2026年9月14日月曜日

通称「天平十年上階官人歴名」調査メモ

正倉院文書『続々修245断簡74)裏』、通称「天平十年上階官人歴名」の一部)を読む

正倉院文書・古代史研究の知見に基づき、この史料からは、次の特筆を認められる。

1. 史料からの「発見」

この史料から読み取れる最も重要な発見は、「天平10年(738年)当時、藤原広嗣が『大養徳守(大和守)』と『式部卿』を兼任していたこと」、そして「中央の主要省庁(式部省・兵部省)や畿内・諸国の長官(国司)として、藤原氏・大伴氏をはじめとする特定氏族の重要人物が集中的に配置されていたこと」である。史料冒頭の1行目に注目してほしい。

式部大丞大伴犬甘 兵部大丞大伴古万呂 大養徳守藤原広嗣〈兼式部卿〉

主なポイント:

  1. 藤原広嗣への権力集中
    • 藤原広嗣が「大養徳守」という畿内重要国の長官であり、中央の主要な官衙筆頭である「式部卿」を兼任していたこと。
  2. 大伴氏と藤原氏の武官・文官への重点的配置
    • 大伴犬甘(式部大丞)、大伴古万呂(兵部大丞)、大伴四綱(少掾)など、大伴氏の有力人物が軍事・式部関係の要職に名を連ねていること。
  3. 東国・北陸・南海など全国国司のリアルタイムな一覧
    • 遠江守(百済王孝忠)、越前守(藤原乙麻呂)、陸奥介(百済敬福)などをはじめとして、天平10年時点で、どの国の国司・官人が誰であったかが判明。

2. 「なぜ」そのようになっているのか(背景と理由の考察)

 なぜこのような官人配置になっていたのか、当時の政治状況(天平9年~10年の歴史的文脈)からを紐解きたい。

なぜ藤原広嗣が式部卿と大養徳守を兼任していたのか?

  • 藤原四兄弟の相次ぐ全滅(天平9年の天然痘大流行): 天平9年(737年)、猛威を振るった天然痘(疱瘡)により、政権の中枢にいた藤原四兄弟(武智麻呂・房前・宇合・麻呂)がわずか数ヶ月の間に全員死亡した。
  • 藤原式家による権力掌握の焦り: 四兄弟の死後、政権は橘諸兄(橘諸兄政権)や玄昉・吉備真備らに移行していく。宇合の長男である藤原広嗣は、式家の惣領として藤原氏の勢力を維持・拡大するため、式部卿(人事権を握る超重要ポスト)と大養徳守(都の膝元である大和国の軍事・行政権)を兼任し、一時的に強力な権力基盤を握った。しかし、橘諸兄政権との対立が激化したことで、それも風前の灯火でしかなかった。

なぜこの直後に「広嗣の乱(天平12年)」が起きたのか?

  • この史料(天平10年)の直後、橘諸兄政権によって広嗣は中央(式部卿)から追放され、大宰少弐へと左遷される。
  • 大宰府への左遷に強い不満を抱いた広嗣は、天平12年(740年)に玄昉や吉備真備の除名を求めて九州で挙兵した(藤原広嗣の乱)。この史料に見る見る「大養徳守 兼 式部卿」という肩書は、広嗣が失脚・左遷・挙兵へと向かう一連の事件直前の姿を瞬間的に捉えている。

なぜ大伴氏(古万呂・四綱ら)が要職に配置されているのか?

  • 大伴氏は伝統的な軍事氏族である。日本各地を襲ったパンデミックによって社会・政治が極度に混乱した天平910年において、藤原氏のライバルである大伴氏は橘諸兄政権支持勢力として、藤原氏を牽制する役割も担っていたと想定される。

したがって、この断簡は、単なる名簿ではなく「古代史の巨大な転換点(天平9年の天然痘大流行から天平12年の藤原広嗣の乱へ至る過渡期)の政治構造をそのまま切り取ったタイムカプセル」である。

2026年9月13日日曜日

正税帳は地方財政報告書にすぎないかそれとも人事情報装置か?

 我々の前提

正税帳を読んだ人間が何を考え、何を疑い、何を命じ、何を確認し、そして何を「処理済み」としたのか


ここで、次のような問いを設定したい。

「誰が、どのポストを、誰に与えたのか」

たとえば国司・郡司を単なる「行政官」として見ると、

   中央 → 国司 → 郡司 → 里

という命令系統しか見られない。しかし、これを人間の利害関係から逆向きに見れば、次のリストが思い浮かぶ。

  • どのポストが「儲かる」のか
  • どのポストが「権限を持つ」のか
  • どのポストが「物資に接触できる」のか
  • どのポストが「人を動員できる」のか
  • どのポストが「数字を書き換えられる」のか
  • どのポストが「数字を確認する側」に回れるのか
  • そして、誰がそのポストを獲得したのか
  • 誰がそのポストに任命できるか

 とはいえ、ここで注意を喚起したいが、われわれは「古代官僚も私利私欲があっただろう」と言う単なる「性悪説」を考えているのではなく、正税帳そのものを、人間の利害が制度の中で残した痕跡として読むという分析視点の構築である。

ここまで行くと、正税帳理解はまったく異なったベクトルに向かう。ここで「現場のロジック」で考えてみると、例えば、

  「帳簿上の数字が合わない。」⇒「なぜだ?」⇒「単なる記載ミスなのか」

それとも、

  「誰かにとって都合のいい数字だったのか。」=「どのポストが「数字を作成・集計・確認・訂正できる」のか」

という推測さえも思い浮かぶ。これまでの「平和で、善良な古代官僚」の理解はいったん保留して、古代官僚の「利害」(the vested interests of ancient officials)をキーワードとして、正税帳を一覧してはどうだろうか。その視点に立てば、「国司は何をしたか」ではなく、

  なぜ、その人物が、その場所の、その職に就いているのか。

を問うことになる。

 突然に時代を現代に戻せば、唐突すぎるとは知っているが、現代の政治家にとっても、

  • 物資(カネ)を握る者は人を集める

  • ポストを握る者は人を従わせる

  • 人脈を持つ者は次のポストを得る

  • ポストは再び物資と人脈を生む

つまり、古代律令制とても、正税帳はこの循環の“痕跡”を記録した帳簿 として読むことに無理はないはずである。重ねていえば、我々の視点を導入すれば、古代官僚を「善良で、公平無私な行政官」として扱う従来の理解をいったん停止し、

