LITMIR.BIZ

      A miko shrine maiden passes gracefully through the corridors of the Gehaiden outer hall at Meiji Jingu Shrine.

      The shogun’s daimyo (retainers) built their residences here, and with them came their samurai warriors, followed by the carpenters, masons, fullers, weavers, dyers, cooks and footmen who created this new city. Nihonbashi became the administrative center of Japan, and it was from its central bridge (Nihonbashi means “Bridge of Japan”) that all distances were to be officially measured.

      The results were still to be viewed when the American scholar, W.E. Griffis, arrived in 1876. He observed that the general shape of old Edo was “that of an egg with the point to the south, the butt to the north, and the yolk of this egg is the castle.”

      This yolk, this core, is commonly thought of as unoccupied. But this is not quite true. Empty also means not filled with streets, buildings, nor people. For here, in the middle of the largest city in the world, is this wild park, this island of green—280 acres of it—said to be home to rabbits and pheasants as well as the Imperial family. The royals dwell there modestly with their Imperial household staff, living in a manner considerably less unostentatious than did the former tenants, the bakufu, the house and staff of the shogunate, the Tokugawa family.

      By 1600, Tokugawa Ieyasu, leader of the clan and “unifier of Japan,” had achieved a military hegemony. By the following year he had been named shogun and the construction of his castle was underway. It grew into a great city itself, the first of the city’s many “cities within the city.”

      All the daimyo had to contribute. Lumber was levied, the great cyclopean stones still lining what is left of the Imperial moat were gathered. Some were so enormous that, shipped up the coast to growing Edo, only two of them would fit on a single boat and each required 200 men to shift them. Pure white stucco, made from imported lime, was brought in to cover the outer walls, and specially-baked gray clay tiles constituted the roofs, with two enormous gold dolphins installed at the very summit.

      And this castle-city kept growing. There was never enough space. This is why the lower hills were leveled, why the bay was pushed back and the land filled in. Eventually the whole area contained the largest castle in the world, holding, as it had to, the shogun and his entire cabinet and the daimyo and their retinues, which included not only their samurai, but also all of their attendants and their families. In addition there were the craftsmen and the servants, and then all the merchants and farmers who provided for them. Richard Cocks, one of the few Westerners to have seen the place back then, wrote in 1616 that the castle was enormous—as large, he said, as the whole city of Coventry in England.

      In a way, the castle became the architectural personification of an ideal feudalism—with the shogun at the apex of this pyramid of power—a structure that lasted the 15 generations of the Tokugawa family. But it did make something of a crowd.

      The castle was filled to bursting—a whole harem of wives and concubines, dozens of daimyo, hundreds of samurai, thousands of servants and most with no place to live except, eventually, outside the walls in what became the new city of Edo.

      By this time, however, the castle was no longer a fort. It did not need to be one. Ieyasu had conquered everyone, had engineered what has been called “an era of peace.” Nonetheless, his palace remained imposing: 16 kilometers in circumference, 66 gates, 19 watchtowers. The roof of the main keep, 58 meters tall, was twice as tall as that surviving at Himeji Castle. It did not, however, survive. Destroyed by fire in 1657, it was never restored due to the cost. Yet it was apparently a marvel.

      Apparently, because there are few sketches, no drawings, no woodcut prints of the castle as it was. Its delineation was forbidden, its image taboo. This was official policy. The Tokugawa was a military hegemony, the longest lived the world has ever known. Though it no longer functioned as one, the palace was still a military secret. By now, however, it was completely dependent on the outside for food and water, and the samurai sat idle, no more wars to fight.

      As the castle dwindled, Edo grew. Retainers moved away from the designed grid of bakufu power. The straight streets and square corners became convoluted as convenience called, as they were crossed by more expedient paths, by short cuts, as the purely military pattern became civilian, and then descended into that tangled geography so typical of the needs of free trade. It has been said that it was as though the monumental man-made geography of Washington, D.C. had, once past the White House, reverted to the paths and lanes of rural Virginia.

      So it is here with this castle, now the Imperial Palace, that one should begin exploring Tokyo, that livable megalopolis. Then one goes down northeast to Shitamachi, the Low City, where all those fullers and footmen lived; then up through the mercantile Mid City to the High City hills where the ruler and his samurai were; and on to the burgeoning south-west, following the geography and the trail of history into the future.

       From the banks of the Sumida River spread what remains

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