CW: This episode deals with some aspects of suicide as historical phenomena.
For all the history, here we have a real story for you, and I think you'll enjoy it. It is the romance of Saho Hime, the wife of the 11th sovereign, Ikume Iribiko. Filled with love and betrayal--a truly epic story, especially for what we typically find so far in the Chronicles. We also discuss Saho Hime's son, Homutsu Wake, as well as other aspects of the story, and of course, we do try to look at how it fits into the actual history of this time.
For more go to: https://sengokudaimyo.com/podcast/episode-31
Rough Transcript
Welcome to Sengoku Daimyo’s Chronicles of Japan. My name is Joshua, and this is Episode 31: The Romance of Saho Hime.
And first off, thank you to Samuel for contributing to help the show. If you’d like to join Samuel and help us keep this going, you can buy us a coffee, or more, over at ko-fi.com. That’s K-O-dash-F-I.com/SengokuDaimyo.
Now, this episode should be coming out around mid-December, and I’m sure that many people are preparing or already in the festive holiday mood. Well, today’s topic is probably about as festive as a piping hot bucket of fried chicken. So let’s settle in with our kotatsu, make sure the holiday KFC order is in, and we can go over a story of love and betrayal, and why listening to that one little pig about straw as a building material may not have been the best choice ever. Content warning up front—this episode deals with fighting and war, but also touches on accounts of suicide as well.
And on that cheery note, shall we begin?
First off, just a quick recap from last episode: Mimaki Iribiko, aka Sujin Tennou—the 10th sovereign and also the August Founde— had passed away and his son, Ikume Iribiko, aka Suinin, had succeeded him to the throne. While it is unclear just how much of the archipelago really recognized his authority, it does seem that Yamato had friends across the water, with Princely ambassadors arriving, primarily through ports on the Japan Sea coast, at Tajima and Koshi. In fact, it seems like someone down at Shimonoseki, the entryway to the Seto Inland Sea region, may have been asserting their own rights and status, possibly controlling access through that crucial waterway. That would certainly have been something that Yamato would need to deal with, but for now I think we can safely classify that as an SSP: Some-other Sovereign’s Problem. Besides, there was plenty going on in Yamato that needs to be dealt with.
To start with, there would have been the burial arrangements for the previous sovereign. Curiously, we aren’t given quite the level of details for his tomb as we are given for that of his aunt, Yamato Totohi Momoso Hime , which is said to be Andonyama Kofun, in Tenri, less than a 30 minute walk north from the ruins of the palace found near Makimuku station, and perhaps 10 minutes more to Hashihaka Kofun, where is aunt—or possibly even Queen Himiko—might be buried.
Now a few things here about Mimaki Iribiko’s purported tomb. First of all, while this is a Round Keyhole shaped kofun, like Hashihaka, and of a similar length, it does have at least one difference, and that is the number of terraces. You see, the mound for Hashihaka isn’t just a random pile of stone and earth in the desired shape, but it was a terraced construction, like a step pyramid. This isn’t immediately obvious when you are looking at it today, as much of the definition has eroded away and been covered in vegetation so that it can be hard to make out, but at the time it would have been quite obvious to an observer. Hashihaka was made with four terraces, and then a small, round mound was built on the back end of the tomb, considered a fifth level, where the pit was dug to place the actual coffin.
Andon’yama is similar, but it is only three terraces and a mound, so one level less than Hashihaka, which seems a bit odd—just as we had questions about the big to do over Himiko’s—um, I mean Mimaki Iribiko’s aunt’s—tomb, why would it also be larger than his? In fact, Hashihaka Kofun is larger than the next several purported imperial tombs.
On top of that, Andon’yama is also thought to be about a century or so later than Hashihaka, having been dated to the first half of the fourth century. In fact, there are at least three tombs that, according to Kishimoto Naofumi, anyway, appear to have been erected between Hashihaka and Adon’yama. Two of these have slight differences in shape, which Kishimoto attributes to a subsidiary line of Yamato kingship. The other one, Nishitonozuka, Kishimoto attributes to Himiko’s likely successor, Toyo.