  利害循環モデルを導入して正税帳を読み直すべきだ

という問題提起に逢着する。古代律令社会が生み出したのは、

任官 → 任地 → 権限 → 物資への接触 → 人的ネットワーク → 次の任官

という循環が存在した可能性である。すると、「律令国家は中央集権国家だった」という教科書的な一枚絵が崩れる。中央が地方を完全に支配していたのではなく、

  中央が地方のポストを配分することによって、地方の人的ネットワークを統御していた

という別の国家像が見えてくるからである。さらに大胆に言えば、

ポストの配分こそが、律令国家の人事政策であると同時に、利害関係の配分政策だったのではないか。官職は単なる「行政機能」ではなく、資源へのアクセス権である。

我々は、「古代官僚=腐敗官僚」だと認定するつもりはない。研究対象にすべきなのは、

「制度上の役割」と「個人的・集団的利害」がどこで重なるのか

だと考える点にある。たとえば、

  • 郡司にとって郡稲は何を意味するのか
  • 国司にとって正税・出挙稲の管理は何を意味するのか
  • 倉庫担当者にとって「入庫・出庫の確認」は何を意味するのか
  • 運送担当者にとって「逓送」は何を意味するのか
  • 検査する官人にとって「数字の不一致」は何を意味するのか

このようにみると、利害=私欲ではなく、

利害=そのポストに付随する利益・権限・責任・リスク

として分析できると考えられ、静態的な正税帳研究から、その先の古代律令国家の本質の一端を把握できる糸口となるはずだという信念さえ生まれる。先に、正税帳はこの循環の“痕跡”を記録した帳簿だという作業仮説を提起した。その意味は、「正税帳が利害循環そのものを記録している」という意味ではなく、

本来は財政管理のために作成された帳簿が、その作成・確認・提出・訂正の過程を通じて、官人の利害関係や権限配置の痕跡を結果的に残している

だと認識しているからである。その点では、帳簿は人間を消しているように見えて、実は人間を消し切れていないと言えば、言い過ぎだろうか。様々な数字の背後に、

  • 誰が数えたか
  • 誰が確認したか
  • 誰が承認したか
  • 誰が責任を負ったか
  • 誰にとってその数字が有利だったか

が残っていると考えたい。したがって、我々の観点を越前国郡稲帳分析に重ねると、さらに興味深い事実を指摘できる。丹生・足羽・敦賀・江沼を単なる行政区画として見るのではなく、それぞれの郡が「何を握っていたのか」の視点の導入である

足羽は出挙。

敦賀は交通・逓送。

丹生は物資の集散・再配分。

江沼は境界・物資・外交的接点。

もしこうした差異が実際に確認できるなら、

郡司にとって、すべての郡が同じ価値だったとは限らない。

となる。「郡司になった」という事実だけでは足りない。問うべきは、「どこの郡司になったのか」である。古代の官職研究を、官職名の研究から「ポストの経済価値」の研究へ転換する発想の逆転である。だからこそ、我々の問いは

そのポストは、だれが、いつ、どんな形で配分し、その結果は?

へとつながる。これまでのように、「誰が任命されたか」という人名表を作るだけでは足りない。より積極的に、

① ポストの種類

② そのポストが握る物・人・情報・権限

③ そのポストを誰が推薦・任命したか

④ 任期中に何をしたか

⑤ どの帳簿に、その人物の仕事の痕跡が残るか

⑥ 任期終了後、その人物がどこへ移ったか

まで追跡すれば、正税帳は単なる「国家財政の決算書」ではなくなるだろう。

  「人間関係の痕跡を残した行政データベース」

と定義づけてもよいレベルに到達すれば、次は

正税帳を読むとは、数字を読むことではない。

その数字を作った人間を見ることである。

誰が集めたのか。

誰が運んだのか。

誰が計算したのか。

誰が確認したのか。

誰が署名したのか。

そして、誰にとって、その数字が「正しい数字」でなければならなかったのか。

そこまで考えたとき、正税帳の向こう側に、初めて人間が現れる。

そこにいるのは、「律令国家」という抽象的な国家ではない。

カネを必要とし、権限を求め、ポストを欲しがり、仲間を作り、親分を選び、子分を抱え、ときには制度の隙間を利用する、生身の人間である。

だからこそ、次の問いが生まれる。

そのポストを、いったい誰が配ったのか。

いつ、誰に、何を期待して与えたのか。

そして、その人事によって、古代国家のカネと権限は、実際にはどのように流れたのか。

 

となり、「律令国家の制度史」ではなく、ポストをめぐる人間の歴史として、考える視覚が求められる。だからこそ、

  「尾張国正税帳が中央に届いた瞬間、中央官僚の頭の中では何が始まったのか」

という問いも設定される。これは事実である、従来の説明通りに、

国司が正税帳を作成する

中央へ提出する

民部省・主税寮が勘会する

は間違いないからである。実際、制度上、正税帳が民部省主税寮で監査を受け、問題があれば損益帳が作られ、正税帳が返却されるというシステムが機能していたはずである。しかしながらその「勘会」というブラックボックスを開けるならば、次のような段階的な情報処理をしたと推定している。

1 第一段階――「これは信用できる帳簿か?」

最初に見るのは、細かな数字ではない。帳簿そのものの成立条件である。尾張国正税帳は、天平6年(734)度のものが現存し、冒頭に国全体の収支、その後に郡別の収支が並ぶことが確認できる。したがって、中央側からすればまず、

必要な項目が揃っているか?

国全体の数字と郡別数字がつながるか?

前年からの繰越・当年収納・支出・残高が連続しているか?

添付される枝文・関連帳簿と照合できるか?

を確認するだけでよいはずである。これは現代で言えば、「この経費は妥当か?」を議論するのではなく、決算書として成立しているかを最初にチェックするのが、一般的なやりかたである。

2 第二段階――「数字は合っているか?」

ここから、計算。中央官僚にとって最も重要なのは、

収納高
+ 前年度からの残高
+ 出挙による収益
- 支出
= 現在高

という基本的な関係が成立しているか。そして、国全体の数字と郡別数字が一致するか。「尾張国が報告している数字」と「尾張国が本当に持っているはずの数字」の一致を確認する作業は不可欠である。「正税帳」という名前の意味を改めて考えると、「正しい税帳」だから正税帳なのではなく、中央が「正しい」と判定できることが重要だったと言い換えるべきである。

3 第三段階――「その数字は、なぜそうなった?」

帳簿というのは、「数字が合った」で終わることはない。例えば、「今年の出挙利稲が少ない」

とする。すると中央官僚は、「計算は合っている。でも、なぜ少ない?」と考えるだろう。その逆もある。「この郡だけ異常に利益が多い。」ならば、

「なぜだ?」

という論理法である。中央が欲しがったのは単なる「正しい数字計算」ではなくて、

数字の背後にある行政活動の説明

だったのではないだろうか。だからこそ、中央官衙には、「異常値こそ、中央官僚が次に調べるべき情報だった。」となる。

4 第四段階――「その国司は業務に精励しているか?」

話題を変えるが、正税帳が人事資料に変換すると考える発想に転換できないだろうか。尾張国の財政状態を見てみよう。すると、

  • 収納は十分か
  • 出挙は適切に運用されているか
  • 不足はないか
  • 支出は過大ではないか
  • 災害・損田などの事情はどうか
  • 国内巡行をきちんと行っているか

