Shogun (The Asian Saga Chronology) by James Clavell Page B

bowed.  "Kasigi Omi-san sent me, Sire.  I am Suwo, his masseur."  He was tall and very thin and old, his face wrinkled.
    "Good."  Yabu had always had a terror of being blinded.  As long as he could remember he had had dreams of waking in blackness, knowing it was sunlight, feeling the warmth but not seeing, opening his mouth to scream, knowing that it was dishonorable to scream, but screaming even so: Then the real awakening and the sweat streaming.
    But this horror of blindness seemed to increase his pleasure at being massaged by the sightless.
    He could see the jagged scar on the man's right temple and the deep cleft in the skull below it.  That's a sword cut, he told himself.  Did that cause his blindness?  Was he a samurai once?  For whom?  Is he a spy?
    Yabu knew that the man would have been searched very carefully by his guards before being allowed to enter, so he had no fear of a concealed weapon.  His own prized long sword was within reach, an ancient blade made by the master swordsmith Murasama.  He watched the old man take off his cotton kimono and hang it up without seeking the peg.  There were more sword scars on his chest.  His loincloth was very clean.  He knelt, waiting patiently.
    Yabu got out of the bath when he was ready and lay on the stone bench.  The old man dried Yabu carefully, put fragrant oil on his hands, and began to knead the muscles in the daimyo's neck and back.
    Tension began to vanish as the very strong fingers moved over Yabu, probing deeply with surprising skill.  "That's good.  Very good," he said after a while.
    "Thank you, Yabu-sama," Suwo said.  Sama, meaning "Lord," was an obligatory politeness when addressing a superior.
    "Have you served Omi-san long?"
    "Three years, Sire.  He is very kind to an old man."
    "And before that?"
    "I wandered from village to village.  A few days here, half a year there, like a butterfly on the summer's breath."  Suwo's voice was as soothing as his hands.  He had decided that the daimyo wanted him to talk and he waited patiently for the next question and then he would begin.  Part of his art was to know what was required and when.  Sometimes his ears told him this, but mostly it was his fingers that seemed to unlock the secret of the man or woman's mind.  His fingers were telling him to beware of this man, that he was dangerous and volatile, his age about forty, a good horseman and excellent sword fighter.  Also that his liver was bad and that he would die within two years.  Saké, and probably aphrodisiacs, would kill him.  "You are strong for your age, Yabu-sama."
    "So are you.  How old are you, Suwo?"
    The old man laughed but his fingers never ceased.  "I'm the oldest man in the world—my world.  Everyone I've ever known is dead long since.  It must be more than eighty years—I'm not sure.  I served Lord Yoshi Chikitada, Lord Toranaga's grandfather, when the clan's fief was no bigger than this village.  I was even at the camp the day he was assassinated."
    Yabu deliberately kept his body relaxed with an effort of will but his mind sharpened and he began to listen intently.
    "That was a grim day, Yabu-sama.  I don't know how old I was—but my voice hadn't broken yet.  The assassin was Obata Hiro, a son of his most powerful ally.  Perhaps you know the story, how the youth struck Lord Chikitada's head off with a single blow of his sword.  It was a Murasama blade and that's what started the superstition that all Murasama blades are filled with unluck for the Yoshi clan."
    Is he telling me that because of my own Murasama sword? Yabu asked himself.  Many people know I possess one.  Or is he just an old man who remembers a special day in a long life?  "What was Toranaga's grandfather like?" he asked, feigning lack of interest, testing Suwo.
    "Tall, Yabu-sama.  Taller than you and much thinner when I knew him.  He was twenty-five the day he died."  Suwo's voice warmed.  "Eeeee, Yabu-sama, he was a warrior at twelve