and you had access to what you need. You supported them, they could help you with what you needed. These transactional alliances are not at all uncommon, and something I think most of us can understand.
There is also power—specifically military power. With so many people, Yamato would likely have been a formidable threat should they decide that violence was the answer. That said, while we read of military campaigns, and no doubt they did go out and fight and raid with the best of them, it’s expensive to do so. Especially exerting control over areas too far out would have been problematic, especially before writing AND horses. That would be costly, and a drain on Yamato’s coffers. So while I do suspect that various military expeditions took place, it seems unlikely that Yamato merely bested everyone in combat. Military success only takes you so far without constant maintenance.
And so here is where I think prestige and ritual come into play. We’ve talked about how Yamato did not exactly “rule” the archipelago—their direct influence was likely confined to the Kinki region for the longest period of time. And yet we see that they influenced people out on the fringes of the Wa cultural sphere: when they started building large, keyhole shaped kofun for their leaders, and burying elites only one to a giant mound, the other areas of Japan appear to have joined in. Perhaps Yamato was not the first to build a kofun for a single person, but they certainly were known for the particular shape that was then copied by so many others. But why?
We don’t know for certain, but remember that in Yamato—and likely the rest of the Wa cultural sphere—a large part of governance was focused on ritual. The natural and what we would consider the supernatural—the visible and invisible—worked hand in hand. To have a good harvest, it required that workers plant, water, harvest, etc. in the right seasons and in the right way. Likewise, it was considered equally important to have someone to intercede with the kami—to ensure that the rains come at the right time, but not too much, and a host of other natural disasters that could affect the crop.
And if you want to evaluate how well ritual works, well, look at them.   Are you going to trust the rituals of someone whose crops always fail and who barely has a single bronze mirror? Or are you going to trust the rituals of someone with a thriving population, multiple mirrors, and more? Today, we might refer to this as something like the prosperity gospel, where wealth, good health, and fortune are all seen as stemming from how well one practices their faith, and who’s to say that back in the day it wasn’t the same? Humans are going to human, after all.
So it makes sense that one would give some deference to a powerhouse like Yamato and even invite their ritualists to come and help teach you how it is done. After all, the local elites were still the ones calling the shots. Nothing had really changed.
And here is where time comes in. Because over time what started as an alliance of convenience became entrenched in tradition. Yamato’s status as primus inter pares, or first among equals, became simply one of primus. It became part of the unspoken social contract. Yamato couldn’t push too hard on this relationship, at least not all at once, but over time they could and did demand more and more from other states.
I suspect, from the way the Weizhi reads, that Yamato was in the early stages of this state development. The Weizhi makes Queen Himiko feel like something of a consensus candidate—after much bickering, and outright fighting, she was generally accepted as the nominal paramount. There is mention of a male ruler, previously, but we don’t know if they were a ruler in Yamato, or somewhere else, nor if it was a local elite or an earlier paramount. But not everyone in the archipelago was on board—Yamato did have rivals, somewhere to the south (or north?); the directions in the Weizhi are definitely problematic, and it may refer to someone like the Kuma or Kumaso people in southern Kyushu or else people that would become known as the Emishi further to the east of Yamato.
This lasted as long as Yamato was able to continue to demonstrate why they were at the top of this structure. Theoretically, anyone else could climb up there as well, and there are certainly a few other powerful states that we can identify, some by their mention and some by their almost lack of mention. Izumo and Kibi come to mind almost immediately.
The Weizhi makes it clear that Himiko’s rule was not absolute, and part of her reaching out to the Wei in the first place may have been the first attempt at something new—external validation by the continent. A large part of international diplomacy is as much about making people believe you have the power to do something as actually having that power. Getting recognition from someone like the Wei court would further legitimize Yamato’s place at the top of the heap, making things easier for them in the long run.
Unfortunately, it seems like things did not go so smoothly, and after Himiko’s death, someone else came to power, but was quickly deposed before a younger queen took over—the 13 year old Toyo. Of course, the Wei and then the Jin had their own problems, so we don’t get too many details after that, and from there we lose the thread on what was happening from a contemporary perspective. Instead, we have to rely on the stories in the Nihon Shoki and Kojiki, which are several hundred years after the fact, and clearly designed as a legitimizing narrative, but still present us something of a picture. We don’t see many stories of local elites being overthrown, though there do seem to be a fair number of military campaigns. Nonetheless, even if they were propped up by Yamato, local elites likely had a lot of autonomy, at least early on, even as they were coopted into the larger Yamato umbrella. Yamato itself also saw ups and downs as it tried to figure out how to create a stable succession plan from one ruler to the next. At some point they set up a court, where individuals from across the archipelago came and served, and they created alliances with Baekje, on the peninsula, as well as with another polity which we know of as Nimna. Through them, Yamato continued to engage with the continent when the dynastic struggles there allowed for it. The alliance with Baekje likely provided even more legitimacy for Yamato’s position in the archipelago, as well as access to continental goods. Meanwhile the court system Yamato set up provided a means for Yamato to, itself, become a legitimizing factor.
Hierarchical differences in society were already visible in the Yayoi period, so we can generally assume that the idea of social rank was not a new concept for Yamato or the other Wa polities. This is eventually codified into the kabane system, but it is probably likely that many of the kabane came about, originally, as titles of rank used within the various polities. Yamato’s ability to claim to give—or even take away—that kabane title, would have been a new lever of power for Yamato. Theoretically, other polities could just ignore them and keep going on with their daily lives, but if they had already bought into the social structure and worldview that Yamato was promoting, then they likely would have acquiesced, at least in part, to Yamato’s control.
Little by little, Yamato’s influence grew, particularly on those closer to the center. Those closer, and more affected, started to listen to Yamato’s rules about kofun size and shape, while those further on the fringes started to adopt Yamato’s traditions for themselves, while perhaps maintaining greater independence.
An early outlier is the Dazai. It is unclear whether this was forcibly imposed on the old region of Na and nearby Ito, or if it was more diplomatically established. In the end, though, Yamato established an outpost in the region early on, almost before they started their practice of setting up “miyake”, the various royal granaries that appear to have also become local Yamato government offices in the various lands. The Dazai was more than just a conduit to accept taxes in the form of rice from various locals—it was also in charge of missions to the continent. Whether they were coming or going, military or diplomatic, the Dazai was expected to remain prepared. The early iterations were likely in slightly different locations, and perhaps not as large, but still in roughly the area near modern Fukuoka and Dazai. This was a perfect place not only from which to prepare to launch or receive missions from the continent, but also to defend the nearby Shimonoseki straits, which was an important entryway into the Seto Inland Sea, the most direct route to Naniwa and the Yamato court.
The first iterations of direct Yamato control in Tsukushi—modern Fukuoka—claim to have been focused largely on being a last point to supply troops heading over to fight on the peninsula, not unlike the role of Nagoya castle on the Higashi-Matsuura peninsula in the 16th century. Over time, though, it grew into much more. The Weizhi, for its part mentions something in the land of Ito, where there were rooms set up for envoys from the continent, but the Dazai was this on steroids.
Occasionally we see evidence of pushback against Yamato’s expansion of powers. Early on, some states tried to fool the envoys into thinking that they were Yamato, perhaps attempting to garner the trade goods for themselves and to take Yamato’s place as the interlocutor between the Wa polities and the continent. We also see outright rebellions—from Iwai in Kyushu, in the 6th century, but also from various Emishi leaders as well. The Iwai rebellion may have been part of the impetus for setting up the Dazai as a way to remotely govern Tsukushi—or at least help keep people in line. For the most part, though, as time goes by, it would seem that Yamato’s authority over other polities just became tradition, and each new thing that Yamato introduced appears to have been accepted by the various other polities, over time. This is likely a much more intricate process than even I’m describing here, but I’m not sure that it was necessarily a conscious one; as the concept of Yamato as the “paramount” state grew, others ceded it more and more power, which only fed Yamato’s self-image as the paramount state. As the elites came under the Yamato court and rank system, they were more closely tied to it, and so Yamato’s increased power was, in a way, passed on to them as well. At least to those who bought in.
By the 5th century, we know that there were families sending people to the court from as far away as Hi no Kuni in Kyushu—near modern Kumamoto—and Musashi no Kuni in the east—including modern Saitama.
All of that said, while they may have subordinated themselves to Yamato in some ways, the various polities still maintained some independent actions and traditions. For example, whatever their connection to Yamato, the tombs at Itoshima also demonstrate a close connection to the peninsula. The horizontal entry chamber style of tomb—something we saw a lot in Iki, and which seems to have been introduced from the continent—started to become popular in the latter half of the 4th century, at least in the west of the archipelago. This is well before we see anything like it in Yamato or elsewhere, though it was eventually used across the archipelago. Itoshima appears to have been an early adopter of this tomb style, picking it up even before the rest of the archipelago caught on, making them the OG horizontal chambers, at least in Japan.
Ultimately, the image we have of Ito-koku is of an apparently small but relatively influential state with some influence on the cross-strait trade, with close ties to Yamato.
The history of the region seems a bit murky past the Kofun period. There are earthworks of an old mountain castle on Mt. Raizan that could be from the Asuka period, and in the 8th century the government built Ito castle on the slopes of Mt. Takaso, possibly to provide some protection to the Dazaifu, which was the Yamato outpost in Kyushu, and eventually became the main administrative center for the island. It seems, then, that whatever power the country of Ito may have once had, it was subsumed by the Dazai, which was built a little inland, east of the old Na territory. Furthermore, as ships grew more seaworthy over time, they could make the longer voyages straight to Iki or Tsushima from Hakata. For the most part, the area of the Itoshima peninsula seems to have been merely a set of districts in the larger Tsukushi and then the Chikuzen provinces.
The area of Na, meanwhile, which is said to have had 20,000 households in the 3rd century—much larger than nearby Ito—was completely eclipsed by the Dazaifu after the Iwai rebellion. After the fall of Baekje, the Dazaifu took on even greater administrative duties, and eventually took over all diplomatic engagement with the continent. They even set up a facility for hosting diplomatic envoys from the continent. This would come to be known as the Kourokan, and they actually found the ruins of it near the site where Maizuru castle was eventually built in what is now Chuo-ku, or the central ward, of Fukuoka city.
From the Heian period onwards, the Harada family eventually came to have some power in the area, largely subordinate to others, but they built another castle on Mt. Takaso, using some of the old Ito Castle earthworks, and participated in the defense of the nation during the Mongol invasions.
The Harada family rose briefly towards the end of the Sengoku Period, pushing out the Otomo as Hideyoshi’s campaign swept into Kyushu. They weren’t quite fast enough to join Hideyoshi’s side, though, and became subordinate to Kato Kiyomasa and eventually met their end during the Invasions of Korea.
The Ito district at some point after that became part of the So clan’s holdings, falling under Tsushima’s purview, along with a scattering of districts elsewhere, all likely more about the revenue produced than local governance. In the Edo period, there were some efforts to reclaim land in Imazu bay, further solidifying links with the Itoshima peninsula and the mainland, but that also fits in with the largely agricultural lifestyle of the people in the region. It seems to have remained largely a rural backwater up into modern times, when the Ito and Shima districts were combined into an administrative district known as “Itoshima city”.
Meanwhile, the Dazaifu continued to dominate the region of modern Fukuoka. Early on, worried about a Silla-Tang alliance, the Yamato state built massive forts and earthworks were built around the Dazaifu to protect the region from invasion. As the Tang dynasty gave way to the Song and Yuan dynasties, however, and the Heian court itself became more insular, the Dazaifu’s role faded, somewhat. The buildings were burned down in the 10th century, during the failed revolt of Fujiwara no Sumitomo. The government never rebuilt, and instead the center of regional government shifted to Hakata, closer to the bay.
Appointed officials to the Dazai were known as the Daini and the Shoni. Mutou Sukeyori was appointed as Dazai Shoni, the vice minister of the Dazaifu, in the late 12th century. Though he had supported the Taira in the Genpei wars, he was pardoned and made the guardian of Northern Kyushu, to help keep the region in check for the newly established Kamakura Bakufu. He would effectively turn that into a hereditary position, and his family became known as the “Shoni”, with their position eventually coming to be their family name. They would provide commendable service against the Mongol invasion, and eventually became the Shugo Daimyo over much of western Kyushu and the associated islands, though not without pushback from others in the region.
Over time, the power of the Shoni waned and various other daimyo began to rise up. The chaos of the Sengoku period saw the entire area change hands, back and forth, until Hideyoshi’s invasion of Kyushu. Hideyoshi divided up control of Kyushu, and Chikuzen, including the areas of Hakata and modern Itoshima, was given to Kobayakawa Takakage. Hideyoshi also began to redevelop the port of Hakata. After the battle of Sekigahara, Kobayakawa Hideaki, Takakage’s adopted son and nephew to the late Hideyoshi, was transferred to the fief of Okayama, and the area of modern Fukuoka city was given to Kuroda Nagamasa, creating the Fukuoka Han, also known as the Kuroda Han.
Nagamasa would go on to build Maizuru Castle on the other side of the Naka river from the port of Hakata, creating two towns with separate administration, each of which fell under the ultimate authority of the Kuroda. Hakata, on the east side of the river, was a city of merchants while Fukuoka was the castle town, and largely the domain of samurai serving the Kuroda. The Kuroda would remain in control of the Fukuoka domain through the Edo period, and only lost control at the very start of the Meiji, as the domain system in general was dissolved. Over that time, Hakata remained an important port city, and the samurai of Fukuoka were known for maintaining their martial traditions.
In the Meiji era, samurai from the Kuroda Han joined with other Kyushu samurai, rising up during Saigo Takamori’s rebellion. Later, it would be former samurai and others from Fukuoka who would form the Gen’yosha, an early right wing, nationalist organization that would greatly influence the Japanese government heading into the latter part of the 19th and early 20th century.
But that is getting well into more modern territory, and there is so much else we could discuss regarding the history of this area, and with any luck we will get to it all in time. For now, this concludes our Gishiwajinden Tour—we traveled from Kara, to Tsushima and Iki, and then on to Matsuro, Ito, and Na. From here the envoys traveled on to Fumi, Toma, and then Yamato. Fumi and Toma are still elusive locations, with various theories and interpretations as to where they were.   For us, this was the end of our journey.
Next episode we will be back with the Chronicles and getting into the Taika era, the era of Great Change. There we will really see Yamato starting to flex its administrative muscles as it brings the various polities of the archipelago together into a single state, which will eventually become known as the country of Nihon, aka Japan.
Until then, thank you for listening. 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 reach out to us at our Sengoku Daimyo Facebook page. You can also email us at the.sengoku.daimyo@gmail.com.
Thank you, also, to Ellen for their work editing the podcast.
And that’s all for now. Thank you again, and I’ll see you next episode on Sengoku Daimyo’s Chronicles of Japan.

