The City of Nara – a Geometrically and Spiritually Designed Metropolis of Ancient Japan Long Before the Samurai
Ancient Japan
Today’s Japan is a land of silent trains, tea-scented vending machines, autonomous drones, colossal cities, and deserted villages. But close your eyes for a moment and surrender to your imagination, and a journey begins—backwards through time: through the Shōwa era, when Nintendo rose from the ashes of war; through the turbulent Meiji period, where kimonos gave way to uniforms; all the way to Edo (the dawn of early modern Japan)—the golden age of haiku poetry, ukiyo-e woodblock prints, and pilgrimages along the Tōkaidō Road. Even earlier, the bloody chaos of Sengoku raged—a brutal late medieval era of the samurai—preceded by the fall of the first shogunate in Kamakura (true medieval Japan), and before that—the golden Heian court, where Japan was a gentle whisper of calligraphy and poetic contests (early medieval times). But the journey does not end there. Deeper still lies the Nara period (the twilight of ancient Japan)—the very foundation of what we now call Japanese identity.
The city of Nara—then known as Heijō-kyō—was the first permanent capital of Japan, designed with a layout akin to a mandala. The city was established in 710, when Empress Genmei ordered it to be built in the likeness of the Chinese city of Chang’an—square, symmetrical, divided into districts like a chessboard, with the monumental artery Suzaku-dōri cutting through it from north to south (the main road was 75 meters wide). At the northern end, like a celestial pole star, stood the Imperial Palace (Heijō-kyū)—the ruler’s residence, the heart of administration, and the center of ritual. Life in Nara pulsed through its temples and workshops, in merchant districts and marketplaces, where children fed sacred deer and monks walked the streets with their alms bowls. The numbers are as impressive as the architecture: over 20 km² of area and approximately 100,000 inhabitants—in the 8th century, at a time when the area of today’s Gniezno in Poland had only a few settlements, each with at most a few dozen people.
It was here that Emperor Shōmu reigned, a sovereign who saw himself not only as the ruler of men but also as a guardian of Buddhist truth. Under his order, the Tōdaiji Temple was built—one of the largest wooden structures in the world, home to the Great Buddha (Daibutsu). This colossal statue, cast in bronze, stood nearly fifteen meters tall and symbolized the Buddha’s protection over all of Japan. The gilded face of the Buddha reflected the morning light, and at his feet prayed both dignitaries in silk robes and peasants in linen shirts. In Nara, power and religion, cosmos and earth, ritual and daily life—all came together in a single, unified whole. And although more than twelve centuries have passed, the city still stands—and to this day, sacred deer roam the intersections and parks of Nara City.
The Nara Period
Let us travel back through the centuries.
Contemporary Japan is a reality of autonomous drones, advanced medicine, vending machines on every corner, and perfectly synchronized timetables that set the rhythm of urban life. The neon labyrinths of Shibuya, tea dispensers on every street, children in navy school uniforms hunched over smartphones, and in the background, the melodies of Nintendo or Sony games. Everything here is fast, smooth, digital—forever moving forward into the future. But...
Let us close our eyes for a moment and go back. We drift in reverse—through the Shōwa era, when from the ruins of World War II and the era of great reconstruction, not only housing blocks but also global brands like Sony, Toshiba, and Toyota began to rise. A boy in short pants in the 1960s builds a model spaceship on a cardboard box, while his grandmother recalls the samurai era of Edo, when the emperor heralded a time of change—the end of the Tokugawa shogunate.
We go further back. Here is the Meiji era—modernity. The first Western steamship sails into the bay of Yokohama. A samurai removes his armor and puts on a suit, posing for a photograph in a studio. In factories, the first machines for spinning silk appear, and children are no longer taught the Chinese classics but world geography. Streets turn into boulevards, gas lamps illuminate the evening intersections of Tokyo (no longer Edo). A new word enters the language—denki—electricity.
But before those lamps lit up, there was the time of Edo—the beginning of early modernity. Three hundred years of peace, when the country closed itself off from the world and opened itself to art and philosophy. Travelers with wooden staffs tread the paths of the Tōkaidō, and haiku by Matsuo Bashō, shorter than a breath, become mirrors of the nation’s soul. Kenjutsu—the art of the cut—transforms into kendo, the way of the sword. Kabuki actors, ukiyo-e woodblock prints, geisha dancing in gardens admired by the poetic merchant aristocracy—everything moves to the rhythm of unhurried life.
