He plunged back into the dishes. He had never eaten like this before, even in England. He suddenly recalled with a smile an episode six months into the voyage. After Zanzibar, when he had become so weary of stale salt pork and biscuit he thought he could not bear to see it again, he had locked the door of the Great Cabin and composed a full English banquet in his mind—roast capon, next a pigeon pie larded in bacon fat, then a dripping red side of roast mutton, followed by oysters on the shell spiced with grilled eel, and finally a thick goose pudding on honeyed ham. And to wash it down, a bottle of sack to begin and a sweet muscadel, mulled even sweeter with sugar, to end. But this! No luscious pork fat, and not nearly cloying enough for a true Englishman. Yet it worked poetry. Symmes was right. This was heaven.With both hands he ripped the leg off a huge bird that had been basted to a glistening red and, to the visible horror of the server, dipped it directly into one of the silver bowls of saffron sauce meant for pigeon eggs. Hawksworth looked up in time to catch the server's look.Does he think I don't like the food?To demonstrate appreciation, he hoisted a goblet of wine to toast the server, while he stretched for a piece of lamb with his other hand. But instead of acknowledging the compliment, the server went pale."It's customary, Ambassador, to use only one's right hand when eating." Mukarrab Khan forced a polite smile. "The left is normally reserved for . . . attending to other functions."Hawksworth then noticed how Mukarrab Khan was dining. He, too, ate with his fingers, just as you would in England, but somehow he managed to lift his food gracefully with balls of rice, the sauce never soiling his fingertips.A breeze lightly touched Hawksworth's cheek, and he turned to see a servant standing behind him, banishing the occasional fly with a large whisk fashioned from stiff horsehair attached to a long stick. Another servant stood opposite, politely but unnecessarily cooling him with a large fan made of red leather stretched over a frame."As I said, Ambassador, your requests present a number of difficulties." Mukarrab Khan looked up and took a goblet of fruit nectar from a waiting servant. "You ask certain things from me, things not entirely in my power to grant, while there are others who make entirely different requests.""You mean the Portugals.""Yes, the Portuguese Viceroy, who maintains you have acted illegally, in violation of his law and ours, and should be brought to account.""And I accuse them of acting illegally. As I told you, there's been a Spanish ambassador in London ever since the war ended, and when we return I assure you the East India Company will . . .""This is India, Captain Hawksworth, not London. Please understand I must consider Portuguese demands. But we are pragmatic. I urge you to tell me a bit more about your king's intentions. Your king's letter. Surely you must know what it contains."Mukarrab Khan paused to dip a fried mango into a shimmering orange sauce, asking himself what he should do. He had, of course, posted pigeons to Agra at sunrise, but he suspected already what the reply would be. He had received a full account of the battle, and the attack on the river, before the early, pre-sun Ramadan meal. And it was only shortly afterward that Father Manoel Pinheiro had appeared, frantic and bathed in sweat. Was it a sign of Portuguese contempt, he often wondered, that they would assign such an incompetent to India? Throughout their entire Society of Jesus, could there possibly be any priest more ill-bred? The Jesuit had repeated facts already known throughout the palace, and Mukarrab Khan had listened politely, masking his amusement. How often did a smug Portuguese find himself explaining a naval disaster? Four Portuguese warships, galleons with two gundecks, humiliated by two small English frigates. How, Mukarrab Khan had wondered aloud, could this have happened?"There were reasons, Excellency. We have learned the English captain fired langrel into our infantry, shredded metal, a most flagrant violation of the unwritten ethics of warfare.""Are there really supposed to be ethics in warfare? Then I suppose you should have sent only two of your warships against him. Instead you sent four, and still he prevailed. Today he has no need for excuses. And tell me again what happened when your infantry assaulted the English traders on the river?" Mukarrab Khan had monitored the Jesuit's eyes in secret glee, watching him mentally writhe in humiliation. "Am I to understand you could not even capture a pinnace?""No one knows, Excellency. The men sent apparently disappeared without a trace. Perhaps the English had set a trap." Father Pinheiro had swabbed his greasy brow with the sleeve of his cassock. His dark eyes showed none of the haughty disdain he usually brought to their meetings. "I would ask you not to speak of it outside the palace. It was, after all, a special mission.""You would prefer the court in Agra not know?""There is no reason to trouble the Moghul, Excellency." The Jesuit paused carefully. "Or Her Majesty, the queen. This really concerns the Viceroy alone." The Jesuit's Persian was grammatically flawless, if heavily accented, and he awkwardly tried to leaven it with the polite complexities he had been taught in Goa. "Still less is there any need for Prince Jadar to know.""As you wish." Mukarrab Khan had nodded gravely, knowing the news had already reached half of India, and most certainly Prince Jadar. "How, then, may I assist?""The English pirate and his merchants must be delayed here at least four weeks. Until the fleet of galleons now unlading in Goa, those of the spring voyage just arrived from Lisbon, can be outfitted to meet him.""But surely he and his merchants will sail when they choose. And sooner if we deny them trade. Do you suggest that I approve this trade?""You must act as you see fit, Excellency. You know the Viceroy has always been of service to Queen Janahara." Pinheiro had paused slyly. "Just as you have been."The cynicism of Pinheiro's flaunting his knowledge had galled Mukarrab Khan most of all. If this Jesuit knew, who else must know? That the governor of Surat was bound