Forgotten Wars of Ancient Japan – The Emishi Versus Yamato
A Half-Forgotten War
Dawn over the valley of Isawa. Mist drifted among the trees like the tattered robes of ancestral spirits. Look—rising from the dew-drenched reeds appears a wooden palisade: a simple yet defiant fortified Emishi settlement. Inside the enclosure, horse manes steam in the morning air; young warriors draw their glossy bows of mulberry wood, testing bowstrings made of salmon sinew, while the elders rub warabite-tō swords with tar-scented oil. On the muddy ground lies a heap of iron arrowheads—the payment a trader brought yesterday from Taga-jō in exchange for beaver pelts. Now that same metal will return to its former owners—cutting through the hearts of the Yamato emperor’s soldiers, who demanded ever-higher taxes, conversion to foreign prayers, and the surrender of horses, the most faithful companions of the north. The creak of saddles mingles with the guttural chant of a shamaness; she calls upon the spirit of the river to turn back the arrows of the imperial troops. In this moment—before the first command to march is given—history holds its breath.
Between the 4th and 9th centuries, there were many such moments. The wars between the Emishi and Yamato form an epic spanning over four centuries and hundreds of kilometers of marshlands, rivers, and mountain passes in Tōhoku. From both sides came the paradoxes of the era: a foot soldier in lamellar armor with a heavy shield, conscripted in the name of imperial law, and the light Emishi horseman, whose bow sang in gallop—one arrow after another slicing through the air. The most resounding defeat struck the Japanese at Subuse in 789—one thousand drowned soldiers, and the river carried fragments of their armor all the way to Matsushima Bay. Then came Sakanoue no Tamuramaro, the first Sei-i Taishōgun, who within a decade (801–811) built a cordon of fortresses from Shiwa-jō to Tokutan-jō, relocating thousands of rebels as komin (subjects of the emperor).
Last week, we spoke about who the Emishi were: descendants of the Jōmon, masters of the bow, speakers of a language whose echoes still linger in Hokkaido’s toponyms and the Ainu tongue. Today we look at their turbulent relationship with the emerging Japan—from the first expeditions of Abe no Hirafu to the trial and execution of the leader Aterui, from the system of fushu and ifu to assimilation into the ritsuryō registers. So let us set out on this path: to smell lacquered weapons, hear the hoofbeats across the wetlands, and understand why the shadow of these forgotten wars still glides over the northern horizon of Honshu and Hokkaido.
On the Northern Frontier of the Empire
The beginnings of Yamato-Emishi contact (4th–7th centuries)
In the north of ancient Japan, the world beat to a different rhythm. Instead of rice paddies—cool valleys and mountain pastures. Instead of orderly Buddhist temples—coniferous forests where the echo of drums and horse hooves carried through wild ferns and tall grasses. The waters of the Kitakami and Mogami rivers swelled wide in the spring thaw, isolating Emishi clans from each other—and from the south. This land, now known as Tōhoku, was as alluring as it was alien to the Yamato court. It was not yet the Japan known in Nara or Asuka—this was a land of resistance, both wild in nature and sharp in sword.
It was here that the Emishi lived—people whose silhouettes Yamato scouts glimpsed at dawn, slipping silently through the mist on horseback, bows on their backs, wolf pelts draped across their shoulders. In the previous article, we already described who the Emishi were: descendants of the Jōmon, interwoven with Yayoi culture, forming a mosaic of communities—from pastoral horsemen, to semi-farmers, to hunters from the forests of Hokkaidō (see article here: A Walk Through the Ancient Japanese Settlement of Yoshinogari – What Was Life Like in the Yayoi Period?). Their language, now lost, may have sounded like a distant cousin of Ainu or may have been a fully isolated tongue—a mystery that still puzzles linguists. They left behind weapons unlike any made by the Japanese, ceramic vessels adorned with geometric patterns, and graves hewn into hard earth—ezo-ana, pit graves with a distinctive layout, recognizable in the northern reaches of Honshū.