などが列挙される質問が飛び出したはずである。浮かび上がるのは、天平期の正税帳には残る国司の国内巡行である。彼らはその旅費支出を通して、各地の収穫状況や損害調査などの行政活動を確認したはずである。すると正税帳は、

  財務報告書 → 行政活動報告書

へと移行する。そして、その先に、待ち構えているのは、太政官による

  「この国司は有能なのか?」

という評価である。

5 正税帳 → 国司評価 → 人事

私はここで、さらに一段踏み込みたい。中央官衙は尾張国正税帳を見ても「尾張国の財政状態」だけを評価したのではない。むしろ、「尾張国を誰に任せておくべきか」という判断材料にすることも十分に想定できる。それゆえに、正税帳 → 国司評価 → 人事という回路である。繰り返すが、天平6年の尾張国正税帳について、これを直接「国司の勤務評定表だった」と証明する史料は、今の段階で見つかっていない。したがって、除目が開催されたと証拠づける史実として断言するのではなく、あくまでも正税帳が国司評価に利用された可能性にとどまるものの、一つの作業仮説として置きたい。

6 では「評価」は何を意味したのか?

とはいえ、国司に対して、国の財政運営が「良い/悪い」という単純な評価ではなかったにちがいない。むしろ中央の評価基準は各国を、大-上-中-小などの郷数で分類しているものの、それは中央にとって、人事を実施するに、どの国に何名の国司を派遣すればよいかを算定する基準にすぎなかった。最も関心を寄せたのは、

A 安定している国:収納・出挙・支出・残高が正常

B 注意を要する国:数字は合うが、収益率・支出等に異常

C 問題国:欠損・未納・不整合がある

D 要調査国:数字だけでは説明できない

という行政上のリスク分類であっただろう。中央各官衙の役人にとって、全国を毎年すべて同じ濃度で地方行政調査を実施する必要も、関心も、人員も、ましてや時間もなかったはずです。むしろ、

問題のない国は通す。

異常のある国だけ、慎重にみる。

という行政合理性を採用したはずである。


7 そして最も面白い「その次」

次の問いは、

「さらにその評価をいかに活用しただろうか」

である、この問いは次の4点に分かれる。

① 返す:問題なし⇒「処理済み」

② 問い返す:数字がおかしい。⇒「説明せよ」

③ 補填させる」欠負・未納・損失があれば、⇒「誰が埋めるのか」となり、責任の所在論が発生する。

④ 人事に利用する:「この人物を次も使うか?」「別の国へ回すか?」「中央へ引き上げるか?」「この人物には、もっと重要なポストを与えてよいか?」

である。

8 「正税帳」の再定義

従来は、正税帳=地方財政の決算書だと説明して、だれも疑いを持たなかった。しかしながら、常識的にみて正税帳=地方財政を中央が評価するための情報装置だと考えるならば、さらに大胆に言えば、

正税帳とは、地方で発生した「カネ・物・労働・行政行為」を中央が読み取り、それを「正常/異常」「許容/不許容」「信用/不信用」へ変換するための行政情報システムだった。

とみなせるならば、われわれは古代の官僚組織はあらたな側面から照射できるに違いない。

9 「尾張国正税帳」再読の試み

さて、我々の観点から尾張国正税帳を「何が書いてあるか」ではなく、

   「中央の役人がどの順番で読むことを想定して作られているか」

という視点で読み直したい。本稿の論者にとって、仮に次の順番を置きたい。

① 形式確認

② 総額確認

③ 国―郡間の突合

④ 前年度・当年度の比較

⑤ 異常値の発見

⑥ 異常の理由確認

⑦ 国司・郡司の行政能力の評価

⑧ 補填・是正・返却等の処理

⑨ 次年度の行政・人事判断への利用

ここまで行けば、正税帳は単なる「決算報告書」ではなくなる。中央官僚の意思決定フローを逆算できる史料になると言って、無理はないだろう。それを踏まえれば、

  誰が最初に見るのか。

本当に「まず最初に太政官が読む」のか、それとも、

国 → 正税使 → 民部省 → 主税寮 → 勘会 → 必要に応じて太政官

という情報処理の階層があったと想定すべきか。というのは、各官衙の、それぞれの部署で、異なる階層で「読む目的」が違ったのではないかという見込みに逢着するからである。

   主税寮は数字を見る。
   民部省は国の財政状態を見る。
   太政官は、その結果を政治・人事・統治判断へ変換する。

もしこの役割分担が史料的に立証できるならば、

「正税帳という情報が、古代国家の意思決定システムの中をどう移動したか」

という研究にも発展できるのではないだろうか。だからこそ、次の課題として浮かび上がるのは、、尾張国正税帳の各項目を一つずつ取り上げ、「中央の役人なら最初にどこを見るか」を実際にシミュレーションする段階に到着していると考えるが、それは後日にゆだねたい。 

Reading the Shōzeichō Through the Logic of Human Interests

 

Reading the Shōzeichō Through the Logic of Human Interests

Our Premise

Our starting point is the following question:

What did the people who read the shōzeichō think, what did they question, what did they order, what did they verify, and what did they ultimately regard as “processed”?

From this premise, I would like to pose another question:

Who assigned which position to whom?

If we regard provincial and district officials simply as “administrators,” we see little more than a chain of command:

Central Government → Provincial Officials (kokushi) → District Officials (gunji) → Local Communities

But if we reverse the direction of analysis and examine these positions from the perspective of human interests, an entirely different list of questions emerges:

  • Which positions were financially advantageous?
  • Which positions carried significant authority?
  • Which positions provided access to goods and resources?
  • Which positions enabled officials to mobilize people?
  • Which positions allowed figures to create, alter, or manipulate figures in the accounts?
  • Which positions enabled officials to verify or challenge those figures?
  • Who obtained those positions?
  • Who had the power to appoint people to them?

At this point, however, an important qualification is necessary.

We are not proposing a simplistic theory that “ancient officials, being human, must have been selfish.” Nor are we attempting to label ancient bureaucrats as corrupt.

Rather, we are trying to construct an analytical perspective in which the shōzeichō itself is read as a trace left by human interests as they operated within an institutional system.

Once we reach this point, our understanding of the shōzeichō begins to move in an entirely different direction.

If we apply the concept of the “logic of the field”, for example, we might begin with a discrepancy:

“The figures in the account do not add up.”

“Why?”

“Is this merely a clerical error?”

But another possibility immediately presents itself:

“Was this a figure that happened to benefit someone?”

In other words:

Which positions enabled people to create, aggregate, verify, or correct financial figures?

