Authorizing the Shogunate Brill’S Japanese Studies Library

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Authorizing the Shogunate Brill’s Japanese Studies Library

Edited by Joshua Mostow (Managing Editor) Caroline Rose Kate Wildman Nakai

VOLUME 44

The titles published in this series are listed at brill.com/bjsl Authorizing the Shogunate

Ritual and Material Symbolism in the Literary Construction of Warrior Order

By Vyjayanthi R. Selinger

Leiden • boston 2013 Cover illustration: Scene from the episode “Kiso no saigo no koto” (“The Death of Kiso”) in Nara ehon Heike monogatari (early eighteenth century), Chapter 9. Reproduced with permission from Kokugakuin University Library, Tokyo.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Selinger, Vyjayanthi Ratnam. Authorizing the shogunate : ritual and material symbolism in the literary construction of warrior order / by Vyjayanthi Ratnam Selinger. pages cm. — (Brill’s Japanese studies library ; volume 44) Includes bibliographical references and index. ISBN 978-90-04-24810-6 (hardback : alk. paper) — ISBN 978-90-04-25533-3 (e-book) 1. Heike monogatari—Criticism, Textual. 2. Heike monogatari—Language. 3. Genpei seisuiki—Criticism, Textual. 4. Genpei seisuiki—Language. 5. Japan—History—Gempei Wars, 1180–1185—Literature and the war. I. Title.

PL790.H43S437 2013 895.6’322—dc23 2013019449

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This book is printed on acid-free paper. Contents

Acknowledgements ...... ix Note on Conventions and Texts Used ...... xiii

1 the Genpei jōsuiki and the Historical Narration of the Genpei War ...... 1 The Late Heian World and the Genpei War ...... 2 The Historical Rhetoric of the Genpei jōsuiki ...... 4 Critical Approaches to Historicity in the Heike monogatari ..... 10 The Scripting of Socio-political Order through the Semiotic Codes of Material and Ritual Culture ...... 12 Variants and Textual Lines ...... 17 The Genpei jōsuiki and the Dai Nihonshi ...... 20

2 Fictions of Emergence: The Symbolic Regulation of Violence in the Battles of 1180 ...... 27 The Defiled East and the Unpropitious Beginning of the Genpei War ...... 27 Cleansing and Karmic Rebirth: The Sacralizing Potential of the Bathhouse ...... 31 Dreaming the Body and Soothsaying the Face: The Legible Body in an Arbitrary World ...... 39 The Fukuhara Edict, the Hōjōe, and the Legitimation of Violence ...... 45 Tree Hollows, Boats, and other Fortune-Reviving Spaces: Yoritomo as the Latter-day Emperor Tenmu ...... 53 The Battle of Fuji River and the Reimagining of the Borderlands ...... 60 Punishing Traitors and Awarding Followers: Performing the Birth of a Law-Making Political Body ...... 63 Conclusion ...... 65

3 Gastro-Politics and the Shifting Geography of Medieval Japan: Famine, Feasts, and the Court’s Appointment of a Shogun in 1183 ...... 69 The Material and the Cultural in Food ...... 69 Gallows Humor: Domesticating the Political Challenge of Minamoto Yoshinaka ...... 70 vi contents

Uncourtly Dining Manners in the “Nekoma” Episode: Challenging the Court’s Maintenance of Gastro-Political Order ...... 76 Yoritomo’s Feast in the Heike: Rewriting the Center-Periphery Dichotomy ...... 83 Food and the Shifting Geography of Power: The ‘Warrior Banquet’ Trope in the Konjaku monogatarishū ...... 89 Shogunal Feasts: Power and Pageantry in Medieval Japan .... 97 The Yōwa Famine in Historical Records ...... 100 Conclusion ...... 104

4 Converging and Diverging Doubles in 1185: Sword Replicas and the Locations of Martial Power ...... 107 Sword Symbolism and Political Duality in the Medieval World ...... 107 (Re-)Placing the Imperial Sword in the Medieval World ...... 111 The “Hōken setsuwa” Passage: Atsuta Shrine and the Overlay of Sword Stories ...... 114 Proleptic Visions of New Swords in the Genpei jōsuiki ...... 123 The “Tsurugi no maki”: Bloodline and the Fashioning of Shogunal Genealogy ...... 127 Conclusion ...... 135

5 the Cultural Shift from the Carriage to the Horse: Portending Historical Change ...... 141 Horses amidst Carriages: Turmoil in the Construction of Symbolic Authority ...... 142 Clashing Vehicles in the Streets of Kyoto: Marking Imperial Decline ...... 147 The Horse that Sparked the Genpei War: Absorbing the Unpredictable Eruption of Warrior Violence ...... 151 Ikezuki and Surusumi: Horse Racing (kurabeuma) and the Transformation of War into Sport ...... 154 The Darkness of Horse Narratives in the Konjaku monogatarishū: Violence Rendered Distant ...... 158 Equine Culture and the Logic of Power in Late Heian to Kamakura Japan ...... 163 contents vii

6 the Past in the Present: Troping Warrior Power in the Muromachi and Tokugawa Periods ...... 167 The Uses of the Past: The Founding of Warrior Power in the Retrospection of Later Eras ...... 170

Works Cited ...... 173 Index ...... 185

Acknowledgements

This book is dedicated to the memory of two valued teachers at Cornell University who passed away in the past year, Karen Brazell and Kyoko Selden. Karen was both academic advisor and life coach, and Kyoko was the most generous mentor and insightful listener one could hope for. From my days at Cornell, Brett de Bary remains an inspirational guide, modeling for me intellectual engagement and professional generosity. Likewise, Edwin Cranston and Joan Piggott were incredibly important teachers who showed me how to be faithful to the language and history of medieval Japan. All these mentors deserve much of the credit and none of the blame for this book. Among countless others who provided generous advice during graduate school, Ding Xiang Warner, Daniel Boucher, and Fred Kotas deserve special mention. I have had the good fortune of meeting generous teachers in my second research “home” of Japan. While I was a graduate student, Hyōdō Hiromi of Gakushūin University and Matsuo Ashie of Kokugakuin University invited me into their seminars and generously shared their considerable expertise on the Heike with me. Matsuo Ashie, in particular, has seen this project to the end, providing feedback during critical phases, and arranging for Kokugakuin University Library to share the illustrations included in this book. She also invited me into a research group named Bunka genshō to shite no ‘Genpei jōsuiki’ (The Genpei jōsuiki as a Cultural Phenomenon) she leads, where Sakai Koichi of Sōka University and numerous others provided intellectual support for this project. In Japan, Tagaya Yūko of Kantō Gakuin University, Takagi Makoto of Sagami Women’s University, and Kondō Shigekazu of Tokyo Historiographical Institute are valued col- leagues as well. I also thank Shinoda Tōru of Waseda University for giving me access to Waseda University’s library, where I spent many happy hours researching. The process of reworking early drafts of the book brought me into contact with numerous American scholars who gave generously of their time. Sarah Strong and Elizabeth Oyler provided feedback on a chapter of this manuscript, while Ethan Segal and Susan Klein read larger sections. Susan Matisoff took time out during Christmas vacation to give me astute comments on a substantial selection of this manuscript. A portion of this work was presented at a Tales of Heike workshop organized by Elizabeth Oyler x acknowledgements at the University of Illinois in 2009, and the comments I received from fellow participants there have certainly helped this become a better book. At Bowdoin College, Tom Conlan has been an invaluable colleague, providing detailed feedback on several chapters of this manuscript and giving generously of his books and considerable knowledge of Japanese history. Like Tom, Rachel Sturman, Belinda Kong, and Hilary Thompson have spent many an evening helping me refine my ideas for grant applications, conference presentations, and eventually, the manuscript. Because of the wonderful camaraderie of a campus such as Bowdoin College, col- leagues such as John Holt, Shu-chin Tsui, Henry Laurence, Matt Klingle, Tricia Welsch, Dharni Vasudevan, and Sara Dickey have provided insightful guidance on grant applications and professional development. Natsu Sato and Suzanne Astolfi made the workplace all the more welcoming. Institutional support for this project has been critical to its success. I was awarded Japan Foundation fellowships twice, first during my dissertation year and again during my sabbatical year. Likewise, Bowdoin College has generously supported my research endeavors. At an early stage, the Bowdoin-administered Mellon Foundation Grant for Faculty Development supported a conference I co-organized with Tom Conlan and Roberta Strippoli, granting me an engaged audience that helped me hone this project. My appreciation also extends to the Interlibrary Loan staff at Bowdoin, particularly Guy Saldanha and Jaime Jones, who have enriched this project by securing obscure books I needed. Special thanks are also due to my editors at Brill: Joshua Mostow understood the project’s goals and importance from the start and Patricia Radder provided frequent editorial support. My copy-editor, Amy Newland, has taught me to look at my writing with new eyes. Her fine-grained editing style and eye for rhythm, structure, and flow have improved this manuscript immeasurably. The anonymous review of the manuscript was also very helpful in pointing out errors and offering perceptive advice; all errors remaining in the text, however, are entirely mine. An early version of portions of Chapter 2 was previously published as “The Idiom of Landscape: Bandō in the Narrative Topography of the Genpei War Tales,” in Landscapes Imagined and Remembered, Proceedings of the Association for Japanese Literary Studies, Volume 6 (2005) and is reproduced with permission of the Association for Japanese Literary Studies. Segments of an early version of Chapter 4 were previously published as “The Sword Trope and the Birth of the Shogunate: Historical Metaphors in Muromachi Japan,” in Japanese Language and Literature 43 (2009) and are acknowledgements xi reproduced with permission of the American Association of Teachers of Japanese. The frontispiece and cover images are reproduced with the kind permission of Kokugakuin University Library. My appreciation extends to Yamamoto Takeshi, Post-doctoral Researcher at Kokugakuin University’s Organization for the Advancement of Research and Development for facilitating the permissions process and helping me provide the appropriate credits for the images. An extraordinary number of friends have sustained me through this project. Aparna, my friend of twenty-five years, has patiently listened to every setback and breakthrough in my writing over the last fifteen years. Manisha Kasana, Emi Amemiya, Tomoko Kishi, Yuriko Takahashi, and Ayako Kondo have made me feel at home in Japan every time I traveled there. Friends from graduate seminars in Japan such as Noto Itsuko, Moriuchi Makiha, Sadakata Mieko, and Aoki Yuko provided feedback on Japanese presentations and so much more along the way. At the dissertation stage and beyond, Dan Mckee, Trent Maxey, Lili Selden and Ethan Segal helped me visualize a place for myself in my field. Belinda, Hilary, Rachel, and Paul have shaped the writing and the writer of the project in too many ways to count, both by their inspiring models and by the warmth and commitment of their friendship. Everyone should have a Jason Opal and Holly Buss in their lives; his intellectual generosity and her grounded view of life have steered me these last few years. Thanks also go to Shobha Chetty, Bridget Edmonds, and Gretchen Feiss for supporting me and humoring me as I complained towards the end. The long journey to book was made all the more rewarding by my large family. My mother Radhamani came to the United States from India as often as she could to take care of my children, while my father Balaji encouraged me to keep going at every turn. My brother Badri and sister- in-law Poornima’s enthusiastic support and their own love for learning have been with me the whole way. I am lucky to have had them, for their love for me comes through every day in Skype calls, supportive e-mail messages, and elaborately cooked Indian meals. With my own family far away in India and Canada, my in-laws have been a wonderful source of support. Carl, Barbara, Doug, Rosie, Debbie, and Seth gave me strength, childcare, and joyful hours of doing nothing but chatting around the fire. I think all my family members know how much they mean to me, but it bears repeating anyway. My children have been with this book from the start. To Anjali, whose birth coincided with the completion of my dissertation, you ushered great xii acknowledgements joy into my life because you taught me to find delight in the imaginary worlds you create. To Isaac, who was born in the muddled middle of writing this book, you should know that you recharged me with your humor and enthusiasm. And to Jeff, my husband, for childcare during my writing hours, for reading innumerable versions of these chapters, for pep talks, for laughter, and for love, I owe you my deepest thanks. Note on Conventions and Texts Used

The study of the Heike monogatari involves a comparative reading of its many variants. Though this book does not engage the dating or evolution of textual lines, essential bibliographic information about the variants themselves or their modern scholarly editions is provided where appropriate, either in the body of the prose or in footnotes. Variant texts of the Heike monogatari often include “Heike monogatari” in their title, as in the Kakuichibon Heike monogatari. One of the key variants taken up in this book, however, has a completely different name, Genpei jōsuiki. To ensure consistency, all variant names are italicized and treated as if they are part of the title of the work. After the first mention here and in chapter 1, the Heike monogatari is abbreviated to the Heike, as are the variants to their individual variant names. Thus, this book will refer to the Kakuichibon Heike monogatari simply as Kakuichibon. Variants are classified, as discussed in chapter 1, in two major variant lines, yomihon and kataribon. The classificatory term yomihon is not to be confused with the similar sounding yomihon genre of vernacular fiction of the early modern period. For the Kakuichibon, I have followed volumes 32 and 33 of the Nihon koten bungaku taikei edition of the Heike monogatari, which is based on the Ryūkoku Daigakubon manuscript. Because this text is widely known in English-language scholarship through Helen Craig McCullough’s translation The Tale of the Heike, footnotes, where appropriate, cross-reference this translation. This will allow the reader to consult other scholarly works that cite this translation, even though an esteemed new translation appeared in 2013. Unless specifically noted, all other translations from passages are mine. To help readers, volume (maki or “scroll”) and episode numbers of stories from the Heike monogatari and other story collections are provided, for example, as “Book 6, no. 6.” Translated titles of individual episodes are placed within double quotation marks, as are their italicized counterparts in Japanese. Romanization of variant names follows the current scholarly consensus. Thus, for example, while bibliographic entries on databases such as Webcat may refer to the Engyōbon as Enkeibon or Enkyōbon, both my prose and bibliographic entries cite the preferred usage of Engyōbon. Likewise, I consistently allude to the last major variant as the Genpei xiv note on conventions and texts used jōsuiki, though, again, bibliographic records on databases cite it as Genpei seisuiki. Serious interest in the Genpei jōsuiki has emerged only in the last decade, and though an annotated scholarly edition is being produced by the publisher Miyai Shoten, only six volumes have been completed to date. I cite, instead, the Genpei jōsuiki text annotated in six volumes by Mizuhara Hajime, which was compiled from several manuscripts of the Sankō Genpei jōsuiki. Because this study is concerned with how the Heike portrays historical events, it provides dates for historical events and figures using the Gregorian calendar. This will allow readers to engage how the fictional world of the Heike treats historical developments in a way that is distinct from our modern scholarly understanding. Occasionally, I refer to historical accounts written during the period, and when I do so, I follow the dating used by the source itself. Thus, if the entry in a particular courtier diary uses the Japanese era name (nengō), my discussion will accordingly note the date of the entry as Japanese calendar year/month/day. Ceremonies and rituals such as the Hōjōe, which form an important thread in this book, are capitalized and italicized. Likewise, names of Japanese governmental divisions are capitalized in English and the corresponding Japanese division name is provided within parentheses. The Japanese terms for heads of state, tennō and hōō, are translated as “Emperor” and “Retired Emperor,” respectively. In keeping with the focus of the book on broad historical shifts rather than the influence of any particular sovereign, dates provided after the names of heads of state are birth and death dates, rather than regnal spans. Figure 1. Enpō hachinenban Genpei jōsuiki (1680), volume 19. Illustration of the monk Mongaku viewing Minamoto Yoritomo from various angles for face-reading. See chapter 2, pp. 37–38 for a translation and discussion of this scene. Reproduced with permission from Kokugakuin University Library, Tokyo. Figure 2. Enpō hachinenban Genpei jōsuiki (1680), volume 21. Illustration of Minamoto Yoritomo taking refuge in the hollow of a tree. See chapter 2, pp. 54–60 for a discussion of the tree cavity as a space associated with novel historical trajectories. Reproduced with permission from Kokugakuin University Library, Tokyo. Chapter One

The Genpei jōsuiki and the Historical Narration of the Genpei War

On the second month of the first year of Hōgen, a rebellion broke out in the Japanese realm, and from this moment the age of the warrior began. (Jien, 1221) As the Japanese court thinker Jien (1155–1225) observed in the political history Gukanshō (1221), the latter half of the twelfth century was a period of historical turmoil. Three conflicts—the Hōgen Rebellion (1156), the Heiji Rebellion (1159–1160), and the Genpei War (1180–1185)—shook the polity as numerous elite and non-elite institutional players, including emperors and retired emperors, temples and shrines, military aristocrats and local strongmen, jockeyed for power. The last of these conflicts, the Genpei War, led to the birth of the shogunate, or government run by warriors. The historical record shows that the emergence of warrior power was the culmination of two centuries of institutional and social change. Yet, the hundred-odd variant texts of the Heike monogatari (Tales of the Heike; hereafter Heike) imagine a world at a critical turning point. As imperial authority declines in this world, bitterly opposed religious and political factions plunge the realm into war; peace returns to the realm only after the timely intervention of the future shogun Minamoto Yoritomo. Echoing Jien’s remark about epochal shift, the Heike presents the transition from a courtly era to the musa no yo (age of the warrior) as a fait accompli. These tales, though begun around Jien’s time, were completed during the fourteenth century as new political struggles were unfolding. In 1336, for example, the warrior Ashikaga Takauji (1305–1358) drove out the sitting Emperor Go-Daigo (1288–1339) from the capital of Kyoto to establish the Muromachi shogunate. For the next sixty years of the Nanbo kuchō (Northern and Southern Courts, 1336–1392) period, the shogunate remained at the helm of a polity divided between the Northern court established by Ashikaga Takauji and the Southern court established by his rival Go-Daigo. The political turmoil of the fourteenth century functioned as a crucible for the creation of multiple accounts of shogunal rule in texts such as the Baishōron (Discourse of Plums and Pines, 1352–1388) and 2 chapter one

Gen’ishū (Tales of Minamoto Authority, 1387–1389), and painting scrolls like the Gosannen kassen emaki (Illustrated Tale of the Latter Three Years War, 1347), Yasuhira seibatsu-e (Illustrated Tale of the Defeat of Yasuhira, 1359?), and Suwa daimyōjin ekotoba (Suwa Shrine Scroll, 1356) (see chapter 6 of this volume). In many of these texts, the twelfth-century past became a foundational moment—an origin imbued with significance—from which subsequent Japanese history could be narrated. The impulse to re-narrate the Genpei War in the Heike was an integral part of this historiographical enterprise, designed to provide shape to a chaotic past such that it legitimated the present and underwrote a future for shoguns. The Heike corpus is thus frequently characterized as the ‘charter myth of warrior order.’ To scholars who read the English translation of the Heike, this aphorism has always been confusing, since the canonical Kakuichibon variant (1371) does very little to valorize the first shogun Minamoto Yoritomo. More critically, readers lack an understanding of the iconography used to narrate this historic shift. This book tackles our misconception of Yoritomo’s small textual footprint by showing that the mythicization of warrior power is clearest in the last and longest variant, the Genpei jōsuiki (late fourteenth c.). I suggest, by extension, that the twelfth-century past was subject to ongoing interpretation in the retrospective glance of the Heike corpus, creating ever more detailed accounts of shogunal power. With respect to the second problem—that of the iconographic construction of warrior power—I contend that the Heike incorporates symbolic frames rooted in ritual and material culture to contain violence, and to evoke social and political order. These frames, often overlooked when the text is treated as an autonomous whole, reveal that texts coexist with a range of phenomena that form a culture’s signifi- cative systems. The rituals, customs, and objects taken up in this study are not “deposits” of an anterior historical reality; they are expressive devices through which historical change is explained. These symbolic strategies, alternately celebratory and domesticating, reveal that the scripting of shogunal power in the Heike corpus was not just concerned with the legitimation of a new polity, as the term ‘charter myth’ might indicate. Writing about warrior power was equally about domesticating and regulating warrior violence.

The Late Heian World and the Genpei War

Fictional portrayals of the Genpei War frequently dramatize the conflict as the settling of scores between two families, the Taira and the the genpei jōsuiki and historical narration 3

Minamoto, who had been vying for power during the latter half of the Heian period (794–1192).1 One might say that the title of the Genpei jōsuiki (The Chronicle of the Rise and Fall of the Taira and Minamoto Families) foregrounds this very idea. This rivalry plot, though historically inaccu- rate, is potent in narratives because it explains away destabilizing historical events as by-products of long-standing competitive urges. As the brief historical summary that follows illustrates, military men from these families played a significant role in the conflicts of the twelfth century, but they did so in pursuit of power not commitment to ancestral rivalry. Though literary texts amplify the two-family feud, the wars of the twelfth century are better understood as a series of political realignments brought about by a network of actors and institutions. The first of these tumults was the Hōgen Rebellion, a conflict sparked by a dispute in imperial succession. In this clash, Taira Kiyomori (1118–1181) and Minamoto Yoshitomo (1123–1160), two military men from purportedly rival families, shrewdly defended the reigning emperor Go-Shirakawa (1127–1192) against his challengers. Four years later, however, Yoshitomo was disgruntled by the larger share of rewards handed to Kiyomori. When he raised arms in the Heiji Rebellion, Minamoto Yoshitomo was joined by other politically disaffected figures at court, but was crushed in less than a month. In the lore of Japanese literature, Kiyomori was now the hegemon, having defeated all competitors. But it was not for long. A mere twenty years later, Minamoto Yoritomo (1147–1199), Yoshitomo’s son, rose up to challenge him in the Genpei War. A child at the time of the previous conflicts, Yoritomo had been spared from death by Kiyomori and sent into exile. When another disgruntled political figure, Prince Mochihito (1151–1180), sent out the call of arms to topple Kiyomori, Yoritomo dutifully obeyed by galvanizing the support of warriors in eastern Japan. Kiyomori tried to suppress the outlaws as he had done earlier, but mid-way through the war he lost the support of the by then Retired Emperor Go-Shirakawa. In a shrewd shift of allegiances, Go-Shirakawa backed the rebel Yoritomo

1 The Genpei War is named using the Sino-Japanese renderings of these family names, Genji (for the Minamoto) and Heishi (for the Taira). Both families were founded in the ninth century with the practice of dynastic shedding, as offspring of the imperial family were given surnames and made ineligible for imperial succession. In this practice, a scion born to Emperor Saga (786–842) or to any of his successors was given the name Mina- moto, and likewise, those descended from Emperor Kanmu (737–806) were called Taira. To a great extent, the cohesive idea of a lineage is entirely retrospective. The Ashikaga shoguns, for example, fostered the idea of the Minamoto line of martial men during their heyday in power. 4 chapter one and instructed him to restore peace. Between 1183 and 1185, Yoritomo’s forces drove the Taira away from Kyoto, eventually sending them fleeing into the sea at Dannoura, where many of them drowned. One can appreciate how the dramatic political resurgence of the Minamoto family came to be preferred as the fictional leitmotif for the Genpei War, for it gave these messy political struggles an explanatory structure. The familial reasoning was also convenient for the fourteenth-century Ashikaga leaders, for they could claim descent and legitimacy as “Minamoto shoguns.” From a broader historical standpoint, the war’s larger significance lay in Yoritomo’s rechanneling of hostility among provincial warriors. By promising them land and jobs when he won, Yoritomo assured the loyalty of warriors who wanted to topple their regional rivals. After he concluded the Genpei War, he rewarded these warriors by appointing them as jitō (land stewards who collected taxes) or shugo (constables responsible for keeping order province-wide) working for the new shogunate he founded in Kamakura. Yoritomo thus formalized the authority he had gained over warriors during the war through these administrative posts, cementing his status as overlord of warriors and a reliable peacekeeper for the throne. The founding of the shogunate signaled both Yoritomo’s tacit acknowledgment of the throne’s authority, as well as his sizable claim to administrative powers, particularly as they related to warriors. Even though the historical path to the establishment of the shogunate was marked with contingency and complexity, the Genpei War is portrayed in the Heike corpus as the conflict in which fading imperial authority gave way to rule by shoguns. Following the war, the texts suggest, disastrous warfare was transformed into the profitable use of force by military rulers.

The Historical Rhetoric of the Genpei jōsuiki

The rhetoric of the Genpei jōsuiki as it tackles these political changes evokes both its historical and narrative stance. At the height of the political crisis in the capital in 1183, a rakusho (satirical verse) is posted on the gate of the Retired Emperor Go-Shirakawa’s mansion, mocking his humiliating defeat at the hands of the upstart warrior Minamoto Yoshinaka (1154–1184). This humor is balanced by censorious commentary: Swapping the red fabric for a cloth band in white, he ties it around his aching head, this junior novice [konyūdō] the genpei jōsuiki and historical narration 5

Someone said, “Who are these people who make light of the happenings in this disordered world (ranse)?”2 In its alternating playfulness and seriousness, this excerpt captures the flavor of the Genpei jōsuiki. Alone among the Heike variants to model itself as a “historical chronicle,” the Genpei jōsuiki has a rhetorical style that scholars call “commentary-like.”3 The lampoon left on the gate captures the weak position of imperial power in 1183: Go-Shirakawa, sensing changing political winds, forsakes the long-standing support of the Taira family (associated with the color red) for the support of Minamoto warriors (associated with white), a decision that brings on new political headaches. Scathingly critical of the Retired Emperor’s flip-flopping and kowtowing politics, the satirical verse also pithily recapitulates the historical movement implied in the title of the work Genpei jōsuiki—the conveyance of the reins of power from the Taira to the Minamoto family. In the disap- proving comment that follows this scribble, the narrator of the Genpei jōsuiki borrows an anonymous person’s voice to condemn irresponsible characterizations of historical tumult. The narrative world of the Genpei jōsuiki, as this excerpt suggests, is presented as serious and careful. Like the anonymous commentator who stands at a remove from the scribble and chides flippant accounts of political change, the Genpei jōsuiki styles itself as a meticulously considered re-iteration of the happenings in a “disordered world.”4 Throughout the Genpei jōsuiki, just as in the excerpt above, the narrator brings together multiple sources of both sober and humorous commentary, drawing from court diaries and temple records, as well as Chinese histories and Japanese chronicles. The result is an historical narrative that is acutely aware of the “disordered world” and of the rhetoric that will best represent it.5

2 Mizuhara Hajime, ed., Shintei Genpei jōsuiki, vol. 4 (Tokyo: Shin Jinbutsu Ōraisha, 1990), 233–34. 3 The suffix in the title of the text (-ki) is a transtextual marker of genre that self- consciously locates the text within other medieval discourses concerned with telling history. Yamashita Hiroaki notes a proliferation of texts touting their historical texture in the medieval period. See Yamashita Hiroaki, Ikusa monogatari no katari to hihyō (Kyoto: Sekai Shisōsha, 1997), 5–6. 4 For more about the disordered world that preoccupies the writers of the Genpei jōsuiki, see Higuchi Daisuke, “Ranse no rekishi jojutsu to warai: Genpei jōsuiki ni okeru kaisaku ni tsuite,” Bungaku 3, no. 4 (2002): 73–85. 5 For a perspective that suggests that the rhetoricity of the text is seen as a necessary means to fill “a political void,” see Sunagawa Hiroshi, “Genpei jōsuiki no hōhō to setsuwa (ge),” Bungaku 49, no. 7 (1981): 90. 6 chapter one

“The sound of the Gion Shōja bells echoes the impermanence of all things.”6 This fabled opening line of the Heike posits decline, decay, and impermanence as a fundamental Buddhist truth, and commentators frequently discuss this vision of an ephemeral world in the Heike corpus. This transience, understood as inevitable for living things, is reframed as a political truth in the very next line with the words: “the color of the sālā flowers reveals the truth that the prosperous must decline.”7 This latter idea of jōsha hissui (the inevitable decline of the powerful) is given explicit thematic significance in the contraction jōsui (rise and fall) in the title Genpei jōsuiki (The Chronicle of the Rise and Fall of the Taira and Minamoto Families.) Its title evokes political shifts, and its chapters, numbered with successive syllables from a famed Heian poem about change, underscore a waxing and waning in politics.8 Concerned with describing political change, the Genpei jōsuiki also validates its own interpretation of history. One way it does so is through the use of aphorisms, a rhetorical strategy that makes its interpretation of events emblematic of larger truths. Consider, for example, the aphorism “mushimono ni aite koshigarami” (to throw one’s weight around a weaker warrior), an expression used in the Genpei jōsuiki during the tense political atmosphere of 1170. The event that sparks the turmoil is an attack on the carriage of the regent Fujiwara Motofusa (1145–1230) by warriors in the retinue of Taira Kiyomori, a clash that, in turn, forces the imperial court to cancel the capping ceremony (kakan no gi) of the Emperor Takakura (1161–1181). To capture this disorderly world, the Genpei jōsuiki features an unusual scene the day after the incident that relies on a series of verbal and visual puns that revolve around a prop (tsukurimono) placed in front of Kiyomori’s residence. In the diorama, a lay monk (hōshi) stares at a pot in front of him as it sends steam into the air (to evoke mushimono or “steamed vegetables”); his upper body attire is wrapped around his waist

6 Helen Craig McCullough, trans., The Tale of the Heike (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1988), 23. 7 Ibid. 8 Translated, the iroha poem reads, “Though the color be brilliant, it is sure to fade on everything. Who in this world lasts forever? Crossing the distant mountain of illusion, I will see no more futile dreams, nor will I be intoxicated.” The poem speaks of (a poet’s realization) of impermanence. But what makes the poem unique is that it uses the forty-seven kana without repeating any of them, making it a favored mnemonic device for learning Japanese kana from around 1079. In selecting these syllables for chapter numbering, the writer(s) of the Genpei jōsuiki were thus making a choice that was at once pragmatic and symbolic. For more on this perspective, see Kuroda Akira, “Heike monogatari to chūshaku,” in Chūsei setsuwa no bungakushiteki kankyo zoku (Osaka: Izumi Shoin, 1995), 218–19. the genpei jōsuiki and historical narration 7

(to evoke koshigarami or “knotted around the waist”).9 As puzzled onlook- ers wonder what the scene evokes, Kiyomori’s sagely son Shigemori inter- prets the tableau with the aforementioned popular saying “mushimono ni aite koshigarami,” pointing to the derision directed toward his family because of their impudence in taking up arms against the regent. From a narratological standpoint, the use of an aphorism here illuminates a complicated set of events through one expression; in turn, this narrative technique assures that the interpretation is underwritten by the pithy wisdom of the aphorism. Narrative and interpretation thus mutually rein- force each other, performing the validity of the text’s authority.10 Nearly two to three times as long as the other Heike variants, and precisely because of its incorporation of numerous sources, the Genpei jōsuiki is called an “exhaustive compendium.”11 Its stance as a text that revisits prior interpretations has led scholars to hypothesize a process of compilation in which prior Heike variants were consulted, with some saying that it “drinks in and incorporates” the viewpoints of earlier variants, giving them new shape.12 Though research is ongoing regarding the precise dating of the Genpei jōsuiki and its entanglements with related texts, it is widely considered a late variant and quite possibly the last of the extant versions. As the twelfth-century past of the Genpei War is rescripted in the two to three centuries that follow, the Genpei jōsuiki positions itself as an authoritative interpretation, styling itself as the ‘chronicle’ that will stand above—interpret and mediate between—the accounts that came before it. The reception history of the Genpei jōsuiki suggests that its meticulous- ness appealed to later readers. In 1657, Tokugawa Mitsukuni (1628–1700), the lord of Mito domain and an avid reader of history, ordered the compilation of an encyclopedic compendium of Japanese history, the Dai Nihonshi (The Great History of Japan, 1657–1909). Inflected by Confucian rhetoric governing the mandate of rulers and patterned along the lines of Chinese dynastic histories, the Dai Nihonshi was an elaborate political history that covered over three hundred works. When selecting from the texts about the twelfth-century Genpei War, the compilers turned to the

9 Mizuhara, ed., Shintei Genpei jōsuiki, vol. 1 (1988), 160. 10 The Engyōbon includes a scene like this, but it is more parodic in its structure. The Genpei jōsuiki focuses, by contrast, on the interpretation of the aphorism, giving it a commentarial flavor. For this observation, see Komine Kazuaki, Setsuwa no gensetsu: chūsei no hyōgen to rekishi jojutsu (Tokyo: Shinwasha, 2002), 330–32. 11 See Matsuo Ashie, Heike monogatari ronkyū (Tokyo: Meiji Shoin, 1985), 114. 12 See Atsumi Kaoru, Heike monogatari no kisoteki kenkyū (Tokyo: Sanseidō, 1962), 159. 8 chapter one

Genpei jōsuiki and composed an edition called the Sankō Genpei jōsuiki (The Annotated Genpei Jōsuiki, completed 1731).13 In their notes, the anno- tators assiduously point out where the stories in the Genpei jōsuiki are apocryphal; they also indicate where its dates do not tally with other sources such as the Azuma kagami (Mirror of the East, 1264–1306?), a record of the shogunate likely penned by its scribes. The Sankō Genpei jōsuiki is a testament to the commitment of Mito historians to cull through various sources to produce careful historical knowledge. It is also a reminder of the ways in which fourteenth-century war tales continued to be vital to the historiographical imagination of the Tokugawa period, helping to explain the nature of their own polity and society.14 Despite the cultural importance of the Genpei jōsuiki, little is known about its political vision. Scholarship in Japanese turned to the Genpei jōsuiki in earnest only during the 1990s. Likewise, English-language books on the Heike have hitherto focused on the Engyōbon (1309) and the well- known Kakuichibon, the only variant available in English translation.15

13 For more on the process of compilation, see Kurakazu Masae, “ ‘Sankō Genpei jōsuiki’ hensan jijō,” Ningen kagaku kenkyū 7 (2010): 300–302. The first draft of the Sankō Genpei jōsuiki was produced in 1702, a version that is now preserved as the Shiseki shūranbon. Editing continued for another three decades. The final version was presented to the shogunate in 1731, and this version is known as the Naikaku bunkobon. 14 For more on how Tokugawa-period historians looked back to medieval texts to highlight their own “moral inheritance” and history, see I. J. McMullen, “Ashikaga Takauji and Fourteenth-Century Dynastic Schism in Early Tokugawa Thought,” in The Origins of Japan’s Medieval World, ed. Jeffrey P. Mass (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1997), 333–38. 15 The Kakuichibon is so named because it was dictated by the leader of the Ichikata school of professional singers, Akashi no Kakuichi, some three months before his death in 1371. Surviving manuscripts are all later copies of this 1371 original, but carry a colophon stating that they are true transcriptions, “not missing even a single character.” Though the Kakuichi text is dated to 1371, some form of it was probably in existence by 1340, the year for which we have a record of Kakuichi performing the story. For a discussion of the canonization of the Kakuichi text, see David T. Bialock, “Nation and Epic: The Tale of Heike as Modern Classic,” in Inventing the Classics: Modernity, National Identity, and Japanese Literature, ed. Haruo Shirane and Tomi Suzuki (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 2000), 151–78. The Engyōbon is sometimes also referred to as the Enkyōbon, so named because it was copied during the Enkyō era (1308–1311). To avoid confusion with the homophonous, later Enkyō era (1744–1748) of the Tokugawa period, scholars have recently begun to call it the Engyōbon. The dating of the Engyōbon has been debated in recent years. The surviving eight copies bear colophons dating to Ōei 26/Ōei 27 (1419–1420). These Ōei copies state that they are exact reproductions of an original text produced during the Enkyō years. Most scholars follow the affidavit of the copyist and posit that this is the oldest surviving variant. Recently Sakurai Yōko has cast some doubt on this dating, arguing that the copyist may have done more than faithfully transcribe; he may, in fact, have added several narrative segments, culling from other variants. See Sakurai Yōko, “Heike monogatari the genpei jōsuiki and historical narration 9

As the term ‘variant’ suggests, the Heike is a corpus of texts that is plotted along similar lines, often using similar scenes and settings. Beyond that, however, variancy in the Heike texts can mean significant differences in character figuration, as well as considerable divergence in the telling of the cause and the unfolding of historical events. As Elizabeth Scala has observed of medieval English texts, variancy is how we should understand medieval textual culture, abandoning our cherished notion of a unitary text whose meanings can be fixed. She shows that medieval manuscript texts cite other texts or remain strikingly silent about prior narratives; in so doing, they function as “historical mises en abyme,” representing in miniature “the complex play of narrative forces and relations that characterize manuscript culture.”16 An analysis of the complex play of narrative forces, or the structural use of “absent narratives” to fuel new narratives, as suggested by Scala’s research, would involve a lengthy comparison between variants, something that is eschewed in this publication. Unlike Scala, who examines available medieval English manuscripts, we cannot ascertain how the fourteenth-century Genpei jōsuiki looked because the earliest extant texts date from the late sixteenth century. Instead, the treatment of the Genpei jōsuiki in this study functions to historicize notions of textual unity in academic literary discourse, while indicating that medieval literary texts naturally “replicate the means of their production,” frequently evoking the presence of prior texts as they demonstrate their own textuality.17 In the sections of this chapter that follow, I provide a short overview of recent scholarly approaches and then outline my own conceptual framework focused on the historical imagination of the Heike. Using brief examples from the subsequent chapters in this publication, I illustrate how ritual and material culture studies offer literary critics a fresh way to discover the political and social concerns of texts. I then describe the classificatory schema conventionally deployed in studying variants so as to situate the texts used in this study. Finally, I discuss the status of the Genpei jōsuiki in the Tokugawa period as a text about shogunal history, an aspect of reception history that has sparked scholarly interest in the historical imagination of the Heike corpus.

no shosha katsudō: Engyō shoshabon to Ōei shoshabon to no aida,” Shōnan bungaku 16, no. 1 (2003): 63–67. 16 Elizabeth Scala, Absent Narratives, Manuscript Textuality, and Literary Structure in Late Medieval England (New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2002), 8–9. 17 Ibid., 204. 10 chapter one

Critical Approaches to Historicity in the Heike monogatari

The historical veracity of the Genpei jōsuiki has been debated since the earliest scholarly endeavours. Take, for example, the 1901 article by the prominent Meiji historian Hoshino Tadashi entitled “The Heike monogatari and Genpei jōsuiki Are Full of Errors,” in which the author states, “We will make many errors if we trust these texts, use them interchangeably with records and documents of the court and the shogunate, and treat them as the basis of our historical writings.”18 Hoshino notes that the Genpei jōsuiki diverges significantly from the Azuma kagami and the Gyokuyō, a political diary penned by the court’s liaison to the shogunate, Kujō Kanezane (1149–1207). Significantly, all of Hoshino’s “corrections” revolve around the depiction of the circumstances of either Yoritomo’s uprising in 1180 or the Jōkyū War of 1221, suggesting that for him it was important to disarticulate the telling of political authority from the authority that the recounting seemed to possess. This aspect of authoritative storytelling—the rhetorical power a text gains by depicting the ordering of the historical and narrative world—is taken up in this book. For instance, chapter 2 considers how the establishment of Yoritomo’s shogunate in the Genpei jōsuiki becomes the source for later narratives that recount political founding. This, I explain, is the salutary metatextual effect of ordering the historical world. The establishment of authority in the text becomes metatextually associated with textual authority per se, impressing later readers who use the text to validate their own accounts. The historicity of the Heike texts, frequently topicalized in Japanese scholarship over the last forty years, has been recently taken up in English in two books. Elizabeth Oyler’s Swords, Oaths, and Prophetic Visions considers orality in the Heike corpus as both medium and message. She argues that stories of the Genpei War circulated through oral performative genres; weaving the oral medium into the very fabric of narratives, these stories also metatextually emphasized oral acts (such as prophesies and oaths) as ways to untangle historical threads. Taking up narratives drawn from both textual and performative traditions, Oyler also demonstrates the permeability of the boundary separating the oral and the written, as

18 The 1901 article is reprinted in an edited series of writings of the Meiji period. See Hoshino Tadashi, “‘Heike monogatari’ ‘Genpei jōsuiki’ wa gobyū ōshi,” in Meiji shi ronshū 2, vol. 78 of Meiji bungaku zenshū, ed. Matsushima Eiichi (Tokyo: Chikuma Shobō, 1976), 62–67. the genpei jōsuiki and historical narration 11 whole narrative segments are transported verbatim from written texts into orally performed pieces.19 Her book thus suggests that Heike tales were circulated in a wide variety of media and provided “narrative frame- works for interpreting history” that were shared broadly by the community, regardless of their level of literacy. Approaching historicity from a different perspective, David T. Bialock’s Eccentric Spaces, Hidden Histories traces the link between the historical imagination of the Heike and medieval ideas of spatiality and textuality. Bialock traces a recurring concern in the Heike texts with the borders of the state (the distant Japanese island of Kikaigashima and further still, China) and border figures (marginal figures such as the kebiishi, or police officers, and biwa hōshi, or blind lute players). Noticing a shift in the notion of peripheries in late Heian Japan, he argues that the border was “no longer something that strictly demarcated inside from outside; instead it was rein- vested with ambiguous powers as the privileged site of transformations.”20 In the same way that these heterotopic (border) spaces helped consti- tute the center in new ways, the late Heian world also saw the growth of heterodox narratives of gossip that were woven into orthodox narrative histories. Though Bialock’s analysis is mainly concerned with how royal authority is revivified through these new intersections between orthodox/ heterodox and central/peripheral, he also considers how texts of the Heike reflect this shifting spatial and narrative imaginary. This publication builds on this growing interest in the ideological imagination of the Heike corpus to tackle a hitherto un-discussed, yet crucial, link between texts and ideology: the role of material and ritual cultures as communicative systems that articulate structures of power.21 This book

19 See Elizabeth Oyler, Swords, Oaths, and Prophetic Visions: Authoring Warrior Rule in Medieval Japan (Honolulu: University of Hawai‘i Press, 2006), 28. 20 David T. Bialock, Eccentric Spaces, Hidden Histories: Narrative, Ritual, and Royal Authority from the Chronicles of Japan to The Tale of the Heike, Asian Religions & Cultures (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 2007), 244. 21 My summary of recent critical approaches does not include many other fine works on the Heike that have examined issues other than historicity. Paul Varley, for example, has examined how the warrior ethos in these tales is represented in key battle scenes. Barbara Arnn’s work has looked at how Kiyomori is remembered in a host of medieval texts, including the Heike. Finally, through his use of narratology, Michael Watson has brought attention to bear on the ways in which focalization plays a critical role in organizing history in the Kakuichibon. Michael Watson is also the editor of a recent translation of the Heike, an indispensable resource for scholars. See Varley, Warriors of Japan as Portrayed in the War Tales (Honolulu: University of Hawai‘i Press, 1994); Barbara Louise Arnn, “Medieval Fiction and History in the Heike Monogatari Story Tradition” (PhD diss., 12 chapter one will demonstrate that warrior power is naturalized in the Heike because martial authority has been authenticated—and its violence managed— by the social and political codes that ritual and material culture underwrite. With this particular focus, I uncover within the corpus a historical function that it has been assigned from without. Hyōdō Hiromi notes, for example, that the Heike texts were ideologically appropriated as accounts of shogunal history by the Ashikaga.22 Using a wider angle than other scholars by including the last variant, the Genpei jōsuiki, this study considers, instead, how warrior power is legitimated by representational mechanisms in the text. I focus on key turning points in the war—the beginning in 1180, the fraught midpoint in 1183, its conclusion in 1185, and looping back, the tense rumblings of the 1170s—to reveal the symbolic conventions drawn from ritual and material culture used to depict this shift. In doing so, I place literary texts back into the spheres of the political and the social, domains from which the aesthetic valuation of “literary” isolates them.

The Scripting of Socio-political Order through the Semiotic Codes of Material and Ritual Culture

In literary texts, the symbolic meanings of material objects are frequently considered external to the narrative’s movement. Objects, goods, and material practices are seen either as props or as “deposits” of an anterior historical reality. In this line of reasoning, material culture forms one of the ways in which literary texts reflect their historical context. Objects such as horses and swords, for example, are sometimes uncritically assumed to be merely a part of warrior culture. This type of reflection theory is not only problematic because it presumes that texts mirror a knowable (unrecon- structed) historical context, but because it devalues non-linguistic signs as having no signifying potential. However, as recent developments in material culture studies have highlighted, objects are part of a semiotic

Indiana University, 1984); and Michael Watson, “A Narrative Study of the Kakuichi-bon Heike Monogatari” (PhD diss., University of Oxford, 2003). 22 See Hyōdō Hiromi, Heike monogatari no rekishi to geinō (Tokyo: Yoshikawa Kōbunkan, 2000), 9. He shows that the Ashikaga shoguns played an active role in the patronage of Heike performance guilds and that they maintained figural custody over one of the variants. the genpei jōsuiki and historical narration 13 language, possessing both functional and symbolic meanings in culture. Objects are “communicative” icons or indices, producing a conceptual world in which societies organize themselves through the creation of hierarchies (of class or social positioning).23 At the same time, the symbolic potential of objects is not static because disadvantaged groups can appropriate objects to fashion new group identities and forge alternative accounts of power. Attentive to how objects are linked to relations of power and to the articulation of social and political capital, the insights of material culture studies offer literary critics a way to understand the socio-political concerns of narrative. Food, for example, functions as a social code in the Heike narrative. It posits distinctions between courtly and barbarian, warrior and aristocrat, regulating social relations precisely at the moment at which these ordered hierarchies are being overturned by the rise of warrior power. Banquet narratives, accordingly, do not just mark the social or historical background; stories of food instead take into account the cultural categories of social life and utilize them to produce socio-political order. Like food practices, the horse often becomes a marker for the non- discursive truth that lies outside of the text, as a reflection of warrior life in which the animal played a central role. This book, by contrast, considers the horse as a discursive construction, a representational space within which the cultural and historical tensions of the rise of the warrior can be negotiated. The horse appears early on in the Heike during a scene involving a clash with an aristocratic carriage, a vehicle whose codified use was tied to the articulation of rank in court society. The Heike thus subtly suggest a historical shift in which the carriage will be displaced by the steed. The horse-borne warrior does not, however, threaten the stability of the polity because his own combative energies are fruitfully redirected, cir- culating safely in the rule-governed sport of horseracing or the smaller scale rivalries over the possession of a fine horse. Much like the figurative potential of food, utilized in the text to maintain order, horses function in the text to contain the unpredictable energies associated with warriors.

23 Carl Knappet, “Networks of Meaning: A Sociosemiotics of Material Culture,” in Think- ing Through Material Culture: An Interdisciplinary Perspective (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2005), 85–105. 14 chapter one

Material culture thus offers a way to demonstrate a link between literature and society without a simplistic assumption that literature reflects social realities. It does so by calling attention to the norms and power relations that objects help express, and to the cultural codes that texts also utilize to provide coherence and order to historical change. In this book, ritual culture offers a complementary framework for situating how Heike texts represent the dramatic shifts of the twelfth century. The term “ritual” is invoked in many scholarly contexts borrowing, for example, from Victor Turner’s concept of ritual drama or Catherine Bell’s concept of ritualization as strategic social behavior. Broadly speaking, functionalist understandings hold that rituals perpetuate social structure by reproducing it in ceremonial contexts, while more dynamic models invest ritual actions with the ability to foster social change by allowing participants to create anti-structure (such as in a carnival) or generate alternate meanings for their strategically orchestrated behavior. Within the pages of literary texts, as Mieke Bal notes, ritual becomes one of many ways in which texts “make meaning.” According to Bal, texts may serve the same ends as ritual, by having the “exorcizing effect” on readers that some rituals possess; they may, alternatively, “strengthen the community” by the expulsion of a scapegoat figure. Texts may also be about ritual, such as when they evoke a particular hospitality rite familiar to readers, signaling the stability of social order that rituals guarantee. Finally, texts can synechdochi- cally adopt ritual through fragments of “ritual language.” This last use, which is not semantically over-determined like the first two, may involve two characters engaging in different interpretations of symbolic words; by extension, it gives readers two contradictory stances on the same ritual. For Bal, reading through all these levels makes us aware of multi-leveled representation in literary texts; texts, she argues, simultaneously refer to socio-political structures and the contingency of those structures in the perception (and words) of characters.24 Focusing, like Mieke Bal, on how texts regulate (or contest) order through ritual, this book considers the staging of the Hōjōe (The Rite for the Compassionate Release of Living Things). The Hōjōe, whose mythico- history simultaneously embraces violence and its cessation, plays a dual role in the Heike by disavowing the unsanctioned warfare of shogunal

24 Mieke Bal’s work, which deals with narratology through semiotic theory, informs this book in many ways. For the discussion of ritual, see Bal, On Meaning-Making; Essays in Semiotics (Sonoma, CA: Polebridge Press, 1994), 74–76. the genpei jōsuiki and historical narration 15 founding while reserving a martial role for future shoguns. Historical narrative of previous eras in Japan had denied the eruptive founding of regimes by displacing violence into myth or by metaphorically recasting periods of aggression as the “ritual transfer of power” from periphery to the center.25 As a narrative form concerned with the ascendant periphery, the Heike corpus imagines a novel cultic structure for shogunal martial power using the Hōjōe ceremony. In this new ritual formulation, the shogun is precisely the one who regulates violence through discourses of its cessation. His performance of the Hōjōe in the text also consecrates the east as sacred, over-writing an earlier geopolitical logic in which the rebellion-prone periphery was envisioned as ‘defiled.’ The narrative’s use of the Hōjōe reveals a broader symbolic deploy- ment of ritual as an ordering force, constituting rather than displaying order.26 Rituals, as this book shows, have a key role to play at junctures where there is conflict and rupture because they enact the stability of socio-political structure. This book considers, for example, a dining ritual held by Yoritomo in 1183, one that announces his territorial power and unquestioned leadership over eastern warriors. Not surprisingly, the tim- ing of this banquet coincides with the outbreak of the war in the imperial capital and the political disarray that besets Kyoto that year. Ritual also plays a constitutive role in the political void created by the drowning of the emperor with the imperial sword in 1185. The court thinker Jien fills this void by positing a ritual world in which cosmic swords continu- ally regenerate imperial power. Unexpected historical developments are denied as a transcendental order guarantees the coherence of the earthly imperium. Attentive also to how the symbolic language of ritual can be turned against the powerful, this book notes how ritual behavior can “construct power relations” rather than simply reflect them.27 As will be demonstrated, the warrior Minamoto Yoshinaka challenges the stability of imperial order by explicitly rejecting the polarities of sacred/defiled that maintained culinary (and by extension, socio-political) order. The same Yoshinaka also rejects the hierarchical organization of the world codified

25 For this perspective, see Bialock, Eccentric Spaces, Hidden Histories, 120, 125, 131. 26 As Geertz notes about the theater state in Bali, “power served pomp, not pomp power.” Ritual, in other words, did not just celebrate the monarch—it was necessary to make visible the authority of the monarch in a theater state. Clifford Geertz, Negara: The Theatre State in Nineteenth-Century Bali (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1980), 13. 27 For this view, see Catherine Bell, Ritual: Perspectives and Dimensions (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1997), 82. 16 chapter one by rules concerning the aristocratic carriage. Yoshinaka’s strategic challenges to the ritualized world of the Heian aristocracy are not, however, arenas for cultural struggle in which existing power relationships are transformed. Since the evocation of socio-political order prevails as the goal of narrative, Yoshinaka is marginalized as disorderly and meddlesome.28 By linking literature to these other practices of signification, I disen- tangle the Heike corpus from the conventional binaries of fact/fiction and history/literature that have structured its study. I proceed from an understanding that political authority always has a symbolic construction and that it is through the semiotic codes of material culture and ritual performance that it can make itself visible and “advance its claims.”29 Typically, these semiotic codes are analyzed synchronically. In other words, one might look at the fourteenth-century shogunal banquets (ōban) or Hōjōe and link them, through their shared historical context, to the fourteenth- century variants of the Heike. Needless to say, such information is hard to come by, in part because of the rarity and brevity of fourteenth-century sources regarding these issues. Where such scholarship exists, I am careful to include it. Instead, I turn to the symbolic overtures in the Konjaku monogatarishū (A Collection of Tales of Times Now Past, 1120?), Kojidan (Talks about Ancient Matters, 1212–1215), and Uji shūi monogatari (A Collection of Tales from Uji, 1221?). These are some of the literary texts that the writers of the Heike may have read, and the representations of these practices in the texts allow me to make suggestive claims for the conceptual world that informed their writing.30 That these fourteenth-century

28 There are multiple perspectives regarding the place of ritual in the Heike corpus. When one mentions the Heike today, what comes to mind is a recitational art performed by biwa hōshi (blind lute players). Herbert Plutschow has argued that the historical telling of the corpus emerges from a ritual need to pacify the spirits of the vanquished. Hyōdō Hiromi has argued for a purificatory role for the narrative by engaging the dual role played by the blind chanters as both funerary officiants and storytellers. Most recently, David Bial- ock has discussed rituals through which medieval retired sovereigns such as Go-Shirakawa appropriated the defiled periphery into discourses of the centrality of their rule, creating accounts of royal authority in which the sacred mingled with the heteromorphic. This book, by contrast, focuses on the rituals that surround accounts of shogunal power in the text. See Plutschow, Chaos and Cosmos: Ritual in Early and Medieval Japanese Litera- ture (Leiden: E. J. Brill, 1990), 220–22. See also Bialock, Eccentric Spaces, Hidden Histories, 218–23, and Hyōdō, Heike monogatari no rekishi to geinō, 174–86. 29 See Clifford Geertz, Local Knowledge: Further Essays in Interpretive Anthropology (New York: Basic Books, 1983), 143. 30 Matsuo Ashie postulates a shared world view (and frequently shared material) between the Heike corpus and thirteenth-century story collections such as Kojidan, Zoku the genpei jōsuiki and historical narration 17 writers interpreted, rather than received, these expressive devices is always assumed. Yet, by tracking certain tropes of ritual and material culture that mostly endure (and sometimes shift) over the long process of interpreting the rise of warrior power, we can posit a collective set of rhetorical strategies for evoking socio-political order when depicting dramatic historical change. In doing so, we see, not that the text simply reflects the historical context in a straightforward way, but that fables of shogunal power in the Heike texts are aware of the symbolic structures that helped distinguish and define warrior power in the medieval world, often in opposition to imperial power.

Variants and Textual Lines

Scholars believe the earliest form of the Heike—the so-called ur-Heike— was set down in the thirteenth century. This text, however, has not survived and it is doubtful that it would resemble the extant variants. Researchers typically focus on a handful of the hundred-odd variants, namely, the Engyōbon, the Kakuichibon, the Shibu-kassenjōbon, the Yasakabon, and more recently, the Genpei jōsuiki. The Kakuichibon was perhaps the most widely read in Japan in the twentieth century because of its canonization as an “epic.” Critical attention in recent decades has shifted toward the Engyōbon, whose narrative form and content suggest that it most resembles the form of the Heike in its early days. This book analyzes the Heike corpus with frequent references to the lesser-known Genpei jōsuiki, a text that has only been seriously studied in Japanese in the last two decades. The differences between Heike variants is substantial enough that the classification of textual lines and establishment of a “family tree” of texts preoccupied the postwar generation of Japanese scholars. Their research has resulted in the sorting of the Heike variants into two main textual lines: the yomihon and kataribon. The kataribon (recited texts) are variants related to the musical recitation of the Heike. The best known of this type is the Kakuichibon, the text that bears the colophon of the reciter Kakuichi of the tōdoza (a guild of blind reciters), and the Yasakabon, associated with the Yasaka guild of reciters. Neither librettos for performance nor

kojidan (Continued Talks about Ancient Matters, 1219), Kokon chomonjū (A Collection of Things Written and Heard in Past and Present, 1254), and Uji shūi monogatari. She suggests that early versions of the Heike corpus existed around 1259, and that its writers may well have been familiar with the stories compiled in these other collections. See Matsuo, Gunki monogatari genron (Tokyo: Kasama Shoin, 2008), 18, 30. 18 chapter one records based on past performances, kataribon were instead instruments for articulating the authority of the guild, either to other guilds or to guild members themselves.31 The yomihon, by contrast, were texts that were likely read out loud.32 Texts included in this category are the Engyōbon, the Nagatobon, and the Genpei jōsuiki. This classificatory schema has, however, been variously revisited in recent years. Elizabeth Oyler has argued that these distinctions between the variants are problematic. They encourage a false dichotomy between the oral and the written in the Heike, between the fraternity of the kataribon to oral modes of storytelling, and an implied proximity of the yomihon to the written texts of official histories.33 Scholars suggest, for example, that

31 Hyōdō, Heike monogatari no rekishi to geinō, 13. 32 While we do not have precise knowledge about how the Genpei jōsuiki was circulated in this period, we do know that the Taiheiki, a contemporary war tale, was read aloud to audiences at court. Though they belong to the same genre of war tales, the Heike and Taiheiki were consumed in very different ways. The Heike was often performed to musical accompaniment by blind itinerant monks called biwa hōshi, and this particular style of oral storytelling is often referred to as katari. The Taiheiki was performed by sighted ama- teur performers called monogatarisō within a performance repertoire called yomi. Though they also performed their stories orally, it was not set to any musical accompaniment. In fact, of the forty-six occurrences in the historical record that refer to the performance of the Taiheiki, all of them use the verb “yomu” and not “kataru.” For more details on the records of these performances, see Watanabe Shōgō, ‘Heike monogatari’ ‘Taiheiki’ no katarite (Kanagawa-ken Fujisawa-shi: Mizuki Shobō, 1997), 10–25. The presence of commentarial texts like Taiheiki kikigaki (late Muromachi period) and Taiheiki kengushō (1607) suggests another mode of circulation. These digest-like syntheses of the text were probably used as performance aids by Gozan monks and Yoshida Shinto priests during kōshaku lectures. The scholar Kami Hiroshi suggests that the two modes of performance (katari and yomi) differed in terms of their audiences. The Taiheiki was often consumed by audiences at court and by warriors interested in learning about the contributions of their ancestors in wars of previous years. That is, its range of circulation was small and fairly elite. Unlike the Heike, the Taiheiki was not performed by professional performers to broad audiences until the seventeenth century. See Kami Hiroshi, “Chūsei ni okeru ‘Taiheiki yomi’ ni tsuite,” in Senki bungaku: Hōgen monogatari, Heiji monogatari, Taiheiki, Nihon bungaku kenkyū shiryō sōsho, ed. Nihon Bungaku Kenkyū Shiryō Kankōkai (Tokyo: Yūseidō, 1974), 266–74. 33 The analysis of katari in Heike studies dates back to the turn of the twentieth century, to the decades when the Heike itself made its first appearance in academic circles. That is, the birth of Heike as an object of study coincided with its exaltation as the repository of “Japanese voice”—a characterization that would burden it with the epithet of “national epic” for nearly fifty years. Early scholars such as Takagi Ichinosuke were greatly influenced by the German philosopher Gottfried Herder (1744–1803). In Herder’s view, epics such as the Homeric poems grew from the gradual sedimentation of a nation’s popular songs from past to present. For Herder, language was “the accumulated transcript of a nation’s past,” not simply a medium of communication. For him, language was the foun- tainhead of nationality and national essence. Because of the oral circulation of the Heike, David T. Bialock argues, the Heike was ripe for picking as the “nation’s primordial voice.” For the above discussion of Takagi and Herder, see Bialock, “Nation and Epic: The Tale of Heike as Modern Classic,” 158–72. the genpei jōsuiki and historical narration 19 the kataribon variants exhibit a greater degree of wabun (“Japanese writing”) in contrast to the yomihon’s thickness of kanbun (“Chinese writing”). Though this is true as a description of orthographic difference, we should be wary of the ideological assumption underlying this wabun/kanbun binary, in which “native” Japanese culture appears to be opposed to and distinct from continental Chinese culture, a problematic legacy of distilling national culture bequeathed by Tokugawa period nativist scholarship.34 The oral/written and wabun/kanbun dichotomy also distinguishes, somewhat erroneously, privately circulated storytelling from its antithesis of publicly circulated official writing. The latter distinction slips into the assumption that the yomihon are more ‘historical’ than the ‘literary’ kataribon.35 The term katari itself, linked in early twentieth-century scholarship with oral transmission of folklore, and associated through the noun katarimono (orally performed pieces) with Shinto liturgies, Buddhist bal- lads and kōwaka, accords a privileged status to the oral in the Kakuichibon. Shidachi Masatomo maintains, however, that the Kakuichibon should be seen as a text that uses elaborate means to stage its orality, its narrator mindful of sentence level locutions and settings that would recreate the oral telling of the story.36 Furthermore, scholars posit considerable sharing of material across variant lines, complicating the branch and trunk structure implied in the graphing of textual lineages. Rather than think of the three major yomihon texts—the Genpei jōsuiki, the Engyōbon, and the Nagatobon—as related to each other through a pattern of textual descent, we might regard this category as descriptive, as a grouping of texts that are similar in structuring and content. In the broadest terms, the yomihon show a greater degree of chronological plotting than the kataribon, which, by contrast, exhibit more analeptic or proleptic movement. The most significant characteristic that unites the

34 For a detailed analysis of how nativist scholar Motoori Norinaga’s thought used inscriptional practices to create distinct geopolitical realms, see Naoki Sakai, Voices of the Past: The Status of Language in Eighteenth-Century Japanese Discourse (Ithaca: Cornell Uni- versity Press, 1991), 252–71. 35 The use of these categories can be questioned from various angles, not the least of which is the false idea of a great divide between orality and literacy: that the oral is pure and offers unmediated access to the “folk spirit,” and that script brings the oral into tech- nology, linearity, and time. 36 The Kakuichibon narrator uses the term oshihakarete (“one could surmise”) sixteen times, inserting himself into the process of description. This is to be compared to the Yashi- robon where this is not observed. From the above, Shidachi adduces that the Kakuichibon is written in a way that stages orality. See Shidachi Masatomo, “Heike monogatari ni okeru suiryō hyōgen to hyōgen shutai: jojutsu hōhō to shite no katari-ron e mukete,” in Nihon bungei no chōryū (Kikuta Shigeo Kyōju taikan kinen), ed. Kikuta Shigeo (Tokyo: Ōfū, 1994), 355–365. 20 chapter one yomihon is their sustained focus on the early days of Yoritomo’s uprising, something lacking in kataribon. The detailed accounting of the eastern battles that bring the obscure Yoritomo onto the historical stage has led some scholars to posit an “eastern perspective” in the yomihon as opposed to the “western (Kyoto-based) perspective” in the kataribon.37 This “eastern perspective” should not be regarded as a function of the geographical genesis of the texts, but of political vision. Though the kataribon conclude simply with the dying out of the Taira clan, the yomihon close their pages with celebratory prose highlighting how Yoritomo brought “peace to the four seas.” This significant difference in the narrative arc requires us to consider how the ‘charter myth of warrior order’ encodes different political visions. This greater level of detail in the yomihon concerning Yoritomo’s uprising in the east is the basis for my analysis in chapter 2, a picture of Yoritomo that will be novel to readers familiar only with the canonical Kakuichibon, from whose pages he is largely absent. The Genpei jōsuiki creates a pause in diegetic time and folds the violence of Yoritomo’s uprising into his founding of the shogunate as a law-making body in Kamakura. In doing so, it surpasses the celebratory logic of the Engyōbon to topicalize the establishment of shogunal political authority, a mode of telling that also metatextually communicates the authority of Genpei jōsuiki. The fact that historical gazetteers today base some of their entries of Yoritomo’s eastern battles on the Genpei jōsuiki may speak, in part, to the metatextual effects of its depiction of shogunal authority.