It is possible that one of these other kofun is actually Sujin’s tomb, and that Andon’yama has been misidentified. After all, I doubt the chroniclers were meticulously measuring and cataloging all of the features of these ancient tomb mounds, themselves, and so may have been using a variety of tools including best guess based on the size of the tomb and how important they thought the person was. In fact, all we are really given is that it was along the road, or over the road, in the Yamanobe, or Mountain district. In later reigns we’ll even see where a sovereign’s tomb appears to have been built after their own successor, which, unless we have an “I’m my own grandpa” moment--which I frankly wouldn’t put past this lineage as written--doesn’t really add up. So from here on out we’ll be taking a look at the development of these mausoleums, but not necessarily putting our faith in the accuracy of any identifications, at least not this early in the Chronicles.
Regardless of which one is Mimaki Iribiko’s, we can assume that they spent some time working on it and a period of mourning. It isn’t clear if all of the rites that we read about in the mythical period were around yet; certainly some of the stories seem to suggest imagery that is more appropriate to the later tombs. But it is still quite possible that there was some period of mourning, whether months or years, before he was actually interred—especially if they still had to build it.
Then there were the ceremonies and investiture required. The Chronicles note that Mimaki’s successor, Ikume Iribiko, moved his court to a new palace building: the Tamagaki Palace at Makimuku.
Ikume Iribiko, the 11th sovereign, was, of course, the son of Mimaki Iribiko and his wife, Mimaki Hime, who, herself was cousin to Mimaki Iribiko. This was through Oho Hiko, who was the Great Prince who had gone to, or maybe even come from, Koshi, bringing it under Yamato control. Though I also couldn’t help but notice that Mimaki “Hime” is also the name of Mimaki Iribiko’s sister in the Chronicles. Now, they never say that they pulled a Skywalker—but who knows, really? It is just as possible that “Mimaki” referred to a place and that “Mimaki Hime” was the name of whatever woman happened to hold the position of the “Lady of Mimaki” at that time.
And, well, like father, like son, I guess, because when Ikume assumed the royal authority, he was already married, and his chief wife, Saho Hime, aka Sawaji Hime, who would be appointed his Queen when he took the throne was also his cousin—possibly second cousin. In the Kojiki, this lineage is given through Hiko Imasu, an immediate uncle to the current sovereign, Ikume Iribiko.
Which brings me to something that we should probably touch on. Despite the fact that the royal lineage at this point seems to double back on itself more times than an AKC certified purebred pedigree, there was still a concept of how close was too close for a serious relationship. In ancient Yamato, this distinction appeared to be through the mother. That is to say that if man and a woman had the same mother, then they were considered fully brother and sister and not eligible to marry. However, if they had the same father but different mothers, what we might call half-siblings, then it was almost as if they were unrelated at all. Thus one could, in fact, marry one’s cousin without anyone batting an eye at what was going on. Heck, you could even become, as the song says, your own grandpa, and it was still technically okay.
You may also recall that we discussed this and how it applied to inheritance and legitimacy as well. Back in the story of Nunagawa Mimi—that is Suizei Tennou, second sovereign and successor to Iware Biko, aka Jimmu Tennou—we know that he was hardly the oldest son of his father, but he and his brother were both the children of Iware Biko’s designated queen. Their half-brother, whom they killed for plotting to take the throne, is specifically addressed with a term that indicates he is illegitimate to rule, since his mother was not designated as the Queen.
Of course, this brings up a series of fascinating questions regarding the role of matrilineal descent in an apparently patriarchal lineage, which go beyond the scope of this current story, but something to consider, nonetheless.
So Saho Hime and Ikume Iribiko, even if cousins, were considered distant enough that their relationship wasn’t considered troubling, and I’m sure the fact that her lineage also traced back into the royal line was not insignificant, at least to the later Chroniclers. By all accounts they seem to have loved one another very much. Or at the very least he loved her. As for the rest, well, we’ll get into that.
So Saho Hime, whom we can probably assume was the princess or lady of someplace named Saho, had an older brother named, as these things go, Saho Hiko, and the two of them were quite close. In fact, one day while they were alone together, he even asked her whom she loved more: her husband, Ikume, or her dear sweet brother.
Sitting there, alone, with her brother, what was she to say? Of course she loved her brother more than her husband—and it is possible she meant this in more than just the familial and platonic sense that even back then would have been considered the limit of decency. She would later go on to claim that she had no choice, but I’ll let you be the judge of that, based on her actions. As for Saho Hiko, he was ambitious, and in this moment he saw his chance.
And so he started to talk to her and slowly eat away at her confidence. After all, she was still young when Ikume assumed the dignity, and surely her good looks factored into her husband’s affection for her, but what would happen as she grew older, her looks faded, and his eye started to wander? Would he replace her with a younger woman?
