The true story behind the legend of the 47 Rōnin - Adam Clulow

“Do you remember my grudge from these past days?” cried Asano Naganori, lord of Akō domain, his gaze fixed on Kira Yoshinaka, a senior master of ceremony. Asano extended his short sword, charged through the castle corridor, and struck Kira. While the wound wasn’t fatal, its consequences would be.

The incident took place in April 1701 in Edo, Japan—modern-day Tokyo. The Tokugawa military government had gained power about a century before. This ushered in a period of peace and stability following the Warring States or Sengoku era, which was marked by constant bloodshed and conflict wrought by warlords and their samurai. To secure their rule, the Tokugawa government aimed to tame the samurai class. Individual samurai carried two swords and served a single lord till death, but their duties became primarily bureaucratic and administrative.

Meanwhile, Tokugawa legal practice stipulated that both sides would be disciplined in the event of a violent quarrel. However, when officials convened following Asano's attack on Kira, they decided to punish only Asano, the incident’s perpetrator. They ordered Asano to commit seppuku, or ritual suicide. But they didn’t stop there. They also commanded the seizure of Asano’s castle, the disbandment of his house, and the arrest of his younger brother.

The news traveled quickly back to Asano’s domain. Overnight, the roughly 300 samurai in Asano’s retainer band found themselves dispossessed of their homes and stipends and turned into rōnin, or masterless samurai. They didn’t know why Asano attacked Kira—no one did. Some have speculated that Asano refused to pay a bribe to Kira, who was supposed to be guiding him in proper etiquette, so Kira humiliated him; others, that Asano had simply “gone mad.”

This left the samurai of Akō domain in crisis, facing a tension that lay at the very heart of the Tokugawa period. They were a privileged class of warriors inundated with epic legends of samurai loyalty, heroism, and martial glory. But they were forbidden from using violence—their traditional role at once celebrated and restricted. Some of Asano’s samurai said they should peacefully comply with government orders; others, that they should immediately follow their lord into death.

One faction, led by Horibe Yasubei, argued that they must see their lord’s apparent wishes through by killing Kira, claiming that so long as Asano’s enemy was alive, they were dishonored. However, the effective leader of Akō domain’s samurai, Ōishi Yoshio, believed that if they complied with official orders, Tokugawa authorities might show mercy and permit Asano’s brother to succeed him. So, the samurai peacefully surrendered the castle. But their hopes were dashed when Tokugawa officials placed Asano’s brother in another family’s custody, leaving them without a path to restore their status.

Most accepted the government’s terms. But in the end, 47 of Asano’s samurai, including Horibe and Ōishi, didn’t. And instead of formally asking permission to take revenge via the government’s vendetta system, they began plotting to kill Kira covertly. Almost two years after Asano’s death, the rōnin, led by Ōishi, broke into Kira’s residence and killed 16 of his samurai and wounded 23 others before beheading Kira himself.

They presented Kira's head at Asano's grave, then surrendered to the Tokugawa officials, justifying their violence by saying they couldn't live under the same heaven as their lord’s enemy. The rōnin’s actions created considerable problems for the Tokugawa government. The rōnin had broken the peace and a range of laws. But authorities also knew the importance of honor and loyalty among samurai.

After weeks of deliberations, officials decided the rōnin could be praised—but must be punished. They were permitted to commit seppuku, which offered them honorable deaths, and they were laid to rest next to Asano. But their story soon morphed into legend. Within weeks, it was dramatized for the stage. And soon after, scholars began debating the rōnin’s actions, some praising them as perfectly loyal and dutiful samurai; others condemning them as delusional criminals.

Over the next three centuries, Japan continued examining and adapting the story—in theater, film, propaganda, and beyond—grappling with the tensions between law and culture, past and present, and repeatedly relitigating the incident long after an official verdict was rendered.