inescapably to the queen. That on any matter involving Portuguese trade he must always send a formal message to the Moghul and a secret one to the queen, and then wait while she dictated the ruling Arangbar would give. Did this Jesuit know also why Mukarrab Khan had been exiled from Agra? To the wilderness of provincial Surat? That it was on orders of the queen, to marry and take with him a woman becoming dangerous, thezenanafavorite of the Moghul, before the woman's influence outweighed that even of Janahara. And now this female viper was in his palace forever, could not be removed or divorced, because she was still a favorite of the Moghul’s."So you tell me I must make them rich before you can destroy them. That seems to be Christian wisdom at its most incisive." Mukarrab Khan had summoned a tray of rolled betel leaves, signifying that the interview was ended. "It is always a pleasure to see you, Father. You will have my reply when Allah wills."The Jesuit had departed as awkwardly as he had come, and it was then that Mukarrab Khan decided to meet the Englishman for himself. While there was still time. How long, he wondered, before the Shahbandar realized the obvious? And the prince?"In the banquet room the air was now dense with the aroma of spice. Hawksworth realized he had so gorged he could scarcely breathe. And he was having increasing difficulty deflecting Mukarrab Khan's probing questions. The governor was skillfully angling for information he properly did not need, and he did not seem a man given to aimless curiosity."What do you mean when you ask about the 'intentions' of England?""If the Moghul should approve a trade agreement with your East India Company, what volume of goods would you bring through our port here in Surat?" Mukarrab Khan smiled disarmingly. "Is the Company's fleet extensive?""That's a matter better addressed to the merchants of the Company." Hawksworth monitored Mukarrab Khan's expression, searching for a clue to his thoughts. "Right now the Company merely wishes to trade the goods in our two merchantmen. English wool for Indian cotton.""Yes, I am aware that was the first of your two requests." Mukarrab Khan motioned away the silver trays. "Incidentally, I hope you are fond of lamb."The bronzed doors opened again and a single large tray was borne in by the dark-skinned, unsmiling servants. It supported a huge cooking vessel, still steaming from the oven. The lid was decorated with lifelike silver castings of various birds and animals. After two eunuchs examined it, the servants delivered it to the center of the linen serving cloth."Tonight to signify the end of Ramadan I instructed my cooks to prepare my special biryani. I hope you will not be disappointed. My kitchen here is scandalous by Agra standards, but I've succeeded in teaching them a few things."The lid was lifted from the pot and a bouquet of saffron burst over the room. Inside, covering a flawless white crust, was a second menagerie of birds and animals, wrought from silver the thinness of paper. The server spooned impossible portions from the pot onto silver plates, one for Hawksworth and one for Mukarrab Khan. The silver-foil menagerie was distributed around the sides of each plate."Actually I once bribed a cook in the Moghul’s own kitchen to give me this recipe. You will taste nothing like it here in Surat."Hawksworth watched as he assembled a ball of the rice-and-meat melange with his fingers and reverently popped it into his mouth."Please try it, Ambassador. I think you'll find it remarkable. It requires the preparation of two sauces, and seems to occupy half my incompetent kitchen staff." The governor smiled appreciatively. Hawksworth watched dumbfounded as he next chewed up and swallowed one of the silver-foil animals.Hawksworth tried to construct a ball of the mixture but finally despaired and simply scooped up a handful. It was rich but light, and seemed to hint of every spice in the Indies."There are times," Mukarrab Khan continued, "when I positively yearn for the so-called deprivation of Ramadan. When the appetite is whetted day long, the nightly indulgence is all the more gratifying."Hawksworth took another mouthful of the savory mixture. After the many long months of salt meat and biscuit, he found his taste confused and overwhelmed by its complexity. Its spices were all assertive, yet he could not specifically identify a single one. They had been blended, it seemed, to enhance one another, to create a pattern from many parts, much as the marble inlays of the floor, in which there were many colors, yet the overall effect was that of a single design, not its components."I've never tasted anything quite like this, even in the Levant. Could you prepare instructions for our ship's cook?""It would be my pleasure, Ambassador, but I doubt very much aferinghicook could reproduce this dish. It's far too complex. First my kitchen prepares a masala, a blend of nuts and spices such as almonds, turmeric, and ginger. The bits of lamb are cooked in this and in ghee, which we make by boiling and clarifying butter. Next a second sauce is prepared, this a lighter mixture—curds seasoned with mint, clove, and many other spices I'm sure you know nothing of. This is blended with the lamb, and then layered in the pot you see there together with rice cooked in milk and saffron. Finally it's covered with a crust of wheat flour and baked in a special clay oven. Is this really something a ship's cook could do?"Hawksworth smiled resignedly and took another mouthful.Whoever thought there could be so many uses for spice. We use spice in England, to be sure—clove, cinnamon, pepper, even ginger and cardamom—but they're intended mainly to disguise the taste of meat past its prime. But here spices are essential ingredients."Let us return to your requests, Captain Hawksworth. I'm afraid neither of these is entirely within my power to bestow. In the matter of trading privileges for your cargo, I'll see what can be done. Yours is an unusual request, in the sense that no Europeans have ever come here to war with the Portuguese, then asked to compete with them in trade.""It seems simple enough. We merely exchange our goods for some of the cotton cloth I saw arriving