But of course, she needn’t fear, because her loving brother had the answer. In fact, it was quite simple. All Saho Hime had to do was kill her husband so that her brother, Saho Hiko, could take his place. With Ikume gone, Saho Hiko would step in and he would see that his sister came along with him, and together they would rule Yamato.
Now, unless he was talking about the kind of dual rulership that some have postulated was the norm in this time, it certainly sounds like he is stepping forward into incest territory, which makes for a nice cherry on top of this treason sundae he’s put together.
Then came his premeditated piece d’resistance: he pulled out a dagger with a deeply dyed cord, a Ya-shiwo-wori no Himo-gatana, that he had had specially made for this task. He told Saho Hime to hide it in amongst her clothing, and that as soon as she was alone with her husband, and the sovereign was asleep, she should quickly stab him in the neck and kill him.
Well as she later told the story, Saho Hime trembled at the thought of this, but couldn’t think of anything to say. Her brother was clearly quite serious about this whole thing, and if she told anyone, he would surely be put to death. And so she took the dagger, apparently convincing herself that if she just gave him some time to cool off she could reason with her brother at a later date.
According to the Nihon Shoki, though, that date never came. An unfortunate 13 months later, Saho HIme still held the dagger, but she could not get up the courage to do anything—whether to remonstrate with her brother, to go through with the plan, or to tell her husband what was going on. And so things continued, with her husband, Ikume Iribiko, completely and blissfully unaware of the treasonous plot that had ensnared his own wife.
In fact, it seems that their life was fairly normal, or at least normal as one can be for the ruling sovereign and his wife. They performed the ceremonies and even traveled together. And in the 10th month Ikume took Saho Hime with him on a trip to the district of Kume, where they stayed at Taka Miya—literally the High Palace. This was probably down in the Kashiwara region, where there has been a shrine since at least the 10th century known as Kume-no-mi-agata Shrine, which roughly translates to the Shrine of the Kume District Seat. While they were there on whatever business they had—the chronicles don’t recordsuch mundane details--the sovereign decided to take his mid-day nap which, taken together with the story of the woman who laid down near the swamp from last episode, seems to have been a thing back in the Kofun period, perhaps like the Spanish siesta. Anyway, Ikume laid his head down, using Saho Hime’s knees as a pillow, and slept.
Saho Hime realized this would be the perfect time. She could do it—just pull out the knife and carry out her brother’s plan. It wouldn’t get any better than this. Careful not to disturb her sleeping husband, she pulled out the dagger that her brother had given her and tried, several times, to bring it down and execute the fatal blow. However much she tried, though, she couldn’t bring her self to do it. Trembling, Saho HIme started crying, and tears dripped from her face onto that of her husband, who awoke with a start.
She must have quickly put the dagger away, or he was still too out of it to notice, because Ikume didn’t comment on the apparent assassination attempt. Rather he was concerned with telling her of the dream he had been having.
“From the direction of Saho, a fierce rainstorm came and suddenly dampened my face. Also, a little snake of many colors wrapped itself around my throat. What omen does such a dream carry?”
Well, with imagery about as subtle as a kendo match in a library, Saho Hime broke down--she could not contain the secret any longer. The dream had given her away, and she immediately came clean. Obviously the rain was the tears that she was shedding, and the snake of many colors referred to the dagger—the Ya-shiwo-wori no himo gatana, which could be translated as a dagger with a cord of many colors, much like the snake.
And from there Saho Hime proceeded to tell her husband, Ikume Iribiko, everything: About how her brother had come to her and given her the dagger, and how he had concocted the scheme. And even though she didn’t want to go through with it, what could she do? He had confronted her face-to-face, and she couldn’t deny him, but then she couldn’t follow through with it, either.
Saho Hime must have braced herself for her husband’s inevitable ire, but it never came. Instead of being angry at Saho Hime, Ikume comforted her, for he still had deep feelings for his wife. He told her not to worry, because it wasn’t her crime, but her brother’s—he didn’t hold her responsible in the least, even if she did have the dagger ready and kept it hidden for more than a year. And so he sent her home and Ikume Iribiko, 11th sovereign of Yamato, set about the task of what to do next.
Now Ikume Iribiko may not have been upset at his wife, but as for his treacherous brother-in-law, that was another matter entirely. And so he raised an army from a nearby district and placed it under the command of a general named Yatsunada, an ancestor of the lords of Kodzuke, and Ikume charged this general to go after the rebel, Saho Hiko, and to chastise him and put him to death.