The Genpei jōsuiki and the Dai Nihonshi

In an article provocatively titled “What is Left Out of the Kakuichibon Heike monogatari,” Kubota Jun decenters the Kakuichibon to argue for the need to study the Genpei jōsuiki; this call has been taken up in scholarly circles only in the last two decades.38 Scholars generally agree that the Genpei jōsuiki is the longest and the last major variant of the Heike corpus.

37 Yamashita Hiroaki writes that texts like the Nagatobon and Genpei jōsuiki have an “eastern perspective,” because they were produced in areas where personal accounts of those who served Yoritomo in battle were widely circulated. See Yamashita, Heike monogatari no seiritsu (Nagoya: Nagoya Daigaku Shuppankai, 1993), 162, 170. 38 Kubota Jun, “Kakuichibon kara hamidasu mono: Genpei jōsuiki o yomu ni atatte,” Kokubungaku kaishaku to kyōzai no kenkyū 31, no. 7 (1986), 30–35. the genpei jōsuiki and historical narration 21

Dating of the text has been a vexed enterprise. Whereas older scholars like Watanabe Sadamarō and Minobe Tatsukichi proposed earlier dates for the text (1301–1321), the consensus now holds that the text was produced during the late Nanbokuchō period, or slightly later. Yamashita, for example, observes that the descriptions of dress found in the text are very similar to those in the Taiheiki (Record of Great Peace, ca. 1375), thus dating the text to at least the latter half of the fourteenth century.39 Matsuo Ashie, the leading scholar of the Genpei jōsuiki, notes that the text creates a separate fascicle at the end that details the last days of the queen mother (kokumo) Kenreimon’in (1155–1213). This was a story-telling device missing in texts predating the Kakuichibon, which has led Matsuo to label the Genpei jōsuiki a successor to the Kakuichibon text and date it to 1371 or after.40 Kobayashi Yoshikazu also places this text in the fourteenth century; he argues that it contains a large number of anecdotes about the Watanabe league of the Minamoto clan, a group that was prominent during this time.41 Little is known about the circumstances and location of the production of the Genpei jōsuiki. Scholars instead infer these details from stylistic elements within the text. For example, Matsuo observes that the editors of the Genpei jōsuiki probably fancied themselves as enlightened record- keepers and perhaps even as historians, as evidenced by their desire to provide multiple viewpoints.42 She adds that the Genpei jōsuiki highlights the closed and distant nature of the past, giving it the historiographic air favored by historians of the early modern period.43 Another distinctive feature of the text is the ubiquitous presence of micro-narratives, digressions that are set apart from the surrounding text with the notation “ihon ni iwaku” (“as noted in other texts”). For this reason, Yamashita imagines that the text was produced through a laborious process of editing and

39 See Yamashita Hiroaki, Heike monogatari no seisei (Tokyo: Meiji Shoin, 1984), 469. An early version of the Taiheiki text is believed to have been in existence by 1375. The various textual redactions we have today probably date to later. 40 Matsuo, Gunki monogatari genron, 36, 62. 41 Kobayashi Yoshikazu, “Genpei jōsuiki no buyū-tan: chūsei Watanabetō ibun,” Denshō bungaku kenkyū 46 (1997): 58–70. 42 Matsuo, Heike monogatari ronkyū, 119. Yang Xiao Jie has also highlighted the frequent citation of Chinese precedents from ancient historical classics, an aspect that enhances its commentarial flavor. See Yang, “Genpei Jōsuiki ni okeru chūgoku koji setsuwa ni tsuite no kenkyū,” Kokugo kokubun 55, no. 10 (1986): 27–51. 43 Ibid., 125. 22 chapter one collation.44 Sunagawa Hiroshi hypothesizes that the Genpei jōsuiki editors probably had at their disposal many of the earlier variants of the Heike, not to mention court diaries, monogatari, engi stories, setsuwa, waka collections, compendiums of Chinese literary and historical works, and Buddhist texts.45 Although scholars date the Genpei jōsuiki to the late fourteenth century, the earliest surviving manuscript of the text is the incomplete Seikidō bunkobon, which dates to 1556. (A small fragment known as the Nagato-gire is also extant; it is dated to the 1450s.) Scholars working on the Genpei jōsuiki typically consult the Keichō kokatsujiban (“old movable type edition of the Keichō era”) dated to 1605 and the Hōsa bunkobon (colophon 1611). The latter is an “old manuscript form” (koshahon) housed in the former library of the Owari branch of the Tokugawa family who collected over 100,000 volumes of Chinese and Japanese classics. Woodblock-printed editions appeared throughout the Tokugawa period: extant examples include the Kanbun gonenban (1665), the Enpō hachinenban (1680), the Genroku jūyonenban (1701), the Hōei yonenban (1707) and the Kansei hachinenban (1796). Early twentieth-century printings of the Genpei jōsuiki employed the mukanki seihanbon (“woodblock edition without publication date”) or aforementioned kokatsujiban as a base text, suggesting that these were considered most reliable. The most recent annotated edition of the Genpei jōsuiki likewise uses the Keichō kokatsujiban as a base text.46 To understand the cultural importance of the Genpei jōsuiki, we must return to the Tokugawa period, when it was read by powerful men and intellectuals alike. The first Tokugawa shogun, Ieyasu (1542–1616), is said to have voraciously read the Azuma kagami and the Genpei jōsuiki. Ieyasu sought in these stories an origin myth for the Minamoto clan, from whose Nitta branch he traced his descent.47 Sakakibara Chizuru notes that the Genpei jōsuiki may also have been perceived more broadly as the “official history of warriors” for a number of reasons: it provides the most detailed

44 Yamashita Hiroaki, “Reishō no bungaku: saikin no Taiheiki-ron o megutte,” Nihon bungaku 27, no. 5 (1978): 71–79. 45 Sunagawa, “Genpei jōsuiki no hōhō to setsuwa (ge),” Bungaku 49, no. 7 (1981): 84–88. 46 See Ichiko Teiji et al., eds., Genpei jōsuiki, Chūsei no bungaku (Tokyo: Miyai Shoten, 1991–). Only volumes 1 to 6 have been published so far. 47 According to the Zoku-zoku buke kandan, written by Kimura Takaatsu (1681–1742), a kōshakushi (reciter/explicator of historical tales) named Akamatsu Hōin (fl. early seventeenth c.) also came frequently to Ieyasu to recite the Genpei jōsuiki. For more information, see Watanabe, ‘Heike monogatari’ ‘Taiheiki’ no katarite, 25. the genpei jōsuiki and historical narration 23 account of Minamoto Yoritomo, the founder of warrior order; it also contains more anecdotes of eastern warriors who came to his aid, furnishing even middle-ranking warriors with histories of their own “warrior houses”; and finally, it often explains battle scenes with reference to buke kojitsu (warrior customs), fulfilling a cultural need for instructional manuals (kyōkunsho) that modeled warrior behavior in the Tokugawa period. This antiquarian perspective of the Genpei jōsuiki may have been a draw both for warriors, who could trace a continuous “warrior tradition” in its pages, and for intellectuals, who saw their own idealization of the past mirrored in its accounts.48 The reception history of the Genpei jōsuiki in the Tokugawa period also indicates that it was regarded as a text describing the “way of government” (seidō). More detailed than other variants in its account of tensions between court and shogunate, and perhaps the most incisive in its criticism of Retired Emperor Go-Shirakawa as an unfit ruler, the Genpei jōsuiki provided a picture of a harmonious political order, overseen by warrior power, which was beneficial to Tokugawa shoguns.49 Instead of treating events as discrete, the text universalizes them to draw broad historical lessons about the correct “way of government.” Hayashi Razan (1583–1657), a close advisor to Ieyasu, appreciated this didactic and historiographical aspect of the Genpei jōsuiki. He consulted it extensively when compiling the Azuma kagami kōyō (The Essential Elements of the Azuma kagami, 1612), observing that “If a country is to rise or fall, or it is to hold or lose its moral path (sedō), then it must learn from the past, and use it to assist in governance.”50 Hayashi Razan’s son, the Neo-Confucian scholar Hayashi Gahō (1618–1680), also read the Genpei jōsuiki to write his account of twelfth-century history in the Honchō tsugan (The Comprehensive Mirror of this Court, 1670).51 In Gahō’s work, Go-Shirakawa is an inad- equate sovereign whose reign Yoritomo rightfully ends. This reading of late Heian politics was no doubt influenced by the caustic Genpei jōsuiki

48 Sakakibara Chizuru, Heike monogatari: sōzō to kyōju, vol. 26 of Miyai sensho (Tokyo: Miyai Shoten, 1998), 111–13. 49 Ibid., 123. 50 For this quote, see Sakakibara, Heike monogatari: sōzō to kyōju, 146. For a perspective that emphasizes Ieyasu’s shrewd custodianship of books of the past, see Peter Kornicki, “Books in the Service of Politics: Tokugawa Ieyasu as Custodian of the Books of Japan,” Journal of the Royal Asiatic Society of Great Britain & Ireland 18, no. 1 (2008): 71–82. 51 Compiled under the orders of Tokugawa Mitsukuni, this work was a chronological history spanning from the reign of Jinmu all the way to the seventeenth century. For details connecting the Genpei jōsuiki to this work, see Sakakibara, Heike monogatari: sōzō to kyōju, 116–25. 24 chapter one that castigates Go-Shirakawa with the words, “A brash sovereign, he pre- cipitated disorder in the country (rankoku).”52 For Razan and Gahō, histories were tools to stress the inevitability of warrior rule.53 Mitsukuni, under whose auspices the Sankō Genpei jōsuiki was produced, stressed instead that histories reflect the principle of taigi meibun (fulfilling one’s duties in accordance to one’s place in the social order). The creation of a new category in these annals of “shogunal biographies” (shōgun den) thus reflected the normative weight he placed on categories like “ruler” and “subject,” each performing the duties of his own place in the social order. At the same time, the inclusion of disloyal shoguns like Ashikaga Takauji in these shogunal biographies (and not under “rebellious ministers,” another category in the annals), points to the subtle affirmation of shogunal rule. This complex stance may have influenced their use of the Genpei jōsuiki, a text acutely aware of seidō at the same time that it upholds shogunal rule.54 The Genpei jōsuiki was more than just a sourcebook of instruction for the historically minded. For example, it is known that the Genpei jōsuiki and the Taiheiki were included in the gilded dowry boxes of high-ranking wives of shogunal officials.55 This is not surprising because the Genpei jōsuiki contains many stories about the conduct of warrior wives during the long years of the Genpei War, some of whom it praises for their fidel- ity and steadfastness. By the Tokugawa period, scholars surmise, it was considered an important text for the proper training of girls in warrior families. Sakakibara Chizuru observes that the didactic text Ominaeshi monogatari (Tales of Lady Flowers, published in 1661), a collection of anecdotes about female poets likely compiled by Kitamura Kigin (1624–1705), closely follows episodes found only in the Genpei jōsuiki.56 Though the reception of the Genpei jōsuiki took many forms, from gen- dered readings to political commentary, the focus of this book is its ideological vision and that of the Heike corpus more broadly. As the following

52 Mizuhara, ed., Shintei Genpei jōsuiki, vol. 1 (1988), 291. 53 For details about the politicization of history by Gahō and Razan, see Nihongaku Kyōkai, ed., Dai Nihonshi no kenkyū (Tokyo: Tachibana Shobō, 1957), 127. 54 For the ambiguities marking the stance of the Mito historians, who were both imperial loyalists and conscious of the need to uphold shogunal rule, see Kate Wildman Nakai, “Tokugawa Confucian Historiography: The Hayashi, Early Mito School, and Arai Hakuseki,” in Confucianism and Tokugawa Culture, ed. Peter Nosco (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1984), 86–88. 55 See Sakakibara, Heike monogatari: sōzō to kyōju, 147. 56 Ibid., 189. the genpei jōsuiki and historical narration 25 chapters suggest, the Genpei jōsuiki mythicizes the birth of shogunal power as distinct in political form and geographical location; it contains the tumult of the Genpei War by making Yoritomo the arbiter of permissible violence; it undoes the unitary political hegemony of the imperial court by imagining shogunal power as its potent double—depicting a world divided between two powerful political entities in balance with each other. Finally, it mutes the hostilities of the war even before they begin by redirecting warrior aggression into stories of equine love or competitive racing. To read the Genpei jōsuiki is thus to appreciate that later variants accrete in their political vision, and that there is a plurality in the Tales of the Heike.

Chapter Two

Fictions of Emergence: The Symbolic Regulation of Violence in the Battles of 1180

The Defiled East and the Unpropitious Beginning of the Genpei War

The year 1180 was a time of some uncertainty for Japan. A young exile named Minamoto Yoritomo started an uprising in eastern Japan, a call to arms that quickly escalated into civil war. Entries in courtier diaries from the ninth month of 1180 show how unsettling this historical turn was to aristocrats in Kyoto, the seat of Heian political order. The diarist Kujō Kanezane states, “He [Yoritomo] has seized the two provinces of Izu and Suruga.” Six days later, he adds, “The bands of perpetrators number five hundred.”1 The sense of indignation at the “band of perpetrators” was appropriate: by the tenth month of 1180 Yoritomo had overcome local rivals and had declared the eastern provinces his own, more or less beyond the control of the center. In the following two years, Yoritomo entered into negotiations with the court, extending his reach further into western Japan. With the conclusion of the Genpei War in 1185, Yoritomo consoli- dated these gains, concentrating in the hands of the Kamakura shogunate court-backed legal and martial authority. Over the course of the next ten years, Yoritomo acquired the right to arbitrate in legal disputes over land and to intervene with force when lawlessness erupted. The Genpei War thus produced a schism in the political landscape, creating a second locus of authority in the east that attenuated the sovereignty of the imperial court in Kyoto. Yoritomo is hailed in cultural and historical memory as the founder of a new political order, the harbinger of the ‘age of the samurai’ and the pro- totypical shogun. In many scholarly accounts, he is an inaugurator, whose rise to shogun is underwritten by prophetic accounts that give his uprising the shape of a foreordained event. What is missing from these discussions

1 See the entries in Gyokuyō for the ninth month of 1180. Takahashi Sadaichi, ed., Kun- doku Gyokuyō, vol. 4 (Tokyo: Takashina Shoten, 1988), 320–21. On how Yoritomo’s moves in the early stages were nothing more than self-authorized seizure of land, see Kawai Yasushi, “Kamakura bakufu shōgō jitō-sei no seiritsu to sono rekishiteki seikaku,” Nihonshi kenkyū 286 (1986): 1–23. 28 chapter two of Yoritomo is an analysis of how texts regulate the turmoil that preceded his establishment of the Kamakura shogunate. This elision is facilitated by the canonical Kakuichibon, the “standard” literary account to which most scholars refer, in which scant mention is made of Yoritomo’s early battles.2 This chapter focuses on the last variant of the Heike corpus— the Genpei jōsuiki—to argue that an appreciation of the significance of ‘warrior order’ in cultural memory requires an understanding of the dual function of violence in the Heike corpus. In its pages, violence is both disruptive and generative, threatening the status quo and necessary to the founding/functioning of a new regime. The armed conflicts of 1180, this chapter shows, require particular forms of symbolic regulation because of the dark penumbra surrounding the shogunate, a regime that was born amid the convulsion of civil war and, yet associated with the future exercise of violence (by shoguns as martial entities). By examining the symbolic structure given to the battles of 1180, we see how texts re-coded the order-threatening Genpei War into an order-maintaining use of force. As many have suggested, the legitimation of shogunal martial power was relevant to the fourteenth-century context in which the Heike was written, a time when shoguns once again took up arms against imperial

2 The Kakuichibon is very spare in its presentation of Yoritomo. The battles of Yui, Kinugasa, and Kotsubo, in which Yoritomo slowly carves away the east from the control of the center are skipped. The texts of the yomihon lineage, by contrast, detail these early conflicts. Whereas most studies explain this variation in terms of the different regional origins of the texts or the relative “thickness” of their historical telling, this chapter will present a reading of the yomihon texts that shows that the regulation of violence is an important narrative concern. Tomikura Tokujirō, for example, argues that the Kakuichi text excludes the early battles that Yoritomo’s forces fight in order to create a “pithy and pertinent” narrative; their inclusion in the yomihon texts, he says, is due to the latter’s interest in historical detail. The scholarly consensus, therefore, holds that the chain of episodes detailing Yoritomo’s rise originated in the eastern provinces. In fact, scholars like Ubukata Takashige go as far as to suggest that the very completeness of the narrative of Yoritomo’s rise in the early variant (Engyōbon) demonstrates that this narrative bloc may have had a previous life as a self- contained tale that circulated in the eastern region of the Kantō. Some scholars further propose that the sections with detailed descriptions of the Kantō may have been produced in the east. Setting aside these geographical explanations of textual genesis, this chapter considers the Genpei jōsuiki account in terms of its ideology. See Tomikura, Heike monogatari zenchūshaku, vol. 2 (Kadokawa Shoten, 1967), 54–55, and Ubukata, “Heike monogatari kassentan kō: Yoritomo kyoheitan, Ichinotani kassen,” Dōshisha kokubungaku, no. 13 (1978): 41. Yamashita Hiroaki writes that texts like the Nagatobon and Genpei jōsuiki have an “eastern perspective,” because they were put together in areas where personal accounts of those who served Yoritomo in battle were widely circulated. See Yamashita, “Monoga- tari to Bandō no Yoritomo,” in Heike monogatari no seiritsu, 106–43. fictions of emergence 29 polity in the 1330s. Texts, however, are more than just reflective mirrors of their ideological context; they participate in the historical imagination of their time. The tropes of shogunal founding developed in the Genpei jōsuiki are carried over into a host of literary narratives where they authorize other political inceptions. The following discussion therefore pays special attention to the importance of the Genpei jōsuiki in bequeathing ideas of political rise to later stories. To transform the disorder that marked the beginning of the Genpei War into a narrative about a new polity, the Genpei jōsuiki employs two constraints on violence—ritual and legal—both of which ambidex- trously embrace violence and its cessation.3 The Genpei jōsuiki showcases Yoritomo observing the Hōjōe, a rite associated with the disavowal of violence in the Heian period, but one that would be transformed by Yoritomo as he fashioned himself into the ideal arbiter of aggression. For historical shoguns, this ritual performance of the suspension of violence was necessary not only to authorize their martial role, but also to construct shogunal authority as sacred. Heian-period discourses frequently called the east a ‘defiled periphery,’ utilizing a geopolitical argument in which the sacred seat of Kyoto was far removed by a ‘defiled’ rebellion- prone area. The Kamakura-period re-conceptualization of the east as a new political seat thus required forms of symbolic intervention that could cleanse these unsavory topographical connotations. To facilitate this, the Heike corpus turns to the propitious ritual role of the bathhouse and the numinous validation offered by physiognomy to render Yoritomo’s material body highly symbolic, as both sacred and evocative of historical order. Furthermore, in the telos of the Genpei jōsuiki, Yoritomo is not only mindful of the parameters of permissible violence as he conducts his battles, his role in the future order is precisely the regulation of violence. In the

3 This analysis is a counterpart to David T. Bialock’s discussion of the cultic structure of violence in Japan. In Bialock’s reading, the Japanese imperial state used the metaphorical possibilities offered by myth and ritual to displace the violence that underlay its founding, fashioning narratives in which there was a “ritual transfer of power” from periphery to center. Continuing his engaging line of analysis, we might ask, “How did the shogunate, a political form that originated in the peripheries, mythicize its own violent birth?” and “What ritual and metaphorical tools did it utilize?” I suggest that the narration of the birth of the shogunate used a symbolic framework in which violence was alternately denied and rendered significant. For Bialock’s view, see “Royalizing the Realm and the Ritualization of Violence” in his Eccentric Spaces, Hidden Histories, 111–42. 30 chapter two circular logic of the text, the violence is deemed acceptable because it was required for the future order of medieval law.4 Marked, as it was, by a sudden outbreak of hostilities in the east, Yoritomo’s uprising has a seemingly uncertain start in the narrative. News of his rebellion is first delivered to the court by horse-borne messenger in Book 17 of the Genpei jōsuiki, where he is characterized as an enemy of the court (chōteki). A nearly identical scene, with the news delivered on the very same date, occurs in Book 22. As time in Kyoto stands still—paused precisely as the court tries to make sense of these bouts of fighting—the story creates a second stage in which events in the east are told. In this embedded account, developments unfold that Kyoto cannot see (because of distance) or foresee (because their significance is not yet grasped in 1180). By the time the perspective pivots back to Kyoto, the east is no longer a site of disturbance, rather a place identified with medieval law-making and peacekeeping. Yoritomo’s name becomes synonymous with a new political order whose uncertain origins in a regional rivalry are forgotten. What remains is an image of an untainted start, cleansed of its association with violence. In this diegetic interlude, time itself collapses, and the opening of Yoritomo’s rebellion is subsumed into its end. In effect, there is no convulsion preceding the establishment of medieval order—there is just the new beginning. The scenes that are analyzed in this chapter are not found in the Kakuichibon, which elides Yoritomo’s early battles. The eruption of a new regime and the violence accompanying it take place out of sight, since the narrative remains anchored in Kyoto. Disavowing the disarray in the east, the Kakuichibon describes the declining fortunes of the hegemonic Taira clan and the increasing impatience of the court with their arrogance. The yomihon texts such as the Engyōbon and the Nagatobon include a few of these scenes (in slightly different forms); however, it is only in the Genpei jōsuiki that the entire arc of Yoritomo’s eastern actions is traced. As the last variant, the Genpei jōsuiki gives sharper ideological shape to the war than the earlier yomihon. Its plot fully tethers the outbreak of violence in 1180 to the political outcome that these battles prefigure, that is, the creation of new legislative capital in Kamakura.

4 My thinking has been informed by Walter Benjamin and Jacques Derrida who discuss the violence that enables the founding of a new law or the violence that is at the very heart of law. For a take on this question, see Derrida, “Force of Law,” in Acts of Religion, ed. Gil Anidjar (London: Routledge, 2002), 269–70. fictions of emergence 31

Cleansing and Karmic Rebirth: The Sacralizing Potential of the Bathhouse

In all the Heike variants, the seeds of Yoritomo’s uprising are sown during a chance encounter with the tempestuous monk Mongaku. The texts imply that but for this meeting Yoritomo would have remained an exile, and history would never have altered its course. This is perhaps one of the most suggestive fictions of the Heike, because Mongaku is virtually absent from other tellings surrounding Yoritomo’s rise. The Jingoji kyūki, for instance, makes no mention of this meeting.5 Jingoji, a Shingon temple in Kyoto built by Kūkai, was saved from destruction in the twelfth century by a dogged fund-raising kanjin campaign by Mongaku.6 Since Mongaku was regarded as a second founder of the temple, the writers of this account carefully document Mongaku’s exile in Izu. Yoritomo is nowhere to be seen in these pages, however.7 The Azuma kagami, often described as the official history of the shogunate, mentions their encounter, but does not accord it any importance. They meet in the Azuma kagami merely because one of Yoritomo’s men, Chiba Taneyori, is pursuing religious learning under Mongaku’s tutelage.8 The selection of Mongaku as the instigator of the Genpei War in the Heike texts can be understood on at least two levels. First, Mongaku is a

5 Jingoji kyūki is the name given to a set of documents (dating from 1185 to 1230) connected to the temple Jingoji. The most famous of these documents, which is deemed a National Treasure, is the Mongaku shijūgo-kajō kishōmon (Mongaku’s Forty-five Article Pledge). For an imprint of this text, see Zoku Gunsho Ruijū Kanseikai, ed., Shakka-bu, vol. 27-1 of Zoku gunsho ruijū (Tokyo: Zoku Gunsho Ruijū Kanseikai, 1923), 355–68. 6 Fund-raising kanjin campaigns can be traced back to the Heian period. A distinguish- ing feature of these was the involvement of hijiri, ordained monks who were either temporarily retired or in retreat from their temple duties. Because of their semi-autonomous status vis-à-vis the temples, hijiri were free to travel around the countryside. As Janet R. Goodwin points out, “the term hijiri embraces two seemingly disparate modes of religious action: reclusion and evangelism.” That is, the success of a kanjin campaign depended very much on the charisma of its fundraiser. See Goodwin, Alms and Vagabonds: Buddhist Temples and Popular Patronage in Medieval Japan (Honolulu: University of Hawai‘i Press, 1994), 29. 7 For a detailed summary of the description of Mongaku in the Jingoji kyūki, see Kameda Kinuko, “Mongaku shōnin,” in Azuma kagami to chūsei monogatari (Tokyo: Sōbunsha Shuppan, 1994), 176. 8 The latter half of the Azuma kagami describes the political clout that Mongaku enjoys because of his proximity to Yoritomo. See, for example, the entry for Bunji 1 (1185)/7/15, where Mongaku is described as an over-zealous temple fundraiser who abuses his political proximity to Yoritomo to wreak havoc. In other words, Mongaku is shown to be close to Yoritomo after 1185, but there is no suggestion that he was the one who goaded Yoritomo to rebellion in 1180. 32 chapter two sage-like shōnin in the text, with a razor-sharp intuition about the world and miraculous powers gained by years of ascetic practice.9 Second, his impassioned calls for the downfall of Retired Emperor Go-Shirakawa indicate his potential to overturn existing polities. In one scene, Mongaku dares to interrupt a musical performance at the palace, destroying the pleasant congruence of notes and instruments that evoke the harmonious conduct of an emperor’s rule.10 Even though Mongaku’s behavior earns him the swift punishment of exile to the island of Oki, his strident voice is presented as the potent charge that will set off a new chain reaction, the Genpei War.11 Mongaku’s voice is a force to reckon with, repeatedly rent- ing the political status quo by alluding to alternative political futures. Not surprisingly, in some variants, Mongaku’s loud opinions also lead to the next big political conflagration of medieval Japan: the Jōkyū War of 1221. It is therefore suggestive that the Nagatobon and Engyōbon set their encounter in a bathhouse, a location freighted with ideas of status reversal in Japanese literary texts: Mongaku built a bathhouse next to it [a grass shrine] and offered baths to ten thousand people. One day, a man donning a folded eboshi cap, dressed in an orange kosode and white kohakama trousers and wearing wooden san- dals, walked all around the bathhouse. He held a cane and cradled a black- lacquered long sword under his arm. Mongaku did not even lift up his eyes, focusing, instead, on stoking the fire in the cauldron. A little later another man, with black-lacquered bow and a bamboo quiver on his back, came in. He appeared to be the attendant of the person who had come earlier. All the page boys started whispering, “The person who has come is none other than Hyōe no suke [Yoritomo].” Mongaku said, “Ah, the person whom one often hears about.” Mongaku raised his head to look, but by this time, that man [Yoritomo] had entered into the bath. The man’s attendant came over to Mongaku and said, “Please ensure that he receives all the prayer-granting benefits of the bath by giving him one yourself.” Mongaku responded, “I am afraid to go near him for I am but a lowly beggar [kotsujiki hōshi]. You go and pour water into his bathtub. I will stay here and simulate the prayers that will grant him his wishes.” The man did

9 For more on Mongaku’s semi-divine status, see Abe Yasurō, “Mongaku shichū,” in Seija no suisan: chūsei no koe to okonaru mono (Nagoya: Nagoya Daigaku Shuppankai, 2001), 324. 10 For a perceptive study of the role of music in evoking harmonious kingship, see Tom- inaga Satomi, Chūsei no tennō to ongaku (Tokyo: Yoshikawa Kōbunkan, 2006), 30–41. 11 Komine Kazuaki, “Mongaku no kanjinchō o meguru,” in Gunki bungaku no keifu to tenkai, ed. Kajihara Masaaki (Tokyo: Kyūko Shoin, 1998), 289. See also Kuramochi Shige- hiro, Koe to kao no chūseishi: ikusa to soshō no jōkei yori (Tokyo: Yoshikawa Kōbunkan, 2007), 171. fictions of emergence 33

as he was told and poured the bath. There were still no commoners in the bathtub. Meanwhile, the attendant sat down next to Mongaku and worked on the fire. Mongaku said quietly to him, “Is he perhaps the same Hyōe no suke who was exiled?” The man smiled quietly but did not say anything. Mongaku continued, “He, you know, is my master.” The man responded, “Well, if he is your master, you should know what he looks like. Yet you act like you have just met him as you ask his name.” Mongaku replied, “When my lord was young and we were in court service [in the employ of Jōsaimon’in], I knew his face well. But since I began wandering like a beggar around the provinces, I have not seen him up close [in many years]. He has grown up quite a bit since then. It is important for a man to use his name and the name Yoritomo is a good one. He also has the countenance of a taishōgun [great general]. Does he not have thoughts of receiving imperial pardon and avenging the shame of his father? That is why he must have come to a place like a bathhouse where high and low mingle. One has to be careful, though. If I were the enemy, you all would not be alive. The man who lets himself be cut down is careless.” The man thought to himself quietly, “This is a strange holy man [hijiri]. He speaks bluntly, without any restraint.” This man rushed to his master and said, “You must finish your bath quickly; there are too many commoners,” and then went on to whisper all that had transpired in his [Yoritomo’s] ear. After that, he walked over and also whispered in Mongaku’s ear, “Do come to visit us if you are out near our village.”12 Yoritomo’s re-entry into the world is clearly topicalized in this passage; he appears in the scene as a faceless exile, an anonymous character marked only by his clothing. He is so unremarkable that Mongaku does not even lift his face up from the fire that he is kindling. When Mongaku does look up, his interest piqued by the whispers of the pageboys, Yoritomo disappears out of his line of sight and into the bath. A little later, while Yoritomo still remains half-hidden in the bath, Mongaku asks Yoritomo’s attendant about the bather. The attendant does not respond in order to protect his master’s identity, which prompts Mongaku to make an audacious leap in argument; he assumes that Yoritomo must have chosen to come to a bathhouse because of its peculiar role as a place where “high and low mingle.” Mongaku’s comment is astute because it suggests that Yoritomo wants to be seen, leaving behind his past as a reclusive exile. Mongaku’s remarks also highlight the curious capacity of the bathhouse to sacralize the profane, elevate the low, making it the preferred refuge for those seeking to wash off social stigma. Before I expand on the symbolic potential

12 Asahara Yoshiko and Nanami Hiroaki, eds., Nagatobon Heike monogatari no sōgō kenkyū, vol. 1 (Tokyo: Benseisha, 1999), 697–99. 34 chapter two of the bathhouse, it should be noted that Yoritomo’s immersion in the bath brings about this desired change. Even though he begins the bath scene looking like a commoner, Mongaku’s reconsiders this judgment of Yoritomo, insisting instead that he had the countenance of a shogun. Mongaku’s comments about the reversals of status engendered by the bath highlight a new understanding about the bathhouse that was beginning to emerge around the twelfth century. Besides its obvious role in purifying elite officiants of religious rites (notably the clergy and the imperial family), the bath was also connected to the pious practice of seyoku (“charitable bathing”). Wealthy elite would sponsor a bath as a charitable act, much like giving alms to the poor, in the hope that the merit would grant them benefits in this world and the next.13 Nenbutsu hijiri and leading thinkers of Kamakura Buddhism like Chōgen (1121–1206), Eizon (1201–1290), and Ninshō (1217–1303) promoted seyoku by setting up bathhouses. With time, this practice began to exceed its initial purpose as a gesture of philanthropy, assuming new meanings connected to symbolic rebirth. The most dramatic scene connected to powers of bathing is found in the Daibutsu engi emaki (Illustrated Legends of the Great Buddha, begun in the Kamakura period but completed 1536). In one scene from this scroll, the empress Kōmyō (701–760), attired in the twelve-layered robes of high-born women, bends over a leper in a bathhouse as she scrubs his back. This pious act is rewarded when the leper reveals his true form as a Buddha.14 Kōmyō’s famous bathhouse encounter is told in several medieval texts such as the Kenkyū gojunreiki (Record of a Pilgrimage during the Kenkyū Era, 1191), Genkō shakusho (Buddhist History Complied in the Genkō Era, 1332), and Sangoku denki (Records of the Three Countries, ca. 1407–1446). Though the contrast between the radiant empress and the unsightly leper is what makes the story particularly compelling, the Kōmyō narrative draws on tales of dramatic transformation found in prior literary sources. In the Konjaku monogatarishū (Book 6, no. 6), for example, an ail- ing woman asks the noted Chinese monk Xuanzang (Jp. Genjō, 600–664) if he would suck the pus out of her boils and heal her. When Genjō readily

13 For a good summary of the different bathing practices through the medieval period, see Lee Butler, “Washing Off the Dust: Baths and Bathing in Late Medieval Japan,” Monu- menta Nipponica 60, no. 1 (2005): 1–41. Butler does not discuss the new meanings of the bath that emerge in literary and pictorial texts in the medieval period, an issue explored later in my discussion. 14 For this picture and a discussion of this scene, see Abe Yasurō, Yuya no kōgō: chūsei no sei to seinaru mono (Nagoya: Nagoya Daigaku Shuppankai, 1998), 23–30. fictions of emergence 35 agrees, the woman reveals her true form as a Bodhisattva. In the Kokon chomonjū (Book 2, no. 37), the monk Gyōki (668–749) sucks the boils of a bathhouse patron who later reveals himself as the Yakushi Nyorai (Skt. Bhaishajyaguru, the Buddha of Healing). The saint-like piety of each of these protagonists is contingent upon their passing a test that brings them into contact with the most sullied of beings.15 And the bathhouse is the backdrop for many of these transformations, holding out the promise of karmic rebirth literalized in the form of new skin that “glowed as it if were gold with a purplish hue.”16 The conceit in these stories is that social stratification is erased in a bathhouse so that high and low, sacred and profane, lay and clergy, may mingle freely. On a practical level, this appears to have been untrue. Some classes of people were barred from entering the bathhouse, and others had to wait their turn, only entering the bath after their social superi- ors were done.17 Far from being fluid, notions of pollution were actively used to hold up medieval notions of social order. At the apex stood the emperor, who was sacred, while the hinin (literally, “non-human”) helped define the bottom of this social structure.18 Yet, as these tales repeatedly demonstrate, bathhouses held out the possibility for several critical kinds of transformation. First, as places of social mixing, these narratives promised that excluded members could become one with society, even if it were only for a brief interval. Second, they guaranteed those with horribly marked skin a new appearance, allowing those who had hidden from society a chance to see and be seen again. Finally and on the most dramatic level, these tales promised the bathers a new self in which their past karmic mistakes were jettisoned, rendering visible the sacred core that lay within everyone. The construction of the bathhouse scene in the Nagatobon and Engyōbon texts picks up on all these symbolic overtures. Yoritomo’s first successful re-entry into society is mediated through this scene. During the two decades of his exile, Yoritomo spends many years hiding. His first attempt to leave the shadows of exile ends terribly. Yoritomo has a love affair with a daughter of a local leader and Taira partisan, Itō Sukechika. When her father learns of this affair, he drowns Senzuru, the son she bears

15 Ibid., 37. 16 See the anecdote regarding Gyōki in Nagazumi Yasuaki and Shimada Isao, eds., Kokon chomonjū, vol. 84 of Nihon koten bungaku taikei (Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten, 1966), 75. 17 Abe, Yuya no kōgō, 61. 18 Kuroda Hideo, “Seyoku to yuya,” Shūkan Asahi hyakka. Nihon no rekishi 4 (1986): 220. 36 chapter two

Yoritomo. Fearing for his life, Yoritomo flees the region. He then finds himself a second lover and companion in Hōjō Masako. Once again, the father disapproves of his daughter’s match and sends her away to be married to Yamaki Kanetaka, the most powerful man in the province. Yoritomo’s second lover is, however, not easily deterred, and escapes from Kanetaka’s house to join Yoritomo at his mountain hideout. Masako’s father, Hōjō Tokimasa, also secretly supports the lovers while pretending to hunt for Yoritomo to deflect unwarranted attention from the Taira. As Mongaku rightly notes in this scene, Yoritomo is a wanted man. The only identity available to Yoritomo at this moment is that of an exile, one that carries with it the historical, if not karmic, burden of a seditious past. Through this bath scene, Yoritomo begins to chart a new course with the ambition to “seek imperial pardon and avenge his father.”19 Talk about Yoritomo’s lessened circumstances and the warrant on his head help define the yet unseen figure in this scene. The circumstances of Yoritomo’s exile, as they are clearly evoked in this scene, stem from his participation in an uprising spearheaded by his father. In 1159–1160, Minamoto Yoshitomo (Yoritomo’s father) took up arms against Retired Emperor Go-Shirakawa and Taira Kiyomori, hoping to bring a rival imperial faction to power. Yoritomo, as the youngest of Yoshitomo’s sons, was quickly captured and slated to be killed, though his sentence was eventually commuted to exile. In other words, Yoritomo comes to the bathhouse to shed his prior history, a past that circumscribes his sphere of movement (by confining him to his place of exile) and defines him precisely as one who should not be seen. The topos of the bathhouse promises status reversal through the medium of sight: the unsightly cannot only come forward to be seen, but they will leave the bathhouse in a body that insists on being seen anew. Sight here provides irrefutable evidence of the social existence of a person (which they have had to deny as hinin); it also grants the body new indexical value as the legible text of a changed future. It is this textuality of the body to encode the future that becomes critical to the account in the Genpei jōsuiki of Yoritomo’s rise. The bathhouse as topos falls away, riddled, as it is, with contradictions. Although it was carnivalesque in its suggestion that hierarchies could be overturned, the bathhouse, in practice, re-enacted and confirmed the hierarchies of sacred/profane essential

19 Asahara and Nanami, eds., Nagatobon Heike monogatari no sōgō kenkyū, vol. 1 (1998), 699. fictions of emergence 37 to the maintenance of imperial power. In fact, the impossible distance separating the characters (the empress and the leper) indicates an uneasy ideological oscillation in the very structure of these stories. One notices an in-built impulse to graph hierarchies, to deny, through the unbridgeable polarities, the leveling possibilities of the bathhouse. The Genpei jōsuiki breaks with earlier yomihon variants to elide the bathhouse topos, foregrounding only its latent idea about the textuality of the body. The following is an excerpt from the Genpei jōsuiki where Yoritomo sits before Mongaku and waits to have his face read. It is a critical scene where Yoritomo’s body, hitherto hidden from view, is decipherable as a visible instantiation of the plot’s telos: Mongaku neither spoke to nor looked at him. He paced back and forth near Yoritomo’s seat in his house slippers, his hairy-black knees bare under his short tunic. Going behind the sliding door, he stuck his neck out. He glared at Yoritomo, now with both eyes, then with one eye. He stared at him standing up, and then again with his face facing down, casting his eye upward. Yoritomo waited, anticipating a blow any moment, but held his posture, flinching neither face nor body. He thought to himself, “I will bear whatever blow he deals me, but if it should be too painful, I will run away.” Mongaku scrutinized Yoritomo in this fashion for some time, and then suddenly pushed the door aside, came before Yoritomo, and started to cry, “Strange it is! You, honorable sir, look like the third son of the Former Lord of Shimotsuke [Yoshitomo]. With the passing of years, your skin has grown darker. How sad.” He made a deep formal bow in front of Yoritomo, bend- ing his back so deeply that it looked as if he had been split in two and then joined. “It is just as I had heard,” Yoritomo thought. “This man is eccentric.” After a bit, Mongaku said, “I have traveled all around the country, and many have come before me claiming to be descended from Rokusonnō, the child of the sixth son of Emperor Seiwa. [That is, many have laid claim to the headship of the Seiwa Minamoto clan by showing direct descent from Rokusonnō.] But none of them have the skill to become a great general, to control the realm and the four surrounding seas. In some cases, they are so intimidating that they cannot win over the hearts of people. In others, they are quietly courageous but radiate no authority. It is dangerous when one is mild and without authority. Yet, one earns enemies when one is too intrepid. As the one who has authority and yet is even-tempered, you will become the ruler of the realm. When I look at you now, I see that your heart is kind, but you also possess a face with authority. This is the sort of countenance to which men will be drawn to make alliances.20

20 Mizuhara, ed., Shintei Genpei jōsuiki, vol. 3 (1989), 32. 38 chapter two

As in the bathhouse scene of the Nagatobon, the Genpei jōsuiki is concerned with whether a hitherto inconspicuous Yoritomo will be recognizable at all, and how he will be perceived. Mongaku, as a face reader, looks at Yoritomo from every possible angle, seemingly unable to put his finger on how to fit this unknown man before him into some schema of historical understanding. It is therefore interesting that the first thing Mongaku notices about Yoritomo is his resemblance to his father Yoshitomo. Yoritomo is validated first and foremost as a member of the Minamoto clan. Mongaku says that many men had come before him seeking the title of Minamoto scion. This illustrious epithet recalled great warriors such as Minamoto Yoriyoshi (988–1075) and Yoshiie (1039–1106), men who had built strong regional bases in the east in the eleventh-century heyday of Minamoto influence. To call oneself a “son of Rokusonnō” was also to emphasize that the Minamoto men could trace their origins to an imperial prince. This was an assertion that carried with it the possibility that, despite the setbacks of the Heiji Rebellion, they would gain prestige once again. Mongaku then mentions obliquely the fractious politicking within the Minamoto kin group. His caricatures of other Genji who fail to make the mark are veiled references to other possible contenders to the Minamoto headship in 1180: Minamoto Yoshitsune and Yoshinaka. Why, at this moment, when the future course of history remains uncertain, does Mongaku focus on the competition between the sons of Rokusonnō? The invocation of the family here is not simply, as it is often assumed, about descent and lineage. To be sure, by emphasizing descent from an imperial prince, characters in the text like Yoritomo and Yoshinaka do bolster their claims to regional power.21 Lineage was also important in the retrospective glance of the fourteenth century when these texts were written. Fourteenth-century shoguns frequently invoked descent from the Minamoto, and by extension the imperial house, when legitimating themselves. However, the logic of the family plays another role here. By linking Yoritomo’s future status as “ruler of the realm” to the logic of family, to biological resemblance (and dissemblance, in the case of his rivals), this scene suggests that the upheaval of the Genpei War will be no more than

21 Jeffrey P. Mass has shown that this retrospective garnering together of lineage was a pervasive habit in historical writing after the Genpei War. Contemporary documents, however, show no proof of “any ongoing or corporate existence” of cohesive lineages that could be called either Taira or Minamoto. See Mass, Antiquity and Anachronism in Japanese History (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1992), 49. fictions of emergence 39 the rightful assumption by Yoritomo of family headship. In other words, the figure of family, which represents continuity across historical time, becomes the trope for organizing the political breakdown to follow. In the symbolic logic of this passage, the shift to a new order is not a historical break, but one that is safely contained within the continuities of family. Violent disruptions—common to beginnings of a new political order— are rendered less threatening by restating them as the smaller disputes within the family.

Dreaming the Body and Soothsaying the Face: The Legible Body in an Arbitrary World

In the previous scene, Mongaku’s antics theatricalize the act of gazing at Yoritomo, one in which readers then participate. Yoritomo hesitates to take any further action, but Mongaku again reassures him by remarking: My eyes are not like the eyes of regular folk. My left eye is that of Daijō Fudō and the right eye is that of Kujaku Myōō. I can read the future of people and see all of Japan just as if it were all just the palm of my hand. Quickly now, raise the flag of rebellion, destroy the Taira family and avenge your father’s shame. Then become the ruler of the realm [kuni no nushi].22 After years of seclusion, Yoritomo is here made visible, his physical features becoming a key to understanding his future as ruler of the realm. Just as narrative aims to impart intelligibility to the chaos of unplotted events and actions, physiognomy in this scene may be seen as an effort to under- mine the arbitrary, to see deep logic in the physicality of the body.23 Mongaku’s physiognomic reading of Yoritomo as a man with “skin so dark” that he is barely recognizable is structurally similar to a face-reading scene in the tenth-century Shōtoku Taishi denryaku (The Biography of Shōtoku Taishi, 992?), where Shotoku Taishi sees a famous physiognomist visiting from the kingdom of Paekche. Even though Shōtoku Taishi (574–622) is mingling with horse-herders and his body appears battered by the natural elements, the physiognomist is able to foretell his great

22 Mizuhara, ed., Shintei Genpei jōsuiki, vol. 3 (1989), 33. 23 For a discussion of how physiognomy mimics the logic of plot in both its purported goal of imparting meaning, as well as how it conceives itself as something that confers order and sequence to narrative, see Christopher Rivers, Face Value: Physiognomical Thought and the Legible Body in Marivaux, Lavater, Balzac, Gautier, and Zola (Madison: University of Wisconsin Press, 1994), 101. 40 chapter two future.24 What both scenes share is a concern with the indexicality of the face, which Satō Akira suggests occupied a privileged place in the imperial portraits (nise-e) of the late Heian and Kamakura periods. Rather than illustrating the distinctive features of each individual, the face was often generic in these portrayals, conveying instead the political and social status of individuals. In literary texts, the face often appears in scenes in which familial resemblance is questioned/established. It directs the reader’s attention away from the individual characters toward social structures like the family or the social roles they played, such as their political office.25 In the medieval period, face reading was also understood as a mecha- nism par excellence for predicting great historical change. Take, for example, Kawazoe Fusae’s observation about the most famous face-reading episode in Japanese literature, a scene early in the Genji monogatari (Tale of Genji, early eleventh century). Here, a physiognomist from the conti- nent foretells the infant Genji’s future, noting both the greatness he will achieve and the troubles that he will encounter. Kawazoe points out that the Kakaishō (Rivers and Seas Commentary, 1367), the most influential of medieval Genji commentaries, places this scene alongside a series of face-reading moments in texts as far back as the Chinese history Shi ji (The Grand Scribe’s Records, second c. bce). In the understanding of the Kakaishō, face reading could ease the transition to new historical eras by positing the future in the yet muddled present.26 Two stories in the Kojidan also follow this logic, with the faces of high-ranking aristocrats foreshadowing the course of history.27 One might extend this logic to assert that, from a narrative standpoint, face-reading scenes signal the story’s correct emplotment; what follows in the text is both appropriately ordered and legible as order.28 If Yoritomo’s face holds out the promise of a new era, the rest of his body completes this picture and gives concrete form to the role he will

24 Bussho Kankōkai, ed., Shōtoku taishiden sōsho, vol. 112 of Dai Nihon bukkyō zensho (Tokyo: Meicho Fukyūkai, 1979), 12. 25 Satō Akira, “Inseiki ni okeru shintaikan no ichimen,” in Seikatsushi, vol. 5 of Inseiki bunka ronshū, ed. Inseiki Bunka Kenkyūkai (Tokyo: Shinwasha, 2005), 132–41. 26 Kawazoe Fusae, “Kokufū bunka no saikentō,” in Genji monogatari no shihatsu: Kirit- subo no maki ronshū, ed. Hinata Kazumasa (Tokyo: Chikurinsha, 2006), 117. 27 See Kojidan Book 6, no. 49 and Book 6, no. 58. Asami Kazuhiko et al., eds., Shinchū Kojidan (Tokyo: Kasama Shoin, 2010), 300, 305. 28 Face-reading scenes can be viewed as metatextual markers of the authority of the text. For a discussion of how prophetic dreams about Yoritomo have a similar function in the Heike, see Oyler, Swords, Oaths, and Prophetic Visions, 59. fictions of emergence 41 play in the future. In a few scenes prior to Mongaku’s face reading, one of Yoritomo’s men, Morinaga, has a dream. Morinaga sees Yoritomo sitting astride the landmass of Japan, his hips resting on the peak of Mount Yagura, his left leg stretching to Sotonohama in the east and the right leg over Kikaigashima in the west. Light radiates from under his arms. Yoritomo takes three sips from a pitcher of wine offered by a priest before the dream ends abruptly. As both Yoritomo and Morinaga struggle to com- prehend the dream, another retainer offers the following explanation: This dream is most auspicious. You [Yoritomo] shall pacify the realm as the sei’i shōgun [Barbarian-subduing General]. It has been passed down that the sun represents the sovereign and the moon the retired sovereign. That you radiate light from both sleeves means that that the king of the realm [kokuō] will also come under the sway of the shogun’s power. You shall subdue the furthest corners, Sotonohama to the east and Kikaigashima to the west. The sake in the dream represents a temporary delusion, from which you will eventually awake to your true purpose [honshi ni naru]. No sooner than three months, and no later than three years, you shall awake from your intoxication and find that this dream revelation is not wrong in even one respect.29 The geographical boundaries taken up in this dream—Sotonohama and Kikaigashima—mark the absolute limits of the landmass of Japan in this period. Noting how the center of this political geography is posited on Mount Yagura, commentators like Abe Yasurō observe that this dream shows an evolving medieval understanding in which the shogunal authority was redrawing the contours of landscape and shifting the center to the eastern provinces.30 What is interesting, however, is the conceptualization of Yoritomo’s body, which envelops the land of Japan, conflating his physical person with the political landmass of Japan. This mystical Yoritomo has no face, no marks of individuality. His body is no more than an abstraction for the geographical reach of the shogunal post.31 The two imperial figures—that of the emperor and the retired emperor—also are diminished in this abstraction; they simply become shadows under Yoritomo’s arms. Yoritomo’s three-year slumber also abstracts historical

29 Mizuhara, ed., Shintei Genpei jōsuiki, vol. 2 (1988), 360. 30 Abe Yasurō, “Chūsei Nihon no sekaizō,” Kan 6 (2001): 90. 31 For a similar literary scene in which a powerful historical figure (Fujiwara Morosuke) straddles imperial polity with his body, see Joseph Kitagawa, trans., Ōkagami (Rutland, VT: Charles E. Tuttle, 1966), 106. For a brief discussion of this motif, see Engyōbon Chūshaku no Kai, ed., Engyōbon Heike monogatari zenchūshaku, vol. 4 (Tokyo: Kyūko Shoin, 2009), 702. 42 chapter two time: it erases the three years that Yoritomo fights battles before he secures the imperial court’s order guaranteeing him leadership of the east in 1183. His intoxicated body, asleep in the present and awaiting the future, itself becomes the metaphor for a future order that is foreordained but whose significance cannot yet be grasped.32 Considered alongside the scene of Mongaku’s face reading, these two scenes also recall what Ernst H. Kantorowicz has called the “king’s two bodies.” Commenting on the political theology of Christian Europe, Kantorowicz claimed that the Catholic king was seen to have both a mortal and an eternal body. His mortal historical body could be afflicted by disease or death, but his “Body politic” was eternal, ahistorical, and imma- terial. In other words, the “Body natural” of the king as a mortal man was metaphorically conflated with the “Body politic” as an immortal office, allowing for smooth succession to the next officeholder.33 The dream sequence in the Genpei jōsuiki thus captures the mystical and immutable aspect of Yoritomo’s power, one that would never attenuate. This imagination of the shogunal office as an eternal entity—not provisional or historically contingent—is an idea that later texts written under shogunal patronage would reiterate.34 It is significant then that the first deliberate reference to Yoritomo’s physical stature, following these grand abstractions of the future body politic, occurs in the scene in which he is appointed to the post of shogun. In the eight month of 1183, an imperial messenger arrives with an edict naming Yoritomo sei’i taishōgun (Barbarian-subduing Great General) (see chapter 3 of this volume). It is here that Yoritomo’s role in the future order is first recognized: he is no more a useless exile, but a powerful martial resource that the court would rely on in the present and into the future.

32 Scholars have typically highlighted that the three-year wait mentioned in the dream echoes a damning proclamation that Mongaku makes earlier in the text, denouncing Emperor Go-Shirakawa as a sovereign whose fall would come in exactly three years. What is intriguing about this scene, however, is the weaving together of various narrative threads around Yoritomo’s body. Like his face, Yoritomo’s body becomes the place where the future is made legible. 33 Ernst H. Kantorowicz, The King’s Two Bodies: A Study in Mediaeval Political Theology (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1957), 7–13. 34 The best illustration can be found in the Baishōron, a text that celebrates the fourteenth-century Ashikaga shoguns by suggesting that the office of shogun was as old as the Japanese state. In its pages, there is a continuous line of shoguns from the legendary warrior Yamato Takeru to the Ashikaga. Although the Baishōron is dated to the fourteenth century, the earliest extant copies bear colophons for 1442 (Tenribon), 1466 (Kanshōbon), and 1470 (Kyōdaibon). There is an English translation of this work, but it is based on the Enpōbon, a rufubon (or vulgate) text copied in 1678. fictions of emergence 43

When Yoritomo emerges to greet this messenger, the narrator observes “his face was large, his figure small, his appearance handsome, his speech unaccented.”35 Yoritomo’s refined speech and demeanor underscore his suitability for the post of shogun: the passage sets him apart from his closest rival, his country cousin Yoshinaka, who is “rough-spoken” and “poorly behaved.” But it is the first two attributes—Yoritomo’s large face and small figure— that are most interesting. Takagi Makoto has observed that the only other character in the Heike texts to be given a large face is Akagari no Daita, a heteromorphic child born between a serpent god and a human mother. The descendant of this Akagari no Daita, Ogata no Saburō, enjoys a super- human level of strength in the Heike narrative, suggesting that the large face is connected to otherworldly powers.36 Though Takagi does not touch upon this aspect, the narrative’s concern with Yoritomo’s height is also relevant. In many medieval narratives such as Issun bōshi (Tale of the One-Inch Boy) and Ko-otoko no sōshi (Tale of the Little Man), unusual stature is indicative of being chosen by the gods.37 In the latter tale, for example, the title character initially struggles to find love because of his child-like height; he is ultimately shown to be divine, revealed at the end as “god of Gojō Shrine.”38 These short figures in medieval tales may, in turn, be drawing on stories of the god Sukunabikona-no-kami in the Kojiki (Record of Ancient Matters, 712) and Nihon shoki (The Chronicles of Japan, 720). Sukunabikona-no- kami first appears in these narratives as a tiny figure who greets the deity Ōkuni-no-nushi from a boat the size of a flowering pod. Even though his diminutive stature is first met with quizzical looks, Sukunabikona-no- kami’s magical powers prove instrumental in helping Ōkuni-no-nushi

35 McCullough, trans., The Tale of the Heike, 268. The two other scenes in which Yori- tomo’s physical attributes are described are those where the two captured Taira leaders, Munemori and Shigehira, are brought to Yoritomo before their sentencing. Though it is not developed in this chapter, the mention of his physique in these scenes may gesture to the narrative’s depiction of Yoritomo as the keeper of law and order, as one who administers justice. In other words, Yoritomo’s physique figuratively emphasizes his martial and juridical powers, tracing through his body the powers of the Kamakura shogunate. 36 Takagi Makoto, “Heike monogatari ni totte Yoritomo to wa nani ka,” in Gunki monogatari no seisei to hyōgen, ed. Yamashita Hiroaki (Osaka: Izumi Shoin, 1995), 82–83. 37 For this observation, see Furuhashi Nobuyoshi, “Monogatari to ōken: han-kokka to shite no monogatari,” in Denshō no kosō, ed. Mizuhara Hajime and Hirokawa Kastumi (Tokyo: Ōfūsha, 1991), 179. 38 Virginia Skord, trans., Tales of Tears and Laughter: Short Fiction of Medieval Japan (Honolulu: University of Hawai‘i Press, 1993), 124. 44 chapter two eventually construct the land of Japan. Yoritomo may not be as small as Sukunabikona-no-kami, but his slight frame underwrites his future potential, defying expectations of eastern warriors who literally only see the inadequacy of his stature. One warrior scoffs at Yoritomo saying, “With his current stature, Yoritomo is trying to snatch the polity from the powerful Taira. Is that not like comparing height with Mount Fuji, or a mouse looking up to the forehead of a cat?”39 The unexpected ability of a “mouse” to stand up to a cat is precisely the point of the story. In the Genpei jōsuiki Yoritomo surfaces from the shadows of exile and is made visible to readers through Mongaku’s gaze, one that reverses Yoritomo’s status from a political non-entity (yo ni naki mono, “one with no status in this world”) to someone who will rule the realm.40 In these and other scenes Yoritomo’s body conveys a host of ideas. First, the deliberate focus on his body heralds his entry into the pages of history. Second, his face and body become the canvas on which the future order is made legible, the physicality of the body diminishing the arbitrariness of history. Finally, Yoritomo’s body becomes the site from which the reach of his power can be articulated in grand mystical terms. His body becomes the conceptual microcosm of the shogunal office, with its far-ranging geographical reach and its dominance over the emperor’s court. By highlighting the legibility of the future, these scenes also foreground the act of reading and writing as felicitous ways to bring order to historical chaos. Yoritomo’s polity, conceptualized metonymically through his body, appears proleptically. As his retainer’s dream implies, the significance of his political rise cannot yet be grasped, but can be decoded if one reads on. Likewise, Yoritomo’s face is a visible instantiation of the plot’s telos, a clear guideline for how one should interpret the narrative sequence. (Physiognomy is, after all, the textual positing of the non-textual.) A little later in the narrative, Yoritomo’s very name becomes the emblem of the plot, a code for how his story must be written and read. Before sending out troops to vanquish Yoritomo, the court orders a divination. The scribe intends to ask the gods, “Is not Minamoto Yoritomo agitating the land of Japan?” But unknown forces intervene and he drops a graph in Yoritomo’s name, resulting in a new rendering of the message, “Is not Minamoto invigorating the land of Japan?” Upon hearing this, people

39 Mizuhara, ed., Shintei Genpei jōsuiki, vol. 3 (1989), 62. 40 Ibid., 49. fictions of emergence 45 solemnly remark, “this portends the ascendancy of the Genji.”41 The notion that writing foretells, and that it does so by way of engaging the act of reading, are ideas suggestively conveyed by the Genpei jōsuiki.