References

Aston, W. G. (1972). Nihongi, chronicles of Japan from the earliest times to A.D. 697. London: Allen & Unwin. ISBN0-80480984-4

Gishiwajinden Tour: Matsuro-koku

July 1, 2024 Joshua Badgley

Reconstructed Nabatake fields at the Matsuro-kan in Karatsu city. Here they found some of the oldest rice paddies in Japan, and they try to recreate the conditions, including the methods of irrigation, and use it as a teaching opportunity for local schools to come and learn about planting and growing rice.

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This episode we talk about “Matsuro-koku”, the land after Iki-koku in the Gishiwajinden, and the first “country” on one of the larger islands, where the envoys would start walking from there. We are fairly certain that “Matsuro-koku” was in the area of the old “Matsura” or “Matsuura” district on the western coast of Kyushu. However, that district was much larger than the reduced “Matsura city”, today, which is really just a collection of what was left over when most of the rest of the area had been incorporated. It stretch from Hirado up past modern Karatsu, and we have reason to believe that the area around Karatsu and the Higashi-Matsuura peninsula (which is not part of modern Matsuura city) had several Yayoi era settlements, including one in the area of modern Nabatake.

Nabatake is special because it is one of the few sites where we have the earliest evidence of wet paddy rice agriculture. Today you can visit this at the Matsurokan, in Karatsu city. Unfortunately, that community did not continue into the 3rd century, when then envoys came over from Wei, but we can likely assume that the “Matsuro-koku” where the envoys landed was probably somewhere nearby. Karatsu would long be a place where people would land when coming or going from the continent, and even when better ships and navigation meant that ships could travel almost directly to Hakata, people would still stop here.

The Matsura district would largely be only a part of the larger land of Hi, later to be considered Hizen in the western part of the province under the Ritsuryo system that was the ultimate result of the changes started with the Taika reforms. Much of the written material focuses on places like the Dazai, in Fukuoka, but over time, groups in Matsura banded together, creating their own “family” of multiple factions. As Matsura is a coastal region with many nearby islands, natural bays, and the like, it is unsurprising that this “Matsura” family amassaed a not inconsequential navy.

They would find themselves in the spotlight after the Toi Invasions of the 11th century, and they continued as a local power up through the Warring States period. During the Edo period, they were granted the Hirado domain, including Iki island, and thus played a continued role in trade with the continent.

After Toyotomi Hideyoshi conquered Kyushu at the end of the 16th century, he began to look at the continent. He would eventually order the construction of Nagoya castle on the tip of the Higashi-matsuura peninsula. It was erected in months, including a five story tenshukaku, or castle keep, on the 90m high hill. This may have been helped by previous earthworks built there by members of the Matsura family. Hideyoshi ordered all of his generals to come and set up “camps” around the castle, and a bustling jokamachi, or castle town, sprung up. For seven years it was the de facto capital of Japan, with Hideyoshi using it to direct the two failed invasions of the Korean peninsula.

Since the town was so new, images of it show mostly thatched roofed houses, even for some of the more prominent daimyo under Hideyoshi’s command. And yet this is where Hideyoshi met Ming envoys and spent the last seven years of his life.

After he passed away, the town quickly dispersed and the castle was deliberately ruined, with key stones removed from the walls, to help prove to the Joseon kingdom that Japan was no longer seeking to invade. Focus in the Edo period turned to nearby Karatsu city.

Karatsu city had its own castle, built, in part, with some of the elements taken from Nagoya. Karatsu means “Chinese port”, indicating their role in receiving ships from the continent. Trade would be important, and the role of the daimyo of Karatsu was seen as so important that they could not be given secondary duties. This would occasionally lead to lords requesting a transfer, should they be ambitious and wish to apply for higher office within the bakufu.

In the early Edo period, a strip of pine trees was set up along the shore. This was done as a windbreak to help protect the farmland behind from storms that might blow in of the water and damage the crops. Today it is one of the oldest such groves still in existence, and it has been immortalized in story and song.

Today, the town maintains some of its traditions, and has rebuilt the tenshukaku of Karatsu castle. They also retain their “Kunchi” festival, which was modeled on that of Gion, with giant floats, now protected through UNESCO.

Karatsu

Karatsu castle overlooking the bay and the entrance to the Matsuura River.

Ancient Rice Grains

Ancient rice grains on display at the Matsurokan.

Nabatake Yayoi Village

Depiction of the Yayoi settlement based on the finds at the Nabatake site. Notice that the rice fields are all found in the swampy land by a natural stream, rather than the expansive fields you see throughout the countryside, today.

Yayoi wood beams

Wood beams like this give us some idea of what a Yayoi house looked like, along with the various post holes and other evidence. It still doesn't tell us everything, though, so there is a lot of inference.

Matsurokan Yayoi Reconstruction

On the grounds of the Matsurokan, they have conjectural examples of Yayoi and even Jomon houses, to help people get a better understanding of what life may have been like.

Karatsu Shrine

The main shrine of Karatsu city, enshrining the Sumiyoshi deities as well as Koda Munetsugu. Supposedly Koda Munetsugu first built the shrine in 755, and then it was rebuilt in 1186 and his spirit was worshipped there, as well. It is the shrine of Karatsu castle and the later Karatsu city, domain, and the old prefectural shrine.

Karatsu Bay

Karatsu's position on the west coast of Kyushu has always been its strength, providing it a link to the continent and lucrative trade.

Nagoya castle model

Model of Nagoya castle, a massive structure built in months with labor mobilized from across the archipelago.

Karatsu castle keep

An image of the castle keep from a reproduction of the Nagoya Castle Picture Screen.

Fortified "camp"

Many of the daimyo settled around the castle in fortified "camps" that were quickly erected residences for the lords to be close to the seat of power.

Nagoya city

The city of Nagoya, which sprung up around the castle, was hastily assembled, and you can see that in drawings of it. Some more permanent buildings were established, but many were made of unpainted wood and thatch.