At this point, we should temporarily suspend the conventional image of the ancient official as a peaceful, benevolent, and impartial administrator and introduce the vested interests of ancient officials as an analytical keyword.

If we do so, the question changes.

Instead of asking:

“What did the provincial governor do?”

we begin asking:

“Why was this particular person placed in this particular position in this particular place?”

That is a fundamentally different question.

The Circulation of Interests

If we suddenly return to the modern world, the analogy may seem somewhat abrupt. Yet even in contemporary politics, we can observe a familiar cycle:

  • Those who control resources attract people.
  • Those who control positions command people.
  • Those with networks gain access to subsequent positions.
  • Positions generate further access to resources and networks.

There is no reason to assume that the institutional world of the ancient Ritsuryō state was entirely free from comparable dynamics.

The shōzeichō may therefore be read as a trace of such a cycle.

To put the hypothesis more boldly:

Appointment → Posting → Authority → Access to Resources → Human Networks → Further Appointment

may have constituted a recurrent cycle within Ritsuryō society.

This does not mean that we should identify the Ritsuryō state as a “corrupt bureaucracy.”

Rather, the point is that we should temporarily suspend the conventional image of ancient officials as universally benevolent and selfless administrators and ask whether the distribution of official positions also functioned as a distribution of interests.

This leads to a more provocative proposition:

The allocation of official positions may have been not only a personnel policy of the Ritsuryō state but also a policy for distributing access to interests and resources.

An official position was not simply an “administrative function.”

It was also a form of access to resources.

We are not, therefore, trying to establish that “ancient officials were corrupt.”

What we want to investigate is:

Where did institutional responsibilities overlap with individual or collective interests?

For example:

  • What did the grain from gunzō and other district revenues mean to a district official?
  • What did the management of regular-tax grain and suiko grain mean to a provincial official?
  • What did the verification of receipts and withdrawals mean to officials responsible for storehouses?
  • What did the transport and forwarding of goods mean to officials responsible for logistics?
  • What did discrepancies in figures mean to officials responsible for auditing them?

From this perspective, interest does not simply mean selfishness.

Rather:

Interest means the benefits, authority, responsibilities, and risks attached to a particular official position.

This may provide a way to move beyond static studies of the shōzeichō and toward a deeper understanding of the Ritsuryō state.

We have already proposed the working hypothesis that:

the shōzeichō preserves traces of this circulation of interests.

This does not mean that the shōzeichō directly records the circulation of interests itself.

Rather:

A register originally produced for fiscal administration may nevertheless preserve, through the processes of its compilation, verification, submission, and correction, traces of the interests of officials and the distribution of authority among them.

In this sense, one might say that:

the account book appears to erase human beings, but it never succeeds in erasing them completely.

Behind its various figures, we may still find traces of:

  • Who counted?
  • Who verified?
  • Who approved?
  • Who bore responsibility?
  • Who benefited from a particular figure?

This is why we should look for human beings behind the numbers.


And Then There Are the Gunji

When we apply this perspective to our analysis of the Gun'in-chō and other fiscal records of Echizen Province, an even more intriguing possibility emerges.

Instead of treating Tanjō, Asuwa, Tsuruga, and Enuma simply as administrative districts, we can ask:

What did each district control?

This introduces a new analytical perspective.

Asuwa: management of suiko and its returns.

Tsuruga: transportation and logistics.

Tanjō: collection, concentration, and redistribution of resources.

Enuma: a combination of frontier functions, resources, and external contacts.

If such differences can actually be demonstrated through the evidence, then:

not all districts necessarily had the same value to a district official.

Simply knowing that someone became a gunji is therefore not enough.

We must ask:

Which district did he become gunji of?

This represents a reversal in the study of ancient officialdom: a shift from studying official titles to studying the economic and administrative value of individual posts.

That is why our question ultimately becomes:

Who allocated the position, when was it allocated, in what form, and what followed from that appointment?

It is no longer sufficient merely to compile lists of the names of appointed officials.

We need to follow the entire sequence:

① Type of position

② Goods, people, information, and authority controlled by the position

③ Who recommended or appointed the holder?

④ What did the official actually do during the tenure?

⑤ In which registers or documents do traces of those activities survive?

⑥ Where did the official go after leaving the position?

If we can pursue this sequence, the shōzeichō ceases to be merely a “fiscal settlement.”

It begins to resemble:

an administrative database that inadvertently preserves traces of human relationships.

And once we reach that level of analysis, we can formulate an even more provocative proposition:

To read the shōzeichō is not simply to read numbers.

It is to look for the people who produced those numbers.

Who collected the goods?

Who transported them?

Who calculated them?

Who verified them?

Who approved them?

And for whom did it matter that those figures were regarded as “correct”?

Only when we ask these questions do human beings begin to emerge on the other side of the shōzeichō.

What we encounter there is not the abstract entity called the “Ritsuryō state.”

We encounter human beings who needed resources, sought authority, desired positions, built alliances, chose patrons, cultivated protégés, and sometimes took advantage of gaps in the institutional system.

This leads to the next question:

Who, exactly, distributed those positions?

When were they given, to whom, and with what expectations?

And how did money, resources, and authority actually circulate through the ancient state as a result of those personnel decisions?

At this point, we need to reconsider the history of the Ritsuryō state not merely as institutional history, but as a history of human beings competing for, exercising, and distributing positions.


What Was Happening When the Shōzeichō of Owari Reached the Center?

This perspective also gives rise to another question:

What began to happen inside the minds of central officials the moment the shōzeichō of Owari Province arrived at the central government?

It is true that the conventional explanation is correct:

Provincial officials compiled the shōzeichō

It was submitted to the central government

The Ministry of Popular Affairs (Minbushō) and the Bureau of Taxation (Shuzeiryō) examined it

There is no reason to dispute this institutional sequence.

Indeed, the system appears to have involved the examination of the shōzeichō by the Shuzeiryō, with supplementary accounts being prepared when problems were identified and the shōzeichō returned for correction.

But what happens if we open this black box called kankai—the formal examination and verification of accounts?

I would tentatively reconstruct the process as a series of stages.

1. Stage One: “Can This Account Be Trusted?”

The first thing the central officials would have examined was probably not the individual figures.

It was whether the account itself met the conditions necessary to function as an administrative document.

The shōzeichō of Owari Province for Tenpyō 6 (734) survives, beginning with the province-wide balance and followed by balances for individual districts.

From the perspective of central officials, the first questions would therefore have been:

Are all the necessary categories present?

Do the figures for the province as a whole correspond to the figures for the individual districts?

Do the carry-over from the previous year, receipts during the current year, expenditures, and remaining balances form a continuous sequence?

Can the figures be checked against attached documents and related registers?

In modern terms, this is not yet the question:

“Is this expenditure reasonable?”

It is the more basic question:

“Does this document qualify as a coherent financial account?”