We go further back—into the time of war. Sengoku—the late medieval period. Japanese land is swallowed by an ocean of blood. Castles burn, alliances form and dissolve overnight. Brothers fight against brothers, and the dream of unifying the country costs hundreds of thousands of lives. It is here that bushidō is born, though not yet by name—a code of honor stronger than life itself. The sword is no longer just a weapon, but the very soul of the warrior.
Further still—Kamakura and Muromachi—the era of medieval Japan. The first shōguns, who were to rule by the will of the emperor but gradually forgot he existed at all. Daimyō build their fortunes, Buddhist monasteries gain influence greater than that of provincial rulers—and become military powers themselves. It is a time of contrasts—war and meditation. Harsh rules and quiet contemplation.
But we must pierce deeper still—through the silk screens of the Heian palace, through the fragrances of court poetry, through women in twelve-layered kimonos conversing in haiku. Heian Japan is a land of aristocracy, poetry—early medieval times. A theatre of subtlety, where everything—the glance, the tone of voice, the choice of paper for a letter—carries meaning. It is here that Genji Monogatari is born—the world’s first novel, where war is barely a whisper, and love lasts longer than life.
Let us now slow our journey, for we arrive at the time we wish to speak of today. The Nara period—Japanese antiquity. A time when Japan is just beginning to learn how to write. When Buddhism crosses the sea from Korean Baekje, and Prince Shōtoku writes the first constitution. When power strives to organize the country in the image of the Chinese empire—but in a Japanese manner—with reverence for mountains, forests, spirits, and ancestral traditions.
And then, she arrives. Heijō-kyō. The year is 710. The first permanent capital of Japan. The birth of the city as an idea—not a settlement, but a model of the world. Here ends antiquity and begins the classical period of Japan.
Welcome to the City of Nara in the 8th Century
The City of Heijō-kyō (Nara), Year 2 of the Tenpyō-hōji Era (750 CE)
Dawn rises over Heijō-kyō (present-day Nara – we often use the names interchangeably). From the mists settling in the valleys of Yamato emerges the silhouette of the imperial palace—its roofs, covered with fired tiles, glow with a purplish hue in the first light of the sun. The city gates, lacquered in red and closed for the night by the guards, creak open with a drawn-out groan, as if waking from slumber. From all directions—fields and groves—people arrive: peasants with sacks of rice slung over their shoulders, women in simple linen kimonos carrying wooden buckets of water on their backs, drawn from the canal system that cuts through the carefully planned districts of the capital.
In the craftsmen's district, an old pottery master carefully shifts a clay kiln closer to a vent, raking the ash over still-warm earth. The air smells of clay, burning charcoal, and water dripping from newly shaped vessels lined up in a row under the eaves. Nearby, beneath the low roof of a temple school for aristocratic children, a monk in an ochre-colored robe carefully arranges scrolls of sutras and explains to his students the principles of the Noble Eightfold Path. Boys in plain kimonos bow silently, learning Chinese characters from scholarly texts. Yet some of them glance secretly toward the smoke rising from the kitchen, where elder women are cooking a morning meal of barley.
From the upper part of the city, a palanquin descends, carried by four strong bearers. Silk curtains flutter, revealing for a brief moment the pale face of a young noblewoman—serious, with a fan covering her mouth but not her eyes, which watch the everyday scenes unfolding: an amulet seller from Kasuga Taisha calling out to customers at his adorned stall, a girl holding a clay deer figurine in her arms, a boy lugging a cluster of dried kaki fruit.
Above the rooftops rises the imposing silhouette of Tōdaiji. The statue of the Great Buddha is not yet fully visible beyond the brick walls, but the mere presence of this colossal temple watches over the city like a spirit. The grandparents of many residents still recall the days when taxes were collected in copper and grain throughout the country to build this marvel of engineering and faith.
In the marketplace, children feed the deer—sacred animals that must not be harmed. Legend tells that one of the gods came from the mountains of Kashima on the back of a white deer to protect the city. Since that time, these animals have lived here freely, roaming temple courtyards and city squares, as though part of both divine and human life.
Along the crowded streets walk the monks from a nearby monastery. Dressed in yellow-brown robes, they collect alms in lacquered bowls. Their presence exudes a sense of calm—they smell of sandalwood incense, and their bare feet tread silently on the packed earth. The scent of incense mingles with the aroma of pinewood, cooked barley, and early morning life—filled with murmur, humility, and a rhythm guided not by clocks, but by the sun and the spirits of the ancestors.
This is Nara—the capital of a country that is only just becoming Japan.