Reproduction of Hideyoshi's teahouse

Hideyoshi is said to have carried out much of his daily business at an unassuming teahouse on the castle grounds. Based on evidence from the various drawings of the town, this is what it may have looked like.

Hideyoshi's golden tearoom

In contrast to the typical wabi-sabi feel of most teahouses, Hideyoshi had a "portable" tearoom covered in gold that could be transported with him, designed to show off his wealth and power. This is a reproduction at the Saga Prefectural Museum at Nagoya castle.

Japanese warship

Japanese naval vessels were made like floating castles for samurai to fight from. They were not the most seaworthy vessels, more suited to coastal waters, but they were used to ferry troops over to the Korean peninsula.

Korean Invasion (reproduction)

A replica of a Korean scroll depicting the Japanese invasion. The Japanese are often depicted in more Joseon style, though often with two curved swords. They are typically shown without the iconic armor as well.

Nagoya castle ruins

After Hideyoshi's death and the withdrawal of troops from the peninsula, the regents abandoned Nagoya castle for Osaka. Later, Ieyasu would order the castle to be "ruined", taking out strategic stones so that it could not be adequately defended, to indicate Japan had no further ambitions on the continent.

Karatsu Castle

Karatsu castle was built with some of the materials taken from Nagoya castle, and Karatsu became the center of trade and government administration in the area.

Niji Matsubara

A grove of trees was planted along the shore of Karatsu Bay to form a windbreak and protect the farms behind it. The picturesque pine grove is now over 300 years old, and still a popular tourist destination.

Niji Matsubara

Inside Niji Matsubara, the pine trees grow thick and close together. You can see the impact of the wind and weather. The grove is still managed, today, and quite popular.

Kunchi floats

The Karatsu Kunchi festival is one of the highlights on the city calendar, and considered an intangible cultural heritage by UNESCO.

Welcome to Sengoku Daimyo’s Chronicles of Japan. My name is Joshua and this is Gishiwajinden Tour, Part Four: Matsuro-koku
So far on this tour through the locations listed in the Weizhi’s Wa Record, the Gishiwajinden, following the route to Queen Himiko of Wa, we’ve hit the area of Gaya, or Gara; Tsushima—or Tuma-koku; Iki, aka Iki-koku; and now we are arriving at Karatsu, thought to be the location of Maturo-koku.
Now before we go any further, let’s talk about the name. After all, up to this point in the account, the names haven’t been too far off. Well, Tsushima was recorded as something like Tuma in the Chinese record, which seems reasonable, and “Iki” was actually recorded as something like “I-dai”, though we are pretty sure that was a transcription error based on other evidence. But Karatsu and Maturo, really don’t seem related. Also, didn’t we earlier equate Matsuro with Matsuura, Matsura? But if you look for Matsuura on a map it is quite some distance away from Karatsu—in fact, it is in modern Nagasaki prefecture as opposed to Karatsu, which is in modern Saga prefecture.
First off, Karatsu is a later name for the city, not the area. It literally means “Tang Port”, and that name seems to appear in the 15th century in the form of Karatsu Jinja, or Karatsu Shrine. So no, the names Karatsu and Matsuro are not related. Prior to being called Karatsu, though, it was part of a larger area called Matsura. It sits at the head of the Matsura River, which spills out into what is now called Karatsu Bay. In ancient times this seems to have been the heart of the area known as Matsura or Matsuro. Over time it was incorporated into the larger area known as Hi no Kuni, and when Hi no Kuni was divided up by the Ritsuryo state into Hizen and Higo, we see the Matsura district, or Matsura-gun, is a part, along the coast. The fact that it is spelled as “Matsu” and “Ura”, meaning “pine beach”, might hint at the original name of the place or could be a false etymology, imposed by the need to record the location in kanji, the Sinitic characters used at the time.
Fun fact time: Hizen refers to the area of the land of Hi that was closer to Yamato, while Higo refers to the area of the land of Hi that was further away. If you look at a modern map of where these two ancient provinces were, however, you’ll notice that by a slight technicality, Higo is actually closer, as the crow flies. But remember, people are not crows, at least not in this life, and in all likelihood, most of the travel to and from Yamato would have been via sea routes. So Hizen is closer to Yamato from that perspective, as you would have to sail from Higo, around Hizen, or take the long way south around Kagoshima.
But where were we?
So Matsura district in Hizen started at Matsura-gawa and the area around Karatsu bay, and included modern areas of Hirado all the way out to the Goto islands. That was a pretty large area. It later got further subdivided into East, West, North, and South Matsura subdistricts, with Karatsu in the Eastern subdistrict, and some portion of the west. Eventually, Karatsu city became its own administrative district, in modern Saga prefecture, and so did Hirado city, in what was the old Northern Matsura sub-district, joining Nagasaki prefecture. The western sub-district went to Karatsu or incorporated as Imari, known for their Imari-ware pottery. And that left a small portion of the northern sub-district.
The incorporated villages and islands eventually came together as Matsuura city, in Nagasaki prefecture, which is what you’ll see, today. And that is why, looking at a modern map, “Matsura” and modern “Matsuura” are not precisely in the same place.
That history also helps demonstrate the historical connections between Karatsu, Hirado, Iki, and Tsushima—as well as the Goto islands. This region was where the Matsura clan arose, which controlled at least out to Iki, Hirado, and the Goto archipelago, and it was known for its strong navy, among other things.
For our trip, heading to Karatsu was originally borne out of convenience: Our goal was to take the ferry so that we could travel along the ocean routes. We had traveled the route from Izuhara, on Tsushima, to Ashibe port, on Iki island. During that trip it was interesting to watch as Tsushima disappeared and then eventually Iki appeared on the horizon, but it wasn’t immediate, and I suspect you would have wanted an experienced crew who knew the route and knew what to look for. Conversely, from Indoji port, on Iki, to Karatsu I felt like we were constantly in sight of one island or another, or at least could see the mountains of Kyushu to get our bearings. There wasn’t really a time that felt like we were that far out from land. Even so, it would still have been a treacherous crossing back in the day.
Coming in to Karatsu from the ferry, the first thing you will notice is the castle. Karatsu castle, also known as Maizuru Castle, is a reconstructed castle, but it really does provide a clear view of what one would have seen. The original was abandoned in the Meiji period and sold off in 1871. The main keep was later demolished and made into a park. In 1966 they built a new, 5-storey keep on the original base, and from 1989 onward have continued to make improvements to various parts of the castle moats and walls. You can still see the layout of the Ninomaru and honmaru sections of the castle, encompassing the old samurai districts of the jokamachi, or castle town, of Karatsu during the Edo period.
Our primary goal in Karatsu, however, was not castle focused. We wanted to go back to an earlier time – the Yayoi period, to be precise - and Karatsu and the Matsuro-kan did not disappoint. While not quite as extensive as the reconstruction at other Yayoi sites like Harunotsuji or Yoshinogari, the site at the Matsuro-kan is still impressive in its own right.
What is the Matsuro-kan, you might ask? It is the building and grounds of what is also known as the Nabatake site. In 1980, construction workers were excavating for a road through the Nabatake section of Karatsu when they noticed they were pulling up artifacts. An investigation between 1980 to 1981 determined that the artifacts were from the late Jomon to middle Yayoi period. Further investigation discovered the presence of old rice paddies. In 1983 the site was designated as a national historic site, further excavations were carried out, and the Matsurokan was built to house the artifacts and also provide some reconstructions of what the rice paddies would have looked like. For context these are some of the oldest rice paddies found in Japan, along with the nearby Itazuke rice paddies, in neighboring Fukuoka prefecture, and are key for giving us insights into what we know about early rice field cultivation.
Here I should point out that these fields were in use through the middle Yayoi period, while the mission to Yamato—or Yamatai—recorded in the Weizhi would have been in the late Yayoi or early Kofun period, so likely several hundred years later. There are other Yayoi settlement remains found up and around the peninsula, and there are Kofun in the area, especially along the banks of the Matsura river. Given how built up much of the area is, it is possible that any large scale settlement may have been destroyed by subsequent settlements, or is somewhere that there just hasn’t been a good reason for a full excavation. Still, who knows what we might eventually find.
The Matsurokan appears to stick with the dating of the Yayoi period from about 300 BCE. This is based largely on assumptions regarding the development of different pottery styles. Recent research has suggested that this should be pushed back to about 800 or even 1000 BCE, suggesting a more gradual development. For our purposes, it is enough to note that this site appears to cover from the final Jomon era in Kyushu to the coming of wet rice agriculture with the advancing Yayoi culture.
Based on what was found at the site, the wet rice paddies were created in what at least one scholar has suggested as a “primitive” wet rice paddy. The paddies themselves appear to have been placed in a naturally swampy area, irrigated by a natural stream. This would have made flooding the fields relatively simple, without the large ponds or waterworks required to cover a more extensive area. This may have sufficed for a small village, possibly only a handful of families living together and working the land.
Besides the impressions of the paddies themselves, various tools, pottery, and more were also found at the site. Stone harvesting knives were plentiful—a semicircular stone knife that was held in the fingers of one hand, allowing a harvester to grasp the stalks and cut them quickly. This was the standard method of harvesting prior to the arrival of the sickle, or kama, and is still in use in some parts of China and Southeast Asia. It is more labor intensive than the sickle, but provides some benefits in the consistency and lack of waste product.
The Matsurokan demonstrates how a lot of the Yayoi tools are, in fact, still in use in one form or another in different cultures that also absorbed rice cultivation, showing how widespread it became.
In addition, there are artifacts such as shards of pottery showing what looks to be the imprint of a woven fabric, and various equipment for weaving and sewing. We have some beams and posts from buildings, which give us something at least try to guess at how things were put together.
There are bones of various animals as well as stone arrowheads. There are also fish and even dugong bones, suggesting they also made a living from the nearby sea. And there are various bits of jewelry, including magatama, and what appears to be a shark’s tooth with holes drilled in so it could be worn on a cord.