at the customs house this morning. The Shahbandar stated you have the power to authorize this trade.""Yes, I enjoy some modest influence. And I really don't expect that Prince Jadar would object.""He's the Moghul’s son?""Correct. He has full authority over this province, but he's frequently on campaign and difficult to reach. His other duties include responsibility for military conscription here, and maintaining order. These are somewhat uneasy times, especially in the Deccan, southeast of here.""When will we learn your decision, or his decision? There are other markets for our goods.""You will learn his decision when it is decided." Mukarrab Khan shoved aside his plate and a servant whisked it from the carpet. "Concerning your second request, that I petition Agra to authorize your travel there, I will see what can be done. But it will require time.""I would ask the request be sent immediately.""Naturally." Mukarrab Khan watched absently as more brimming trays were brought in, these piled with candiedfruits and sweetmeats. A hookah water pipe appeared and was placed beside Hawksworth."Do you enjoy the newferinghicustom of smoking tobacco, Captain Hawksworth? It was introduced recently, and already it's become fashionable. So much so the Moghul just issued a decree denouncing it.""King James has denounced it too, claiming it destroys health. But it's also the fashion in London. Personally, I think it ruins the taste of brandy, and wine.""Overall I'm inclined to agree. But tell me now, what's your opinion of the wine you're drinking? It's Persian.""Better than the French. Though frankly it could be sweeter."Mukarrab Khan laughed. "A common complaint fromtopiwallahs. Some actually add sugar to our wine. Abominable." He paused. "So I gather then you only use spirits?""What do you mean?""There are many subtle pleasures in the world, Ambassador. Liquors admittedly enhance one's dining, but they do little for one's appreciation of art."As Hawksworth watched him, puzzling, he turned and spoke quietly to one of the eunuchs hovering behind him. Moments later a small golden cabinet, encrusted with jewels, was placed between them. Mukarrab Khan opened a tiny drawer on the side of the box and extraced a small brown ball."May I suggest a ball ofghola? He offered it to Hawksworth. It carried a strange, alien fragrance."What'sghola?”"A preparation of opium and spice, Ambassador. I think it might help you better experience this evening's entertainment." He nodded lightly in the direction of the rear wall.The snap of a drum exploded behind Hawksworth, and he whirled to see the two musicians begin tuning to perform. The drummer sat before two foot-high drums, each nestled in a circular roll of fabric. Next to him was a wizened old man in a black Muslim skullcap tuning a large six-stringed instrument made of two hollowed-out gourds, both lacquered and polished, connected by a long teakwood fingerboard. About a dozen curved brass frets were tied to the fingerboard with silk cords, and as Hawksworth watched, the player began shifting the location of two frets, sliding them an inch or so along the neck to create a new musical scale. Then he began adjusting the tension on a row of fine wires that lay directly against the teakwood fingerboard, sympathetic strings that passed beneath those to be plucked. These he seemed to be tuning to match the notes in the new scale he had created by moving the frets.When the sitarist had completed his tuning, he settled back and the room fell totally silent. He paused a moment, as though in meditation, then struck the first note of a somber melody Hawksworth at first found almost totally rootless. Using a wire plectrum attached to his right forefinger, he seemed to be waving sounds from the air above the fingerboard. A note would shimmer into existence from some undefined starting point, then glide through the scale via a subtle arabesque as he stretched the playing string diagonally against a fret, manipulating its tension. Finally the sound would dissolve meltingly into its own silence. Each note of the alien melody, if melody it could be called, was first lovingly explored for its own character, approached from both above and below as though a glistening prize on display. Only after the note was suitably embroidered was it allowed to enter the melody—as though the song were a necklace that had to be strung one pearl at a time, and only after each pearl had been carefully polished. The tension of some vague melodic quest began to grow, with no hint of a resolution. In the emotional intensity of his haunting search, the passage of time had suddenly ceased to exist.Finally, as though satisifed with his chosen scale, he returned to the very first note he had started from and actually began a song, deftly tying together the musical strands he had so painstakingly evolved. The sought-for resolution had never come, only the sense that the first note was the one he had been looking for the entire time.This must be the mystical music Symmes spoke of, Hawksworth thought, and he was right. It's unlike anything I've ever heard. Where's the harmony, the chords of thirds and fifths? Whatever's going on, I don't think opium is going to help me understand it.Hawksworth turned, still puzzling, back to Mukarrab Khan and waved away the brown ball—which the governor immediately washed down himself with fruit nectar."Is our music a bit difficult for you to grasp, Ambassador?" Mukarrab Khan leaned back on his bolster with an easy smile. "Pity, for there's truly little else in this backwater port worth the bother. The cuisine is abominable, the classical dancers despicable. In desperation I've even had to train my own musicians, although I did manage to steal one Ustad, a grand master, away from Agra." He impulsively reached for the water pipe and absorbed a deep draw, his eyes misting."I confess I do find it hard to follow." Hawksworth took a draft of wine from the fresh cup that had been placed beside him on the carpet."It demands a connoisseur's taste, Ambassador, not unlike an appreciation of fine wine."The room grew ominously still for a moment, and then the drums suddenly exploded in a torrent of rhythm, wild and exciting yet unmistakably