These preparations did not go unnoticed by Saho Hiko, however. As the call went out to raise troops, he must have gotten wind, and he likely knew that his sister had failed. He may have even had the troops ready to go for when his plan succeeded. Whatever the reason, he was now on the defensive.
As the Yamato forces bore down on them, Saho Hiko had his troops build a fortress, making use of rice straw bales leftover from the harvest. The Chronicles describe it as a Rice Castle, or Inaki, though this wouldn’t have been a castle like you might be thinking of—certainly not a Himeji or Kumamoto, or even something like Inuyama. Instead, the term “Castle” at this time applied more specifically to a walled enclosure, which likely used the terrain to create walls, with fortified gates and towers, from which they could defend themselves. And apparently, despite the seemingly unorthodox building materials, it was quite sturdy and well defended. When the royal forces arrived, they could not immediately find a way past the walls to get in and engage with the enemy.
Of course, as all this went on, Saho Hime was lamenting her lot in life. The two men she loved most in all the world were trying to kill each other, and though she loved her husband deeply, she knew she would not be able to live with herself if her brother died, especially as she still blamed herself for not finding some better outcome. And so she snuck out of the palace and secretly stole away and into her brother’s fortress, thinking that maybe with her there, her husband would not attack, and there could be a peaceful resolution to all of this.
And at first, it seemed like it was working. Ikume delayed any attack, marching around the fortress and increasing the size of his army, until it surrounded the fortress on all sides. And then, he demanded that the defenders give up his wife and Queen, Saho Hime, but she would not leave her brother’s side.
Now the Chronicles differ somewhat on the aspects of the next bit. In the Nihon Shoki, they say that Saho Hime wasn’t alone when she entered the fortress, but that she brought their young son, the prince, with her as she did. In the Kojiki it claims she was very pregnant when she made her way to her brother’s side, and gave birth to the young boy there in the castle. However it happened, there were now two hostages who were important to Ikume, now—his wife and Queen, but also his son and heir.
As the siege dragged on, and there was no sign that her husband was going to give in, Saho Hime decided that no matter what ill fate might befall her and her brother, her child should not suffer it as well. And so she called out over the fortress wall to parlay with her husband. She told him about the child and she said that she would bring their sonoutside so that Ikume’s forces could come and take him before any of the fighting really began.
At this, Ikume Iribiko saw his chance. He was desperate, and one can easily imagine him pacing back and forth with worry. Though he had to subdue Saho Hiko as a rebel, he still wanted his wife and child back, and so he devised a scheme. He would agree to have his men come out under a flag of truce to take the child, but he secretly instructed them that they should do everything they could to also bring back his wife, Saho Hime. He told them to do whatever they could to bring her back, kicking and screaming if need be. They should grab her by the hair, by her hands, or by her clothes if they had to—anything to get her back. While she would no doubt be upset, she would still be alive, and if she was alive, there was hope for some reconciliation.
Of course, Saho Hime knew her husband, and she knew that his men might try something, but she was determined not to leave her brother. And so she spent the time before the exchange preparing. First of all, she shaved off all of her hair and made it into a wig, instead. And then she took thread that was partially rotten and she used it to sew together clothes as well as the beads that she would wear on her arms. When she was finished, her self-cosplay was complete—everything seemed normal, but the trap was set.
And so, she took her son out the front gates and handed him to the soldiers, who took the child. Then, just as she had suspected, they started to grab for her as well, but to no avail. The first soldier grabbed for her hair, but the wig just came off in his hands. Another grabbed for her clothing, but the seams ripped and tore off immediately and he couldn’t get a good angle. A third solder reached for her bead-covered arms, but as he did so she pulled back, the beads spilling off onto the ground, leaving them with nothing. She turned and fled back into the fortress and back to her brother’s side.
When the soldiers returned and told Ikume Iribiko what had happened he was furious at being thwarted, but once again he could not be angry at his wife. Instead, they say his anger settled not even on the soldiers who had failed in their mission, but rather on the Tamatsukuri—the bead-makers. He blamed them for being complicit, though it is unclear from the story what they had done, unless they had been responsible for stringing the beads together. Ikume Iribiko didn’t care, however, and he stripped them of their land. The Nihon Shoki even records a saying related to this incident: “Tokoro Enu Tamatsukuri”, or “The Landless Beadmakers”, which apparently indicated a situation where someone might expect to be praised for their efforts, but instead they were punished.