The first mentions of these people appear in the Nihon Shoki—a chronicle written in the 8th century, but recounting Japan's history from mythical beginnings. According to it, already in the 6th century, the Emishi were known to the Yamato court as “northern savages” who refused to submit. They were divided into San-I (“mountain barbarians”) and Den-I (“lowland barbarians”), suggesting both their places of residence and degrees of “civilization.” The San-I were hunters from the high passes, elusive and independent. The Den-I more often traded, built settlements, and were more susceptible to influence from the south.
Enter Abe no Hirafu—a Japanese commander and admiral of the 7th century, who organized a maritime expedition along the western coast of Hokkaidō and northern Honshū. His campaigns against the Emishi were not only about conquest but also reconnaissance—who are they, how do they fight? And where might Yamato establish garrisons? The Nihon Shoki recounts that in 658, Emishi envoys even appeared at the Chinese imperial court as representatives of “northeastern barbarians”—wearing deerskin clothing, their hair tied in topknots, and facial tattoos. Their bows were long and lacquered, their knives resembled later Ainu blades, and their equestrian culture—independent of Yamato—was developed and self-sufficient.
The first clashes were minor but troubling. Yamato’s frontier commanders reported armed Emishi raids on farming villages, warriors hiding in the forests of Michinoku, people who could not be swayed by gold or decree. So the first fortified camps were built, scouting parties sent out, and local allies recruited from among the Den-I, slowly charting the terrain. But Yamato did not yet have the strength or technology to seize these lands. This was merely the prologue to a long, dramatic war—and an equally long process of colonization.
Archaeology still reveals traces of this history: iron horse bridles, curved knives, ceramics influenced by the continent but retaining local symbolism. Bronze bracelets found in graves, shell ornaments, and fragments of weaponry point to a society that blended ancient traditions with new influences—but did not allow itself to be absorbed.
It was this land, wild and beautiful, that became the setting for a forgotten yet deeply dramatic chapter in Japanese history. And it was only just beginning.
Fortress in the Wilderness
The construction of castles and Yamato’s defensive line (8th century)
Taga-jō – the first footholds
Morning mists drift across the marshy valleys of northern Honshū. Amid the damp grasses and tall sedges, the neighing of horses, the creak of wooden carts, and the clatter of heavy materials can be heard. These are builders from central Japan, under the supervision of Yamato’s military engineers, raising one of the first fortresses at the edge of civilization—Taga-jō, in the year 724.
Taga-jō, built in present-day Miyagi Prefecture, was meant to be more than a defense point—it was a declaration: imperial power has arrived at the once-untamed northern frontier. A regular layout based on continental models—a rectangular area surrounded by moats, palisades, and earthen ramparts, with administrative offices, storehouses, and barracks inside. Many of these structures had clay walls with whitewashed plaster, roofed with bark or shingles. Archaeologists have discovered administrative seals, writing rollers, and fragments of imported ceramics here, proving the presence of an official bureaucracy.
In 733, even farther north, in the valley of the Omono River, the construction of Akita-jō began. This was no mere formality—it was a true fortress. At the same time, along the coasts and valleys, a network of small outposts emerged—garrisons scattered like points of light in the darkness of a wild landscape. This line would later be called chōsen (挑戦 – “military challenge”), a belt of forts and barriers meant to hold back the Emishi from launching counterattacks.
Gundan-sei – The Military System
To maintain control over Tōhoku, Yamato relied on the gundan-sei system—organized units of standing troops recruited from the peasantry. In theory, they were elite soldiers. In practice, they were often poorly equipped, reluctant to serve, and forced to march through unfamiliar and harsh climates. Their armor (tankō and keikō) was heavy, and their food spoiled during the journey. The authorities tried to secure logistics through a network of shukueki—postal and horse stations—but caravans with rice and other supplies often perished in ambushes or drowned in floodplains.
In the archives, fragments of letters have been found from officials pleading with the capital for reinforcements and supplies. Their handwriting is filled with anger at the “savages,” but also with resignation—even the most efficient army became helpless under such conditions.
Growing Resistance and Life in Division
As Yamato expanded its presence, local frustration among the Emishi grew. Some accepted the role of fushu—subjects who retained a degree of autonomy in exchange for loyalty, providing horses, furs, and local goods. Others—ifu—rejected dependency, organizing resistance and refusing to pay taxes.