The Fukuhara Edict, the Hōjōe, and the Legitimation of Violence

To transform the contingency of history into a narrative that peers into the future, texts typically use rhetorical devices such as foreshadowing. What makes the Heike particularly effective is its engagement of the face and the body, not only to emplot the future, but to suggest that the future is just as ordered as the narrative. In other words, it employs textual mechanisms to make metatextual claims about an ordered historical world. At the same time, these recursive gestures to sacralize Yoritomo’s body (at the bathhouse) or render it a microcosm of the shogunal power (in the retainer’s dream) point to a thorny problem for narratives of the Genpei War: the fact that his uprising was, in actuality, an unauthorized exercise of violence. As texts that must contain historical chaos, how do the Heike texts regulate the violence of Yoritomo’s uprising? They do this in two ways: first, by circumscribing his call to arms within the higher authority of an imperial edict and second, by foregrounding his ritual performance of the abstention from violence (Hōjōe). These two strategies speak to the dual perception of violence within the text, as both threatening to the Heian status quo, and generative for the Kamakura order. Yoritomo’s violence is pre-emptively accommodated in the Heike using a fabricated document: the Fukuhara Edict. When Mongaku meets Yoritomo for the first time, he urges him to bring down the house of the Taira. But Yoritomo resists, with the question, “How could I start anything without being released from imperial censure?”42 Mongaku promises Yoritomo that he can obtain such a release, and undertakes a trip to Kyoto to seek the sanction of the Retired Emperor Go-Shirakawa.43 It is this fictionalized royal order that officially authorizes Yoritomo to raise forces and thus marks the beginning of Yoritomo’s rebellion in the Heike corpus.

41 Ibid., 308. 42 Ibid., 36. 43 The Gyokuyō shows that Mongaku’s visit to Go-Shirakawa happened seven years prior and was completely unrelated to the Fukuhara Edict, even though the Heike tales try to establish a connection between the two. For this observation, see Watanabe, ‘Heike monogatari’ ‘Taiheiki’ no katarite, 201. 46 chapter two

Even though both yomihon and kataribon texts include a Fukuhara Edict, the documents are surprisingly different, and each betrays distinctive ideological stances toward Yoritomo’s rise.44 In the Kakuichi text, for instance, the edict calls upon Yoritomo to act in service to the court, highlighting the fact that the Minamoto had for generations served as the protectors of the throne. References to the divine land of Japan and the inviolate power of the emperor emphasize the court’s authority. The Kakuichi text carefully leaves out Yoritomo’s name; it summons him not as an individual warlord but as one of the hereditary guardsmen of the throne. By contrast, the edict in the Genpei jōsuiki beckons Yoritomo himself, who is named prominently in the body of the missive.45 There is no impassioned recourse to the divinity of the royal family, only a political assessment of the peril to the state, a situation Yoritomo can rectify: That you should speedily destroy the Lay Priest Kiyomori and his family.46 If the ruler is not more just to men, he will cause the people to suffer. If there are bad ministers at court, the wise men will not get ahead. This family [the Taira] not only acts contemptuously toward the royal family, it has also destroyed the Buddhist law and the authority of the gods. Without a doubt, the Taira are bitter enemies [onteki] of the Buddhas and the gods. They are also enemies of imperial law. Therefore, we ask the Former Acting Assistant Commander of the Military Guards of the Right Yoritomo to destroy these men, speedily push back our bitter enemies, and restore peace to the palace. By this command, it is so decreed.47 The Fukuhara Edict, particularly as it is presented in the yomihon texts, recognizes the potential of Yoritomo to bring down the entrenched interests

44 This variation in the wording of the Fukuhara Edict is consistent across the Heike corpus, roughly splitting along whether the texts belong to the kataribon lineage or the yomihon lineage. An early fifteenth-century copy of the Engyōbon carries both versions— showing an awareness that the texts preceding it were not entirely consistent when it came to reproducing a document that should, by all accounts, have had only one version. 45 For this observation, see Inui Yoshihisa, “Futatsu no Fukuhara inzen: Engyōbon Heike monogatari honbun shōkō,” Yokohama Kokuritsu Daigaku jinbun kiyō 25 (1978): 13. 46 This document follows the epistolary style used in royal edicts known as gechijō. Accordingly, the first line provides the diagnostic summary of the document’s contents. This is set apart from the contents by some space. The ending, too, is set apart and quite formulaic. In fact, it is the formulaic ending that often includes the term gechi (decree), which gives the style of document its name. The use of this documentary style here is quite anachronistic. The gechijō style of order was associated in the Kamakura period with the shogunate and central proprietors; it was not a document used by the sovereigns. 47 Mizuhara, ed., Shintei Genpei jōsuiki, vol. 3 (1989), 39–40. fictions of emergence 47 of the Taira family. More significantly, this fictional edict confers the court’s blessing on Yoritomo’s battles in the east. Though the historical record clearly shows that Yoritomo was seen as a threat in 1180, with the battles in the east likely seen as insurrections, the edict naturalizes the battles of Ishibashiyama, Yui, Kinugasa, Kotsubo, and Fuji River as conflicts bearing the imprimatur of the court. Furthermore, the Genpei jōsuiki positions Yoritomo within the cultic structure of the Hōjōe, a rite wherein shoguns define the parameters of violence by highlighting their ritually timed abstention from it. After receiving the Fukuhara Edict from Retired Emperor Go-Shirakawa, Yoritomo begins to raise forces. While conferring with Hōjō Tokimasa about how they should go about gathering troops and when they should attack, Yoritomo remarks to Tokimasa: If battles were to begin, the provinces would be thrown into chaos, and there may be disruptions to the Hōjōe rites held in the various localities and areas. One fears how the gods may respond to this. We should only begin after the fifteenth of the month.48 This decision to delay the start of hostilities, mentioned only in the yomihon texts, is quite telling. The Hōjōe was part of the main liturgical cycle conducted by the court, equal in importance to the Kasuga and Kamo Festivals.49 During the central part of the rite, fish were released into their natural environment in a demonstration of the sanctity of life, even of the lowest beings. This practice of showing compassion to living beings had its doctrinal origin in a story in the Konkōmyōkyō (Golden Light Sutra) in which Buddha asked twenty elephants to bring water to a dried-up pond to save the endangered lives of ten thousand fish. As this rite became established in Japan, one of its principal tenets was a proscription against killing from the first to the fifteenth day of the eighth month, with the fifteenth day becoming the occasion for the life-honoring Hōjōe. Yoritomo’s words to Tokimasa thus reflect his comprehension of the weight of this injunction. At the same time, and paradoxically, this proscription against killing in the Hōjōe was a way to re-enact, discursively manage, and compensate for the violence that underlay the founding of the ritual in Japan. The

48 Ibid., 46. 49 Itō Kiyo-o, “Iwashimizu Hōjōe no kokkateki ichi ni tsuite no ichi-kōsatsu,” Nihonshi kenkyū 188 (1978): 33. 48 chapter two

Hōjōe was first performed in the eighth century at the old center of the Hachiman cult in Kyushu, the Usa Hachiman shrine, to appease the vengeful spirits of the Hayato, a tribe of maritime people who had been defeated in a bloody court-led expedition of 720.50 In the ceremony’s early history, the honoring of life by freeing captured animals went hand-in- hand with the ideological need to provide reassurance to the court by ritually appeasing the victims of their violence. Jane Marie Law notes that while the Hōjōe was initially conducted to placate the vanquished Hayato people, the narrative literature produced within the cult (recounted in engi) began to incorporate other violent events into the mythic justification for its observance. For example, Empress Jingū’s invasion of Korea is sanctioned in the Rokugō kaizan Ninmon Daibosatsu engi (The Principal Record of the Great Bodhisattva Ninmon, Founder of the Rokugō Cult Center) by the voice of the unborn Hachiman deity speaking from her womb.51 Similarly, the court’s repul- sion of the Mongol invasions of 1274 and 1281 are described in the engi texts as a successful victory of Hachiman over the belligerent Hayato, who, nearly five hundred years after their resounding defeat, had come back to team up with the Mongols. Through these narrative amendments, the Hachiman cult gained a militaristic mythico-history, earning Hachiman the appellation of the “god of war.” By extension, the Hōjōe became a pageant for the victorious court to display its power. It became an occasion to legitimate violence by re-enacting the battles that were part of the ritual’s own history. Literary accounts of the Hōjōe suggest that the rite served another important function. The rise of provincial military families in late Heian Japan posed a challenge to the court’s authority. The Hōjōe rite may

50 The Hayato were probably members of a foreign tribe who had settled in southern Kyushu. In the year 720 they launched a revolt against the administrative structures that the central Yamato government had established in Kyushu. As with any ritual, the Hōjōe folds aspects of earlier rites into its own practice. Nakano Hatayoshi argues that the Hōjōe at Usa was just a Buddhist reinterpretation of a rite of renewal already practiced at Usa, one that involved installation of bronze mirrors. See Nakano, Hachiman shinkōshi no kenkyū, vol. 1 (Tokyo: Yoshikawa Kōbunkan, 1967), 404–25. 51 See Jane Marie Law, “Violence, Ritual Re-enactment, and Ideology: The Hōjōe (Rite for Release of Sentient Beings) of the Usa Hachiman,” History of Religions 33, no. 4 (1994): 325–57. For a translation of the above-mentioned text, see Alan G. Grapard, “Lotus in the Mountain, Mountain in the Lotus: Rokugō Kaizan Nimmon Daibosatsu Hongi,” Monu- menta Nipponica 41 (Spring, 1986): 30. The extant version is from the Tokugawa period. Grapard argues, however, that it is close enough to Kamakura and Muromachi texts such as Hachiman gudōkun (ca. fourteenth c.) to merit its consideration as a largely medieval text. fictions of emergence 49 have communicated the court’s monopoly over violence, even as it was increasingly obvious that military families were contesting that notion. An intriguing example of this may be found in the Kojidan (Book 4, no. 20). On the fourteenth day of the eighth month in the year 1091, a dove settles on the connecting corridor outside Minamoto Yoshiie’s living quarters. The startled Yoshiie bows to the bird, recognizing it as the messenger of Hachiman. The bird then flies into the main building and falls dead, immediately after it drops three fruits of the oriental elm tree from its mouth. Sensing something amiss in these strange happenings, Yoshiie quickly instructs his men to send one silver blade and fourteen horses as offerings to Hachiman before dawn (on the fifteenth day of the eighth month). Though the anecdote ends there with no further information, the crucial clue to understanding the story is to be found in the detail that the doves visit him on the fourteenth day of the eighth month. This is the day before the main rite of the Hōjōe, suggesting that the doves came to deliver a warning. According to the Hyakurenshō (Selections Tempered One Hundred Times, 1259–1274?), the historical Yoshiie has been involved in bitter fighting with a kinsman named Yoshitsuna in the sixth month of 1091, and their battles were perilously close to the capital. What the Kojidan narrative depicts is the resolution of a tense stand-off between the court and Yoshiie through the figure of Hachiman. By sending offerings to the deity, Yoshiie vows to desist in violence, particularly during the Hōjōe.52 It should be noted that the Hachiman god did not discourage violence as much as reserve the authority to sanction it. In the Kojidan (Book 5, no. 8), Fujiwara Tsunenari, a top member of the imperial police (kebiishi no betto) prays to Hachiman to be promoted to the rank of Middle Counselor (chūnagon). He asserts his claim to the advancement with the remark “I have cut off the heads of a hundred robbers.” The chief priest of the shrine is puzzled. Why would Tsunenari emphasize the violence of his career in a prayer to a god who specifically condemned the taking of life? Tsunenari responds confidently that the Hachiman deity had always validated killing for the protection of the state. At the end of the anecdote, we see Tsunenari receive his promotion, confirming his belief that Hachiman was the final guarantor of force. Suzuki Mayumi argues that both Kojidan stories show how the troublesome issue of destruction

52 For this story, see Asami et al., eds., Shinchū Kojidan, 223. 50 chapter two of life is resolved through the figure of Hachiman. Violence is to be condemned, but it becomes permissible if one has the backing of the deity. The Hōjōe, in particular, stood at the center of this simultaneous embrace of what would seem to be completely conflicting positions.53 All the major Hachiman branch shrines in the center and provinces (today the branch shrines number nearly twenty-five thousand) held rites in tandem during the eighth month, a period during which the taking of life was strictly condemned. During this interval, there was to be no fishing, hunting, logging, or war. On one level, the Hōjōe was a state-sponsored pageant in which the elaborate network of Hachiman shrines around the land enacted the authority of the central state to lay claim to all natural resources by underscoring its ability to nurture and protect life.54 The Hachiman cult was associated, from an alternate perspective, with the protection of the country from both internal and external dangers. This made the Hōjōe simultaneously a public demonstration of the deity’s authority to sanctify violence. In the Genpei jōsuiki, Yoritomo’s war-making and political ascent is sanctioned by Hachiman himself. For example, he begins the first of his many disruptive battles in the east after the text has announced: “The Hōjōe in all the provinces were by now all completed.”55 References to Hachiman also occur at critical points in the narrative, helping chart Yoritomo’s rise. When Yoritomo is at his lowest following the murder of his first-born, he pleads to Hachiman: Hail to the great Hachiman Bodhisattva. If you have not forsaken the tie you have to Yoshiie, make me the sei’i taishōgun so I may protect the realm and honor the gods. If you cannot allow me that, grant my wish to become the head of one of the provinces of Izu so that I may capture the lay monk Sukechika and pursue revenge. If I may not make these requests because of my particular fate, you, because you are the manifestation of the Amida Nyorai, should take my life immediately and assist me in the afterlife.56 Again, when Yoritomo is about to be captured, the Hachiman deity sends his messengers (doves) to protect him; two doves deceive his attackers

53 For this anecdote, see ibid., 236. Also see Suzuki Mayumi, “Kojidan no Minamoto Yoshiie,” Kokubun 81 (1994): 41–46. 54 As Ichikawa notes, there were many who flouted this rule. Exceptions also seem to have been made for capturing robbers and night attacks. See Ichikawa Kunitoshi, “Review of Itō Kiyo-o’s Book ‘Iwashimizu Hōjōe no kokkateki ichi ni tsuite no ichi-kōsatsu’,” Hōseishi kenkyū 29 (1979): 177. 55 Mizuhara, ed., Shintei Genpei jōsuiki, vol. 3 (1989), 51. 56 Ibid., vol. 2 (1988), 358. fictions of emergence 51 into thinking that the tree hollow where he has sought shelter is empty. And, finally, when he has control over the eastern provinces so that even “the grasses bend to him,” Yoritomo acknowledges his debt to Hachiman by constructing the branch shrine of Tsurugaoka Hachiman shrine at the center of his new capital. The narrator says, “It is all due to the munifi- cence of the Hachiman Bodhisattva that Yoritomo was able to revive his luck in the Tōkai provinces and take control of the realm in his hands.”57 In saying so, the narrator not only links Yoritomo’s rise to Hachiman’s backing, but also suggests that the violence necessary to “take control of the realm” was justified by Hachiman himself. Hachiman would become known as the tutelary deity of the Seiwa Genji from the late Heian to Kamakura periods. Though the Hachiman cult was initially associated with the court, eleventh-century Minamoto leaders such as Yoriyoshi and Yoshiie began to worship this deity. Yoshiie, in particular, conducted his coming-of-age ceremony at this shrine in 1045, taking the name of Hachiman Tarō Yoshiie. Literary texts amplify the affiliation and draw suggestive conclusions about the support of Hachiman when Minamoto men go to war. In the Mutsuwaki (ca. 1053–1064), Yoshiie becomes the very incarnation of Hachiman on the battlefield.58 Thus, as Elizabeth Oyler argues, the invocation of Hachiman in the Heike texts creates the idea of a unified Genji line running through these men, a lineage that the god has sworn to protect.59 At the same time, the cultic association of Hachiman with the Hōjōe sheds light on a more politically complex aspect of the deity. Hachiman was not a straightforward “god of war”; rather, the mythico-history of the Hachiman cult and the Hōjōe showcase a god who reshapes dubious acts of violence into divinely sanctioned acts. Literary portrayals of the Hōjōe rite, such as in the Kojidan, imply a further turn in this ideological reimagining of war. By depicting Yoshiie desisting from combat on the day of the

57 Ibid., vol. 3 (1989), 168. 58 In fact, the name Hachiman Tarō is given to him by his enemies, who see in the precision of his arrows the guiding hand of Hachiman. Even though it is hard to pinpoint exactly when Hachiman becomes the patron deity of the Minamoto clan, scholars suggest that the eleventh-century connection between the Minamoto family and Hachiman may have been more private. When Yoritomo establishes the Hachiman shrine at Tsurugaoka, he specifically invokes Hachiman as the protector of his ancestors, giving a more public face to a hitherto private affiliation. By the fourteenth century, when the Heike texts are set down in writing, the Hachiman god has become quite closely associated with the Seiwa Genji; Hachiman also comes to be seen as the patron deity of all warriors, in part because of the lore that the he helped repel the Mongol invasions. 59 Oyler, Swords, Oaths, and Prophetic Visions, 50. 52 chapter two

Hōjōe, the Kojidan transforms the danger posed by Yoshiie into an object lesson about the Hachiman god’s prerogative to sanction/prohibit violence. His obeisance to Hachiman, the guardian deity of the state, defuses the threat of his military maneuvers and directs it to more profitable ends. Likewise, the portrayal of Yoritomo’s observance of the Hōjōe in the yomihon texts is a pre-emptive accommodation. It renders the eruption of battles in the east as undertaken by one who knows the permissible parameters of violence, constraints imposed by Hachiman himself.60 The tangled history of the Hōjōe, a rite through which the imperial state sought to domesticate violence, would acquire another twist when the historical Minamoto Yoritomo appropriated it for his own polity and held it at the Tsurugaoka Hachiman shrine on the fifteenth day of the eighth month of Bunji 3 (1187).61 Yoritomo’s adoption of this ritual allowed him to ground his authority in a martial mythico-history. More intriguing perhaps is Itō Kiyoshi’s suggestion that Yoritomo sought the sacrality that the rite conferred upon its patron. His son, Minamoto Yoriie, would also fashion himself as the symbol of martial might by portraying himself as a steward of life and making injunctions against killing.62 According to

60 By linking this scene in the yomihon texts to literary scenes in the Kojidan, I emphasize how literary texts use the Hōjōe to domesticate violence. Martin Colcutt argues that the historical Yoritomo observed the Hōjōe rite because it was important in the religious life of Kamakura warriors. In Colcutt’s view, Hachiman was clearly perceived as a “god of war” by eastern warriors. By contrast, I am concerned with how both the Kojidan and the Genpei jōsuiki pointedly present Yoshiie and Yoritomo as characters who are aware of the limits of violence. This has less to do with the social place of the Hōjōe in warrior society than with the place of the Hōjōe within the literary imagination. I am also interested in the Hōjōe as an ideological ritual that sacralized the “defiled east” for shoguns like Yoritomo. See Colcutt, “Religion in the Formation of the Kamakura Bakufu: As Seen through the Azuma kagami,” Japan Review 5 (1994): 55–86. 61 See the Azuma kagami entry for this date. For more details, see Kase Naoya, “Chūsei ni okeru sesshō kindan to saishi: Tsurugaoka Hachimangū ni okeru shoki hōjōe no kōsatsu,” Nihongaku kenkyū 6 (2003): 59. Some like Matsuo Kenji have said that Yoritomo’s early performance of the Hōjōe was intended to pacify the spirits of the defeated Taira family. Uwayokote Masakata, taking a different stance, posits that since the Tsurugaoka Hachi- man shrine was a state protector shrine (chingo kokka o ninau jinja), the Hōjōe was used by Yoritomo to perform his commitment to protect the court. Kase’s article focuses instead on the martial meanings associated with the rite. As he notes, Yoritomo began performing the Hōjōe as he was planning a campaign in the northern Ōshū region, a mission that the court did not endorse. Yoritomo declined to involve himself directly in the campaign during the rite (hence observing the proscription against killing), even as he tendered a prayer for the success of the campaign. In Kase’s reading, Hōjōe performed during Yori- tomo’s time were instrumental in smoothing out the contradictions between the pursuit of military expeditions and the celebration of the Minamoto as a martial lineage, and its anti-thesis—the proscription against the taking of life. 62 Itō Kiyoshi, “Tōgoku kokka to tennō,” in Chūsei tōgokushi no kenkyū, ed. Chūsei Tōgokushi Kenkyūkai (Tokyo: Tōkyō Daigaku Shuppankai, 1988), 88–89. fictions of emergence 53

Itō, these overtures were necessary for the ideological turn the Kamakura shogunate needed to engineer, that is, the transformation of an area long considered defiled (the rebellion-prone east) into a sacred center. I will return to this subject later in this chapter.

Tree Hollows, Boats, and other Fortune-Reviving Spaces: Yoritomo as the Latter-day Emperor Tenmu

Violence is alternately sanctified and disavowed through the Hōjōe, a double movement necessary for the Genpei jōsuiki, which must contain historical chaos even as it depicts the shoguns as future martial entities. Simultaneously, the Genpei jōsuiki needs to articulate the founding of a new regime, by marking a break from the linear progression of imperial time and the geopolitical logic of center versus periphery. In order to accomplish this, the text turns to a symbolic space long associated in Japanese literature with the commencement of a new narrative, and metatextually, new directions in history—the hollow of a boat or a tree. Suggestive both of a political vacuum from which an alternative polity emerges, and the blank space from which an alternative story may flour- ish, this space propels Yoritomo’s narrative forward. Yoritomo loses the very first battle that he fights at Ishibashiyama in the eighth month of 1180. Because of the scant references to this battle in contemporary courtier accounts, we cannot tell precisely what Yoritomo did after this defeat. The yomihon texts and later accounts such as the Azuma kagami, however, show Yoritomo taking refuge in the recesses of the Sugiyama mountains with six of his close lieutenants. This flight scene is an important one in the medieval literary imagination; it inspired the nō play Shichiki ochi (The Flight of the Seven Riders) and the kōwaka piece Umazoroe (The Assemblage of Horsemen). These stories draw on the felicitous precedent told in the Konjaku monogatarishū, Mutsuwaki (Record of the Deep North, ca. 1062), and Jikkinshō (Book of Ten Rules, 1252) of Minamoto Yoriyoshi, who makes a glorious comeback after being forced to flee with six men during the Former Nine Years War (1051–1062). The motif of a seven-rider escape is invoked again in the Baishōron as Ashikaga Takauji, another Minamoto descendant, flees to Kyushu. This linking of Minamoto men through a propitious pattern of miraculous escapes clearly reflects a fourteenth-century interest in crafting lineage. But it is another scene in the recounting of Yoritomo’s retreat—the moment that he hides in the trunk of a tree—that is salient. In earlier Heian tales, the topos of a tree hollow foreshadows both the social reversal 54 chapter two of the protagonists, as well as metatextually the beginning of a new narrative about them. The Genpei jōsuiki makes a specific claim for the tree hollow as the origination point for political inceptions by invoking Emperor Tenmu (?–686), who slips away from his pursuers in the same fashion. In doing so, the Genpei jōsuiki picks up on a particular narrativization of Tenmu’s escape that begins in the Uji shūi monogatari, a story set down as the tumult of the Genpei War is giving rise to new modes of political authority. The Genpei jōsuiki then resignifies the Uji shūi monogatari rendition of Tenmu’s escape by connecting it directly to Yoritomo to foreshadow felicitous regime change. With the opposing army close upon their heels, Yoritomo and his men conceal themselves in the trunk of a fallen tree. As luck would have it, the leader of the pursuing party, Ōba Kagechika, comes to the very same tree and orders his man Kajiwara Kagetoki to look inside it. When Kagetoki does, he comes face to face with Yoritomo. A tense moment passes. In a swift change of political allegiance, Kagetoki crouches near the tree and whispers his loyalty to Yoritomo. Just as he is backing out, he spies a strand of a spider’s web running across the hole that appears completely intact. This is the first sign of something miraculous at work, since Yoritomo would have destroyed the web when he entered the hollow trunk. Kagetoki breaks the web with the top of his head and boldly announces to Kagechika that the trunk is empty, pointing to the spider’s thread wrapped around his helmet. Still skeptical, Kagechika swings his sword around the hole, and it clangs against Yoritomo’s armor. Yoritomo prays deeply to Hachiman, and at that very moment, two flap- ping doves noisily make their way out the tree. The heavens open, and Kagechika is forced to set aside his lingering doubts to take cover from torrential rain.63 The two major motifs in Yoritomo’s apocryphal meeting with Kajiwara Kagetoki—a right-hand man in his subsequent warrior government—are the doves and the spider. Doves were the messengers of Hachiman, the patron deity of the Minamoto. The spider’s web builds the significance of this scene in another way, linking Yoritomo to the Chinese general Liu Bang (247–195 bce). According to Chinese histories, a fierce succession battle followed the death of Emperor Shihuang (259–210 bce) of Qin.

63 This thrilling moment when Yoritomo is perched between life and death is a vital part of the iconography of Yoritomo. This encounter takes different forms in other texts about Yoritomo, such as the Azuma kagami and the Soga monogatari. In the Azuma kagami, Yoritomo hides in a cave, today a tourist spot called “shitodo no iwaya.” fictions of emergence 55

Liu Bang fought Xiang Yu of Chu seventy-two times for the throne and only prevailed in his last attempt.64 Although he ultimately emerged victorious and went on to found the Han dynasty as the Emperor Gaozu, Liu Bang was forced to seek the sanctuary of a tree trunk during one of his unsuccessful battles, where he too was saved by the thread of a heaven- sent spider. The Genpei jōsuiki cites three historical precedents for such miraculous escapes: Minamoto Yoriyoshi, Shōtoku Taishi, and Emperor Tenmu all seek cover in a tree trunk when they are being chased. Cumulatively, these anecdotes foreshadow the eventual prominence that Yoritomo would attain.65 The richest of the three comparisons, and the one that most closely mirrors Yoritomo’s experiences during his flight, is that with Tenmu. In this and other scenes in the Genpei jōsuiki, Emperor Tenmu and the Jinshin War (672) he spearheaded are picked up as an illustrious precedent for Yoritomo’s victory. In both wars, a figure excluded from the gates of power is politically rehabilitated with the support of powerful regional families, and in both cases, the leader of this “rebel” cause takes refuge in the east.66 The trunk of a tree is intimately connected to death and rebirth in Japanese literature, making it ideal for representing a turning point between past and future.67 Gendayū in the Konjaku monogatarishū (Book 19, no. 14), for example, dies and is reborn by a tree, a motif that probably reaches back to Prince Siddhartha’s enlightenment under a sala tree. Komine Kazuaki adds that spirits, tengū, and divinities often appear near

64 Liu Bang is also known by the name Gaozu, the latter being his posthumous title. This story of Liu Bang is found in volume 29 of the Taiping yulan (An Understanding of Peace and Tranquility, 984), an encyclopedia compiled by Li Fang (925–996). Another version of the story is located in volume 135 of the Taiping guangji (Wide Gleanings from the Taiping Era, 978). For an excerpt of this story and an excellent discussion of this link- age to the legendary Chinese sovereign, see Hori Makoto, “Ryūhō to Yoritomo: Genpei jōsuiki Sugiyama fushiki kyūnankō,” Waseda Daigaku daigakuin kyōikugaku kenkyūka kiyō 12 (2002): 17–27. 65 For more details, see Shōtoku Taishi denki (dated to 1319). For an imprint of this text, see Sakaino Kōyō, ed., Shōtoku Taishi den, vol. 3 of Shōtoku Taishi zenshū (Tokyo: Ryūginsha, 1942), 334–35. For a discussion of Shōtoku’s concealment, see Yang Xiao Jie, “Sugiyma sanchū no monogatari: Genpei jōsuiki ni okeru koji setsuwa no hōhō o megutte,” Kokugo kokubun 56, no. 640 (1987): 15. 66 For an observation about how the Jinshin War (Jinshin no ran) becomes newly relevant in the war-torn twelfth century, see Kubota Jun, “Uji shūi monogatari no miyako,” in Konjaku monogatarishū to Uji shūi monogatari: setsuwa to buntai, ed. Komine Kazuaki (Tokyo: Yūseidō, 1986), 211. 67 See Fujiwara Yoshiaki, “Zuisō ki no ue,” Harukanaru chūsei 6 (1985): 39–48. 56 chapter two trees in the Konjaku mongatarishū, indicating that trees often evoke the otherworld.68 The tree hollow was also a space of metamorphosis. In the famous folktale of Kobutori jiisan (The Old Man with the Wen) told in the Uji shūi monogatari (Book 1, no. 3) an old man, reclusive because of the large wen on his face, takes shelter in the hollow of a tree when it starts to rain. As he is waiting inside, goblins come to the tree to hold a celebration and he is suddenly possessed by a desire to present himself before others, and, what is more, dance before them. This inner transformation is soon followed by distinct physical change: the goblins take away his wen (albeit as a sort of guarantee that he will return again to dance). Mori Masato notes that the tree hollow is associated with sacred meanings. It is here that the goblins congregate to hold their religious rites. Furthermore, the person who emerges from the tree cavity is similar to an okina, a kami who has come in the guise of an old man to perform a sarugaku-like sacred dance. Finally, it is the recess in the tree that enables this transformation, making the old man physically attractive and socially confident.69 In other tales, such as the Taketori monogatari (Tale of the Bamboo Tree, 950?) and the Utsuho monogatari (Tale of the Hollow Tree, late tenth c.), the inner chamber of a tree is more than just a space where the mythic and real, the extraordinary and ordinary, collide. In the Taketori monogatari, for example, the inside of the bamboo is the place that spawns the narrative about the Bamboo Princess. Just as Jack’s home in Jack and the Beanstalk serves as the starting point of the tale, the bamboo hollow initi- ates the adventure as well as the story of the adventure. For Fujii Sadakazu the utsuho (tree hollow) in the Utsuho monogatari—even though it appears somewhat later in the narrative—is likewise the story’s true beginning. It is from here that the extraordinary life of the protagonist Nakatada is launched.70 When he goes to live in the hollow as a young boy, he is a social non-entity. Nakatada and his mother have left the capital because of difficult financial circumstances. In this hollow, he learns to play the koto, a talent that draws the attention of the emperor and earns him an imperial bride. The hollow is therefore both the reverberative center of

68 Komine Kazuaki, “Konjaku monogatari no ki no fūkei,” in Chūsei setsuwa to sono shūhen, ed. Kunisaki Fumimarō (Tokyo: Meiji Shoin, 1987), 69–73. 69 Mori Masato, “Monogatari no ba. Monogatari no katachi,” Chūsei bungaku 38 (1993): 17–18. See also Komine Kazuaki, “Uji shūi monogatari to mukashibanashi,” in Setsuwa to shisō, shakai, ed. Setsuwa Denshō Gakkai (Tokyo: Ōfūsha, 1987), 13. 70 Fujii Sadakazu, “Ikyō ron: Chūgoku no minkan denshō to Nihon no monogatari bungaku,” in Taketori monogatari. Utsuho monogatari, vol. 6 of Kanshō Nihon koten bungaku, ed. Mitani Eiichi (Tokyo: Kadokawa Shoten, 1975), 406. fictions of emergence 57 the musical instrument (whose merits the entire tale is built around) and the creative space within which Nakatada’s story is born. The account in the Genpei jōsuiki incorporates both these symbolic overtures—a fresh start and a fresh start to a story—into its apocryphal account of Tenmu taking refuge in the trunk of a tree. The earliest telling of the Jinshin War, recorded in the Nihon shoki, recounts the progress of the war and movement of troops in great detail but does not mention any scene of hiding. The Jinshin War is retold in the Fusō ryakki (Abridged Annals of Japan, mid-twelfth c.) and Uji shūi monogatari, in which the battle scenes become increasingly less important. Instead, these texts add scenes not found in the Nihon shoki to highlight the crucial role played by those who supported Tenmu by providing him food and shelter during his flight. Tenmu’s daughter, for example, betrays her husband (the reigning emperor) and alerts her father by concealing a message in a package of grilled funa (carp). Later, a villager in Tahara in Yamashiro province helps Tenmu by giving him kuri (chestnuts) to eat, while another in Shima offers him water. Though the Uji shūi monogatari concludes on a simple note, telling readers about how these seemingly insignificant actors helped Tenmu win the war by sheltering him, scholars have noted the ideological significance of these two gestures. Since grilled carp was one of the ritual offerings given to a new emperor, Tenmu’s receipt of the dish foreshadows his eventual ascent to the throne. Similarly, the chestnut had its own auspicious association: it was an ingredient for the dish made in the imperial kitchens known as kachiguri (“victory chestnut”), which was served in banquets after battle victories.71 What the Uji shūi monogatari puts together in its unique telling of the Jinshin War is a sequence of narratives that evoke new polities, particularly those that emerge after a war. The most daring of Tenmu’s supporters in the Uji shūi monogatari is a young woman who shelters him under her yubune (“tub boat”) on the banks of the Sunomata River in Mino province. When Tenmu’s pursuers arrive, she continues to wash clothes calmly over the overturned tub and directs the men to look in Shinano, the direction in which he had reportedly fled. The choice of a boat as place of refuge is significant. Asami Kazuhiko observes that in sekkyō bushi (“sermon ballad”) texts such as

71 For a discussion of this story, see Masuko Kazuko, “Uji shūi monogatari dai hyaku- hachijūroku-wa ‘Kiyomihara tennō to Ōtomo kōshi to kassen no koto’ kō,” in Gunki bungaku no keifu to tenkai, ed. Kajihara Masaaki (Tokyo: Kyūko Shoin, 1998), 46–49. 58 chapter two

Sanshō dayū the boat is a place of death and rebirth.72 Ueno Asami sees this symbolism of political rebirth applicable to the Uji shūi monogatari tale. Before Tenmu hides in the boat, he is a powerless figure; after he emerges, he is able to raise forces and defeat his opponent. What is most interesting about this story, however, is how the text plays with the image of yubune, the wooden bathing tub that could double as a boat. Ueno notes that the woman is first sighted in the story seated by a fune (boat), and this depiction makes sense because that is what Tenmu needs for his escape. Yet, as the tale progresses, this boat is replaced by a yubune, a space associated with cleansing and purification, an image that is underscored by the woman’s laundering on the tub.73 We may therefore discern a symbolic underscoring of Tenmu’s political rebirth in this deliberate inclusion of a yubune in the Uji shūi monogatari. Viewed in this light, it becomes clear that the Uji shūi monogatari clearly recounts the birth of a new emperor. As the story opens, there is a political vacuum at the center as a fierce succession dispute unfolds. Prince Ōama leaves the capital for fear of assassination by his rival Prince Ōtomo and moves around the countryside clothed in “the hunting cloak of the lower classes.”74 Despite his humble clothing, he is welcomed during his wanderings by locals and quickly attains the status of a divine visitor from another world (ijin). For example, he performs miracles like causing the remains of cooked chestnuts to suddenly grow into large trees. These acts are clear evocations of the divine control emperors exercised over the fertility of land, power Prince Ōama would later assume when he ascended the throne as Emperor Tenmu. Yamaoka Yoshikazu remarks that the tale reveals an interesting dimension latent in the motif of the kishu ryūritan (exile of the young noble) in Japanese literature. In discussions of this motif, scholars conventionally emphasize the tragic amorous hero found in the Genji mongatari and Ise monogatari (Tales of Ise, ca. 947), focusing on the wandering of the exiled hero and his

72 See Miki Sumito and Asami Kazuhiko, eds., Uji shūi monogatari, kohon setsuwashū, vol. 42 of Shin Nihon koten bungaku taikei (1990), 374. 73 The boat image alone would have sufficed for the purposes of the story: the crossing at Sunomata was known as a location where yūjo gathered, and the boat image was often used in literary texts to evoke such female entertainers. In fact, later texts such as the Fusō mogyūshichū (according to colophon, copied in 1380) and the nō play Kuzu (details unknown) that include this scene of Tenmu’s concealment only mention a boat, not a yubune. See Ueno Asami, “Uji shūi monogatari dai hyaku-hachijūroku-wa no haikei,” Kokubun, no. 81 (1994): 57. 74 Tsunaya Watanabe and Kōichi Nishio, eds., Uji shūi monogatari, vol. 27 of Nihon koten bungaku taikei (Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten, 1960), 411–13. fictions of emergence 59 eventual political acceptance in the capital. Of equal importance is the way in which the exile, although politically powerless in the beginning, acquires god-like powers during his wanderings. In other words, by welcoming him as a divine guest, the people who assist him facilitate his transition into a god (kami). Yamaoka further maintains that the wanderer Susano-o of the ancient Japanese myths, whose early disorderly behavior results in his banishment, enjoys a similar transformation into a god through his interactions with local deities who treat him as an ijin.75 Like the miracle-working Tenmu, the first act that Yoritomo performs after emerging from the tree cavity is to give life to a dead priest. After the narrow escape in the tree trunk, the seven men take refuge in a temple, concealing themselves under the altar floorboards. When Ōba Kagechika comes looking in the temple, he tortures the priest there for information until he dies. Yoritomo sheds copious tears when he spies the dead priest. These tears miraculously bring the priest back to life. Like the tree hollow and the tub in the Uji shūi monogatari story, the hiding place beneath the altar is a space that enables Yoritomo’s transformation into a divine figure and prefigures his eventual victory. Yoritomo’s luck begins to turn once he departs from the temple. In a short two months, he recovers enough to deliver a stunning victory at the battle of Fuji River, and this allows him to claim the east as his dominion. It would be difficult to trace a clear line of influence between the Uji shūi monogatari story of Tenmu’s flight and the Genpei jōsuiki account. Nevertheless, we do know that the two stories later become conflated in the medieval literary imagination. The nō play Kuzu, for example, clearly borrows words and motifs from the Genpei jōsuiki to tell the story of Tenmu’s flight. One assumes that medieval shogunal patrons of nō drama likely enjoyed this conflation, because it sutures the narrative of shogunal triumph together with the ascent of Emperor Tenmu, a sovereign who was known for the strength and vitality of his rulership.76 So enduring

75 See Yamaoka Yoshikazu, “Kishu ryūritan to wa nani ka,” Kokubungaku: kaishaku to kyōzai no kenkyū 54, no. 4 (2009): 11–13. 76 Thomas Hare classifies this play as a kiri nō, one of the dramatic plays used to conclude medieval nō performances on a celebratory note by praising the shogunal political order. He remarks that the figure of a vulnerable emperor may have suited the Ashikaga shoguns, flattering their self-image as protectors of a fragile imperial polity. Although I agree with Hare about the general political import of the play, my reading suggests a different reason for its ideological resonance for medieval shoguns. See Hare, “The Emperor’s Noh Clothes: Medieval Japanese Kingship and the Role of the Child in Noh Drama,” in Bud- dhist Priests, Kings, and Marginals: Studies on Medieval Japanese Buddhism, Special Issue, Cahiers d’Extrême-Asie 13 (2002–2003): 424. 60 chapter two is this iconography of a hollow in propelling a political reversal that in the Taiheiki, it is an emperor who has to hide in a boat.77 In this tale, the Emperor Go-Daigo has been exiled to the island of Oki and has little hope of ever retaking the throne. At this critical juncture, he flees the island on a small fishing vessel. The boat, like the other fortune-reviving spaces, becomes the start of a new adventure, propelling Go-Daigo back to the center and to power.

The Battle of Fuji River and the Reimagining of the Borderlands

The historical Minamoto Yoritomo only directly engaged in one clash, the battle of Ishibashiyama. In the Heike texts, however, he is portrayed leading his forces to a decisive victory in the battle of Fuji River (1180). This natural boundary carried symbolic freight in Japanese accounts because it traced the outer limits of the Bandō, a toponym that imagined the east as an autonomous enclave of power. Whereas a court-centric geopolitical imaginary considered the east “defiled,” this toponym highlighted instead an assertive dimension of this region. The idea of a nascent polity— implicit in the stories of tree hollows and boats—is thus given discrete spatial form. In the eighth century, the Bandō was simply a marker for the east, denoting the area east of the Usui and Ashigara slopes. It encompassed the eight provinces of Musashi, Sagami, Awa, Kazusa, Shimōsa, Hitachi, Kōzuke, and Shimotsuke. By the thirteenth century, however, the Bandō had become synonymous with the court’s troubled frontier.78 During

77 In 1332, Go-Daigo is exiled to the island of Oki, and the leaders of the shogunate install a rival imperial line (Emperor Kōgon, r. 1331–1333) on the throne. The indefatigable Go-Daigo accomplishes a daring flight on a fishing boat a year later, hiding himself under layers of fish. He then reaches the region of Hōki where he sets up a temporary palace in Mount Funanoue. From here his bid to return to power quickly gathers momentum and he is back in Kyoto by the end of the year. 78 The first mention of Bandō can be found in the Shoku Nihongi. See the entry for the 4th month of Jinki 1 (724) in Aoki Kazuo et al., eds., Shoku Nihongi 2, vol. 13 of Shin Nihon koten bungaku taikei (Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten, 1989), 149. The Shoku Nihongi is an official historical chronicle compiled during the eighth century, based on court diaries and documents. Scholars are divided about how much independence and autonomy they accord to the east. Certainly repeated uprisings in 889, 893, and 939 imply an east defying the rule of law. The uprising of Taira Masakado in 939 is often considered the most emblematic of the east’s defiance against the court and is worth discussing here. After extending his power in this area, Masakado declared himself the “new sovereign” of the east. Some scholars point out that Masakado deferentially referenced the sovereign in Kyoto as the “main sovereign” fictions of emergence 61 those five centuries, the state waged numerous wars with the Ezo people of the north, who were well known for resisting central authority.79 In fact, the very carving out of a geographical unit called the Bandō was initially intended to demarcate it from the area to the north, which there- after would be called Mutsu and would represent a frontier region prone to unrest.80 Thus, in the eighth century the Bandō started out as a sort of military base for troops headed northeast, as well as a resettlement camp for those who submitted to the court in these battles. Subsequent history would considerably alter this political geography, for Bandō itself would become the war front, instead of simply being the base camp. The Ezo “prisoners of war,”81 however, resisted their displacement and raised countless rebellions.82 In response, the court began to send its own sons, princes stripped of royal status and given special royal names like Taira and Minamoto as martial governors. Still, the Bandō remained restless. As these warrior

and never cut himself away from the central court. They claim that the east was never really seen as seceded territory. Yet others like Amino Yoshihiko, Seki Yukihiko, and Uway- okote Masataka emphasize the relative autonomy of the east. Uwayokote, in particular, argues that the tenth-century court perceived the rebellion of Masakado as marking the slipping away of the east from its control. See Amino, Higashi to nishi no kataru Nihon no rekishi (Tokyo: Soshiete, 1982), 92; Seki, “Bushi to wa nani ka,” in Bushi no tanjō: Bandō no tsuwamonodomo no yume (Tokyo: Nihon Hōsō Shuppan Kyōkai, 1999), 43–45; and Uway- okote, Nihon chūsei seijishi kenkyū (Tokyo: Hanawa Shobō, 1973), 78–80, 96, 101. Setting aside the question of whether the east was truly independent of the center, it should be emphasized that the perception of the east was replete with the imagery of rebellion and secession. For more, see Amino, Higashi to nishi no kataru Nihon no rekishi, 100–106. 79 For an extensive account of the court and its military missions to these northern territories, see Karl F. Friday, “Pushing Beyond the Pale: The Yamato Conquest of the Emi- shi and Northern Japan,” Journal of Japanese Studies 23, no. 1 (1997): 23. Although Friday’s account focuses on the military campaigns until 801, he concludes by arguing that though considered pacified, the Ezo people of the north continued to present problems for the court in the following centuries. He notes, “Armed uprisings by emishi in the northeast, as well as those who had been resettled elsewhere in the country, were a regular occur- rence, necessitating recourse to force . . . The notion of a pacification era was then largely a creation of court rhetoric and propaganda.” 80 Ishii Ryōsuke, “Tōgoku to saikoku: jōdai oyobi jōsei ni okeru,” in Taika no kaishin to Kamakura bakufu no seiritsu, ed. Ishii Ryōsuke, vol. 1 of Hōseishi ronshū (Tokyo: Sōbunsha, 1972), 51–86. Elaborated and picked up in Amino, Higashi to nishi no kataru Nihon no rekishi, 100–106; see also Seki, “Bushi no tanjō,” 48. 81 This colorful perception of the Ezo as “prisoners of war” is taken from the Sandai jitsuroku (A True Record of Japan’s Three Eras, 901), a historical work completed by Fujiwara Tokihira. See entry for Jōgan 17 (876)/5/10 in Kuroita Katsumi, ed., Nihon sandai jitsuroku, Fukyūban (Popular) edition, vol. 4, pt. 2 of Shintei zōho kokushi taikei (Tokyo: Yoshikawa kōbunkan, 1973), 362. 82 For a detailed account of these rebellions and an account of the transformation of Bandō, see Seki, “Bushi no tanjō,” 49–60. 62 chapter two aristocrats began to establish roots in the provinces by marrying their daughters to local leaders, they also began jockeying for power and fighting among themselves. The most powerful conflagration of these simmering disputes between warrior groups was the rebellion of Taira Masakado in 939. Masakado arrogated Bandō as his own domain and named himself its new tennō (emperor), a precedent for eastern independence future courts were anxious to avoid. Because of this history, the geographical term Bandō evoked two very threatening things to the court of later periods. First, it signified the court’s inability to bring the east under full and lasting control, for rebellions rocked this area constantly. Second, it bespoke of the rise of the powerful Minamoto and Taira warrior lineages, families who started out as military lieutenants of the court, but went on to establish roots in the provinces by setting up patronage networks.83 Thus, by the medieval period, the topo nym had to be used with caution because of its association with images of sedition and military independence. Though the Genpei jōsuiki does not use the designation “Bandō,” it plays up the area east of the Fuji River as territory under Yoritomo’s control. The placement of Yoritomo as the leader of his forces at Fuji River therefore stems from two related ideas. First, it draws upon the image of the Bandō as warrior-governed territory. Second, the text echoes the symbolism that the historical Yoritomo himself accorded to the major rivers dividing the east from the court’s territory. Kimura Shigemochi maintains that Yoritomo regarded Kise River (some 25 km west of Fuji River) as a symbolic boundary between the court’s land and his sphere of control. In 1190, when he undertook the first westward trip to the court, he performed a special “horse-changing” ceremony here, imitating court officials who would change horses at Kujō Gate as they symbolically marked their departure from the imperial capital. Kimura also notes that the area

83 The social and institutional trends that led to the rise of the warrior lineages are seen by some, like William Wayne Farris, as the court’s unwilling surrender of authority to local military powers in the face of lawlessness. Others, like Karl F. Friday, emphasize that the development of these warrior groups was fostered by the court and highlight a strong court subordinating the armed corps to the central will. The tonality of Farris’s work suggests that the court surrendered power over the district to officials in the provincial headquarters. Friday critiques this notion of the court’s helplessness in his own work, by arguing that the court was making a strategic decision to use the very source of trouble in the countryside to subdue other troublemakers (by setting “thief to catch thief ”). See Farris, Heavenly Warriors: The Evolution of Japan’s Military, 500–1300 (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1992), 120–59, and Friday, “Teeth and Claws: Provincial Warriors and the Heian Court,” Monumenta Nipponica 43, no. 2 (1988): 153–85. fictions of emergence 63 around Ashigara slope was the chosen area for executions of men like Fujiwara Mitsuchika (1176–1221) who were involved in the Jōkyū War. The location of this execution, just beyond Ashigara Pass in the Kagosaka area, was chosen to avoid polluting the immediate sphere of the shogun’s influence.84 Fuji River is a similar boundary in the Heike texts, reframing a region that was seen in the Heian period as foreign and troublesome territory into an independent area now under Yoritomo’s sway. This demarcation of a distinct Bandō went hand-in-hand with a critical erasure of the perception of the east as defiled (kegare no tsuihōchi). The ritsuryō state, observes Itō Kiyoshi, constituted its geopolitical authority by ideologically graphing the space it governed in concentric circles. The borders (or limits) of each of these concentric circles corresponded with contemporary understandings of the east (evoked by terms such as Kantō, Tōgoku, and Bandō) as sites of exile for wrongdoers and where maleficent spirits roamed. Yoritomo, himself a former exile, realized the tactical need to sacralize the space he governed; he incorporated practices and rituals that drew similar concentric circles around his seat in Kamakura.85 His performance of the Hōjōe was likewise one of many ideological maneuvers to map the Kamakura shogunate’s authority.

Punishing Traitors and Awarding Followers: Performing the Birth of a Law-Making Political Body

Though earlier yomihon texts such as the Engyōbon include the eastern battles discussed above, only the Genpei jōsuiki presents the logical end- point of these events: the founding of Kamakura as a capital. After effort- lessly dispatching the Taira at the battle of Fuji River, Yoritomo is depicted entering Kamakura and conducting a round of awards and punishments. The Azuma kagami chronicles these two acts but they occur on separate dates, 1180/10/23 and 1180/11/8, respectively. It is only in the Genpei jōsuiki that Yoritomo is portrayed administering justice in Kamakura soon after his eastern victories, at what would become the new judicial center of the post-1185 era. Yoritomo’s awarding of confiscated lands to his men marks him as the new patron of eastern warriors. Saeki Shin’ichi demonstrates that the rewarding of those who assisted him builds on an archetypical motif found

84 See Kimura Shigemochi, “Kisegawa to runin Yoritomo,” Numazushi kenkyū 11 (2002): 12. 85 Itō, “Tōgoku kokka to tennō,” 90–91. 64 chapter two in texts starting with the Hizen fudoki (The Hizen Gazetteer, 739?). In this story, two brothers living in Hizen province, Somin and Shōrai, are visited by a shabby-looking man seeking shelter. The brothers are unaware that the man is none other that the god Mutō of the north seas, and though wealthy, the younger brother turns him away. The older brother Somin, however, takes the god into his humble abode; he offers him a straw mat to sleep on and gruel to eat. Many years later, the god returns to the area and asks the generous Somin to identify the members of his immediate family and to each he leaves a cogongrass belt. That night everyone, save those in possession of a belt, die mysteriously.86 The fallout of the Genpei War was quite similar. Yoritomo rewarded those who came to his aid and took away from those who sided against him.87 In an echo of this imagery, the thematic focus of this section of the Genpei jōsuiki is Yoritomo’s juridical powers, that is, his ability to sentence those who went against him and to grant clemency. Ōba Kagechika, for example, is beheaded in the courtyard before Yoritomo. Likewise, Yoritomo swiftly orders the execution of Ogino no Gorō Sueshige of the Ebina league for having defied Yoritomo’s orders at Ishibashiyama. Others, like Yamanouchi no Takiguchi no Saburō—the man who had ridiculed the “short” Yoritomo’s aspirations to stand tall like Mount Fuji—are repri- manded but excused on the grounds that Saburō’s father and grandfather had fought loyally in the past for Yoritomo’s father. The reprieve granted to Saburō thus speaks to a theme that the narrative systematically devel- ops through the eastern battles, in other words, the loyalty of warriors in the east to generations of Minamoto men. As Yoritomo adjudicates over the life and death of these men, he performs the birth of Kamakura by showing that his new regime can exercise violence, proleptically displaying the martial/judicial authority that his regime will only later possess. The violence Yoritomo wields as he orders executions and grants clemency is self-positing; it proclaims itself as the force necessary to bring a new political and judicial order into being. Because this violence is associated with new beginnings, it can also declare itself as being just, effectively erasing the convulsions that precede it.88

86 Akimoto Kichirō, ed., Fudoki (Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten, 1962), 489. 87 See Saeki Shin’ichi, “Minamoto Yoritomo to gunki, setsuwa, monogatari,” in Setsuwa ronshū, ed. Setsuwa to Setsuwa Bungaku no Kai (Osaka: Seibundō, 1992), 271–305. 88 I have been guided in my thinking about violence by Jacques Derrida and Walter Benjamin, though my primary interest is the performatory logic of violence undertaken fictions of emergence 65

In this way, the disruptive fighting of Yoritomo’s uprising is justified through this “future anterior” logic as violence that had to happen in order to create a more enduring peace.

Conclusion

This chapter has argued that the Genpei jōsuiki presents the birth of the shogunate as a violent upheaval that nevertheless is sanitized of any taint of disruption. In order to do so, the Genpei jōsuiki places the turbulent beginnings of the Genpei War within a pause in diegetic time. Since the narrating perspective shifts from Kyoto (where the messenger delivers his news) to the Kantō (where all of Yoritomo’s early battles occur), and back to Kyoto, the Genpei jōsuiki sets apart the fable of Yoritomo’s rise.89 Unlike the Kakuichibon, where the flow of time is tethered largely to events in Kyoto, the Genpei jōsuiki adopts a multi-temporal structure. It severs the events of the east into their own temporal unit. Even when they do not involve Yoritomo, all scenes that take place in the east are woven into this “Yoritomo-centric time” by a continuous dating scheme.90 The spatial coordinates of the eastern battle scenes also emphasize boundaries, such as Fuji River, which demarcate the east as a separate enclave of power. By setting these battles off-stage and by framing them within a narrative pause, the Genpei jōsuiki gives itself room to recount the tumult with the in the name of law, violence that is backed by a future law-making power. For a reading that adopts Benjamin’s terms “law-making” and “law-preserving” violence to the Soga monogatari, see Ōtsu Yūichi, “Kenryoku to Soga monogatari,” Gunki to katarimono 40 (2004): 25–35. While Ōtsu, following Derrida, highlights the multiple aporias of law, I focus on the constitutive moment of power in which the foregoing violence is rendered invisible. Ōtsu’s reading highlights the contradictions that abound in using violence to restrain violence. When Yoritomo grants clemency to the Soga brothers, he demonstrates his capacity to preserve the law by mediating disputes. Yet, the brothers’ suicide (despite his pardon) also makes them heroes in the medieval world, revealing the captivation of readers with figures who try to be ‘above the law.’ Benjamin notes that these outlaw figures are fascinating because they confront the violence of law “with the threat of declaring a new law.” Such figures, in other words, reveal that law always has its origins in violence. See Derrida, “Force of Law,” 268. 89 See Matsuo Ashie, “Tōgoku no ikusagatari,” in Gunki monogatari ronkyū, Chūsei bungaku kenkyū sōsho (Tokyo: Wakakusa Shobō, 1996), 222. Even though other yomihon variants like the Shibu-kassenjōbon and the Engyōbon also have two scenes involving horse-borne messengers, it is only the Genpei jōsuiki that clearly carves out a complete pause in diegetic time. 90 Minamoto Ken’ichirō, “Genpei jōsuiki ni okeru jikan jojutsu no hōhō,” Nihon bungeigaku 31 (1994): 43. 66 chapter two clear telos of the founding of a new legal body in Kamakura. All this takes place while time in Kyoto stands still. The authority of Yoritomo is constituted in a temporal and spatial elsewhere. It exists in a realm of its own, neither destroying nor affirming imperial order, and is one strategy for containing the violence of the Genpei War. Simultaneously, however, the violence of the war is constituted as generative, both of a new juridical body (the shogunate) and the shogun himself as a martial entity. Topoi such as the bathhouse and tree hollow furnish the imagery for a new historical start, rewriting this moment of uncertainty within the idiom of nascence and emergence. This chapter has focused on the intertexts that underlie the telling of Yoritomo to propose that the very “historiographical” method that the Genpei jōsuiki uses—collating, compiling, and resignifying earlier texts— suggests an ordering of the narrative world that virtuously mirrors its ideological goal of inscribing political order. Even though all other Heike variants carry intertextual resonances, the Genpei jōsuiki is the most self- conscious in its editorial stance as the repository of various textualiza- tions of earlier stories. Thus, whereas earlier studies have considered scenes that valorize voice in the Heike storytelling tradition because of the oral circulation of Heike stories in the medieval world, this chapter reveals how the Genpei jōsuiki participates in another significant medieval enterprise: the proliferation of commentarial works that annotated prior texts, authoring as well as authorizing texts.91 For example, this chapter illustrates how the story of Yoritomo’s resurgence, recounted using the Uji shūi monogatari tale of Emperor Tenmu’s political comeback, is one about political authority as well as a metatextual marker for authority per se. The nō play Kuzu turns to the Genpei jōsuiki—not the Uji shūi monogatari—to tell the story of Tenmu. This is likely because of its ability to give an account of political authority while telegraphing narrative authority. This dual function of the account in the

91 In the interests of space, I do not delve into this commentarial aspect in this chapter, but it is discussed in chapter 1. Furthermore, this is not an uncritical replication of the binary classification of Heike texts into kataribon and yomihon lineages—those that were performed orally and those that were not. Because of the many intertexual transfers, the lineages share much in terms of form and content. Moreover, as scholars suggest, the “read” texts like the kataribon were not librettos for oral performances but written as if they were being recited. Likewise, I am interested in how the Genpei jōsuiki is written as if it were going to be read. fictions of emergence 67

Genpei jōsuiki of Yoritomo, both descriptive and metatextual, continues into the Tokugawa period. One example is the kyōgen (comic theater) play Bunzō. In this piece, an attendant is pressed by his master to justify his absence; he replies that he went to the capital to see the sights and while there paid his respects to his master’s uncle. This pleases the master, who then asks the servant what he ate when in the city. To deflect interest away from this question (and his likely lie), the attendant states that it was a dish mentioned in one of his master’s books. The master begins to recite aloud from the account in the Genpei jōsuiki of Yoritomo’s Ishibashiyama battle, and this buys the attendant valuable time. When he seizes upon the warrior name Bunzō as the name of the dish, his master patiently explains that Bunzō is homophonous with unzō kayu, a kind of porridge made at temples. The clever attendant, who manages to distract and mollify his angry master, is a common motif in kyōgen plays. What makes this play noteworthy, however, is its use of the battle of Ishibashiyama as the anchoring motif. The passages adapted from the Genpei jōsuiki form the basis of this kyōgen text as well as that of the master’s authority and erudition, a fact that the attendant is careful to emphasize.92 Even though the kyōgen play is subtly critiquing this supercilious master, it nevertheless holds up the power of the historical account in the Genpei jōsuiki to ground the authority of the master. From the attendant’s perspective, this authority also helps underwrite the trustworthiness of his excuse, since only a true text can help affirm the truth of his visit to Kyoto. The Genpei jōsuiki casts a long shadow over literary and historiographical texts. Scholars presume that the Genpei jōsuiki circulated in the Tokugawa period as a source of information about the medieval past, with its content incorporated into historical compendiums such as the Dai Nihonshi (see chapter 1 for a discussion of this source). The stories about Yoritomo’s battles in the east, in particular, became the source for early twentieth-century reference works like Dai Nihon chimei jisho, and are even today cited in geographical gazetteers like Nihon rekishi chimei taikei and well-thumbed reference works like Kadokawa Nihon chimei

92 According to the Nihon koten bungaku daijiten, the Izumi-ryū playbooks mention that Bunzō is based on the Genpei jōsuiki. See Nihon Koten Bungaku Daijiten Henshū Iinkai, ed., Nihon koten bungaku daijiten, vol. 5 (Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten, 1984), 377. For a text of the play, see Koyama Hiroshi, ed., Kyōgenshū 1, vol. 42 of Nihon koten bungaku taikei (Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten, 1960), 195–201. 68 chapter two daijiten.93 To understand the portrayal of Yoritomo in the Genpei jōsuiki is thus to see how the text establishes its authority by calling attention to moments when authority is constituted, a strategy that has metatextual significance for martial hegemons such as Tokugawa Ieyasu who read it as a pre-history of shogunal dominance. On a broader level, this chapter has demonstrated that the violence preceding the establishment of the Kamakura shogunate forms a crucial thread in the cultural memory of the Genpei War, producing diverse stories in the major variants of the Heike corpus. As the stories are revised and retold, they grapple with the peculiar problem of celebrating the martial role of the shogun while muting the violence of the war from which the shogunate emerged. Ritual practices and sacralizing spaces play a key role in managing distinctions between legitimate and illegitimate violence, mitigating historical tumult while reserving a generative role for violence.

