This episode we go into a variety of seemingly unconnected things from the reign of Ikume Iribiko:  The founding of sumo (and haniwa), the founding of various shrines (Ise and Isonokami), and the founding--finding?--of oranges, or tachibana.  It is a bit of a grab bag--hence the title!

For more go to: https://sengokudaimyo.com/podcast/episode-32

Rough Transcript

Welcome to Sengoku Daimyo’s Chronicles of Japan.  My name is Joshua, and this is Episode 32: Ikume’s Miscellany.

Akemashite omedetou, everybody!  As this episode drops we should be into the new year, 2021, and I just want to say that I sure hope we have a better year than the last.  Pandemics are definitely something better read about in history than lived through, and I hope that everyone out there has a safe and prosperous new year.

To start off, let’s try to review a bit of what we’ve been talking about over the past few episodes.  I know there is a lot in these episodes and if I was better at all this I’d probably have a more visual guide to help keep things straight.  As it is, I try to recap from time to time so that we don’t lose the thread.  However, this episode is probably going to be a bit more jumbled than most: we are covering several different events from the reign of Ikume Iribiko, the 11th , and while I think they are interesting and useful background for some later episodes, they don’t have the most natural connection and segues.  So we’ll start with a recap, and then get into it.

Now over the past few episodes we’ve talked about events that are recorded as having happened during the life of Ikume Iribiko, better known as Suinin Tennou.  According to the chronicles, he was the 11th sovereign, but as you may recall his immediate predecessor, Mimaki Iribiko, aka Sujin, is also called the August Founder, despite being 10 generations away from the purported original sovereign, Iware Biko, aka Jimmu Tennou.  And then most of those early generations may not have actually existed or, if they did, perhaps they were just local chieftains, possibly even contemporaries with Mimaki and Ikume.  So Ikume is the 11th, but possibly only the second.  Clear as mud, right?  Just remember:  Iware Biko… then a bunch of others who may or may not have existed…  then Mimaki Iribiko and Ikume Iribiko. Got it?

Furthermore, we’ve gone over how we know the timelines as officially given in the chronicles are off, and we’ve tried to adjust them in line with current historical thinking.  This is something that comes with not a little bit of debate, since there are questions as to what, if anything, can be trusted in the early part of the chronicles, and there is no single adjustment that seems to have gained consensus throughout the scholarly community that I have yet seen.  And so we are forced to assume some dates based on what we know.  Much of what we are currently talking about focuses around the Makimuku area at the base of Mt. Miwa—and indeed there is evidence of activity there in the 3rd century, which also is when Queen Himiko is said to have been alive, and when we think Hashihaka Kofun—the oldest of the large, round keyhole shaped mounded tombs—was built.  And, coincidentally, Hashihaka kofun’s construction is also present in the Chronicles during the stories of the August Founder, which is to say the sovereign Mimaki Iribiko, the previous sovereign.  So, all that said, with Ikume Iribiko, we are probably somewhere in the late 3rd century or so.

Now Kishimoto Naofumi’s rough chronology of large, round, keyhole style tombs shows approximately three or four kofun that were likely built in the later half of the 3rd century.  The chronicles talk about the building of at least four, so far:  first, Yamato Totohi Momoso Hime’s burial at Hashihaka Kofun; second, the burial of Yamato Hiko, or simply “Prince Yamato”—an account that is given during Mimaki’s reign in the Kojiki and during Ikume’s reign in the Nihon Shoki; third, Hibasu Hime’s burial in her own kofun; and finally, Ikume’s own burial.  Of course, whether all of these individuals actually existed, let alone whether or not they are buried in these particular kofun, is a question that will likely never be answered, but it gives an idea of how things line up.  Of course, if we are confining ourselves to the 3rd century, then according to Kishimoto’s chronology this only takes us to the kofun assigned to the sovereign Mimaki Iribiko, Andon’yama.  Ikume’s assigned tomb, Houraisan, appears to be built about 50 years after that, but in a completely different part of the basin—and after the tombs assigned to his successors, making the tomb identification in the Chronicles all quite sus, if you ask me.

Sus or not, we move on.  I’m still assuming that Ikume was ruling in the late 3rd century, at least for now.  So what have we already covered about his reign?