Religion also became a field of conflict. Buddhist monks arrived from central Japan to “civilize” the frontier, building temples and teaching reincarnation—a concept foreign to Emishi hunters and warriors, for whom ancestral spirits lived in rivers, trees, and fire.
Trade That Connects and Divides
Despite political tensions, trade flourished. The Emishi supplied horses—strong, short, broad-backed—ideal for warfare. In return, they received iron—precious blades, nails, tools. Archaeologists find traces of this exchange: Japanese bronze bracelets in ezo-ana, as well as military arrowheads and fragments of armor in Emishi settlements.
But the asymmetry grew—while the Japanese needed horses, the Emishi became increasingly dependent on iron. And as with Native Americans in their confrontation with Europeans, the relationship became a trap.
Life in the Fortress
Imagine Taga-jō at the height of winter. Hearths burn inside the official buildings. The sound of flutes, monks’ prayers, and the creak of warehouse doors fill the air. Guards, wrapped in thick furs, tread over frozen ground, watching the darkness for movement. From behind the trees, ifu might appear. Or perhaps it's just a deer?
During the day, young recruits train in the courtyard. The commander shouts commands, explaining them clumsily in a Kansai dialect to simple peasants from the north. Sometimes, Emishi-fushu arrive with gifts: a horse, venison, furs. They also bring news—perhaps of new uprisings, perhaps of incoming merchants. The fortress does not sleep. It is the border point between civilization and wilderness—at least from Yamato’s point of view. Life here unfolds between hope and fear.
Long Wars of the North
The Isawa Rebellion and Bloody Campaigns (774–789)
In the spring of 774, when mist cloaked the valleys of Isawa and the rivers carried snowmelt from the Kitakami mountains, a rebellion began that would turn Tōhoku into a land of smoke, death, and resistance for years to come. In the dark forests along winding streams, amidst bogs and impassable marshes, Emishi horsemen were preparing for war. Bronze headbands gleamed on their brows, and wolf pelts hung from their shoulders—not as trophies, but as part of their identity. They were led by Aterui of the Isawa clan—a name that would echo in the mouths of courtiers in Heian for decades like a sinister incantation.
Aterui, recorded in chronicles as 阿弖流為 (a purely phonetic rendering), was not merely a leader. He was a symbol of a world that refused to kneel before the southern power of Yamato. His clan inhabited the valley of the Isawa River, a tributary of the Kitakami, in what is today Ōshū. Archaeologists have discovered earth ramparts there, ezo-ana pit dwellings, and arrowheads shaped like unfurling fern fronds—warabite-yajiri. It was in this land, where the mud could be as deep as a tall man’s height and the fog could conceal entire herds of horses, that rebellion surged against Yamato’s tightening iron grip.
The reasons were clear: the imposition of new administrative borders, the establishment of garrisons like Isawa-jō, the confiscation of food supplies, the imposition of Buddhism, and above all—taxes, burdens the Emishi did not recognize as just. Emperor Kanmu, seated in his palace in Heian-Kyō, responded by dispatching successive gundan units—heavily armed infantry recruited from central provinces. But these campaigns became nightmares. In 776, imperial troops bogged down in the swamps of the Koromo River, as the Emishi, who knew the land like their own breath, dismantled the bridges the night before the offensive.
In 778, Aterui struck Momonō-jō fortress, setting fire to the granaries and destroying hundreds of thousands of rice rations and portions of dried soy—hishio. It was a blow not only military but symbolic: to deprive an army of food was to bring about its death, or at least its disbandment. Yamato was forced to retreat. But this was only the beginning.
The Defeat of Yamato at Subuse
The battle that passed into legend took place on the banks of the Subuse River in 789. The emperor sent Ki no Kosami with a four-thousand-strong force, proudly clad in tankō armor, with shields and spears. The Emishi fielded about a thousand mounted archers. As the Japanese infantry advanced through the river fords of Subuse, a sudden rain of arrows fell upon them. Bogged down in mud, too heavy to flee, the imperial soldiers died one by one. Many bodies were swallowed by the river. According to the Nihon Shoki, the death toll was so high that the emperor did not appear in public for a week. It was the greatest defeat suffered by Yamato in the Emishi wars.