93 For this observation, see Yang, “Sugiyama sanchū no monogatari,” 15. Chapter Three

Gastro-Politics and the Shifting Geography of Medieval Japan: Famine, Feasts, and the Court’s Appointment of a Shogun in 1183

The Material and the Cultural in Food

The year 1183 marked a critical turning point in the unfolding of the Genpei War. The conflict, taking place in the provinces until that point, made its presence felt at the capital, which found itself under siege. In the Heike texts, the blow to imperial power is portrayed through the terror incited by Minamoto Yoshinaka, Yoritomo’s cousin and rival, whose armies run unchecked through the capital. A threat to imperial polity, as well as Yoritomo’s political ambition, Yoshinaka is caricatured in the text as a buffoonish diner. This chapter links the particular mocking of Yoshinaka to the gastro-political logic of the Heike corpus. Like chapter 2, which elaborated on the ordering of the narrative (and political world) through the trope of face-reading, this chapter is concerned with how food encodes ideas of political order. Focusing on the narrative’s representation of a critical historical shift—the court’s acceptance of the “rebel” Yoritomo as shogun in 1183—this chapter uncovers how rituals and practices of food in the text symbolically depict the breakdown of a capital-centric power structure and foreground the east as a second capital of Japan. Tied to the most basic of human needs, food is often viewed simply in material terms, as an item necessary for our sustenance. Precisely because of its centrality, however, food evokes some of culture’s most cherished ideas. Food is often used to mark differences between communal selves and others in rituals of commensality and to express hierarchy through epicurean ideas of “taste.” Broadly understood, food is one of the crucial codes through which societies “structure” themselves to maintain order and hierarchy. These codes are, of course, historically and culturally specific, and an exhaustive study of “food-ways” in medieval Japan is beyond the scope of this chapter. Instead, this analysis considers how boundaries between capital and countryside, center and periphery, or patron and underlings were drawn in Heian-period narrative texts using the signifying potential of food. These are the very boundaries that need to be redrawn 70 chapter three to highlight the rise of the peripheries and the ascendancy of the shoguns, a shift I trace through the literary ‘warrior banquet’ trope and the dining ritual of shoguns known as ōban. Food, as literary theorists have noted, can telegraph both material need and cultural surplus. The events of 1183, I argue, become an impasse in which the court cedes its ability to generate cultural surplus from food. It finds itself at the mercy of the warrior Yoshinaka, whose rapacious dining and unchecked seizure of aristocratic lands humbles the court, depriving it of its symbolic status as the only entity able to seize natural resources as tribute. In a second stage set in the east, a lavish banquet held to celebrate Yoritomo’s receipt of the title of sei’i taishōgun, shows his growing symbolic capital. This contrast between a court reduced to material need and the shogun, rich in gastro-political power, dramatically recasts a center-periphery dichotomy underwritten by Heian-period travel pathways of food. This a profound shift, fraught with political anxieties, something the narrative manages using the diffusive potential of comedy.

Gallows Humor: Domesticating the Political Challenge of Minamoto Yoshinaka

Minamoto Yoshinaka, iconic in the Heike texts for his military prowess and his foibles with the imperial court, is given a poignant death scene familiar to most Japanese. In a narrative heightened with the pathos of dramatically reversed fortunes, Yoshinaka, once the fearless leader of tens of thousands of men, dies a solitary death in a pine grove. This canonization of him as an exemplary warrior, however, obscures the larger significance of his character in yomihon texts such as the Genpei jōsuiki: as the scapegoat onto whom the threat of warrior power may be externalized. When his head is hung at the prison gate with those of other traitors, an anonymous graffiti appears below it: Shinano naru Kiso no goryō ni shiru kakete tada hitokuchi ni kurō Yoshitsune Adding soup, Yoshitsune devoured in one gulp Lord Repast Kiso of Shinano1 Yoshinaka’s death is thus ventriloquized as the victor’s gleeful consumption of the vanquished, sustained by linguistic play in the final syllables of the lampoon, where the victor’s name, Kurō Yoshitsune, is punned with

1 Mizuhara, ed., Shintei Genpei jōsuiki, vol. 4 (1990), 322. gastro-politics and shifting geography 71 the act of eating (kurau).2 Yoshitsune was Yoritomo’s brother and one of his top military commanders, at least until 1184 when their relationship began to fray. The phrase “Lord Repast Kiso of Shinano” is a cheeky jab at the gauche Yoshinaka, who, once he had moved to the capital, orders his men to stop addressing him as they would in the country and instead use the term goryō (御料/Lord), asserting his belonging to the club of the titled elite. Although the parvenu Yoshinaka may have associated the term with high nobility, Kyoto nobility also used the word in another idi- omatic sense. The food served to emperors and high nobles was called goryō (御領), as were (on a larger semantic canvas) the estates that fed (directly and indirectly) imperial families and high temples. The multiple puns in this lampoon mark Yoshinaka as a linguistic and cultural outsider, even as they suggest his ultimate consumption and elimination by the court-assigned general Yoshitsune. While Kyoto insiders get the last laugh with this political graffiti, the use of the idiom of eating also reveals underlying anxieties. Eating is the process by which the external world, with all its threatening possibilities, is made internal. The sheer physicality of one man eating another “in one gulp” seems to stridently evoke an inviolable law of nature, in which the stronger animal will prevail over the weaker one. Despite this insistence on the elimination of the threat of Yoshinaka, the employ- ment of the term goryō and its allusion to imperial estates simultaneously recalls Yoshinaka as one who formerly feasted on the food that was brought from the provinces to Kyoto. This connotation of goryō (as aristocratic food) loops the reader back to an earlier episode where Yoshinaka, a newly minted noble and a fresh arrival in Kyoto, knocks heads with an aristocratic visitor in a hilarious clash of dining customs. The tablet hanging from Yoshinaka’s topknot at the prison gate says “Rebel Head Yoshinaka,” echoing the imperial condemnation he receives as his head is shown to the Retired Emperor Go-Shirakawa on its way to the jailhouse. The front of the Retired Emperor’s residence and the jailhouse gate, depicted in the text in quick succession, are politically freighted locations. Court diaries and records from the twelfth century

2 In Heian and Kamakura Japanese, the act of eating is glossed variously as shokusu, ku’u, kurau, and hamu. For the purposes of this discussion, it bears noting that kurau is the reading adopted when describing how the low-ranked (or animals) eat. Although the verb kurau is associated with Yoshitsune’s eating, the overall tenor of the scribble suggestively builds on the idea of Yoshinaka’s barbarity. For the connotations of these words, see Shig- eno Masahito, “Chūko chūsei ni okeru ‘kufu kurau kamu hamu shokusu’ no yōhō to isō ni tsuite,” Kuntengo to kunten shiryō 99 (1997): 15. 72 chapter three show that criminals were often officially apprehended and sentenced at the gate of the Retired Emperor’s residence or at the gate of the home of the Director of the Imperial Police. The prison gate, in particular, recurs in both painting scrolls and court documents, often replacing the jail as the iconic representation of the policing power of the state.3 Placed in the same general location as the tablet, the lampoon reinforces the inscrip- tive closure on Yoshinaka’s head but also asks the reader to go back to the story to trace his condemnation as imperial rebel and reconsider the importance of “eating” to his status within the narrative. Yoshinaka’s appearance in the Heike texts coincides with the breakdown of the geographical control of the court in Kyoto. After receiving Prince Mochihito’s edict to overthrow the arrogant Taira in 1180, Yoshinaka raises troops and wins handily in a series of battles. He quickly forces the Taira out of the capital, and later mounts a daring attack on the Retired Emperor Go-Shirakawa. This sudden fall of aristocratic order is told in the narrative against the backdrop of journeys away from the center to the peripheries, narrative threads that reveal a fragmented world. As Elizabeth Oyler has noted, the dispersal of power and the coming of the new warrior order are foreshadowed in the increasingly frequent movement of key figures away from the center.4 There are banishments (of Abbot Meiun, a key confidant of the Retired Emperor), flights (of Prince Mochihito), and removals (of Retired Emperor Go-Shirakawa to Toba Palace in the south). For six months during the year 1180, the capital tenuously moves to a different location (Fukuhara). When Yoshinaka arrives in the capital in 1183, he sends the Taira fleeing with the child-emperor Antoku and the imperial regalia, thus delivering the final blow to an already fraying imperial polity. As the prison-gate lampoon indicates, eating has central significance within the narrative’s account of Yoshinaka’s rise and fall. Although the Genpei jōsuiki is the most succinct, the other yomihon variants such as the Engyōbon and Nagatobon include prison-gate jottings that expand on this theme of Yoshinaka’s appetite:

3 See Uesugi Kazuhiko, “Kyōchū gokusho no kōzo to tokushoku,” in Miyako to hina no chūseishi, ed. Ishii Susumu (Tokyo: Yoshikawa Kōbunkan, 1992), 63–64. 4 Oyler, Swords, Oaths, and Prophetic Visions, 62–63. gastro-politics and shifting geography 73

Ujigawa o mizu tsuke ni shite kakiwataru Kiso no goryō o kurō hangan Yoshitune devoured Lord Repast Kiso, who had clawed through the watery bowl of Uji River5 The humor here is predicated on the homophonous play between the sounds kurō and kurau, simultaneously evoking Yoshitsune’s name and the act of eating, as noted earlier. Even though Yoshinaka dies at Awazu, the scribbler dates his defeat to the second battle of Uji (1184), where Yoshinaka makes his last stand. Here, Sasaki Takatsuna and Hatakeyama Shigetada, two of Yoshitsune’s warriors, push their horses against a tortur- ous current in a race to be the first to reach and attack Yoshinaka. This antedating of Yoshinaka’s death, however, allows the scribbler to use the word kakiwataru, here sketching the strenuous crawling of the two men on the Uji riverbank and the clawing of horse hooves against the river bed. In this lampoon, the turgid waters of the battle of Uji, by the end of which Yoshinaka’s forces are reduced to a mere six warriors, are overlaid with the image of a large bowl of watery rice that the victor Yoshitsune devours. Embedded in this statement of alimentary domination through the action of “clawing” in a bowl is an earlier portrayal of Yoshinaka’s simple and countrified ways as he dines with a court aristocrat. Although Yoshinaka’s undignified dining manners provide the humorous punch in these lampoons, eating is more than just a social practice that betrays his unsuitability for political life in Kyoto. The Engyōbon and Nagatobon texts include two more scribbles, both of which reveal how images of Yoshinaka eating are tied to other historical concerns: Tabatake no tsukurimono mina kari meshite Kiso no goryō wa tae hatenikeri Seizing the entire harvest of the fields, Lord Repast Kiso quickly depleted his provisions and wasted away to death

Na ni takaki Kiso no goryō wa koboreniki yoshi naka naka ni inu ni kurenan The estate of Lord Repast Kiso, so noble in name, has overflowed; most definitely, then, it [he] should be fed to dogs6 In the first jotting, Yoshinaka brings on his own downfall by not pacing himself better in his hunger for food. In the second, Yoshinaka’s falls from

5 Asahara and Nanami, eds., Nagatobon Heike monogatari no sōgō kenkyū, vol. 1 (1998), 1196. 6 Ibid. 74 chapter three master of plentiful estates to food scraps in a dog’s intestines. Although the subtext of Yoshinaka’s uncourtly dining manners continues to be present, these jottings also conjure up Yoshinaka’s threatening political ambitions by recalling how his armies foraged through public and private estates as they fought their way to the capital. Most interesting is the recursive concern about imperial estates that all the jottings evoke through the pun goryō (imperial estate/Repast/Lord), suggesting that the mocking of Yoshinaka as an insatiable and clumsy eater is also tied to deeper worry, hidden behind three layers of wordplay, about the food supply problem plaguing the imperial house during the Genpei War and the devastating famine that accompanied Yoshinaka’s romp into Kyoto. I suggest that food occupies a central place in the narrative telling of Yoshinaka’s rise for several symbolic reasons. The tumult of the Genpei War occasioned both geographical dislocations (with the periphery temporarily occupying the center) and disruptions in food supply (with war choking off the travel of food to the center). According to contemporary court diaries, anxiety over the prolonged presence of warriors in the capital and the gravity of the food shortage led the court to enter into negotiations with Yoritomo. Under the terms of the agreement, Yoritomo would ensure that levies would duly travel from the east to the center, affirming the political dominance of the center and, in the near-term, its claim to food from the provinces. In return, the court would recognize the authority of Yoritomo in the east, a historical shift that would culminate in the establishment of the Kamakura shogunate. In the Heike texts, the significance of this landmark agreement is told through two dining scenes, the first with the poised Yoritomo playing host, and the second with the bumbling Yoshinaka in this role. I argue that the two scenes, though often read in contrastive terms, are actually iterations of the same problem. The key coordinates of both scenes are the balance of power between center and periphery, court and warrior. At this critical juncture in the text, when the Emperor’s realm is divided into three power blocs, with the Taira controlling the west, Yoritomo the east, and Yoshinaka the center, the figure of a warrior fêting a court emissary is provided twice: the first time, the text showcases the wealth and authority of a far-away Yoritomo, and the second time, it slights the too close Yoshinaka, who occupies the capital.7 The structural similarity

7 For how Yoshinaka’s occupation of the capital left the imperial realm fissured, see Donald H. Shively, William H. McCullough, and John Whitney Hall, eds., Heian Japan, vol. 2 of The Cambridge History of Japan (New York: Cambridge University Press, gastro-politics and shifting geography 75 between the two portrayals suggests an underlying affinity between the two iterations, with the incursion of warrior power into the center deemed threatening but acceptable as long as it is far away in the east. The year 1183 is remembered in various contemporary sources as a time of tremendous deprivation. Although the famine finds very little mention in the Heike texts, we may surmise that later readers and audiences knew of it, and may even have associated the voracious Yoshinaka presented in the texts with the extent to which he affected the food supply from 1181 to 1183. Yet, the prominent place given to food during Yoshinaka’s sojourn in Kyoto is not simply a refraction of the historical reality of the famine. Food occupies a critical place in the narrative because of its symbolic value in two ways. First, food customs play a central role as social (and narrative) signs by drawing socio-political and regional distinctions. The breakdown of rules concerning dining—the key topos in Yoshinaka’s encounter with the court aristocrat Mitsutaka—may therefore be seen as a semiotic space in which the subsequent fall of aristocratic order is foreshadowed. Second, because food in the medieval world held symbolic significance as a levy, its travel in the narrative sketches the changing political geography of medieval Japan. No more is food the prerogative of the center, its travel pathways helping chart a political economy in which Kyoto is pre-eminent and the provinces are but food suppliers. Instead, the Heike narratives subtly suggest the relative political autonomy of the eastern warrior capital by showcasing the vast resources of food Yoritomo has at his disposal. These changes in the medieval polity are told through a ‘warrior banquet’ trope, a figurative mode that becomes newly relevant to medieval writers/audiences because of the salience of banquets in shogunal rituals of power in the Kamakura and Muromachi periods. The historical Yoritomo is credited with beginning the annual ōban and onari feasts, dining events later shoguns continued as occasions to stage their authority over vassals and territory. When the fourteenth-century writers of the Heike looked back at the twelfth-century past, these new dining rituals associated with Yoritomo may have become the defining trope for representing the historical shift into warrior order. I also connect the ‘warrior banquet’ trope with a new literary understanding of the warrior himself. I focus on a story from the eleventh-century

1999), 705. Although the historical record shows a four-way split (including the control of the northeast by the Northern Fujiwara), the Heike texts focus on a tripartite division between the warring forces of the Taira, Yoshinaka, and Yoritomo. 76 chapter three

Konjaku monogatarishū in which the appearance of the province as an alternate site of power is articulated through a banquet. In a profound reversal of the capital-centric hierarchy projected in earlier texts such as the Ise monogatari, this Konjaku tale reveals the hollow significance of a “dominant” capital aristocracy in an age when lower-ranked samurai enjoyed limitless wealth in the provinces. The rise of the little-known Yoritomo is told, as in the Konjaku tale, through the lens of a sumptuous banquet in the provinces, complete with a return journey of a court functionary who recognizes the east as a new site of power.8

Uncourtly Dining Manners in the “Nekoma” Episode: Challenging the Court’s Maintenance of Gastro-Political Order

The comically edacious Yoshinaka described in the prison-gate scribbles appears earlier in a section of the text called the “Nekoma” episode. Not long after he has been granted court rank as a reward for expelling the Taira from Kyoto, Yoshinaka receives an official visit from the Nekoma Middle Counselor Mitsutaka. During this visit, Yoshinaka offends the Middle Counselor by serving him raw food in chipped bowls, and then insults him by addressing him as “Lord Cat.” In this and other anecdotes, Yoshinaka comes across as a brutish country bumpkin who is geographi- cally and culturally estranged from Kyoto life. The sustained focus on Yoshinaka’s boorish ways has been explained in terms of social history. Mizuhara Hajime speculates that the historical Yoshinaka’s uncouth ways probably attracted the mockery of his minions in Kyoto, who, though they were of no social consequence themselves, dis- dainfully regarded Yoshinaka as a hillbilly outcast.9 Their derisive point of view may have found its way to the ears of later writers of the Heike texts, who were likely themselves Kyoto residents. More recently, the scholar Takagi Makoto has shifted focus toward how the Heike texts lay particular emphasis on Yoshinaka’s failure to speak the language of the capital.

8 As recent work on Heian Japan has shown, Japan at this time had multiple centers and peripheries, complicating our notion of the political geography of this period. It is worth noting, however, that in the imagination of the Heike texts, the rise of Yoritomo is framed as the rise of a quite peripheral, exiled noble who gains prominence and goes on to create an alternate site of power. See Mikael Adolphson, Edward Kamens, and Stacie Matsumoto, eds., Heian Japan, Centers and Peripheries (Honolulu: University of Hawai‘i Press, 2007). 9 Mizuhara Hajime, “Yoshinaka setsuwa no keisei,” in Heike monogatari no keisei (Tokyo: Katō Chūdōkan, 1971), 51. gastro-politics and shifting geography 77

In Takagi’s reading, the mocking of Yoshinaka’s linguistic foibles is tied to the creation of an “imagined community.” By highlighting Yoshinaka’s rustic origins—by describing him as Kyoto’s “other”—the writers are able to construct Kyoto as the undisputed center of the realm, both politically and linguistically superior to its adjoining provinces.10 Yet, what is striking about the “Nekoma” episode is its use of the topos of dining to explore the simmering political tensions between Yoshinaka and the court. As Lévi-Strauss suggests, the various taxonomic categories we employ relating to food—adopting terms like raw/cooked/rotten—are fundamentally tied to how we imagine the opposition between nature and culture, savage and cultured man.11 Edmund Ronald Leach, who elaborates on this distinction, comments, “Men do not have to cook their food; they do so for symbolic reasons to show that they are men and not beasts.”12 Cooking thus transports the raw material of food into the cultural realm, its manner of preparation, way of presentation, and confor- mity to conventions expressing various social categories like class, gender, kinship, and so forth. When Yoshinaka presses his aristocratic guest to eat “unsalted fish and mushrooms,” he reveals his proximity to nature in two different ways: he not only serves fresh fish, but also employs vocabulary that marks the distance between his raw (unrefined) food and the cultural realm of the cooked (polished).13 Although we cannot ascertain the semiotic function of each item of food (and the cultural statements that each actor makes) without investi- gating local food practices in the capital and countryside during this time, it is significant that food becomes the primary vehicle through which the state of disorder is conveyed in the “Nekoma” episode. As Mary Douglas notes about Kosher dietary rules, taxonomies related to cooking, presentation, and consumption are expressions, in food, of our efforts to separate order from disorder. Food rules prohibiting mixing of certain foods, for example, are homologous to, and could have a cognitive origin in, broader proscriptions against other kinds of mixing, such as against intermarriage

10 Takagi Makoto, Heike monogatari: sōzō suru katari (Tokyo: Shinwasha, 2001), 186. 11 Claude Lévi-Strauss, Anthropology and Myth: Lectures 1951–1982 (Oxford: Blackwell, 1987), 39–40. 12 Edmund Ronald Leach, Claude Lévi-Strauss (New York: Viking Press, 1970), 92. 13 In the early Yashirobon variant, he says “buen ari hiratake ari” (“I have unsalted fish and mushrooms”). In later variants, Yoshinaka says “buen no hiratake ari” (“I have uncured mushrooms”), an absurd statement since mushrooms did not need be cured. Although we cannot discount a scribal error, the language of the later texts continues to highlight, to a bizarre extreme, Yoshinaka’s uncultured status. 78 chapter three with foreigners. The vocabulary and patterns we adopt with meals also articulate social relations; to give one illustration, we demarcate zones of intimacy by drawing a line between close friends who can share a meal with us, and others who are only invited to “drinks.”14 Though food rules and customs have a cultural specificity that Douglas cannot explain, and though the structuralist premise of a world patterned in terms of contrastive elements may be too rigid for the text as a whole, her observations about how food encodes a fundamental human desire for order are pertinent to the “Nekoma” episode. Yoshinaka’s portrayal in it is not simply the caricature of a clueless country bumpkin who does not know how to function in court society; rather, the meal becomes a narrative space that elaborates on the tumult of Yoshinaka’s arrival and his disorienting impact on Kyoto. When the Middle Counselor comes into the house, Yoshinaka orders his man Nenoi to bring food. In the yomihon variants, the Counselor is deeply disconcerted by this meal invitation and demurs, saying “Not right now,” leading scholars to speculate a clash of customs. For warriors, who ate three times a day, this may have been a mealtime, but to aristocrats, who ate only twice, this invitation must have seemed unusual.15 Although cultural differences may play a meaningful role in this scene, it is striking that the narrative chooses to open with the Counselor feeling unnerved at the failed application of a simple rule concerning meals. If the out- of-sync mealtime is a rupture in the social codes through which order is maintained at court, the manner of presentation of the items further expands on this theme of a meal as the microcosm of larger order in society. The chipped bowl, for example, in which Yoshinaka serves his guest is more than a sign of his country origins; Yoshinaka extends his shōjin gōshi, a bowl utilized during ritually demarcated days of Buddhist practice, to another man, breaking not just the public-private boundary governing the use of food vessels, but the line separating the ritual ingestion of food for spiritual purposes and social dining.16 From a conceptual

14 Mary Douglas, “Deciphering a Meal,” Daedalus 101, no. 1 (1972): 67–80. 15 Yamashita Hiroaki, “Tekisuto no yomi: Yoshinaka no monogatari,” Nihon bungaku 56, no. 2 (2007): 76. On the dining habits of warriors, see Nakamura Tarō, “Komeshoku no rekishi to Nihonjin no kurashi,” in Nihon no fūzoku to bunka (Osaka: Sōgensha, 1991), 264. See also Watanabe Minoru, Nihon shokuseikatsushi (Tokyo: Yoshikawa Kōbunkan, 1964), 122–24. Finally, see Suzuki Keizō, “Bushi no shokuseikatsu,” in Kassen emaki, bushi no sekai (Tokyo: Mainichi Shinbunsha, 1990), 44–45. 16 By the twelfth century, courtiers were accustomed to eating from unglazed earthenware (kawarake) during ceremonial occasions (and instances of hospitality) that were gastro-politics and shifting geography 79 standpoint, Yoshinaka mixes the spheres of hare (ceremonial/public) and ke (everyday/private) in dining, a distinction that was essential to preserving order. Guests, markers of the occasion as hare, were served in single-use bowls precisely because in the everyday sphere of ke bowls were frequently re-used. The polarity between hare/ke was critical to managing disorder because it divided the world through the related correlate of sacred/defiled and Yoshinaka here shows no regard for that. Furthermore, the unsightly rice in the bowl is a hybrid thing that mixes the likely-not- eaten with the eaten, brown rice with rice husks. Finally, the mushrooms, which Mitsutaka eyes warily because of their possible poisonous content, threaten to upset the most sacred of boundaries that food is meant to preserve—that between life and death.17 In this light, we may view Yoshinaka’s egregious play on the Middle Counselor’s name by addressing him as “Lord Cat” as a further demonstration of how the meal becomes a place to depict social disorder. Here is the opening of the episode in the Genpei jōsuiki: The Nekoma Middle Counselor Mitsutaka, needing to discuss a certain matter, announced himself at Yoshinaka’s residence through one of the orderlies. One of Yoshinaka’s men, a man by the name of Nenoi, took this message and conveyed it to his master. Yoshinaka didn’t understand and said with a thick accent, “What? A cat has come, you say? What do you mean by cat? You mean the kind who catches mice? Since we are on a journey, I don’t have any mice for the cat to chase around. Why would a cat want a visit with Yoshinaka? Is it possible that people call men “cats” around here?”

used once and then immediately thrown away. Because they were unglazed and were designated for single-use only, kawarake clay wares were considered pure. Although Yoshi- naka does not use a kawarake bowl per se, he extends a bowl (shōjin gōshi) that in court circles would have been reserved for single-use, and definitely never shared. If kawarake dishes were shared at all, they were part of a ritual in which the emperor would partake of a drink, and pass the vessel around to others, after which it would be discarded. This latter practice was permissible because of the perceived purity of the item descended from the emperor. See Yoshioka Yasunobu, “Shoku no bunka,” in Iwanami kōza Nihon tsūshi: chūsei 2, ed. Amino Yoshihiko, Asao Naohiro, and Ishii Susumu (Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten, 1994), 307–9. See also Louise Allison Cort, “Disposable But Indispensable: The Earthenware Ves- sel as Vehicle of Meaning in Japan,” in What’s the Use of Art?: Asian Visual and Material Culture in Context, ed. Jan Mrazek and Morgan Pitelka (Honolulu: University of Hawai‘i Press, 2008), 49. 17 Many tales in the Konjaku monogatarishū suggest that certain varieties of mushrooms (hiratake, maitake) were viewed as hallucinogenic and possibly poisonous. See Book 28, nos. 17, 18, and 28, in Yoshiko Kurata Dykstra, trans., The Konjaku Tales. Japan Section (III): From a Medieval Japanese Collection, vol. 28 of Intercultural Research Institute Monograph Series (Osaka: Intercultural Research Institute, Kansai Gaidai University, 2003), 168–85. 80 chapter three

Nenoi, who was really confused, went back to the orderly, and said, “Is Nekodono a reference to a cat that catches mice? Or do people here call a man by the name of Nekodono? The Young Master [goryō] scolded me, saying that he didn’t understand.” As others have noted, Yoshinaka is a linguistic outsider here, his thick accent and his unfamiliarity with court titles a sign of his rustic origins. But it is intriguing that the humorous misunderstanding that gives this episode its title (and mnemonic recall value to readers) brings together the twin issues of food and taxonomic ordering. Yoshinaka confuses the court title “Nekoma” with neko (cat), blurring the boundary between human and animal. More pertinently, he does so in a way that places the Counselor in a classificatory system, based not on the symbolic patterning of Kyoto street addresses, but of the food chain, where cats eat mice. To be sure, Yoshinaka and his men appear gauche, outsiders to the cultural geography of Kyoto. Later in the scene, however, when Yoshinaka sees his guest pushing food around his bowl with chopsticks and addresses him directly as “Lord Cat,” we see an intentional disavowal of the dining praxis (and taxonomic system) that separates man from beast. Yoshinaka says, “Lord Cat is a small eater. But since you have graced us with a rare visit, you must keep scratching the bowl,” mixing, in the same sentence, the cultural world in which a person comes on a “rare visit” and the natural world where a cat claws around. Meals, it has been noted, “bound the area of structured relations. Within that area rules apply. Outside it, anything goes.”18 The culinary disorder in the “Nekoma” meal scene is an apt foreshadowing of Yoshinaka’s audacious rejection of the “structured relations” of court power when he decides to attack the Retired Emperor in a bid to become ruler.19 The “Nekoma” scene uses the specter of disorder in food to move the narrative down its temporal and thematic path of political upheaval in Kyoto, tumult that is resolved when Yoshinaka is hunted down and killed. Yet, as the lampoons indicate, food is a recursive concern here partly

18 Douglas, “Deciphering a Meal,” 79. 19 The historical record shows us that Yoshinaka was not this grandiose. He supported the candidacy of Prince Hokuriku (1165–1230). Prince Hokuriku was the name given to Prince Kiso, the son of Prince Mochihito. Because his father did not succeed to the throne, Prince Kiso was also not considered for succession. For a brief period, however, Yoshinaka campaigned for the young prince, arguing that both Prince Kiso and his father had shown great support for the retired sovereign Go-Shirakawa during his imprisonment by the Taira family and therefore deserved the throne more than the sons of the sovereign Takakura, who had established close ties with the Taira. gastro-politics and shifting geography 81 because the cathartic laughter generated by imagining his ingestion allows room to explore the threat his rapacious appetite posed for the residents of Kyoto. It is significant, then, that it is in the “Nekoma” episode that we first hear Yoshinaka’s men address him as “goryō,” or “Lord/imperial estate,” showing how Yoshinaka adopts the language of food to define his newfound authority in the capital. Although this was not an uncommon way to address nobility, the appearance of this word in this episode may hint at Yoshinaka’s brazen seizure of imperial lands (goryōchi) and shrine estates prior to his march into the capital. What then, we might ask, was the important business that the Counselor came to discuss? According to historical sources, the Nekoma Counselor Mitsutaka was the court-appointed proprietor (chigyōshu) of Echigo province during this period.20 In the battles preceding his entry into Kyoto, Yoshinaka had successfully taken control of vast tracts of land surrounding the capital, holding in his sway the corridor northeast of the capital, all the way from Wakasa Bay near Kyoto to Mogami River, beyond the modern city of Niigata.21 This gave him near total command over the provinces of Etchū, Kaga, Noto, and Echizen, causing the court to worry that they were shut off from four sides. Although the Heike texts do not refer to the Counselor’s business, preferring instead to leave it vague, the backdrop of the war suggests that some sort of negotiation concerning food may have been at the top of his agenda. The “Nekoma” episode, I argue, is about the material conditions of food shortage in Kyoto in 1183, as well as food as a signifying system. As Norbert Elias has demonstrated, table manners were a fundamental part of court society in medieval Europe, helping to express ideas of civility and “cour- teousness.” Vignettes of courtly dining that appear in literary texts such as the Makura no sōshi (The Pillow Book, ca. 1005) show that Heian Japan was no less codified in matters relating to food. The detailed exposition we see in court diaries concerning the sequencing and presentation of dishes, the hours when they may be served, and so forth, illustrate Pierre Bourdieu’s observation that food slides easily from a material source of nourishment to a social form in which participants demonstrate their possession of

20 I am following the reasoning of Asaka Toshiki. See Asaka, Jishō juei no nairanron josetsu, vol. 2 of Hokuriku no kodai to chūsei, Sōsho rekishigaku kenkyū (Tokyo: Hōsei Daigaku Shuppankyoku, 1981), 322–25. On how Yoshinaka’s battles in the provinces northeast of Kyoto affected the flow of levies, see Jeffrey P. Mass, Yoritomo and the Founding of the First Bakufu: The Origins of Dual Government in Japan (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1999), 81–82. 21 Shively, McCullough, and Hall, eds., Heian Japan, 705. 82 chapter three cultural capital.22 Though Yoshinaka’s gaucheness—and thus lack of cultural capital—is consistently evoked throughout the episode, it also bears noting that he maintains the upper hand. Surprisingly, it is the Nekoma Counselor Mitsutaka who is uneasy throughout, unable to move or speak, even though Yoshinaka is the new arrival to Kyoto. Seizing upon the “leveling function of the table,” in which a hitherto unknown warrior can now seat himself next to a noble, Yoshinaka seems to challenge aristocratic pretension through his quintessentially warrior-like meal.23 Yoshinaka’s defiance of the courtly language of menus and dining hours, and his insistence on doing things as he would at home in Shinano, help set the stage for the stunning blow he delivers to aristocratic polity. Yoshinaka attacks the Retired Emperor at his Hōjūji residence, waging the first major battle in which aristocratic society clashes directly with warrior groups.24 In the telling of the Heike texts, the Hōjūji battle reveals the inability of effete court culture to survive in the coming age of the warrior. Members of court society, though skilled at the arts of music and poetry, appear blandishing weapons unfamiliar to them. Their commander Tomoyasu is strangely dressed, wearing armor bearing a picture of the Four Heavenly Kings but no headgear. In his left hand, he holds a spear, and in his right hand, a vajra bell. What’s more, he is dancing.25 True, as Abe Yasurō notes, his clothing and dance remind one of sarugaku, a theatrical form involving jesting that was under the management of the Retired Emperor, suggesting perhaps that Tomoyasu was performing a ritual act of purification.26 But read in contrast with the demeanor of

22 The Kamakura-period compendium of dining miscellanea Chūjiruiki (dated to 1295) is a wonderful illustration of the process of codification of food customs. See also Passage (dan) 48 in Yoshida Kenkō, Essays in Idleness: The Tsurezuregusa of Kenkō, trans. Donald Keene (New York: Columbia University Press, 1998), 42. For a recent study of gastronomic writings of this period, see Eric Rath, Food and Fantasy in Early Modern Japan (Berkeley, University of California Press, 2010). For Bourdieu’s classic study, see his Distinction: A Social Critique of the Judgement of Taste, trans. Richard Nice (Cambridge: Harvard Univer- sity Press, 1984). 23 For this pithy expression of how fictional meals in post-revolution France depicted social leveling, see James W. Brown, Fictional Meals and their Function in the French Novel, 1789–1848, vol. 48 of University of Toronto Romance Series (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 1984), 7. 24 That is to say, while earlier armed engagements in the Hōgen and Heiji Rebellions may have involved clashes between court and warriors, this was the first conflict in which the battle lines clearly pitted warriors against the court. 25 See Mizuhara, ed., Shintei Genpei jōsuiki, vol. 4 (1990), 241. 26 Abe Yasurō, “Oko no monogatari to shite no Heike monogatari,” in Heike monogatari kenkyū to hihyō, ed. Yamashita Hiroaki (Tokyo: Yūseidō, 1996), 135–37. David T. Bialock also discusses this scene. See Bialock, Eccentric Spaces, Hidden Histories, 248–49. gastro-politics and shifting geography 83 the warriors he is combating, Tomoyasu comes off looking unprepared for battle. He lacks headgear, necessary both for protection and identification as a leader.27 What is more, he is called the ikusa no gyōji (controller of war rituals) recalling the gyōji no ben, or ceremonial officers of the court. By contrast, commanders on the warrior side were often called ikusa no taishō (warrior generals). Tomoyasu, in effect, is conducting battle as if he were holding a court ceremony. The antics of Tomoyasu elicit strange looks and laughter, with some commenting that “Tomoyasu must be possessed by a goblin.” What is highlighted, as the battle progresses, is the utter inef- ficacy of the sovereign’s forces. Tomoyasu is the first to flee, followed by twenty thousand others. In his haste, he forgets to abandon his vajra bell, making it easier for his pursuers to find him. As the imperial forces flee, they are pelted by locals, who mistake them for warriors. Is it any wonder, then, that after the battle Yoshinaka mocks the court, saying “I can become whatever I want, Emperor or Retired Emperor.” Imperial polity is portrayed as a whimsical array of titles, and is inviolable no more.28

Yoritomo’s Feast in the Heike: Rewriting the Center-Periphery Dichotomy

The swinish dining manners of Yoshinaka in the “Nekoma” episode recall another scene in volume 22 of the Genpei jōsuiki. This dining scene is set in the east; it involves two tenth-century warriors, Fujiwara Hidesato (also known as Tawara no Tōda Hidesato, dates unknown) and Taira Masakado (?–940): Long ago, it was rumored that Masakado, who had subdued the eight eastern provinces and had surrounded himself with evil followers, was about to launch an attack on the emperor’s capital. Taira Sadamori went down to the east, bearing an imperial order [to vanquish him]. Tawara no Tōda Hidesato, a resident of Shimotsuke and a famed warrior with substantial forces, thought to himself that he should join forces with Masakado so that they could bring down the imperial house and rule Japan together. When he arrived to say this, Masakado was inside brushing his unruly locks. So

27 His sartorial choices are also off the mark, nullifying any protection that may accrue from calling on the gods. In the Kakuichibon, Tomoyasu wears the picture of the Four Heavenly Kings on his head, recalling a similar move by Shōtoku Taishi when he was bat- tling the foes of Buddhism. But in the yomihon texts, he mangles the symbolism of Shōtoku Taishi’s clothing by placing the picture of the Four Heavenly Kings on his chest. 28 See Ōtsu Yūichi, “Yoshinaka kō: ōken no monogatari to sono kiretsu,” Nihon bungaku 39, no. 7 (1990), 35–44. 84 chapter three

overjoyed was Masakado that he came rushing out in a white under-robe with his hair hanging loose. As Masakado prattled on about holding different kinds of feasts, Hidesato saw through to the fact that Masakado was a rash man. During this first meeting, Hidesato changed his mind about Masakado, deciding that it was unlikely Masakado would become ruler of Japan. But Masakado, wanting to entertain Tawara no Tōda, had wine and a sumptuous spread brought out, and plied him with food. Masakado, whose food fell on his trousers, brushed it off to the floor. Observing this, Hidesato began to distance himself from Masakado in his heart, judging this the behavior of a common man. He later allied himself with Sadamori, and it was due to the efforts of Hidesato that Masakado was later defeated.29 This account, found only in the yomihon texts of the Heike and in the Tawara Tōda monogatari (dated roughly to the Muromachi period), pic- tures the downfall of the most famous imperial rebel in Japanese history, celebrated (and denigrated) in more than forty-five medieval and early modern works through the novel lens of his poor dining manners.30 Masakado’s story is taken up in the text as the counterexample to Yoritomo, who has just triumphed in the battle of Ishibashiyama, a victory that heralds the emergence of the east as a center of power. Yoritomo also begins attracting the support of influential warriors such as Chiba no suke Tsunetane and Kazusa no suke Hirotsune. Masakado and Yoritomo, as the text presents it, could not be more different. In these fictional texts, where Masakado brashly challenges imperial power by calling himself the “New Emperor” of the east, Yoritomo’s victories bear the imprimatur of imperial authority; where Masakado is quickly vanquished in 940, largely due to the efforts of his former admirer Hidesato, Yoritomo’s overwhelm- ing support among eastern warriors allows him to prevail and to create a new political structure of warrior government. When the “Nekoma” episode picks up on this theme of dining etiquette as a predictor of political future, it makes a suggestive connection between two warriors who bring the court to its heels. Masakado’s unseemly attire as he rushes out to greet Hidesato is tied to his towering political ambition to become ruler of Japan. Likewise, the grains of rice on his trousers indicate an appetite that requires speedy satiation. Both dining scenes thus conflate hunger with territorial ambition, even as they seek to domesticate it within a comedy of manners about dining.

29 Mizuhara, ed., Shintei Genpei jōsuiki, vol. 3 (1989), 132–33. 30 For a discussion of some of these other legends, see Karl F. Friday, The First Samurai: The Life and Legend of the Warrior Rebel Taira Masakado (Hoboken, NJ: John Wiley & Sons, Inc., 2008). gastro-politics and shifting geography 85

The thematic focus of dining as a lens for warrior power can be traced to another episode, one in which Yoritomo, in marked contrast to Yoshinaka and Masakado, shows impeccable dining manners. A few scenes before the “Nekoma” episode, Yoritomo prepares to greet a messenger of the court, Nakahara Yasusada. It is the eighth month of 1183, and Nakahara Yasusada has been sent east with the imperial edict naming Yoritomo sei’i taishōgun, which Yoritomo’s envoy, Miura Yoshizumi, receives with much pomp and ceremony at the Tsurugaoka Hachiman shrine. For the trouble that he has taken to journey to the provinces, Yasusada is fêted with food; when he returns to his lodgings, he finds gifts of untold lengths of heavy silk and linen. He is also given thirteen steeds, “chosen from the best horses in the eight provinces,” and cloth dyed in indigo hue, both gifts representative of the wealth of the eastern provinces.31 The next day, when he visits Yoritomo at his home, he is witness to Yoritomo’s skills in using food to stage political theater. On the mansion grounds, Yasusada sees two large buildings. In the outer building, Yoritomo’s retainers sit in lengthy rows to greet him. In the inner building, Yoritomo’s loyal warriors are arrayed in terms of political proximity, with samurai from the Minamoto kin sitting in the higher seats and other lords summoned from the provinces sitting in the lower seats. As Yasusada waits, Yoritomo makes a grand appearance from behind a curtain and sits on a straw mat edged with black and white brocade. This mat edging, known as korai beri, was associated with high rank, with the larger black patterns on the white background used for princes and Ministers, and the smaller black patterns for other aristocrats.32 The choice of mat speaks volumes, especially as it contrasts with the purple brocade edging of Yasusada’s mat, used at court for men of fourth or fifth rank. As political theater, Yoshinaka’s encounter with the Nekoma Counselor is, as many have noted, a parodic inversion of this dining scene. Where Yoritomo is lavish and politically savvy, Yoshinaka’s food offerings are

31 As Nagahara Keiji observes, the gifts that Yoritomo sends back with Nakahara Yasusada to Kyoto all evoke the productive power of the east. See Nagahara, Choma kinu momen no shakaishi (Tokyo: Yoshikawa Kōbunkan, 2004), 188–90. 32 Although the post of sei’i taishōgun only came with the rank of “junior fifth, upper grade,” the depiction of this scene may be based on the higher rank he received much later. The historical Yoritomo issued documents during the 1190s as utaishō (Commander of the Inner Palace Guards), a sinecure he obtained in 1190 that corresponded to the rank of “junior third.” See Jeffrey P. Mass, “The Early Bakufu and Feudalism,” in Court and Bakufu in Japan: Essays in Kamakura History, ed. Jeffrey P. Mass (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1982), 128. 86 chapter three simple and he comes across as politically tone-deaf. Beyond helping to express these character attributes, the patterning of these scenes as the encounter between a warrior and a court aristocrat, and the pivoting of locations between the east and the capital, suggest that food becomes a prism to explore a larger political dynamic, the changing relationship between center and provinces in the historical shifts wrought by the rise of warriors. Although they are structured as inversions of each other, the Yoritomo and Yoshinaka episodes are, in fact, two halves of the same picture of warrior power. Yoshinaka’s sojourn in Kyoto leads to the Hōjūji battle, where the court suffers a humiliating defeat. Yoritomo, by contrast, is never depicted in a direct clash with imperial authority; he is a shadowy figure, managing the war from his distant seat in the east. As Yanagida Yōichirō argues, Yoshinaka and Yoritomo are twin manifestations of the same phenomenon, and whereas Yoritomo is given all the positive attributes of the rise of warriors, Yoshinaka is made to shoulder the burden of the negative.33 The details of Yoritomo’s 1183 banquet for Yasusada in the Heike resemble the description in the Azuma kagami of a much later encounter between the two, on the twenty-sixth day of the seventh month of 1192. It is a few weeks prior to this day (1192/7/12) that the historical Yoritomo is granted the title of sei’i taishōgun, which Yasusada is dispatched to deliver. The backdating of Yoritomo’s receipt of the title, associated in the Heike texts with the court’s recognition of Yoritomo’s authority, is well known.34 The historical Yoritomo did, however, receive another imperial edict in the tenth month of 1183, a document scholars refer to as the jūgatsu senji (edict of the tenth month). Scholars see the issuance of this edict as the watershed moment in Japanese history when the court anointed Yoritomo as warrior chieftain, and intuited the subsequent role that warriors would play in national police-keeping. According to the court diaries, the jūgatsu senji (which has not survived) read, “In the provinces surrounding the Tōkaidō and Tōsandō (areas controlled largely by Yoritomo), rents collected in the past must once again be sent in. Yoritomo is charged with applying this edict.”35

33 Yanagida Yōichirō, “Yoshinaka no isō: ‘Nekoma’ o chūshin ni,” Dōshisha kokubungaku 29 (1987): 21. 34 See Matsuo, Gunki monogatari ronkyū, 371–76. See also Uwayokote, Nihon chūsei seijishi kenkyū, 63–64, 147, and Asaka, Jishō juei no nairanron josetsu, 263. 35 The translation of this edict is taken from Pierre Souyri, The World Turned Upside Down: Medieval Japanese Society, trans. Kathe Roth (New York: Columbia University Press, 2001), 44. Yoritomo requested that he be granted a measure of authority over the three gastro-politics and shifting geography 87

Kamakura would assist in sending levies to the center from public and private estates, and in exchange, the court would consider Yoritomo the realm’s primary peacekeeper. Although scholars debate the language of the edict, with some suggesting that the court had recognized the east as an independent power bloc and others seeing a more modest role for Yoritomo as “regional policemen,” the edict sanctioned Yoritomo to expand further his power and lay the foundations for the establishment of the shogunate.36 Reversing the past practice in which “institutions at the center had always been the country’s ultimate guarantors,” Yoritomo sought to issue edicts of confirmation on behalf of central estate owners as the new “national patron and peacemaker.”37 Soon after the court’s recognition of his authority under the jūgatsu senji, for example, Yoritomo issued an official order in his name, guaranteeing the security of the hold- ings belonging to Kyoto’s Kamowake shrine. The grand reception that Yoritomo holds for Yasusada in the Heike texts in 1183 is nowhere to be found in historical records. Instead, the entries in the Gyokuyō for the twenty-third day of the tenth month and the thirteenth day of the subsequent intercalary tenth month of 1183 connect Yasusada’s eastern journey to the delicate negotiations he was conducting on behalf of the Retired Emperor.38 By the ninth month of 1183, Kyoto officials had grown weary of Yoshinaka and were considering bringing

areas of Hokuriku, Tōkai, and Tōsan in a message he sent to the court through Yasusada. Although it is not mentioned in this particular version of the edict, there is a suggestion that the Hokuriku was included as part of Yoritomo’s sphere of influence at some point in the negotiations. Asaka Toshiki reasons as such in Jishō juei no nairanron josetsu, 262. See entry in Gyokuyō for 1183/int. 10/20 in which Yoshinaka protests the court granting Yoritomo control over all three regions. See Shinano Shiryō Kankōkai, ed., Shinano shiryō, vol. 3 of Shinpen Shinano shiryō sōsho (Nagano: Shinano Shiryō Kankōkai, 1971), 240–41; a gloss of the wording of this edict in the Gyokuyō is found on page 242. For a version of this edict in the Hyakurenshō (1183/int. 10/14), see ibid., 227. 36 For a view that emphasizes Yoritomo’s co-option within the existing state structure, see G. Cameron Hurst III, “The Kōbu Polity: Court-Bakufu Relations in Kamakura Japan,” in Mass, Court and Bakufu in Japan, 8. See also Uwayokote Masataka, “Kamakura bakufu to kuge seiken,” in Iwanami kōza Nihon rekishi 5, chūsei 1, ed. Asao Naohiro, Amino Yoshihiko, and Ishii Susumu (Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten, 1975), 41–45. For an opposing view that considers the edict the de-facto recognition of the east as an independent power bloc, see Satō Shin’ichi, Kamakura bakufu soshō seido no kenkyū (Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten, 1993), chap. 1, pt.1. Jeffrey P. Mass suggests that Yoritomo was already the “master of Kantō” without this decree and that the decree was akin to a mandate to expand further his area of influence. See Mass, “The Emergence of the Kamakura Bakufu,” in Medieval Japan: Essays in Insti- tutional History, ed. John Whitney Hall and Jeffrey P. Mass (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1974), 147. 37 See Mass, Yoritomo and the Founding of the First Bakufu, 87. 38 Shinano Shiryō Kankōkai, ed., Shinano shiryō, vol. 3 (1971), 228. 88 chapter three

Yoritomo in to replace him.39 Yoritomo, however, was in no rush to step in, astutely waiting to see if he could secure a power-brokering agreement with the court on his own terms. Yasusada’s negotiations with Yoritomo, as detailed in the Gyokuyō, were connected to asking Yoritomo to restore peace in the eastern provinces. The court’s offer to Yoritomo carefully exempted the Hokuriku region, likely out of strategic consideration for Yoshinaka, who wanted control over those areas.40 As one courtier noted, “Though Yoritomo was fearsome, he was in a distant periphery; Yoshinaka was right in the capital and one feared his retaliation.”41 The discussions were fraught, with Yoritomo sending back one of the imperial messengers in anger. In the end, however, the court saw fit to issue the jūgatsu senji, reaching an agreement of power sharing that would have an enduring impact for shoguns.42 The Heike texts do not mention these tense negotiations in the tenth month of 1183. Instead, Yoritomo’s meeting with Yasusada is endowed with details that proleptically confer Yoritomo with the title (and authority) he comes to enjoy much later. What is most interesting, however, is the use of a ‘warrior banquet’ trope to represent this crucial historical shift. In the opening books of Heike, the unfolding of imperial time is marked, at regular intervals, by banqueting occasions such as the Gosechi (literally, “Five Rhythms”), Daijōsai (The Great Rice Offering Festival), and Niinamesai (First Harvest Festival).43 As the old polity is rocked by the rise

39 Mass, “The Emergence of the Kamakura Bakufu,” 144. 40 Since the documentary record is sparse, there is some disagreement about why the Hokuriku area was exempted from the jūgatsu senji. Yoshie Akio argues that the Hokuriku was granted to Yoshinaka as his sphere of influence in recognition of his existing clout there. Others, like Asaka Toshiki, do not believe that court was actually considering Yoshi- naka as a serious power contender and postulate the existence of a second uru’u jūgatsu senji (the edict of the intercalary tenth month). In other words, while the Hokuriku provinces may have been included in the negotiations with Yoritomo in the tenth month, they were later excluded in the edict issued in the subsequent intercalary tenth month. See Asaka, Jishō juei no nairanron josetsu, 264. See also Higashijima Makoto, “Toshi ōken to chūsei kokka,” in Ō to ōyake: tennō no Nihonshi, Sōsho rekishigaku to genzai, ed. Suzuki Masayuki (Tokyo: Kashiwa Shobō, 1998), 172. 41 Kujō Kanezane made this observation in the Gyokuyō (1183/int. 10/13). Cited in Shi- nano Shiryō Kankōkai, ed., Shinano shiryō, vol. 3 (1971), 228. 42 On the tension surrounding these negotiations, see Uwayokote Masataka, Heike monogatari no kyokō to shinjitsu, vol. 2 of Hanawa shinsho (Tokyo: Hanawa Shobō, 1985), 147–48. 43 The Gosechi ceremonies were held every year for four days during the eleventh month. Four girls, selected from the daughters of court nobles and provincial governors, would perform dances. In the years when there was also an enthronement and hence a Daijōsai, there would be five dancers, giving the ceremony its name “Five Rhythms.” A court banquet always followed the Gosechi dances. gastro-politics and shifting geography 89 of warrior power, the Heike texts begin to lament the inability of the court to hold the feast of the Daijōsai, the liturgy customarily held as a part of a new emperor’s enthronement ceremony.44 The non-performance of this event meant that the new emperor could not offer the first fruits of the harvest to the kami, an act that would symbolically tie him to the divine by having him “share a meal” with them. As the imperial court stands still in time, unable to mark its auspicious renewal through the annual performance of these rites of rulership, the text pivots to the east, where Yoritomo quietly reigns over men and land.