There are also carbonized rice grains found at the site, likely grown there.
We don’t have any ancient strains of rice that can be proven to come from these fields, but in their reconstruction, outside the museum, they have rebuilt some of the rice fields and grow old rice variants in them. This is used, in part, to teach local schoolchildren about rice cultivation – in fact, local schools are allocated individual paddies each growing season.
Besides the rice paddies, the Matsurokan also boasts several reconstructed dwellings. These are similar to ones you might find elsewhere depicting what life was like back in the Yayoi period.
As the Yayoi period gave way to the kofun, we do see some mounded tombs in the area, though not quite as many as in others. Matsura appears to be rather rural.
Around the Heian period, we see the rise of a local group that comes to be known as the Matsura group, or Matsura-tou, which eventually consolidated into the Matsura family. There are several lineages claiming that the Matsura family descended from the Minamoto or Abe clans or through branch families thereof. Matsura-to itself is sometimes called the 48 factions of Matsura. It wasn’t as much a family as an alliance of local warriors, each with their own base of operations. I can’t quite tell if the lineage of the later Matsura clan, as they were known, were meant to represent a single lineage or the various lineages that came together. For all we know, they may have married into official families or otherwise concocted lineages to help legitimize them as much as anything else—this far out from the center, in the 11th century, there wasn’t necessarily as much oversight.
Early in the 11th century they also had a chance to prove themselves with the Toi invasion – that was the Jurchen invasion we mentioned last couple episodes. After the Toi invaders attacked Tsushima and Iki, they set their sites on Hakata Bay, which was the closest landing to the Dazaifu, the Yamato government in Kyushu. They were chased off and headed down the coast. Minamoto Tomo is said to have led the forces that repelled the Toi invaders, who finally departed altogether, striking one more time on Tsushima before heading back to wherever they came from.
Minamoto Tomo is said, at least in some stories, to have been the founder of the Matsura clan, or at least the leader of the 48 factions, which then coalesced into the Matsura clan, which eventually would run the Hirado domain.
Over two hundred and fifty years after the Toi Invasion would come the Mongols. If the Toi were bad, the Mongols were much worse. The Toi were a band of marauders, who caused a lot of havoc, but do not appear to have had state backing. The Mongols were perhaps more appropriately the Yuan empire, who had already conquered the Yellow river valley and were working on the Song dynasty along the Yangzi. While the Toi had brought with them Goryeo warriors as well—who may or may not have joined up willingly—the Mongols had huge armies from all over that they could throw at a problem.
As we talked about in the past two episodes, the Mongols swept through Tsushima and Iki and then headed straight for Hakata, the closest landing zone to the Dazaifu, the government outpost in Kyushu. Even during the height of the Kamakura shogunate, this was still an important administrative center, and would have given the Mongols a huge advantage on holding territory and eventually sweeping up the archipelago.
Fortunately, they were stopped. Whether it was the gumption, skill, and downright stubbornness of their samurai foes or the divine wind that swept up from the ocean, the Mongols were turned back, twice.
During each of these invasions, the Matsura clan and others rushed to the defense of the nation, but unlike with the Toi invasions, there do not appear to have been any serious battles along the Matsuura coastline—not that I can make out, anyway.
After the Mongol invasion, Kyushu was not left out of the troubles that would follow, including the downfall of the Hojo, the rise of the Ashikaga, and the eventual breakdown of the shogunal system into the period known as the Warring States period. Through it all the Matsura continued to ply the seas and encourage the trade from which they and others, like the Sou of Tsushima, came to depend on. They also allied with other entrepreneurial seafarers, known to others as pirates, and they started trading with a group of weird looking people with hairy beards and pale skin, who came to be known as the Nanban, the southern barbarians—known to us, primarily, as the Portuguese.
One faction of the Matsura were the Hata—no relation to the Hata that set up in what would become the Kyoto region in the early periods of Yamato state formation. The Hata ruled the area that would become Karatsu, but eventually they were taken over by the Ryuzoji, who were allied with Toyotomi Hideyoshi.
Hideyoshi’s interest in the Karatsu and Matsura area had to do with its easy access to the continent. And so Hideyoshi began to pay attention to Nagoya, at the end of the peninsula down from Karatsu.
And no, not that Nagoya. If you hear Nagoya, today, you are probably talking about the bustling metropolis in Aichi, which was where Toyotomi himself got his start, growing up and going to work for the local warlord, named Oda Nobunaga. Due to a quirk of Japanese names and how they read particular characters, this is a different Nagoya.
The Kyushu Nagoya had been one of the Matsura trading posts, run by a sub-branch of the Hata family, who had built a castle on the site. Hideyoshi had much grander plans for the area. In 1591 he began work on a massive castle and associated castle town. This castle was to be his new headquarters, and he moved his entire retinue there from Osaka, with an expectation that all of the daimyo would follow him. Sure enough, they showed up with their own vassals, setting up camps around the peninsula and in the new city-to-be.
The castle was the base of operations from which Hideyoshi coordinated the invasions of Korea. It was a massive undertaking, and extremely impressive. The city itself sprung up, and although the wood was still new, and the buildings somewhat hastily put together, it was soon a bustling metropolis and briefly became the center of art and culture in the entire archipelago.
Hideyoshi himself had a teahouse built within the confines of the castle, where he apparently spent most of his days, even when receiving reports on how things were going across the sea on the archipelago. The city had a Noh theater, as well. It must have been a sight to see.
As for the castle itself, based on the remains, it was massive. It appears to use the contours of the hill upon which it sits. It seems there was a previous castle there of some kind, and it is unclear how much this was merely expanded, but Hideyoshi’s new castle was truly monumental, with a labyrinth of gates to get in -- similar to Himeji Castle, for anyone who has been there, but with a serious vertical incline as well. Nagoya Castle was second only to Osaka castle, and yet it was erected quickly—only 8 months. I guess that’s what you can do when you can mobilize all of the daimyo across Japan. Even today, ruined as it is, the walls tower over you, and you can spend hours wandering the grounds.
For all that it was impressive, the good times at Nagoya Castle lasted only for a brief seven years—when Hideyoshi passed away, the council of regents moved back to Osaka, and Nagoya castle was deliberately destroyed, stones removed from the walls such that it could never survive a true siege. This was a sign to the Korean peninsula – the Joseon court - that, with the death of the taiko, Japan had given up any pretext of conquering the peninsula.
Today, only the stones and earthworks remain of the briefly thriving city, but on the grounds is a wonderful museum that catalogs this particular slice of Medieval life. The Nagoya Castle Museum of Saga prefecture is off the beaten path—there is no train, so you’ll need to take a bus or private car to get there—but it is well worth it.
The museum itself is dedicated to Japanese and Korean cross-strait relations, which feels a bit like atonement given that the castle was built with conquest in mind.
Of course, the centerpiece of the Museum is the castle, but it also does a good job telling the story of relations between the peninsula and the archipelago. It starts in the ancient times, talking about how, even during the Jomon period, there were commonalities in fishhooks and similar equipment found from Kyushu up through the Korean peninsula. From there, of course, trade continued, as we’ve seen in our journey through the Chronicles. It talks about some of the shared cultural items found from the Yayoi through the Kofun, and also demonstrates how some of the earliest Buddhist statues have clear similarities to those found in Silla. It goes over the various missions back and forth, and even gives a map of the Toi Invasion that we talked about hitting Tsushima and Iki.
The Mongol invasion is also heavily talked about, but not nearly so much as the invasion of Korea. There is another reproduction of the letter of King Sejeong, with the faked seal from the Sou clan in Tsushima. This of course, was the period when they built Nagoya-jo into a castle and city of at least 100,000 people, almost overnight. Even the Nanban were there, trading in the city while supplies from across the country were gathered and shipped off to keep troops fed on the invasion of Korea.
There are plenty of images from this time—from a Ming envoy to Nagoya castle to images of the invasion from the Korean perspective, with Koreanized samurai manning the walls of the castles they had taken. They don’t exactly lionize the samurai, but they don’t accentuate some of the more horrific things, either, like the piles of ears taken from those killed because taking their heads, as was standard practice in older days, was too cumbersome.
There is also some discussion of relations afterwards—of the Joseon embassies, though those went through Hakata, Nagoya-jo having long been abandoned at that point. For reasons one can probably understand, it doesn’t go into the post-Edo relations, as that is much more modern history.
After the destruction of Nagoya castle, the area was largely abandoned, but the city of Karatsu proper really thrived during the Edo period. Karatsu was also a castle town, as we’ve mentioned, but a bit out of the way. As sailing ships were now more sturdy and able to handle longer sea crossings, it was now often Hakata, in Fukuoka, that received much of the trade, and the Dutch traders who had replaced the Portuguese, were limited to Dejima, in Nagasaki.
When Hideyoshi swept through, the Hata were not exactly considered trustworthy, and were placed under the Nabeshima, a branch of their rivals, the Ryuzouji. During the invasion of Korea, the Hata rebelled, and were destroyed for it in 1593. Their territory was given to Terazawa Hirotaka, who had been put in charge of the construction of Nagoya castle and later put in charge of the logistics for the invasion effort from the Kyushu side. As a result, he was granted the lands formerly controlled by the Hata, including Karatsu, and what would become the Karatsu domain.
Hirotaka could see which way the wind blew—in more ways than one. After Hideyoshi’s death, he supported Tokugawa Ieyasu, allowing him to keep and even expand his fief. He redirected the Matsura river—then known as the Hata river—to its present course, and he built a pine grove along the northern beach that is the third largest such grove in all of Japan. Known as the “Niji no Matsubara”, or the ”Rainbow Pine Forest” for its shape, it was erected as a windbreak to protect the precious farmland just on the other side. It is still there today, still managed, and quite famous. You can drive through the pine trees or stop and walk through them, even out to the beach. And there is even a fantastic burger truck that parks along the main road through the pine grove, so you can enjoy a lovely picnic among the trees.
The Terazawa would not remain in place for very long. During the Shimabara rebellion of the early 17th century—a rebellion based on either taxes or Christianity, depending on whom you ask—the Terazawa line was extinguished. Terazawa Katataka, then ruler of the Karatsu domain, was held liable for mismanagement of the domain and loss of a castle to the rebels. He had land confiscated and he felt publicly humiliated, and so he took his own life while he was in Edo. As he had no heir, the Terazawa line died out.
Karatsu domain went through a variety of hands after that. Its value fluctuated, but it is generally thought that the real value of the domain, thanks to the ability to trade, was well beyond what it was assessed to produce. As such it was a lucrative position, and also held sway as a check against Nagasaki, watching the trade there with the Dutch merchants. Because of all of this, the lord of Karatsu was also banned from holding certain government positions, so as not to distract from their duties, making the position something of a blessing and a curse.
Through the years, Karatsu thrived. They were and are still known for a type of traditional pottery, known as Karatsumono, or Karatsuware, and they maintain elaborate festivals.
One of the festivals, the Karatsu Kunchi, is considered a UNESCO Intangible Cultural Heritage.The Karatsu Kunchi is an annual parade where neighborhood associations carry giant floats through the city from Karatsu Shrine down to the shore. It was inspired, in the early 19th century, by the famous Gion Matsuri of Kyoto—a wealthy merchant saw that and donated the first lion-head float to Karatsu Shrine. Later, others would create their own floats.
These floats, known as “Hikiyama” or “pulled mountains” can be five or six meters high and weigh anywhere from two to five tons. There appear to be 14 hikiyama, currently, though there used to be 15—a black lion is currently missing. The floats have gone through a few iterations, but are largely the same, and often have some relationship to the neighborhoods sponsoring them.
From Matsura, aka Matsuro-koku, we went north along the coast of Kyushu to Itoshima, thought to the be old country of Ito-koku, and beyond that, the Na-koku of Fukuoka. We’ll cover both of those in our next and final installment of our Gishiwajinden tour.
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 reach out to us at our Sengoku Daimyo Facebook page. You can also email us at the.sengoku.daimyo@gmail.com.
Thank you, also, to Ellen for their work editing the podcast.
And that’s all for now. Thank you again, and I’ll see you next episode on Sengoku Daimyo’s Chronicles of Japan.