First, we saw in the record of Ikume’s reign that he was dealing with envoys from the Korean peninsula, which isn’t that implausible for the time period, though their specific rank as royal princes is somewhat questionable. We talked about the rise of the polities in the peninsula, and how apparently everyone was looking to build their kingdoms, almost like the opening moves in a board game, we saw these kingdoms start to take shape around this time, and gaining their independence and growing in power, just as the power of the Wei and then the Jin dynasties, through their proxy of the commanderies, was starting to wane—as they say, nature abhors a vacuum.

Still, Ikume Iribiko had other things to preoccupy him, and entertaining foreign dignities was only a part of his reign.  Thus the Chronicles give us the story of Ikume’s wife, Saho Hime, which I told last episode: her rebellious brother, Saho Hiko, and her tragic death by his side, as well as the story of her mute son, the Prince Homutsu Wake—a romance begging for a theatrical treatment if ever there was one.  And of course, Ikume’s marriage to his new wife, Hibasu Hime, and her sisters.

Now as I said at the beginning, this episode, we’ll cover a bit of a miscellany of a few more of the things mentioned in the chronicles—the first sumou match, the founding of the Grand Shrine of Ise and other important shrines, and the introduction of oranges.  Consider it something of a “Best of” from the reign of Ikume Iribiko.  But let’s stop just talking about it and get right into it.

So January 10th, 2021, just about a week or so after this episode goes live—and assuming no COVID surprises—people will start to gather at the Kokugikan, in Tokyo—though admittedly perhaps fewer than in past years.  In the center of the arena, under a suspended roof, one will see a large mound of packed earth, with a ring made out of rice straw.  Judges, dressed in elaborate clothing that hearkens back to the glory days of the warrior families during the 14th century or so, will oversee a series of contests between powerfully built men, known as rikishi, whose large frames bely a surprising agility.  Between elaborate ceremonies steeped in tradition, they will wrestle one another for 15 days, vying to win the Emperor’s Cup.  There are no weight classes, and no tapping out—if any part of the wrestler, other than their feet, touches the ground after they start, or if they step outside the straw ring, they are out.  Just as with a real life and death struggle, there is no “best two out of three”.  Each match the rikishi pair off and go at it.  Their only clothing in the match is an elaborate loin cloth, and a complex hairstyle, dependent on rank, that goes back to the Edo period.  This is sumou wrestling, a distinctively Japanese tradition.

Sumou is one of those things that is deeply rooted in Japanese traditional culture.  Millions of yen are spent each year on these spectacles:  6 Grand Tournaments held annually at venues across Japan.  Companies will sponsor rikishi, their name and logo prominently displayed during the elaborate opening ceremonies, and champions can gain fame, notoriety, and stardom.  This is an extension of tournaments as they were established in the Edo period—where the rikishi indeed gained a kind of Rockstar status—but the art itself is said to have begun well before then, hearkening back to ritual ceremonies—exhibition matches, if you will—held in conjunction with various Shinto ceremonies.

In fact, Sumou claims its founding back in the mythical period, when Take Mikazuchi, one of the kami who came down from the Plain of Heaven to pacify the land for the Heavenly Grandchild, fought with Take Minakata, one of the sons of Ohokuni Nushi.  We talked about back in episode 21, as I recall, if you wish to go back and review the episode.  Of course, that match was part of the land-ceding myth of the Izumo cycle, and even the Chronicles place it in the mythical Age of the Gods—I don’t know that it is a legal move to turn your arm to ice or steel in today’s contests.  However, many people point to a match during Ikume’s reign as the first historical sumou match, or at least the first one recorded between two mortals.

You see, at that time, in the village of Taima, there was a brave and valiant man named Kuyehaya.  According the Chronicles he was incredibly strong and would make boasts, saying things like: “You may search the four quarters, but where is the one to compare with me in strength?”  I guess even before the era of Vince McMahon, promos were a thing.

Well, word of Kuyehaya’s prowess eventually reached the court, and the sovereign, Ikume Iribiko, decided that he would like to see for himself just how strong this man was.  To do that, though, he’d need a challenger, and so he asked his ministers if there was anyone in the land who could contend with him, and one of them suggested a man from the land of Izumo, named Nomi no Sukune.   And so the sovereign, Ikume, sent Nagaochi, the master of worship for Ohokunidama, to go to Izumo and fetch this fighter, Nomi no Sukune, for a match.  And so Nagochi did as he was asked and traveled up to Izumo, bringing Nomi no Sukune back with him to meet with this Taima no Kuyehaya.