The Birth of Nara
From Asuka to Heijō-kyō
Before Nara was founded, there was Asuka—a small but immensely important settlement in the southern part of what is now Nara Prefecture. It was there, in the 6th and 7th centuries, that the foundations of Japanese statehood began to take shape. The Asuka period was a time of dramatic transformation—social, religious, and political—that led Japan out of the clan era and toward a centralized system of imperial rule.
One of the most important figures of that time was Prince Shōtoku (Shōtoku Taishi), a regent and visionary who not only established the first “constitutional code”—the famous 17-article set of moral principles inspired by Confucianism—but was also a fervent advocate of Buddhism. At his initiative, the first great temples, such as Hōryū-ji, were built, and Buddhism—until then regarded as a foreign import from the continent—gained the status of a state religion.
As imperial power solidified and the influence of the Chinese Tang dynasty permeated Japanese culture, the clan-based system of governance began to seem antiquated. There arose the need to create a new capital—not only as a center of political power but as a conscious ideological and urban project. After a brief interlude in Fujiwara-kyō, in the year 710, Empress Genmei announced the relocation of the capital to a new, meticulously designed city: Heijō-kyō.
It was the first permanent capital of Japan. Its layout was no accident—it was modeled after Chang’an, the monumental capital of the Chinese Tang dynasty, today’s Xi’an. Heijō-kyō was planned according to the principles of feng shui: with a grid of streets in a rectangular lattice, a clearly defined north-south axis, and the imperial palace (Heijō-kyū) at the northern end, from which the emperor—like the ruler of the heavens—would symbolically “gaze” upon his southern subjects.
The city covered an area of about 25 square kilometers—vast for its time—and encompassed districts for artisans, merchants, bureaucrats, as well as numerous temples. Nara was not only the political center but also the birthplace of Japanese written culture—it was here that the Kojiki and Nihon Shoki were compiled, the first chronicles blending mythology with history.
The Deer Myth and the Divinity of Kasuga Taisha
Yet Nara is not only about imperial decrees and Buddhist temples—it is also a sacred space, where the gods (kami) have never strayed far from the people. One of the most moving legends is connected to the founding of the Kasuga Taisha shrine, established in 768 as a place of worship for the deities of the Fujiwara clan.
According to the tale, one of the guardian deities, Takemikazuchi-no-kami, came to Nara from the distant shrine in Kashima (in present-day Ibaraki Prefecture), riding on the back of a white deer. From that moment, the deer in Nara have been regarded as sacred messengers of the gods, and their presence—as a blessing.
For centuries, killing a deer was a crime punishable by death. To this day, hundreds of these animals roam freely through the grounds of the former capital—from Kasuga Taisha to Tōdaiji—paying no mind to tourists or the noise of the streets. Their presence is not a folkloric attraction, but a living echo of a tradition that once bound the world of humans to that of the kami.
In the culture of Nara, the deer was a symbol of harmony between heaven and earth—a subtle sign of divine protection and a vigilant guardian of a city that was born not only by imperial decree but also by the will of the heavens.
How Was Heijō-kyō Built? The City as Cosmos
Urban Planning and Design
When Empress Genmei decided to relocate the capital to Heijō-kyō, it was not merely for convenience or political motives—it was about creating a city that would embody the order of the universe. Heijō-kyō was the first Japanese capital with a permanent location, built according to a grand urban plan inspired by the Chinese metropolis of Chang’an from the Tang dynasty. It was not a chaotic sprawl but a city designed with geometric precision—as if the architects had drawn it with ink on a scroll, not on living earth.
The plan of Heijō-kyō was based on a grid of rectangular streets that intersected the city like the pattern of a mandala. To the south lay the wide avenue of Suzaku-dōri, the north-south axis, approximately 75 meters wide—enough for four chariots to pass side by side without brushing against each other. Its northern extension led directly to the imperial palace. Side streets divided the city into regular districts (chō)—separately designated for the aristocracy, officials, craftsmen, and merchants.
Heijō-kyō covered over 20 square kilometers, and at its peak, it is estimated to have had around 100,000 inhabitants—an enormous number for the 8th century (at the time, the area of present-day Gniezno in Poland contained only a few small settlements, each with a few dozen people). The city was enclosed by walls with four grand gates—the most important of which, Rajōmon, was located to the south and opened directly onto Suzaku-dōri. Each district had its own rhythm and function—there were pottery workshops and weaving houses, administrative offices following the ritsuryō code, Buddhist temples and Shintō shrines, as well as streets bustling with commerce and daily life.
Heijō-kyū – The Imperial Palace
At the northern end of the city stood Heijō-kyū, the imperial palace complex, enclosed by walls and strictly guarded. From here, the emperor—believed to descend from a divine lineage—governed state affairs, presided over rituals, received envoys from China and Korea, and participated in ceremonies to ensure harvest, peace, and prosperity for the people.