That would naturally be the first stage of examination.

2. Stage Two: “Do the Numbers Add Up?”

Now comes the calculation.

For the central officials, the basic relationship would have been something like:

**Receipts

  • Previous-year balance
  • Returns from suiko
    − Expenditures
    = Current balance**

They would also need to determine whether the figures for the province as a whole corresponded to the figures reported by the individual districts.

In other words, they had to establish whether:

“The figures reported by Owari Province”

matched

“the figures that Owari Province should actually have had.”

This is indispensable to any system of fiscal accountability.

The very name shōzeichō deserves reconsideration here.

Rather than saying that it was called shōzeichō simply because it was a “correct tax account,” we might say that its significance lay in whether the central authorities could determine the figures to be correct and verifiable.

3. Stage Three: “Why Did the Numbers Turn Out This Way?”

An account does not necessarily end with the discovery that the arithmetic is correct.

Suppose, for example:

“The return from suiko is unusually low this year.”

The central official might then ask:

“The calculation is correct—but why is the amount so low?”

The reverse could also occur.

Suppose:

“This particular district has an exceptionally high return.”

Then the question becomes:

“Why?”

This is the logic of investigating anomalies.

What the central government wanted may therefore not have been merely “correct numbers,” but:

an explanation of the administrative activities and circumstances behind the numbers.

From this perspective:

Anomalous figures may have been precisely the information that central officials needed to investigate next.

4. Stage Four: “Is This Provincial Official Doing His Job?”

At this point, the shōzeichō begins to transform into something resembling a personnel document.

The financial condition of Owari Province could reveal:

  • whether receipts were adequate;
  • whether suiko was being administered appropriately;
  • whether there were shortages;
  • whether expenditures were excessive;
  • whether disasters or damaged fields provided legitimate explanations;
  • whether provincial officials were properly carrying out inspections and tours within the province.

Here we encounter the surviving evidence for provincial officials conducting tours within their jurisdictions during the Tenpyō period.

Through expenditures associated with such journeys, it may have been possible to observe administrative activities such as inspecting harvest conditions and investigating agricultural damage.

The shōzeichō therefore begins to move from:

financial report

toward:

report on administrative activity.

And beyond that lies the question:

“Is this provincial official competent?”


5. Shōzeichō → Evaluation of Provincial Officials → Personnel Decisions

Here I would like to take the argument one step further.

When central officials examined the shōzeichō of Owari, they may not have evaluated merely:

“the fiscal condition of Owari Province.”

They may also have used the information to consider:

“Who should continue to govern Owari Province?”

In other words:

Shōzeichō → Evaluation of provincial officials → Personnel decisions

This point must be stated cautiously.

To repeat: we have not yet found direct evidence demonstrating that the Tenpyō 6 shōzeichō of Owari was itself a personnel evaluation sheet for the provincial officials.

We should therefore not present this as an established historical fact.

Instead, it should be treated as a working hypothesis:

the possibility that information contained in the shōzeichō was used in evaluating provincial officials.

That possibility deserves systematic investigation.

6. What Did “Evaluation” Mean?

Here I doubt that the evaluation was simply a matter of deciding whether an official was “good” or “bad.”

The central government's classification of provinces by size—for example, as large, upper, middle, or small—was presumably relevant to determining the number and organization of provincial officials required in each province.

But this was not necessarily the same thing as evaluating the performance of individual officials.

What may have mattered administratively was something closer to a classification of risk:

A. Stable provinces

Receipts, suiko returns, expenditures, and balances were all within expected ranges.

B. Provinces requiring attention

The figures were arithmetically consistent, but returns, expenditures, or other indicators were unusual.

C. Problematic provinces

There were shortages, unpaid obligations, or inconsistencies.

D. Provinces requiring investigation

The figures could not be adequately explained by the information supplied.

This would have constituted an administrative risk classification.

Central officials could not possibly have examined every province with equal intensity every year.

They lacked the manpower, time, and perhaps even the administrative need to do so.

A more rational approach would have been:

Pass the cases that present no problems.

Examine carefully those in which anomalies appear.

This is precisely the kind of administrative rationality that we should look for in the shōzeichō.

7. And Then Comes the Most Interesting Question: What Happened Next?

The next question is:

How did the central government make use of its evaluation?

This can be divided into four possible responses.

① Return the account

No significant problem:

“Processed.”

② Send an inquiry

The figures are questionable:

“Explain this.”

③ Require compensation or correction

There is a shortage, unpaid obligation, or loss:

“Who is responsible for making good the deficit?”

At this point, the question of responsibility emerges.

④ Use the information for personnel decisions

“Should this person be retained?”

“Should he be transferred to another province?”

“Should he be recalled to the center?”

“Can this person be entrusted with a more important position?”

This fourth possibility is the most provocative—and perhaps the most difficult to demonstrate.

But precisely because it is difficult, it deserves investigation rather than immediate dismissal.


8. Redefining the Shōzeichō

Traditionally, the shōzeichō has been described without much controversy as:

a financial account of provincial revenue and expenditure.

But if we regard it instead as:

an information system through which the central government evaluated the fiscal condition of provincial governments,

then we can go one step further.

The shōzeichō may be understood as:

an administrative information system through which the central government transformed locally generated information about money, goods, labor, and administrative activities into judgments such as “normal / abnormal,” “acceptable / unacceptable,” and “trustworthy / untrustworthy.”

If this interpretation can be demonstrated, the bureaucratic organization of the ancient state can be illuminated from an entirely new angle.

The shōzeichō would no longer be merely a fiscal document.

It would be a window into how information was converted into administrative judgment.


9. A Re-reading of the Shōzeichō of Owari

Let us now attempt to reread the shōzeichō of Owari not by asking simply:

“What does it say?”

but rather:

“In what order was it designed to be read by a central official?”

For the purposes of this paper, I would tentatively propose the following sequence:

① Verification of formal completeness

② Verification of overall totals

③ Reconciliation between province and districts

④ Comparison between previous and current years

⑤ Detection of anomalies

⑥ Investigation of the reasons for anomalies

⑦ Evaluation of the administrative performance of provincial and district officials

⑧ Correction, compensation, return, or other administrative action

⑨ Possible use in subsequent administrative and personnel decisions

If this reconstruction proves viable, the shōzeichō can no longer be regarded simply as a “financial report.”

It becomes:

a source from which we may reverse-engineer the decision-making flow of central officials.

This immediately leads to another question:

Who actually read the document first?

Did the Daijōkan really examine it first?

Or should we instead imagine an information-processing hierarchy such as:

Province → Shōzeichi / submitting officials → MinbushōShuzeiryō → formal examination → Daijōkan, when necessary?

The significance of this possibility is that different offices may have read the same information for different purposes.

Perhaps:

The Shuzeiryō looked at the numbers.