Now we aren’t given details on just where this match took place, but there is a shrine in Sakurai, in the Nara Basin, that claims to be the spot.  It is located amongst the terraced fields at the foot of the eastern mountains, near Anashinimasuhyozu Shrine, in the Makimuku district, just up the road from the sites attributed to Tamagaki palace of Ikume as well as the palace of his successor, the succinctly named Oho Tarashi Hiko Oshiro Wake.  You can probably find it if you do a search for “Sumo Shrine” in “Sakurai”.

Of course, other than the two competitors wrestling one another, there is little else to connect this match with sumou as we know it, today.  I mean, while it is true that not every rikishi is exceptionally large—there are quite a few who look downright slender next to their opponents—they pretty much all go through a training and diet regimen that is designed to help bulk up a rikishi’s physique.  In contrast, it is likely that men like Taima no Kuyehaya and Nomi no Sukune were simply exceptional fighters, not necessarily specialized in the way that modern sumou rikishi are, today.  Furthermore, the trappings of a modern match were likely not present—in particular I doubt that there were any company sponsorships back then—and even the rules were different.  In the sumou of today, there are many things that are considered off-limits in matches, from punching with a fist to hair pulling and eye gouging.  This all creates a very specific style of combat.  In contrast, these early matches sound brutal, and more like an MMA match than what we may be used to.  According to the Nihon Shoki, both fighters raised a foot to kick at each other, and Nomi no Sukune eventually connected with a kick that broke Kuyehaya’s ribs, and thus his loins or possibly his lower back, which killed him.  That’s hardly the conclusion one would expect to a modern sumou match at all, where kicking and punching are specifically prohibited, and almost sounds more like kickboxing than anything else.

Of course, to the victor go the spoils, and in this case that means that Kuyehaya’s lands were seized and given to Nomi no Sukune, which I find interesting because in later centuries this would be the kind of thing that would happen when someone helped put down a rebellion, but not necessarily because they lost a match.

I should probably note that nothing in the Chronicle actually *says* this is a sumou match, and it may have just been a one-off contest of strength.  Later, we know that there were fights held at various festivals as a type of exhibition for the kami, but it wasn’t until the Edo period that sumou really came into its own, hearkening back to these older stories and traditions.

Now, after such a skillful showing, Nomi no Sukune remained at court and served the sovereign, Ikume Iribiko—which is probably where he received the kabane, Sukune, though that isn’t entirely clear.  What is made clear is that Nomi no Sukune wasn’t just some dumb jock—he apparently had skillz.  And when Ikume Iribiko’s second queen, Hibasu Hime, passed away and they built her kofun, Nomi no Sukune was there to help out.

Now remember that, at least according to the Japanese and the Wei chronicles, when important people died and were buried in their monumental tombs, it was common practice, apparently, to bury their attendants with them, I guess so that they could serve them in the afterlife.  Well the chronicles describe this deplorable practice, where people were buried up to their necks, with their head still exposed, and they would wail and cry out for days until they either starved or the animals came to get them.  Not exactly a great way to go and it meant that those living in the area—and remember, many of these larger tombs are also near to where the palaces were at—would have to put up with the pitiful noise.  In fact, this is specifically what is described at the tomb of “Yamato Hiko”—the Prince of Yamato—a brother to the sovereign, Ikume Iribiko.  Well Ikume decided that their had to be a better way, and Nomi no Sukune had an answer for him:  Nomi sent for the men of the Clayworkers association and he would have them make the shapes of men, horses, and other objects, and he presented these to the sovereign, Ikume, suggesting that they could be used at the tombs instead of human sacrifices.

Well Ikume thought this was a capital idea, and decreed that henceforth this would be the way for all such tombs.  This is the legendary origin of the haniwa, also called the “tatemono”—the erections, or standing things; though today this word more commonly indicates the erection of a  building.  Nomi no Sukune was put in charge of this clayworkers’ association—this Hashibe—and he was given the name Hashi no Omi, becoming the first ancestor of the Hashi family.

