constitution would form the basis of future consultations on the way to run the country; it was accompanied by a number of other reforms that added to its effect. One was the adoption of the Chinese calendar, which divided time into twelve-year cycles multiplied by five elements to create units of sixty years. A further “long count” in Chinese history held that every twenty-one cycles—which is to say, once every 1,260 years—there would be an event of earth-shattering transformation. Clearly, later chroniclers decided that Shōtoku’s reforms were just such a momentous event, establishing 601 CE as the “year zero” in Japanese counting, but also spurring authors to presume that the last momentous event must have been 1,260 years earlier. This, perhaps, explains why Japanese annals begin with the seemingly arbitrary date of 660 BCE, implying that Shōtoku’s regency was the best thing that had happened to Japan since the mythical time of the first, legendary Emperor Jinmu. A prophet might foretell that something similarly momentous would happen to Japan 1,260 years later, around 1861 CE—and by chance, such a prediction would only be a few years out.
One of the first acts of Shōtoku’s new nation was to pack an ambassador off to the Chinese to ask them to stop calling his people “dwarves.” The idea of a land of Wa, the prince thought, was insulting and belittling, and he would really much prefer it if the Chinese started referring to them with a little more respect.
An embassy sent to China decided to put this into effect in 607 by pointedly ignoring a previous missive that had hailed the ruler of Wa. Instead, it extended an ill-advised greeting from “the Son of Heaven in the land where the sun rises…to the Son of Heaven in the land where the sun sets.” This scandalized the Chinese, not only for the implication that the island nation was somehow rising and ahead of China, but for the claim that the ruler of the islands was an emperor of equivalent standing to theirs.
Considering Japan’s position on the eastern horizon relative to China, and the country’s claim as the chosen home of the descendants of Amaterasu, Prince Shōtoku’s ambassadors regarded the “land where the sun rises” as a far more suitable name for their country—in Japanese, “Nippon.” In modern Mandarin, this is pronounced “Riben,” but in Tang-dynasty Chinese, it would have sounded more like “Yatbun.” A thousand years later, misheard as “Cipangu”—put through a Portuguese mangle into Spanish as “Japón”—it would give us the name by which we know the country today. From this point on, the land was called Japan.
CHAPTER 3
THE SHINING PRINCE:
MEDIEVAL JAPAN
The guest protocols of China were elaborate and complex. All foreign visitors, even kings, were obliged to perform a series of actions designed to show that the sovereign of China was the ruler of the world, and they his loyal subjects. The Japanese—a thousand miles from home, from a land that was little more than a fairy tale—were no exception. The gifts they presented would be vetted by imperial flunkies, and anything deemed offensive or worthless to the Xuanzong emperor would be tossed aside in advance.
As was customary, Xuanzong would receive his visitors in the small hours of the morning. In the heat of the Chang-an summer, this was probably a mercy, but Ōtomo no Furumaro, the vice-ambassador from faraway Japan, was less keen when the event occurred on New Year’s Day.
Awake before dawn, his breath freezing in the air, he made his way with his entourage to the majestic Daming Palace in the north of the great city of Chang-an, entering through the southern gate and crossing the vast square of the outer court. Hanyuan Hall towered above him to the north, sitting atop a mountain of twinned “dragon-tail” staircases. It was designed to impart the feeling that visitors were literally ascending into the sky to commune with the ruler of the world.
The assembled dignitaries waited in silence in the cold. In earlier generations, some might have chatted or joked, sneaking warm buns out of their sleeves, or shaken their limbs to keep warm. But the officers of court ceremony had become increasingly strict, and threatened to punish any who deviated from the correct ritual. Even when Xuanzong was not present, protocol demanded they should act as if his spirit was among them.
Just to make their position abundantly clear, foreign diplomats were housed for the ceremonies in tents pitched in the courtyard, surrounded by the pomp of the Chinese court—antiquated war chariots; ranks of Chinese guardsmen with fearsome halberds; lines of bells, drums, and chimes. The Xuanzong emperor would arrive in a palanquin, clad in striking scarlet robes with his face partly obscured by the curtain of beads that hung from his crown, while his court musicians played the Music of Grand Harmony.
The music stopped when he sat on his throne. A new melody would start up—the Music of Leisure and Harmony—signaling that the dukes, princes, and kings of subordinate countries should take their positions. A herald then commanded them to fall to the floor and kowtow twice to the emperor. They were obliged to perform such obeisances every time they received anything from the emperor, be it a kind word or a cup of wine brought by scurrying servants.
Ōtomo no Furumaro had been briefed about all of this and was ready to play the game, although as he arrived that cold winter day, he was scandalized by what he saw. An ambassador from a Korean state was in the prime position, directly beside the emperor’s throne. In the quiet of the courtyard, while they waited for the emperor’s arrival, Ōtomo whispered in disapproval at General Wu Huaishi, who had the misfortune to be standing nearby.
“Silla pays tribute to Japan,” he hissed. “Since ancient times, Silla has been a vassal of my ruler. But you put their ambassador closer to the emperor, and us on the wrong side of them. How is this righteous?”
General Wu was a swift tactician. He had to be—not only on the battlefields of his younger days, but in the intricate placements of court ceremony. The rules of the Chinese palace had to reflect the positions of the world, with the Chinese emperor central and his subjects aligned in proper order of protocol. Some might have regarded Ōtomo’s complaints as disruptive and rude, but General Wu saw them as earnest entreaties that the ceremony should proceed according to the truth of All Under Heaven. If Silla had been wrongly placed, then it would have been discourteous for Ōtomo not to point it out before the emperor presided over an incorrect ritual. In the scant moments before the Xuanzong emperor was due to arrive, he ordered the retinues from Silla and Japan to swap places.
There was a flurry of rustling robes as the ambassadors darted to their new positions. Such incidents were not unknown at the court, and had even resulted in ambassadors coming to blows, but the Sillan envoy seemed to know his place, and he rushed down the line with little more than a glowering glance at Ōtomo.
The Xuanzong emperor arrived, oblivious, and took his position at his throne to the usual orchestral accompaniment. The time then arose for the ambassadors to present him with their tribute.
Ōtomo was now the first, dropping to his knees and touching the ground with his forehead, not once, but twice.
“The outer subject of the Land Where the Sun Rises dares to present such a gift,” he proclaimed, as his servants marched forth with their approved items to be handed to the emperor’s own servants.
Then, as was customary for New Year’s Day, he shouted the words “Long Live the Emperor!” three times.
He had just announced to everyone that Japan knelt before the glory of China. But the Japanese people back home didn’t need to know that. His complaint over positioning had also announced to every other country that Japan was superior to them—bigger that Silla, better than Parhae, more loved than the Caliphate. He’d make sure everybody knew that.
After Prince Shōtoku’s death in 622, his former Soga allies were left without stern opposition, and were increasingly