The Emishi cavalry, light and fast, used their knowledge of the terrain, moved at night, and attacked without warning. Their bows—uniform and flexible, made of mulberry wood and coated with black lacquer—outdistanced the Japanese ones of that era. Each warrior could fire two accurate arrows in a matter of seconds, from the saddle. Their warabite-tō swords, short with handles curled like fern shoots, were perfect for hit-and-run attacks. On Yamato’s side—heavy infantry, disciplined units held in rigid formations that, in reeds and mud, became more of a curse than a strength.
In the Emishi language—as suggested by comparative studies with proto-Ainu—many words survived related to horses and movement. One of them may have been em-teke, meaning “night gallop,” possibly the source of the later Japanese word utage (feast), which in its original sense referred to a ritual of warriors returning from a night raid.
Yamato’s Change of Strategy
But Yamato had no intention of surrendering. After the defeat at Subuse, Emperor Kanmu decided to change strategy. In 794, he established a new title—Sei-i Taishōgun, “Commander-in-Chief for the Pacification of the Barbarians.” It was first bestowed upon Ōtomo no Otomaro, but only his successor, Sakanoue no Tamuramaro, would bring the matter to its conclusion. In 801, Tamuramaro constructed Shiwa-jō—a fortress not only military but also symbolic, filled with granaries, temples, and customs posts. From this stronghold, he set out on his final campaign.
In the summer of 802, Aterui and his deputy More (written as 母礼), knowing that further resistance would result in the massacre of civilians, surrendered. They came to Heian-Kyō with the hope of receiving the status of fushu—dependent yet autonomous chieftains. Tamuramaro, according to sources, was moved by their honor and bravery. But the court had no mercy. Fearing that a living Aterui might become a rallying point for rebellion, he and More were executed on August 5, 802, on the plains of Kadonoi-gawara. The chronicles recorded the event without emotion. History, however, remembered it differently.
In the Iwate region, there is still a temple dedicated to Aterui’s spirit. He is venerated as a deity of waters and fish, and his name—whispered like mist over the Kitakami River—still returns in the songs of local priests. Yamato won militarily, but something of the northern spirit remained. A spirit that does not kneel.
Tamuramaro – The Final War and the Fall of the Emishi (801–811)
In the spring of 801, a new commander appeared on the northern stage of war: Sakanoue no Tamuramaro, the first in history to bear the title Sei-i Taishōgun. Imperial chronicles recorded that he was both a master of archery and calligraphy, and that his face “rarely trembled at cruelty, though more often at mercy.” He did not arrive with the thunder of drums, but with a caravan of masts, beams, and sacks of rice. He understood that the Emishi could not be broken by iron alone; they had to be encircled with fortresses and simultaneously tempted with the promise of another way of life.
His first blow was surgical. Tamuramaro entered the heart of the former Isawa clan and, in the bend of soft earth between the Shizukuishi and Kitakami rivers, on the site of a burned village, erected Shiwa-jō. This was no longer a light palisade like Taga-jō—the central axis of the construction, made of stone and compacted clay, literally drove into the marshy ground like a wedge; in the four corners stood tall signal towers, and the granaries, roofed with split shingles, could hold three years’ worth of rice supplies. Craftsmen from the Izu mountains were brought in to lacquer beams, and fifty salt kilns were transported from the Mino province, for Tamuramaro intended not only to wage war but also to engage in trade.
Before the drums of mobilization sounded, he sent envoys bearing gifts: purple cloth, iron sickles, and sacred tachi sword-talismans. Those who accepted the gesture were granted fushu status—designated allies. They had to surrender horses and swear loyalty, but were allowed to keep their local shrines and ezo-ana burial sites. The rest—the rebellious ifu—were burned out of their homes and deported—thousands of families resettled to the coast of the Sea of Japan as kōmin, new peasants of the emperor. On clay tablets from the garrison archives of Shiwa-jō, meticulous lists are inscribed—clan name, number of horses, beaver pelt quotas, relocation site down to the last bamboo hut. The war moved from battlefield to registry.