At first glance, this all seems like it might fit with what we know from the archeological record.  After all, we do find Haniwa used in all sorts of shapes and sizes across different tombs, and it would certainly make sense that they were representative sacrifices, a practice we see across the world, really.  In fact, tomb artifacts are sometimes the only depictions we have of daily life—houses, clothing, armor, animals, and more.  But in this case, there are several things that are out of place.

First we’ve talked in the past about Hashihaka, the kofun that is said to belong to the aunt of sovereign number 10, Mimaki Iribiko, also known as Yamato Totohi Momoso Hime who just might be a stand in for Himiko.  Hashihaka is perhaps the oldest of the round keyhole tomb mounds, and we don’t have the iconic haniwa.  Rather we have what might be considered proto-haniwa: cylindrical jar stands, and probably the jars that went with them, a tradition that may have originated in Kibi..  We know that jars were important in various rituals, as we’ve seen them used in a variety of places, but haniwa, as we know them, really don’t appear late in the kofun period – well after the time period associated with this section of the chronicles.  Even then, the original assemblages seem to be mostly round haniwa—from whence we get the name, since haniwa means “clay ring”—and a few specific shapes.  It isn’t until very late that we really get the full panoply of haniwa shapes and designs.

Of course, one could argue that those jar stands were still originally meant as stand-in offerings, even though the shapes and figured haniwa of later centuries had yet to make their debut, but then I’d note two more things:  first, this tradition of pottery at tomb sites does not appear to have originated with Hashihaka, and so far no kofun has turned up with evidence of this barbaric practice of human sacrifice that the chronicles mention.  Again, it doesn’t mean that nothing like it ever happened, but it certainly strains credulity to say that it happened here and in this way.

I suspect that the Chroniclers didn’t have a good source on the start of the haniwa tradition, which they would have been well aware of in its final form, and this was as good a place to put the founding story as any.  There may even have been some connection to Nomi no Sukune and his descendants, and perhaps even later traditions that connected Izumo craftspeople specifically with haniwa in the popular image of the day.  But we just can’t tell.

Still, from the Chronicle’s point of view, this is where all that started.  And, hey, it makes for a good story and it told the people what they needed to know, so it was “good enough” history, not some perfect, unassailable document of infallible fact.

Speaking of more things that probably didn’t happen as they are recorded in the Chronicles, the founding of the Grand Shrine of Ise is probably embellished a bit, as well.

Now I’m sure that many of you know about the Grand Shrine of Ise, aka Ise Jinguu, but for those who may not know, here’s a quick rundown.  There are, of course, many shrines across Japan, but in many ways Ise Jinguu is perhaps the most famous, and perhaps even the most important.  Now, technically, there isn’t any single, organized center for Shinto—there is no pope, for instance, as you might find in the Catholic church, or any kind of Patriarch.  Each shrine has their own kami that are enshrined, and their own rituals and festivals, etc.  But in most cases you will find that there is pride of place given to one kami in particular:  Amaterasu Ohokami, the ruler of Takama no Hara—the High Plain of Heaven—and her main shrine is the Grand Shrine at Ise, a large, sprawling complex which contains an inner and outer shrine area, all focused on the primary building where her spirit is thought to dwell.  In order to maintain this main building, there are actually two separate spaces, side-by-side, and the building is supposed to be rebuilt in the empty space next to the active shrine building every 20 years, with various forests around the country dedicated to growing trees for the reconstruction.  Thus they keep the shrine ever active and alive and replenished.

Of course, it is no wonder that it is considered an important shrine.  After all, in the 8th century Chronicles, Amaterasu was THE ancestral kami of the royal lineage, so the sovereigns themselves were her descendants.  On top of that, the chief priestess of Ise Jingu is supposed to be an unmarried princess of the royal family.  For this reason, Ise was largely a focus of the court—it is unclear how important the shrine was, or if it was even known, to common people beyond its immediate vicinity.  However, by the Kamakura period the shrine was much more well known by the general populace, and by the Edo period, commoners could go on pilgrimage to the great shrine, taking a vacation, of sorts—assuming they could figure out how to pay their way. 

So why should we doubt that it was during this reign, that of Ikume Iribiko’s, sometime perhaps around the 3rd century, when Ise Shrine was officially founded?  Well let’s get to the story, but first, let’s stop and remember what we’ve learned so far.