disciplined by some rigorous underlying structure. The rhythm soared in a cycle, returning again and again, after each elaborate interlocking of time and its divisions, back to a forceful crescendo.Hawksworth watched Mukarrab Khan in fascination as he leaned back and closed his eyes in wistful anticipation. And at that moment the instrumentalist began a lightning-fast ascent of the scale, quavering each note in erotic suggestiveness for the fraction of a second it was fingered. The governor seemed absorbed in some intuitive communication with the sound, a reaction to music Hawksworth had never before witnessed. His entire body would perceptibly tense as the drummer began a cycle, then it would pulse and relax the instant the cycle thudded to a resolution. Hawksworth was struck by the sensuality inherent in the music, the almost sexual sense of tension and release.Then he noticed two eunuchs leading a young boy into the room. The youth appeared to be hovering at the age of puberty, with still no trace of a beard. He wore a small but elaborately tied pastel turban, pearl earrings, and a large sapphire on a chain around his pale throat. His elaborate ensemble included a transparent blouse through which his delicate skin glistened in the lamplight, a long quilted sash at his waist, and tight-fitting trousers beneath light gauze pajamas that clung to his thighs as he moved. His lips were lightly red, and his perfume a mixture of flowers and musk. The boy reached for a ball of spiced opium and settled back against a quilted gold bolster next to Mukarrab Khan. The governor studied him momentarily and then returned to the music. And his thoughts.He reflected again on Abul Hasan's blundering "accident" on thechauganfield, and what it must signify. If it were true theqazihad been bought by the Shahbandar, as some whispered, then it meant Mirza Nuruddin must be alarmed to the point of imprudence. Fearful of what could happen if the English were detained long enough for the Portuguese warships to prepare. Which meant that somewhere behind it all lay the hand of Prince Jadar.He examined Hawksworth again, wondering how this English captain could have savaged the Viceroy's fleet with such embarrassing ease. What, he asked himself again, will the queen order done?"I'm sorry you don't find our music more congenial. Ambassador. Perhaps I too would be wiser if I loved it less. The passion for classical music has cost many a great warrior his kingdom in India over the last centuries. For example, when the great Moghul patriarch Akman conquered Baz Bahadur, once the proud ruler of Malwa, it was because that prince was a better patron of music than of the arts of war." He smiled reflectively. "Admittedly, the great Akman himself also flooded his court with musicians, but then he had the wit to study arms as well. Regrettably, I find myself lacking his strength of character."He paused to take a sip of nectar, then shrugged. "But enough. Tell me now what you really think of my Ustad, my master sitarist. There are those in Agra who will never forgive me for stealing him away.""I'm not sure what I think. I've never heard a composition quite like the one he's playing.""What do you mean by 'composition'?" Mukarrab Khan's tone was puzzled."That's how a piece of music is written out."Mukarrab Khan paused and examined him skeptically for a long moment. "Written out? You write down your music? But whatever for? Does that mean your musicians play the same song again and again, precisely the same way?""If they're good they do. A composer writes a piece of music and musicians try to play it.""How utterly tiresome." Mukarrab Khan sighed and leaned back on his bolster. "Music is a living art, Ambassador. It's meant to illuminate the emotions of the one who gives it life. How can written music have any feeling? My Ustad would never play a raga the same way twice. Indeed, I doubt he would be physically capable of such a boorish feat.""You mean he creates a new composition each time he plays?""Not precisely. But his handling of the specific notes of a raga must speak to his mood, mv mood. These vary, why not his art?""But what is a raga then, if not a song?""That's always difficult to explain. At some rudimentary level you might say it's simply a melody form, a fixed series of notes around which a musician improvises. But although a raga has a rigorously prescribed ascending and descending note sequence and specific melodic motifs, it also has its own mood, 'flavor.' What we call itsrasa. How could one possibly write down a mood?""I guess I see your point. But it's still confusing." Hawksworth took another sip of wine. "How many ragas are there?""There are seventy-two primary scales on which ragas are based. But some scales have more than one raga. There are ragas for morning, for evening, for late at night. My Ustad is playing a late evening raga now. Although he uses only the notes and motifs peculiar to this raga, what he does with them is entirely governed by his feeling tonight.""But why is there no harmony?""I don't understand what you mean by 'harmony.'""Striking several notes together, so they blend to produce a chord."Mukarrab Khan studied him, uncomprehending, and Hawksworth continued."If I had my lute I'd show you how harmony and chords are used in an English song." Hawksworth thought again of his instrument, and of the difficulty he'd had protecting it during the voyage. He knew all along it was foolish to bring it, but he often told himself every man had the right to one folly."Then by all means." The governor's curiosity seemed to arouse him instantly from the opium. "Would you believe I've never met aferinghiwho could play an instrument, any instrument?""But my lute was detained, along with all my belongings, at the customs house. I was going to retrieve my chest from the Shahbandar when you intercepted his men.""Ambassador, please believe I had good reason. But I thought I told you arrangements have been made." He turned and dictated rapidly to one of the eunuchs. There was an expressionless bow, and the man left the room. Moments later he returned through the bronze entry doors, followed by two dark-skinned servants carrying Hawksworth's chest, one