The Minbushō looked at the fiscal condition of the province.

The Daijōkan transformed the results into broader political, administrative, and personnel decisions.

If this division of functions can be demonstrated from the historical evidence, we could develop an entirely new line of research:

How did information contained in the shōzeichō move through the decision-making system of the ancient state?

The next task would therefore be to take each individual item in the shōzeichō of Owari and simulate, one by one:

“If I were a central official, what would I look at first?”

That task, however, I will leave for another occasion.

西本昌弘「八・九世紀の内裏任官儀と可任人歴名」を読む

 西本昌弘「八・九世紀の内裏任官儀と可任人歴名」を読む

(1)論文の結論

西本ご自身の結論の要約によると、次の4点に集約できる(同署、111頁)。

第一に、八世紀の任官儀礼は、平安時代になって突然成立したものではない。
『内裏式』『儀式』などから、かなり古い段階から体系的な内裏任官儀が存在した可能性が高い。

第二に、正倉院のAB歴名を単純に「除目聞書」とする早川説には再検討の余地がある。
「除目聞書」の成立時期を八世紀まで遡らせる直接的証拠は乏しい。

第三に、AB歴名は、むしろ八世紀の「可任人歴名=下名」の案文・写しと見る方が、平安時代の下名との形式的・機能的な対応を説明しやすい。

第四に、八世紀の任官制度では、儀礼そのものよりも、その前後に組み込まれた「任官者名簿確認唱名文書化」という文書行政の仕組みが重要だった。





Reconsidering Furojin in the Ritsuryō Period and the Structure of the “Corvée-and-Tax State”— A Critical Reassessment Prompted by the Scholarship of Reiko Okazaki —

 

Reconsidering Furojin in the Ritsuryō Period and the Structure of the “Corvée-and-Tax State”

— A Critical Reassessment Prompted by the Scholarship of Reiko Okazaki —

Introduction: Were Furojin People Who Had Withdrawn from the State?

The problem of furō, furojin, and rōnin in ancient Japan has traditionally been understood in the context of people who had escaped from their registered places of origin (honseki) or had otherwise withdrawn from the household-registration and population-registration systems of the Ritsuryō state. Yet one fundamental question deserves to be raised:

Were people who had left their registered place of origin really people who had withdrawn from the state?

It may be worth considering the opposite possibility.

The Ritsuryō state did not simply abandon people who had left their registered place of origin. Rather, it attempted to identify them where they were actually living, record them in administrative registers under certain conditions, and establish anew their relationship to chōyō and other forms of state-imposed obligation.

If this interpretation is not unreasonable, then furojin should not be understood simply as fugitives or runaways. From a different analytical perspective, they may instead be understood as:

people who had lost their former point of connection with the state through their registered place of origin, but whom the state sought to reconnect to its administrative and fiscal order by shifting the point of connection to their actual place of residence.

This is the basic working hypothesis of this paper.

From this perspective, the problem of furojin is no longer merely a matter of controlling fugitives or defining a particular legal status. Rather, it becomes a problem of the state's administrative technology itself: how did the Ritsuryō state identify people who moved, and how did it reconnect them to the system of state obligations?

Reiko Okazaki's research provides an important starting point for considering this problem. Okazaki carefully distinguishes the terms furō, furojin, and rōnin, rather than treating them as interchangeable, and traces the precise legal and administrative contexts in which each term appears. She has demonstrated how the state's methods of identifying and registering people changed between the eighth and ninth centuries. In particular, her clarification of the process by which, following the Tenpyō 8 regulations, furojin came to be identified at their place of residence and institutionally incorporated as people subject to certain obligations is highly significant.

Yet, while fully acknowledging the importance of this achievement, this paper would like to raise three problems. These are not merely objections concerning details. Rather, precisely because Okazaki's institutional-historical analysis is so rigorous, it allows us to see questions that remain outside its analytical framework.

For the sake of argument, I will refer to these as “the three fatal shortcomings remaining in Okazaki's interpretation.”

I. Three Fatal Shortcomings Remaining in Okazaki's Interpretation

1. The First Shortcoming: Why Did the State Have to Change the System?

Okazaki's research carefully traces the changes in terminology and institutions from furō to furojin and then to rōnin. But we must ask a further question:

Why did the Ritsuryō state have to repeatedly revise its institutions concerning furojin in the first place?

The fact that an institution changed and the social and administrative conditions that compelled the state to change it are two different questions.

For example, if the state initially emphasized the return of furojin to their registered place of origin but gradually shifted toward identifying them and imposing obligations where they actually resided, there must have been changes in the real world that cannot be explained simply as the development of legal terminology.

Population movements.

Flight.

Famine.

Epidemics.

Natural disasters.

Changes in people's material foundations of life.

And, above all, the growing discrepancy between the registered place of origin and the place where people actually lived.

How did these changes place pressure on a system of population registration based on the koseki and keichō?

Without asking this question, we may learn how the institution changed, but we cannot understand why the state needed to change it.

This is the first shortcoming.

2. The Second Shortcoming: The Separation of Belonging and Obligation

One of the most important points emerging from Okazaki's research is that people who had left their registered place of origin came to be identified where they actually resided and were placed in a new relationship with chōyō and other obligations.

But the truly important issue is not simply the fact that furojin were identified at their place of residence.

The deeper issue is that:

belonging to a registered place of origin and bearing obligations to the state were no longer necessarily administered in the same place.

The basic structure of the Ritsuryō state's system of population management may be represented as:

Registered place of origin

Identification through the
koseki and keichō

Assignment of obligations

In other words:

belonging = identification = obligation

But once people left their registered place of origin and settled in another province or district, this structure began to break down.

The person was no longer physically present at the registered place of origin. Yet, from the state's perspective, that person might still exist in the records of the place of origin, while actual administrative processing had to be carried out at the person's new location.

At this point, a distinction emerged between:

the order of belonging

and

the order of obligation.

This distinction is central to the present argument.

The problem of furojin was therefore not simply a problem of people who had “lost their place of belonging.” Rather, it may have been a problem of:

how the state could reconnect people who had fallen outside the order of belonging to the order of state obligations.

Okazaki's research has carefully traced the institutional mechanisms through which this reconnection took place.

What has not yet been sufficiently developed, however, is the possibility of understanding these institutional changes as a process by which the state separated belonging from obligation.

This is the second shortcoming.

3. The Third Shortcoming: What Was the Furojin-chō Actually For?

In Okazaki's research, the furojin-chō occupies an important position as an administrative register used to identify furojin at their place of residence.

Yet here again, we need to take one further step.

Was the furojin-chō simply a register in which the names of furojin were listed?

A register does not exist merely to record people. Administrative registers are devices that transform information about people into information that can be processed administratively.

The same may be true of the furojin-chō.

People from other provinces or districts were present in a locality. Local officials discovered them.