By summer 802, armed resistance had waned. Aterui and his companion More—the same who had recently drowned gundan units in the rivers—came to Tamuramaro’s camp and laid down their swords on a cloth of woven hemp. The chronicler noted that the general wept when they were sent to Heian. There, on the orders of the council of aristocrats fearful of the legend of living Emishi, both were executed on the same day. When uneasy voices in the capital questioned whether such chieftains might better have been spared and made pillars of a new order, Tamuramaro is said to have replied: “To conquer is to fulfill the ritual.” The ritual was fulfilled, and with it—the final pillar of the independent north was broken.
In the following years, forts rose like stone raindrops: Koretaka-jō, Tokutan-jō, and finally the network of watchtowers in Aizu, which closed the gate to the south. Tamuramaro returned to the capital in 811, leaving behind a frontier where the old Emishi clans dissolved into the agricultural fields. Their language—sometimes called ebisu kotoba in sources—began to merge with Japanese dialects, and the names of their chieftains appeared in tax registers alongside farmers from Honshu. The independence of the Emishi had ended, but the story of their freedom was only beginning to mature in memory.
The Last Embers of Resistance
The Rebellion of Gan’gyō (878)
It seemed everything had been settled. And yet in the spring of Gan’gyō 2—878 by the Western calendar—a sudden flame flared in the Dewa province. Forty years of assimilation had transformed the Emishi fushu into a group plundered by court bureaucracy through taxes, forced into servile fur trading, and compelled to recite prayers in a foreign tongue. When the new administrator of Akita-jō, Yoshimine no Yoshikage, raised the tribute quotas, the people of the Noshiro valley refused—and on the night of the fifteenth day of the third month, they lit their torches. Akita-jō fortress flared like a lantern at the edge of the marshlands, and the smoke carried the scent of burning rice stores and imperial documents.
Nearly a month later, the news reached Heian-Kyō. Emperor Yōzei was only eleven years old, so real power rested with Regent Fujiwara no Mototsune. The edicts sent to the provinces, recorded in the Nihon Sandai Jitsuroku, read like a lesson from Sun Zi’s Art of War: “The barbarian, like a rabid dog, changes nature when hunger gnaws at him; if we strike with iron, we lose the harvest. Better to seize hearts than throats.” Mototsune thus ordered the governors of Ideha and Michinoku to first promise a reduction in taxes, and only later—if necessary—to request reinforcements.
Not all Emishi took part in the uprising. Those who had become kōmin (subjects of the emperor) defended imperial forts side by side with troops from the capital. Those who still lived as free hunters in the northern forests plundered granaries—not for politics, but for iron and salt. To this day, archaeologists uncover shards of vessels in the Noshiro valley etched with the character 夷—“barbarian”—as if someone, defying authority, had chosen to preserve a separate identity on clay pots. Among the ashes of Akita-jō, charred spindles for winding bowstrings have been found, bronze lamellar plates with forked holes for leather straps in Emishi style, and small stone figurines of horses—perhaps offerings to ancestral spirits.
So was the Gan’gyō rebellion an uprising of subjects—or the last war of a people? The Yamato chroniclers called it a “tax revolt,” but archaeology and the oral traditions of Tōhoku suggest it was something more: a desperate attempt to remember that even when the colors of banners fade and a language falls silent, in the depths of ashes one may still find the character 夷 and hear the same song of free galloping through the mist over the river—sung since the days of the chieftain Aterui.
Echo from the North
The Ainu as Heirs to the Legacy of the Emishi
When the war drums fall silent and the last plumes of smoke rise from the charred fortresses, history does not fall silent—it merely changes form. The Emishi vanished from the chronicles, but not from the world. Their language disappeared, yet certain words, patterns, and objects endured—like the tough bark of a tree that grows slowly, but stubbornly. As archaeologists uncover the soil of old Tōhoku, among the ceramics, arrowheads, and horse bridles they find forms familiar from even farther north—from Hokkaidō. It is there, in the frigid valleys of Ishikari and across snowy steppes, that a people lived who still carry within them echoes of the ancient Emishi—the Ainu (probably—it must be noted, however, that while the kinship between the Ainu and Emishi seems very likely, it has not been proven beyond all doubt).