References

Conlan, Thomas. (2001). In little need of divine intervention : Takezaki Suenaga's scrolls of the Mongol invasions of Japan. Ithaca, N.Y. :East Asia Program, Cornell University,
Aston, W. G. (1972). Nihongi, chronicles of Japan from the earliest times to A.D. 697. London: Allen & Unwin. ISBN0-80480984-4

Gishiwajinden Tour: Iki-koku

June 16, 2024 Joshua Badgley

Sakura (cherry) blossoms still blooming at Iki Shrine. Iki Shrine is a newcomer, having been built in 1948, but the site includes a memorial to the Mongol invasions, including a giant stone anchor likely from the Mongol ships, or at least ships of that era, as well as a plaque detailing the assistance provided by Yamato to their ally, Baekje, on the Korean peninsula. Photo by author.

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This episode we continue on our tour according to the records in the Weizhi of the embassy to Queen Himiko of Wa. This time we stopped at Iki island, mentioned in the Weizhi as, conveniently, “Iki-koku”, or the Country of Iki. Not only has the name of the island remained relatively unchanged for all this time, we also have some amazing archaeological finds on the island, including a full Yayoi era setttlement at a place called “Harunotsuji”. Harunotsuji is pretty impressive, including an old docking facility and buildings of various shapes and sizes. Much of the site is interpreted—and given that it is the only site of its size found on the island so far, it is considered to be the capital of the “kingdom” of Iki. “Kingdom”, of course, is a term that might not be fully appropriate in English, but it does seem to have had a stratified society and a fair amount of wealth, given what we see.

There was also quite a bit going on during the Kofun period, with many mounded tombs found on the island, including the largest keyhole shaped tomb in Nagasaki prefecture. Thanks to the relatively peripheral nature of Iki island, most were never built over and destroyed, helping to ensure that they were preserved for future generations.

We appear to be less fortunate with later eras, though we do know where some things were built, many of the structures themselves—houses, temples, etc.—are long gone. Shrines and temples may occupy the same or similar sites as previous incarnations, but the original buildings from before the Edo period largely do not appear to have survived, with a few counter-examples from the end of the Warring States period.

Listen to the podcast for more, and see some of the photos, below.

Harunotsuji

Harunotsuji Site

A view of the reconstructed interpretation at the Harunotsuji site from the observation deck of the Iki-koku museum.

Face-shaped object

This is considered a particular treasure of Iki. We don't know what it was for--whether it was an object used in rituals, a toy for someone's child, or simply considered decorative.

Yayoi fishing culture

A small diorama at the Iki-koku Museum demonstrating what it might have looked like on the shore, where the people harvested food from the sea and brought that, and various trade goods, up the rivers to sites like Harunotsuji.

Reconstructed boat

Here is what an early boat may have looked like, based on later haniwa models as well as various pieces we have found in the archipelago and the peninsula.

Yayoi docks

An example of the "docks" built at Harunotsuji. The stones found conform to similar structures found on the mainland, suggesting that this idea was likely imported from there at some point..

Daily Life

The Iki-koku museum makes life at Harunotsuji more approachable through its detailed and often humorous depictions, that nonetheless help get feel for what life might have been like those many years ago.

Yayoi construction

While the specific architectural details are often unclear, the location and size of post holes and the occasional beam with holes and other carvings for interlocking with others, along with later architecture and depictions, have helped drive interpretations.

Harunotsuji buildings

Various reconstructed buildings at Harunotsuji, including one left in a state of construction so that the public can see how they interpreted the actual construction techniques of the time.

Harunotsuji Buildings

An example of some of the different building structures and shapes found at Harunotsuji, based largely on their postholes and other such evidence.

Yayoi village entrance

An interpretation of the two post-holes found along the perimeter. There are some pieces that could be considered abstract bird shapes that some believe may have sat on top of the posts. This is a common theory as to why shrine gates are called "torii", which translates to something like "bird perch", and mimics some things seen on the peninsula. Still, without finding a clearly intact one, it will remain largely conjecture.

Harunotsuji Gate

Reconstruction of what they think the gate would have looked like at Harunotsuji.

Yayoi Agriculture

A look at the types of rice paddies found at Harunotsuji. These are similar to other sites as well. Rice agriculture is thought to have been one of the main reasons that the Yayoi period saw such a dramatic spike in population.

Harunotsuji Granary

Early raised buildings are thought to have possibly been meant as granaries, to store the harvested rice. A detached ladder could give access when necessary, and wooden boards were added at the legs to prevent mice and other wild animals from climbing up the posts to get in.

Ikikoku Museum

The Ikikoku Museum, viewed from the Harunotsuji site, is built to blend into the landscape. You can see Harunotsuji from it, but only the observation tower really rises up above the rest of the surrounding area.

Ikikoku Museum Storeroom

The Ikikoku Museum is also a working archaeological research center, and you can see archaeologists at work in the lab and get a glance at all of the items that are not on display.

Kofun of Iki

Kakegi Kofun (Later 6th Century)

A round kofun with a stone chamber and a horizontal entryway from the late 6th century. The interior is lit, and you can see inside if you so choose. There are three chambers, and it appears there were later burials in the 7th century.

Yurihata Kofun Group

A group of kofun located on a slope in the center of Iki. There are round and keyhole shaped kofun around the same area. Towards the bottom of the slope is a keyhole shaped tomb designated as No. 18. You can take a look inside the entry chamber.

Oni-no-Iwaya Kofun, Late 6th C

A round, late 6th C kofun with a stone burial chamber and a horizontal entry chamber, which seems to have seen later burials in the 7th century. The name means the "Demon's Stone House", and for a long time it was believed to be the home of an oni, or demon, that would terrorize the local area.

Oni-no-Iwaya Kofun Chamber

A view into the Oni-no-Iwaya kofun. Though the entrance is blocked, a light was installed so that you could see to the back. The stacked stones in the back appear to have been added later.

Soroku Kofun, Late 6th C

At 91 m long and over 10 m high, this is the largest kofun on the island, and in all of Nagasaki prefecture. It is a type of round-keyhole shaped tomb, with a stone chamber and a horizontal entryway that comes from the side of the rear mound. There are traces of red paint inside the chamber, and paving stones, and they found many elite grave goods.

Entrance to Soroku Kofun

The entrance is blocked, but you can still see inside the rear, round chamber.

Sasazuka Kofun, mid to late 6th C

A round kofun, the shape is not easily seen, today, as it is covered in trees and otherwise blends in, other than the open entrance along the slope. Like others, it is a stone burial chamber and horizontal entryway, and likely had secondary burials in the 7th century. In this case you can go inside, though it has not been rigged with any lighting, so you will need to bring your own. It is also out of the way in an area where the roads are not as well maintained, and does not have any designated parking nearby.

Other Sites of Interest

Iki Kokubunji Site

A small image sits on the site of where the Iki Kokubunji was originally erected.

Mongol Ship Anchor

A stone anchor thought to belong to one of the Mongol ships from the 13th century.

Ankokuji

Temple built in the 14th century to memorialize those killed in the Mongol Invasions and later civil wars.

Ankokuji cedar

The largest cedar tree on Iki, found at Ankokuji, and thought to be over 1,000 years old--even older than the temple.

Shomogu Gate

Gate at Shomogu Shrine said to have been built through donations by Kato Kiyomasa in the 16th century during preparations for the invasion of Korea.

Shomogu Torii

The current torii of Shomogu Shrine. This is an old shrine in Katsumoto, that appears in Edo period depictions of the Joseon envoy missions.

Inari Shrine at Shomogu

Iki island has a lot of red brick shrines that appear to be the local version of the Inari shrines. Inari shrines are usually known by their many red torii gates, often donated by local groups and individuals, and Inari's connection to foxes, so these are sometimes called fox shrines.

Shomogu Wall

Shomogu shrine once sat on the very edge of the shore, though now the land has been slightly extended to make room for a park and the modern docks. Still, it sits largely exposed to any weather that comes in off the sea, and around it are old stone walls, such as this one.

Katsumoto Castle Ruins

Here you can see where the stones at the corner have been removed from the castle, so that it could not be used as a defensive structure. Any structure built on top would likely collapse over time, as the corners are where stones were particularly made to lock together to distribute the weight above.

Toi Residence

The stone wall is all that remains of the Toi residence. The Toi family, who made their fortune as whale hunters, among other things, were the most powerful family in Katsumoto and often in charge of feeding and looking after foreign missions coming through the island.

LAMP Iki

An old building, over 100 years old, used as a ryokan, it captures the flavor of the streets of Katsumoto. Friendly staff and great for those who want a traditional experience but be warned--there are no elevators, so if you are on the top floor you are carrying your luggage all the way up!