at each end."I ordered your belongings sent from the customs house this afternoon. You would honor me by staying here as my guest." Mukarrab Khan smiled warmly. "And now I would hear you play this English instrument."Hawksworth was momentarily startled, wondering why his safety was suddenly of such great interest to Mukarrab Khan. But he pushed aside the question and turned to examine the large brass lock on his chest. Although it had been newly polished to a high sheen, as had the entire chest, there was no visible evidence it had been opened. He extracted the key from his doublet, slipped it into the lock, and turned it twice. It revolved smoothly, opening with a soft click.The lute rested precisely where he had left it. Its body was shaped like a huge pear cut in half lengthwise, with the back a glistening melon of curved cedar staves and the face a polished cherry. The neck was broad, and the head, where the strings were wound to their pegs, angled sharply back. He admired it for a moment, already eager for the touch of its dark frets. During the voyage it had been wrapped in heavy cloth, sealed in oilskins, and stored deep in his cabin chest. Not till landfall at Zanzibar had he dared expose it to the sea air.Of all English music, he still loved the galliards of Dowland best. He was only a boy when Dowland's first book of galliards was published, but he had been made to learn them all by heart, because his exacting tutor had despised popular ballads and street songs.Mukarrab Khan called for the instrument and slowly turned it in the lamplight, its polished cedar shining like a great jewel. He then passed it to his two musicians, and a brief discussion in Persian ensued, as brows were wrinkled and grave points adjudicated. After its appearance was agreed upon, the instrumentalist gingerly plucked a gut string with the wire plectrum attached to his forefinger and studied its sound with a distant expression. The torrent of Persian began anew, as each string was plucked in turn and its particular quality debated. Then the governor revolved to Hawksworth."I congratulate your wisdom, Ambassador, in not hazarding a truly fine instrument on a sea voyage. It would have been a waste of real workmanship."Hawksworth stared at him dumbfounded."There's not a finer lute in London." He seized it back. "I had it specially crafted several years ago by a master, a man once lute-maker to the queen. It's one of the last he made.""You must pardon me then, but why no embellishment? No ivory inlay, no carved decoration? Compare, if you will, Ustad Qasim's sitar. It's a work of fine art. A full year was spent on its decoration. Note the head has been carved as the body of a swan, the neck and pegs inlaid with finest ivory, the face decorated with mother-of-pearl andlapis lazuli. Your lute has absolutely no decoration whatsoever.""The beauty of an instrument is in its tone.""Yes, that's a separate point. But perhaps we should hear it played by one skilled in its use. I must confess we are all curious what can be done with so simple an instrument." Mukarrab Khan shifted on his bolster, while the young man next to him toyed with a jewel, not troubling to disguise his boredom.Hawksworth tuned the strings quickly and meticulously. Then he settled himself on the carpet and took a deep breath. His fingers were stiff, his mind groggy with wine, but he would play a song he knew well. A galliard Dowland had written when Queen Elizabeth was still alive, in honor of a Cornwall sea captain named Piper, whom she'd given a letter of marque to attack the Spanish, but who instead turned an uncontrollable pirate, pillaging the shipping of any flag convenient. He'd become an official outlaw but a genuine English folk hero, and Dowland had honored his memory with a rousing composition—"Piper's Galliard."A full chord, followed by a run of crisp notes, cut the close air. The theme was somber, a plaintive query in a minor mode followed by a melodic but defiant reply. Just the answer Piper would have given to the charges, Hawksworth thought.The servants had all gathered to listen, and the eunuchs had stopped gossiping. Then Hawksworth glanced toward the musicians, who had shifted themselves onto the carpet to watch. Both the sitarist and his drummer still eyed the instrument skeptically, no hint of appreciation in their look.Hawksworth had expected it.Wait till they hear this.He crouched over the lute and attacked the strings with all four fingers, producing a dense toccata, with three melodic lines advancing at once, two in the treble and one in the base. His hand flew over the frets until it seemed every fingertip commanded a string, each embellishing a theme another had begun. Then he brought the galliard to a rousing crescendo with a flourish that spanned two entire octaves.A polite silence seemed to grip the room. Mukarrab Khan sipped thoughtfully from his cup for a moment, his jeweled rings refracting the lamplight, then summoned a eunuch and whispered briefly in his ear. As the eunuch passed the order to a hovering servant, Mukarrab Khan turned to Hawksworth."Your English music is interesting, Ambassador, if somewhat simple." He cleared his throat as an excuse to pause. "But frankly I must tell you it touched only my mind. Not my heart. Although I heard it, I did not feel it. Do you understand the difference? I sensed nothing of its rasa, the emotion and desire one should taste at a moment like this, the merging of sound and spirit. Your English music seems to stand aloof, unapproachable." Mukarrab Khan searched for words. "It inhabits its own world admirably, but it did not enter mine."Servants suddenly appeared bearing two silver trays, on which were crystal cups of green, frothy liquid. As the servant placed Hawksworth's tray on the patterned carpet, he bowed, beaming. Mukarrab Khan ignored his own tray and instead summoned the sitarist, Bahram Qasim, to whisper brief instructions in his ear. Then the governor turned to Hawksworth."Perhaps I can show you what I mean. This may be difficult for you, so first I would urge you try a cup ofbhang. It has the remarkable effect of opening one's heart."Hawksworth tested the beverage warily. Its underlying bitterness had