They determined who they were.

They investigated where they had come from.

They established how long they had been living there.

They examined whether they had a stable livelihood.

They determined whether they had families.

Whether they had established marital relationships locally.

And they considered what obligations could be imposed upon them.

Only after this series of processes could the individual become an administratively recognizable entity within the register.

The furojin-chō, therefore, may not have been merely a population list. Rather, it can be understood as:

an information-processing device for reconnecting people who had fallen outside their established administrative point of connection through the registered place of origin to the state's system of identification and obligations through their place of residence.

Okazaki's research has clarified when the furojin-chō acquired particular institutional significance. Yet another question remains:

What kind of “reconnection work” did the register make possible within actual administrative practice?

This is the third shortcoming.

II. The Tenpyō Crisis and the Destabilization of the “Order of Belonging”

In considering this problem, the pandemic of smallpox between Tenpyō 7 and Tenpyō 9 cannot simply be ignored.

Of course, it would be inappropriate to explain the entire problem of furojin solely in terms of the pandemic. Nor can we simply assert that smallpox caused the koseki and keichō systems to collapse completely.

Nevertheless, the possibility must be considered that the massive demographic decline and social disruption placed extraordinary pressure on existing mechanisms of population registration.

The important point is not to treat smallpox as the “sole cause,” but rather to consider the possibility that:

the discrepancy between a system that identified people on the basis of their registered place of origin and the places where people actually lived may have expanded rapidly as a result of the large-scale demographic and social changes of the Tenpyō period.

People registered at their place of origin were not necessarily there in reality.

Some regions experienced population decline.

Other regions received people from elsewhere.

Under such circumstances, the assumption that “the person is where the register says he or she is” itself began to weaken.

The state therefore faced a choice.

Should it make the return of people to their registered places of origin the overriding priority?

Or:

Should it identify people where they actually lived and establish their obligations there?

This choice may have formed part of the background to the series of institutional changes concerning furojin.

III. Reiki, Tenpyō, and Enryaku: What Choice Did the State Make?

When the regulations concerning furojin are viewed as a historical sequence, a particular direction begins to emerge.

It was a shift:

from a system of population identification centered on return to the registered place of origin toward greater reliance on identification and the assignment of obligations at the actual place of residence.

This development was not linear. The content of the regulations differed from one period to another, and their scope and actual administrative application must also have varied.

Nevertheless, viewed over the longer term, there appears to have been a tendency for the state to identify people who had left their registered places of origin where they actually resided and to redefine their relationship to state obligations there.

What is important here is that:

the state did not simply “tolerate” furojin.

Nor did it simply abandon control over the movement of people.

On the contrary.

When the conventional method of connecting people to the state through their registered place of origin ceased to function effectively, the state attempted to incorporate those people into its administrative system through a new method.

This is precisely why there are limits to understanding furojin simply as “fugitives.”

IV. The “Order of Belonging” and the “Order of Obligation”

Let us clarify the basic concepts of this paper.

The Ritsuryō state assigned people to registered places of origin, identified them through the koseki and keichō, and imposed state obligations on the basis of that identification.

Let us call this:

the order of belonging.

The relationship through which people bore obligations such as chō, , and zōyō may, for present purposes, be called:

the order of obligation.

Under normal circumstances, these two orders coincided.

But the movement of people produced a situation such as:

Place of registered origin = A
Actual place of residence = B

The state then had two possible options.

The first was to return the person to A and restore the correspondence between belonging and obligation.

The second was to identify the person at B and establish a relationship with state obligations through B.

If the latter approach was adopted, then for the first time:

the order of belonging and the order of obligation became separable.

This does not mean that the state abandoned the person's original affiliation altogether.

Rather, the state sought a means of ensuring that:

even when the original relationship of belonging could not be restored, the individual would not disappear entirely from the system of state obligations.

Here we may see an important element of pragmatism in the Ritsuryō state.

V. What Were Furojin? From “People Who Had Left” to “People Who Were Reconnected”

We can now state the central hypothesis of this paper more explicitly.

Traditionally,

a furojin was a person who had left his or her registered place of origin.

There is nothing inherently wrong with this definition. But it does not explain what the state subsequently did with such people.

The sequence was:

  1. They left their registered place of origin.
  2. Yet the state sought to locate them.
  3. It investigated them.
  4. It recorded them in registers.
  5. It identified where they were living.
  6. It established their relationship to state obligations.

What does this sequence mean?

This paper proposes the following interpretation:

A furojin was not necessarily a person who had withdrawn from the state.

Rather, a furojin was a person who had lost the conventional point of connection to the state represented by the registered place of origin, and whom the state sought to reconnect to its administrative and fiscal order by establishing a new point of connection at the person's actual place of residence.

From this perspective, furojin should not be understood solely as a fixed status or social category.

What matters instead is:

the individual's state of connection to the state.

An ordinary registered person was in the following condition:

registered place of origin = actual residence = identification = obligation

A furojin, by contrast, occupied a situation in which:

registered place of origin ≠ actual residence

The state then established a new route:

actual residence → identification → register → obligation

In this sense, it would not be unreasonable to describe furojin as:

people whose mode of connection to the state had been altered.

VI. The Furojin-chō as an Instrument of Reconnection

From this perspective, the meaning of the furojin-chō also changes.

According to the conventional interpretation:

The furojin-chō was a register listing furojin.

But, as argued above, this is insufficient.

The furojin-chō may instead be understood as:

a device for transforming information about people's whereabouts into administratively usable information.

People who had fallen outside their original administrative framework were difficult to process solely through existing registers. Local authorities therefore had to generate new information about them.

Who were they?

Where had they come from?

When had they arrived?

Did they possess a stable livelihood?

With whom were they connected?

What obligations could be imposed upon them?

Such information was investigated, recorded, classified, and reorganized into an administrative register.

Here we can identify a sequence of administrative processing:

identification → recording → classification → assignment of obligations → collection

From this perspective, the furojin-chō was not merely a “status register.”

It was:

an administrative instrument for reconnecting people who had fallen outside their original point of connection through their registered place of origin to the state through their place of residence.

This raises a series of questions that future research must address:

Who collected the information?

At what stage were individuals entered into the furojin-chō?

What local records existed before their registration?

How was information in the furojin-chō transmitted from the local administrative level to the provincial government and ultimately to the central government?

These questions require us to reconstruct the administrative practice itself.

VII. The “Corvée-and-Tax State” as a Working Hypothesis

On the basis of the preceding discussion, this paper proposes another working concept for understanding the Ritsuryō state:

the “Corvée-and-Tax State.”

This concept does not mean that the ancient state could collect nothing other than corvée and taxation. Nor is chōyō being used here merely as a narrowly defined legal category.

The issue is rather:

How did the state identify people and maintain their connection to the system of state obligations?