Food and the Shifting Geography of Power: The ‘Warrior Banquet’ Trope in the Konjaku monogatarishū

The Engi shiki (Procedures of the Engi Era), the handbook of bureaucratic regulations and statutes of the Heian court compiled between 905 and 927, shows how the travel of food and goods from the provinces to the center marked the power and prestige of the court. This handbook documents the quotas for each province, the minimum amounts of tribute (taxes in kind) that were to be delivered to the center.45 It also includes the travel time from the provinces to the center along the network of official roads, demonstrating the court’s careful assessment of what Bruce L. Batten calls the “administrative distance”—the cost in travel time and communication—between central institutions and local outposts.46 The picture that emerges from these sections of the Engi shiki is the early Heian court’s charting of a geography of power based on the center-bound travel of taxes and tribute. In effect, however, a slow process of rationalization of tax collection (spurred, in part, by the distances that separated the center from its peripheries) had led to a decentralized structure of provincial

44 The lamentations about how the imperial court cannot perform these rites is particularly strident in this part of the text. See Mizuhara, ed., Shintei Genpei jōsuiki, vol. 4 (1990), 266. On the Daijōsai as a dining ritual in which participants stage their submission to the emperor, see Harada Nobuo, “Kodai chūsei ni okeru kyōshoku to mibun,” Kokuritsu Rekishi Minzoku Hakubutsukan kenkyū hōkoku 71 (1997): 501–2. 45 See for example, volume 23 of the Engi shiki, the section on “Kyōyaku zatsumotsu/ kōeki zōmotsu” (“Miscellaneous Offerings”), a new category of taxation in the tenth century where local officials were to send ‘tribute’ to the court. Kuroita Katsumi, ed., Engi shiki (II), Fukyūban (Popular) edition, vol. 26 of Shintei zōho kokushi taikei (Tokyo: Yoshikawa Kōbunkan, 1974), 591. See also volume 24 (pp. 597–622) for the detailed list of annual tribute (taxes in kind) that were levied by the center on the provinces. 46 Bruce L. Batten, To the Ends of Japan: Premodern Frontiers, Boundaries, and Interac- tions (Honolulu: University of Hawai‘i Press, 2003), 30. 90 chapter three administration by the tenth century.47 Whereas the ritsuryō codes regarding taxes implied direct state control over local inhabitants, the court at this time had delegated their collection to the provincial governor, who, contracting with the local elite, could efficiently coordinate this. As long as the provincial governor met his tax obligations, there was nothing to prevent him from pocketing the balance.48 The corresponding growth in wealth among the members of the provincial class was not lost on writers and contemporary observers.49 Neither was the implication that the accumulation of wealth in the provinces was leading to a new dynamic between the center and the provinces.50 Whereas the tenth-century Ise monogatari articulates a court-centric view in which the miyako (capital) is vastly superior in economic and political spheres to the hina (countryside), the twelfth-century Konjaku monogatarishū bears witness to a different alignment.51 The tale “When Young General Toshihito took the Fifth-rank Samurai from the Capital to Tsuruga” (Book 26, no. 17), for example, explicitly underscores the wealth of the provinces. In this story, made famous much later by Akutagawa Ryūnosuke (1892–1927) in Yam Gruel (Imogayu, 1916), the provincial warrior Fujiwara Toshihito (901–922) overhears a court official, known in the story only as Goi (fifth-ranker), confess to an insatiable craving for yam gruel. Amused at Goi’s desire to gorge himself on a food item so plentifully available in his home province, Toshihito takes him to his father-in-law’s home in Tsuruga, a port-city in Echizen province. In the scene in the capital that opens the story, Goi seems proud of the “high” perch of fifth rank he has achieved in court society, the rank above which one was considered one of the capital elite. The journey to Tsuruga, however, reveals the hollow significance of this court status as Goi finds himself increasingly

47 The beneficiaries of this trend were the provincial governors known as zuryō, who, though they were drawn from the strata of middle-ranked court nobles and hence repre- sentatives of the center, began to establish provincial roots as a way to enrich themselves. As Bruce L. Batten suggests, this administrative decentralization enabled the central court to remain nimble as its administrative capacity expanded from the eight to the tenth century, but also, in the end, allowed for the rise of warrior power, whose ranks were drawn from the zaichō kanjin, or “locally recruited provincial functionaries” who worked for these zuryō. 48 Bruce L. Batten, “Provincial Administration in Early Japan: From Ritsuryō kokka to Ōcho kokka,” Harvard Journal of Asiatic Studies 53, no. 1 (1993): 130. 49 Satō Susumu, “Chūsei bungaku ni okeru sozei,” in Bungaku ni arawareta Nihonjin no nōzei ishiki (Tokyo: Tokyo Daigaku Shuppankai, 1987), 48. 50 See Murai Yasuhiko, “Ōchōki no tohi ishiki,” Nihongaku 1, no. 1 (1983): 106–17. 51 For a description of this critical shift, see Murai Yasuhiko, “Tenkanki no shakai kaisō,” in Bungei no sōsei to tenkai (Tokyo: Shibunkan Shuppan, 1991), 160–70. gastro-politics and shifting geography 91 dependent on Toshihito for food, shelter, and clothing. When, at the end of the story, Goi is offered his coveted yam gruel, he ends up pushing it away, having lost his desire for it. Instead, the hitherto court-focused Goi lingers for a month in the provinces, where he is lavished with gifts. As the social status of the two key characters and the locations of the opening and closing scenes indicate, the episode marries two concerns: the growing wealth of provincial warriors, and the suggestion that warriors, despite their peripheral domicile, were emerging as a significant political force.52 This shift in the balance of power between capital and countryside is articulated through the central irony in the account: even though Goi, the capital insider, is ranked higher than his host Toshihito, his warrior host revels in plentitude, while Goi himself is marked only by what he lacks—his dearth of proper clothes, his lack of a dignified face (marred by an overly large nose), his want of a proper retinue, and his deficiency of wit.53 His insatiable craving for yam gruel, a desire that fuels the movement of the narrative, suggests his hunger for more power and wealth within court aristocracy. If, as Peter Brooks contends, desire is often the “motor force” that gets a story off the ground and drives it toward closure (and satisfaction of that desire), then the ending of Goi’s story is neither a gratification nor a frustration of desire.54 It is an accommodation of those desires within a new power structure: the story begins with Goi celebrating his long labors to achieve “fifth-rank” status by attending an imperial banquet replete with food and yet feeling both material and alimentary want; it ends with him returning to court a wealthy man, his needs met by a new patron, albeit a warrior leader. Feasts bookend the tale, helping underscore how the transmission of food is linked to rituals of power. The story opens with a court banquet in which the regent grants the remains of his feast to his men. This gift of food is noted in the text as oroshi, as the downward movement of food from a superior to his subordinate that helps cement their bond. Yam

52 I contend that this story documents a shift in the balance of power, presenting us with a picture in which warriors are an ascendant political force. Traditionally, however, this tale has been read as the portrait of the excess (and lack of cultured restraint) that characterized provincial life. See Michelle Osterfeld Li, Ambiguous Bodies: Reading the Gro- tesque in Japanese Setsuwa Tales (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 2009), 319. 53 The irony of the lower-ranking and provincial Toshihito being the richer of the two figures is observed by Aida Minoru. See Aida, “Inshoku,’ in Konjaku monogatarishū o manabu hito no tame ni, ed. Komine Kazuaki (Kyoto: Sekai Shisōsha, 2003), 194. 54 Peter Brooks, Reading for the Plot: Design and Intention in Narrative (Cambridge: Har- vard University Press, 1996), 37–40. 92 chapter three gruel, in particular, was seen as a tonic, and its presentation at the new year’s feast was likely tied to ensuring their good health.55 For Goi, to gorge himself on such rare food was to move closer to the wealth and station that the possession of such food implied.56 At the Echizen banquet that closes the story, there is a reversal of roles: Goi is the chief guest, and instead of trifling leftovers, he is given a generous portion of yam gruel doled high in a bowl. But by this point Goi has lost his appetite. His reaction is all too human; what he once yearned to eat “until he was satiated” is now easily available, leaving nothing to drive his desire. Yet, it is not the abundance of food, but the sight of scores of people cooking the yam gruel that triggers his change of heart. Goi watches all morning as an unrelenting succession of men come to his door bearing five-foot yams, a pile that quickly reaches the eaves of his overnight accommodation. He then remembers a shout heard the night before in which a man had called out, “Low-ranking men, hear me well. By the Hour of the Rabbit, each of you bring me a five-foot yam.” Goi wonders in amazement, “The yams brought by those who heard the voice amounted to that much. How would it be if their attendants in distant places all brought yams?”57 At that moment, his desire to move up the ranks at court, metonymically expressed through his insatiable craving, is revealed to be pointless, given how the lower-ranked Toshihito commands much vaster resources and manpower. As Goi pushes away his food, Toshihito’s men step forward to accept the leftovers, saying to each other, “Thanks to our guest, we will eat yam gruel.” Yet, the mock solemnity of this exchange suggests they are only staging their hierarchical relationship to Goi by accepting his gracious leftovers, even as it remains obvious to all concerned that yam gruel is no rare treat in the provinces. Hotate Michihisa has noted that food in this story is neither tied to alimentary need nor to gluttony and avarice, as it is in many other Konjaku narratives.58 Rather, the setting of the tale in capital and countryside (one location where food is consumed and another where it is grown), and its attention to how food is passed between different social strata, makes it a graphic representation of food’s symbolic value within the shōen

55 For the observation about the role of yam gruel in strengthening bonds, see Hotate Michihisa, Monogatari no chūsei: shinwa, setsuwa, minwa no rekishigaku (Tokyo: Tokyo Daigaku Shuppankai, 1998), 135. 56 Aida, “Inshoku,” 193. 57 Dykstra, trans., The Konjaku Tales. Japan Section (III), 57. 58 Hotate, Monogatari no chūsei, 134–35. gastro-politics and shifting geography 93

system. The shōen system, in brief, was comprised of privatized estates in which capital-based absentee proprietors such as court nobles and temples/shrines formed alliances with local land managers and cultiva- tors to grant tax-exempt status to certain types of provincial lands. In this way, the system diverted money from public coffers and earned everyone in the chain a share of the income (shiki). In Hotate’s reading, the imperial banquet that opens the story is a ceremonial act during which the regent affirms his hierarchy over his underlings by being the provider of food. It is also the scene in which the regent, who likely stood at the apex of the shōen system, displayed the provincial bounty due to him as the highest shiki holder. As the story moves to the provinces, the scruffy Goi is treated as a distinguished visitor, and all the actors, from the rich Toshihito to his hordes of servants, go to great lengths to secure food for him. Building on Marcel Mauss’s idea that gift-giving is always connected to the enactment and reproduction of social hierarchy, Hotate argues that the prodigious quantity of yam gruel given to Goi is not unlike the ritual “gift” that hyakushō (peasants) in the shōen would give the azukaridokoro (manager) on the eve of his departure, an act through which the peasants confirmed their subordination to the proprietor of the estate (a capital aristocrat) and his local agent. Thus Goi in this story is the representative of the center come to provinces; the material goods he leaves with, including clothes and horses, are simply extensions of the dues that must make their way from province to center in the shōen system. Though Hotate is perceptive to the vectors of food flow in the story and the networks of power they sustain, he reads the tale as a graphical representation of the normative modes of interaction within the shōen system. Yet, what makes this story interesting and wonderfully complex is the role of desire within this neatly structured system, the inner force that drives a person to exceed “one’s station” and test the limits of this system. Food in this account is not simply symbolic of what one person “owes” the other in an intricately enmeshed social network; instead, the story is provocative in its creation of a topos of the ‘warrior banquet’ that rivals the imperial banquet in significance. Viewed in this light, the Konjaku tale offers a fascinating portrait of how writers in twelfth-century Kyoto perceived the growing influence of provincially based warriors. The second protagonist of the story, Fujiwara Toshihito, glossed as seitoku no mono no muko (the son-in-law of a man of influence), appears frequently in the historical record as a warrior of some stature. His family’s roots in Echizen date to the period when his grandfather Fujiwara Takafusa of the Uona branch of the Northern Fujiwara was 94 chapter three appointed governor there. His father Fujiwara Tokinaga wed the daughter of a local magnate, and Toshihito too had married well. By the time this story was being told, he was the very epitome of what the late Heian court saw as the new breed of “martial governors.”59 He was influential at the local level but also had a state-level reputation as a capable military general. As the contemporary readers of this story no doubt knew, Toshihito had run a successful military campaign in 915 as the Chinjufu shōgun. Toshihito in this story thus represents the rise of warrior power itself.60 Although the story begins with the conventional geographical imagination found in court romances (where political success in the capital is the desirable goal and the peripheries are for the exiled or the politically impotent), it ends by redrawing this map of political significance.61 Goi’s journey begins with an invitation to go to Higashiyama, only a stone’s throw from the capital and within the orbit in which Goi can claim higher rank. When this proves to be a ruse, his desire for wealth and station spurs him to follow his host further and further away to the Kamo River, then to the banks of Lake Biwa and on to Tsuruga. He seems oblivious to the authority of warrior-magnates such as Toshihito on his journey to the provinces; at the end, he goes home a wealthier (and wiser) man, fully aware of the role his warrior patron will play in his future advancement. In this sense, the ‘warrior banquet’ becomes a new starting point, from where Goi will chart a future within a new institutional structure that includes “martial governors.” This Konjaku tale furnishes an imagistic template for the Heike to describe the rise of the provinces.62 Like Fujiwara Toshihito, Yoritomo in

59 See Ikegami Junji, “ ‘Konjaku monogatarishū’ no imogayu: maki nijūroku dai jūnana wa o megutte,” in Ronsan setsuwa to setsuwa bungaku, ed. Mitani Eiichi, Kunisaki Fumi- maro, and Kubota Jun (Tokyo: Kasama Shoin, 1979), 205. 60 In later accounts like those of the Masukagami, Fujiwara Toshihito would be remembered as the progenitor of the great warrior clans like the Minamoto and Taira. See George W. Perkins, trans., The Clear Mirror: A Chronicle of the Japanese Court during the Kamakura Period (1185–1333) (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1998), 45. 61 The final lines of the story elaborate, “Indeed, it was said that, to the one who has offered long years of service and has earned the respect of others, such things were bound to happen.” The hitherto lackluster Goi is granted sudden praise for his perseverance and success, a startling shift in the story. These lines make sense only if we see the editors of the Konjaku monogatarishū recognizing the service that Goi would continue to provide in future years, this time to his warrior patron. 62 Volume 28 of the Konjaku monogatarishū furnishes models for several scenes in the Heike monogatari. Yoshinaka’s bumbling in the capital as he fumbles in aristocratic carriages is drawn from Book 28, no. 2. A translation of the story is in Dykstra, trans., The gastro-politics and shifting geography 95 the Heike is the model of a gracious host, sparing no expense in making his capital visitor feel comfortable and welcome. Yet, though the upward movement of food is supposed to mark the east as the provider of the food and Kyoto as its rightful owner, the excess in this scene hints at the for- midable resources the east has at its command. Even as Yoritomo accepts the imperial edict with great respect, he uses the opportunity to showcase the men and food he can produce at a moment’s notice. He presents the imperial messenger with a hundred bolts each of “silk, white linen, and tie-dyed dark blue material,” all of which, according to the Engi shiki, were synonymous with the productive power of the east.63 In the Azuma kagami entry for the seventh month of 1192 describing this encounter, the cloth is identified as eppu (cloth from Echigo province); the use of the toponym indicates that Yoritomo may have obtained it as tax dues as overlord of the east.64 More suggestive, perhaps, is Yoritomo’s decision to return the wickerwork box that once held the imperial edict with a hundred taels of gold dust. If the movement of the edict from emperor to former exile situ- ates the edict within a geography of power with Kyoto as its apex, and if the receipt of the edict by Yoritomo is his formal acceptance of his imperial summons, then Yoritomo’s return gift underscores the importance of the east in financially supporting the center. The ten bushels of rice that he makes available at every post station from Kamakura to Kagami ga yado, ostensibly to feed the returning imperial party, delineate the geographical reach of his power in the short two years after the battle of Fuji River.65 The awe that wealth of the east arouses is underscored by the framing of the scene: in all three major yomihon texts, the encounter with Yoritomo is not directly recounted, but rather relayed by Yasusada on his return to the capital to a group of courtiers who listened “pushing against the bamboo blinds, hushing at the other noises in the front garden.”66

Konjaku Tales. Japan Section (III), 140–42. Although he does not develop the connection as I do, my reading was inspired by a reference to this story by Ozawa Masao. See Ozawa, “Konjaku kara Heike e,” in Heike monogatari, vol. 24 of Nihon bungaku kenkyū shiryō sōsho, ed. Nihon Bungaku Kenkyū Shiryō Kankōkai (Tokyo: Yūseidō Shuppan, 1969), 132–33. 63 See volume 23 of the Engi shiki. 64 It is hard to say which description came first, the Heike or the Azuma kagami. Matsuo Ashie contends that the description in the Azuma kagami of this encounter may have been based on the early variants of the Heike monogatari, rather than the other way around. See Ashie, “Hōhō to shite no Engyōbon Heike monogatari josetsu: maki hachi o meguru kōsatsu,” in Mizuhara Hajime, ed., Kobungaku no ryūiki (Tokyo: Shintensha, 1996), 29, 37. 65 Ozawa, “Konjaku kara heike e,” 133. 66 Mizuhara, ed., Shintei Genpei jōsuiki, vol. 4 (1990), 208. 96 chapter three

Folded within this account of Yoritomo’s dutiful assent are narrative details that recall the Konjaku tale. During their meeting Yoritomo denies Yoshinaka’s role in vanquishing the Taira and takes sole credit for the restoration of peace in the realm. He then makes a bold play, asking that the court grant him greater authority to vanquish rivals, both local and within his kin. This elicits a curious response from Yasusada who says, “I would give you my name certificate (and add myself to your list of retainers) now, but I am here as an imperial messenger.”67 Yoritomo is quick to deny any such gambit for power, restating his humble intention to serve the court. But the vast quantities of gifts that he sends back hint at Yoritomo’s co-option of Yasusada as his new “retainer.” It is revealing, then, that all the yomihon variants conclude with a discussion of how to treat the gifts that are sent by Yoritomo. In the Genpei jōsuiki and the Engyōbon, the Retired Emperor says to Yasusada, “Keep what you received this time as your earnings.” In the Nagatobon, he jokes, “Give it to others; don’t keep it as your profit.”68 Yasusada is strikingly similar to Goi in the Konjaku tale who returns to the capital having been made quite wealthy by his warrior patron. The Heike texts thus extend the unsettling logic of the twelfth- century Konjaku monogatarishū by suggesting the political ascendancy of the provinces. Yoshinaka’s encounter with the Nekoma Counselor thus builds on this theme of the geographical reach of eastern power by thematically foregrounding the arrival of the east in the center, albeit accompanied by the “safety-valve” of laughter. Although Yoshinaka is right in the capital, the dining scene invokes the logic of a country lord entertaining a visitor of the capital so reminiscent of the Konjaku monogatarishū. Like Goi and Toshihito, whose names are indexically tied to their respective stations as court aristocrat and regional warrior lord, the “Nekoma” episode highlights the regional origin of Yoshinaka, “native of Kiso in Shinano,” and the capital base of his visitor, resident of the Nekoma area “lying between Shichijō, Bōjō, and Mibu Avenues.” Yoshinaka cajoles his visitor to eat, emphasizing the “rare” visit of the Nekoma Counselor, situating his actions as the hospitality due to a court official visiting the provinces. And, he goes on, with comical zeal, to bring about the food representative of his province

67 Ibid., 210. 68 Ibid., 211. gastro-politics and shifting geography 97 to the table—three vegetable side dishes, finger mushroom soup, and a country bowl piled high with rice.69 In the kataribon variants like the Kakuichibon, this uncomfortable encounter ends when Yoshinaka derisively calls him “Lord Cat” and the aggrieved counselor leaves. The yomihon variants include a further exchange that underscores the connection of this episode to the Konjaku tale. When the Nekoma Counselor does not finish his meal, Yoshinaka’s men offer the leftovers to the Counselor’s orderly. The orderly, however, flings the food across the horse stall, saying “My master has never given me such an astonishing thing to eat.”70 The passing down of food from lord to master was a custom tied to affirming their vertical ties. As a scene from Fujiwara Tadazane’s Chūgaishō (?–1154) suggests, it was customary for emperors and high aristocrats not to finish their food, and leave behind leftovers for their men to eat.71 Yoshinaka and his men were simply following a custom that had a precedent both in the capital and in the countryside as a way for cementing lord-master relations.72 The rage with which Nekoma’s orderly throws the bowl is more than just a rejection of an unappetizing meal. He rejects the food because it is not the leftover of his master, but comes from a usurper; the orderly is rejecting the implication that he should “break bread” with Yoshinaka.

Shogunal Feasts: Power and Pageantry in Medieval Japan

Yoritomo’s reception for Yasusada, in which he co-opts the imperial messenger as a future retainer, may have had a particular resonance for later readers and listeners of the Heike texts. The historical Yoritomo is known to have started the annual practice of ōban and onari feasts to showcase his overlordship and to affirm his bond with his followers. The term ōban likely phonetically developed from the word wanban (“bowl rice”), the rice-filled bowl offered during feasts by the kuge (high aristocracy from the first to third ranks) to the tenjōbito (those immediately their junior, fourth- and fifth-rankers). As this suggests, the evolution

69 Tomikura Tokujirō, Heike monogatari zenchūshaku, vol. 2 (1967), 521. 70 Mizuhara, ed., Shintei Genpei jōsuiki, vol. 4 (1990), 215. 71 Mizuhara Hajime discusses the Chūgaishō in connection with the “Nekoma” episode. See Mizuhara, “ ‘Oroshi’ ‘wake’,” in Chūsei kobungakuzō no tankyū, vol. 81 of Shintensha kenkyū sōsho (Tokyo: Shintensha, 1995), 532. 72 On the centrality of the custom of oroshi in both capital and provinces, see Harada, “Kodai chūsei ni okeru kyōshoku to mibun,” 512. 98 chapter three of this practice had roots in ideas about feasts as gastro-political arenas for articulating one’s status and prestige. The first reference to ōban as a feast in the historical record is in the Azuma kagami for the date 1180/12/20. On this day, “Miura Yoshizumi gave a banquet (ōban) in His Lordship’s honor at the latter’s new residence.”73 Yoshizumi’s celebratory gesture for the completion of the Kamakura lord’s home was, as Futaki Ken’ichi notes, weighted with symbolic overtones. In the Heian period, it had become customary for local zaichō kanjin to fête a newly appointed provincial governor with a meal for which they bore the expenses. Building on Futaki’s work, Murai Shōsuke observes further continuities between Heian and Kamakura practices.74 Like the Heian feasts for provincial governors (called mikka kuriya, or “three-day affairs”) the ōban also typically lasted three days in the new year. In Murai’s reading, Miura’s banquet was likely held in recognition of Yoritomo as the new overlord of the east, following the latter’s victory at the battle of Fuji River and his successful subjugation of other eastern families. Other references to ōban feasts coincide with momentous occasions such as the establishment of the Kumonjo (Azuma kagami, 1184/10/6) and the ascension of the new shogun Minamoto Sanetomo (Azuma kagami, 1203/10/9), suggesting that these feasts played a role in revivifying lord-retainer ties and in articulating the enduring nature of shogunal power.75 Consider, for example, the description of the ōban in the Masukagami (Clear Mirror, composed 1338–1376) for the tenth month of 1289, when the princely shogun Hisaakira (1276–1328) traveled to Kamakura to assume his post: For three days, the whole of Kamakura was caught up in great banquets [ōban], ceremonial horse-viewing, and other entertainments. And what need I say about the decorations and furnishings of the shogunal palace? The dazzled beholders, as they gazed as its jeweled magnificence, could only surmise that Lord Indra’s Excellent-to-See Palace would be much of the same. Prince Hisaakira’s situation was ideal. No longer could provinces east of the barrier be dismissed as “remote from the capital.”76

73 For a full translation of this entry, see Minoru Shinoda, The Founding of the Kama- kura Shogunate 1180–1185, with Selected Translations from the Azuma Kagami (New York: Columbia University Press, 1960), 200. 74 Murai Shōsuke, “Shikken seiji no henshitsu,” Nihonshi kenkyū 261 (1984): 6. 75 Ibid. See also Harada Nobuo, “Chūsei ni okeru shoku seikatsu no shūhen: kyōshoku to shihai o meguru shomondai,” Shigaku zasshi 93, no. 3 (1984): 313–34. 76 Perkins, The Clear Mirror, 147. gastro-politics and shifting geography 99

From this entry we learn not just of the grandeur of the ascension-year ōban, but of how these feasts dramatically collapsed the political distance between the center and the peripheries. The new year’s ōban, though distinct from these ascension-year feasts, exists on this continuum of political pageantry. We know, for example, that the order in which the shogun met with his retainers during those three days was determined by their place in the authority structure.77 During the Ashikaga period, shoguns began to formulate a calendar of events not unlike the annual events calendar (nenjū gyōji) of the Kyoto court. In the process, they formalized the performance of another dining ritual called the onari. Derived from the term onari hajime (“the start of works”), this practice likely began with a ceremonial visit by the shogun to the home of his vassals during the first month of every year. Scholars argue that Yoritomo was the first person to hold an onari procession when he visited the home of Adachi Morinaga on the third day of the first month of 1182. Though it may have been a one-day affair in the Kamakura period, the institutional expansion of ceremonies under the Ashikaga shoguns led to further codification of the onari. According to the Nenjū jōreiki (1525?) and Nenjū gōreiki (1544?), it became set that the shogun would visit the mansion of his kanrei (top administrator) on the second day of the new year, move on to the Shiba house on the twelfth day, Akamatsu on the nineteenth, Yamana on the twenty-second, Hosokawa on the twenty- third, Kyōgoku on the twenty-sixth, and the Hatakeyama on the night of the twenty-sixth.78 Similar to ōban feasts, onari banquets were not confined to the new year (tsune no onari) and could take place at other times (shikishō no onari). Banquets would typically begin at two in the afternoon in the shinden (main hall) of the host’s house with the shiki-san-kon, the serving of sake three times. On the third round, the shogun would ceremonially share his cup with his vassals. After a ritual exchange of gifts, everyone would shift venues to the kaisho (banquet hall) where an elaborate feast, eleven to seventeen courses long, would be served. With every odd-numbered course after the third course, the retainers would receive gifts from the host in the form of kosode robes, kara-e (Chinese-style painting), yuteki tenmoku pottery (bowls having a pattern resembling drops of oil on the

77 See Murai, “Shikken seiji no henshitsu,” 4–5. 78 For these details, see Futaki Ken’ichi, “Muromachi bakufu saishu no onari to ōban,” in Chūsei buke girei no kenkyū (Tokyo: Yoshikawa Kōbunkan, 1985), 14. 100 chapter three glazed surface), seiji chawan (tea bowls with celadon glaze), and the like. The shogun would temporarily retire after the third course, but when he returned, the feast would recommence, with performances of sarugaku and nō.79 The kaisho became so crucial to the enactment of shogunal patronage of the arts (and his authority over vassals) that it has spawned the academic term “kaisho culture.” While the gift-giving in these feasts no doubt plays a part in the visual reproduction of hierarchies, it is interesting that these practices are anchored in a feast. Harada Nobuo emphasizes the importance of kyōshoku (communal eating) in medieval Japanese culture, arguing that the physical connection of sharing food in the onari enabled group identification, even though the attention given to seating and presentation of the food confirmed, to all concerned, the vertical nature of the authority structure.80 This dual function of the feast as an occasion to stage power and to demonstrate commensality is what we see in the Heike texts. It is during one such feast that Yoritomo earns himself a new “retainer” in Nakahara Yasusada. A few passages later, Yoshinaka tries to create alliances through food, but unlike the savvy Yoritomo, he fails. Just as the actions of the orderly who flings the leftovers from Yoshinaka’s banquet indicate, neither high nor low in Kyoto will share a table with him.81

The Yōwa Famine in Historical Records

Although Yoshinaka had earned the gratitude of Kyoto elites for crushing the Taira in the Hokuriku provinces in mid-1183, his arrival in Kyoto coincided with the exhausting end of a debilitating famine that had begun in 1180. In his account of the famine in the Hōjōki (An Account of a Ten- Foot-Square Hut, 1212), the poet Kamo no Chōmei (1155–1216) writes of extreme deprivation: Then, was it in the Yōwa era [1181–1182?]—long ago and so I don’t remember well—the world suffered a two-year famine and dreadful things occurred. Droughts in spring and summer, typhoons and floods in fall—adversities followed one after another, and none of the five grains ripened. . . . It was the habit of the capital to depend on the countryside for everything, but nothing

79 For these details, see Satō Toyozō, “Shōgun no onari to chanoyu,” in Buke chadō no keifu, ed. Buke Shidankai (Tokyo: Perikansha, 1983), 156–76. 80 Harada, “Kodai chūsei ni okeru kyōshoku to mibun,” 507. 81 I am grateful to Professor Sakai Koichi of Sōka University for encouraging this connection to shogunal feasts and kyōshoku after he had heard a paper I gave at Kokugakuin University in October 2009. gastro-politics and shifting geography 101

was making its way to the capital now. . . . Surely the new year would bring improvement, one thought, but on top of a famine came an epidemic and the conditions only got worse. The metaphor of fish in a shrinking pool fit the situation well, as people running out of food grew more desperate by the day. . . . The corpses of people who had starved to death lay along the earthen walls, and in the streets, their numbers were beyond reckoning. . . . In an attempt to determine how many had died, they made a count during the fourth and fifth months, and found within the boundaries of the capital 42,300 corpses lying in the streets.82 Other courtier diaries, though less vivid, echo Chōmei’s account of the human toll. Documents show the famine began with a poor harvest in 1180.83 With no reserves of grains and little rain, the year of 1181 proved even worse for residents of the capital. For the intercalary second month, Kujō Kanezane wrote, “The Taira ‘Search-and-Punish Mission’ aimed at the rebels stationed in Mino has no provisions, and they are likely to starve to death.”84 Conditions worsened through 1182 and 1183 because of the blockages in the movement of food common during civil war. Though Kanezane’s diary states that “all under heaven” was suffering, it is likely that the famine was most devastating in Taira-controlled western Japan and in Kyoto, while eastern and northern Honshu remained relatively immune from its effects.85 At the brink of starvation, inhabitants of Kyoto took extreme measures to survive, tearing down their homes to sell wood, fleeing to the forests and the provinces in search of food. In an entry in the Gyokuyō for 1183/intercalary 10/18, Kanezane observes gravely that, “The outer areas ( yomonokuni) are blocked. The high and low of the central provinces (uchitsukuni) shall undoubtedly starve. There is no doubt about this.”86 The expression uchitsukuni occurs elsewhere in the Gyokuyō (1183/8/12) as a reference to the seat of imperial power; it suggests that Kanezane was truly concerned about the impact of the ongoing famine and Yoshinaka’s stay on the perilous state of court polity. This language of paralysis and confinement found in both Kanezane and Chōmei’s writings is echoed nearly verbatim in the Heike texts:

82 Anthony Chambers, “An Account of a Ten-Foot Square Hut,” in Haruo Shirane ed., Traditional Japanese Literature: An Anthology, Beginnings to 1600 (New York: Columbia University Press, 2007), 627. 83 For details of the famine and an explanation of underlying environmental factors, see William Wayne Farris, Japan’s Medieval Population: Famine, Fertility, and Warfare in a Transformative Age (Honolulu: University of Hawai‘i Press, 2006), 29–33. 84 Cited in ibid., 30. 85 Kantō felt the effects of the famine, but to a lesser degree. See Gyokuyō entry for 1184/1/14. Shinano Shiryō Kankōkai, ed., Shinano shiryō, vol. 3 (1971), 308. 86 Ibid., 238–39. 102 chapter three

With all the checkpoints closed, those in the provinces deliver neither official rice tribute [mitsugimono] nor dues [nengū], and people high and low in the capital are much like fish in shallow water. It was under these perilous circumstances that the old year [1183] drew to a close.87 Perhaps not surprisingly, this part of the text also includes readings by court astrologers in which the famine is read as an omen of more disastrous things to come: the toppling of the emperor by seditious “barbarians.”88 In other words, though the Heike texts mention the famine only a few times, the references to it are often tied to the crisis brought on by the rise of warriors. The Heike texts thus echo the sentiments of the anonymous author of the Yōwa ninenki (Chronicle of the Second Year of the Yōwa Era), who says that because of the rebellions in the provinces northeast of the capital [hokokku], all the roads are blocked. The people—high and low—of the capital lack food and clothing. . . . Because of the rise of the barbarians of the four sides [shi’i], all passage of food has stopped.89 The historian Higashijima Makoto observes the frequent recurrence of the image of yomonokuni fusagari (“outer provinces blocked”) in Kanezane’s prose and other documents in the days leading up to court’s issuance of the jūgatsu senji to Yoritomo, and speculates that it was an expression freighted with a particular kind of meaning. In Higashijima’s view, the legitimacy of the late Heian court was inextricably tied to the travel of rice/goods/levies to the center and the cessation of this flow plunged the court into a crisis. The very distinction between yomonokuni (outer provinces) and uchitsukuni (central provinces) was sustained by an understanding of political geography that saw the outer areas supporting the center, periodically enacting their subordination through the presentation of rice and other tributes.90

87 All the Heike variants mark the end of 1183 in this manner (1183/12/10). I have taken the liberty of slightly modifying the existing translation. See McCullough, trans., The Tale of the Heike, 282. 88 See Mizuhara, ed., Shintei Genpei jōsuiki, vol. 4 (1990), 20–21. These passages in the Heike texts are said to be based on a Gyokuyō entry for 1182/3/23, in which Kanezane describes a visit from Yasuchika and a lengthy discussion regarding portentous signs in the planets. See Ichiko Teiji et al., eds., Genpei jōsuiki, vol. 5 (2007), 113, 261. 89 Cited in Hirata Toshiharu, Heike monogatari no hihanteki kenkyū (Tokyo: Kokusho Kankōkai, 1990), 301. The Yōwa ninenki is believed to be the diary of Abe Yasutada (dates unknown) and chronicles the activities of his family during the Genpei War, but specifics are unknown. 90 For this point of view, see Higashijima, “Toshi ōken to chūsei kokka,” 169–71. gastro-politics and shifting geography 103

It is in this context that we may make sense of the court’s broad grant of authority to Yoritomo in late 1183 as it is presented in the Heike texts. Although the troops under the historical Yoritomo’s command were just as aggressive in seizing provisions from estates in battle areas, the Heike texts (particularly the yomihon variants) largely blame Yoshinaka for the food crisis.91 Consider the following passage from the Genpei jōsuiki: Kiso [Minamoto Yoshinaka] entered the capital with 50,000 troops. The capital was teeming with warriors who would enter homes, plant a white flag at the gate, drive away the homeowner and seize his wealth. Just as they were about to eat, they would have their chopsticks taken from them, leaving their mouths empty and their hearts filled with concern for their lives. People passing on the street would be stripped of their clothes and their belongings forcibly taken from their hands and backs. It was truly dreadful. . . . The acts of Yoshinaka’s troops were more than just burdens on the people. Yoshinaka’s men made no exception for the lands [goryō] of Kamo, Hachiman, Inari, and Gion shrines, and did not spare the estates of the important temples or leading families [kenmon seika]. They would for- age freely, cutting down young rice seedlings to feed to their horses, and tearing down stupas and temple buildings to make firewood.92 The Kamo and Hachiman shrines were key religious sites responsible for guarding the capital.93 Yoshinaka has the temerity to eat from these shrines, and to do so in the most violative fashion (while the grains were mere seedlings). When he is ordered by the Retired Emperor to desist from such foraging, Yoshinaka defends his men’s actions as necessary measures during a time of war. He says: With the roads of the east and the west blocked and no food coming to the capital, my men were going to die of starvation. My men only eat so they may stay alive and serve the Emperor. What is wrong in taking a little bit of rice from the wealthy for war provisions [hyōrōmai]? A warrior must take care of his horses so he can attack the enemy and bring down forts. If his horse is weak, he will not earn a good name. There is nothing wrong in cutting down rice and wheat seedlings in order to feed one’s horse.94

91 For the rampant seizure of food by the historical Yoritomo, see Takeuchi Rizō, “Hen- shitsuki ni okeru shōen to bushi,” in Jiryō shōen no kenkyū (Tokyo: Unebi Shobō, 1943), 351–78. 92 Mizuhara, ed., Shintei Genpei jōsuiki, vol. 4 (1990), 232. 93 See Yamashita Hiroaki, “Heike monogatari no Yoshinaka o yomu,” Shōin kokubungaku 43 (2006): 3. 94 Mizuhara, ed., Shintei Genpei jōsuiki, vol. 4 (1990), 239–40. 104 chapter three

Yoshinaka’s words reflect the reality of waging war in the capital during the drought. Yet, even though he was not the only one seizing food, the yomihon texts are particularly severe in their criticism of him.95 It is this aspect of Yoshinaka, his rapacious foraging of the estates of the politically entitled that is mocked in the lampoons discussed earlier.96 The lampoons may perhaps be understood as sighs of relief, redirected through laughter, of the threat Kujō Kanezane observed when he said, “Yoshinaka seized the estates (goryō) of the Retired Emperor and those below him. These acts only increased daily, and everyone, whether lay or the ordained, noble or common, was wiping their tears all the time.”97

Conclusion

Eating in pre-modern Japanese literature, as Mitani Kuniaki suggests in Ibukuro to bungaku (The Stomach and Literature), has from the earliest times been linked to territorial possession and control.98 Susano-o, the enfant terrible of the creation myths, for example, is often portrayed as the one who does not eat. In the Nihon shoki, Susano-o (here given the name Tsukiyomi-no-kami) rules the realm peacefully with his sister, Amaterasu, until he is sent to visit the kami of food, Ukemochi-no-kami. Enraged that she gives him polluted food from her mouth, he kills her, and is subsequently banished. In Mitani’s view, Susano-o’s failure to eat must be read as his rejection of the symbolic practices of rulership that associated physical ingestion with territorial control. In other words, by rejecting Ukemochi-no-kami’s food, which metonymically represented the bounty of the land of Japan, Susano-o declared himself unwilling/ unfit to rule it. Imperial meals were extensions of this logic of territorial control. In some variants of the Kojiki, Yamato Takeru, whose legendary exploits are associated with the subjugations of barbarians and the expansion of the court’s control, kills the first “rebel” right in his home; he cuts down his elder brother, Prince Ōusu, for his failure to attend imperial

95 See, for example, the entry in Yoshida Tsunefusa’s diary Kikki (1183/7/26) on how priests were doing much of the same. See Shinano Shiryō Kankōkai, ed., Shinano shiryō, vol. 3 (1971), 179. The yomihon texts also document the seizures by the Taira warriors and Yoritomo’s troops (under Noriyori), but they are never as harshly criticized as Yoshinaka. 96 For how Yoshinaka’s rapacity was described by courtiers (possibly inspiring the depiction of the Heike texts), see Gyokuyō 1183/9/3 and 1183/9/5. 97 Shinano Shiryō Kankōkai, ed., Shinano shiryō, vol. 3 (1971), 211–12. 98 This discussion is indebted to Mitani Kuniaki, “Ibukuro to bungaku: 1,” Bungei to hihyō 3, no. 1 (1969): 81, 85, 87. gastro-politics and shifting geography 105 family meals. Yamato Takeru’s action reveals the underlying political significance of eating in this scene: Prince Ōusu was not only rejecting the symbolic re-enactment, through dining, of his father’s political control, but also suggesting that he was too busy planning sedition to make an appearance before the emperor. Mitani’s argument, though perhaps not directly applicable to the Heike, posits a tie between food and the articulation of power in literary texts that is explored, from many directions, in this chapter. Heike scholars have puzzled over the relative lack of mention of the Yōwa famine or food in the variants. Sakura Yoshiyasu has observed, for example, that the Kakuichibon variant seems largely unconcerned with the body or its need for sustenance. This is surprising given the subject of the text—war. He notes that food is referred to in any significant detail only a handful of times (in “The Sea Bass,” “The Six Paths of Existence,” “Nekoma,” “Shunkan,” and “Execution of Rokudai”). Likewise, Masuda Katsumi notes the vast distance between the reality of food shortage and its portrayal in the text, and hypothesizes that to the fourteenth-century writers of the Heike variants, the famine may have been a tragic event in a distant past.99 While both these observations are insightful, they do not consider the political significance of food in the text. Although all the yomihon variants carry the episodes discussed in this chapter, I have highlighted the Genpei jōsuiki, in which these motifs have the clearest realization. Researchers have argued that the most threatening aspect of the historical Yoshinaka was not his loutish unawareness of the political stakes, but quite the opposite—his acute and dedicated interest in bringing about regime change. As Motoki Yasuo says, “It is a mistake to merely regard Yoshinaka as a foolish barbarian. Rather, he should be seen as the first instance of a moment when military power was able to shake itself free from the throne’s control.”100 Others like Kōchi Shōsuke do not grant Yoshinaka this degree of autonomy, but still emphasize the scale of his political ambitions. Kōchi suggests that Yoshinaka’s attack on the Hōjūji residence was part of his long-standing bid to challenge Go-Shirakawa and bring about a new line of imperial succession.101 Though other historians discount such claims for Yoshinaka’s importance, literary texts give him

99 Masuda Katsumi, “Uetaru senshi: genjitsu to bungakuteki ha’aku,” in Kazan rettō no shisō (Tokyo: Chikuma Shobō, 1968), 254–79. 100 Motoki Yasuo, “Ōken to bushi seiken: Kiyomori, Yoshinaka, Yoritomo,” Kokubun- gaku 45, no. 7 (2000): 21. 101 Kōchi Shōsuke, Yoritomo no jidai: 1180-nendai nairanshi (Tokyo: Heibonsha, 1990), 108. 106 chapter three an outsize role. As this chapter shows, the threat that Yoshinaka posed to the Heian regime is expressed through a gastronomical metaphor: he devours the aristocracy, encroaching upon their economic political base. His armies eat their way through food reserved for the high aristocracy, and he himself dines in seeming disregard of boundaries and aristocratic customs. The threat posed by his unregulated alimentary desire is eventually eliminated. The future of medieval polity is also articulated, this time through an alternative meal scene, the ‘warrior banquet’ that figures shogunal power. Chapter Four

Converging and Diverging Doubles in 1185: Sword Replicas and the Locations of Martial Power

Sword Symbolism and Political Duality in the Medieval World

In literary texts such as the Heike and Taiheiki, the year 1185 holds particular significance as a historical turning point.1 During this year, Yoritomo’s army drives the Taira clan into the waters of Dannoura and captures many of its key leaders. In the midst of a pitched sea battle, another dramatic event occurs: the eight-year-old Emperor Antoku who had fled with the Taira, his maternal kin, jumps into the ocean with the imperial sword, one of the three imperial regalia. The political vacuum created by his drowning with the sword is marked, in the Heike narrative, by an uneasy diegetic pause. When it resumes, the narrative describes the victory of the Minamoto army in the battle of Dannoura, thus symbolically tether- ing the lost imperial sword with the new martial entity of the shoguns. As scholars have noted, the transition from an aristocratic government to warrior power is told here through the symbolism of swords.2 What we know less about is how this sword imagery conceptualizes the balance of power between court and shogunate after 1185. Until this pivotal year, the oppositional terms that mark the Heike account (imperial capital/warrior capital, center/periphery, established authority/challenger) appear to exist in antagonistic tension. After the battle of Dannoura, however, these tensions fall away to imagine a world made whole through the reconciliatory possibility of doubling. Yoritomo, who restores peace to the realm, is represented as the metaphoric double of the imperial sword in a section called “Hōken setsuwa” (Narrative

1 Though many of the institutional changes associated with the Kamakura shogunate do not take shape until 1192, literary accounts imagine 1185 as a moment of rupture. For how the Taiheiki connects the loss of the imperial sword in 1185 to a new era in which the court has ceded ground to the shoguns, see Kitamura Masayuki, ‘ “Taiheiki’ Jōwa yonen kiji no kōsei: hōken shinsō setsuwa o chūshin ni,” Kokugo to kokubungaku 74, no. 12 (1997): 20–23. 2 See, for example, Ubukata Takashige, who says that Yoritomo takes the place of the lost imperial sword in the Heike corpus. Ubukata, Heike monogatari no kisō to kōzō: mizu no kami to monogatari (Tokyo: Kindai Bungeisha, 1984), 94. 108 chapter four of Swords).3 This doubling of Yoritomo and the imperial sword brings together two rival entities. Yet, the very metaphoric structure of the double, which is predicated on difference and often dualism, also suggests that this imagistic conflation may speak less to a unified totality than polarities existing in (sympathetic or antagonistic) balance with each other. An examination of sword doubles gives us a new vantage point from which to understand how the birth of the shogunate was perceived in the medieval world. For medieval thinkers, the loss of the imperial sword in 1185 crystallized anxieties about the decline of the imperial court in the ‘age of the warrior.’ Because medieval texts frequently compensate for its loss with narratives about replicas, scholars typically assume a closed metaphorical circuit in which the original sword (symbolic of imperial power) remains potent in a world of replicas. In these readings, Yoritomo is conceived as a “delegative substitute” for the lost imperial sword. That is, although the imperial sword is lost in 1185, Yoritomo assures the continuity of imperial power by becoming its proxy. This chapter argues that this metaphorical containment of shogunal power is mistaken, and that it relies on a faulty premise that sword copies were always considered incommensurate to originals. I suggest that the transfer of martial power to shoguns was instead portrayed through the imagery of doubling. The earliest versions of the Heike texts were set down in a tense world following the Jōkyū War when, the contemporary diarist Taira Tsunetaka (1180–1255) notes, the “imperial realm appeared to split into two.”4 At the crux moment of 1185, when imperial martial power seemed particularly vulnerable because of the loss of the imperial sword, the Heike texts generate ever new swords that double for the imperial sword, foregrounding a representational strategy that is acutely aware of the metaphorical reach of the trope of the double.5 Since doubling could evoke both similarity

3 I have chosen the scholarly term “Hōken setsuwa” for this narrative cycle, although it appears in different variants with diverse titles: “Ken” (Kakuichibon), “Hōken no koto” (Engyōbon), “Tsurugi no maki” (Shibu- kassenjōbon), and “Hōken no koto” (Yashirobon). This is to distinguish it from another textual tradition with which it is closely related, the “Tsu- rugi no maki,” discussed later in this chapter. 4 For this, see the Heikoki, also known as the Tsunetaka kōki (Diary of Taira Tsun- etaka), 1240/7/13. Taira Tsunetaka and Fujiwara Morotsugu, Heikoki, Myōkaiki, vol. 32 of Zōho shiryō taisei, ed. Zōho Shiryō Taisei Kankōkai (Kyoto: Rinsen Shoten, 1965), 61. 5 Terms like “replica,” “duplicate,” and “copy” are used interchangeably in this chapter. Furthermore, the original sword is not necessarily an auratic object that is infringed upon by the existence of fakes. Instead, I follow the thinking of Aleida Assman and Jan Assman, who see a different logic of replication in sacred objects, one where replication is carefully managed so as to shape the meanings of the sacred. Replicas are fully participating converging and diverging sword doubles 109 and difference, both synthesis and tension, the doubling of swords provided writers with the ability to manage rhetorically a historical turning point when Minamoto shoguns seem poised to become a new martial authority in their own right. In addition to describing the historical arguments made through sword doubles, this chapter also traces their links to other practices of representation. As sword stories initially set down in eighth-century myths are reiterated in medieval texts, they increasingly blur the boundary between the first story and its retelling, in turn conferring authority on reinterpre- tations. Likewise, although the practice of secret transmission in sword stories acknowledges only one “correct” narrative closely guarded by the transmitter, the “correct” narrative’s authority depends on the simultaneous circulation of copies that closely resemble the original. In other words, though the logic of original/copy may legitimate the shrine that possesses the mystical original story, it also paradoxically requires that these accounts proliferate, creating a situation in which multiple institutions could claim equivalent authority. Finally, as the court thinker Jien suggests, replica swords were not just seen as poor substitutes; rather, they were judged to be potent simulacra that, through ritual activation, called into presence the manifold powers of the sacred imperium. Put differ- ently, contemporary ideologues used the network of coincidences created by replicas to manage politico-historical tensions.6 In all these instances, we are forced to abandon the old binary between singular/imitation, and consider the medieval discourse of replicas as a set of cultural strategies through which individuals and institutions imagined relations of power. This chapter begins with the writings of Jien, whose political tracts are the first to conceptualize the balance of power between court and shogunate through the use of replicas. During his lifetime, Jien witnessed the fragmenting of the political world and escalating tensions between court and shogunate. Whereas prior analyses have remarked on his political vision—his desire to see the new shogunate assimilated into imperial

extensions of the original, often visibly manifesting its powers in the texts discussed in this chapter. See Assman and Assman, “Air from Other Planets Blowing: The Logic of Authen- ticity and the Prophet of the Aura,” in Mapping Benjamin: The Work of Art in the Digital Age, ed. Hans Ulrich Gumbrecht and Michael Marrinan (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 2003), 148–53. 6 A similar ideological use in medieval Japan of Buddhist relics (as “replicas” embodying the Buddha) is noted by Brian D. Ruppert. See Ruppert, Jewel in the Ashes: Buddha Rel- ics and Power in Early Medieval Japan, vol. 188 of Harvard East Asian Monographs (Boston: Harvard University Asia Center, 2000), 11, 277. 110 chapter four order—this chapter explains his rhetoric of duplicate swords as a strategic vision designed to yield unities in a splintering world. Jien’s rhetorical ordering of the world is then contrasted with the “Hōken setsuwa” episode in the Heike. This episode traces the movement of martial authority into the hands of the shoguns as new sword-bearers, even as it suggests that the original imperial sword has survived.7 This carefully managed metaphoric circuit between original/replica, through which Minamoto martial power is contained, gives way to a radical rupture in the Genpei jōsuiki, where new eras require new kinds of swords and martial authority. My analysis thus charts the shifting metaphoric play of the sword trope in the Heike corpus, emphasizing, in particular, the unities and disjunctures that it helps narrate. The final section of this chapter takes up the “Tsurugi no maki,” a narrative cycle that incorporates the history of the imperial sword found in the “Hōken setsuwa” and extends it with a history of swords belonging to the Minamoto family.8 The very structure of the “Tsurugi no maki,” in which

7 The “Hōken setsuwa” found in the Heike variants falls broadly into two types: the Engyōbon, Genpei jōsuiki, and Shibu-kassenjōbon (Type A), and the Kakuichibon and Yashi- robon (Type B). Although they are fairly similar, they differ in one critical respect. Type A variants conclude with the sinking of the replica and the survival of the original, while Type B variants conclude that the lost sword was the original. Early variants of Type A such the Engyōbon, which insist on the safekeeping of the original sword, are often understood to be defending imperial legitimacy. These scholarly positions, however, assume that the imperial sword, when it appears in these stories, makes a claim for the singularity (and inviolability of imperial authority), and that which it refers to is stable and unmoving. I suggest, instead, that sword doubles create metaphoric play, making room for arguments about shifting loci of power. In doing so, I emphasize the rhetorical rather than the refer- ential function of the imperial sword. 8 The term tsurugi (sword) is used interchangeably in medieval texts to refer to both imperial and Minamoto swords. The textual tradition which includes histories of both swords is frequently called “Tsurugi no maki,” but this is also a name that some variants give to the “Hōken setsuwa” episode. To avoid confusion, “Tsurugi no maki” will refer to the latter type, which includes dual sword histories, and “Hōken setsuwa” to the narrative cycle with only one sword history. Although scholars are split regarding the dating of the “Tsurugi no maki,” I follow the reasoning of Kuroda Akira and Tsurumaki Yumi, who see inflections unique to the fourteenth century and see it as developing quite separately from the Heike corpus. See Kuroda, ‘ “Tsurugi no maki’ oboegaki: tsuchigumo zōshi o megutte,” in ‘Taiheki’ to sono shūhen, ed. Hasegawa Tadashi (Tokyo: Shintensha, 1994), 319–20, and Tsurumaki, ‘ “Tsurugi no maki’ no kōsō to sanshu no jingi tan,” Kokugakuin kiyō: bungaku kenkyūka 25 (1993): 225, 233. Since the two are so closely related, there has been extensive debate about which came first—the “Hōken setsuwa” passage or the “Tsurugi no maki” narrative cycle. Early theorists like Yamada Yoshio argued that the story of the imperial sword was the base to which the story of Minamoto swords was added. Others like Atsumi Kaoru saw the story of Minamoto swords as the prior development. See Yamada, Heike monogatari ni tsukite no kenkyū, ed. Kokugo Chōsa Iinkai (Tokyo: Kokutei Kyōkasho Kyōdō Hanbaijo, 1911), converging and diverging sword doubles 111 two distinct sword narratives are joined, highlights this metaphoric turn toward understanding martial power as unified duality, as “one-yet-two.” The transfer of military authority to Minamoto shoguns is imagined as coming about without rupture, whether historical or institutional, because the unified polity has room for two loci of power. The “Tsurugi no maki” is thus the formally perfected realization of the theme of this chapter: the defusing of conflict through the literary device of pairing, which is designed to erase difference and rupture, and to yield unities instead.9

(Re-)Placing the Imperial Sword in the Medieval World

The idea that Minamoto men could be “delegative substitutes” for the lost imperial sword was first articulated by Jien in his political history Gukanshō: I have come to the conclusion that since present conditions have taken such a form, and soldiers have emerged for the purpose of protecting the sovereign, the imperial sword turned its protective function over to soldiers and disappeared into the sea. . . . Consequently, the imperial sword no longer has a function to perform.10 With these words, Jien tried to express the changes brought on by the Genpei War. Writing shortly before the Jōkyū War, when tensions between court and shogunate were intensifying, Jien saw the fundamental political conflict of his time embodied in the rise of military men. He was proven right in just two years, when Emperor Go-Toba (1180–1239) resorted to the use of force to unseat the Kamakura shogunate. Through this exposition of political principles, in which both court and shogunate

196, 290–99, and Atsumi, “Tsurugi no maki,” in Atsumi, Heike monogatari no kisoteki kenkyū, 303–10. 9 The premise of this chapter, that doubled swords manage a split world, echoes the work of Nanami Hiroaki. Nanami, focusing on the Engyōbon, argues that the “Hōken setsuwa” adopts a representational strategy in which opposites are shown to have surprising coincidences. Whereas he shows the frequent use of replicas in writings as a means to explain the bifurcated court-shogunate polity as a unity, this chapter considers the underlying poetics of representation. In doing so, I also differ from Nanami, underscoring that double swords do not always collapse into unities, but sometimes retain differences. See Nanami, “Hōken sōshitsu, mikkyō to shinwa no aida no ōkenron (ge): ‘Gukanshō’ to ‘Engyōbon Heike monogatari’ no kankei o megutte,” Bungei gengo kenkyū, bungei hen 50 (2006): 182. 10 For this translation, see Jien, The Future and the Past: A Translation and Study of the Gukanshō, An Interpretative History of Japan Written in 1219, trans. Delmer M. Brown and Ichirō Ishida (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1979), 144. 112 chapter four were accorded their appropriate place, Jien saw himself trying to avert the looming war.11 In the Gukanshō, Jien presents Minamoto men as proxies of the imperial sword, arguing that the sword is obsolete in the ‘age of the warrior.’ For him, imperial polity and Minamoto shoguns should not be unrecon- ciled dualities, but neither are they coexistent halves. Instead, Jien favors the synthetic vision in which the shoguns, seen as sword substitutes, could support a unified polity. With this functionalist framework, Jien was able to resolve the splintering of the political world, shifting the terms of discourse from difference and antagonism between two “halves” to harmonious cooperation.12 Jien’s proclivity to make whole a world he saw fragmented by the loss of the sword is evident in another text, the Musōki (1209).13 Anxious about the lost imperial regalia, Jien has an unusual vision in his sleep in which they are restored; the sacred sword and the sacred jewel are transformed into the emperor and the empress, who, through their sexual union, give birth to the third element of the regalia—the mirror.14 This union appears to Jien as the “sword-and-sheath mudra” (tōshōin) of Fudō Myōō (Skt. Acalanātha), the hand sign that emperors make as they

11 See John S. Brownlee, Political Thought in Japanese Historiographical Writing: From Kojiki (712) to Tokushi Yoron (1712) (Waterloo: Wilfrid Laurier University Press, 1991), 94. 12 By contrast, Jien’s contemporaries like Nichiren (1222–1282) saw a cleaving of the world in the aftermath of the Jōkyū War and made bold claims that the emperor had for- feited the right to rule and that the shogunate was the de-facto king. For this observation, see Nanami, “Hōken sōshitsu, mikkyō to shinwa no aida no ōkenron (ge),” 234. 13 Musōki literally means “the account of a dream.” It appears at the end of a text authored by Jien called Bisei betsu (An Additional Volume to Bisei [Rites of Initiation]), which was completed in 1209. For the full text, see Tendai Shūten Hensanjo, ed., “Bisei betsu,” in Mikkyō 3 (Tokyo: Shunjūsha, 1988), 231–32. For a full translation of this dream passage, see Iyanaga Nobumi, “Tantrism and Reactionary Ideologies in Eastern Asia: Some Hypotheses and Questions,” in Buddhist Priests, Kings, and Marginals: Studies on Medieval Japanese Buddhism, Special Issue, Cahiers d’Extrême-Asie 13 (2002): 12n30. 14 Fabio Rambelli uses the term “suturing” to describe the manner in which the symbolism of the regalia was utilized to “quilt together the religious and secular power, the exotic and the familiar, the bestial and the human, male and female . . . tradition and future.” He points out that the “jade body” of the sovereign was the quilting point of the system, a zone around which complex cultural and ideological negotiations could be built. See Rambelli, “The Emperor’s New Robes,” in Buddhist Priests, Kings, and Marginals: Studies on Medieval Japanese Buddhism, Special Issue, Cahiers d’Extrême-Asie 13 (2002): 432–34. Furthermore, as Yamamoto Hiroko suggests, the motif of sexual union in Jien’s dream reflects esoteric thinking, where sex is less about eros than a fertile ground to “reproduce” imperial authority. Yamamoto, “Irui to sōshin: chūsei ōken o meguru sei no metafā,” in Erosu, vol. 4 of Gendai tetsugaku no bōken, edited by Ichikawa Hiroshi et al. (Tokyo: Iwa- nani Shoten, 1990), 130. converging and diverging sword doubles 113 ascend the throne.15 In this remarkable dream Jien succeeds in rejuvenat- ing the imperial sword, restoring it to plentitude within the ritual gestures of mikkyō (esoteric) practices. The lost sword is not only re-presenced in the union of the royal couple and regenerated in the eternal time of imperial ascensions, it appears, quite simply, as the central element that a variety of metaphorical and ritualistic practices symbolically recall.16 Although this web of phantasmic substitutes guarantees a cosmic centrality for the imperial sword, it cannot complete Jien’s picture because it does not provide for earthly substitutes. For this, Jien turns to the combinatory paradigms offered by mikkyō thought. Tendai thinkers from the time of Kūkai (774–835) had posited the essential and inner unity of all phenomena by using a tripartite classification. The Buddha was, for example, said to possess three kinds of Buddha body (Skt. trikāya/Jp. sanshin): the dharma body (Buddha as personification of ultimate truth), the manifested body (the physical Buddha who appears in the world), and the recompense body (the wisdom Buddha has attained through practice).17 Patterning his argument along these lines, Jien suggested that every new emperor had three aspects: his visible body, his essential body, and his functional body. While the manifested body of the emperor was his physical appearance, Jien linked the emperor’s essential dharma body to the sword of Fudō Myōō, and his functional “recompense” body to the sword known as the Hinomashi no tsurugi placed in the emperor’s sleeping quarters. Present in everyday time, the Hinomashi no tsurugi was the earthly manifestation of the cosmic sword of Fudō Myōō, which in turn embodied the talismanic potencies of the sword-and-sheath

15 See Kamikawa Michio, who views Jien’s use of the sword and sheath mudra as a way to restore the lost imperial sword, to rejuvenate imperial authority when it seemed most fragile. See Kamikawa, “Accession Rituals and Buddhism in Medieval Japan,” Japa- nese Journal of Religious Studies 17, nos. 2–3 (1990): 251. 16 As Nanami Hiroaki notes, Jien’s elaborate cosmological explanations stem from a desire to imagine a new theory of rulership, in which the emperor could be renewed through the powers of mikkyō ritual. This theory would legitimate the gojisō (protector priest) and his ritual powers, as well as link objects such as the imperial sword in a new way to rulership. The potency of the object would thus be derived not from the physical object itself but rather from the power of ritual and the symbolic value conferred upon it by mikkyō thought. See Nanami, “Hōken sōshitsu, mikkyō to shinwa no aida no ōkenron (jō): ‘Gukanshō’ to ‘Engyōbon Heike monogatari’ no kankei o megutte,” Bungei gengo kenkyū, bungei hen 46 (2004): 169–71. 17 My translation and understanding of these terms is based on Jacqueline I. Stone’s excellent study of the rhetoric of medieval Tendai thought. See Stone, Original Enlighten- ment and the Transformation of Medieval Japanese Buddhism, vol. 12 of Kuroda Institute Studies in East Asian Buddhism (Honolulu: University of Hawai‘i Press, 1999), 184. 114 chapter four mudra.18 Placed close to the emperor’s body at all times, this Hinomashi no tsurugi would protect the emperor by bringing together the cosmic power conferred on it by semiotic transfer. Jien’s thinking here resembles what Allan G. Grapard, recalling Foucault’s description of pre-classical Europe, has called an “episteme of identity,” a way of thinking in which phenomena are seen in terms of “similitude, reflection, identity and communication.”19 Mikkyō doctrine played a significant part in codifying and systematizing such thinking in Japan, and it is not surprisingly that Jien turns to the combinatory paradigms offered by his Tendai contemporaries. Jien’s series of swords, constituted as if they form an indefinite chain, argue for the order and coherence of the imperial world he is trying to represent. But as Nanami notes, they do so also by creating hierarchies between the cosmic and the local. The sword-and- sheath mudra of Fudō Myōō that has its concrete form in the Hinomashi no tsurugi owes its primordial cosmic energy to a source further up the chain of associations, to the “original ground” of the Dainichi Nyorai (Skt. Mahāvairocana) of which Fudō Myōō was a “trace manifestation.” Although not directly referenced here, warrior power was likely perceived by Jien as a “trace manifestation” of the unconditioned original of the imperial sword. Writing the Gukanshō twelve years later in 1221, Jien returned to these early ideas about the network of replicas of the imperial sword. But in the gathering storm of war, he gave it a more hierarchical shape, ensuring that the “new swords” of Minamoto shoguns could be no more than substitutes and not fully participating replicas.