been obscured with sweet yogurt and potent spices. It was actually very palatable. He drank again, this time thirstily."What did you call this?Bhang?”"Yes, it's made from the leaves of hemp. Unlike wine, which only dulls the spirit,bhanghones the senses. Now I've arranged a demonstration for you."He signaled the sitarist, and Bahram Qasim began the unmistakable theme of "Piper's Galliard." The song was drawn out slowly, languorously, as each individual note was introduced, lovingly explored for its own pure sound, and then framed with microtone embellishment and a sensual vibrato. The clear, simple notes of the lute were transmuted into an almost orchestral richness by an undertone of harmonic density from the sitar's sympathetic strings, the second row of wires beneath those being plucked, tuned to match the notes of the song and respond without being touched. Dowland's harmonies were absent, but now the entire room resonated with a single majestic chord underlying each note. Gradually the sitarist accelerated the tempo, while also beginning to insert his own melodic variations over the original notes of the theme.Hawksworth took another sip ofbhangand suddenly noticed the notes seemed to be weaving a tapestry in his mind, evolving an elaborate pattern that enveloped the room with shapes as colored as the geometries of the Persian carpet.Next the drummer casually introduced a rhythmic underpinning, his lithe fingers touring easily over and around the taut drumheads as he dissected, then restructured the simple meter of Dowland's music. He seemed to regard the original meter as merely a frame, a skeleton on which the real artistry had yet to be applied. He knowingly subdivided Dowland's meter into minuscule elements of time, and with these devised elaborate new interlockings of sound and silence. Yet each new structure alwaysResolved to its perfect culmination at the close of a musical phrase. Then as he punctuated his transient edifice with a thud of the larger drum—much as an artist might sign a painting with an elaborate flourish—he would catch Hawksworth's incredulous gaze and wink, his eyes twinkling in triumph.Meanwhile, the sitarist structured Dowland's spirited theme to the drummer's frame, adding microtones Dowland had never imagined, and matching the ornate tempo of the drum as they blended together to become a single racing heartbeat.Hawksworth realized suddenly that he was no longer merely hearing the music, that instead he seemed to be absorbing it.How curious . . .The music soared on to a final crescendo, a simultaneousclimax of sitar and drum, and then the English song seemed to dissolve slowly into the incense around them. After only a moment's pause, the musicians immediately took up a sensuous late evening raga.Hawksworth looked about and noticed for the first time that the lamps in the room had been lowered, settling a semi- darkness about the musicians and the moving figures around him. He felt for his glass ofbhangand saw that it was dry, and that another had been placed beside it. He drank again to clear his mind.What's going on? Damned if I'll stay here. My God, it's impossible to think. I'm tired. No, not tired. It's just . . . just that my mind is . . . like I'd swilled a cask of ale. But I'm still in perfect control. And where's Mukarrab Khan? Now there are screens where he was sitting. Covered with peacocks that strut obscenely from one screen to the other. And the eunuchs are all watching. Bastards. I'll take back my sword. Jesus, where is it? I've never felt so adrift. But I'm not staying. I'll take the chest and damn his eunuchs. And his guards. He can't hold me here. Not even on charges. There are no charges. I'm leaving. I'll find the men . . .He pulled himself defiantly to his feet. And collapsed.CHAPTER EIGHTThe dream was more vivid than reality, intensely colored and astir with vague forms that drifted through his mind's ken, appearing then fading. The room seemed airless, a musk-filled cell of gilded blue panels and gold brocade. Guarded faces hovered around and above, their eyes intense yet unseeing, distant as stained-glass masks of cathedral sinner and saint.A fingertip brushed his cheek, and with its touch the room gloried in a powerful fragrance of saffron. Then a hand, floating unattached, gently removed his doublet; another slid away his mud-smeared breeches.He was naked.He looked down as though from afar at the texture of chest and thigh, and he wondered dimly if they were his own. Then other hands . . . and suddenly he was immersed in a sea whose shores were white marble, whose surface sheened with oil of the rose. Translucent petals drifted randomly atop the crests. Hands toured his frame, discovering every tightened nerve, while powdered sandalwood enveloped his hair and beard until he seemed lost in a fragrant forest.As suddenly as the sea had come it drew away, but now there were steaming wraps tingling with astringent orange and clove, and he drifted through a land of aloe balm and amber.The room dissolved into semi-darkness, until at last only a single face remained, a woman with eyes round and moist and coldly dark. Her lips were the deep red of betel, while her hair was coal and braided in a skein of jeweled tresses. A faceted stone sparkled on her left nostril, and heavy gold rings swung gently from each ear. Henna-red nipples pressed erect against her diaphanous blouse, and between her breasts clung a garland of pearls. The heavy bracelets on her wrists and her upper arms glistened gold in the flickering candlelight.As he studied her eyes, they seemed locked into his own, and betrayed no notice of his body. He sent his voice through the dream's carpeted chambers, but his words were swallowed in dark air that drew out their sound and washed it to thin silence. In a final, awkward futility he struggled to free himself from the velvet bolster.But gently she pressed him back."What would you have, my love? Sweetbhangfrom my hand?"A cup found his lips, and before he knew he had taken more of the incendiary green confection. Its warmth grew slowly into a pale light that shimmered off the gilded panels and then coalesced into the rainbow now pivoting pendulum-like above him, a glistening