This is a personal favorite manga of mine. A Private Story on Third Street tells the tale of a number of historical grunts/privates (or at least boots on the ground fighters instead of generals or kings) who end up living in a modern guy's property. He's Landlord, each of the characters - who are all girls - are named after their professions. As a boy, I thought Squire-San was best girl. Now I realize it's either Assassin or Condottiere.

It had been a long time since the landlord had slept well. He wouldn't say that he had grown comfortable with that, more that he had eventually realized that nights of refreshing, uninterrupted sleep were something that he had lost to history. Like a child's acceptance of garbage television or the ability to hear high frequency noise.

Unfortunately, his ears still worked well enough to hear the sound of a trumpet – or something like it – blaring throughout the house. Snapping awake, he stumbled towards the sound. Was it a call to arms? Perhaps. The last thing he needed was his tenants accosting the neighbors or something. (Perhaps they under siege by a door-to-door salesman.)

Fortunately, he found the culprit soon enough: Viking was holding a great beast of a horn – shaped a bit like a giant S, decorated with metal detail-work – and blowing like it was Ragnarok.

"A respectable war summons," Teuton nodded, look all too pleased for someone up at… five? No, four forty five. A thoroughly indecent time to even be up, much less to be playing loud instruments. Speaking of…

Teuton decided to take her turn, lifting another horn to her lips. Great. Lifting it to her lips, she breathed into it… and suddenly it was like the landlord was playing Ocarina of Time again. Sweet, surprisingly delicate music… although that vibe wasn't helped by the head gestures she made in the direction of the Squire.

"I've never heard of any Palastinalied!" The Squire complained.

Teuton rolled her eyes and stopped the music. It was a shame, she actually had something of a talent there… "It's a beautiful song about the Crusades. You have heard of them, I would hope?"

"Aye, but I never fought in them. Who's to say it was even written when I was around?"

"It's a shame you were caught up fighting fellow Christians instead of heathens."

"Didn't the Teutons fight Orthodox Russians?" The landlord asked.

"Well, yes. But they're wrong."

"Did we have any of those here?" Viking hummed. "I've heard of Vikings in the 'Rus, but…"

"Does it particularly matter?" Ashigaru asked, pulling a one-string zither from somewhere. "Ah, how did it go…?" She hummed to herself for a few moments, mouthing some old-timey Sengoku song to herself before starting to strum.

(The landlord wondered if his sister was up. As miserable as the time was, she'd probably kill to hear a period-accurate song as sung at the time.)

For a moment, he let himself get swept up in that old tune, in image forming in his mind: verdant patty fields, armies rumbling across the country, daimyo's banners fluttering above the armies like plumage… wait a second.

"Is this Yakuza music?"

Ashigaru stopped her strumming. "No. Well-renowned Sengoku war song."

"Weren't you stuck on this boss fight for like a week? That's why you remember the music so well."

"Who are you to tell me that my recollection of history is wrong?"

"I heard it playing through the walls!"

"Practice," Ashigaru said.

The landlord sighed, wondering if this was really a debate he wanted to continue… when he heard a few faint notes falling from the roof as if they came from heaven itself. They would be sweeter if they could actually hear them unimpeded…

They all crept towards that sweet music, towards Assassin's hidden lair in the space above the roof. Honestly, that seemed like some sort of violation, but she was one of his sanest tenants, so he couldn't really bring himself to get on her case about it. The last thing he needed was some crazier nutbar taking her place.

Speaking of, their path was blocked by a certain Pochtecatl, who was raising a skull-shaped whistle to her lips…

"No!" He shrieked. He had seen enough videos about Aztec death whistles to know that the scream produced would certainly cause some trouble with the neighbors, certainly enough to earn a police call if they hadn't gotten one already-

But the noise that came out wasn't an unholy dying shriek. More of a raspy, blowing sound, like wind on a particularly stormy night. Pochtecatl also had a sort of shaker instrument – like a maraca, although that probably wasn't the name – but the sound wasn't nearly as terrifying as he had hoped.

Pochtecatl lowered her whistle and noticed his questioning look. "What?"

"Aren't those whistles supposed to scream? Like, to scare enemies going to battle?"

"Why would you think that? They're for sacrifices."

"Really?"

"I mean, I can get you a shrieky one if you want. Authentic is all well and good, but it doesn't make me money."

And there she went to go and test the thing. Great.