This, at least, is the story as told in the Kojiki. And since the child had been born in the fortress, he didn’t even have a name yet. Now it was tradition, at this time, that a child’s name be given by the mother, and so Ikume Iribiko went out one more time to parlay with his wife.
One can imagine him going out there, dejected. He knew that there would not be another chance. Of course, it was possible that she might survive an assault, but he knew it was unlikely. Elsewhere, it is suggested that she was prepared to strangle herself, if necessary, rather than leave her brother’s side. But Ikume Iribiko still had one last chance to speak to his wife, and to maybe receive something in the naming of their child by which some part of her could live on.
And so he called out to her, there behind the walls of the rice castle. If he pleaded with her one last time to come with him, we aren’t told, but we know that he asked her to name the child. She stated that he should be known as Homutsu Wake no Miko, the lord who was Born Among the Flames.
In the Kojiki, there is otherwise no mention of flames in the attack, and so some have speculated that this referred to the tensions that had grown up between them because of this terrible plot. In the Nihon Shoki, it is taken more literally, as the rice bales making up the castle are set on fire, and it is from the flames of the castle that Saho Hime emerges with young Homutsu Wake, given him over to her father.
And apparently the maternal instinct was strong, for she added words that Ikume Iribiko should employ a wet-nurse for the young prince, and he should assign senior and junior bathing women—at this time bathing children was not just for physical cleanliness, but was also a part of a special ritual, and so these women would have been ritualists, and not so much nursemaids.
Ikume Iribiko’s final question spoke to the love that was still resident in his heart. At least by the time of the Man’yoshu we are told that it was common for a wife or lover to tie cord onto a man’s garment as a sign of their affection and their bond. It is no doubt with this practice in mind that Ikume Iribiko called out and asked Saho Hime: “Who is to loosen the auspicious little cord which you have made so fast?”
Did the tears that once fell on her husband’s face again well up in her own eyes? Or were her eyes already red and dry from the tragedy of the many days? Alas, we aren’t given such details. All we are told is that Saho Hime’s last words were that the Queen’s palace—her residence in the royal compound—should be given to “fair mates” for Ikume Iribiko, and she recommended that he send for the daughters of the Prince Michi no Ushi of Tamba. He was a son of Prince Hiko Imasu, and therefore grandson of the sovereign Waka Yamato Neko Ohohihi. They would make fine wives in Saho Hime’s stead.
And that was the last that they spoke to one another. Whether the rice castle fell in literal flames or whether it was simply the fiery fighting of the royal forces that eventually took the fortress, the outcome was the same: Saho Hiko was killed, his surviving troops fled, and Saho Hime followed her brother, perhaps even taking her own life as she said she would.
This story is considered to be the greatest romance in the Kojiki. Sure, there is the story of Ohonamuchi and Suseri Bime, or the way that Hiko Hohodemi surprised the Dragon King’s daughter, Toyotama Hime and whisked her away to his land above the waves. And many relationships end in tragedy, like the death of Izanami. But most of these are almost flat in comparison to the story of Ikume and Saho Hime. After all, who doesn’t understand the pull between family and your beloved, and the difficulties when they are at odds? And then Saho Hime’s sacrifice—she didn’t have to join her brother, and she could have continued to live well in the royal palace. Yet she gave it all up for him. Finally, there is her son, Homutsu Wake, and what must have been the painful decision to let his father take him away from the tragedy she knew she would endure.
Of course, this may not have actually happened, and was no doubt embellished over the years, but it doesn’t take away from the humanity that is described.
So let’s talk about this and see if we can’t put anything in context.
First off, there is the name: “Saho”. This appears to be the name of an area in the Yamato Basin—in fact, most, if not all, of this action appears to be happening in and around the Nara Basin. The Saho region may have been in the north of the Basin, near modern Nara City. In fact, Saoka, a shrine dedicated to Saho Hime and which claims to be the place where she lived with her mother until she was an adult, is in modern Nara City, maybe a half hour’s walk east of the site of the 8th century Heijo palace. Nearby is the Sahogawa—the Saho River—flowing south until it finally reaches the Yamato river and exits the basin through the western mountains and the ancient state of Kawachi.