The “Hōken setsuwa” Passage: Atsuta Shrine and the Overlay of Sword Stories

Jien’s logic is reformulated in a narrative section placed immediately after the loss of the imperial sword in the Heike texts. This narrative cycle, the “Hōken setsuwa,” recounts the history of the imperial sword from the ancient past to the narrative present. As a bounded section of text embedded in the larger textual sweep of the Heike, the “Hōken setsuwa” is a miniaturized history of war-making within the larger narrative

18 See Nanami, “Hōken sōshitsu, mikkyō to shinwa no aida no ōkenron (jō),” 159–65. 19 See Alan G. Grapard, “The Textualized Mountain—Enmountained Text: The Lotus Sutra in Kunisaki,” in The Lotus Sutra in Japanese Culture, ed. George J. Tanabe Jr. and Willa Jane Tanabe (Honolulu: University of Hawai‘i Press, 1989), 182. converging and diverging sword doubles 115 script of the Genpei War—a small-scale replica that associates the Genpei War with the earliest wars in Japan in which the imperial sword was employed. Thus, as scholars have suggested, the very inclusion of the “Hōken setsuwa” within the larger narrative arc about Yoritomo’s victory seems to follow Jien’s logic that the lost imperial sword is no longer relevant in the ‘age of the warrior.’ Yet this understanding of the “Hōken setsuwa” ignores this narrative cycle’s concern with original and duplicate swords, a rhetorical maneuver that is quite distinct from Jien. In Jien’s thinking, sword simulacra project a harmonious world where there is no opposition, but instead a well-ordered integration of all simulacra swords into a tightly organized matrix. By contrast, in the “Hōken setsuwa” replica swords stage variation and difference from the original. Instead of conveying a unified world in which replicas are “trace manifestations” of the “original ground,” the “Hōken setsuwa” depicts a sword series in which the original is liable to be displaced, duplicated, and perennially deferred by the existence of replicas. Indeed, this deferral may be fundamental to the practice of newly retelling imperial sword stories in the medieval world.20 The logic of the “Hōken setsuwa,” which aims to reverse the loss of the imperial sword by arguing for the continued presence of the original, is bound up in a contradiction. In insisting on the safe passage of the original to the narrative present, it signals the loss that requires this telling. Likewise, if the central motif of the sword narratives is the unmoving original sword (set into contrast by the ever-moving duplicates), the praxis of retelling demonstrates the liability of the imperial sword to be relocated through ever new narrative forms. The “Hōken setsuwa” subtly suggests this liability and opens with the discovery of the imperial sword in a site of extreme displacement from the center; it is found in the tail of a serpent that the mythical trickster-hero Susano-o battles and slays. The creature is emblematic of the unbridled chaos before the establishment of order, with its riotous tails occupying “eight mountains and eight valleys.” The serpent is, if nothing else, a reminder of the truism that “if left unappeased, violence will accumulate until it overflows its confines.”21 As René Girard notes, societies typically

20 For a concise summary of how vigorous interpretive activity in the medieval period spawned ever new accounts of the imperial sword to justify new political realities, see Abe Yasurō, ‘ “Nihongi’ to iu undō,” Kokubungaku kaishaku to kanshō (Tokushū Nihongi no kyōju) 64, no. 3 (1999): 6–17. 21 René Girard, Violence and the Sacred (London: Continuum, 2005), 10. 116 chapter four employ the ritual of sacrifice to direct violence within society “into proper channels.”22 Susano-o discovers the sword during such a ritual, when he lures the serpent to the reflection of a sacrificial victim in vats of alco- hol and kills it. The sword is buried deep in the serpent’s tail; it is both maleficent and beneficent, an agent of future peace as well as a representation of violence. The location of the sword thus reveals a dual fear and reverence of swords that Origuchi Shinobu and others have observed in sword names like Habakiri, which allude to “crawling” (hafu).23 From one perspective, the text’s concern with the killing of the serpent is the exter- nalization of the violence that is necessary for the birth of the social; the serpent is the scapegoat onto whom society’s violent tendencies may be cast away. In the “Hōken setsuwa,” however, the serpent’s initial possession of the sword also thematizes movement and deferral. As Amaterasu says when she receives the sword from Susano-o, “This is the blade that I once let drop when I had shut myself in the cave.”24 The dramatic movement of the imperial sword from the wild beast to the sacred deity stages its recovery and affirms the legitimate location of the sword. Simultaneously, it reveals the lack of a singular place for the sword, a stability that can only be achieved through narrative. Amaterasu’s surprising statement about losing the sword also foreshadows the final location of the ever-moving imperial sword. When, at the battle of Dannoura, the sword sinks into the sea, learned men justify its loss and argue that the eight-year-old Emperor Antoku was none other than the eight-headed serpent slain by Susano-o, now returned to carry the sword to its undersea palace. Ubukata Takashige reads this textual scene shift from earthly capital to undersea palace as a narrative structure that traces the expulsion of Antoku as a “discarded sovereign” (haitei).25 He correlates this narrative paradigm (as depicted in the Engyōbon) with folklore in which princes removed or rejected from succession are reborn as serpents. In Ubukata’s analysis, the dragon/serpent motif in these stories conveys the sovereign’s removal from the realm, while simultaneously

22 Ibid. 23 Origuchi Shinobu, “Tachi no hanashi,” in Origuchi Shinobu zenshū, nōto hen, dai nana kan, ed. Origuchi Hakushi Kinen Kodai Kenkyūjo (Tokyo: Chūō Kōron Shinsha, 1971), 411–14. 24 Mizuhara, ed., Shintei Genpei jōsuiki, vol. 6 (1991), 55. This is a remarkable line, not found in the parallel passages of the Kogo shūi (Gleanings of Ancient Words, 807), or the Kojiki and Nihon shoki. 25 Ubukata Takashige, “Heike monogatari no kōsō shiron: haitei monogatari to kamigami no kago to hōchiku no kōsō,” Nihon bungaku 32, no. 4 (1983): 23. converging and diverging sword doubles 117 forestalling any vengeful reactions by reincarnating him as the Dragon King deity.26 For the writers of the Heike texts, the reincarnation of Emperor Antoku as a dragon also amplified the well-known association of the Taira family with the sea-facing Itsukushima deity, the lore about whom included dragon myths. These dualisms of land and sea, sacred and profane, mirror the text’s concern with originals and replicas: the sword that sinks to the bottom of the sea is portrayed as a duplicate sword made during the reign of the legendary emperor Sujin (ca. first century bce?), while the original is left in safekeeping at a shrine.27 This reassuring separation between original and duplicate, land and sea, and sacred and profane, creates a vertically organized world in early variants like the Engyōbon where the land-bound original imperial sword remains untouched. Yet, in later variants like the Genpei jōsuiki, this difference is erased as the story includes two accounts of original swords. In an anecdote unique to the Genpei jōsuiki, the female diver sent into the water to search for the imperial sword meets the Dragon King, who greets her in a palace that iconographically rivals the one on land.28 Clutching both the young Emperor Antoku and the sword, the

26 Ubukata borrows from the work of Inada Hideo. See Inada, “Ryūja denshō to shosō: oboegaki,” Doshisha Daigaku kokubungakkai inseibukai kenkyū kaihō 11 (1981): 10–20. Another scholar who makes this suggestive connection between serpent deities and the authority of the court is Sakurai Yoshirō. See Sakurai, “Tenshin shinkō ni okeru kokka to minkan,” in Kamigami no henbō: shaji engi no sekai kara (Tokyo: Tokyo Daigaku Shup- pankai, 1976), 71–73. 27 In variants like the Kakuichibon, it is the original sword that sinks, signaling a crisis to imperial legitimacy. See Takagi Makoto, Heike monogatari: sōzō suru katari (Tokyo: Shinwasha, 2001), 232–36. 28 My reading highlights the anecdote’s positing of a second location for the legitimate possession of the sword. For another reading, which sees the restoration of “royal charisma” in this episode, see David T. Bialock, “Outcasts, Emperors and Dragon Cults in the Tale of the Heike,” in Bernard Faure, ed., Buddhist Priests, Kings, and Marginals: Studies on Medieval Japanese Buddhism, Special Issue, Cahiers d’Extrême- Asie 13 (2002), 276–81. Bialock’s reading focuses on the marginal status of the female diver and the dragon, each of whom was imbued with the ability to “re-charge” the center through the negative charge of the periphery. Although Bialock’s reading of dragon mythology elucidates the earlier variants, I suggest that the Genpei jōsuiki deliberately creates a second palace, a second account of the original sword, to render the Dragon Palace less marginal, rewriting the hierarchical relationship in favor of one of equivalence. Komatsu Kazuhiko notes that medieval representations of the Dragon Palace such as in Urashima myōjin engi emaki (Illustrated Scroll of the Legends of Urashima Shrine, fifteenth c.) play on the idea of a place with a distinct temporality, less a marginal place than a place whose defining characteristic is difference. This difference is not always construed as negative. In the nō play Unoha (Cormorant Feathers), the jewel of the Dragon King guarantees the legitimacy of the earthly king who rules with this undersea treasure. The nō play Ama (The Woman Diver) is most relevant to my point, a story in which a diving maiden 118 chapter four

Dragon King instructs the diver to tell the imperial court that the sword had now finally returned to its rightful location: as the treasure of the Dragon Palace, it was meant to stay in the sea, but the Dragon King’s defiant son had fled to land with it, taking the form of the eight-headed serpent. In this account, the errant son who flees overland with the sword thematically reiterates, in a new location, the concern of the “Hōken setsuwa” with loss and recovery, as the son’s return to the sea leads to the felicitous restoration of patrimonial bonds. The Dragon King’s conviction that the imperial sword belongs under the sea and that he is, in fact, in possession of the original sword confounds the distinctions of land/sea, original/duplicate, and sacred/profane that structure this episode. This doubling of swords neither hierarchically separates original from duplicate (as a shadow) nor does it synthesize the two swords in all-encompassing explanation in which all phenomena exhibit the same essence. Instead, the text makes the undersea sword separate yet equal, moving away from the idea of singularity to duo-locality.29

retrieves a stolen family jewel for her son. Although the recovery of the stolen Fujiwara regalia (and its legitimacy) may ultimately be the point of the nō play, the Dragon Palace occupies an important place in this narrative. It is not just the haunt of the Dragon King who steals the jewel; it is also the site associated with the diving maiden who returns the jewel. As the mother of the future Fujiwara Fusa’aki (682–737), both she and the Dragon Palace assure the integrity of the Fujiwara lineage that follows. The Dragon Palace is thus not a lower realm but instead a space that has a concessive structure (gyakusetsuteki) and functions to reverse prior understandings. See Komatsu, Ikai to Nihonjin: e-monogatari no sōzōryoku, vol. 356, Kadokawa sensho (Tokyo: Kadokawa Shoten, 2003), 77–89. 29 By doing away with the hierarchical separation between land/sea and original/ replica, the Genpei jōsuiki creates a radically new explanatory schema, prompting further elaboration in a notation that is set apart from the text. Scholars are not certain if these notes were added by later copyists (or editors) or whether these commentarial interjec- tions were there in the text from the start: “This is doubtful. It is said that a new sword and mirror were made during the reign of Sujin, out of awe for the mystical powers of the original, and that the original was moved to Ise shrine. Therefore, the sword that sank at Dannoura must be the new sword. How could the Dragon King say that the sword was his treasure? Furthermore, when Susano-o found the sword in the serpent’s tail and presented it to the deity of the August shrine (Amaterasu), Amaterasu said, “This is the sword that I dropped when I was in the heavenly cave.” But now, the Dragon King says that it is his treasure. Therefore, is it the case that the Dragon King and Amaterasu are the same entity but with different names? One must carefully examine these unclear points and decide.” In Mizuhara, ed., Shintei Genpei jōsuiki, vol. 6 (1991), 61. Noticing a logical contradiction in the preceding account, the narrator highlights the unusual conclusion that one is forced to draw—that the Dragon King is a “trace manifestation” of Amaterasu. The very inclusion of this note speaks volumes about the radical re- envisioning in the Genpei jōsuiki, a postulation about dual original swords whose dramatic flavor is only enhanced by the sober note that follows. converging and diverging sword doubles 119

This concern with replication and multiplicity is foregrounded a few lines earlier, again in an anecdote unique to the Genpei jōsuiki. In the year 669, the Silla monk Dōkyō tries to steal the Kusanagi sword from the shrine. He boards a boat and rejoices at the acquisition of this treasure for his country. Suddenly the waves crash angrily around him. Realizing his folly, he apologizes to the gods and returns the sword to the Atsuta shrine. After the attempted theft of the sword by Dōkyō, the shrine officials at Atsuta decide to craft replicas: Intuiting that something like this could happen again in a later age [mat- sudai], they made four absolutely identical swords and placed it in the shrine. When the head shrine attendant would pass on [shrine teachings] to [his successor], he would use [a gesture of] his five fingers to convey this [knowledge]. It is said that, other than them, no one could tell the difference between the original sword and the new swords.30 Secrecy, transmission, and ritual are the key motifs in this passage. As a set of cultural operations, secrecy was tied to legitimating institutions that produced artistic and religious knowledge in medieval Japan. The wordless impartation of knowledge evokes the work of esoteric practitioners, for whom the silent and physical act of transmission guaranteed the proper conveyance of teaching, a passing on that could be tarnished by the irregularity of words.31 Like these secret teachings, whose authority is sustained by the distinction between the correct and the incorrect, the swords are to a certain extent separated by the dualistic logic of original/ copy. At the same time, the swords themselves are indistinguishable; their differences are only meaningful during the special initiation ceremony for new priests. The use of multiple identical swords at Atsuta shrine thus combines the idea of the shrine’s legitimate possession of the “true” sword with the plurality of martial authority in the medieval period. The final placement of the sword at Atsuta shrine also brings to rest a recursive narrative plotted with figures who retrace the steps of their predecessors. At the beginning of the episode, the sword that Susano-o offers to Amaterasu is used by Prince Yamato Takeru (a legendary hero) who is sent by the emperor on a subjugation mission. On his way to the east, he meets “barbarians,” who deceive him by inviting him on a hunt and then set fire to the grasses around him. As the raging flames close

30 Mizuhara, ed., Shintei Genpei jōsuiki, vol. 6 (1991), 58. 31 See Maki Isaka Morinaga, Secrecy in the Japanese Arts: “Secret Transmission” as a Mode of Knowledge (New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2005), 76. 120 chapter four in on him, Yamato Takeru draws the imperial sword and cuts the grass, successfully stemming the blaze, an exploit memorialized in the name given to the blade, Kusanagi (Grass-Cutter). He then sets the conspirators alight by using a small mirror fragment attached to the sword as a flint stone. These miraculous feats of Yamato Takeru and his sword rehearse the actions of Susano-o. During the early part of his journey, Yamato Takeru has to skip over a serpent that blocks his path, the same serpent slain by Susano-o. The serpent appears in Yamato Takeru’s way again after his encounter with the eastern “barbarians.” The revenant serpent establishes the circularity of the episode, echoing the conflation of the two figures in texts of this period. For example, the Muromachi text Atsuta Daijingū himitsu hyakuroku (One Hundred Secret Records of the Atsuta Grand Shrine) declares that Yamato Takeru was the rebirth of Susano-o. The nō play Gendayū (a performance of which can be traced to 1470), features Yamato Takeru as the main protagonist (shite), who identifies himself as the spirit of Susano-o.32 In the “Hōken setsuwa,” the avaricious serpent, who bedevils both warriors, highlights historical circularity and thematically foregrounds repetition. At the same time, the quest motif common to the journey of each warrior provides linear movement and the potential for these twin strands to reach a point of closure. When the sword, which is held by Yamato Takeru, reaches Atsuta shrine, the paths of the two actors converge, positing the shrine as the long-standing repository of martial virtue. These doublings in plot support the conflation that is central to the “Hōken setsuwa” episode: the association of the imperial sword with the martial virtue of shoguns. After Yamato Takeru has completed his mission, he leaves the sword at Ise shrine, whose chief deity Amaterasu delivers it to Atsuta shrine. This sword bequeathal mirrors a scene earlier in the Heike texts, when an assembly of gods presided over by Amaterasu decrees that the sword of military investiture (settō) should pass from the discredited Taira family to the Minamoto and then to the Fujiwara. Here, however, the sword is not passed on by gods to historical actors such as the Fujiwara, but rather ceded by a god in a symbolic conveyance of power. As Nanami notes, medieval readers would have had no trouble seeing this divestiture as the transfer of military authority between imperial court

32 For more, see Ishii Tomoko, “ ‘Kusanagi’ oboegaki,” in Setsuwa no kai’iki, ed. Kojima Takayuki (Tokyo: Kasama Shoin, 2006), 227–41. converging and diverging sword doubles 121 and Kamakura shogunate.33 The historical Yoritomo in fact had deep ties to the Atsuta shrine through his mother, the daughter of the chief shrine priest.34 The Kamakura shogunate’s patronage of the shrine was generous, a practice the succeeding Ashikaga shogunate followed by appointing its own men to high posts there. At stake in these historical and symbolic understandings of the shrine was not so much the complete ceding or transfer of martial power to the shogunate (as Nanami argues), but rather the concentration of martial virtue at the shrine that is achieved by over- laying the exploits of legendary and historical warriors.35 Put another way, narratives of the imperial sword in the medieval period often concluded with the entrustment of the sword to Atsuta shrine. Enshrined at Atsuta, the sword made tangible an idea that was critical for the legitimacy of the shoguns—the notion that they were part of a timeless office whose origins could be traced to Yamato Takeru. This is an idea found in Muromachi texts such as the Baishōron and Buke hanjō (The Flourishing of Warriors, fourteenth or fifteenth c.) (see chapter 2 and below, respectively). Moreover, the status of Atsuta shrine as the repository of stories of the sword meant that shoguns could journey there in order to enact and affirm their place within this lineage. They could also engage in re-scripting these stories, as in the Ran fujiki (An Account of Viewing Fuji, 1432). This poetic diary, penned by Gyōkō (1391–1455), charts the travel of a shogunal party to Mount Fuji, an excursion undertaken by Ashikaga Yoshinori (1394–1441) to assert his power over his rival Ashikaga Mochiuji (1398–1439), the chief shogunate officer (kubō) at Kamakura. The opening poem, for example, celebrates Yoshinori with the words, “Everyone who bathes / in the glorious sunlight / Will surely recognize / You, my lord, as the god of / The land of the rising sun.”36 This eulogistic tone is carried through when the party stops to pray at Atsuta shrine: [We] stood in the front of the shrine in prayer, and prayed for safety during our journey.

33 See Nanami, “Hōken sōshitsu, mikkyō to shinwa no aida no ōkenron (ge),” 187. 34 For Yoritomo’s deep allegiance to the shrine, see entries in Azuma kagami for the twenty-seventh day of the tenth month of Kenkyū 1 (1190) and the first day of the twelfth month of Kenkyū 4 (1193). 35 See Kubota Osamu, “Chūsei ni okeru Atsutasha no sūkei,” Shintōshi kenkyū 7, no. 6 (1959): 84–86. 36 For a brief summary of this diary and the translation cited above, see Donald Keene, Travelers of a Hundred Ages: The Japanese As Revealed Through 1,000 Years of Diaries (New York: Holt, 1989), 205. 122 chapter four

In the past, Yamato-Takeru-no-mikoto had come to these parts to defeat the eastern barbarians. The magical sword that he received from Yamato- hime-no-mikoto when he took a detour to Ise shrine, they say, is housed here [at Atsuta]. Reflecting on the beneficence of the August God who had vowed to protect the realm [chingo kokka], [we composed these poems].

Protect us With the warmth of your blessing O god of the “warm fields” of Atsuta shrine Helping us depart with ease And travel safely ahead. At the fields of Azuma Since the time when it mowed down the grasses The “Grass-Cutter Sword” has seen many an autumn frost Standing the test of time, our “Blade of Autumn Frost” O, how many reigns has this sword protected? Looking at Mount Hōrai [Ch. Penglai] For my lord A magical potion that gives eternal life May be found here Come let us search In this isle of immortals.37 The conceit in the last poem, that the gates of Atsuta shrine open out to the mythical island of immortal life (said to be located in the distant eastern seas), completes the chain of associations that begins with protection (developed in the first two poems) and eternal time (developed in the last two). Taken together, the poems celebrate the timeless reign of the shogun, not a surprising statement in this poetic diary. Specifically, they frame the historical present of this journey as no different from the time of Yamato Takeru. In the second poem, the shogun who travels to Atsuta in the autumn of 1432 stands in the same frost-laden landscape that Yamato Takeru once saw. Uniting the two figures is the pivot phrase “aki no shimo furite” (literally, “the falling of autumn frost”), a dual reference to the sobriquet for the imperial sword (Blade of Autumn Frost) and the rotation of many autumns. With the pivot, the earlier epithet for the imperial sword (Grass-Cutter or Kusanagi) gives way to a name that evokes the cyclicality of time (aki no shimo); it places Yamato Takeru and

37 Since Keene only translates a section, the translation above is my own, based on the text in Fukuda Hideichi, ed., Chūsei nikki kikōshū, vol. 51 of Shin Nihon koten bungaku taikei (Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten, 1999), 463–64. converging and diverging sword doubles 123 the shogun Yoshinori in an unchanging historical moment. This temporal sweep also facilitates another critical shift: in these poems, the Kusanagi sword is less a symbol of imperial authority than a martial object associated with war-making in defense of the realm, less imperial regalia than shogunal emblem. Like the Ran fujiki, the “Hōken setsuwa” positions the imperial sword as a condensed metaphor for the long-standing office of martial men and the distillation of all these stories into one. The “Hōken setsuwa” is a “para-narative,” a digression from the main plot that contains a microcosmic version of the larger storyline of the Heike. This replication on the level of plot becomes the opening gambit for two distinct rhetorical treatments of the double, each helping situate shoguns as analogues of the imperial sword. First, the surprising conclusion of the story of the duplicate imperial sword, which the Dragon King claims is the “original” sword, undoes a hierarchical vision in which the “duplicate” sword is an impoverished version of the original; instead, the binary distinction between original and duplicate is shown to be unten- able. Understood in terms of its political vision, this aspect of the “Hōken setsuwa” imagines two coexistent swords (original and duplicate) and two political worlds (court and shogunate) that are held in balance, with neither superior to the other. Second, the presence of multiple sword replicas at Atsuta shrine steers the political argument in a different direction. Since only the chief priest of Atsuta (often appointed by shoguns) possesses knowledge about the “original sword,” martial authority is concen- trated in the hands of shoguns, who become the keepers of the imperial sword and all its stories. These shoguns bring all those accounts under one roof, where they mingle such that it becomes difficult to tell one sword or one historical figure from another. What remains is a seamless story that one might call the recursive history of shogunal exploits; each is distinct and yet a repetition of the one before, singular and double, like the swords at Atsuta shrine.

Proleptic Visions of New Swords in the Genpei jōsuiki

As noted thus far, the articulation of the shogun’s place required different sorts of metaphorical negotiations with the lost imperial sword they were meant to replace. In Jien’s vision, Minamoto shoguns become part of a well-ordered world in which an infinite chain of substitutes construct a “lower” world of visible swords, whose tangible presence becomes proof of the “higher” cosmic world to which they refer. If Jien’s vision subordinates 124 chapter four the shoguns to the totality of court polity (and cosmic unity), the “Hōken setsuwa” episode in the Heike then imagines the shogun as the double of the imperial sword, creating two entities that express difference as much as equivalence. In this political vision, the court and shogunate are coexistent entities, with neither superior to the other. This play of doubles allows for a world held in comfortable balance that tips only at Atsuta shrine, whose status as keeper of multiple indistinguishable swords speaks to its ability to bring multiple accounts of power together. In turn, this knowledge is rendered all the more significant because it is concealed. The sword doubles in the “Hōken setsuwa” speak to the larger question of the importance of the year 1185 in the Heike texts. With the conclusion of the Genpei War, did the court cede martial authority to the shoguns? Or did the shoguns subordinate themselves to court polity as its trusted lieutenants? Employing the rhetoric of doubles, the “Hōken setsuwa” neither presents Minamoto shoguns as “substitutes” for an irreplaceable original nor as a new kind of sword that can displace the imperial sword. Instead, Minamoto shoguns occupy the same hallowed space in the Atsuta shrine as the imperial sword, becoming another crystallization of martial virtue, like it but also different. The “Hōken setsuwa” also negates historical time through its circularity, collapsing distinctions between various swords and actors, and presenting a picture of a world that always was and always will be selfsame. The gravity of the loss of the imperial sword requires this circularity in which historical rupture is stridently denied. The link between the Minamoto shoguns and the imperial sword existed alongside another critical association that was being forged in the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries: the knowledge of a sword’s provenance as the mark of a warrior. Stories of the origin of swords and their chain of bequeathal circulated widely and established a formal similarity between storytelling about sword origin and family origin, sword history and family history.38 Warriors could invoke their claim to headship of a particular lineage by demonstrating their knowledge of sword stories, rhetorical gestures that accorded them cultural cachet as interpreters of the histories inherent in the swords.39 Through such sword narratives, warriors could

38 Suzuki Akira argues that the proliferation of catalogs listing sword bequeathals and lineages of sword smiths reflects a broad social interest among warriors of the late Heian through Muromachi periods in sword stories as family stories. This social trend is made tangible in war tales, where sword bequeathal is frequently a mark of patrimony. See Suzuki, Heike monogatari no tenkai to chūsei shakai (Tokyo: Kyūko Shoin, 2006), 470. 39 Ibid., 463–70. converging and diverging sword doubles 125 attest to a historical past (often family lineage). But as the story discussed below shows, warriors could also articulate a new historical direction for the future through their privileged knowledge of sword accounts. In this anecdote found only in the Genpei jōsuiki, the correct interpretation of a sword’s story leads to a dramatic vision of the future in which the imperial sword is not substituted by warrior power, but permanently displaced by it, a historical turn only a warrior can foresee. In the tale, a curious incident is reported at the imperial palace in the year 1155. A masurao (warrior/stalwart man) is glimpsed near the stairs leading up to the Courtiers Hall (Tenjō no ma). The top aristocrat of the time, Nobuyori, shouts, “Who is that? That is an offense.”40 In that instant, the warrior disappears, leaving a sword in his place. Nobuyori picks it up, believing it to be one of the treasured swords stored in the palace. He swings the sword at a rock to test its miraculous nature, but it becomes horribly misshapen. Disappointed, he tosses the sword away near the Unmeiden (also known as Naishidokoro or Hall of the Sacred Mirror). At this point, the warrior Minamoto Yorimasa (1104–1180) strolls by. When the sword is brought to Yorimasa for him to examine, it miraculously returns to its original shape and slips into its sheath, highlighting its magicality. Yorimasa explains to Nobuyori that this blade was a sacred sword entrusted with the task of protecting the royal family. He adds that he had a dream revelation in which the divinity said to him: I earlier presented a sword to the imperial palace to protect the country. That is the imperial sword [and it is still there]. When the moment of national doom has come [bōkoku no toki], this [new] sword will act as imperial sword. I offer this reserve sword [gonken] to the imperial palace in case something should happen (to the imperial sword).41 When Nobuyori asks for proof, Yorimasa respectfully unsheathes the sword and swings it at a rock, splintering it into pieces. It is notable that the sword is most potent when it is sheathed or enigmatically shrouded in the secrets of dream revelations. Without the apparatus of secrecy or the taboo of touch to make it magical, it would be an ordinary sword. Like the sheathed sword, Yorimasa’s careful and reverential disclosure of an enigma makes his pronouncement all the more meaningful.

40 Mizuhara, ed., Shintei Genpei jōsuiki, vol. 2 (1988), 290. 41 Ibid., 291. 126 chapter four

At the beginning of the anecdote, Nobuyori suspects that someone may be menacing the Courtier’s Hall and his anxiety echoes the aristocracy’s loss of standing as recounted in the early books of Genpei jōsuiki. This worry is quickly magnified into a suspicion of the theft of the imperial sword, which falls before him, dislodged by a warrior from its secure location next to the emperor’s sleeping quarters. As the episode progresses, Nobuyori’s fears are contrasted with the certainty felt by Yorimasa, whose dream revelation assures him that there is no threat to the imperial sword, only its foreordained replacement by a new sword at “the time of ruin,” a temporal marker for the decline of imperial power. New historical directions, as well as new forms of military power, are generated in this scene, symbolically realized through the conflation of the warrior’s facility with the sword with the image of warrior as sword. Perhaps the most interesting part of this passage is the fact that it looks ahead to the significance of the year 1185. The anecdote ends with the observation: On the twenty-fourth day of the third month of the second year of Genryaku [1185], after the imperial sword of the regalia sank to the bottom of the sea, this sword became the imperial sword. It was only then that he came to the august realization [oboshimesarekeru] that Yorimasa was no ordinary man.42 As readers of the time would have known, the year 1185 is a reference to the emergence of Yoritomo. In the Japanese text, the subject of the second sentence is missing. The honorific verb used, “oboshimesarekeru,” can be translated as “came to the august opinion that,” suggesting that the subject is most likely an august personage such as an emperor, a retired emperor, or queen consort. Since the series of anecdotes containing this story are about how Yorimasa impresses emperors and retired emperors, it is very likely that the subject of the sentence is the retired emperor in 1185, Go-Shirakawa. Yet, Go-Shirakawa has no part to play in the anecdote per se. His entry into the episode is sudden and unseen; neither annotated edition of the Genpei jōsuiki notes his presence. But through the oblique use of the honorific verb, the episode ends with a remarkable realization on Go-Shirakawa’s part that warrior power was here to stay.43 This dream

42 Ibid. 43 It is therefore no coincidence that the one who fails to appreciate the value of the sword is Fujiwara Nobuyori, who is mentioned prominently in the preface to the Heike texts as someone who brought about the destruction of the country. In the earlier Heiji converging and diverging sword doubles 127 revelation comes true later in the Genpei jōsuiki. After 1185, Go-Shirakawa reluctantly concedes to Yoritomo’s request for the establishment of shugo and jitō posts, awed by the power Yoritomo holds.44 The Genpei jōsuiki collapses Nobuyori’s binary—one premised on difference (a lowly warrior sullying the sacrality of the imperial sword)— into a vision in which the two terms are fused. What is foreshadowed is the consolidation of military power in the hands of Minamoto Yoritomo following 1185. Beyond its tropological formulation of historical change, the anecdote also highlights the knowledge of swords as the defining characteristic of men from warrior families such as Yorimasa. The hapless Nobuyori does not recognize the worth of the sword, and this misidentifi- cation fails to activate its power. Yorimasa, an exemplary warrior famous for shooting down the elusive nue (a monster bird that is equal parts bad- ger, bird, and snake), proves his mettle here by showing prowess with the sword even as he claims the ability to appraise swords as the domain of warrior families. As Suzuki Akira notes, this anecdote exemplifies the importance of swords within warrior society in the fourteenth century. This is not simply because swords were prestige objects to warriors, but because knowing about swords and relating their stories was linked to creating warrior history.45

The “Tsurugi no maki”: Bloodline and the Fashioning of Shogunal Genealogy

Many variant texts of the Heike include a much longer version of the imperial sword narrative that comprises a history of two Minamoto swords. This narrative cycle, which I refer to as “Tsurugi no maki,” appears in some variants after the loss of the imperial sword at Dannoura where one might find the “Hōken setsuwa.” In others, it is fashioned into an appendix to the main text.46 In addition to the account of the imperial sword found in

Rebellion of 1159–1160, it was Nobuyori who imprisoned Go-Shirakawa. In this scene, Nobuyori represents past threats to imperial law, while the shadowy presence of Yoritomo points to a promising future marked by peace. 44 Mizuhara, ed., Shintei Genpei jōsuiki, vol. 6 (1991), 152–54. 45 Suzuki, Heike monogatari no tenkai to chūsei shakai, 521. 46 Here I use the Yashirobon variant, because it is the earliest variant and it dates to the Nanbokuchō period. The variant texts of the “Tsurugi no maki” may be classified as follows: 1. the 107th and 108th ku (section) of the Hyakunijūkkubon; 2. the Yashirobon nukigaki, mentioned above, which is an excerpt-style text appended to the end of the Yashirobon; 128 chapter four the “Hōken setsuwa,” it includes a genealogical history of the Minamoto family told through the handing down of its two heirloom swords. In terms of rhetorical structure, the two halves of the “Tsurugi no maki” exert different pulls. While the half that pertains to the imperial sword ends with loss, that regarding the Minamoto ends with successful recovery in the hands of Yoritomo. Although the imperial sword only ever has one name, suggesting a world in stasis, the Minamoto swords undergo several renamings. This reflects the overall thematic of the “Tsurugi no maki,” which is about renewal and regeneration, and continuity that exists after dramatic change. The serial placement of the two sword histories, one imperial and the other shogunal, highlights the tropological impulse considered thus far: to create analogical correspondence between the Minamoto shoguns and the lost imperial sword. Taken together, these two narratives in the “Tsurugi no maki” form a Möbius strip, their entangled diegetic worlds admitting no “higher level” of telling. Because the two strands of narration never merge, the “Tsurugi no maki” creates twin origin stories for martial authority, each separate but manifestations of the same. The subject matter of the narrative—duality—is also reflected in its strategy of composition, which is a story of two Minamoto swords. At the outset, we are intro- duced to Tada no Mitsunaka (913–997), the grandson of Emperor Seiwa (850–880), who is demoted from his princely status, given the surname Minamoto, and entrusted with the duty of policing the imperial realm.47 The opening of the story with Mitsunaka is significant because he is the founder of what would retrospectively come to be known as the “martial lineage” of the Minamoto. On the assumption of his charge, Mitsunaka says, “How is a man appointed to protect the realm to do his work without a good sword?” and orders the forging of a sword:

3. the Tanakabon copy, a stand-alone two-volume text, so named because it was in the collection of Tanaka Saburō; 4. the Chōrokubon copy, so named because its colophon says that it was copied in the year Chōroku 4 (1460); and 5. the various versions of the “Tsurugi no maki” printed in the hanpon (woodblock-printed texts) of the seventeenth century to which the appendices to the Genpei jōsuiki and Taiheiki texts belong. See Matsuo Ashie, “Heike monogatari ‘Tsurugi no maki’ kaisetsu,” in vol. 4 of Heike monogatari, vol. 45 of Kan’yaku Nihon no Koten, ed. Ichiko Teiji (Tokyo: Shōgakukan, 1987), 406–8. 47 For a discussion of how the royal family demoted its sons from princely to commoner status, and the implications of this practice, see Oboroya Hisashi, Seiwa Genji (Tokyo: Kyōikusha, 1984), 21–27. converging and diverging sword doubles 129

Mitsunaka gathered iron and summoned smiths to make him a sword, but none of the blades were to his liking. As he wondered what he should do, someone came forward and said, “I hear that there is an iron mason from foreign lands who has been living for several years in Tsuchiyama in the Mikasa district of Chikuzen province. Perhaps we should summon him.” They brought this mason to the capital and made him fashion many swords, but, again, not one was to Mitsunaka’s liking. It looked as if the mason would have to go back without accomplishing his task. The smith thought to himself, “If I were to go home without having proven my worth after having traveled all this way to the capital, I would lose my reputation as a mason. But this is why there is prayer, because from the ancient past to now requests made to the gods and the kami are always granted.” He went to Hachiman and wrote a formal entreaty [ganjo]: “Oh Bodhisattva Hachiman, I pray to you to grant me the ability to make a superior sword. If this wish is granted, I will become your servant.” On the seventh night of his prayers, he had a dream revelation in which he clearly heard the Bodhisattva say to him, “What you are describing is sad. Leave quickly, and make the sword by tempering the iron for sixty days. I will give you two superior swords.” The mason was delighted and left the shrine quickly. He heated up high-quality metal, and tempered and forged it over sixty days. And, indeed, he made two first-rate swords. Pleased, Mitsunaka took the swords to mete out punishment to criminals. One of the swords cut off the criminal’s beard [along with his head] and was named Higekiri [Beard-Cutter]. The other cut off the knees and was named Hizamaru [Knee-Cutter]. As Mitsunaka policed the realm with these two swords, there was not a leaf of grass that did not bend to him.48 Stories about swords and legendary sword smiths were widely circulated in medieval Japan via tōkensho (sword books), and the above passage reflects that preoccupation with the origins of swords. The account of the sword’s genesis also emphasizes the role of Bodhisattva Hachiman as the protector deity of the Minamoto, an idea that is echoed throughout the “Tsurugi no maki.” More pertinently, the forging done by sword smiths appears here as a tangible representation of the (metaphorical) act of fusing. Assisted by the Bodhisattva, the sword smith fashions not one but two swords, an outcome in excess of the charge to produce just a single sword. This figuratively marks the second sword as both one with and distinct from the first, an image that parallels the dualistic

48 Asahara Yoshiko, Haruta Akira, and Matsuo Ashie, eds., Yashirobon Takanobon taishō Heike monogatari, vol. 3 (Tokyo: Shintensha, 1990), 516–17. 130 chapter four structure of the “Tsurugi no maki.” The “one-yet-two” swords also foreshadow duplicity and division in the Minamoto family, even as the passing down of the heirlooms through successive generations charts the ultimate unity of the kin group.49 The telos of the journey of the two swords is the subordination of difference to identity, both of the ultimate oneness of the Minamoto lineage despite several instances of fratricide, as well as the identity of the two halves of the “Tsurugi no maki” (the imperial sword narrative and the Minamoto sword narrative). The discord of bloodshed, which was fairly common in the historical Minamoto family, is overwritten with the regu- larity of bloodline, recasting that is contextualized through two fairly long digressions early in the account. Minamoto Mitsunaka hands down the two swords, Higekiri and Hizamaru, to his son Minamoto Yorimitsu (Raikō, 948–1021), who soon puts Higekiri to test against a demon. When Tsuna, one of Yorimitsu’s four trusted lieutenants (shitennō), attempts to kill this demon, he obtains only a severed arm. On the advice of the fabled yin-yang specialist, Abe no Seimei, Tsuna goes into seclusion to read the Ninnōkyō (Sutra of Benevolent Kings), which was particularly effective in the protection of the realm. As Abe no Seimei predicts, the demon returns to retrieve its arm. Disguised as Tsuna’s adoptive mother, the demon interrupts Tsuna’s prayer, and begs to be allowed to see “what a demon’s arm looks like.” When Tsuna reluctantly brings out the arm, the demon reveals itself, and flies off with the arm, “breaking through the roof gable.” The Watanabe league subsequently “stops using gables, and switches to the azumazukuri style.”50 This seemingly trivial detail, the charting of the architectural shift from the irimoya or kirizuma gabled roof style (characterized by two long slopes and two gables) to the azumazukuri hipped roof style (with no gables), serves as a reminder that what we are reading is a eulogistic origin account of the Watanabe league.51 Warriors of this league—a collateral line of the Minamoto—were on the front lines in protecting the imperial city (and the emperor) from human and supernatural intruders because they held

49 For an insightful discussion of how the transmission of swords in the “Tsurugi no maki” emphasizes continuity, inheritance, and patrimony, both in the Minamoto family and within the guild of Heike biwa reciters who are the keeper of these stories, see Oyler, Swords, Oaths, and Prophetic Visions, 120–32. 50 Asahara, Haruta, and Matsuo, eds., Yashirobon Takanobon taishō Heike monogatari, 523. 51 Komatsu Kazuhiko, Abe no seimei: “Yami” no denshō (Tokyo: Ōtō Shobō, 2000), 78–80. converging and diverging sword doubles 131 the hereditary post of takiguchi (imperial bodyguards).52 In this anecdote, the vector of genealogical continuity (in architectural style) illustrates the triumph of form (architecture) over formlessness (monster), and filiation over severance. If the first anecdote metatextually links the continuity of architectural style to the emplotment of kinship and descent in the “Tsurugi no maki,” the very next account underscores the other significant plotting device, that of the marking of bloodline. Yorimitsu is resting from a fever one night when he sees the silhouette of a man who wants to strangle him. Seizing the sword Hizamaru, Yorimitsu tries to cut him down, but the figure vanishes. He and his retainers then follow a trail of blood all the way to the Kitano shrine, where they find and destroy a giant earth spider (tsuchigumo).53 Yorimitsu was a popular “action hero” in the narratives of the fourteenth century, valorized under the Ashikaga shoguns as a brave Minamoto warrior. He and his retainers are featured in many stories of demon-quelling in a narrative cycle called the “Shuten dōji setsuwa,” rendi- tions of which can be found in the Ōeyama ekotoba (The Illustrated Tale of Mount Ōe, fourteenth c.), in the nō plays Tsuchigumo and Rashōmon, and in the otogizōshi titled Rashōmon and Tsuna emaki.54 Part emblematic of these attempts to create house history by memorializing Minamoto

52 Warriors of the Watanabe league, a group linked by kinship and regional ties (real and constructed), were famous for their armed might and traced their descent from this Watanabe Tsuna. Members of this group joined forces with Yorimasa in the Hōgen Rebel- lion and Minamoto Yoshitsune in the Genpei War. Mongaku, the indomitable monk discussed in Chapter 2, was also related to the Watanabe league. 53 When it first appears in texts like the Kojiki and Nihon shoki, the term “tsuchigumo” is used to describe a class of belligerent people who lived in caves or pits, their short bodies and long limbs akin to a earth-dwelling spider. The bestial caricature of the enemy evokes, in these early myths, a chaotic and lawless environment over which the Yamato court is easily able to assert both its military and civilizational supremacy. In the “Tsurugi no maki,” the malevolence that a sword can unleash is displaced by literalizing this unruli- ness, by creating a mammoth spider who must be quelled. 54 The “Shuten dōji” narrative has generated a wide range of interpretations. In addition to its celebration of the Minamoto family, the legend is said to resuscitate the imperial line of Emperor Yōzei (ancestor of Yorimitsu) whose family had fallen from prominence over time. Some like Takahashi Masaaki, in Shuten dōji no tanjō, have connected Shuten dōji to the spread of small pox (the antagonist featured in these stories was originally associated with small pox) and the efforts of the court to contain this epidemic. In English language scholarship, Irene Lin argues that the shuten dōji (“wine-guzzling child”) narrative re-signifies royal authority through the doubleness of the “monster-child,” since he is the marginal figure over whom the center triumphs and also a “pluripotential child” whose vitality can revivify the center. See Lin, “The Ideology of Imagination: The Tale of Shuten Dōji as a Kenmon Discourse,” in Buddhist Priests, Kings, and Marginals: Studies on Medieval Japanese Buddhism, Special Issue, Cahiers d’Extrême-Asie 13 (2002): 390. 132 chapter four swords and men, the earth-spider anecdote also brings together blood, (plot) lines, and violence in an indirect way. The bloody trail that Yorimitsu follows to the earth spider is a metatextual gesture; it becomes a reference to the plot lines within which the blood (of violence) is given linear shape as bloodline. After these digressions, themselves suggestive of the difficulty in producing unified stories and lineage, the narrative commences its account of the handing down of the swords. The swords are handed down within his family several times. This patrilineal descent of the sword is only broken when, by imperial order, the sword is transferred to Minamoto Yoriyoshi of the Kawachi Genji sub-branch. Yoriyoshi easily wins the Former Nine Years War with the swords and garners accolades for his family, earning them the reputation as a talented fighting lineage. He then passes the sword onto his son Yoshiie, who builds on his father’s record to triumph in the Latter Three Years War (1083–1087). In the retrospective glance of the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries, Yoshiie was the illustrious progenitor of the Minamoto. The transfer of the sword to Yoshiie secures the legitimacy of the fourteenth-century Ashikaga shoguns, who can claim descent as long as their lineage is traced back to Yoshiie, and not to the more proximal shogun Yoritomo. Unities of family, always fragile (and only retrospectively construable) are tested when the narrative reaches the twelfth-century Hōgen and Heiji Rebellions, conflicts that pitted Minamoto men against each other. Minamoto Tameyoshi (1096–1156) receives two swords from Yoshiie, but breaks with precedent by giving the Hizamaru sword (by now named Hoemaru) to his son-in-law, the bettō (superintendent) of Kumano who offers it up to the deity of the shrine. He also has a replica made (Kogarasu) to ensure that his remaining sword is paired. One day, however, as the two swords are left alone, Higekiri (now called Shishi no ko) cuts off a length of its companion sword Kogarasu. With this, Shishi no ko is renamed Tomokiri (Companion-Slasher), an allusion to Tameyoshi, who imprisons his uncle during the Hōgen Rebellion. This sudden violent turn is mirrored by further bloodshed in the family: Yoshitomo, Tameyoshi’s son, who inherits the two swords, kills his own father in the Hōgen Rebellion. At this juncture, the Bodhisattva Hachiman speaks to Yoshitomo in a dream. He asks him to return the sword to its original name Higekiri, and thereby restore cohesion to the fraying family. The constant changing of the names of the swords introduces uncertainty in the metonymic chain in which each possessor of the sword represents (and constructs) the whole of the family. Hachiman’s intervention is thus directed precisely at converging and diverging sword doubles 133 this threat of metonymic rupture—that the part can be detached from the whole, or specifically, that the heir might not represent the family. As the patron deity of the Minamoto family, Hachiman’s involvement sanctifies the chain of transmission as a reflection of family unity. From Yoshitomo, the Higekiri sword travels to the last protagonist of the “Tsurugi no maki,” Minamoto Yoritomo. A fugitive at the age of fourteen because of his father’s involvement in the Heiji Rebellion, Yoritomo entrusts the sword to the custody of his mother’s father, the chief priest at Atsuta shrine. Two decades later, when Yoritomo enters the Genpei War, he receives Higekiri back from Atsuta shrine, and thus “is able to subdue the five regions and seven roads of Japan.”55 The other sword (Hizamaru), which was in safekeeping at Kumano shrine, is given to Yoritomo’s brother, Yoshitsune, who returns it to the shrine at the end of the war. The Soga brothers, who attempt to kill Yoritomo to settle a family feud, use Hizamaru one more time. In the end, both swords are returned to their old names and given to Yoritomo, who by bringing the swords together symbolically puts a rest to the fratricide.56 The forward-leaning motion of the narrative resists the containment with Yoritomo and suggestively leaves open future additions to this genealogy. This is precisely what another variant of the “Tsurugi no maki,” the Chōrokubon, does. It extends the genealogy even further to Ashikaga men, noting that Hizamaru was handed down to the Ashikaga family. The future-facing rhetorical structure of the “Tsurugi no maki” was particularly attractive to Ashikaga partisans as they sought to legitimate the fourteenth-century political present through recourse to their “past” as Minamoto descendants. The Minamoto sword narrative, organized as a linear progression of events that reach a deferred end, is distinct from the imperial sword narrative, which is structured as the circular movement of historical figures through time, except for one instance of diegetic interpolation. These two accounts that have been held apart, thematically tracing dual origins for martial prowess, reach this surprising convergence in a scene that uses prolepsis to foretell the unity of historical vectors. Toward the end of the imperial sword section, Yamato Takeru grows weary and falls ill after his successful conquests of barbarian peoples with the imperial sword. Upon his death, he takes the form of a white bird and begins to fly:

55 Asahara, Haruta, and Matsuo, eds., Yashirobon Takanobon taishō Heike monogatari, 532. 56 See Oyler, Swords, Oaths, and Prophetic Visions, 122–27. 134 chapter four

When he was flying in the form of a white bird, he looked like two white banners ten feet in length; and the place where he came to rest in the province of Owari thus came to be called “White Bird Mound”. . . . It is perhaps because Yoritomo was destined to become the great latter-day Minamoto general that he was born in this place.57 This recursive linking of Yoritomo and Yamato Takeru is found only in Nanbokuchō-period texts like the “Tsurugi no maki” and the Buke hanjō.58 This passage is important, first, because it associates the death of Yamato Takeru with the birth of Yoritomo, a stop and a start that thematize continuity despite historical disjuncture. The white banners in this passage, associated in the medieval period with the Minamoto clan’s patron deity Bodhisattva Hachiman, make Yoritomo’s claim to the headship of this clan sacrosanct. At the same time, the unique focus on Yoritomo’s birth (rarely discussed elsewhere) naturalizes another genitive connection, that of a historical genealogy of shoguns. The proleptic suture between the two sword narratives thus suggests martial origins (associated with Yamato Takeru) that culminate with Yoritomo as the “latter-day” shogun. The two martial histories of the imperial and Minamoto swords may seem separate as they unfold in historical time and diegetic time. However, they are synthesized through the figure of Yoritomo, whose birth and martial power are anticipated in the legendary past. Looking ahead to Yoritomo’s martial hegemony, the “Tsurugi no maki” also re-engineers the location of Yamato Takeru’s battle with the barbarians by setting it at the foothills of Mount Fuji in the province of Suruga.59

57 Asahara, Haruta, and Matsuo, eds., Yashirobon Takanobon taishō Heike monogatari, 543. Matsuo notes that this place corresponds to the compound of Atsuta shrine. Several scholars have noted that the “Tsurugi no maki” is closely connected to texts emerging from the Atsuta shrine. See Itō Masayoshi, “Atsuta no shinpi: chūsei Nihongi shichū,” Jinbun kenkyū 31, no. 9 (1979) and Matsuo Ashie, “ ‘ Tsurugi no maki’ no imi suru mono,” Nihon koten bungakkai kaihō 112 (1987). 58 The Buke hanjō outlines the history of buke (warriors) from the Yellow Sovereign of China to Minamoto Yoritomo. The authorship of this short text, written mostly in kana, is unknown. It is dated roughly to the Muromachi period because of its thematic similarity to the Soga monogatari. See Nihon Koten Bungaku Daijiten Henshū Iinkai, ed., Nihon koten bungaku daijiten, vol. 5 (1984), 248. Although it is likely that the “Tsurugi no maki” developed earlier during the Nanbokuchō period, the Buke hanjō is considered to be a product of a similar discursive environment. For the text, see Yokoyama Shigeru and Matsumoto Ryūshin, eds., Muromachi jidai monogatari taisei, vol. 11 (Tokyo: Kadokawa Shoten, 1983), 397–405. 59 In many other medieval texts, the location of this battle is simply noted as the province of Suruga, and when it is specifically named, the place is referred to as Ukishimagahara. For this insight about the deliberate choice of the foothills of Mount Fuji, see Nakajima Miyoko, converging and diverging sword doubles 135

The emphasis on this specific location—the grassy plains at the foot of Mount Fuji—in the “Tsurugi no maki” is significant. Yoritomo holds a famous hunt here, a political pageant of sorts, during which thousands of warriors from the eastern provinces vie against each other to gain his recognition. During the hunt, there is an attack on Yoritomo and on one of his men. Yoritomo not only suppresses this attack easily, but he also adjudicates on the family vendetta that gave rise to the conflict in the first place. In many medieval narratives, the plains of Mount Fuji are thus associated with the moment that eastern warriors accepted Yoritomo as their overlord in military and judicial matters. By linking together Yamato Takeru and Minamoto Yoritomo in this way, the “Tsurugi no maki” suggests not only that the future was anticipated in the past, but also that Minamoto martial might, conventionally rendered legible through the pattern of family genealogy, is also found in shogunal genealogies that begin with Yamato Takeru, a hero whose name was synonymous with the spread of imperial hegemony in the early myths, but who was being reimagined as the first shogun in the medieval world.60

Conclusion

This chapter has traced how the imperial sword, conventionally understood as being replaced by the Minamoto shoguns in the Heike texts, is also displaced in a multitude of ways: it is moved to new locations, rendered less central by the plurality of swords that emerge after its loss, and located in new accounts of power. Impelled by a historical crisis—the loss of the imperial sword and coeval appearance of shoguns—thinkers like Jien metaphorically reinstated the imperial sword as the symbol of imperial martial legitimacy, reifying it as the central sword around which other swords could be organized. This neat symbolic structure, in which shoguns only exercised

‘ “Buke hanjō’ no shōgun: Nihon Takeru no mikoto kara Minamoto Yoritomo e,” in Heike monogatari no tenshō to saisei, ed. Komine Kazuaki (Tokyo: Kasama Shoin, 2003), 227. 60 See Isomae Jun’inchi’s article for an extensive analysis of the transmutations of the Yamato Takeru legend through the Nara, Heian, and Kamakura periods. He argues that Yamato Takeru’s role as the expander of court’s territory became less relevant to medieval ideologues as his story was rewritten at sites such as Ise and Atsuta shrines, where he was featured, instead, in stories idealizing Yamato-hime. Isomae does not note, as I do here, the re-focalization of Yamato Takeru as a proto-shogun. See Isomae, “Myth in Meta- morphosis: Ancient and Medieval Versions of the Yamatotakeru Legend,” Monumenta Nip- ponica 54, no. 3 (1999): 361–85. 136 chapter four the martial authority conferred on them by “delegation,” was re-worked in the Heike texts with the figural use of sword doubles. The equivalent sword pairs project a “one-yet-two” vision of the political world that is undeniably duo-local even as it appears unified. The Heike texts, though distinct in the way they resignify the imperial sword to situate the rise of shoguns, are intertextually linked to a larger body of texts called chūsei Nihongi (medieval Nihongi). In this corpus of texts, ancient myths were being vigorously reinterpreted to yield allegori- cal readings for the legitimation of imperial authority. Scholars see these writings as a response to the “crisis of consciousness” in a world where political authority was being dispersed within the kenmon taisei system and further still to new political contenders like warriors.61 The focus on regalia in the chūsei Nihongi texts reflects that preoccupation with re-envisioning and revivifying kingship, an interpretive move that the Heike texts utilize for their own purposes. Like the “Tsurugi no maki,” a text secretly transmitted among Heike reciters, many of these chūsei Nihongi commentaries were considered enigmatic and were carefully guarded. Their esoteric nature highlights the discursive capacity of secrecy to mystify and electrically charge the banal. Hiden, as “secret transmission” is called in Japanese, thus brings together “secrecy” (hi) and “transmission” (den), yoking together the secret with its tightly controlled revelation and suggesting that maintenance of the enigma is fundamentally linked to its telling, however limited.62 This promise of a secret—that it will provide profound information as long as the matter is concealed—is what gives depth, mystery, and sacrality to the imperial regalia in medieval stories. Secrecy in the Heike narratives discussed here is, on the simplest level, a continuation of this esotericism of sword stories in the chūsei Nihongi. At the same time, the concern with cryptic transmission (such as in the relaying of Atsuta shrine teachings) is not just about concealment as a strategy to revivify what is hidden. Instead, the “rich mulch of secrets” that buries the story, as Michael Taussig suggests, is all the more necessary in the particular case of public secrets, giving what is routinized “the spectral radiance of the unsaid.”63

61 See Iyanaga, “Tantrism and Reactionary Ideologies in Eastern Asia,” 26–27. 62 Morinaga, Secrecy in the Japanese Arts, 27. 63 Michael Taussig, Defacement: Public Secrecy and the Labor of the Negative, The Ray- mond Fred West Memorial Lectures (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1999), 6, 182. converging and diverging sword doubles 137

Atsuta shrine may have been guarding what was generally known (but withheld from telling) about the true locus of martial authority.64 In emphasizing the scaffolding of secret discourses and rituals that held up emperorship and its symbols, this chapter echoes what one scholar has called the “chimera of regalia,” the increasing reliance of regalia on the stories told about it without which they would lack magicality.65 Although stories of the political symbolism of regalia date back to the early myths of the Kojiki and the Nihon shoki, several scholars have observed that the particular concern with the transmission of the originals speaks to the historical moment of the late Heian to Muromachi periods. During these eras, the authenticating of the regalia provided much-needed reassurance that imperial authority had been transmitted to the present.66 The “chimera of regalia” artfully concealed two well-known facts: one, that several “gates of power” (kenmon) existed in the medieval period, and two, that the regalia were mere objects, prone to loss and breakage, and duplicable. A fire in 1040, for example, shattered the imperial mirror into tiny bits, sun- dering the symbolic restoration of the mirror just a century earlier when it was discovered that there was not one, but three mirrors with claims to that sacred title.67 The symbolism of the imperial sword, particularly in the splintered political landscape of the Nanbokuchō era, seemed just as fragile. Two courts ruled over Japan during this time. Each declared that they possessed the necessary regalia and legitimate authority; this generated vociferous arguments about originals and replicas, true and

64 For an insightful study of the function of secret commentaries in medieval Japan, see Susan Blakeley Klein, Allegories of Desire: The Esoteric Literary Commentaries of Medieval Japan, Harvard-Yenching Institute Monograph Series (Cambridge: Harvard University Asia Center, 2002). 65 Tateishi Kazuhiro, “Tachi o nuku toki: tsurugi no bunkashi, danshō,” in Kōshō suru kotoba: (sōsho) sōzō suru Heian bungaku, ed. Kawazoe Fusae (Tokyo: Bensei Shuppan, 1999), 282. 66 See, for example, Abe Yasurō, “Hōju to ōken: chūsei ōken to mikkyō girei,” in Nihon shisō 2, Iwanami kōza tōyō shisō, ed. Yamaori Tetsuo and Yuasa Yasuo (Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten, 1989), 135. Abe sees the increasing relevance of the regalia during the era that imperial succession alternated between the Daikakuji and Jimyōin lines. Uchida Yasushi also suggests that the Nanbokuchō period generated the most searching questions about whether the extant regalia were originals or duplicates. See Uchida, “Heike monogatari ‘Hōken setsuwa’ kō: Sujinchō kaichū kiji no imizuke o megutte,” Setsuwa bungaku kenkyū 30, no. 6 (1995): 93. Brian D. Ruppert shows that there was parallel interest in Buddhist relics as regalia because of these political instabilities; see Ruppert, Jewel in the Ashes, 191. 67 For an insightful analysis of the spiritual discourses that “restored” the sacred mirror after it burned and splintered countless times, see Saitō Hideki, “Heian dairi no Amaterasu: naishi dokoro shinkyō o meguru denshō to gensetsu,” in Monogatari “otoko” to “onna,” ed. Monogatari kenkyūkai, special issue, Shin monogatari kenkyū 3 (1995), 260–82. 138 chapter four untrue accounts of power. They too were fighting over a chimera, for as the battle of Dannoura showed, the sword was easily dislodged and lost. The farcical assertion that an original sword still existed was artfully exposed a century later, in 1443, when a group of thieves (political partisans) broke into the palace during a fire and stole the regalia. They quickly discarded the imperial sword at Kiyomizu temple, most likely because it was valued less in this period compared to the other two sacred objects, but also because it highlighted the “faked” legitimacy of Emperor Go-Hanazono (1419–1470), an emperor who sacrality was guaranteed, as their action suggested, by replicas.68 The Genpei jōsuiki and the “Tsurugi no maki,” reflect the preoccupation of the slightly earlier Nanbokuchō period, when the distinction between original/replica and real/pretender was the rhetorical axis around which politics was argued. Writers affiliated with the Southern court of Emperor Go-Daigo, insisted that they possessed the original sword.69 Countering this, writers of the Northern court, such as the Nijō Yoshimoto (1320– 1388) in the Eiwa daijōeki (Record of the Daijōe Ceremony of 1375), side- stepped their own sovereign’s lack of the sword. Instead, they suggested that Minamoto Yoritomo had replaced the imperial sword, legitimating both the Northern court and the Ashikaga shogun who backed it.70 Other

68 Tateishi, “Tachi o nuku toki,” 280–81. 69 For example, Kitabatake Chikafusa says in the Jinnō shōtōki (Chronicle of the Direct Descent of Gods and Sovereigns, 1339, revised 1343), a study of the legitimacy of the sovereign’s rule, that “One hears that those not so informed believe that the mirror met destruction in either Tentoku or Chōkyū eras of the ancient age and the Kusanagi sword was lost in the sea at Dannoura. This is absolutely untrue.” For this translation, see H. Paul Varley, trans., A Chronicle of Gods and Sovereigns: Jinnō Shōtōki of Kitabatake Chikafusa (New York: Columbia University Press, 1980), 217–18. Texts such as the Korenshū (Sacred Vessel Collection, 1336), compiled at Ise shrine, echo these assertions about the safekeeping of the original and the loss of the replica, when it says, “The newly made imperial sword sank to the [bottom of the] sea during the reign of Antoku and was never seen again.” See Jingūshi-chō, ed., Watarai Shintō taisei, vol. 14 of Daijingū sōsho (Kyoto: Rinsen Shoten, 1970), 781. During the Nanbokuchō period, the Ise shrine was a major stronghold of loyalists of the Southern court of Emperor Go-Daigo, and its texts likely influenced Chikafusa’s writings. For a detailed account of the connections between Chikafusa’s thought and the Watarai Shintō school, see Mark Teeuwen, Wata- rai Shintō: An Intellectual History of the Outer Shrine in Ise, vol. 52 of CNWS Publications (Leiden: Research School CNWS, 1996). 70 The Eiwa daijōeki (1388?) describes the Daijōe festival of 1375: “The three symbols sank into the sea when the Emperor Antoku took them on his journey to the western seas. The jewel and the mirror were recovered; however, the sword was lost irretrievably because the Nun of the Second Rank was wearing it around her waist. . . . At the same time, Minamoto Yoritomo assumed the place of the palace sword and manifested the authority of military generals and brought quiet to the four seas.” For this part of the text, see Zoku converging and diverging sword doubles 139

Nanbokuchō thinkers such as Jihen (dates unknown) invoked another line of reasoning, using the vow of Amaterasu to protect one hundred emperors to argue that the original sword was still at Atsuta shrine. By doing so, Jihen presumably combined the political reality of his time—the martial hegemony of the shoguns—with an account of imperial power.71 Fashioned within the charged political atmosphere of this time, the sword stories in this chapter re-envision these divided worlds and dual arguments of original/replica, to imagine worlds made whole through the possibilities of doubling.