According to the myths in the Age of the Gods, Amaterasu herself sent down to Ise the mirror that had hung in the tree that had lured her out of the Heavenly Rock Cave.  Or, it was sent down by someone, and she later sent kami to look after it and take care of it.

Of course, in the reign of the 10th sovereign, Mimaki Iribiko, aka Sujin, we learn that Amaterasu has been enshrined already, but in the palace. We learn this because Mimaki Iribiko evicts her from the premises, having his sister, Toyosuki Iribime, take her to Kasanui.  Now we aren’t quite sure where this was in Kasanui, but tradition holds that it was at the site of modern day Hibara Shrine, still around that same area near the foot of Mt. Miwa, the other great holy site of the early court.

Then, during Ikume Iribiko’s reign as the 11th sovereign, he had one of his daughters find a new home for the spirit.  The episode actually starts with a strangely continental style speech by Ikume Iribiko, directed at his five High Councillors, or Daibu.  These are men of the Abe, Wani, Nakatomi, Mononobe, and Ohotomo clans, some of whom served Ikume’s father.  So Ikume launches into a speech, where he compares himself to his father—daddy issues, much?—and lays out a case for all the good he’s done.  And in all of that there is a question:  Is there anything in which he was remiss?

Well, there is no answer recorded in the Nihon Shoki, which is really the only place we get this kind of detail, BUT, just one month later, we do get him meddling in the affairs of the kami.  Specifically he took the responsibility of worshipping Amaterasu Ohokami away from his sister, Toyosuki Iribime, though there is no evidence that this was at all contentious, and handed it over to his own daughter, Yamato Hime or princess Yamato. In another account, it is more like he offered Yamato Hime up to the worship of the goddess.  He charged her to find a new home for the spirit. 

Yamato Hime accepted the posting, and pretty soon she was wandering the land, looking for a good place to permanently enshrine the Sun Diety.  At first, it would seem that she enshrined her at a place in Shiki—so near to Makimuku, called Izukashi no Moto.  Later, she traveled to Uda, and Ohomi, and Mino, and then finally headed south and found herself in Ise no Kuni.  It was there that she had a dream, in which Amaterasu Ohokami told her that this, Ise no Kuni, was the perfect spot. 

And so, in accordance with the wishes of the kami, Yamato Hime caused to be constructed an abstinence, or worship palace, known as Iso no Miya.  This is apparently the living quarters for the high priestess, though the Chronicles seem to equate it with the shrine building in which Amaterasu was then enshrined.  Given the way that the kami were being worshipped in the palace, I wonder if this wasn’t some similar arrangement.   This site is today the Naiku, or Inner Shrine area of the Ise complex, where Yamato-hime became the first priestess.

This all seems straightforward—certainly, we know the shrine is there—I mean you can visit it, and it truly is a stunning place, I highly recommend it.  Walking the forested pathways of the shrine grounds, you can get a real Miyazaki-film vibe. 

And then there is the idea of the Shrine priestess being a member of the Royal Yamato Lineage, a tradition that has continued right up to the modern day.  Well, isn’t that what we see in both Toyosuki Iribime and Yamato Hime?

Despite this there are a couple places where I start to have my doubts—and I know I’m not the only one.  First off, “Yamato Hime” is not much of a name to go by—it literally sounds like we are talking about the “Princess of Yamato” and there isn’t anything to distinguish her further.  Couldn’t this be just about any princess of the Royal line?  Unfortunately, we aren’t really given a lot more about her, at least not here.

Then there is the lack of evidence for early worship of Amaterasu.  I mean, yes, there are the stories in the Chronicles, but those are all being compiled and written down in the 8th centuries—possibly off of 7th century texts.  Yet even as they were being compiled, the ancient and time-honored ceremonies of the court did not include Amaterasu—certainly not as the central figure.  That honor seems to have been given to Takami Musubi, a kami who is found throughout the chronicles but whom you almost never hear about outside of that unless you are a particular kind of Japanese history and religion geek.  There was also that whole thing with Ohomono Nushi during the reign of the August Founder, Mimaki Iribiko, and the court of Mt. Miwa.   