fan of peacock feathers swayed by a faceless, amber-skinned woman.His gaze returned to the eyes, and again he searched for sound. Then came a voice he recognized as his own."Who are you?""You may call me Kali. Others do. It's a name you would not understand. But can you understand that love is surrender?" The words coiled about his head, coruscating and empty of meaning. He shook them away and watched as she brushed a strand of hair from his face. With that simple motion, her nipples traced twin heliotrope arcs across the gossamer screen of her blouse. He examined her in disbelief, unable to find words."When my lover lies silent, I do as I choose."Deftly she uncoiled the white silk sash from around her waist and in a single practiced motion bound it over his eyes. The room vanished. In the dream's sudden night he grew intensely aware of touch and smell.Commands came in an alien tongue, and he felt his breast and thighs brushed lightly by a new, pungent fragrance."We have cloaked you in petals of spikenard, to banish the sight of your unshaven body. Aferinghiknows so little of what pleases a woman."He felt a light brush across his parted lips, and then her eyelashes, stiffened dark with antimony, trilled a path downward over his skin, to his nipples. The hardened lashes stroked each nipple in turn with rapid flutters, until the skin tightened almost to bursting. An excruciating sensitivity burned through him, but still the lashes fluttered, determinedly, almost unendurably, until his aroused tips touched the aching portals of pain. Then he sensed a tongue circle each nipple in turn, searching out the one most ripe.He felt her kneel above him, surrounding him with open thighs that clasped his chest. The room fell expectantly silent. Then, as an unknown syllable sounded somewhere above him, he felt the nipple of his right breast seized in the lock of a warm, moist grasp. The surrounding thighs rocked gently at first, but slowly increased their rhythm in time with the sound of breath. Suddenly he felt her body twist lightly and another tip, hardened as that on his chest, began to trace the nipple's swollen point. Her thighs were smooth and moist as she pressed in with spiraling, ever more rapid intensity. He found himself deeply conscious of her rhythms and the hard cadence of breath. He reached for the strength to rip the silk from his eyes, to end the dream's tantalizing dark. But strength was not there. Or time.Before he could stir, he sensed the hardened tip shudder. Again a grasp took his nipple and worked it with measured spasms, until the room's austere silence was cut by her sharp intake of breath, timed to match a single insistent contraction that seemed to envelope the whole of his breast. He felt her seize his hands in her own, and although he could see nothing, in his mind there grew a vision of her eyes at that moment. Then there came a sound, partially stifled in her throat, but not before it had found the gilded walls and returned, annealed to a glassy relic of release.He felt her slowly withdraw, but then her mouth took his breast, till it had drawn away the musk. At last, perhaps to signify repletion, she lightly brushed his lips with the tip of her tongue."You have pleased me." Her voice was quiet now, almost a whisper. "Now we will please each other."A hand worked at his loins, methodically applying a viscous, harshly scented oil."Would you could see with my eyes. Thelingamof the fabled Shiva was never garlanded such as this, or anointed so lovingly."Then her voice turned harsh as she spoke short staccato commands in an unknown tongue. Bangles sounded and silk rustled as the room emptied. Now he caught a new scent, the harsh smell he remembered from the box the governor had offered."I will tell you my secret." She whispered close to his ear. "There is no more exciting way to experience the ecstasy of love than withaffion, the essence of the poppy. But I have a way to receive it no one else knows. It is like the burst of a lightning stroke. Its power envelopes the senses."He felt her smooth a thick paste along the sides of his phallus, and sensed a tingle as she clasped it carefully with both hands. Again she moved above him, but curiously there was no touch of her body. Only the presence of her scent.A tight ring seemed to circle his flesh, and he felt the weight of her rounded buttocks slide down onto his thighs.He startled upward in shock and disbelief. Never will I . . ."You must lie still, my love. In your surrender, only I may have my will."She began at once to move above his thighs, and again muted sounds struggled stillborn in her throat. With deliberate regularity her rhythm mounted, while an overwhelming sensation spread upward through his body. Slowly he felt his newResolveslipping from him.The convulsions started in his lower thighs, as muscles tightened involuntarily. And then the precipice grew near and he was at its edge and he was falling. He felt the surge, as though drawn out by the twist of her buttocks. Then again and again, each spasm matched by her own as she worked to envelop him completely. He was scarcely aware of her nails fixed in his breasts. At that instant he seemed to drift apart from his body and observe mutely as it was consumed by its own sensations. Until numbness washed over him, stilling his sense.As he lay in exhaustion his mind sorted through her words, and in the dream's darkness he vowed to take her again. The next time, it's you who'll surrender, woman called Kali. To my will. And you'll find out the meaning of surrender.But his thoughts were lost among the gilded panels as she pulled the silk from his eyes and quietly whispered something he did not understand. In that instant he thought he saw where a tear had stained a path across one cheek. She looked at him longingly, then touched his lips with her own for a long moment before slipping quietly into the dark.The dream dissolved in sleep. And she was gone. . . .Hawksworth was suddenly awake. The chill of early dawn penetrated his face and hands, and his hair sparkled with light jewels of dew. His leather couch was moist and glistening, while the pale sky above was blocked by a tapestried canopy. Only in the east, above