This story could be a local story of a power struggle within Yamato and the Nara Basin, perhaps a case of marriage politics gone wrong. It seems, at least, that the Yamato sovereign’s hold on power was hardly absolute, and despite their farflung relationships, this may be further evidence of the limited locus of control that Yamato was actually able to exert, which marries up with a lot of what the archaeology appears to support.
Now as for this talk of a “Rice Castle”, or “Inaki”—this seems to be something of a debate. First, purge from your mind any thought of the large castles of the Sengoku Period, we aren’t looking at anything so grand. Given the circumstances, this seems like something that was probably built on the spot. Some have suggested that it was literally just rice bales piled on top of one another to create walls, but this hardly seems to justify how it could have been a “sturdy fortress”. Some have suggested that what this really was was some kind of granary, where rice was stored. Again, though, that hardly seems like it would have been an extremely defensible position unless the granaries themselves were situated within some larger enclosure around them.
If they did use rice bales, I would suggest that it may have been a type of quick fill. Used with wooden braces and covered with dirt and stone, I could easily see how rice bales might have been used to provide a quick filler for the walls surrounding Saho Hiko’s position, possibly reinforcing existing walls. This would hardly have been a viable long term strategy—after all, the rice straw would eventually breakdown, with time—but I can see how it may have provided temporary defenses for the people inside.
Whatever the truth of the matter, the evocative image that comes down to us is one of Saho Hime standing at the gate, handing over her son while the flames engulf the castle around her. You have to admit, that would make a pretty good movie poster if one were so inclined.
Now, back to the story. Although Saho Hiko and Saho Hime were out of the picture, just like after Sauron’s defeat in the Return of the King, there were still several plots that had to be tied up. First off, let’s talk about the fate of Saho Hime’s son, the Prince Homutsu Wake.
So apparently the young Homutsu Wake—or possibly Homuji Wake, at least according to Kojiki—grew up in relative comfort as befitted a royal prince. He had a forked tree that was made into a forked boat which the young prince would sail around the ponds that had been made by his father and grandfather. And so he grew older, and he turned into an adult, with a beard some eight spans long. But still, even though he was an adult, he wouldn’t speak, and merely wept and babbled like an infant. Ikume Iribiko could not figure out what was going on with his son.
Psssst! Hey, do you think that it could have had anything to do with the death of his mother and uncle at the hands of his father, as the enclosure they were in burned around them? Maybe? Just spitballing, here.
Of course, concepts like PTSD and the damage of childhood trauma seem to be still a ways in the future, and so Ikume continued to wonder what could be the cause and, perhaps more importantly, was there a cure? Could he find a way to help his son find the power of speech?
Then, one day, as Homutsu Wake was outside playing with his boat, he looked up and saw a swan flying across the sky and he pointed and said to his attendants: “What is that?” Well Ikume Iribiko was thrilled at this news, and he immediately tried to get the Prince to say something more, but the Prince was silent, as though nothing had happened. Try as they might, the court couldn’t get him to say anything. And so Ikume thought it must have been the bird. That was the key, and he sent one of his courtiers to capture it and bring it back. The Kojiki, which has the more detailed version of this story, says that it was Yamanobe no Ohotaka who set out, and we’ll largely follow his story, but in the Nihon Shoki that honor goes to Amano Yukawatana. Yamanobe no Ohotaka must have been quite the tracker, for he followed the swan from the land of Ki east towards Harima, and then again north, across the land of Inaba and on to Tanba and Tajama. He continued to pursue the bird east to the land of Chikatsu Afumi, and then to Mino, and then to Owari, across the land of Shinano, all the way to Koshi. There, at the mouth of a river, he spread out his net and eventually captured the bird, and from there he brought it back with him.
Ikume Iribiko was ecstatic. He had the bird brought to his son, Homutsu Wake, who played with it, but still did not speak. Ikume Iribiko was no doubt crestfallen at this latest development. What more did he have to do? The situation must have seemed hopeless.
Then, in the night, Ikume Iribiko had a dream—the classic kami cold call. A spirit appeared to him, indicating that it was responsible for the prince’s inability to speak, and that if the sovereign were to build the kami a shrine just like his own royal palace, then the Prince would be able to speak. Immediately upon waking up, Ikume Iribiko ordered a divination to be conducted to figure out just who it was that had come to him in the night. The ritual was set up, the scapulae were obtained, and the questions were asked. The bones were then heated until cracks formed in them. The diviners then read the cracks and from that they determined that the kami was none other than the Great God of Izumo, in other words: Ohokuni Nushi, whom I guess had a thing for people building him palatial shrines.
