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Rather than setting things in motion, then, it soon becomes clear that Blackthorne has arrived in the middle of the show’s main intrigue. The Taikō, or supreme regent of Japan, has just died, but, because his son and heir is too young to assume power, the realm has been left in the hands of a council of five daimyo regents. Four of these regents operate as a bickering alliance, led by Ishido Kazunari (Takehiro Hira) out of Osaka castle, and they’ve aligned largely to ostracize and consolidate power against the fifth regent, Yoshii Toranaga (the magisterial Hiroyuki Sanada), who was the Taikō’s favorite and also the most powerful of the council. When Blackthorne’s ship washes up in the bay, the council is in the process of its attempt to impeach Toranaga, an action that would, ultimately, lead to him and his entire retinue being sentenced to death. Blackthorne’s arrival matters less because of Blackthorne himself than it does because it briefly destabilizes the status quo, creating a small amount of chaos that Toranaga can use to his advantage.

Blackthorne, then, is a pawn, as are most of the other characters we meet, whether they know it or not, and whether they view it as an honor or a curse. His opposite number is Lady Mariko (an incredible Anna Sawai), the daughter of a disgraced lord. Because she’s been tutored (and converted) by the Jesuits, she speaks excellent Portuguese, and Toranaga enlists her to translate for Blackthorne, who has picked up the language on his travels. That Mariko and Blackthorne strike up a forbidden infatuation is easy to guess, though it might be frustrating to some viewers that their romance never ascends to the status of a love story in this series. Both of these characters have roles to play in the interlocking, often obscured schemes Toranaga sets in motion to oppose and defeat his enemies on the council. Their entanglement instead merely further complicates the way they read and are read in the process.

One of the main features of this show—and the source of its most important narrative innovation—is how rigorously rule-bound its characters are. It can make certain actions or choices (even fatal ones) seem cruelly or vexingly unnecessary, but it also forces the viewer to accept a kind of patience that’s unusual in contemporary TV. Many of Toranaga’s initial gambits, for instance, are bureaucratic ones. His enemies are bloodthirsty, but they are limited by the processes of law, so Toranaga jams the works. If the council votes on his impeachment, he’s dead, so Toranaga schemes to prevent the vote. He uses the “heretic” Blackthorne’s mere presence to split the council, two of whom are converted Christians. He resigns in order to force Ishido to figure out a way to replace him before the vote. At one point, seated in front of his enemies on the council, Toranaga seethes, “these meetings are exhausting,” but it is precisely his skillful manipulation of the council’s bureaucracy that saves him. There are traitors and true believers, nested lies and cantilevered deceptions, brutal executions and honor-bound suicides, but these all transpire within an inviolable set of rules, regulations, and intricately observed customs. There is always a process.