Welcome to Sengoku Daimyo’s Chronicles of Japan. My name is Joshua and this is Gishiwajinden Tour Stop 2: Tsushima.
As I mentioned last episode, we are taking a break right now from the workings of the Chronicles while I prep a bit more research on the Taika reform. As we do so, I’m taking you through a recent trip we took trying to follow the ancient sea routes from Gaya, on the Korean peninsula, across the islands to Na, in modern Fukuoka. This may have been first described in the Wei Chronicles, the Weizhi, but it was the pathway that many visitors to the archipelago took up through the famous Mongol invasion, and even later missions from the Joseon kingdom on the Korean peninsula.
Last episode, we talked about our start at Gimhae and Pusan. Gimhae is the old Geumgwan Gaya, as far as we can tell, and had close connections with the archipelago as evidenced by the common items of material culture found on both sides of the strait. From the coast of the Korean peninsula, ships would then sail for the island of Tsushima, the nearest of the islands between the mainland and the Japanese archipelago. Today, ships still sail from Korea to Japan, but most leave out of the port of Pusan. This includes regular cruise ships as well as specialty cruises and ferries. For those who want, there are some popular trips between Pusan and Fukuoka or Pusan all the way to Osaka, through the Seto Inland Sea. For us, however, we were looking at the shortest ferries, those to Tsushima.
Tsushima is a large island situated in the strait between Korea and Japan. Technically it is actually three islands, as channels were dug in the 20th century to allow ships stationed around the island to quickly pass through rather than going all the way around. Tsushima is the closest Japanese island to Korea, actually closer to Korea than to the rest of Japan, which makes it a fun day trip from Pusan, so they get a lot of Korean tourists.
There are two ports that the ferries run to, generally speaking. In the north is Hitakatsu, which is mainly a port for people coming from Korea. Further south is Izuhara, which is the old castle town, where the So family once administered the island and relations with the continent, and where you can get a ferry to Iki from.
Unfortunately for us, as I mentioned last episode, it turned out that the kami of the waves thwarted us in our plans to sail from Busan to Tsushima. And so we ended up flying into Tsushima Airport, instead, which actually required us to take an international flight over to Fukuoka and then a short domestic flight back to Tsushima. On the one hand, this was a lot of time out of our way, but on the other they were nice short flights with a break in the Fukuoka airport, which has great restaurants in the domestic terminal. Furthermore, since we came into the centrally-located Tsushima airport, this route also gave us relatively easy access to local rental car agencies, which was helpful because although there is a bus service that runs up and down the islands, if you really want to explore Tsushima it is best to have a car. Note that also means having an International Driver’s Permit, at least in most cases, unless you have a valid Japanese drivers’ license.
As for why you need a car: There is a bus route from north to south, but for many of the places you will likely want to go will take a bit more to get to. If you speak Japanese and have a phone there are several taxi companies you can call, and you can try a taxi app, though make sure it works on the island. In the end, having a car is extremely convenient.
Tsushima is also quite mountainous, without a lot of flat land, and there are numerous bays and inlets in which ships can hide and shelter from bad weather—or worse.
Tsushima is renowned for its natural beauty. Flora and fauna are shared with continent and the archipelago. There are local subspecies of otter and deer found on the islands, but also the Yamaneko, or Mountain Cat, a subspecies of the Eurasian leopard cat that is only found in Japan on Tsushima and on Iriomote, in the southern Okinawan island chain. They also have their own breed of horse, as well, related to the ancient horses bred there since at least the 8th century.
Tsushima is clearly an important part of Japan, and the early stories of the creation of the archipelago often include Tsushima as one of the original eight islands mentioned in the creation story. That suggests it has been considered an ancient part of the archipelago since at least the 8th century, and likely much earlier.
Humans likely first came to Tsushima on their crossing from what is now the Korean peninsula over to the archipelago at the end of the Pleistocene era, when sea levels were much lower. However, we don’t have clear evidence of humans until later, and this is likely because the terrain made it difficult to cultivate the land, and most of the activity was focused on making a livelihood out of the ocean.
Currently we have clear evidence of humans on the island from at least the Jomon period, including remnants such as shellmounds, though we don’t have any clear sign of habitation. It is possible that fishermen and others came to the islands during certain seasons, setting up fish camps and the like, and then departed, but it could be that there were more permanent settlements and we just haven’t found them yet. Most of the Jomon sites appear to be on the northern part of Tsushima, what is now the “upper island”, though, again, lack of evidence should not be taken as evidence of lack, and there could be more we just haven’t found yet. After all, sites like Izuhara, which was quite populated in later periods, may have disturbed any underlying layers that we could otherwise hope to find there, and perhaps we will one day stumble on something more that will change our understanding.
Things change a bit in the Yayoi period, and we see clear evidence of settlements, pit buildings, graves, and grave goods at various sites up through the Kofun period. Unsurprisingly, the assembly of goods found include both archipelagic and continental material, which fits with its position in between the various cultures.
Understandably, most of these archeological sites were investigated and then either covered back up for preservation or replaced by construction – so in many cases there isn’t anything to see now, besides the artifacts in the museum. But some of the earliest clear evidence that you can still go see today are the several kofun, ancient tumuli, scattered around the island at different points.
Most of the kofun on the island appear to be similar, and overall fairly small. These are not the most impressive kofun—not the giant mounds found in places like Nara, Osaka, Kibi, or even up in Izumo. However, to students of the era they are still very cool to see as monuments of that ancient time. One example of this that we visited was the Niso-kofungun, or the Niso Kofun group. The Niso Kofungun is not like what you might expect in the Nara basin or the Osaka area. First, you drive out to the end of the road in a small fishing community, and from there go on a small hike to see the kofun themselves. Today the mounds are mostly hidden from view by trees, though there are signs put up to mark each one. Some of them have a more well defined shape than others, too, with at least one demonstrating what appears to be a long, thin keyhole shape, taking advantage of the local terrain. Most of these were pit style burials, where slabs of local sedimentary rock were used to form rectangular coffins in the ground, in which the individuals were presumably buried. On one of the keyhole shaped mounds there was also what appears to be a secondary burial at the neck of the keyhole, where the round and trapezoidal sections meet. However, we don’t know who or even what was buried there in some instances, as most of the bones are no longer extant.
Besides the distinctively keyhole shaped tomb, two more kofun in the Niso group caught my attention. One, which is thought to have been a round tomb, had what appeared to be a small stone chamber, perhaps the last of the kofun in this group to be built, as that is generally a feature of later period kofun. There was also one that was higher up on the hill, which may also have been a keyhole shaped tomb. That one struck me, as it would likely have been particularly visible from sea before the current overgrown forest appeared.
There are also plenty of other kofun to go searching for, though some might be a little more impressive than others. In the next episode, when we talk about the island of Iki, we’ll explore that ancient kingdom’s much larger collection of kofun.
After the mention of Tsushima in the Weizhi in the third century, there is a later story, from about the 6th century, involving Tsushima in the transmission of Buddhism. This story isn’t in the Nihon Shoki and was actually written down much later, so take that as you will. According to this account, the Baekje envoys who transmitted the first Buddha image to Japan stopped for a while on Tsushima before proceeding on to the Yamato court. While they were there, the monks who were looking after the image built a small building in which to conduct their daily rituals, effectively building the first Buddhist place of worship in the archipelago. A temple was later said to have been built on that spot, and in the mid-15th century it was named Bairinji. While the narrative is highly suspect, there is some evidence that the area around Bairinji was indeed an important point on the island. Prior to the digging of the two channels to connect the east and west coasts, the area near Bairinji, known as Kofunakoshi, or the small boat portage, was the narrowest part of Tsushima, right near the middle, where Aso Bay and Mitsuura Bay almost meet. We know that at least in the 9th century this is where envoys would disembark from one ship which had brought them from the archipelago, and embark onto another which would take them to the continent, and vice versa. Likewise, their goods would be carried across the narrow strip of land. This was like a natural barrier and an ideal location for an official checkpoint, and in later years Bairinji temple served as this administrative point, providing the necessary paperwork for crews coming to and from Japan, including the various Joseon dynasty missions in the Edo period.
Why this system of portage and changing ships, instead of just sailing around? Such a system was practical for several reasons. For one, it was relatively easy to find Tsushima from the mainland. Experienced ships could sail there, transfer cargo to ships experienced with the archipelago and the Seto Inland Sea, and then return swiftly to Korea. Furthermore, this system gave Yamato and Japan forewarning, particularly of incoming diplomatic missions. No chance mistaking ships for an invasion or pirates of some kind, as word could be sent ahead and everything could be arranged in preparation for the incoming mission. These are details that are often frustratingly left out of many of the early accounts, but there must have been some logistics to take care of things like this.
Whether or not Bairinji’s history actually goes back to 538, it does have claim to some rather ancient artifacts, including a 9th century Buddha image from the Unified, or Later, Silla period as well as 579 chapters of the Dai Hannya Haramitta Kyo, or the Greater Perfection of Wisdom Sutra, from a 14th century copy. These were actually stolen from the temple in 2014, but later recovered. Other statues were stolen two years previously from other temples on Tsushima, which speaks to some of the tensions that still exist between Korea and Japan. Claims were made that the statues had originally been stolen by Japanese pirates, or wakou, from Korea and brought to Japan, so the modern-day thieves were simply righting an old wrong. However, Korean courts eventually found that the items should be returned to Japan, though there were those who disagreed with the ruling. This is an example of the ongoing tensions that can sometimes make study of inter-strait history a bit complex.
More concrete than the possible location of a theoretical early worship structure are the earthworks of Kaneda fortress. This is a mid-7th century fort, created by Yamato to defend itself from a presumed continental invasion. We even have mention of it in the Nihon Shoki. It appears to have been repaired in the late 7th century, and then continued to be used until some time in the 8th century, when it was abandoned, seeing as how the invasion had never materialized, and no doubt maintaining the defenses on top of a mountain all the way out on Tsushima would have been a costly endeavor.
Over time the name “Kaneda” was forgotten, though the stone and earthworks on the mountain gave the site the name “Shiroyama”, or Castle Mountain, at least by the 15th century. In the Edo period, scholars set out trying to find the Kaneda fortress mentioned in the Nihon Shoki, and at one point identified this with an area known as Kanedahara, or Kaneda Fields, in the modern Sasu district, on the southwest coast of Tsushima. However, a scholar named Suyama Don’ou identified the current mountaintop site, which has generally been accepted as accurate. The earthworks do appear to show the kind of Baekje-style fortifications that Yamato built at this time, which took advantage of the natural features of the terrain. These fortresses, or castles, were more like fortified positions—long walls that could give troops a secure place to entrench themselves. They would not have had the impressive donjon, or tenshukaku, that is the most notable feature of of later Japanese and even European castles.
Most of the Baekje style castles in Japan are primarily earthworks—for example the Demon’s castle in modern Okayama. Kaneda is unique, though, with about 2.8 kilometers of stone walls, most of which are reportedly in quite good condition. There were three main gates and remains of various buildings have been determined from post-holes uncovered on the site. There is a name for the top of the mountain, Houtateguma, suggesting that there may have once been some kind of beacon tower placed there with a light that could presumably be used to signal to others, but no remains have been found.
The defensive nature of the position is also attested to in modern times. During the early 20th century, the Japanese military placed batteries on the fortress, and an auxiliary fort nearby. These constructions damaged some of the ancient walls, but this still demonstrates Tsushima’s place at the edge of Japan and the continent, even into modern times.
For all that it is impressive, I have to say that we regrettably did not make it to the fortress, as it is a hike to see everything, and our time was limited. If you do go, be prepared for some trekking, as this really is a fortress on a mountain, and you need to park and take the Kaneda fortress trail up.