Between the two peoples—Emishi and Ainu—scholars observe surprising continuities. Riding styles, reflex bows made of horn and wood, geometric patterns on clothing and pottery, as well as the ornate tattoos worn by women—all point to common or related origins. The archaeological Satsumon culture (6th–12th century), which developed in Hokkaidō and northern Tōhoku, appears to be a bridge between the late Emishi and the emerging Ainu identity. In Satsumon burial sites, we find artifacts from both worlds—imported Japanese ceramics and local products adorned in ways characteristic of boreal peoples. This attests to ongoing trade, but also to a cultural dialogue that carried ideas across mountains and bays.
Just as the Emishi once traded horses, furs, and slaves for iron and textiles, so too did the Ainu—centuries later—exchange bear pelts and salmon for swords and pots. Iron remained the key commodity—a symbol of civilizational asymmetry. And just as the Emishi rose up against unjust trade in the 8th and 9th centuries, the Ainu rebelled in arms during the Koshamain uprising in 1457. The pattern repeats—contact, asymmetry, exploitation, rebellion, defeat. The North did not fall silent. It merely spoke a different language.
Today, Japan’s history textbooks mention the wars with the Emishi only briefly—as though they were merely a stop along the path to national unity. And yet for nearly four centuries, the front line cut across northern Honshū, and the fates of thousands—Yamato, Emishi, ifu, fushu, kōmin—were woven into a dramatic mosaic. What remains are toponyms, legends, and ritual gestures. Some aristocratic clans of the Heian period even claimed descent from the Emishi—perhaps out of pride, perhaps for political pragmatism.
Conquered Wildness, Absorbed Identity
The fate of the Emishi is the story of a world that did not collapse in a day, but rather dispersed, diluted, and seeped into other structures—like smoke into the air. Yes, they were exterminated—but also assimilated. They took on Japanese names, founded families in ritsuryō settlements, served in frontier garrisons. Some became officials, monks, traders. Others went farther north—to lands beyond the reach of edicts from Heian-kyō.
The Yamato state proved a powerful force for unifying the archipelago—but also a force that did not tolerate diversity. Its success was built on standardization—of writing, law, and religion. And yet the story of the Emishi reminds us that Japan was not always a monolith. That national identity is a construction, not a gift of nature.
For centuries, the Emishi were to Yamato like a shadow—elusive, unassimilated, defiant. That is why today, when we speak of Japan, it is worth mentioning them. For the history of the center cannot exist without the history of the periphery. And the spirit of the Emishi—with their horses, their bows, and their proud silence—still gallops somewhere across the misty plains of Tōhoku.
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The Ainu Uprising on Hokkaidō 1669 – Shakushain and 19 Tribes Against the Shogun
"Strong Japanese Women"
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未開 ソビエライ
An enthusiast of Asian culture with a deep appreciation for the diverse philosophies of the world. By education, a psychologist and philologist specializing in Korean studies. At heart, a programmer (primarily for Android) and a passionate technology enthusiast, as well as a practitioner of Zen and mono no aware. In moments of tranquility, adheres to a disciplined lifestyle, firmly believing that perseverance, continuous personal growth, and dedication to one's passions are the wisest paths in life. Author of the book "Strong Women of Japan" (>>see more)
Personal motto:
"The most powerful force in the universe is compound interest." - Albert Einstein (probably)
Mike Soray
(aka Michał Sobieraj)
未開 ソビエライ
An enthusiast of Asian culture with a deep appreciation for the diverse philosophies of the world. By education, a psychologist and philologist specializing in Korean studies. At heart, a programmer (primarily for Android) and a passionate technology enthusiast, as well as a practitioner of Zen and mono no aware. In moments of tranquility, adheres to a disciplined lifestyle, firmly believing that perseverance, continuous personal growth, and dedication to one's passions are the wisest paths in life. Author of the book "Strong Women of Japan" (>>see more)
Personal motto:
"The most powerful force in the universe is compound interest." - Albert Einstein (probably)
Mike Soray
(aka Michał Sobieraj)
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