At the center of the palace stood the monumental Daigokuden (Great Hall of State Council), surrounded by a ceremonial plaza. Here, the most important state functions took place, including New Year’s festivals and rites of passage. Nearby was Chōdō-in, a complex of buildings used for the daily administration of government—where officials, following the ritsuryō code, kept population records, managed land, and planned tax collection.
The palace was more than just a residence—it was the “axis of the world,” the place where earthly matters met the will of the heavens. Its architecture—with red-lacquered columns, sloping roofs, and broad courtyards—was meant not only to impress but also to express order, purity, and the sacred nature of imperial rule.
The Cosmic City – A Concept of Urban Layout
Heijō-kyō was not merely a functional city—it was a “manifestation of cosmic order.” It was built according to the principles of geomancy and feng shui, imported from China but adapted to local conditions and beliefs. The city’s axis had to run precisely north to south, and the imperial palace—as the point of contact with the heavens—had to be located in the north, facing south, to “draw good fortune from the direction of light.”
Everything in Heijō-kyō was subordinated to the philosophy of “sacred order.” The rules of the ritsuryō code, written in the 7th century under the influence of Tang Chinese law, encompassed not only administration and criminal law but also rituals, etiquette, and the structure of the city itself. Every element—from the placement of temples to the routing of irrigation canals—had its place in a greater plan of harmony between humanity, nature, and the gods.
The city was meant to resemble a miniature cosmos, where everyone knew their place and everything—from the daily marketplace to the imperial ceremony—was part of a greater cosmic design. This was not the chaos of a city growing spontaneously. It was a capital planned as a mandala of power and spirituality—a symbol of a new Japan, which, though still importing much from the continent, had begun to find its own rhythm.
Daily Life in the Capital of Nara
The People of Nara
Heijō-kyō was not only a city of palaces and temples—it was a living organism, where everyday life was shaped not only by imperial rituals but also by the clatter of wooden sandals on paved alleys, the cries of merchants, the chants of monks, and the laughter of children chasing deer.
In the morning mist, palanquins pass through the city gates—gently lifted by the servants of aristocrats whose faces are hidden behind fans and silk scarves. In one of them rides a court lady—perhaps composing waka poems as she travels—followed by attendants carrying rolled-up mats and fragrant incense. At the imperial court, women were not absent—during this period, as many as six women ascended the Chrysanthemum Throne, and their voices influenced the shaping of the nation, its religion, and its arts.
In the officials’ quarters, in homes with thin paper partitions, men in dark robes with wide sleeves bend over wooden tablets—copying imperial decrees or memorizing articles of the ritsuryō code. In other parts of the city, merchants set up their stalls: here incense from the Korean Peninsula, there fabrics from China, and further on—local sake and clay lanterns.
Farmers, whose lives mostly unfolded outside the city walls, would come into town for markets and festivals. Their hands—cracked from labor—carried sheaves of rice and baskets of dried fish. Though humble, they were an essential part of the city’s lifeblood, and their offerings at Kasuga Taisha were treated with reverence.
And the monks? You could find them everywhere. In temple corridors, in monastic libraries, in public bathhouses where they treated ailments with herbs. They were scholars, builders, translators. They not only prayed, but also taught, copied texts, built bridges, and translated Sanskrit.
Buddhism and the State
In Nara, Buddhism was not merely a religion—it was an arm of the state. Emperor Shōmu, one of the most important rulers of the era, regarded himself as a "king who defends the Dharma"—and by his will, Tōdaiji was built, one of the largest wooden structures in the world, a home for the Great Buddha (Daibutsu)—a bronze statue meant to embody protection over all of Japan.
The Buddha gazed gently from a height of nearly fifteen meters, his gilded face reflecting the morning light. At the foot of the statue prayed both nobles and peasants. In Nara, Buddhism permeated all spheres of life—it shaped the calendar, agricultural rituals, weddings, funerals, and civil service examinations.
Temples were not merely places of meditation—they were schools, pharmacies, centers of engineering. Monks could build aqueducts, heal with herbs, teach reading and writing. Many of them knew Classical Chinese better than some aristocrats. At the same time, dialogue with native deities—kami—continued. Shintō did not disappear—on the contrary. In the spirit of shinbutsu-shūgō, Japanese syncretism, Buddhist monks began interpreting local gods as manifestations of bodhisattvas, and stone shrines began to be built beside wooden pagodas.