Moving on from the 8th century, we have evidence of Tsushima in written records throughout the next several centuries, but there isn’t a lot clearly remaining on the island from that period—at least not extant buildings. In the records we can see that there were clearly things going on, and quite often it wasn’t great for the island. For instance, there was the Toi Invasion in the 11th century, when pirates—possibly Tungusic speaking Jurchen from the area of Manchuria—invaded without warning, killing and taking people away as slaves. It was horrific, but relatively short-lived, as it seems that the invaders weren’t intent on staying.
Perhaps a more lasting impression was made by the invasions of the Mongols in the 13th century. This is an event that has been hugely impactful on Japan and Japanese history. The first invasion in 1274, the Mongols used their vassal state of Goryeo to build a fleet of ships and attempted to cross the strait to invade Japan. The typical narrative talks about how they came ashore at Hakata Bay, in modern Fukuoka, and the Kamakura government called up soldiers from across the country to their defense. Not only that, but monks and priests prayed for divine intervention to protect Japan. According to the most common narrative, a kamikaze, or divine wind, arose in the form of a typhoon that blew into Hakata Bay and sank much of the Mongol fleet.
That event would have ripple effects throughout Japanese society. On the one hand, the Mongols brought new weapons in the form of explosives, and we see changes in the arms of the samurai as their swords got noticeably beefier, presumably to do better against similarly armored foes. The government also fortified Hakata Bay, which saw another attack in 1281, which similarly failed.
Though neither attempted invasion succeeded, both were extremely costly. Samurai who fought for their country expected to get rewarded afterwards, and not just with high praise. Typically when samurai fought they would be richly rewarded by their lord with gifts taken from the losing side, to include land and property. In the case of the Mongols, however, there was no land or property to give out. This left the Kamakura government in a bit of a pickle, and the discontent fomented by lack of payment is often cited as one of the key contributors to bringing down the Kamakura government and leading to the start of the Muromachi period in the 14th century.
The invasions didn’t just appear at Hakata though. In 1274, after the Mongol fleet first left Goryeo on the Korean Peninsula, they landed first at Tsushima and then Iki, following the traditional trade routes and killing and pillaging as they went. In Tsushima, the Mongol armies arrived in the south, landing at Komoda beach near Sasuura. Lookouts saw them coming and the So clan hastily gathered up a defense, but it was no use. The Mongol army established a beachhead and proceeded to spend the next week securing the island. From there they moved on to Iki, the next island in the chain, and on our journey. Countless men and women were killed or taken prisoner, and when the Mongols retreated after the storm, they brought numerous prisoners back with them.
Although the Mongols had been defeated, they were not finished with their plans to annex Japan into their growing empire. They launched another invasion in 1281, this time with reinforcements drawn from the area of the Yangtze river, where they had defeated the ethnic Han Song dynasty two years prior. Again, they landed at Tsushima, but met fierce resistance—the government had been preparing for this fight ever since the last one. Unfortunately, Tsushima again fell under Mongol control, but not without putting up a fight. When the Mongols were again defeated, they left the island once again, this time never to return.
If you want to read up more on the events of the Mongol Invasion, I would recommend Dr. Thomas Conlan’s book, “No Need for Divine Intervention”. It goes into much more detail than I can here.
These traumatic events have been seared into the memories of Tsushima and the nearby island of Iki. Even though both islands have long since rebuilt, memories of the invasion are embedded in the landscape of both islands, and it is easy to find associated historical sites or even take a dedicated tour. In 2020, the events of the invasion of Tsushima were fictionalized into a game that you may have heard of called Ghost of Tsushima. I won’t get into a review of the game—I haven’t played it myself—but many of the locations in the game were drawn on actual locations in Tsushima. Most, like Kaneda Castle, are fictionalized to a large extent, but it did bring awareness to the island, and attracted a large fan base. Indeed, when we picked up our rental car, the helpful staff offered us a map with Ghost of Tsushima game locations in case we wanted to see them for ourselves.
As I noted, many of the places mentioned in the game are highly fictionalized, as are many of the individuals and groups—after all, the goal is to play through and actually defeat the enemies, and just getting slaughtered by Mongols and waiting for them to leave wouldn’t exactly make for great gameplay. Shrines offer “charms” to the user and so finding and visiting all of the shrines in the in-game world becomes a player goal. And so when fans of the game learned that the torii gate of Watatsumi Shrine, one of the real-life iconic shrines in Tsushima, was destroyed by a typhoon in September of 2020, about a month after the game was released, they came to its aid and raised over 27 million yen to help restore the torii gates. A tremendous outpouring from the community.
And while you cannot visit all of the locations in the game, you can visit Watazumi Shrine, with its restored torii gates that extend into the water.
Watatsumi Shrine itself has some interesting, if somewhat confusing, history. It is one of two shrines on Tsushima that claim to be the shrine listed in the 10th-century Engi Shiki as “Watatsumi Shrine”. This is believed to have been the shrine to the God of the Sea, whose palace Hiko Hoho-demi traveled down to in order to find his brother’s fishhook—a story noted in the Nihon Shoki and which we covered in episode 23. Notwithstanding that most of that story claims it was happening on the eastern side of Kyushu, there is a local belief that Tsushima is actually the place where that story originated.
The popular shrine that had its torii repaired is popularly known as Watatsumi Shrine, today. The other one is known as Kaijin Shrine, literally translating to the Shrine of the Sea God, and it is also known as Tsushima no kuni no Ichinomiya; That is to say the first, or primary, shrine of Tsushima. Some of the confusion may come as it appears that Kaijin shrine was, indeed, the more important of the two for some time. It was known as the main Hachiman shrine in Tsushima, and may have been connected with a local temple as well. It carries important historical records that help to chart some of the powerful families of Tsushima, and also claims ownership of an ancient Buddhist image from Silla that was later stolen. In the 19th century it was identified as the Watatsumi Shrine mentioned in the Engi Shiki, and made Toyotama Hime and Hikohohodemi the primary deities worshipped at the shrine, replacing the previous worship of Hachiman.
Shrines and temples can be fascinating to study, but can also be somewhat tricky to understand, historically. Given their religious nature, the founding stories of such institutions can sometimes be rather fantastical, and since they typically aren’t written down until much later, it is hard to tell what part of the story is original and what part has been influenced by later stories, like those in the Nihon Shoki or the Kojiki.
Another interesting example of a somewhat unclear history is that of the Buddhist temple, Kokubun-ji. Kokubunji are provincial temples, originally set up inthe decree of 741 that had them erected across the archipelago, one in each province at the time, in an attempt to protect the country from harm, Knowing the location of a Kokubunji can therefore often tell you something about where the Nara era provincial administration sat, as it would likely have been nearby. In many cases, these were probably connected to the local elite, as well.
This is not quite as simple with Tsushima Kokubun-ji. While it was originally designated in the decree of 741, a later decree in 745 stated that the expenses for these temples would come directly out of tax revenues in the provinces, and at that time Tsushima was excluded. Moreover, the Kokubunji on nearby Iki island was funded by taxes from Hizen province. So it isn’t until 855 that we have clear evidence of an early provincial temple for Tsushima, in this case known as a Tobunji, or Island Temple, rather than a Kokubunji.
The location of that early temple is unknown, and it burned down only two years later when Tsushima was attacked by forces from Kyushu. It is unclear what happened to it in the following centures, but by the 14th or 15th century it was apparently situated in Izuhara town, near the site of what would become Kaneishi Castle. It was later rebuilt in its current location, on the other side of Izuhara town. It burned down in the Edo period—all except the gate, which was built in 1807. This gate is at least locally famous for its age and history. It was also the site of the guesthouses for the 1811 diplomatic mission from Joseon—the dynasty that followed Koryeo.
Those missions are another rather famous part of the history of Tsushima, which, as we’ve seen, has long been a gateway between the archipelago and the peninsula. In the Edo period, there were numerous diplomatic missions from the Joseon dynasty to the Tokugawa shogunate, and these grand affairs are often touted in the history of Tsushima, with many locations specifically calling out the island’s deep involvement in cross-strait relations. Relations which, to really understand, we need to probably start with a look at the famous (or perhaps even infamous) Sou clan.
The Sou clan became particularly influential in Tsushima in the 13th century. The local officials, the Abiru clan, who had long been in charge of the island, were declared to be in rebellion against the Dazaifu, and so Koremune Shigehisa was sent to quell them. In return, he was made Jito, or land steward, under the Shoni clan, who were the Shugo of Chikuzen and Hizen, including the island of Tsushima. The Sou clan, descendents of the Koremune, ruled Tsushima ever since, first as vassals of the Shoni , but eventually they ran things outright.
Thus, Sou Sukekuni was in charge when the Mongols invaded in 1274. Despite having only 80 or so mounted warriors under his charge, he attempted to defend the island, dying in battle. Nonetheless, when the Mongols retreated, the Sou family retained their position. Later, they supported the Ashikaga in their bid to become shogun, and were eventually named the Shugo of Tsushima, a title they kept until the Meiji period.
As we’ve mentioned, despite its size, Tsushima is not the most hospitable of locations. It is mountainous, with many bays and inlets, making both cross-land travel and agriculture relatively difficult. And thus the Sou clan came to rely on trade with the continent for their wealth and support. Although, “trade” might be a bit negotiable.
Remember how the early Japanese regularly raided the coast of the peninsula? It was frequent enough that a term arose—the Wakou, the Japanese invaders, or Japanese pirates. In fact, the term “wakou” became so synonymous with piracy that almost any pirate group could be labeled as “wakou”, whether Japanese or not. Some of them that we know about were downright cosmopolitan, with very diverse crews from a variety of different cultures.
Given its position, the rough terrain, and myriad bays that could easily hide ships and other such things, Tsushima made a great base for fishermen-slash-pirates to launch from. Particularly in harsh times, desperate individuals from Tsushima and other islands might take their chances to go and raid the mainland.
In the early 15th century, the new Joseon dynasty had had enough. They sent an expeditionary force to Tsushima to put an end to the wakou. The expedition came in 1419. The year before, the head of the Sou clan, Sou Sadashige, had died. His son, Sou Sadamori, took his place, but had not yet come of age, leaving actual power in the hands of Souda Saemontarou, leader of the Wakou pirates.
Eventually the Joseon forces were defeated by the forces of Tsushima, including the wakou. The Joseon court considered sending another punitive expedition, but it never materialized. What did eventually happen, though, was, oddly, closer ties between the peninsula and Tsushima. Sou Sadamori, who grew up in that tumultuous time, worked to repair relationships with the Joseon court, concluding a treaty that that allowed the Sou clan to basically monopolize trade with the Korean peninsula. Treaty ports on the peninsula began to attract permanent settlements of Japanese merchants, and these “wakan”, or Japanese districts, came nominally under the jurisdiction of the Sou of Tsushima.
The Sou clan maintained their place as the intermediaries with the Joseon state through the 16th century. Messages sent from the Japanese court to Joseon would be sent to the Sou, who would deliver them to the Joseon court, and in turn handle all replies from the peninsula back to the Japanese mainland. And this over time led them to develop some, shall we say, special techniques to make sure these exchanges were as fruitful as possible.
You see, the treaties with the Joseon court only allowed fifty ships a year from Tsushima to trade with the peninsula. But since all of the documents flowed through the Sou, they had plenty of time to study the seals of both courts—those of the Joseon kingdom and those of Japan – and have fake seals created for their own ends. In part through the use of these fake seals, the Sou clan were able to pretend their ships were coming from other people—real or fake—and thus get around the 50 ship per year limit. They also used them in other ways to try and maintain their position between the two countries.
All of this came to a head when the Taikou, Toyotomi Hideyoshi, began to dream of continental conquest. Hideyoshi, at this point the undeniable ruler of all of Japan, had a bit of an ego—not exactly undeserved, mind you. His letter to the Joseon king Seongjo, demanding submission, was quite inflammatory, and the Sou clan realized immediately that it would be taken as an insult. Not only could it jeopardize relations with the continent, it could also jeopardize their own unique status. Which is why they decided to modify it using what in modern computer hacker terms might be called a man-in-the-middle attack – which, with their fake seal game, they had plenty of experience with. The Sou were able to modify the language in each missive to make the language more acceptable to either side. They also dragged their feet in the whole matter, delaying things for at least two years