For the Ritsuryō state, keeping people attached to their registered places of origin was undoubtedly important.

But what may have been even more important was preventing people from disappearing completely from the system of state obligations.

People moved.

They left their registered places of origin.

They fell outside the administrative processes of the existing koseki and keichō.

At that point, what did the state truly fear?

Perhaps it was not movement itself.

Perhaps what it feared was:

the complete disappearance of those people from the system of state obligations.

The state therefore sought to identify them where they were living, enter them into new registers, and establish a new relationship between them and state obligations.

In this sense:

the Ritsuryō state may be understood as a state that maintained and reproduced itself by identifying people and continually reconnecting them to the system of state obligations.

To emphasize this dimension, I propose the term “Corvée-and-Tax State” as a working hypothesis.

VIII. Categories of Human Connection to the State

If this hypothesis is adopted, it may become possible to reconsider not only furojin but a variety of groups in the Ritsuryō period along a common axis:

their state of connection to the state.

For example:

1. People whose registered place of origin, actual residence, and obligations coincided

These were ordinary registered persons:

registered place of origin = actual residence = state identification = obligations

They occupied the most stable position within the system.

2. People who moved but maintained their connection to the state through recognized or official procedures

Their movement did not necessarily mean withdrawal from the state.

Their new location could be administratively recognized, and their relationship to state obligations maintained.

3. People who left their registered place of origin and were newly identified at their place of residence

This represents the typical furojin situation.

The original point of connection had weakened or ceased to function.

But a new process of identification was undertaken at the place of residence.

4. People who settled locally and were connected to state obligations through their place of residence

Here, administrative processing at the place of residence could become more important than return to the original place of registration.

5. People who fell outside existing registers and required new forms of administrative processing

The problem of people outside the registers (chōgai-sha) should be reconsidered in relation to this category.

Falling outside an existing register did not necessarily mean disappearing from the state.

It may instead have meant:

becoming a person who could no longer be processed through the existing mode of connection.

6. The heterogeneous category of rōnin

By the ninth century, the range of people designated as rōnin had become more diverse.

Okazaki herself points out that people with causes and forms of existence different from those of eighth-century furojin came to be included within the category of rōnin.

From the perspective proposed here, this suggests that rōnin may not have been a single social status. Rather, it may have represented:

a group of administrative categories used to process people whose ordinary relationships among registered affiliation, actual residence, and state obligations had broken down in various ways.

I would therefore propose to Okazaki that furō → furojin → rōnin might be understood not merely as a change in terminology, but as:

a transformation and diversification in the ways the state connected people to its administrative system.

IX. From a “State of Belonging” to a “State of Reconnection”

The foregoing discussion also invites us to reconsider the nature of the Ritsuryō state itself.

In conventional interpretations, the Ritsuryō state is often depicted as a state that assigned people to registered places of origin, managed them through the koseki and keichō, and sought to establish their location in a relatively fixed manner.

But people move.

They flee.

They migrate.

They marry.

They move in search of a livelihood.

They lose their established means of living because of famine, epidemics, or natural disasters.

The state could not completely prevent such movements.

It therefore faced not simply the problem of preventing movement, but the problem of:

how to reconnect people who had moved to the administrative network of the state.

Could this be one of the contexts in which the category of furojin emerged?

If so:

The system concerning furojin was not simply a system for punishing people who had withdrawn from the state.

It was rather:

an institutional mechanism for incorporating people who had fallen outside the existing system of population identification into the state's administrative and fiscal order through a new point of connection at their place of residence.

The Ritsuryō state was therefore not merely a state that fixed people within a system of belonging.

It was also:

a state capable of creating new forms of connection when existing forms of belonging became unstable.

X. How Should We Understand “Collapse” and “Reorganization”?

This perspective also offers a new way of approaching the problem of the “collapse of the Ritsuryō system.”

It is easy to interpret the increase in furojin simply as evidence of the collapse of the koseki system.

But such an interpretation cannot by itself explain the administrative measures subsequently undertaken by the state.

The existing system began to fail.

People moved away from their registered places of origin.

Yet the state attempted to identify them through new procedures.

Here we can see two processes occurring simultaneously:

the breakdown of an existing system

and

the administrative practices attempting to repair or replace it.

The important question is therefore not simply whether the Ritsuryō system “collapsed” or “survived.”

Rather, we should ask:

What was breaking down, and what was the state attempting to preserve until the end?

From the hypothesis advanced here, what was beginning to break down was:

the order of belonging that sought to bind people to fixed registered places of origin.

What the state attempted to preserve through new administrative procedures was:

the order of obligation that prevented people from disappearing completely from the system of state obligations.

Here we can see the Ritsuryō state as a “Corvée-and-Tax State.”

Conclusion: What Was a Furojin?

This paper has not sought merely to propose an alternative interpretation to Reiko Okazaki's research on furojin. Rather, it has attempted to reconsider the administrative principle underlying the institutional and conceptual changes that Okazaki has clarified.

Three major problems remain.

First:

Why did the state repeatedly have to revise its institutions concerning furojin?

Second:

How did the relationship between belonging to a registered place of origin and bearing state obligations become separated?

Third:

What did the furojin-chō actually make possible as an information-processing device within local administrative practice?

By considering these questions, this paper seeks to place furojin in a different position from that traditionally assigned to them.

That is:

A furojin was not necessarily a person who had withdrawn from the state.

Rather, a furojin was a person who had lost the conventional point of connection to the state represented by the registered place of origin, and whom the state sought to reconnect to its administrative and fiscal order by establishing a new point of connection at the person's actual place of residence.

From this perspective, furojin can be understood not as a fixed status but as:

an administrative category expressing a particular state of connection to the state.

This perspective may also allow us to reconsider rōnin, people outside the registers, and ryūjū from a common analytical standpoint:

How did people fall outside the existing system of state identification, and by what means did the state attempt to reconnect them?

The Ritsuryō state that emerges from this perspective is not simply a state that fixed people within their registered places of origin.

It was also:

a state that sought to reconnect people when their existing relationship to the state became unstable.

Indeed, it is possible that what the state ultimately sought not to lose was not the registered place of origin itself, but:

the state's relationship of obligation with the individual.

This paper has expressed this dimension through the working concept of the “Corvée-and-Tax State.”

Naturally, this hypothesis requires further testing against individual historical sources.

But if furojin can be understood not simply as “fugitives” but as:

people whom the state continued to identify and pursue by changing the way in which they were connected to the state,

then the study of furojin takes on a very different character.

The central question is no longer merely:

“Who were the furojin?”

Rather, it becomes:

“How did the Ritsuryō state reconnect people who moved to the state?”

The furojin were not simply people who escaped from the net of the Ritsuryō state.

They may instead have been evidence of something more interesting:

the state's attempt to create new meshes in its administrative net for people who had slipped outside the old ones.