In Nara, many shared ceremonies were born, merging Buddhism and the belief in kami—such as thanksgiving rituals for harvests, in which Buddhist monks and Shintō priests prayed together.
Education and Literacy
It was in Nara that the first chronicles of Japan were compiled—Kojiki and Nihon Shoki—written by imperial officials educated in the spirit of Chinese classicism. These works were not only historical but also mythological—they told of the creation of the world by Izanami and Izanagi (you will find the myth about them here: The Tragedy of Izanami and the Fury of Izanagi in the Land of Decay – In Japanese Creation Myths, Death Always Wins), the birth of Amaterasu (the myth associated with her here: Goddess Uzume dances naked and, with her sacred antics, saves us from sorrowful seriousness – Japanese mythology, how timely today), and the divine origins of the imperial lineage.
In temple schools and state institutions, students were taught Chinese writing (kanbun), Tang-style poetry, and Confucian ethics. Young administrative trainees had to memorize Chinese classics, and many of them dreamed of being selected for diplomatic missions to China.
Writing—previously reserved for the spiritual elite—gradually spread to mid-level officials. Calligraphy slowly became an art and a path of self-cultivation. In the Nara period, a conscious literary culture was born—one that not only copied continental models but began to interpret them in a Japanese way. It was here that the journey began: the transformation of a foreign script into a vessel for the Japanese soul.
What Happened to Nara’s Japan Next?
Crisis and Change
The final years of the Nara period were no longer a time of harmony—they marked an age of excess, where faith and politics began to clash, and the once serene capital strained under the weight of its own sanctity.
Monasteries, once subordinate to imperial authority, gained influence never before imagined. The monks of Tōdaiji and Kōfukuji were no longer merely ascetics—they were landowners, advisors to rulers, builders, teachers, and—most importantly—figures listened to by both commoners and nobles. They were also commanders of powerful armies of warrior monks trained in the art of war (more about them here: ). In Nara, priests became equals to ministers.
The situation escalated when the powerful monk Dōkyō—favored by Empress Kōken (Shōtoku)—managed to rise to the pinnacle of power, nearly seizing the throne. The imperial authority trembled. The secular elite realized that the clergy could threaten the very institution of monarchy.
Fear of a "sacred state" led to radical decisions. In 784, Emperor Kanmu moved the capital to Nagaoka, symbolically breaking with the spiritual dominance of Nara. But the spirit of Buddhism followed him, and only ten years later, another relocation was necessary. In 794, a new capital was founded—Heian-kyō, today's Kyōto. Nara—the proud Heijō-kyō—was abandoned. The temples were left empty. The palaces fell silent.
What have Lasted?
Though the political heart of Japan beats elsewhere today, Nara did not die. Its wood and stone endured, its gold and lacquer, its beliefs and sanctities.
Tōdaiji Temple, with the Great Buddha, still amazes with its scale—its main hall, though reconstructed, remains one of the largest wooden buildings in the world. Kasuga Taisha, a shrine of a thousand bronze and stone lanterns, sinks into the evening twilight like a dream of ancient gods.
Yakushiji—with its slender pagodas—and Gangoji, one of the oldest Buddhist temples in the country, stand as monuments of time. And Tōshōdaiji, founded by the monk Ganjin, who arrived from China after many attempts and the loss of his sight, still radiates the serenity and determination of the Buddhist path.
It was not only architecture that survived. Craftsmanship—the techniques of wood carving, lacquer decoration, statue casting—passed down from master to apprentice for centuries, began here.
Kasugayama, the sacred mountain covered in primordial forest, remains untouched by the axe—as a symbol of the eternal covenant with the kami.
The City of Nara Today
Modern-day Nara does not compete with Tokyo’s skyscrapers or Osaka’s neon-lit rhythm. Instead, it moves at its own pace—a much slower one, more akin to a monk’s footsteps on a gravel path. It is a city that has not forgotten who it once was—a sanctuary of memory, preserving Japan’s origins, where every stone and every temple recalls the 8th century.
The deer—the same ones that, according to legend, brought the god from Kashima—still roam freely through the parks and squares, bowing their heads to tourists in exchange for senbei crackers. Tōdaiji and Kasuga Taisha are not dead monuments—they are living places of worship, where sanctity has endured for over a millennium.
On the outskirts of the city, sections of the ancient capital Heijō-kyō have been reconstructed—monumental gates, pavilions, and streets remind us that it was here the idea of Japan was born: as an organized, imperial state, written in Chinese characters and praying in Buddhist temples. At the Nara National Museum, priceless treasures of bygone eras are preserved—gilded bodhisattvas, manuscripts, seals.
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"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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