So why is Amaterasu’s shrine through the mountains and over on the other side of the Kii peninsula?  And why does it almost feel like she is excluded from many of the court ceremonies?

There is certainly a lot more here to look into, and it’s probably going to be an entire episode just going over what we know about her.  I’d like to hold off on a lot of that for now, however – it really comes into sharper focus in the context of the political reality of the 7th or 8th century. Just remember that a lot of these Chronicles were either written or at least massaged for the political reality of their time, not necessarily the historical facts, assuming they even had them, of earlier times.

So what is the real deal with Ise Shrine, then, especially this early?

Well, it is quite possible that at least the Naiku, or Inner Shrine, was a place of worship from early on.  There apparently are signs that it was inhabited since at least the Yayoi period, and some of the traditions of the shrine may, in fact, represent earlier traditions.  For example, the empty land next to the main shrine, where they are going to build the new shrine?  It is a plain area covered in white pebbles, and in the center is a hut, and in that hut is a single pillar—the central pillar around which the new shrine building will be built.  There is some thought that this may reflect an early tradition with a sacred site, or shiki, was created and marked off in some way, and if there was anything it may have been a stone, a tree, or even a pillar that was worshipped.  If you recall we’ve seen various sacred sites on the islands, including possible pillars at worship sites, and other ways of denoting a particular place as special in the landscape.  Even today, the shrine of Mt. Miwa doesn’t have a building in which the kami resides, but rather treats the entire mountain as the home of the kami itself.  This also goes along with stories talking about “enclosures” and ways of marking particular areas.  It is only a later development where a “palace” building, or “miya”, comes into use specifically to house the kami at specially designated shrines.  You may have noticed, in fact, that in the story of Yamato-hime founding the shrine at Ise, the only building we are really told about was the building for shrine attendants to stay in, and perhaps that is all there really was at these early shrines:  practical buildings like living quarters and storehouses. 

Matsumae Takeshi, in an article published in Asian Folklore Studies back in 1978, notes archaeological evidence for worship at Ise at least back to the 5th century—which still a couple centuries after our current point in history.  Akima Toshio, in a 1993 article for Japan Review notes that the family that was in charge of remaking the sacred pillar and otherwise refurbishing the sacred site during the reconstruction every two decades, the Uji no Tsuchigimi, were a family with roots in the area, also known as the Isobe—the occupational group responsible for supporting the Iso no Miya, perhaps?  Regardless, there’s nothing to say that Ise Shrine wasn’t founded at this time – the questions are more about its significance this early on.  Much as the Yamato state was not the archipelago-spanning state that the Chronicles would have us believe, early worship may have been slightly different as well.

Of course, like we’ve already alluded to, it wasn’t like Ise was the only shrine that people were concerned with at this time.  We previously mentioned the prominence of Mt Miya and the Izumo Ohoyashiro, as well as various shrines founded for deities that explicitly came over from the continent.  And perhaps even more important than Ise at the time was the nearby shrine of Isonokami, the ancestral shrine of the Mononobe family.  Now you may remember the name Isonokami because it has come up several times, so far.  It is recorded as having been founded some time during the previous sovereign, Mimaki Iribiko’s, reign, and other archeological and historical evidence seems to suggest it was established in either the 2nd or 3rd century.  It was where Susanowo’s sword, the one which he used to slay the great, 8 headed serpent, Yamata no Orochi, was kept as an object of veneration.   In fact, Isonokami had a special connection with swords, not too surprising seeing as how the kami of Isonokami shrine is Futsu no Mitama Ohokami.  As you may recall from an earlier episode, the term “futsu” appears to be an onomatopoeia for the sound of a sword cutting through the air.  It also makes sense when you remember that the Mononobe were heavily involved with supplying and overseeing the warriors of the court, at least in later periods.

Isonokami shrine was apparently important enough, in fact to be overseen by one of Ikume’s sons, Inishiki Iribiko.  He was a child of Ikume’s second queen, Hibasu Hime, and a brother to the Crown Prince and future sovereign, Ohotarashi Hiko Oshiro Wake, aka Keikou Tennou.  In fact, he was almost Crown Prince himself, as the story goes, had he been a bit more ambitious. 