Given that divination, Ikume Iribiko decided to send his son, Prince Homutsu Wake, since he should be the one to worship at the shrine of Izumo. But he couldn’t send him alone, and he ordered another divination to see who should go with him. This time the answer came back that it should be prince Aketatsu no Miko, a grandson of Hiko Imasu. Before Aketatsu left with the royal prince, Homutsu Wake, he did have to pass one test to prove to the sovereign, Ikume Iribiko, that he was the right man for the job. And so Aketatsu looked around, and probably pointed out a nearby pond. He then took an oath—an ukehi—that if they were going to be successful, then the heron in that pond over there would be struck down by the power of his oath. As soon as he spoke the words, the heron fell down, stone dead. Then, because apparently it wasn’t about killing herons, he spoke again: “Live by my oath!”, he said, the heron came back to life. Then, to show it wasn’t just some trick with a trained heron, I guess, he did the same thing to a wide-leaved great oak, withering it and then bringing it back to life.
So he either really meant what he said, or else he was a truly serious magician who was centuries ahead of his time. Either way, Ikume Iribiko figured he could be trusted as the right man for the job.
And so Homutsu Wake, Aketatsu, and one other prince, Unakami, started to make their preparations. First things first, they needed to figure out the best road to take, and since nobody had smart phones, let alone Waze or Google Maps, they decided to once again consult the ancient Japanese equivalent: divination!
Honestly, guys, how many deer shoulders were they going to go through on this trip?
With one more divination, they determined that they couldn’t take the obvious roads. The road north from Miwa to Nara was apparently bad luck, as the was the road towards Ohosaka. They would actually need to leave by the Kii Road, by which it appears they were taking a roundabout path, much as Iware Biko is said to have done when he conquered Yamato in the mythical past.
And so they set out, and apparently had no problems. The exact details of their journey are omitted, other than the initial road they were going to take, but apparently they were able to make their way to the shrine at Izumo. When they were finished worshipping—which, I don’t know, I guess included funding a new shrine? Or at least spiffing up the one that was there? It is still unclear if there even were shrine buildings at this time or if that’s an anachronism, but then this whole story definitely falls on the mythical side of the mytho-historical chronicles.
So anyway, after they finished worshipping at the shrine, they started heading back. On their way, they came to the famous Hi River—remember, that was the one at whose headwaters Susanowo slew the giant eight-headed serpent Yamata no Orochi. Now I don’t know how they crossed it the first time, but apparently to get back across they built a pontoon bridge, which seems a little insane. If it is really just the three of them, why would they build a bridge? There had to b easier ways to get across. But nope, they built a bridge and then they built a temporary palace to stay in, because I don’t think that the royal family really did “roughing it”.
Now I guess it is possible that this was actually Izumo’s doing—that the Izumo no Omi were laying out the red carpet for the Royal Prince, but it all strikes me as rather odd. Could there be more to this story than just the Prince’s inability to speak? Could they have possibly come with a larger entourage, perhaps even an army of some sort? If they did, though, Chronicles don’t say and there is no archaeological evidence of that kind of fighting in western Izumo.
Anyway, regardless of how or why, they built the bridge and the temporary palace, and as they were staying there, Kihisatsumi, an ancestor of the later Izumo no Miyatsuko—the chieftains of Izumo, started to build up mountains of green leaves downstream, which seems to have been a not uncommon practice for marking out sacred space in the old days, at least. There was little remarkable about the activity, per se, but when Prince Homutsu Wake saw it, he spoke up. He said: “That thing looks like a mountain but isn’t a mountain. Could it be the ceremonial place of the priests who worship Ashihara Shikowo no Ohokami in the shrine of Sou at Iwakuma in Izumo?”
Well after his two companions picked their jaws up off the floor, they were overjoyed. They headed back to Ikume Iribiko, who was quite pleased, and he sent Unakami back to build the shrine—one assumes for Ohokuni Nushi.
And that is how Homutsu Wake regained the power of speech. Or at least that is how the Kojiki tells it. The Nihon Shoki is less embellished, and it is simply enough for Homutsu Wake to play with the swan for him to gain the power to speak. It skips the whole incident with Ohokuni Nushi and the trip to Izumo, leaving that out altogether.