Gunsho Ruijū Kanseikai, ed., Eiwa daijōeki, vol. 7 of Gunsho ruijū: kuji-bu (Tokyo: Zoku Gunsho Ruijū Kanseikai, 1928), 182. 71 See Jihen, “Kuji hongi gengi,” in Tendai Shintō jō, ed. Tamura Yoshiaki (Tokyo: Shintō Taikei Hensankai, 1990), 39. The Kuji hongi gengi (The Deep Meaning of the Origi- nal Record of Ancient Events, 1332) was written to explicate an earlier text that dealt with ancient myths, the Sendai kuji hongi (The Original Record of Ancient Events, early tenth century).

Chapter Five

The Cultural Shift from the Carriage to the Horse: Portending Historical Change

The horse is inextricably linked to our imagination of the medieval warrior. Aphorisms such as kyūba no shi (men of the bow and the horse) bind the warrior to archery and horse riding in the literary texts of pre-modern Japan, valorizing him as the practitioner of these two highly regarded military arts. Historians debunk this glorified picture of horseback warfare, showing that the realities of warrior combat did not live up to the “military arts” ideal of a norm-governed practice of warfare. What is left unexplored in these discussions is the ideological purpose this idealization serves. This chapter brings this book full circle by looping back in time to the 1170s and moving through the 1180s as it considers how the horse, as an iconic counterpart of the warrior, is deployed in representing the disorderly world of twelfth-century Japan. Stepping away from the horse as a tool of war, I consider the horse as a central motif in the imagination of the Heike texts, through which historical notions about the ‘age of the warrior’ and social ideas about warrior conduct are constructed. In an article on Japanese literary history written in 1961, the scholar Nishio Minoru hailed the horse as essential to the dialectical process that transformed medieval literature. Noting that historical changes in late twelfth-century Japan led to the collision of the cultural spheres of Kyoto and Kamakura, Nishio observed that pessimism and passivity haunted the writings of the essayist Yoshida Kenkō (1283?–1352?), who used ideas of transience to lament the decline of the court society. In the Heike texts, however, Nishio observes a decisive break from nostalgic backward-looking reminiscences.1 This shift, he argues, is brought about by energetic horses, animals that exemplify change and movement. Nishio’s reading, in its attempt to link new aesthetic modes in literature to social and historical developments, considers the horse and the eastern warrior as the emblematic “outsiders” to the world of the court. Moreover, he views horse scenes in medieval texts such as the Heike as underscoring the emergence of a

1 Nishio Minoru, “Chūseiteki na mono no jiban,” in Nihon bungeishi ni okeru chūseiteki na mono to sono tenkai (Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten, 1961), 40–43, 53. 142 chapter five new social entity (the warrior) and the “eastern potentiality” of warrior culture to fundamentally transform an ossified aristocratic culture. The horse and the warrior are a naturalized pair, and the increasing visibility of horses in literary texts simply mirrors historical change.2 Untangling Nishio’s assumption that literary texts reflect the social reality of horse-breeding warriors, this chapter asserts that the horse-borne warrior is an ideological construct that helped manage historical tensions, producing rather than reflecting notions about history. The horse-borne warrior often appears in conflict with the aristocratic ox-carriage, highlighting, in twelfth-century texts such as the Konjaku monogatarishū, the binaristic separation between capital/countryside that preserves aristocratic order; in the fourteenth-century texts of the Heike, this symbolic structure collapses. However, these changes do not threaten the stability of the polity because the violence unleashed by the Genpei War is domesticated by stories of equine love or horse racing. Narratives of rivalry over possession of a fine horse displace more disquieting warrior clashes, and the idealization of the warrior as a practitioner of a military art (bugei) such as kurabeuma (horse-racing tournaments) transforms latent aggression into a sport, circumscribing it within rules and norms. In sum, horse narratives in the Heike do not fictionalize or exaggerate the realities of warfare; rather, they provide a potent cultural fantasy in which warrior violence remains predictable and not destabilizing.

Horses amidst Carriages: Turmoil in the Construction of Symbolic Authority

And in the waterless month [sixth month] of the same year [Jishō 4], suddenly and without warning, the Capital was changed. . . . And the fashions changed also in these days, so that everyone came to ride on horseback, while the more dignified ox-car was quite forsaken. . . . And of the people one met in the streets those ought to have been riding in carriages were on horseback and those who wore court costume were in military sur- coats. . . . The whole atmosphere of the Capital was altered and they [the aristocrats] looked like a lot of country samurai. And those who said that

2 Nishio’s characterization of literary history has much in common with the views of the famous postwar historian Ishimoda Shō. Eager to locate a pre-history in Japan of a vigorous challenge to an emperor-centric system—the better to underwrite postwar dem- ocratic urges—Ishimoda also posited a “strong middle ages” that emerged from a decrepit (taihai) classical age. See, for example, Ishimoda, Chūseiteki sekai no keisei (Tokyo: Itō Sho- ten, 1946). cultural shift from the carriage to the horse 143

these changes were a portent of some civil disturbance were not without reason, for as time went on things became more and more unquiet.3 Writing in 1212 in his Hōjōki about the tumultuous events of Jishō 4 (1180), the essayist Kamo no Chōmei saw the ominous signs of a disturbed world in the transition from ox-drawn to horse-drawn carriages. In particular, he saw a fundamental shift in “fashions,” a faddish following of warrior customs following the start of the Genpei War in 1180.4 The association between warriors and horses would later become a staple of war tales. For example, in the Heiji monogatari (Tales of Heiji, 1221?), Fujiwara Nobuyori is ridiculed by his ally Minamoto Yoshitomo when he tumbles from his horse and lands face-forward in the gravel. He falls when he is surprised by the cries of the Taira army as they push on their horses toward the palace. Humorously evoked in the Heiji monogatari is the mastery of horseback riding by warriors, a skill that court aristocrats such as Nobuyori had putatively forgotten.5 No doubt overdrawn, this contrast between aristocrats and warriors was critical to marking the historical shift from court- centered society to the ‘age of the warrior.’6 As Kamo no Chōmei’s lament suggests, the historical turmoil he expe- rienced was also a turmoil of signs that was destabilizing a worldview in which capital and country had been kept apart, particularly through codes regarding vehicular privileges. The carriage became a marker for aristocratic status around the year 999 when sumptuary regulations reserved its use for those about the fifth rank or above. The right to ride a carriage closely paralleled the privilege of shōden, or access to the administrative chambers of the imperial court, and by extension, proximity to the emperor and retired emperor.7 To travel in a carriage was thus a mark of distinction that separated courtiers from those below them. This entitle- ment created a classificatory system that some scholars suggest pushed warriors, who were more often of lower rank, to adopt the horse as their

3 Kamo no Chōmei, “The Hōjōki,” in A. L. Sadler, trans., The Ten Foot Square Hut and Tales of the Heike (Westport: Greenwood Press, 1970), 4–5. 4 For a similar observation, see Sata Yoshihiko, Fukusei to gishiki no yūsoku kojitsu (Tokyo: Yoshikawa Kōbunkan, 2008), 85. 5 The frequent citation of this stereotype of aristocratic incapacity with horse riding is cited in Matsumoto Masaharu, “Kizoku kannin no kiba to jōsha,” Nihon rekishi 515 (1991): 27. As Takahashi Masaaki notes, however, many aristocrats were quite skilled equestrians. See Takahashi, Bushi no seiritsu, bushizō no sōshutsu (Tokyo: Tōkyō Daigaku Shuppankai, 1999), 58. 6 My thanks to David T. Bialock for calling the Hōjōki reference to my attention. Com- munication May 9, 2009. 7 Sata, Fukusei to gishiki no yūsoku kojitsu, 286–87. 144 chapter five representative form of transport and to construct their own rules regarding the etiquette of equestrian mounting and dismounting.8 In the literary imagination of the twelfth century, the presence of both carriages and horses in the streets of Kyoto is emblematic of an impending cultural clash.9 In an episode in the Konjaku monogatarishū entitled “How Yorimitsu’s Attendants Went Sightseeing to Murasakino” (Book 28, no. 2), three of Minamoto Yorimitsu’s retainers take a carriage to Murasakino in the north of Kyoto on the day after the Kamo Festival. They want to hire an ox-drawn carriage, but knowing that they will be ridiculed for their impudence in riding a carriage when they are mere warriors, they engage an onnaguruma (“woman’s wagon”), because the rules of modesty in such a carriage would permit them greater anonymity. However, their plan is foiled when the ox-carriage driver proceeds too quickly, sending them lurching around the inside of the carriage. When they try to stop the driver, their countrified voices raise the suspicions of nearby carriage riders, who ridicule them by comparing their voices to eastern crows. Fearing that the reckless speed of the ox-carriage driver might kill them, they decide not to take the carriage home. At the end, the men comment, “We are strong and brave warriors but it is useless for us to engage in carriage battles.” With these words, the men recast their failed ride in the ox- carriage as a “carriage battle,” employing martial rhetoric to knock down the separation between the horse and the ox-carriage that renders them inferior. Thus the Konjaku episode speaks to a powerful contradiction: the need for court society to separate horse-riding warriors from carriage- going aristocrats, even as this hierarchical ordering was being questioned by the rise of warriors. The binaristic separation of worlds (capital/countryside, aristocrat/ warrior) found in the Hōjōki and the Konjaku monogatarishū excerpted above was tenuous because it depended on the simultaneous avowal and disavowal of the violent service provided by warriors to the Heian court as its “teeth and claws.”10 This is brought home in the Genpei jōsuiki by

8 Momosaki Yūichirō, “Chūsei buke shakai no rotōrei: norimono to kubu no mibun chitsujo,” in Chūsei Kyōto no kūkan kōzō to reisetsu taikei (Kyoto: Shibunkaku Shuppan, 2010), 128. 9 See Matsumoto, “Kizoku kannin no kiba to jōsha,” 26. 10 The expression “teeth and claws” (Jp. sōga or sōge) was first employed in English scholarship by the historian Karl Friday. He argues that the court fostered the development of local military forces into warrior bands as a strategic way to use the very source of trouble in the countryside to subdue other troublemakers (by setting thief to catch thief). See Friday, “Teeth and Claws,” 153. cultural shift from the carriage to the horse 145 the warrior Minamoto Yoshinaka, who appropriates the cultural clothes of court society to challenge this disavowal and argue for the recognition of his martial service to the court. Soon after he is commended by the Retired Emperor for his success in driving out the Taira, Yoshinaka decides to take a ride in a carriage because “he now had court rank.”11 He changes into court attire (the hunting cloak) in preparation for his presentation before the Retired Emperor. Like the warriors in the Konjaku episode, Yoshinaka loses his balance as the ox-carriage picks up speed, and is unable to find the right words to stop the ox-driver. Yet, unlike Yorimitsu’s attendants, who seem provincial, Yoshinaka’s conduct poses a subtle challenge to the cultural axioms that make him unworthy of mem- bership in the Kyoto elite. When he is instructed by his ox-driver that the proper way to dismount a carriage is from the front, the ever-confident Yoshinaka responds, “Just because you are riding in a carriage, it is rude to just pass right through (sudōri) like that. The people of Kyoto seem to lack proper sense.”12 Yoshinaka turns the logic of codified behavior on its head and questions the fixity of rules in a changing world. The use of the term sudōri is also revealing, for it is freighted with the nuance of disre- spectfully passing in front of the main gate (monzen) of an emperor or aristocratic home. This was an area to be avoided (or traversed only after dismounting) because it was seen as a particular locus of the noble resident’s authority.13 In this episode, Yoshinaka is at the gate to the Retired Emperor’s home, a location in which the observance of rules was necessary for the symbolic construction of imperial authority. His backwards

11 Mizuhara, ed., Shintei Genpei jōsuiki, vol. 4 (1990), 215. 12 Ibid., 217. 13 For this observation, see Nishiyama Ryōhei, Toshi Heian-kyō (Tokyo: Tōkyō Daigaku Shuppankai, 2004), 290. In the Ōkagami (Great Mirror, eleventh or twelfth c., author unknown), there is a dispute between Fujiwara Kanemichi (925–977) and Fujiwara Kaneie (929–990) when the latter passes in front of Kanemichi’s house without dismounting. Feeling very slighted, Fujiwara Kanemichi decides that the latter should not succeed him as Chancellor—a severe punishment indeed. For this passage, see Joseph K. Yamagiwa, trans., The Ōkagami: A Japanese Historical Tale (Tokyo: Charles E. Tuttle, 1977), 139. Also see Kojidan (Book 2, no. 3) for another version of the story where Kanemichi takes the same extreme step for the slight. Kawabata Yoshiaki and Araki Hiroshi, eds., Kojidan, zoku Kojidan, vol. 41 of Shin Nihon koten bungaku taikei (Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten, 2005), 128–29. Spaces associated with the “outside” such as gates were regarded as areas where rank and status had to be carefully observed. Rules regulated how one was supposed to approach the house of an aristocrat or emperor, how one was to dismount, and through which spaces one was to enter. See Akiyama Kiyoko, “Chūsei no omote to oku,” in Chūsei no kūkan o yomu, ed. Gomi Fumihiko (Tokyo: Yoshikawa Kōbunkan, 1995), 106–22. 146 chapter five movement, couched in the language of court protocol, subtly hints at the challenge he poses to the Retired Emperor, whose home he attacks not long after. The fact that it is the reckless ox-carriage driver, or ushikai (literally, “cow-keeper”) who “drives” both stories to their conclusion is also significant. As Amino Yoshihiko observes, ushikai wore their hair hung loose to their shoulders well into adulthood; their child-like appearance in a world where grown men were required to wear hats hints at their special status in medieval society. Frequently chastised in documents as being kasa (behaving in a way that exceeds their station), and noted for flouting rules about dress during public events like the Kamo Festival, ushikai were also viewed as possessing magical powers. In this respect they were like the warawa (boy servants) who behaved as they wished at public events and openly criticized those in positions of authority. Like the long tresses of the ukai (cormorant fisherwomen), the loose hair of the “cow-keepers” was also a sign of their influence over wild animals, a mediating function between nature and culture that was only recognized for a select few.14 The “cow-keeper” is thus an anomic figure, to use David T. Bialock’s characterization of warawa, whose presence suggests extra-normative possibilities in which totalizing paradigms are put to question.15 Understood in this light, the juxtaposition of the warriors with the headstrong ushikai in both narratives suggests the incursion of the norm-breaking in them, safely explored by displacing the ferocity of the warrior onto the ox- carriage driver. On a more playful note, one might argue that the death drive of the ox-carriage drivers is itself a subtle allusion to the “end” of an era of aristocratic carriages. We may infer this from the historical role played by these men. The ushikai began to move goods necessary for medieval commerce by working in their spare time as shashaku (wagon drivers). This enterprising move eventually led to the decline of the ox- carriage, an important symbol of the aristocracy since the ninth century.16

14 Amino Yoshihiko, Igyō to ōken (Tokyo: Heibonsha, 1993), 60–66. For a translation of parts of this essay into English, see Amino Yoshihiko, Rethinking Japanese History, trans. Alan Christy, Michigan Monograph Series in Japanese Studies, no. 74 (Ann Arbor: Center for Japanese Studies, University of Michigan, 2012), 183–97. 15 Bialock, Eccentric Spaces, Hidden Histories, 132, 275. 16 Sata, Fukusei to gishiki no yusoku kojitsu, 293. cultural shift from the carriage to the horse 147

Clashing Vehicles in the Streets of Kyoto: Marking Imperial Decline

In both contemporary courtier diaries and in the Heike texts, the beginning of the disorderly world (ranse) is marked by an altercation between the ox-carriage entourage of the Fujiwara regent and a rambunctious horse- borne party of warriors. Contemporary accounts fume at the egregious attack on the pillar of aristocracy, but the Heike account takes it one step further: it employs the carriage to draw thematic and spatial arguments about the decline of the aristocracy. In the Heike texts, the altercation occurs between the horse-borne Taira Sukemori and the carriage-borne regent Fujiwara Motofusa in 1170. It is an encounter rife with implications about the clash of worlds. Sukemori is returning from a day of sport, Motofusa, from a day of duties at the palace. Sukemori is, like his horse, untamed, having spent the day hunting, while Motofusa upholds civilized decorum, insisting on the rule that riders dismount before the regent. In the ensuing scuffle, the regent’s men attack Sukemori’s party for their refusal to get down from their horses, and a week later, the warriors retaliate by storming the regent’s home. In the latter scene, the regent is humiliated on his way to the capping rite of Emperor Takakura, forcing the court to cancel the coming-of-age ceremonies. The entire incident thus suggests the aborted progress of imperial time. Observing these troublesome developments, Taira Shigemori repri- mands the lawlessness of warriors under his command and stands up for the “rule of courtesy” that upholds aristocratic order.17 The Shibu-kassenjōbon accentuates the contours of the conflict by having the fight take place as Sukemori is returning to the capital from Uchino. Uchino was a ghostly locale littered with dead bodies, an empty site evocative of imperial ruin where a palace had once stood before the great fire of 960.18 The initial encounter also takes place along Ōi-no-mikado Avenue, as the regent is about to arrive at the palace to conduct court business (in the Kakuichibon), or returning from business at the Retired Emperor’s

17 As scholars have noted, Shigemori’s figuration here is a dramatic departure from the historical record in which he spearheads the retaliatory attack. For an analysis that sees the threat of historical chaos in this episode held at bay by Shigemori’s insistence on the “rule of courtesy,” see Tochigi Yoshitada, Gunki to bushi no sekai (Tokyo: Yoshikawa Kōbunkan, 2001), 175. 18 Ibid., 167. 148 chapter five mansion (in the Shibu-kassenjōbon). This differs from the historical record, in which the regent is on his way to hear religious lectures. This snag “on the road to the palace” spatially orients these incidents as a cascading set of developments that will soon hit home at the palace.19 The tension in the carriage-clash episode, provoked by the failure of one party to follow rules surrounding “mannered” interaction, calls to mind Norbert Elias’s observation that the stabilization of social conduct as “civility” in European court society was tied to the maintenance of power.20 The codification of rules concerning dismounting in Heian Japan followed a similar logic of power in which symbolic behavior reinforced rank and status in aristocratic society. The Engi danjōshiki (The Rules of the Board of Censors) lists actions that call for public censure: if someone below fourth rank encounters a courtier of the first rank, or if someone encounters another party three ranks above him, the lower-ranked individual was required to dismount.21 These limits are tested in a handful of literary accounts. In the Kojidan (Book 2, no. 36), for example, Minamoto Tsunenobu does not dismount from his carriage when passing by the Kitano shrine. He excuses this violation by citing the Engi danjōshiki and claiming that only two ranks separated them, because Tsunenobu was of the fourth rank and Michizane only of second rank at the time of his death.22 Similarly, in Uji shūi monogatari (Book 8, no. 1), the elderly fifth- rank samurai Tachibana Mochinaga does not dismount when he meets a procession of aristocratic carriages on the street. He too justifies his rudeness by pointing to the effrontery of the other party, who, instead of pointing their carriages toward the procession of the higher-ranked Fujiwara Yorinaga (who employed Mochinaga as a retainer), let the back of their vehicles face the minister.23 Mochinaga defends his behavior as the appropriate response to those who were rude to his lord and in doing so demonstrates a greater knowledge of Heian social protocol. The stories

19 For the strategic placement of this clash “on the road to the palace,” see Inui Yoshi- hisa, “Dairi e no michi: ‘Heike monogatari’ maki ichi ‘Tenga no noriai’ no sakuchū basho no honbun ryūden,” Bungei gengo kenkyū, bungei hen 19 (1991): 100. 20 Norbert Elias, The Civilizing Process: Sociogenetic and Pyschogenetic Investigations (Malden, MA: Blackwell Publishing, 2000), 253–56. 21 See Matsumoto, “Kizoku kannin no kiba to jōsha,” 18. For the Engi danjōshiki, see vol. 41 of the Engi shiki. Shintō Taikei Hensankai, ed., Engi shiki (II), vol. 12 of Shintō taikei (Tokyo: Shintō Taikei Hensankai, 1993), 606. 22 Kawabata and Araki, eds., Kojidan, zoku Kojidan, 164. 23 See Miki Sumito and Asami Kazuhiko, eds., Uji shūi monogatari, kohon setsuwashū, vol. 42 of Shin Nihon koten bungaku taikei (Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten, 1990), 194–95. cultural shift from the carriage to the horse 149 about the periodic infraction of these rules only reaffirmed these behav- ioral codes and the status system they upheld. The preservation of status guaranteed by these prescriptive codes is dra- matized with cutting irony in the famous carriage-clash scene in the Genji monogatari.24 On the day of the lustration ceremony of the Kamo Festival, Lady Aoi, Genji’s principal wife, departs by carriage to see the procession in which her husband is scheduled to appear. Lady Rokujō, Genji’s neglected paramour, decides to attend the festival in a less conspicuous carriage, also hoping to catch a glimpse of him. Aoi’s rowdy attendants block the progress of Rokujō’s carriage when it arrives. Genji passes by this fracas and notices the humiliation that Rokujō, the widow of a former Crown Prince and once a candidate for empress, is forced to endure. Yet, he looks away and acknowledges his presence only to Lady Aoi. When Aoi’s menservants damage Rokujō’s carriage, they do so because the latter travels in a humbler vehicle than their lady’s. The difference in vehicular rank authorizes the menservants’ shenanigans, even though they are aware of Rokujō’s far higher station. The carriage, the most public of all displays of aristocratic rank, is used here to highlight how Aoi’s status prevails in Genji’s amatory esteem, while the humbled Rokujō must conceal her shameful fall in station.25 The fracas in the Heike between the regent Motofusa and Taira Sukemori is thus the sparring of rank and prestige (which the carriage marked and preserved in aristocratic society) with the newfound power of military aristocrats.26 It is significant in this regard that Sukemori is

24 Murasaki Shikibu, The Tale of Genji, trans. Royall Tyler (New York: Viking, 2001), 166–69. 25 The episode in the Genji monogatari is likely drawn from a similar carriage-clash episode in the Ochikubo monogatari (Tale of Lady Ochikubo, tenth c.), a scene where a young couple avenge themselves against the wicked stepmother of the girl. Carriage-clash scenes were a common motif in literary texts; Lady Sei Shōnagon’s Makura no sōshi and the Jikkinshō include memorable scenes. Such altercations mostly took place during the Kamo Festival, a repeated trope that suggests that the space-time of the festival was seen as one where clashes were both common and welcomed. For this point, see Hayashida Takakazu, “Genji monogatari no matsuri no ba to kuruma arasoi,” Genji monogatari no kanshō to kiso chishiki 9 (2000), 219–34. The staging of the episode in the Heike is all the more compelling in its implications because it does not take place in the carnivalesque time of the festival, but during the somber preparations for an imperial ceremony. 26 The elaborate staging of the clash as an attack on imperial polity in the Heike becomes obvious if we look at contemporary accounts that highlight, instead, the power of Taira Kiyomori. In the historical event on which the carriage clash is based, Taira Sukemori, who is traveling in an onnaguruma to remain incognito, does not dismount for the regent who is in his official carriage. According to court protocol, the regent was 150 chapter five returning with hawks in hand, his bounty from a day of hunting. Falconry, which was not distinguished from hawk hunting in Japan, began as an imperial sport; it was a practice that revivified the authority of centrally based emperors by bringing them into periodic contact with the wilds that lay in the peripheries.27 In the Kamakura period and beyond, a significant shift occurs. In literary texts such as the Soga monogatari (Tales of the Soga Brothers, mid-fourteenth century c.), hawk hunting becomes the emblematic political spectacle of warrior power.28 The close tie between warriors and hunting, furthermore, was built on a ritsuryō era understanding where conscripted hei (soldiers) were drawn from hunting groups.29 Yoritomo’s famous hunt mentioned in chapter 2 may not have involved hawks, but hunting in general became associated with the pageantry of warriors. The frisson in the episode is magnified by the animalian connotations of horses and hunting. This creates a scene where the wilds that lay outside Kyoto encroach upon the very center of courtly civilization— the palace—and destroy its coherence.

higher ranked and thus Sukemori was required to dismount. Though Sukemori’s behavior tests the bounds of impropriety, his desire to avoid being seen partially explains his irregular demeanor. Again, because Sukemori does not reveal himself, the regent’s men destroy Sukemori’s carriage without knowing who rides in it. Contemporary courtier accounts suggest that the regent was, in fact, alarmed to learn the identity of the person he had insulted. Fearing the wrath of Sukemori’s father, the influential Taira Kiyomori, the regent sends his men to be punished by the Taira. But Sukemori’s angry older brother Taira Shigemori sends the men back, prompting the regent to go a step further and hand a few of the culprits to the police. Nine days later, however, the regent finds his mansion surrounded by Shigemori’s warriors intent on revenge, and is forced to cancel his plans to depart. Three months later, on the twenty-first day of the tenth month of 1170, things come to a head when Shigemori’s party clashes on the street with the regent’s carriage, throwing the court into disarray as they are forced to put off Takakura’s capping ceremony. For a full reconstruction of these events from courtier diaries, see Tochigi Yoshitada, “Heike monogatari ni okeru ‘monogatari’ no isō,” in Gunki to bushi no sekai, 153–78. 27 Nakazawa Katsuaki, “Karu ō no keifu,” in Rekishi no naka no dōbutsutachi, vol. 2 of Hito to dōbutsu no Nihonshi, ed. Nakazawa Katsuaki (Tokyo: Yoshikawa Kōbunkan, 2009), 46–59. 28 For an argument about the symbolic use of hunting by warrior hegemons, see Naka- zawa Katsuaki, “Nihon chūsei shuryō bunkashiron josetsu,” in Shuryō to kugi no bunkashi, vol. 14 of Sōsho bunkagaku no ekkyō, ed. Nakamura Ikuo, Miura Sukeyuki, and Akasaka Norio (Tokyo: Shinwasha, 2007), 100–102. 29 See Gomi Fumihiko, Bushi to bunshi no chūseishi (Tokyo: Tōkyō Daigaku Shuppankai, 1992), 10–11, 18. cultural shift from the carriage to the horse 151

The Horse that Sparked the Genpei War: Absorbing the Unpredictable Eruption of Warrior Violence

At the beginning of Book 14 in the Genpei jōsuiki, the narrator observes with consternation, “If we ask why The Lay Monk of the Third Rank Yorimasa recommended such a regrettable thing to the Prince, it was because of a horse.”30 Amidst the gathering storm preceding the Genpei War, Minamoto Yorimasa’s proposal to Prince Mochihito that he raise arms against the Taira family—ultimately a decision that escalates into the Genpei War—is linked to an improbable historical catalyst in the form of a horse named Konoshita. Like the proverbial horseshoe nail that brings about the fall of a kingdom, Konoshita occupies a distinguished place in the text for, as the narrator says, it is “because of this one horse that the world becomes disordered.”31 The appearance of Konoshita in the Heike has been explained in existing scholarship as highlighting the arrogance of the Taira family. Upon learning about an especially fine horse in Yorimasa’s stables, Taira Kiyomori’s son Munemori asks Yorimasa’s son Nakatsuna for the steed Konoshita. At first Nakatsuna lies, saying that the horse was in the east recuperating from over-exertion, but his lie is soon discovered. Fearing the wrath of the reigning political figures of the day, Yorimasa coun- sels his son to abandon these delay tactics and present the horse to Munemori, remarking that “even a horse made of gold” should be made available when powerful men ask.32 Yet Munemori is not mollified when the horse arrives. Still seething at Nakatsuna’s earlier reluctance to send him the horse, Munemori starts calling the horse “Nakatsuna.” In this way, he enacts control over the man through his bridling and harness- ing of the horse. The enraged Nakatsuna appeals to his father, arguing that they should either cut off Munemori’s head or clip his forelocks to avenge the disgrace. Disturbed by this turn of events, indicative of both the arrogance of the Taira family and the waning political influence of his own, Yorimasa incites rebellion in the heart of another politically sidelined figure, Prince Mochihito. The latter had been passed over as a candidate for the throne and he seizes this opportunity to dispatch

30 Mizuhara, ed., Shintei Genpei jōsuiki, vol. 2 (1988), 204. 31 Ibid., 209. 32 Ibid., 205. 152 chapter five a royal call to arms that authorizes the leading Minamoto warriors— Yoritomo, Yoshinaka, and Yukiie—to topple the Taira. And it is these hostilities that launch the Genpei War. The horse therefore functions to reframe the threatening political implications of Prince Mochihito’s order into a story about petty rivalry. Prince Mochihito’s spurned monarchical ambition and the seventy-seven- year-old Yorimasa’s private grudge are infelicitous opening scenarios for the Genpei War. For this reason, the Heike texts depart from the historical record and show the victor of the war, Minamoto Yoritomo, to be unresponsive to this ambition-fueled directive.33 Instead, Yoritomo responds to a later edict sent out by the Retired Emperor, communicating that he is someone who does not serve a summons based on political disaffection, but answers only to the call to serve his sovereign.34 Likewise, Nakatsuna’s deep love for his horse serves to over-write the larger attachments to rank and power that ignite the Genpei War. The Genpei jōsuiki cites an ominous precedent from Chinese history where kingdoms fall because of a ruinous attachment to a horse; this highlights how equine love bounds and redirects deeper political drives. Emperor Mu of Zhou (Mu Wang, r. 1002 bce–947 ce), for example, rides his beloved horses “to the four wild lands and eight corners, never returning to the capital,” thus causing the

33 The word “ambition” here corresponds to the Japanese term yashin. The usage of this word in the Muromachi period suggests that it did not have the same connotation of self-serving, status-seeking desire that it does today. However, the term did carry the nuance of wildness and dissidence—in short, sedition against the court. Consider the following selection from the opening passage of Heiji monogatari: “But, when the age of degeneration arrives, men are arrogant and have contempt for the dignity of the court, and the people are fierce and cling to ambitions.” For this translation, see Edwin O. Reischauer and Joseph K. Yamagiwa, Translations from Early Japanese Literature, 2nd ed., Harvard- Yenching Institute Studies 29 (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1972), 290. For a discussion of yashin, see Takehisa Tsuyoshi, “Yashin no keifu: gunki monogatari o tsuranuku mono,” in Heike monogatari no zentaizō, vol. 103 of Izumi sensho (Osaka: Izumi Shoin, 1996), 357–400. 34 The fact that the Heike shows Yoritomo unresponsive to the first call to arms by Prince Mochihito, and obedient to the latter one by Go-Shirakawa brings out one of the central messages of the texts: that Yoritomo would not serve a summons based on spurned ambition. Scholarly consensus therefore has it that the two central fictions in the representation of Yoritomo’s uprising—the insertion of Mongaku and the invented Fukuhara edict—emphasize that Yoritomo’s own motives were always those of public service and never those of private ambition. For a discussion of Mongaku and the Fukuhara edict, see chapter 2 in this volume and Yanagida Yōichirō, “Heike monogatari ni okeru hōfuku: funsō no teiryū kara mita Yoritomo no heiwa,” in Gunki monogatari no mado, dai ni shū, ed. Kansai Gunki Monogatari Kenkyūkai (Osaka: Izumi Shoin, 2002), 112. cultural shift from the carriage to the horse 153 empire to fall.35 Castigated as a reckless sovereign for his equine passion in the Taiheiki, King Mu, like Yorimasa, acts as a foil for Yoritomo’s own rectitude as one who is not swayed by private passions. If the first part of the Konoshita episode absorbs the violent implications of a civil war started for private gain, its conclusion with the figure of Kiō (競) affirms the court’s ability to control the exercise of force. In the Genpei jōsuiki and the Kakuichibon, the deep insult harbored by Nakatsuna is paired with a retaliatory scene in which Kiō, one of Nakatsuna’s men, ingratiates himself with Munemori’s stable hands and steals the latter’s favorite horse, Nanryō. Kiō is a fascinating figure, one whose very name evokes rivalry, at the same time that his court post of imperial bodyguard (takiguchi) rarifies violence into a military art. Kiō, we are told in a flash- back, was once called on to dispose of a snake discovered in the Empress’s chambers in the Seiryōden. These takiguchi bodyguards were drawn from warrior leagues and guarded the imperial palace less with brute force than with that rendered symbolic as “magical and exorcistic.”36 Twanging their bows during their nightly rounds, the takiguchi were the very picture of violence made less threatening by recasting it into an art form (geinō).37 Though the Heike texts do not give us other scenes in which equine love absorbs and replaces violent energies, a story from the Kojidan offers a suggestive parallel.38 One day, Tachibana Yoritsune is out riding with seven or eight retainers when a noted physiognomist stops and warns him of an imminent calamity. He convinces Yoritsune that this dark fate can be forestalled if he kills the person most important to him, be it wife or child. Realizing, on his ride home, that his horse was dearer to him than his wife, Yoritsune prepares to shoot his mount. But when he hears the loving whinny of his horse, his resolve falters and he instead sends the arrow into a large basket next to his wife. Startled to see blood trickling out of the basket, he takes a closer look and finds an injured man therein with a bared blade by his side. Yoritsune’s unfaithful wife, we are meant to understand, had instructed her lover to kill him. Though the misogyny of the story is obvious enough, it is the steed that makes this a quintessential tale about the ideal warrior. The reciprocal bond between man and horse

35 Mizuhara, ed., Shintei Genpei jōsuiki, vol. 2 (1988), 208. For this episode in Book 4 of the Kakuichibon, see Takagi Ichinosuke et al., eds., Heike monogatari (I), vol. 32 of Nihon koten bungaku taikei (Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten, 1959), 289–96. 36 Takahashi, Bushi no seiritsu, bushizō no sōshutsu, 201–4. 37 Ibid., 15–20, 56, 133. 38 See Kojidan Book 6, no. 50. Kawabata and Araki, eds., Kojidan, zoku Kojidan, 566–67. 154 chapter five is what restrains the warrior from killing needlessly, even when his own life is endangered. Any harm he causes is justified as necessary to discover his wife’s infidelity. Similar to the portrayal of the horse Konoshita in the Heike, equine love in this Kojidan tale camouflages the violence of warriors with a more ennobling emotion.

Ikezuki and Surusumi: Horse Racing (kurabeuma) and the Transformation of War into Sport

In the words of the literary critic Kobayashi Hideo, the essence of the Heike lies in the “sweat of men and horses.” Struck by the masculinization of the man through horse in episodes such as the “The First Man Across Uji River,” Kobayashi aestheticized the martial qualities of the text, an evaluation that has struck many as symptomatic of the lingering wartime rhetoric of late 1940s Japan in which he wrote. His masculinist reading may give us pause, but Kobayashi was perceptive in noting a striking pairing between man and horse in the Kakuichibon.39 “The First Man Across Uji River” episode is a conspicuous foregrounding of equine strength precisely at a point when Yoritomo’s martial forces occupy the environs of Kyoto. It is a conscious deflection of the unpredictable energies of war— and the ambitions of Yoritomo and his men—into an equine body where they might safely circulate. The episode is set in the first month of 1184. The Taira family has fled the capital, leaving the beleaguered Kyoto aristocrats with the sole hope that Yoritomo’s forces will restore peace and drive out the disaster- wreaking Yoshinaka. This battle, which opens with Yoritomo’s and Yoshinaka’s armies flanking the Uji River in Kyoto, marks the court’s reliance on Yoritomo’s forces as a fait accompli. The narrative pauses in this commentary on the court’s waning authority to provide a vignette that is tightly focused on two warriors as they race to be the first across Uji River so that they might earn Yoritomo’s praise. Sasaki Takatsuna, pro- pelled by Yoritomo’s coveted mount, Ikezuki (“Live Eater,” 生食), arrives on the other bank before Kajiwara Kagesue, who is riding another one

39 For this episode in Book 9 of the Kakuichibon, see Takagi Ichinosuke et al., ed., Heike monogatari (II), vol. 33 of Nihon koten bungaku taikei (Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten, 1960), 164–71. cultural shift from the carriage to the horse 155 of Yoritomo’s horses, Surusumi (“Ink Stick,” 摺墨).40 Both mares are bequeathed by Yoritomo to these men right before this battle and they affirm the status of Yoritomo as the leader of eastern warriors. (This portrait of Yoritomo as a benefactor makes this scene unique for a text that is largely silent about him.)41 At the same time, the recasting of an unruly war fought in Kyoto into a rivalry between two loyal warriors over a horse highlights the dual role of this animal: as an embodiment of violence and as a figure through which aggression is redirected into socially useful val- ues such as loyalty. In the episode preceding the race across Uji River, Kajiwara Kagesue asks Yoritomo for Ikezuki. Yoritomo denies his request, saying that he wishes to ride the steed himself and in its place offers Kagesue the mare Surusumi. Yet, sometime later, Yoritomo grants Ikezuki to Sasaki Takatsuna. Though Yoritomo’s reason behind this decision is not mentioned in the Kakuichibon, in the Engyōbon, he confers the mare because Takatsuna is willing to lay down his life for his lord, a pledge Takatsuna is ready to make because he has dutifully completed the memorial services for his father.42 In Takatsuna, filial piety and fealty become one; this ideal is contrasted with the recognition-hungry attitude of Kagesue. Later, when Kagesue sees Takatsuna riding Ikezuki into battle, he feels betrayed by Yoritomo, and resolves to wrestle Takatsuna off his mount. But the quick- witted Takatsuna defuses the situation by lying that he had stolen the horse, thereby channeling Kajiwara’s competitive energies into the race. In the Genpei jōsuiki, the horses seem to embody these rivaling impulses for anarchic violence and its domestication. Surusumi is feminized as the horse that “lures men” and is nicknamed Machigimi (“Streetwalker”).43 Ikezuki, by contrast, is “barely five, and yet to come into its own,” but its name is glossed with the characters (生唼) meaning “Live Eater,” since

40 For the orthography of the names of the horses, I have followed the Nihon koten bungaku taikei text. In the Ryūkoku Daigakubon manuscript, the names are (いけずき) and (する墨). But the Chinese characters used in my discussion are strongly implied in the passage and were thus used by the editors of the modern edition. 41 Tomikura, Heike monogatari zenchūshaku, vol. 3 (1967), 20. 42 Sunagawa Hiroshi, “Engyōbon Heike monogatari ni okeru denshō to sono henyō: dai go hon roku ‘Kajiwara to Sasaki uma shomō no koto,’ nana ‘Hyōe no suke gunpyō nado’,” Sōai Daigaku kenkyū kiyō 16 (2000): 242. 43 The Keichō kokatsujiban Genpei jōsuiki text explains the name Machigimi (“Street- walker”) as follows: 此馬鼻強シテ人ヲ釣ケレバ、異名ニハ町君ト被付タリ. For this sentence in the modern scholarly edition that uses the Keichō kokatsujiban as base text, see Ichiko Teiji et al., eds., Genpei jōsuiki, vol. 6 (2001), 157. 156 chapter five

“it ate both horses and people.”44 Branded with the image of the “deer flute” used during deer hunts, Ikezuki’s body is linked to the wildness of hunting grounds even as its name evokes a capacity for terrifying violence. The ferocity of Yoritomo’s own ambitions to defeat his cousin across the river—a pursuit which is here at odds with his court-mandated charge to restore peace—safely circulates by splitting it into the wild Ikezuki “who eats people” and the sexually-commodified “Streetwalker” whose body evokes feminine sexual submission. It is no wonder, then, that the Genpei jōsuiki places a premium on the self-mastery of Yoritomo’s warriors. Yoritomo decides against giving the horse to Kajiwara Kagesue because of his “outrageous” conduct of coming to him without being summoned (oshimairu). As a result, he awards the mare to Sasaki Takatsuna, who instead of rushing into battle in Kyoto ( jiyū no kyō nobori) so close to his home province of Ōmi, travels all the way to Kamakura to seek his lord’s orders. In other words, the errantry of self-serving battle conduct is redirected into the ethos of loyalty.45 The Heike includes several such scenes of horse races, whose thematic similarity with kurabeuma (horse-racing tournaments) offers a tantaliz- ing window into how narratives of the late Heian and Kamakura periods were deeply concerned with domesticating war into a sport. In Book 23, no. 26 of the Konjaku monogatarishū entitled “How Kanetoki and Atsuyuki Competed in Horsemanship,” two riders with different riding person- alities participate in a horse-racing tournament. Kanetoki was a “superb rider” who was “not so skillful with unbroken horses,” while Atsuyuki was “not afraid of any unbroken horse.”46 Yet, on the day of the tournament Kanetoki picks a wild horse (agariuma) that is at odds with his personal disposition and struggles to keep his seat on the saddle. This narrative is quite different from accounts of kurabeuma found in the Kokon chomonjū and Kojidan in which horse riding is associated primarily with the role

44 Mizuhara, ed., Shintei Genpei jōsuiki, vol. 4 (1990), 270–71. 45 In an anecdote found only in the Genpei jōsuiki, Sasaki Takatsuna goes to great lengths to travel quickly to reach Yoritomo; in fact, he is only able to do so because he cheats a fellow traveler, kills him, and steals his horse. His deception of the traveler to secure the horse is excused at the end of the anecdote by Yoritomo’s oratory about the generations of Sasaki family members who had been loyal to him. Here again, the horse appears in an explanatory story about loyalty to one’s lord. See Mizuhara, ed., Shintei Gen- pei jōsuiki, vol. 3 (1989), 48. 46 For the translation cited here, see Yoshiko Kurata Dykstra, trans., The Konjaku Tales Japanese Section (II), vol. 27 of Intercultural Research Institute Monograph Series (Osaka: Intercultural Research Institute, Kansai Gaidai University, 2001), 277. cultural shift from the carriage to the horse 157 of military arts in the performance of court rituals.47 This story, instead, places an emphasis on rules and appropriate conduct in sport, in particular, the demeanor of the loser Kanetoki. As the narrator notes, “There were many rules and manners for the winner to retire properly after a competition. However, no one knew what a loser should do without precedents. Seeing the way Kanetoki retired on that day after the race, people understood how a loser should behave.”48 Kanetoki sets a precedent for orderly withdrawal, performing restraint where his horse desires violence. The contrast between the two horsemen is necessary to the unwritten point of the story: in conflict, rules are abandoned to expediency; sport, however, creates rules to limit violence and gives it a cultural role to play within the “ludic sphere.”49 The regulation of aggressive impulses associated with kurabeuma is visible in the history of the sport. In the ninth century, horse-racing tournaments were practiced in conjunction with the Satsuki no sechi (Fifth Month Festival) where they underscored the court’s monopoly over the exercise of martial power as well as its ability to ward off evil spirits (hekija). Horses were known to possess such apotropaic magical powers. With the decline of the ceremonial performance of the Satsuki no sechi, kurabeuma became an annual event put on by the Konoefu (Headquarters of the Inner Palace Guards) and retained its character as a demonstration of martial prowess.50 Though the sport acquired other symbolic meanings as it was co-opted variously by the influential Fujiwara family, retired emperors and eventually, Kamakura shoguns, its Heian-period association with the Konoefu is germane to this discussion. The members of the Konoefu were practitioners of military arts, a social classification that Takahashi Masaaki observes contained martial urges by reserving it to a small group who would pass down the art in a hereditary fashion. This practice of placing men of military skill in the Konoefu ensured the self-regulation of a group with martial skills, while at the same time signaling that there

47 For an account of how stories of kurabeuma function in the Kokon chomonjū and Kojidan, see Gomi Fumihiko, Sesshō to shinkō: bushi o saguru, vol. 280 of Kadokawa sensho (Tokyo: Kadokawa Shoten, 1996), 58–62. 48 Dykstra, trans., The Konjaku Tales Japanese Section (II), 278. 49 I am influenced by the ideas of the Dutch historian Johan Huizinga, who has noted how European medieval knightly games served to limit, through conventions, latent violence. See Huizinga, Homo Ludens: A Study of the Play-Element in Culture, vol. 3 of Sociology of Culture (London: Routledge, 2000). Reprint, originally published in 1949. 50 Nakagome Ritsuko, “Ōchō no uma,” in Rekishi no naka no dōbutsutachi, vol. 2 of Hito to dōbutsu to Nihonshi, ed. Nakazawa Katsuaki (Tokyo: Yoshikawa Kōbunkan, 2009), 22–31. 158 chapter five would be no public sanction for other forms of violence. In Takahashi’s reading, sports like kurabeuma epitomize the court’s transformation of latent violence into play (yūkyō).51 The kurabeuma tournament is also mentioned in another episode in the Heike known as “Natora.”52 This episode focuses on a tense succession fight between two princes that is resolved not by war, as was common in history, but its restrained proxies of horse racing and sumo. Likewise, scenes of horse racing in the Heike, even when they are not situated on riding grounds, suggest a similar re-routing of violence.

The Darkness of Horse Narratives in the Konjaku monogatarishū: Violence Rendered Distant

The discussion thus far has centered on the redirection or circumscrip- tion of warrior violence; however, a complimentary idea also deserves mention: that horses provided a representational space where warrior violence could remain unpredictable (and manageable) because it was placed at a distance. We are told in the Engyōbon that Ikezuki, when a mere foal of two or three years, would “not kill those it thought hateful, but would eat their hands and arms while they were alive.”53 Though the mare is just as violent as in the other Heike variants, it takes on a distinctly supernatural aura as its name Ikezuki (生飡) is given a second gloss, through homophony, as 池掬 or “Lake Comber.”54 According to the Engyōbon, there were lakes in the northeast where all the eagles in Japan gathered, a place where the souls of those who died honorably sought repose. In these extraordinary lakes, the fishermen did not fish by boats, but instead they tied a rope to a long stick and rode on horses through the water combing for their catch. This numinous origin story links Ikezuki’s name to water spirits and more broadly to the divine horses in Eurasian legends, an association that is amplified by comparing Ikezuki to the eight famous horses of

51 Takahashi, Bushi no seiritsu, bushizō no sōshutsu, 117. 52 For this episode in Book 8 of the Kakuichibon, see Takagi et al., ed., Heike monogatari (II), 123–28. 53 Kitahara Yasuo and Ogawa Eiichi, eds., Engyōbon Heike monogatari, honbun hen, vol. 2 (Tokyo: Benseisha, 1990), 192. 54 In the Daitōkyū Memorial Library Engyōbon manuscript (Daitōkyū kinen bunkobon), the second gloss for the horse’s name is (池ズキ) but the explanation that follows strongly implies that the writers had the characters (池掬) in mind. cultural shift from the carriage to the horse 159

Emperor Mu of Zhou.55 The geographical placement of the horse in Mutsu province marks the location as a mysterious frontier culture far removed from the “wetland agriculture” of central Japan.56 Bred at the border of the Japanese polity, and embodying divine powers, Ikezuki lies beyond the limit of the known.57 The importance of the mysterious Ikezuki to Yoritomo frames this story in a penumbra of darkness. This association between warriors, horses, and distant spaces occurs frequently in literary texts. The most illustrative of these is Book 25, no. 12 in the Konjaku monogatarishū, which is titled “How Yoriyoshi, A Son of Minamoto Yorinobu, Shot Down a Horse Thief.” The tale begins with the delivery of a new mare from the east to Minamoto Yorinobu’s house in Kyoto. When Yorinobu’s son, Yoriyoshi, hears this news, he dashes over before nightfall to see it. Yorinobu promises to give his son the horse, but tells him to wait until the morning. That night, the men hear shouting by the stable staff that the mare had been stolen. Without checking if his son had heard, Yorinobu pursues the robber on horseback. Unbeknownst to him, Yoriyoshi too gives chase, and it is the latter’s arrow that kills the thief in the dead of night. The quiet that per- meates the story, from the wordless beginning of the chase to the robber’s silent death, has garnered aesthetic praise, with critics arguing that it allows us to hear the galloping of hooves and the falling rain. Linking the wordless communication in this story to warrior culture, Ikegami Jun’ichi suggests that the warriors share a social code, exemplified, for example, in the father’s intuitive understanding that his son desires the horse.58 Likewise, Komine Kazuaki demonstrates that the synchronized behavior of the pair is an allusion to the cohesion of warrior bands in the east, highlighted in other Konjaku episodes such as “How Captain Taira Munetsune

55 For this whole discussion, see Makino Atsushi, “ ‘Heike monogatari’ Ikezuki to Surusumi,” in Chōjū chūgyo no bunkashi: kedamono no maki, vol. 1 of Nihon koten no shizenkan, ed. Suzuki Ken’ichi (Tokyo: Miyai Shoten, 2011), 169–85. 56 See Alexander Bay, “The Swift Horses of Nukanobu: Bridging the Frontiers of Medi- eval Japan,” in Japanimals: History and Culture in Japan’s Animal Life, ed. Gregory M. Pflug- felder and Brett L. Walker (Ann Arbor: Center for Japanese Studies, University of Michigan, 2005), 91–124. 57 It bears noting in this respect that most of the six fabled horses in the Genpei jōsuiki come from Mutsu province. This aspect is less evident in the Kakuichibon, in which the majority of the famous horses are bred closer to the capital in Shinano province. 58 His original article has been reprinted in his collected works. See Ikegami Jun’ichi, “Bushi no kokorobae,” Setsuwa to sono shūhen, vol. 4 of Ikegami Jun’ichi chosakushū (Osaka: Izumi Shoin, 2008), 477–83. 160 chapter five of the Guards of the Left Escorted Sōjō Myōson” (Book 23, no. 14), where loyal retainers move in sync with their leader.59 The canonization of this “horse-thief” narrative as the quintessential story about warrior ethos (bushi no kokorobae) and medievality (chūseiteki) is problematic because it rehearses a nationalistic trend in scholarship in which “warrior culture” and the “middle ages” become the fount of exemplary “Japaneseness.”60 This valorization is also a startling disavowal of the story’s stance toward lawless warriors, whose threat can be managed only by removing it into the darkness. The story’s two prominent motifs of night and theft frequently appear in episodes surrounding warriors and subtly suggest society’s fear of them. As Kasamatsu Hiroshi notes in his study of punishment and crime in medieval Japan, night attacks (and a whole range of nocturnal behavior) occupied a curious place within the penal system. According to the supplementary law codes (tsuikahō) of the Kamakura shogunate, night attacks were considered “great crimes” (taihan) equivalent to murder and were punishable by beheading. At the same time, such attacks were common in history, and as scenes in Hōgen monogatari show, were celebrated as ways to gain an upper hand in battle.61 Kasamatsu traces this ambivalent stance to a particular understanding of night as an exceptional time of the day when warriors did their work, a deliberately marginalized time in which law-flouting behavior could take place and yet remain invisible. As the criminalization of “making a sound at night” in 1488 or the severe punishment decreed for “illegally harvest- ing crops a night” in 1588 demonstrate, nocturnal activity was increasingly viewed with suspicion. Kasamatsu views nighttime activity as subject to greater control and legal action in later eras precisely because it was seen in the late Heian and Kamakura periods as an “unconnected sphere”

59 Komine Kazuaki, Konjaku monogatari no sekai, vol. 407 of Iwanami juniā shinsho (Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten, 2002), 115. 60 This emphasis on “exemplary medievality” is the standard reading of the story. For instance, see the Ikegami article cited in note 58 and Tochigi, Gunki to bushi no sekai, 21. For a discussion of how the “middle ages” became a scholarly construct of the Meiji era, a periodization method through which Japan could be imagined as both equal to and culturally distinct from European powers with a medieval past, see Thomas Kierstead, “Inventing Medieval Japan: The History and Politics of National Identity,” Medieval History Journal 1, no. 1 (1998): 47–71. 61 Night attacks are legion in war tales. In the scene mentioned here, Fujiwara Yorinaga rejects Minamoto Tametomo’s plan to mount a surprise night attack at Go-Shirakawa’s Takamatsu Palace, calling it something appropriate only for “private fighting.” Later, Fuji- wara Shinzei follows Tametomo’s idea and seizes a dramatic victory. cultural shift from the carriage to the horse 161

(muen na sekai) that was detached from the everyday world.62 Though muen is frequently glossed as “asylum,” or a sphere of freedom for marginal people where they could escape the norms that structure society, Kasamatsu uses it in a different way to make a case for a binaristic strategy that could preserve order. In his reading, day and night were separated in contemporary thinking to ensure that the lawlessness that occurred during night could be exempted from society’s preoccupation with preserving peace. Seen in this light, Yoriyoshi’s killing of the horse thief in the quiet of the night is less about aesthetic beauty than the deliberate muting of the sounds that characterize society. More importantly, his pursuit of the horse thief is less about bravery than an act of violence outside the bounds of law, as Kasamatsu demonstrates was true for night killing. Equally interesting is the tale’s focus on the motif of theft. An unusual number of Konjaku stories feature a warrior’s encounter with a thief, suggesting how close the two social actors were perceived to be. As Gomi Fumihiko argues, the history of the court’s policy to “use a thief to catch a thief” meant that warriors and thieves were seen simply as two sides of the same historical development.63 The opposition between thief and warrior in this episode is thus something of a contrivance: it is a creation of rhetorical borders to manage the threat of lawlessness that haunted the capital with the increasing presence of professional warriors, such as Yoriyoshi, from the provinces. The killing of Yorinobu’s horse thief occurs at Sekiyama (Barrier Mountain), a border zone marking a separation between the inner provinces close to the capital and those without. The placement of the climactic encounter at this border zone, and the parti- tioning of worlds in the story between day/night and thief/warrior, effectively renders the latent violence and lawlessness of warriors manageable through its distancing beyond the sphere of the everyday world.64

62 For this entire discussion, see Kasamatsu Hiroshi, “Youchi,” in Chūsei no tsumi to batsu, ed. Amino Yoshihiko et al. (Tokyo: Tōkyō Daigaku Shuppankai, 1983), 89–102. 63 Gomi, Sesshō to shinkō: bushi o saguru, 145, 267. 64 It is no accident that this story is placed in volume 25 of the Konjaku monogatarishū. The bulk of the narratives in this volume survey warriors from the safe distance of the capital. As a self-contained body of narratives, volume 25 follows volumes about institutions of power; volume 22 profiles Fujiwara regents, volumes 23 and 24 recount the arts which enhance rulership, and volume 26 comprises stories of reward and punishment. This placement ensures that the narratives of violence and revenge in volume 25 are safely contained and that the latent violence of warriors does not destabilize the polity. For this perspective, see Ikegami Jun’ichi, “Konjaku monogatari no hōhō to kōzō,” in Shinwa, setsuwa, vol. 3 of Nihon bungaku kōza, ed. Nihon bungaku kyōkai (Tokyo: Taishūkan Shoten, 1987), 193–94, 202–4. 162 chapter five

The disorderly potential of warriors is further contained by naturalizing the horse as the “the treasured possession of the warrior.” As Kasamatsu also notes, theft was considered a “small crime” and the law required the thief to return a prescribed multiple of the value of the goods stolen. Theft escalated into a “large crime” on par with murder and house burning, and became punishable by death, only when the thief violated a private estate (shōen). In this story, the thief’s killing is justified not because the mare is essential to warrior identity—as is commonly assumed in readings that gloss this tale—but because the horse is taken from the estate belonging to the warrior. It is because the thief infiltrates his estate that the warrior decides to punish him on his own.65 It is worth noting that the horse is only stolen once it is placed in the stables, even though the thief follows it for a considerable time on the road. In other words, the valuation of the horse as a “treasured possession” of the warrior does not precede this narrative but is constructed through it. Far from being the naturalized counterpart to the skilled warrior, the horse is the motor of the story, without whose theft there could no marking of the distinction between thief and warrior. In fact, it is the theft and the furious chase that follows that electrically charges the horse as an object of value. The tale of the horse’s loss and recovery also functions as a drama of induction for the son. His own dangerous energies are productively directed toward a socially recognizable “warrior ethos” in which warriors share a similar investment in horses. Put another way, the story does not reflect the social reality of horse-loving warriors of the medieval period, but produces that powerful cultural fantasy in which the anarchic behavior of warriors is transformed into conduct that is both “predictable and praiseworthy.”66

65 Kasamatsu observes that the house was considered a protected space in which the owner was sovereign and could repulse both official and criminal intrusions on his own, using violence in ways that were exempt from law. See Kasamatsu, “Youchi,” 99–100. 66 Like the representation of knightly conduct in medieval European literature, this idealization of the “disposition of warriors” gave a way for whatever aggressive threat they represented “to safely circulate.” The horse, as Jeffrey Jerome Cohen argues of European chivalric romances, was crucial to these fantasies of domestication, for it produced a male body that “was docile at court” even as it “was lethal on the battlefield.” Warriors could be valued for their skills and force, but the “horse-man” cultural assemblage “absorbed that dangerous violence” and made it a productive and predictable source of public order. For these observations, see Cohen, Medieval Identity Machines (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 2003), 41–99. cultural shift from the carriage to the horse 163

Equine Culture and the Logic of Power in Late Heian to Kamakura Japan

Most accounts of equestrian culture in Japan link the possession of horses to the symbolic possession of resources or martial might. From the start of the ritsuryō era in the late seventh century, a period during which state control was regularized through tax collection and codification of laws, horses were sent to the capital from the provinces as tax levies. The establishment of the Meryō (Bureau of Horses) in the Hyōbushō (Ministry of Military Affairs) by Emperor Tenji (626–671) following his failed expedition to the Korean peninsula further underlined the military significance of horses, a connection that would acquire symbolic cachet even in periods of peace.67 Though horses were used in a host of other contexts, such as in the post-horse system of travel or as carriers for goods taxed as levies, scholars who write on the significance of these animals typically concentrate on their emblematic importance as gifts within networks of patronage or as levies within the court’s political economy. Like the Heian court, the Kamakura and Muromachi shogunate similarly received horses as levies (or as gifts from retainers), transactions that marked their status as overlords of warriors.68 Studies that focus on the importance of horses for warrior culture highlight their place in spectacles of military might. They note the long-standing use of horses during hunts or annual events such as the Satsuki no sechi, a day that featured the aforementioned horse-racing tournaments (kurabeuma) and horseback archery (yabusame).69 The Kamakura shogunate appropriated the yabusame as one of its ceremonial rites, an emblematic instance of how warrior culture did not evolve spontaneously, but rather grew out of rituals that were developed at court. In many of these studies, the literary text is criticized for mobilizing a faulty construct of warrior culture, thereby misconstruing underlying social and historical realities. For example, scholars demonstrate that the Japanese horse was too puny to be practical for the sort of sweeping charges the Heike describes, even

67 Ichikawa Takeo, Nippon rettō no fūdo to bunka, vol. 1 of Ichikawa Takeo chosaku senshū (Nagano: Dai’ichi Kikaku, 2010), 53. 68 Morimoto Masahiro, “Kamakura-ki uma kenjō no kōzō,” in Nihon chūsei no zōyo to futan (Tokyo: Azekura Shobō, 1997), 81. 69 Nakagome Ritsuko, “Ōchō no uma,” 21–23. 164 chapter five though it was valuable in localized or small-scale skirmishes.70 They also critique the aphorism “Western Ships, Eastern Horses,” the idea that the Genpei War was the contest between the Taira family who held seagoing power in the west and the Minamoto family whose rise was attributable to the horse pastures of the east. Moreover, scholars maintain that the stereotype relies on a deliberate erasure of the widespread geographical distribution of horse pastures around Japan, and a fictional emphasis on the distinctive emergence of warrior power in the east. The Heike in these readings constructs a picture of the ascendancy of eastern warriors through countless fictions regarding the horse-borne warrior.71 Reversing what others have called a misleading stereotype of the kyūba no shi (men of the bow and the horse), this chapter has argued that the cultural fantasy of a horse-borne warrior was necessary for representing the historical changes from Heian to Kamakura Japan. As Richard W. Kaeuper has noted of medieval Europe, discourses of chivalry emerged in tandem with mounted warrior combat. The concept of chivalry was conceived as a “restraining force” that, through its idealization of martial behavior as “military professionalism,” would make war-making less horrific.72 Though it did not transform the conduct of war, which remained deceitful and brutal, the power of chivalry lay in its ability to project an ideal vision of warrior ethos. Medieval Japan did not have a coherent ideological apparatus like chivalry, but, as the literary texts analyzed in this chapter show, the horse-borne warrior was an important site for the containment of the unpredictable and destabilizing social forces that accompanied the “rise of the warrior” in Japan. The horse’s ubiquitous and sometimes menacing presence in street scenes in literary texts highlights a clash of worlds in which the ox-drawn carriage—a metonym for aristocratic prestige—has to cede space to eastern-bred horses. The horse-borne warrior does not, however, threaten the stability of the polity because his own combative energies are fruitfully redirected. For example, aggression is transformed into sport in scenes involving horse racing. Similarly, rivalry over possession (or breeding) of a fine horse becomes the conflict that replaces warrior infighting.