So do you remember several episodes back how Ikume Iribiko became ruler because of a dream he’d had?  Well this almost does it one better.  Rather than asking his sons—specifically his sons Inishiki and Oshiro Wake—to tell him their dreams, instead he just came out and asked them what they would most dearly want.  Inishiki said he would like a bow and some arrows, while his brother, Oshiro Wake, asked for the Royal Dignity. Sure enough, Inishiki Iribiko received the bow and arrows he had asked for, and Oshiro Wake received the royal dignity, later being appointed as Crown Prince.  I wonder if Inishiki even realized that was on the table.  Did he call out, “Hey, wait a minute—can I change my answer?”

So as part of what Inishiki had asked for, he was put in charge of Isonokami – which must therefore have been of some importance to have received a royal prince, a son of the reigning sovereign and his wife, and so a potential future sovereign if something happened to his brother.  Inishiki—who is also referred to as Isonishiki in the Kujiki—was not just put in charge of Isonokami, but was also put in charge of the treasury.  He also had his own ponds made—which would seem to indicate he was a rather important person in the court, since otherwise we see this as something that the sovereigns themselves are doing.  He also ordered the construction of one thousand swords, all of which he ordered to be deposited at the shrine of Isonokami.  These swords were known as either the Akahana no Tomo or the Akahadaka Tomo (The naked companions) because they were deposited without any sheaths to go with them, just plain, bare blades.  Apparently, offerings like these made shrine storehouses into weapons depots or magazines as much as simply storehouses for offerings, since the weapons could be retrieved and used when absolutely necessary.  We certainly see this in later centuries with various repositories—even the weapons and armor stored at the famous Shosoin of Todaiji temple, built in the 8th century, were taken out  when there was need. 

Of course, it wasn’t just swords that were given to shrines like Isonokami.  For instance, the Nihon Shoki recalls an… interesting… offering.  Apparently there was a man named Mikaso, who lived in the village of Kuwada over in Tanba no Kuni.  Now Mikaso was a dog person, and he had one dog named Ayuki—and I can’t tell you how pleased I am to find ancient dog names in these stories.  Anyway, Ayuki was a good hunting dog and caught a particular animal—a mujina, which likely refers to a badger, though possibly a tanuki, or raccoon-dog.  Anyway, Ayuki bit into the animal and, almost like in some kind of MMO, it apparently dropped a gem.  Well, more appropriately a large Yasaka magatama was found in the mujina’s belly.  I certainly hope that Ayuki was treated well after that hunt, but Mikaso apparently decided to donate the gem to Isonokami.  Why the gem didn’t end up in a local shrine in Tanba isn’t quite explained.  Even today, Isonokami shrine has magatama that appear to be from the early kofun period and later.  Whether or not these are the specific magatama gem here is unclear, but I’ll have a link to the treasures they share online linked in the notes for this episode over at sengokudaimyo.com/podcast.

A final tidbit about Isonokami is that we even get the eventual changing of the guard.  You see, apparently, when Inishiki Iribiko was getting old, and he could no longer keep up with the rigors of shrine duties, he asked his sister, Ohonakatsu Hime, to take over in his stead.  Of course, if she was his sister, I doubt she was much of a spring chicken herself, and at first she refused, saying she had weak hands, and couldn’t be expected to just pull herself up to the storehouse to check on it.  Well, it was pretty high, Inishiki agreed, but that was okay, because he had made her a ladder specifically for the occasion.  Thus it is said that “You can ascend even to the divine storehouse of Heaven, if you only plant a ladder.”  Of course, in reality we know that ladders to storehouses were nothing new—we have been finding evidence of them for some time before the Kofun period.  But it makes for a good idiom, I guess.

This is also intriguing in that it suggests that the head of this very martial shrine could be a woman.  In fact, in the Nihon Shoki and the Kujiki, which largely agree on the details here, it is Ohonakatsu Hime—indicating a woman.  But in the Kojiki the name given is Ohonakatsu Hiko, and they are not connected with Isonokami in the same way; in fact, leadership of Isonokami is hardly discussed, with even Inishiki Iribiko providing little more than just a donor role, and Ohonakatsu is mentioned more for the various families that include him as an ancestor than for any particular deeds performed.  That doesn’t of course, preclude them from having such a role, just that it is not explicitly mentioned.  So did they just not know the gender of this particular person and get it confused? Or is something else going on?  Certainly, I find it interesting that the chief priest at Isonokami could be either male or female, at lest back in the day.  Just one more piece of evidence suggesting greater equality between the sexes than necessarily comes through the Confucian-tinted glasses of the 8th century scholars and chroniclers whose works we are left to consult.