Of course it isn’t as if Ikume Iribiko spent his days consumed with his son’s tragic upbringing. At some point after the death of Saho Hime and her brother, Ikume Iribiko did as his wife had suggested, and he sent to Tanba and requested the daughters of Tanba no Hiko Tatatsu Michi no Ushi no Miko. That last part of his name, Michi no Ushi, might also be seen as the equivalent of Michi Nushi—master of the road—a name, or title, we saw back in the account of Jimmu as well, you might recall.
The exact number and names of the daughters seems to vary. In fact the only name that seems fully in agreement is Hibasu Hime, who eventually becomes queen. Otherwise there are three or four other sisters, and while he takes one or two of them to be his consorts, as well, he sends the rest back home because, according to the Chronicles, they were “ugly”. Yeah , I’m willing to believe that this is part of the same royal lineage that we find in the stories of Ninigi no Mikoto and Hiko Hohodemi.
Apparently this rejection was too much for at least one younger sister—who is either named Taka no Hime or Mato no Hime, depending on the source. The rejected sister heads back to Tanba, but she can’t face the shame, and so she decides that her only option is to kill herself. Some say that she threw herself from her vehicle—a carriage or somesuch device, or else she tried to hang herself from a tree.
It is an odd account to include, and may simply be related to the explanation of the name of a local place name, the country of Oto, or Oto Kuni, where they say that “Oto” came from the word to fall or drop—“Ochiru” or “Otosu”. Though I’d also note that one of the sisters was actually named Oto Hime as well, so I have no confidence in this story and its explanation of the placename. I do think that it provides another example of possible marriage politics, connecting Tanba and Yamato. In fact, there are also a lot of descendants of Hiko Imasu, and while the Chronicles make him out to be an imperial descendant, we can’t rule out the idea that this was a later addition, and that he may have been an ancestral figure in Tanba or elsewhere who was then welcomed into the fold to help tidy up the histories without acknowledging potentially competing lineages.
By the way, Hibasu Hime really doesn’t show up much, other than giving birth to the eventual Crown Prince, Oho Tarashi Hiko Oshiro Wake, as well as to a daughter, Yamato Hime, whom we will talk about later in regards to the Grand Shrine at Ise. And then there are various other sons and daughters as well through her, her sisters, or through other consorts that are simply named but play little other role in the story at this time.
As for Hibasu Hime, her next real appearance is when she passes away, and the sovereign builds her mausoleum, which is said to be the first to use Haniwa—but we’ll talk about all that, later.
For now, I just want to make a few comments before closing, and much of that has to do with the formulation of history as myth and legend. We can see in here glimpses of things that could be historical—marriage politics, the siege of a rival fortress, and the areas involved all seem reasonable in what we know so far about this period. Even the divination style fits with the type of divination that we know went on in the archipelago from at least the Yayoi period.
But then there are the fantastical elements. Obviously the kami in the dreams, and heck, even the idea of hunting a swan across the entire archipelago. That’s some next level Warner Brothers style travel montage going on there, and makes me wonder just what was happening; Was there some other meaning to that route?
There are also aspects of these stories that remind me of the mythical stories we heard earlier in the Chronicles. Were these the same story seeds, just with a more historic spin on them? For instance, Homutsu Wake’s birth amidst the “flames” of the conflict—or possibly the literal flames of the Rice Castle—makes me think of the birth of Hiko Hohodemi and his brothers , whose own mother set the building they were in on fire to prove to Ninigi that the sons were actually his. Even the son’s name: HO-mutsu or HO-muchi is said to refer to the “fire” from that conflict. Then there is his infantilization, as he isn’t able to speak, which some have equated with the stories of Susanowo and his constant crying for his dead mother even when his beard was, like Homutsu Wake’s, some eight spans long. Finally, there is the request from the Great God of Izumo—aka Ohokuni Nushi—to build him a palace just like the sovereigns. This is suspiciously like the request Ohokuni Nushi has of Takami Musubi. Could these be related to different versions of the same story, some connected with the human tale of Prince Homutsu Wake and others that were connected with godly myths?
I don’t have any answers, but it is certainly an interesting question, don’t you think? We know that imagery of many of the mythical tales actually comes from some time after this—Kofun were still a type of pit burial, and were not yet constructed as a chamber that one could walk into, as they would be later. So what does that tell us about the age of these stories and when they actually came to be? And how did they change over the years?
It is something to ponder until our next episode. For now, Happy Holidays for all those who are celebrating, and I’ll see you in the new year as we continue with the events of Ikume Iribiko’s reign.
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.
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