70 Kawai Yasushi, Genpei kassen no kyokō o hagu (Tokyo: Kōdansha, 1996), 42, 46. 71 Noguchi Minoru, “Bandō bushi to uma,” in Kamakura no bushi to uma (Tokyo: Meicho Shuppan, 1999), 51–70. 72 Richard W. Kaeuper, Chivalry and Violence in Medieval Europe (New York: Oxford University Press, 1999), 72, 85, 156–60. cultural shift from the carriage to the horse 165

By demonstrating how horse narratives mediated the historical tensions engendered by the rise of warrior groups, this chapter provides a new vantage point from which to assess the ideological role of animals. In Japan, the emperor’s ultimate power over the feral wild-lands, or his authority to capture, release, and prohibit the killing of animals, has often been the starting point for a discussion of how animals are used in discourses of power.73 Animals therefore participate in the construction of symbolic authority because they provide the contrasting terms “nature” and “culture,” terms that powerful figures mediate between in order to assert their authority. Moving away from this familiar dichotomy, this chapter suggests how the horse is critical to the representation of historical change. The horse is neither the naturalized counterpart to the warrior (as nationalistic literary readings would deem it), nor the obverse term against which human reason or culture could be affirmed (as anthro- poetic readings would render it). Instead, it occupies a historically specific space through which the gradual shift to warrior power, with its attendant uncertainties regarding violence and social upheaval, are communicated and negotiated.

73 Nakazawa Katsuaki, “Rekishi no naka no dōbutsutachi,” in Rekishi no naka no dōbutsutachi, 2–6.

Chapter Six

The Past in the Present: Troping Warrior Power in the Muromachi and Tokugawa Periods

Literary representations of the Genpei War continue to inform national consciousness even today. During the writing of this book, the Japanese public broadcasting channel NHK began to air the taiga dorama (historical fiction drama) Taira Kiyomori, a series based on the fiery antagonist of the Heike corpus. The decision to make this series followed the popularity of the 2005 taiga dorama, Yoshitsune, again concerning a central figure in the drama of the Genpei War.1 Both productions attest to the ways in which the Genpei past is the source of cultural imaginings, helping to create contemporary Japan through references to its “heroic” past. This book has examined the Genpei War through a discussion of how warrior power is alternately legitimated and domesticated in the retrospective glance of the fourteenth century. The emphasis on symbolic practices and objects is organic to the question I posed in this study—How do the variants of the Heike corpus construct warrior order? As this book has demonstrated, ritual practices and material culture assist in mapping the ideal socio-political and cosmic order; they contain disorder even as dramatic historical changes unfold. To show how historical tumult is rendered into a narrative that reflects order, the chapters in this book followed the chronological progress of the war. I considered the narrative’s troping of its major stages—the outbreak of war (1180), the imperial edict that marked its midpoint (1183) and its conclusion with Minamoto Yoritomo’s victory (1185), looping back in time

1 A previous version of Yoshitsune was broadcast in 1966 and an adaptation of Yoshikawa Eiji’s Shin Heike monogatari was broadcast in 1972. The taiga dorama genre was born in the “high growth” era of 1960s Japan, as media critics note, in response to a need for cultural and national narratives. In the heyday of the 1970s, they were imagined as the “drama of the Japanese people” in which one would find the morals and principles of people driven with one national goal (economic success) in mind. As media-driven histories of the past, Carol Gluck observes, these dramas constituted an important site of public memory in which the past was reified as heroic. Unheroic themes did not do very well on air. See Gluck, “The Past in the Present,” in Postwar Japan as History, ed. Andrew Gordon (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1993), 74. For more on the importance of the taiga dorama genre in constituting national memory, see Soomi Lee, “Taiga dorama: janru no tōjō to sono shakaiteki imi no keisei katei,” Jōhōgaku kenkyū 70 (2006): 147–169. 168 chapter six to the first signs of the disordered world (1170s). In chapter 2, I focused on Yoritomo’s uprising in the east, arguing that the topoi of the bathhouse and the tree hollow, two tropes of new beginnings in medieval narrative, furnish the imagery for a novel historical trajectory. These metaphors of nascence and emergence do not just legitimate Yoritomo’s rise; the purificatory symbolism of these topoi reveal the particularly fraught role that violence plays in Yoritomo’s story. Launched with an unauthorized use of violence, Yoritomo’s rebellion is initially represented as the actions of a chōteki (imperial rebel). Yet, the future role of shoguns as keepers of martial and juridical order requires that Yoritomo’s violence be recognized, en avance, as necessary for the functioning of warrior order. Violence, in other words, is both disruptive and generative for the texts of the Heike corpus, and the last variant, the Genpei jōsuiki, turns to ritual to develop a cultic apparatus to manage this contradiction. Yoritomo’s performance of the Hōjōe underscores the dual status of shoguns as agents of violence who periodically demonstrate their abstention from the use of force. The ritual associations of the bathhouse, likewise, sanctify Yoritomo’s martial initiatives and reverse his defiled status as an exile. Finally, the eruptive energies of 1180 are proleptically yoked to the stability guaranteed by future shogunal law-keeping. These symbolic cultural forms—both ritual and legal—regulate the chaotic and potentially seditious aspects of Yoritomo’s uprising. Whereas the narrative’s main focus for 1180 is the simultaneous containment and legitimation of violence, the court’s co-optation of Yoritomo in 1183 in the midst of a crushing famine is an historical turning point that requires a different form of negotiation. As chapter 3 explained, the Heike corpus depicts this power shift by turning to the symbolic valence of food in ritual and material culture. Two banquet scenes mark this turning point. In one dining scene set in Kyoto, the court is humbled by the seizure of aristocratic lands and the ravenous appetite of the warrior Yoshinaka. In another scene set in the east, Yoritomo celebrates the court’s recognition of his growing martial power by holding a lavish banquet. The contrast between the two scenes is not simply evocative of the shifting balance of power between center and periphery, aristocrat and warrior; food is also used in these scenes to suggest a breakdown of the symbolic categories that were utilized to maintain order. The audacious Yoshinaka feasts with little regard for the categories of sacred/defiled and ceremonial/ private that, through their application to dining customs, were critical to the maintenance of imperial authority. This breakdown coincides with a larger impasse in the progress of imperial time as the court is unable to conduct the Daijōsai, a crucial rite of rulership associated with the harvest. the past in the present 169

The Heike variants focalize their depiction of 1183 through the collapse of these socio-structural and calendrical ties of food with imperial power. They then evoke a new cultural geography of food under shoguns, one in which the shogun commands vast resources at sumptuous banquets held at his eastern capital. Though the emergence of shogunal power is quietly foreshadowed through the dining rituals of 1183, the arc of this narrative only reaches its conclusion in 1185, when the loss of the imperial sword ushers in new metaphorical possibilities for conceptualizing the balance of power in the medieval world. Chapter 4 argued that the political vacuum created by the loss is initially managed in the ritual space of mikkyō (esoteric) ceremonies by imagining a host of phantasmic and earthly swords. These doubles form an indefinite chain, their very sameness across vast tracts of space and time assuring the order and completeness of the imperial world. The Heike texts, however, steer the logic of doubling in an alternate direction to suggest schism and difference. Echoing a host of fourteenth- century texts, the Genpei jōsuiki goes even further than earlier variants. In its pages, ancient swords of the imperial court yield to multiple medieval replicas, the custody of which is entrusted to medieval shoguns. Blurring the boundary between “authoritative” originals and later replicas, these sword doubles metatextually authorize replication on the level of narrative. The later retellings of the Heike sword stories thus acquire rhetorical power, dislodging the primacy of imperial power presented in earlier imperial sword narratives. Chapter 5, the final chapter, looped back in time to the 1170s in the Heike corpus to reveal an important precondition for the smooth transition to warrior power—the domestication of warrior violence. Warrior combat, whether it was conducted on behalf of the powerful or undertaken to gain an upper hand in local rivalries, threatened the stability of public order. In the Heike, the ever-present threat of convulsion is recoded through the horse, an object of physical and material culture most closely associated with the warrior. Aggression is transformed into sport in the text through scenes of horse-racing. Likewise, rivalry over possession (or breeding) of a fine horse becomes the conflict that replaces warrior infighting. Though canonical readings suggest that these stories reflect the social reality of horse-loving warriors, this chapter made the case that these stories produce a powerful cultural fantasy in which the anarchic behavior of warriors is rendered predictable and exemplary. This idealization of warrior ethos, utilized at several crucial junctures in the Heike, channels aggression into temperate cultural narratives, facilitating the larger account of an ordered transition to warrior rule. 170 chapter six

The Uses of the Past: The Founding of Warrior Power in the Retrospection of Later Eras

From as early as the fourteenth century, tales of shogunal pasts played a role in constituting the shogunal present. This book has focused on the literary strategies with which the twelfth-century emergence of warrior power was legitimated in the fourteenth-century context. But its broadest claim is that the symbolic structure given to shogunal stories is just as important to understanding a multi-faceted notion such as warrior power as the institutional, social, and intellectual history of the medieval period. Because warrior government endured in Japan for seven hundred years, stories about Yoritomo (and his ancestors) were crucial to later shoguns as they framed their place in history. The narratives of the “founding” of warrior power—the origin of which could be variously construed—removed shoguns from the untidy realities of their historical present and produced an idealized context for them. The exhaustive study of such uses of the past must be the subject of another book, for it spans performative genres such as nō, kabuki, and kōwaka, as well as literary and historiographical texts, but a brief account of the retrospective impulse in the cultural memory of shoguns is a fitting coda for this book. Even as the Heike variants were being composed in the fourteenth century, warrior power required narrative constructions of the past to underwrite the present. The fourteenth-century Ashikaga shoguns staked their claim to legitimacy by linking themselves to the eleventh-century warrior Minamoto Yoshiie. According to references in the Kanmon nikki (Diary of Things Seen and Heard, also known as Kanmon gyoki) of Prince Sadafusa (1372–1456), the shogun Ashikaga Yoshinori had many paint- ings in his collection featuring his heroic ancestry. One such work was the pictorial handscroll Yasuhira seibatsu-e, which recounts Minamoto Yoshitsune’s successful campaign against the Ōshū Fujiwara. Another work mentioned in the diary, Sadatō Munetō tōbatsu-e (Illustrated Tale of the Conquest of Sadatō and Munetō, n.d.), chronicles the victorious campaign of Minamoto Yoriyoshi and his son, Yoshiie, against Abe Sadatō in the Former Nine Years War.2 Though the above works are not extant, a similar thematic emphasis on the exploits of Yoshiie is also found in

2 For the discussion above, I relied on Takagishi Akira, Muromachi ōken to kaiga: shoki Tosa-ha kenkyū (Kyoto: Kyōto Daigaku Gakujutsu Shuppankai, 2004), 71–76. the past in the present 171 the handscroll Gosannen kassen emaki, currently housed in the Tokyo National Museum. Texts such as the Baishōron, also set down during this period, celebrated the ancient origins of warrior rule. In a section about Jishō 4 (1180), Yoritomo is reified as the figure who paved the way for warriors to become yo no nushi (rulers of the realm).3 The prologue to the main narrative is striking, too, because it is an unusual list of the shoguns of Japan. It begins with Yamato Takeru, a legendary warrior conventionally associated with the extension of the court’s territorial hegemony, before it makes its way to Yoritomo, and eventually to Ashikaga Takauji. The illustrious past of warrior government is mythicized more forcefully in the Muromachi text Buke hanjō.4 The large third section of this text is devoted to charting a lineage that runs from Yamato Takeru to Yoritomo, two figures separated by nearly ten centuries. That the writing of these accounts reimagined history in new ways goes without saying; what is more interesting, however, is the place reserved for stories of the past in constituting the shogunal present. Put another way, while we accept today that it is the present that shapes the past for ideological reasons, these accounts insist that we also carefully consider the corollary idea—that the symbolic structure given to the past helps produce the historical present. To the Tokugawa shoguns of the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, the narratives of the founding of warrior power, though written several centuries earlier, provided the analogical framework through which they could make visible their own authority. In chapter 1, I discussed the fond- ness the first Tokugawa shogun, Ieyasu, had for the Genpei jōsuiki, arguing that it provided a template for his own vision for warrior rule. Here, I will conclude with two images produced during the Tokugawa period that underscore the importance of the past in the symbolic construction of warrior power. The folding screen illustrating views of Edo (Edozu byōbu, 1634–1635) in the National Museum of Japanese History is known as a celebration of the architectural grandeur of the Tokugawa capital, Edo, under the rule of the third shogun, Iemitsu (1604–1651). Less well noted is the fact that it features several hunt scenes, one of which clearly evokes

3 This particular section is missing from extant copies, but scholars posit that such language existed, based on their reading of the surrounding passages and their study of copies of the manuscript. See Fukuda Akimichi, “Baishōron no kikan kōsō: shōgun to shōtō,” Shimadai kokubun 23, no. 2 (1995): 7. 4 The Buke hanjō is discussed in chapter 4. 172 chapter six

Yoritomo’s famous hunt in 1193 at the foothills of Mount Fuji taken up in the Soga monogatari. This hunt, associated in cultural memory with the beginning of Yoritomo’s hegemony over eastern warriors and, by extension warrior rule, helps posit the Tokugawa shogunate as a military power. The iconography of this hunt is also taken up in the popular cultural form of woodblock prints. In Utagawa Kunisada’s Minamoto Yoritomo kō Fuji no susono makigari no zu (Lord Minamoto Yoritomo’s Hunt at the Foot of Mount Fuji, 1804–1818), the spectacular hunts of Tokugawa shoguns at Koganehara (in 1725, 1726, and 1795) are given further grandeur by way of Yoritomo’s precedent.5 These examples reveal a particular place for portrayals of Yoritomo in the woodblock-print culture of the Tokugawa period. Though Yoritomo was by no means a popular subject in Tokugawa-period cultural imaginings—eclipsed in popularity by his brother Yoshitsune and other warriors—he was used on strategic occasions as a reference point for positing the abstraction of shogunal power. These two illustrations, indicative of a much larger representational tradition of popular and official imaginings not discussed here, suggest the critical importance of stories of Yoritomo’s past in producing the Tokugawa present. Ultimately, they show that the metaphorical construction of warrior power, begun in the literary texts of the fourteenth century, would shape, through various reiterations, the idea of warrior power for centuries to come.

5 For the discussion above, I have relied on Ōkubo Jun’ichi, “Yoritomo no imēji to Toku- gawa shōgun,” in Bushi to kishi: Nichi-ō hikaku chūkinseishi no kenkyū, edited by Kojima Michihiro (Tokyo: Shibunkaku, 2010), 293–311. Works Cited n.b.: In a number of Japanese sources, page numbers are listed in reverse order, in keeping with the pagination in the original source.

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Index

Abe no Seimei, 130 Benjamin, Walter, 30n4, 64n88 Abe Sadatō, 170 Bialock, David T., 11, 16n28, 18n33, 29n3, Abe Yasurō, 32n9, 41, 82, 115n20, 137n66 117n28, 146 Abe Yasutada, 102n89 biwa hōshi (blind lute players), 11, 16n28, Adachi Morinaga, 99 18n32 Akagari no Daita, 43 boats, 57–60 Akamatsu Hōin, 22n47 and Emperor Go-Daigo’s escape, 60 Akashi no Kakuichi, 8n15 in Kuzu (nō play), 58 Akutagawa Ryūnosuke, 90 as purifying yubune, 57–58 Ama (The Woman Diver; nō play), 117n28 body: and symbolism of Yoritomo, 29, Amaterasu, 104, 116, 118n29, 119, 120, 139 41–44, 45 Amino Yoshihiko, 61n78, 146 Bourdieu, Pierre, 81 Antoku, Emperor, 72, 107, 116–17, 138n70 Brooks, Peter, 91 Arnn, Barbara, 11n21 Buddhism, 6, 18n32, 19, 22, 34, 46, 78, Asaka Toshiki, 88n40 109n6 Asami Kazuhiko, 57 and Buddha body, 113 Ashikaga shogunate, 4, 12, 42n34, 59n76, and Hōjōe ritual, 47, 48n50 99, 170 Tendai, 113, 114 and swords, 121, 132, 133, 138 Buke hanjō (The Flourishing of Warriors), Ashikaga Takauji, 1, 24, 53, 171 121, 134, 171 Ashikaga Yoshinori, 121, 123, 170 Bunzō (kyōgen play), 67 Assman, Aleida and Jan, 108n5 Atsumi Kaoru, 110n8 carriages: clashing of, 147–50 Atsuta Daijingū himitsu hyakuroku drivers of (ushikai), 144–46 (One Hundred Secret Records of the vs. horses, 13, 16, 94n62, 142–46, 147, 164 Atsuta Grand Shrine), 120 Chiba no suke Tsunetane, 84 Atsuta shrine, 119–23, 124, 133, 134n57, Chiba Taneyori, 31 135n60, 136–37, 139 Chinese histories, 5, 7, 19, 21n42, 22, 40, Azuma kagami (Mirror of the East), 8, 10, 54–55, 152 22, 31, 63, 98 Chōgen, 34 on Yoritomo, 31, 53, 54n63, 63, 86, 95 Chōrokubon, 128n46, 133 Azuma kagami kōyō (Essential Elements of Chūgaishō (Fujiwara Tadazane), 97 the Azuma kagami; Hayashi Razan), 23 chūsei Nihongi (medieval Nihongi), 136 Cohen, Jeffrey Jerome, 162n66 Baishōron (Discourse of Plums and Pines), Colcutt, Martin, 52n60 1, 42n34, 53, 121, 171 cultural capital, 81–82 Bal, Mieke, 14 culture: kaisho, 99–100 Bandō, the, 60–63 manuscript, 9 banquets, 15, 168 material, 9, 11–14, 16, 167, 168 ōban, 16, 70, 75, 97–99 vs. nature, 77, 146, 165 onari, 75, 97, 99–100 ritual, 9, 11–16, 29 shogunal, 97–100, 106 warrior, 22–23, 78–79, 82, 141–42, 143, “warrior banquet” as a trope, 70, 75–76, 159, 160, 169 85, 88–97, 106 bathhouses, 32–37, 45, 66, 168 Dai Nihon chimei jisho (Dictionary of and seyoku (charitable bathing), 34 Geographical Names of Japan), 67 Batten, Bruce L., 89, 90n47 Dai Nihonshi (Great History of Japan), 7, Bell, Catherine, 14 20, 67 186 index

Daibutsu engi emaki (Illustrated Legends vs. Genpei jōsuiki, 65n89 of the Great Buddha), 34 on horses, 155, 158 Daijōsai (Great Rice Offering Festival), naming of, 8n15 88–89, 168 on swords, 110n7, 111n9, 116, 117 Dainichi Nyorai (Mahāvairocana), 114 on Yoritomo, 20, 96 Dannoura, battle of, 4, 107, 116, 118n29, 127, on Yoshinaka, 72–73 137, 138n69 Enpō hachinenban Genpei jōsuiki, xv, xvi Derrida, Jacques, 30n4, 64n88 estates (shōen), 92–93, 103–4, 162 diaries, 10, 22, 27, 71, 147 exile: sites of, 60, 63 on food, 74, 81, 101 theme of, 58–59 on Yoritomo, 86, 87, 88 Yoritomo as, 3, 27, 31, 33, 35–36, 42, 44, Dōkyō, 119 76n8, 95, 168. See also kishu ryūritan Douglas, Mary, 77–78 Ezo people, 61 Dragon King, 117–18, 123 dragons, 116–18 face reading (physiognomy), xv, 29, 37–38, dreams, 41, 42, 44, 45, 125–26, 129, 132 39–40, 44, 69, 153 famine, 74, 75, 81, 100–104, 168 east, the: as center, 41, 84 Farris, William Wayne, 62n83 “defiled,” 15, 16n28, 27–30, 52n60, 53, feasts. See banquets 60, 63 festivals: Daijōe, 138n70 and food, 69, 70, 74, 83–84, 95, 98 Daijōsai, 88–89, 168 Genpei jōsuiki on, 62, 65 Kamo, 47, 144, 146, 149 and imperial court, 47, 60, 61–62, 76, Satsuki no sechi, 157, 163 87, 88 “First Man Across the Uji River” and Kamakura shogunate, 53, 63, 74 (Kakuichibon), 154–56 vs. Kyoto, 86, 89 food, 69–106 warrior power in, 61–62, 63, 72, 75, as goryō (food for elites/imperial 141–42, 155, 163–64, 172 estate), 71, 74, 81, 104 wealth of, 85 in “Nekoma” episode, 76–83 and Yoritomo, 3, 41–42, 44, 47, 60, of periphery, 69–70, 74, 86, 89–97 62–63, 67, 76, 135, 155, 168 and ritual, 15, 69, 168 and Yoshinaka, 96 and social hierarchies, 69, 77, 78, 91, Eccentric Spaces, Hidden Histories 92–93, 97 (Bialock), 11, 15n25, 16n28, 29n3, 82n26, symbolism of, 57, 75 146n15 and warriors, 13, 74, 75, 78–79, 82, 85, Edozu byōbu (Illustrated Screen of Edo), 86, 89 171 and Yoritomo, 74, 75, 103, 104n95 Eiwa daijōeki (Record of the Daijōe and Yoshinaka, 69–75, 76–83, 86, 168. Ceremony of 1375), 138 See imperial estates (goryōchi) Eizon, 34 Former Nine Years War, 53, 132, 170 Elias, Norbert, 81, 148 Foucault, Michel, 114 emperors, 40, 41, 113, 150, 165 Friday, Karl F., 62n83, 144n10 and food, 71, 104–5 Fudō Myōō (Skt. Acalanātha), 112–13, 114 vs. military families, 48–49 Fuji River, battle of, 47, 59, 60–63, 95, 98 vs. shogunate, 27, 44, 66. See also Fujii Sadakazu, 56 imperial court; particular emperors Fujiwara family, 118n28, 120, 157, 170 engi (origin tales), 22, 48 Northern, 75n7, 93–94 Engi danjōshiki (Rules of the Board of Fujiwara Fusa’aki, 118n28 Censors), 148 Fujiwara Hidesato (Tawara no Tōda Engi shiki (Procedures of the Engi Era), Hidesato), 83–84 89, 95 Fujiwara Kaneie, 145n13 Engyōbon (Enkeibon; Enkyōbon), 7n10, Fujiwara Kanemichi, 145n13 17–19, 28n2, 30, 46n44, 63 Fujiwara Mitsuchika, 63 bathhouse scene in, 32–33, 35 Fujiwara Morosuke, 41n31 index 187

Fujiwara Motofusa, 6, 147, 149–50 time in, 20, 30, 53, 65–66 Fujiwara Nobuyori, 125–27, 143 and Tokugawa Ieyasu, 22, 68, 171 Fujiwara Tadazane, 97 on tree hollow, 53, 54–55, 57 Fujiwara Takafusa, 93 and “Tsurugi no maki”, 128n46 Fujiwara Tokinaga, 94 and Uji shūi monogatari, 59 Fujiwara Toshihito, 90–97 as yomihon (“read” variant), 18, 19 Fujiwara Tsunenari, 49 on Yoritomo, 20, 42, 44–45, 50, 96 Fujiwara Yorinaga, 148, 160n61 on Yoshinaka, 70, 72, 103 Fukuhara Edict, 45–47, 152n34 Genpei War: battles in, 28–30, 60–63 Fusō ryakki (Abridged Annals of Japan), 57 beginning of, 27–30 Futaki Ken’ichi, 98 in Dai Nihonshi, 7–8 and establishment of shogunate, 64–65, gastro-politics. See food 124 gates, 62, 70, 71–72, 145n13 and food, 74 Geertz, Clifford, 15n26 and Fukuhara edict, 45–47 Gendayū, 55 horses in, 142, 164 Gendayū (nō play), 120 and imperial sword, 115 Gen’ishū (Tales of Minamoto Authority), 2 Jien on, 111 Genji monogatari (Tale of Genji), 40, 58, and Konoshita as catalyst, 151–52 149 and late Heian world, 2 Genjō (Xuanzang), 34 in modern imaginings, 167 Genkō shakusho (Buddhist History and Mongaku as instigator, 32 Compiled in the Genkō Era), 34 and musa no yo (age of the warrior), 1, Genpei jōsuiki (Chronicle of the Rise 82, 108, 112, 115 and Fall of the Taira and Minamoto and violence, 27–30, 66, 68. See also Families), 1–25, 168 Dannoura, battle of; Fuji River, as account of political inception, 29, battle of; Go-Shirakawa, Emperor; 54, 66 Ishibashiyama, battle of; Minamoto authoritative story-telling of, 10, 67 Yoritomo and bathhouses, 36–37 geography of power: and spaces of exile, on battles, 28–30 63 dating of, 21–22 and travel of tribute, 89–90 as dowry, 24 and Yoritomo’s banquet, 94–95. See also on the east, 62, 65 east, the; periphery vs. Engyōbon, 65n89 gift-giving, 85, 91–96, 99–100, 163 as exhaustive compendium, 7 Girard, René, 115–16 “First Man Across the Uji River” in, Go-Daigo, Emperor, 1, 60, 138, 138n69 155–56 Go-Hanazono, Emperor, 138 on food, 83–84, 105 Go-Shirakawa, Emperor, 3–5, 16n28, 36, on founding of Kamakura shogunate, 80n19 63–64 and Fukuhara Edict, 45, 47 and Fukuhara Edict, 46 in Genpei jōsuiki, 23, 24, 32 Genpei War in, 2–4 and Mongaku, 32, 42n32, 45 historical rhetoric of, 4–9 and Yoritomo, 47, 126–27, 152 and historicity, 10–12, 16 and Yoshinaka, 4, 71, 72, 82, 103, 104, 105, horses in, 159n57 145–46 influence on later texts of, 66–68 Go-Toba, Emperor, 111 vs. Kakuichibon, 20, 21, 65 Gomi Fumihiko, 161 Konoshita episode in, 151–53 Gosannen kassen emaki (Illustrated Tale of on Mongaku, 38, 44 the Latter Three Years War), 2, 171 “Nekoma” episode in, 79–80 Gosechi (Five Rhythms Festival), 88 reception in Tokugawa period, 22–24 Grapard, Allan G., 114 surviving manuscripts of, 22 Gukanshō (Jien), 1, 111–14 on swords, 110, 117, 119, 123–27, 138, 169 Gyōki, 35 188 index

Gyōkō, 121 Hōgen Rebellion, 1, 3, 131n52, 132 Gyokuyō (diary of Kujō Kanezane), 10, Hōjō Masako, 36 27n1, 45n43, 87, 88, 101–2 Hōjō Tokimasa, 36, 47 Hōjōe (Rite for the Compassionate Hachiman: as arbiter of violence, 49–52 Release of Living Things), 14–15, 16, 63, and doves, 49, 50, 54 168 as “god of war,” 48 history of, 47–50 and Hōjōe ritual, 48–52 and ritual regulation of violence, 29, 45, as patron deity of Minamoto family, 50, 47–53 51, 129, 132–33 Hōjōki (An Account of a Ten-Foot-Square as protector deity of the state, 50 Hut Kamo no Chōmei), 100–101, 143, and Yoritomo, 54, 134 144 and Yoshinaka, 103 “Hōken setsuwa” (Narrative of Swords), Harada Nobuo, 100 107–8, 110, 111n9, 114–23, 127–28 Hare, Thomas, 59n76 different names for, 108n3 Hatakeyama Shigetada, 73 Hokuriku, Prince, 80n19 Hayashi Gahō, 23, 24 Hokuriku region, 87n35, 88, 100 Hayashi Razan, 23, 24 hollow trees, xvi, 51, 53–60, 66, 168 Hayato people, 48 Honchō tsugan (Comprehensive Mirror of Heiji monogatari (Tales of Heiji), 143, this Court), 23 152n33 horse-racing tournaments (kurabeuma): Heiji Rebellion, 1, 3, 38, 126n43, 132, 133 and circumscribing of violence, 142, Heike monogatari (Tales of the Heike), 1 154–58, 163, 164, 169 as ‘charter myth of warrior order,’ 2, 20 history of, 157–58 and “eastern potentiality” of warrior horses: and articulation of symbolic culture, 141–42 authority, 163, 165 on famine, 101–2 vs. carriages, 13, 16, 94n62, 142–46, 147, and figural custody of Ashikaga 164 shoguns, 12n22 and darkness, 158–62 on food, 105 as gifts, 85, 163 historicity of, 10–12, 16 in horse-theft stories, 159–61 and “Hōken setsuwa”, 123 love of, 151–54 on imperial sword, 107, 108 in medieval European discourses of “Natora” in, 158 chivalry, 162n66 “Nekoma” episode in, 76–83 as naturalized counterpart to warrior, and orality, 10–11, 17–19 159, 160 as pacification for vanquished, 16n28 and redirection of violence, 142, 153–58, and swords, 136 165 variants of, 2, 8–9, 17–20, 22, 66, 68 in representing transition to warrior yomihon (“read” texts) vs. kataribon power, 12, 25, 141–65 (recited texts), 17–20. See and ritual, 62, 157 also Engyōbon; Genpei jōsuiki; and warriors, 141–65, 169 Kakuichibon; Nagatobon; and Yoritomo, 154–56, 159. See also Shibu-kassenjōbon Ikezuki; Konoshita; Surusumi “Heike monogatari and Genpei jōsuiki Hōsa bunkobon, 22 Are Full of Errors” (Hoshino Tadashi), 10 Hoshino Tadashi, 10 Herder, Gottfried, 18n33 Hotate Michihisa, 92–93 hiden (secret transmission), 109, 119, 125, “How Captain Taira Munetsune of the 136–37 Guards of the Left Escorted Sōjō Higashijima Makoto, 102 Myōson” (Konjaku monogatarishū), Hinomashi no tsurugi, 113–14 159–60 Hisaakira, Prince, 98 “How Kanetoki and Atsuyuki Competed Hizen fudoki (Hizen Gazetteer), 64 in Horsemanship” (Konjaku Hōgen monogatari, 160 monogatarishū), 156–57 index 189

“How Yoriyoshi, A Son of Minamoto Ise monogatari (Tales of Ise), 58, 76, 90 Yorinobu, Shot Down a Horse Thief” Ise shrine, 135n60 (Konjaku monogatarishū), 159, 161–62 and imperial sword, 118n29, 120, 122, Huizinga, Johan, 157n49 138n69 humor: and comedy of manners, 79–80, 84 Ishibashiyama, battle of, 47, 53, 60, 64, and domestication of threat, 70–72, 83 67, 84 and Yoshinaka, 70–76, 81, 96, 104 Ishimoda Shō, 142n2 hunting, 50, 119, 135, 147, 150, 156, 171–72 Issun bōshi (Tale of the One-Inch Boy), 43 Hyakunijūkkubon, 128n46 Itō Kiyoshi, 52–53, 63 Hyakurenshō (Selections Tempered One Itō Sukechika, 35 Hundred Times), 49 Hyōdō Hiromi, 12, 16n28, 18n31 Jien, 1, 15, 109–10, 111–14, 115, 123–24, 135 Jihen, 138–39 Ibukuro to bungaku (The Stomach and Jikkinshō (Book of Ten Rules), 53 Literature; Mitani Kuniaki), 104 carriage-clash scene in, 149n25 Ikegami Jun’ichi, 159 Jingoji kyūki, 31 Ikezuki (horse), 154–56, 158–59 Jingū, Empress, 48 Imogayu (Yam Gruel; Akutagawa Jinnō shōtōki (Chronicle of the Direct Ryūnosuke), 90 Descent of Gods and Sovereigns; imperial court: banquets of, 88–89, 91–94 Kitabatake Chikafusa), 138n69 dues (nengū) to, 89–90, 93, 102 Jinshin War, 55, 57 and the east, 47, 60, 61–62, 76 Jōkyū War, 10, 32, 63, 108, 111, 112n12 and Hachiman, 51 jūgatsu senji (edict of the tenth month), and Hōjōe ritual, 47–49 86–88, 102 and horse racing tournaments, 157–58 and imperial regalia, 137 Kadokawa Nihon chimei daijiten, 68 and swords, 169 Kaeuper, Richard W., 164 and symbolic appropriation of food, 70, kaisho culture, 99–100 71, 74, 104–5, 168–69 Kajiwara Kagesue, 154–56 and warrior power, 17, 48–49, 74–75, Kajiwara Kagetoki, 54 82–83, 86, 90n47, 94, 108, 141–42 Kakaishō (Rivers and Seas Commentary), and Yamato Takeru, 171 40 and Yoritomo, 27, 30, 42, 44, 46–47, Kakuichibon, 2, 8, 17, 19, 83n27 52n61, 66, 84, 86, 87–88, 95–96, 102–3, and elision of eastern battles, 28, 30 168 “First Man Across the Uji River” in, and Yoshinaka, 69, 70, 72, 77, 78, 80, 154–56 82–83, 105–6 on food, 105 imperial estates (goryōchi), 71, 74, 81, 87 and Fukuhara Edict, 46 imperial regalia, 72, 107, 112–13 vs. Genpei jōsuiki, 20, 21, 65 “chimera of regalia,” 137–38 on Hōjōe ritual, 47 imperial sword, 111–23 on horses, 147, 153–54, 159n57 in accounts of divided political Konoshita episode in, 153 authority, 135–36 and lost imperial sword, 117n27 loss of, 15, 107–8, 137–38 “Nekoma” episode in, 97 vs. Minamoto swords, 128, 133, 134 on swords, 110n7, 117n27 replicas of, 114, 115, 117–18, 119, 123, Kamakura shogunate, 66, 68, 75, 111 137–38, 139, 169 and the east, 53, 74 and shogunate as its proxy, 108, 109, 110, founding of, 27–30, 53, 63–64 120–24, 135–36 and horses, 157, 163 and transfer of martial authority to and imperial court, 87, 120–21 shogunate, 108, 111, 120–21 Kami Hiroshi, 18n32 and violence, 115–16 Kamikawa Michio, 113n15 and warrior power, 125–27 Kamo Festival, 47, 144, 146, 149 and Yoritomo, 107–8, 115, 138, 138n70 Kamo no Chōmei, 100–101, 143 190 index

Kanmon nikki (Diary of Things Seen and on horses, 142, 144, 156–57, 158–62 Heard; Prince Sadafusa), 170 and shifting geography of power, 76, 90, Kanmu, Emperor, 3n 96, 142 Kantorowicz, Ernst H., 42 Konkōmyōkyō (Golden Light Sutra), 47 Kasamatsu Hiroshi, 160–62 Konoefu (Headquarters of the Inner Kase Naoya, 52n61 Palace Guards), 157 Kasuga Festival, 47 Konoshita (horse), 151–53, 154 kataribon (recited variants of Heike), Korenshū (Sacred Vessel Collection), 138n69 17–20, 46, 66n91, 97 kōwaka, 19 Kawazoe Fusae, 40 Kubota Jun, 20 Kazusa no suke Hirotsune, 84 Kujō Kanezane, 10, 27, 101, 102, 104 Keichō kokatsujiban (old movable type Kūkai, 31, 113 edition of the Keichō era), 22 Kurō Yoshitsune. See Minamoto Kenkyū gojunreiki (Record of a Pilgrimage Yoshitsune during the Kenkyū Era), 34 Kuroda Akira, 110n8 Kenreimon’in, 21 Kuzu (nō play), 58n73, 59, 66 Kimura Shigemochi, 62 kyōgen (comic theater), 67 Kiō (takiguchi; imperial bodyguard), 153 kyūba no shi (men of the bow and the kishu ryūritan (exile of the young noble), horse), 141, 164 58–59 Kiso, Prince, 80n19 lampoons. See rakusho Kitabatake Chikafusa, 138n69 language: of Kyoto, 76–77 Kitamura Kigin, 24 and Yoshinaka, 79–80, 81 Kitano shrine, 148 Latter Three Years War, 2, 132, 171 Klein, Susan Blakeley, 137n64 law: and Kamakura shogunate, 63–64, 66 Ko-otoko no sōshi (Tale of the Little Man), and legitimation of violence, 29–30, 43 64n88, 168 Kobayashi Hideo, 154 on night attacks, 160–61 Kobayashi Yoshikazu, 21 Law, Jane Marie, 48 Kobutori jiisan (Old Man with the Wen), Lévi-Strauss, Claude, 77 56 Lin, Irene, 131n54 Kōchi Shōsuke, 105 lineage, 3n1, 38–39, 51, 53 Kogo shūi (Gleanings of Ancient Words), and swords, 124–25, 132–33. See also 116n24 Fujiwara family; Minamoto (Genji) Kōgon, Emperor, 60n77 family; Taira (Heishi) family Kojidan (Talks about Ancient Matters), 16, Liu Bang (Chinese Emperor Gaozu), 54–55 40, 49 on Hōjōe rite, 51–52 Makura no sōshi (The Pillow Book; on horses, 148, 153–54, 156 Sei Shōnagon), 81, 149n25 Kojiki (Record of Ancient Matters): Mass, Jeffrey P., 38n21 and expansion of court’s control, 104, Masuda Katsumi, 105 131n53 Masukagami (Clear Mirror), 98 and imperial regalia, 137 material culture: architecture as, 130–31, 171 and Sukunabikona-no-kami, 43 as semiotic code for depicting Kokon chomonjū (Collection of Things socio-political order, 11–14, 16, 167, Written and Heard in Past and Present), 168. See also food; horses; swords 17n30, 35, 156 Matsuo Ashie, 7n11, 16n30, 21, 65n89, Komatsu Kazuhiko, 117n28, 130n51 95n64, 128n46, 134n57 Komine Kazuaki, 55–56, 159 Matsuo Kenji, 52n61 Kōmyō, Empress, 34, 37 Mauss, Marcel, 93 Konjaku monogatarishū (Collection of medievality (chūseiteki), 160 Tales of Times Now Past), 16, 34, 53, 55, Meiun, Abbot, 72 79n17, 145 mikkyō (esoteric) practice, 112n14, 113–14, banquets in, 89–97 119, 169 index 191

Minamoto (Genji) family, 3–4, 5, 22, 38, in proleptic accounts, 44, 64, 88, 134 46, 64, 164 as regional policeman, 86, 87 as concentration of martial virtue of and shogunate, 42–43, 44, 70, 85, 86, imperial sword, 120 170, 171 duplicity and division in, 130–31 and swords, 128, 132, 133 and the east, 61–62 in tree hollow, xvi, 51, 53–57 and Hachiman, 51, 129, 132–33 and violence, 27–30, 168 retrospective imagining of, 3n1, 38, 128, as warrior chieftain and overlord, 4, 86, 132 97, 98 swords of, 110, 111–12, 114, 127–35 Minamoto Yoritomo kō Fuji no susono Watanabe league of, 21, 130–31 makigari no zu (Lord Minamoto Minamoto Mitsunaka (Tada no Yoritomo’s Hunt at the Foot of Mount Mitsunaka), 128–30 Fuji; Utagawa Kunisada), 172 Minamoto Nakatsuna, 151–52, 153 Minamoto Yoriyoshi, 38, 51, 53, 55, 132, 159, Minamoto Sanetomo, 98 161–62, 170 Minamoto Tameyoshi, 132 Minamoto Yoshiie, 38, 132, 170 Minamoto Tsunenobu, 148 and Hachiman, 49, 50, 51, 52 Minamoto Yoriie, 52 Minamoto Yoshinaka: and carriage, 145–46 Minamoto Yorimasa, 125–27, 131n52, 151–53 as challenger to imperial authority, Minamoto Yorimitsu, 130, 131, 144, 145 15–16, 69, 72, 105 Minamoto Yorinobu, 159, 161–62 and famine, 100, 101, 103–4 Minamoto Yoritomo: as arbiter of and Go-Shirakawa, 4, 71, 72, 82, 103, 104, aggression, 29 105, 145–46 and Atsuta shrine, 121 humorous mocking of, 70–76, 81, 104 and banquets, 15, 83–89, 97, 98, 99, 100, and imperial court, 69, 70, 72, 77, 78, 80, 168 82–83, 87–88, 105–6 in cultural memory, 27, 171–72 in Kyoto, 69, 70, 76–77 domesticated ambition of, 152, 154 and language, 79–80, 81 and the east, 3, 41–42, 44, 47, 60, 62–63, as negative counterpart to Yoritomo, 86 67, 76, 135, 155, 168 in “Nekoma” episode, 76–83, 96–97, 100 as exile, 3, 27, 31, 33, 35–36, 42, 44, 76n8, as rapacious diner, 69–75, 76–83, 86, 168 168 and ritual, 15–16 face of, xv, 37–38, 39–40, 45 significance of, 105–6 and food, 74, 75, 103, 104n95 and Yoritomo, 43, 85, 152, 154 and Fukuhara Edict, 45–47, 152n34 Minamoto Yoshitomo, 3, 36, 37, 38, 132–33, Genpei jōsuiki on, 20, 23, 25, 42, 44–45, 143 50, 96 Minamoto Yoshitsuna, 49 and Genpei War, 3–4, 133, 167–68 Minamoto Yoshitsune, 38, 70–71, 73, gifts from, 94–96 131n52, 133, 170, 172 and Go-Shirakawa, 126–27, 152 Minamoto Yukiie, 152 and Hachiman, 50–52 Minobe Tatsukichi, 21 Heike on, 1, 2, 10 Mitani Kuniaki, 104, 105 and horses, 154–56, 159 Mitsutaka, Nekoma Middle Counselor, 75, and hunting, 135, 150, 172 76–83 and imperial court, 27, 30, 42, 44–47, Miura Yoshizumi, 85, 98 52n61, 66, 84, 86–88, 95–96, 102–3, Mizuhara Hajime, xiv, 76, 97n71 168 Mochihito, Prince, 3, 72, 80n19, 151–52 and imperial sword, 107–8, 115, 138 Mongaku (monk), 45, 131n52, 152n34 and jūgatsu senji, 86–88, 102 as clairvoyant seer, 32 as legal adjudicator, 20, 27, 30, 43n35, face reading by, xv, 37–38, 39–40, 41, 63–64 42, 44 legible body of, 41–44, 45 and Yoritomo, xv, 31–34, 36, 37–38 miracle performed by, 59 Mongol invasions, 48, 51n58 and Mongaku, xv, 31–34, 37–38 Mori Masato, 56 192 index

Motoki Yasuo, 105 Oyler, Elizabeth, 10–11, 18, 51, 72, 130n49, Motoori Norinaga, 19n34 133n56 Mu, Emperor of Zhou, 152–53, 159 Ozawa Masao, 95n62 Murai Shōsuke, 98 Muromachi period, 1, 75, 163 periphery: and banquets, 98–99 Musōki (Account of a Dream; Jien), 112 vs. center, 11, 53, 72, 74–75, 76, 77, 86, Mutsuwaki (Record of the Deep North), 89–97, 107 51, 53 “defiled” east as, 15, 16n28, 27–30, 52n60, 53, 60, 63 Nagato-gire, 22 and food, 69–70, 74, 86, 89–97 Nagatobon, 18, 19, 28n2, 30, 96 and ritual, 15, 16n28, 29 bathhouse scene in, 32–33, 35, 38 taxes from, 89–90. See also east, the on Yoshinaka, 72–73 physiognomy. See face reading Nakahara Yasusada, 85–88, 95–96, 97, 100 Plutschow, Herbert, 16n28 Nakano Hatayoshi, 48n50 poems, 121–22, 123 Nanami Hiroaki, 111n9, 113n16, 114, 120, 121 iroha, 6 nationalism: and construction of “middle pollution, 35, 63, 104 ages,” 160, 165 and purification, 16n28, 34, 58, 82, 168 and reception of Heike, 18n33 prison gates, 70, 71–72 “Natora” episode, 158 “Nekoma” episode, 76–83, 84–85, 96–97 rakusho (satirical verse), 4–5, 71–73 Nenjū gōreiki, 99 Rambelli, Fabio, 112n14 Nenjū jōreiki, 99 Ran fujiki (An Account of Viewing Fuji; Nichiren, 112n12 Gyōkō), 121–22, 123 Nihon rekishi chimei taikei, 67 Rashōmon (nō play), 131 Nihon shoki (Chronicles of Japan), 43, 57, ritual, 9, 11–16 104, 116n24, 131n53, 137 and bathing, 33–34 Niinamesai (First Harvest Festival), 88 and food (banquets and commensality Nijō Yoshimoto, 138 rituals), 15, 69, 79n16, 89n44, 99, 168 Ninshō, 34 and horses, 62, 157 Nishio Minoru, 141–42 for pacification, 16n28, 48, 52n61 nō plays, 53, 58n73, 59, 66, 117n28, 120, 131, for purification, 29, 45, 82, 168 170 and sacralization of the “east,” 29, 52n60, 63 Ōba Kagechika, 54, 59, 64 as scripting socio-political order, 15, 68, ōban banquets, 16, 70, 75, 97–99 79n16, 113, 167 Ochikubo monogatari (Tale of Lady and secrecy, 119, 136, 137 Ochikubo), 149n25 and shogunate, 14–15, 63 Ōeyama ekotoba (Illustrated Tale of Mount and swords, 109, 113–14, 119 Ōe), 131 and symbolic regulation of violence, Ogata no Saburō, 43 14–15, 29, 45, 47–53, 68, 168 Ogino no Gorō Sueshige, 64 and warrior power, 167. See also Ōkagami (Great Mirror), 145n13 bathhouses; Hōjōe; mikkyō (esoteric) Ominaeshi monogatari (Tales of Lady practice; ōban banquets; onari Flowers), 24 banquets onari banquets, 75, 97, 99–100 in theater state, 15n26 oral performance: of Heike, 10–11, 16n28, Rokugō kaizan Ninmon Daibosatsu 17–18, 66 engi (Principal Record of the Great and variants, 17–20 Bodhisattva Ninmon, Founder of the vs. yomihon (“read” texts), 18–19. Rokugō Cult Center), 48 See also kataribon Origuchi Shinobu, 116 Sadafusa, Prince, 170 otogizōshi, 131 Sadatō Munetō tōbatsu-e (Illustrated Tale of Ōtsu Yūichi, 65n88, 83n28 the Conquest of Sadatō and Munetō), 170 index 193

Saeki Shin’ichi, 63 and bathhouses, 32, 33–34, 35, 36–37 Saga, Emperor, 3n and face reading, 40 Sakakibara Chizuru, 22, 24 and food, 69, 77, 78, 91, 92–93, 97 Sakura Yoshiyasu, 105 marked through carriages, 143–44, Sakurai Yōko, 8n15 148–49 Sangoku denki (Records of the Three reproduced through gift-giving, 93, 163 Countries), 34 Soga brothers, 133 Sankō Genpei jōsuiki (Annotated Genpei Soga monogatari (Tales of the Soga Jōsuiki), 8, 24 Brothers), 54n63, 150, 172 Sanshō dayū, 58 Stone, Jacqueline I., 113n17 sarugaku dance, 82, 100 Sujin, Emperor, 117, 118n29 Sasaki Takatsuna, 73, 154–56 Surusumi (horse), 154–56 Satō Akira, 40 Susano-o, 59, 104, 118n29 Satsuki no sechi (Fifth Month Festival), and imperial sword, 115–16, 119, 120 157, 163 Suwa daimyōjin ekotoba (Suwa Shrine Scala, Elizabeth, 9 Scroll), 2 scrolls, illustrated, 2, 34, 72, 131, 170, 171 Suzuki Akira, 124n38, 127 secret transmission (hiden), 109, 119, 125, Suzuki Mayumi, 49 136–37 swords, 12, 15, 107–39 Sei Shōnagon, 149n25 and doubling, 108–9, 118–20, 123, 124, Seikidō bunkobon, 22 127, 136, 139, 169 Seiwa, Emperor, 128 in Genpei jōsuiki, 110, 117, 119, 123–27, Seiwa Genji, 51–52 138, 169 Seki Yukihiko, 61n78 in “Hōken setsuwa”, 107–8, 110, 111n9, sekkyō bushi (sermon ballad) texts, 57 114–23, 127–28 Shi ji (Grand Scribe’s Records), 40 and lineage, 124–25, 132–33 Shibu-kassenjōbon, 17, 65n89, 110n7, 147, 148 Minamoto, 110, 111–12, 114, 127–35 Shichiki ochi (Flight of the Seven Riders), and ritual, 109, 113–14, 119 53 and secrecy, 119, 125, 136 Shidachi Masatomo, 19 and troping of shogunate, 112, 121, shōen system. See estates 123–24, 127–35, 138, 169 shogun: as arbiter of violence, 25, 29, 64–65 in “Tsurugi no maki”, 110–11, 127–35 and feasts, 97–100, 106, 169 and warrior power, 107, 112, 114, 125, 126, and Genpei jōsuiki, 22–23, 24–25 127. See also imperial sword and Genpei War, 64–65, 124 Swords, Oaths, and Prophetic Visions imagined in sword tropes, 112, 121, (Oyler), 10–11, 18, 51, 72, 130, 133 123–24, 127–35, 138, 169 and imperial court, 23, 25, 87, 107, 111, Tachibana Mochinaga, 148 120–21, 123, 124, 135, 139 Tachibana Yoritsune, 153 and imperial sword, 108, 109, 110, 120–24, Tada no Mitsunaka, 128–30 135–36 taiga dorama (historical fiction drama), as one who administers law, 43n35, 167 63–64, 66 Taiheiki (Record of Great Peace), 18n32, 21, and ritual performance, 14–15, 63 24, 60, 107, 128n46, 153 in variants, 20. See also Ashikaga Taira (Heishi) family, 2–4, 5, 74, 75n7, shogunate; Kamakura shogunate; 80n19, 164 Minamoto Yoritomo defeat of, 4, 96, 100, 107, 154 Shoku Nihongi, 60n78 and dragon lore, 117 Shōtoku Taishi, 39, 55, 83n27 and Fukuhara Edict, 46–47 Shōtoku Taishi denryaku (Biography of and horses, 151–52 Shōtoku Taishi), 39 and sword of military investiture (settō), “Shuten dōji setsuwa”, 131 120 social hierarchies, 13, 14, 16 in variants, 20, 30 and banquets, 98–100 and Yoshinaka, 72 194 index

Taira Kiyomori, 3, 6–7, 11n21, 36, 46 Utagawa Kunisada, 172 hegemonic power of, 149n26, 151 Utsuho monogatari (Tale of the Hollow Taira Kiyomori (TV drama), 167 Tree), 56 Taira Masakado, 60n78, 62, 83–84, 85 Uwayokote Masakata, 52n61, 61n78 Taira Munemori, 43n35, 151, 153 Taira Munetsune, 159–60 Varley, Paul, 11n21 Taira Sadamori, 83, 84 violence: absorbed and redirected by Taira Shigehira, 43n35 horses, 142, 151–58, 16 Taira Shigemori, 7, 150n26 deferred in ritual combat, 115–16 Taira Sukechika, 50 displaced into myth, 15n25 Taira Sukemori, 147, 149–50, 149n26 as en avance necessary for law, 29–30, Taira Tsunetaka (author of Tsunetaka 64n88, 168 kōkī), 108 in Genpei War, 27–30, 66, 68 Takagi Ichinosuke, 18n33 and Hachiman as arbiter, 49–52 Takagi Makoto, 43, 76–77, 117n27 nighttime, 160–61 Takahashi Masaaki, 131n54, 157, 158 rendered distant, 158–61 Takakura, Emperor, 6, 80n19, 147 rendered magical and exorcistic, 153 Taketori monogatari (Tale of the Bamboo and ritual regulation through Hōjōe, Tree), 56 14–15, 29, 45, 47–53, 69, 168 Taussig, Michael, 136 variants on, 25, 28n2 Tawara Tōda monogatari, 84 of warriors, 2, 28, 158, 169 taxes (levies), 89–90, 93, 102, 163 and Yoritomo’s uprising, 27–30, 168 Tendai Buddhism, 113, 114 Tenji, Emperor, 163 warrior power: in east, 61–62, 63, 72, 75, Tenmu, Emperor, 54–55, 57–60, 66 141–42, 163–64, 172 Tokugawa Iemitsu, 171 and food, 13, 85, 86, 89 Tokugawa Ieyasu, 22, 68, 171 founding of, 4, 23, 170–72 Tokugawa Mitsukuni, 7, 23n51, 24 and Fujiwara Toshihito, 93–94 Tokugawa period, 19 Genpei jōsuiki on, 25 and cultural memory of Genpei War, in Heike, 1–2, 12, 17, 23, 70, 167, 169 171–72 and ritual, 167 reception of Genpei jōsuiki in, 22–24 and swords, 107, 112, 114, 125, 126, 127 Tomikura Tokujirō, 28n2 warriors: and banquets, 70, 75–76, 85, Tomoyasu, 82–83 88–97, 106 tree hollows, xvi culture of, 12, 22–23, 78–79, 141–42, 143, as trope for novel historical trajectory, 159, 160 53–59, 66, 168 decentralized administration and rise Tsuchigumo (nō play), 131 of, 90 Tsuna emaki (otogizōshi), 131 as displacing imperial sword, 125–27 “Tsurugi no maki”, 110–11, 127–35, 136, 138 and famine, 102, 103 different names for, 110n8 and food, 13, 74, 75, 78–79, 82, 85, 86, Tsurumaki Yumi, 110n8 89, 103 Turner, Victor, 14 and horses, 141–65, 169 and hunting, 147, 150 Ubukata Takashige, 28n2, 116 similarity to thieves of, 161–62 Uchida Yasushi, 137n66 as “teeth and claws,” 62n83, 144 Ueno Asami, 58 and violence, 2, 28, 158, 169 Uji shūi monogatari (Collection of Tales and Yoshinaka, 70, 105–6 from Uji), 16, 17n30, 54, 56, 57–59, 66, Watanabe league, 21, 130–31 148 Watanabe Sadamarō, 21 Umazoroe (Assemblage of Horsemen; Watanabe Tsuna, 130–31 kōwaka piece), 53 Watson, Michael, 12n21 Unoha (Cormorant Feathers; nō play), “What is Left Out of the Kakuichibon Heike 117n28 monogatari” (Kubota Jun), 20 index 195

“When Young General Toshihito Took the Yasakabon, 17 Fifth-rank Samurai from the Capital Yashirobon, 19n36, 110n7, 128n46 to Tsuruga” (Konjaku monogatarishū), Yasuhira seibatsu-e (Illustrated Tale of the 90–97 Defeat of Yasuhira), 2, 170 woodblock prints, 172 yomihon (“read” variants of Heike), 17, writing: wabun vs. kanbun, 19 18–20, 28n2, 30, 37, 66n91, 83n27 and divination, 44–45 on food, 84, 95, 105 and Fukuhara Edict, 46 Xiang Yu, 55 on Hōjōe ritual, 47, 52 Xuanzang (Genjō), 34 “Nekoma” episode in, 78 on shogunate, 63 Yamada Yoshio, 110n8 on Yoritomo, 53, 96 Yamaki Kanetaka, 36 on Yoshinaka, 70, 72, 97, 103, 104 Yamamoto Hiroko, 112n14 Yoshida Kenkō, 141 Yamanouchi no Takiguchi no Saburō, 64 Yoshida Tsunefusa, 104n95 Yamaoka Yoshikazu, 58, 59 Yoshie Akio, 88n40 Yamashita Hiroaki, 5n3, 20n37, 21, 28n2, Yoshitsune (TV drama), 167 78n15, 103n93 Yōwa famine, 100–104, 105 Yamato Takeru, 42n34, 104–5 Yōwa ninenki (Chronicle of the Second and imperial sword, 119–20 Year of the Yōwa Era), 102 as origin of shogunal office, 121–23, 135, Yōzei, Emperor, 131n54 171 and Yoritomo, 133–34, 135 Zoku kojidan (Continued Talks about Yanagida Yōichirō, 86, 152n34 Ancient Matters), 16n30 Yang Xiao Jie, 21n42, 55n65, 68n93