But Hideyoshi’s mind was set on conquest. Specifically, he had ambitions of displacing the Ming dynasty itself, and he demanded that the Joseon court submit and allow the Japanese forces through to face the Ming dynasty. The Joseon refused to grant his request, and eventually Hideyoshi had enough. He threatened an invasion of Korea if the Joseon dynasty didn’t capitulate to his requests.
Throughout this process, the Sou attempted to smooth things over as best they could. However, even they couldn’t forge the words presented by a face-to-face envoy, nor could they put off Hideyoshi’s anger forever. And thus Tsushima became one of the launching off points for the Japanese invasions of Korea in 1592 and again in 1597. Tsushima, along with nearby Iki, would have various castles built to help supply the invading forces. One such castle was the Shimizuyama-jo, overlooking the town of Izuhara. Some of the walls and earthworks can still be seen up on the mountain overlooking the town, and there are trails up from the site of Kaneishi castle, down below.
Both of these invasions ultimately failed, though not without a huge loss of life and destruction on the peninsula—a loss that is still felt, even today.
The second and final invasion ended in 1598. Both sides were exhausted and the Japanese were losing ground, but the true catalyst, unbeknownst to those on the continent, was the death of Hideyoshi. The Council of Regents, a group of five daimyo appointed to rule until Hideyoshi’s son, Hideyori, came of age kept Hideyoshi’s death a secret to maintain morale until they could withdraw from the continent.
With the war over, the Sou clan took the lead in peace negotiations with the Joseon court, partly in an attempt to reestablish their position and their trade. In 1607, after Tokugawa had established himself and his family as the new shogunal line, the Sou continued to fake documents to the Joseon court, and then to fake documents right back to the newly established bakufu so that their previous forgeries wouldn’t be uncovered. This got them in a tight spot.
In the early 1600s, one Yanagawa Shigeoki had a grudge to settle with Sou Yoshinari, and so he went and told the Bakufu about the diplomatic forgeries that the Sou had committed, going back years. Yoshinari was summoned to Edo, where he was made to answer the allegations by Shigeoki. Sure enough, it was proven that the Sou had, indeed, been forging seals and letters, but after examination, Tokugawa Iemitsu, the third Tokugawa Shogun, decided that they had not caused any great harm—in fact, some of their meddling had actually helped, since they knew the diplomatic situation with the Joseon court better than just about anyone else, and they clearly were incentivized to see positive relations between Japan and Korea. As such, despite the fact that he was right, Yanagawa Shigeoki was exiled, while the Sou clan was given a slap on the wrist and allowed to continue operating as the intermediaries with the Joseon court.
There was one caveat, however: The Sou clan would no longer be unsupervised. Educated monks from the most prestigious Zen temples in Kyoto, accredited as experts in diplomacy, would be dispatched to Tsushima to oversee the creation of diplomatic documents and other such matters, bringing the Sou clan’s forgeries to a halt.
Despite that, the Sou clan continued to facilitate relations with the peninsula, including some twelve diplomatic missions from Korea: the Joseon Tsuushinshi. The first was in 1607, to Tokugawa Hidetada, and these were lavish affairs, even more elaborate than the annual daimyo pilgrimages for the sankin-kotai, or alternate attendance at Edo. The embassies brought almost 500 people, including acrobats and other forms of entertainment. Combined with their foreign dress and styles, it was a real event for people whenever they went.
Today, these Tsuushinshi are a big draw for Korean tourists, and just about anywhere you go—though especially around Izuhara town—you will find signs in Japanese, Korean, and English about locations specifically associated with these missions. And in years past, they’ve even reenacted some of the processions and ceremonies.
Speaking of Izuhara, this was the castle town from which the Sou administered Tsushima. Banshoin temple was the Sou family temple, and contains the graves of many members of the Sou family. In 1528, the Sou built a fortified residence in front of Banshoin, and eventually that grew into the castle from which they ruled Tsushima. Today, only the garden and some of the stone walls remain. The yagura atop the main gate has been rebuilt, but mostly it is in ruins. The Tsushima Museum sits on the site as well. Nearby there is also a special museum specifically dedicated to the Tsuushinshi missions.
Izuhara town itself is an interesting place. Much of what you see harkens back to the Edo period. Much like Edo itself, the densely packed wood and paper houses were a constant fire hazard, and there were several times where the entire town burned to the ground. As such they began to institute firebreaks in the form of stone walls which were placed around the town to help prevent fire from too quickly spreading from one house to the next. This is something that was instituted elsewhere, including Edo, but I’ve never seen so many extant firewalls before, and pretty soon after you start looking for them, you will see them everywhere.
The area closest to the harbor was an area mostly for merchants and similar working class people, and even today this can be seen in some of the older buildings and property layouts. There are also a fair number of izakaya and various other establishments in the area. Further inland you can find the old samurai district, across from the Hachiman shrine. The houses and the gates in that area are just a little bit nicer. While many modern buildings have gone up in the town, you can still find traces of the older buildings back from the days of the Sou clan and the Korean envoys.
Today, Izuhara is perhaps the largest town on Tsushima, but that isn’t saying much—the population of the entire island is around 31,000 people, only slightly larger than that of nearby Iki, which is only about one fifth the size of Tsushuma in land area. From Izuhara, you can catch a ferry to Iki or all the way to Hakata, in Fukuoka. You can also always take a plane as well.
Before leaving Tsushima, I’d like to mention one more thing—the leopard cat of Tsushima, the Yamaneko. This has become something of a symbol in Tsushima, but unfortunately it is critically endangered, at least on the island itself. It is all but gone from the southern part of Tsushima—human encroachment on its habitat has been part of the issue, but so has the introduction of domesticated cats. The yamaneko itself is about the size of a typical housecat, and might be mistaken for one, though it has a very distinctive spotted appearance. Domesticated cats have been shown to outcompete their wild cousins, while also passing on harmful diseases, which also affect the population. Just about everywhere you go you’ll see signs and evidence of this special cat. There is also a breeding program in the north if you want to see them for yourself. Even the small Tsushima Airport is named Yamaneko Airport, and the single baggage claim features a whole diorama of little plush leopard cats wearing traditional clothing and waving hello to new arrivals.
If you like rugged coastlines, fascinating scenery, and the odd bit of history thrown in, might I suggest taking a look at Tsushima, the border island between Japan and Korea.
We only had a few days, but it was a truly wonderful experience. Next up we caught the ferry to Iki island, the site of the ancient Iki-koku, possibly represented by the Yayoi era Harunotsuji site. Of all the places I’ve been so far, this is second only to Yoshinogari in the work and reconstruction they’ve done. They’ve even discovered what they believe to be an ancient dock or boat launch. But we’ll cover that next week, as we continue on our self-guided Gishiwajinden tour.
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 reach out to us at our Sengoku Daimyo Facebook page. You can also email us at the.sengoku.daimyo@gmail.com.
Thank you, also, to Ellen for their work editing the podcast.
And that’s all for now. Thank you again, and I’ll see you next episode on Sengoku Daimyo’s Chronicles of Japan.

References

Conlan, Thomas. (2001). In little need of divine intervention : Takezaki Suenaga's scrolls of the Mongol invasions of Japan. Ithaca, N.Y. :East Asia Program, Cornell University,
Aston, W. G. (1972). Nihongi, chronicles of Japan from the earliest times to A.D. 697. London: Allen & Unwin. ISBN0-80480984-4

Well Field System

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Palaces

Palace layout

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12 Rank System

Cap Rank System of 647

Cap Ranks of 649

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Harunotsuji

Kofun of Iki

Other Sites of Interest

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