So that’s a little bit about Isonokami—quite a bit more, in fact, then we get about Ise, which by comparison seems almost to be mentioned just offhand. 

Alright then, in our miscellany so far, we’ve talked about Sumou, and the connection between one of the first wrestlers and, of all things, the haniwa funerary statues.  We also talked about the early days of some of the more important shrines, such as Ise and Isonokami.  But there is still one final Ikume Iribiko story to tell:  That of Tajimori and the fruit of the Seasonless Fragrant Tree.

So apparently word had reached the Yamato court in Makimuku about a particular fruit from a tree that was known to bear fruit all year round.  The sovereign, Ikume Iribiko, seems to have developed a craving, but who to send out looking for such a thing?  Well, how about someone with connections to the continent?  Perhaps a descendant of someone who came across from the peninsula and who might have connections and the knowledge to embark on such a journey?

Sure enough, they chose Tajima-mori, ancestor of the Miyake no Muraji.  Now, Tajima-mori had the credentials—a couple episodes back, we talked about his great-great-grandfather, known as Ame no Hiboko, was one of the foreigners that came, possibly early in Ikume’s reign, or maybe even earlier—and possibly even a stand-in for a foreign prince.  Either way, Tajima-mori seems to have been doing well for himself to undertake such an adventure.

And so Tajima Mori set off for what we are told is “Tokoyo”, the “Eternal Land”, though most likely this is just poetic reference to the mainland—the area that today we would consider China.  His journey was long, and the conditions harsh.  He seems to have braved many trials, though we only catch a brief poetic glimpse of any of it.  He did eventually find what he was looking for—the seasonless fragrant tree.  We are told that he picked 8 garlands and 8 spears from the tree, laden with fruit, and he hurried back to Yamato.

Upon his homecoming, however, he was greeted with disappointing news: he arrived only to find the country in mourning.  The sovereign, Ikume Iribiko, had passed away while Tajimamori was away on his 10 year journey.

Tajimamori was devastated.  He took the fruit to the late sovereign’s tomb, where he sang out a poem about his journeys and the hardship he endured.  Finally, he turned to face the sovereign, Ikume Iribiko, in his tomb, and, shouting and weeping that he brought the fruit, he died.

What a strange story to append to the end of Ikume Iribiko’s reign, don’t you think?  We do have evidence that the fruit in question was the tachibana—an orange—probably what you might think of as a “mandarin orange”, and not a large navel orange or the like.

It feels to me like the stories about finding herbs or elixirs of immortality, and perhaps that is all it really is.  It is hard to think of Japan without citrus, but it is true that many of them came over from the mainland and, much like rice, had to be adapted to the colder temperatures.

In that, there seems to be an acknowledgement that the orange was a foreign fruit, and the fact that Tajima-mori is given a foreign lineage, this makes some sense given the story and the journey, but it is interesting to me that all of this is wrapped up together.

So there you have it.  That largely closes us out on the story of the 11th sovereign, Ikume Iribiko.  Next episode we’ll start into the story of his successor, Oho Tarashi Hiko Oshiro Wake, also known as Keiko Tennou.  His story continues the story of the expansion of Yamato control across the islands, through his own military exploits, but also those of his son, the famous Yamato-takeru, the Brave of Yamato.

Until then, thank you for all of your support.  If you like what we are doing, tell your friends and feel free to rate us on iTunes, Spotify, or wherever you listen to podcasts.  If you feel the need to do more, and want to help us keep this free and ad-free, we have information about how you can donate through our KoFi site, kofi.com/sengokudaimyo, or find the link over at our main website, SengokuDaimyo.com/Podcast, where we will have some more discussion on topics from this episode.  Questions or comments?  Feel free to Tweet at us at @SengokuPodcast, or reach out to our Sengoku Daimyo Facebook page.

That’s all for now.  Thank you again, and I’ll see you next episode—and next year!--on Sengoku Daimyo’s Chronicles of Japan.