the white railing of the rooftop, could he see the glitter of a waning Venus, her brief reign soon to dissolve in the red wash of early sun. He looked about his white brick enclosure and saw only a light wooden door leading into a second-floor apartment.He had no sooner drawn himself up to inhale the flower- scented dawn than two smiling men were standing over him, bowing. Both wore turbans, pastel-colored jackets, and a white wrap about their lower torso. Squinting into their eyes, Hawksworth remembered them from the evening before. They had brought the basin of water in which he had first washed.As he pulled the embroidered coverlet closer about him he noticed a strange numbness in his body. And his mind ached as he tried to remember what precisely had happened.There was a game on horseback with the governor, and then a banquet, with an argument in which Mukarrab Khan threatened to betray us to the Portugals, a curious evening of music. And then dreams . . .Pulling himself up off the couch, he started unsteadily across the hard flat tile of the roof. Immediately a servant was beside him, producing a heavy silk wrap and swathing it around his shoulders and waist. Then the man bowed again and spoke in accented Turki."May Allah prosper you today, Sahib. May your fortunes answer the prayers of the poor." The man's expression softened to match his own compliment. "Should it please the Sahib, his morning bath is waiting."Without thinking, without even hearing the words, he allowed himself to be led through the doorway into the second-floor apartment. There, in the center of the room, was his chest, its lock intact. He examined it with a quick glance, then followed the servants down a set of stone stairs to the ground-floor veranda—where a steaming marble tub waited.Good Jesus, not again! How can I make them understand? Bathing weakens a man.He started to turn, but suddenly two eunuchs appeared out of nowhere and were guiding him up the two marble steps to a stone platform, where they seated him on a filigreed wooden stool. Silently the servants stripped away his light wrap and began to knead his body and his hair with a fragrant powder, a blend of wood bark and some astringent fruit. The scent was mild, pleasant, and as their hands traveled over him he felt the pores of his skin open to divulge their residual rankness.This is better, he thought. Cleaning without water. With only some sort of powder. I feel refreshed already.His muscles loosened as the men vigorously worked the mixture into his skin and then carefully cleansed it away with bulky cotton towels. Next they turned to his hair, combing and massaging more of the powder through it strand by strand. At last they signaled for him to rise and enter the tub. Its surface glistened with a perfumed oil, and the rising steam smelled faintly of clove. Before he could protest, the eunuchs guided him down the marble steps.As he settled into the steam again he was surrounded by waiting servants, who sprinkled more oil over the water and massaged the emulsion into his hair and skin.I'm being bathed in oil, he smiled, marveling. It's absurd, yet here it seems perfectly right.The men worked devotedly, as though he were an inanimate utensil whose purity was their lifelong obligation. His body now glistened with a reddish tint of the oil, matching the early glow of the sun that penetrated the half- shuttered windows. As they motioned for him to leave the bath, he discovered to his amazement that he would have been perfectly content to stay. Forever. But again hands were there, guiding him, this time toward a low wooden bench covered with thick woven tapestries.What now? What else can they do? I'm cleaner than the day I was born. What more . . .He was prostrate on the couch. A rough haircloth worked against his legs and torso, sending the blood surging. At the same time, a piece of porous sandstone in the practiced hands of another servant stripped away the loosened calluses and scales from his boot-roughened feet. A third man massaged still more perfumed oil, hinting of aloe and orange, into his back and along his sides and shoulders. His body had become an invigorated, pliant reed.They motioned for him to sit up and, as he watched, one of the men produced a mirror and razor. Next he opened a bottle of fragrant liquid and began to apply it to Hawksworth's beard and chest. And then also to his legs and crotch."What's the purpose of that razor?""We have orders to shave you, Sahib, in our manner." The turbaned man who had greeted him that morning bowed slightly as he signaled the barber to begin. "You are to be shaved completely, as is our custom.""Trim my beard if you like. But no more. Damn you if you'll shave me like some catamite." Hawksworth started to rise from his stool, but the barber was already over him, the blade flying across his face with a menacing deftness."It has been ordered, Sahib." The turbaned man bowed again, and without pausing for a reply produced a short, curved metal device and began to probe Hawksworth's ears, his face intent in concentration as he carefully extracted an enormous ball of gray mud and encrusted sea salt. He scraped the other ear with the same deft twist. Then he flipped the same instrument and began to trim Hawksworth's ragged fingernails.Hawksworth turned to the mirror to discover that his beard had already disappeared, leaving him clean-faced.At least I'll be in fashion back home, he thought, if I ever get back. Beards are passing from style.But what's he doing now? By heaven, no . . .The razor swept cleanly across Hawksworth's chest, leaving a swath of soft skin in its wake. It came down again, barely missing a nipple as he moved to rise."You must be still, Sahib. You will harm yourself.""I told you I'll not have it." Hawksworth pushed the razor away."But it is our custom." The man seemed to plead. "Khan Sahib ordered that you be groomed as an honored guest.""Well, damn your customs. Enough."There was a moment of silence. Then the turbaned man bowed, his face despondent."As the Sahib desires."He signaled the barber to rub a light coat of saffron-scented oil on Hawksworth's face and then to begin trimming Hawksworth's hair with the pair of silver scissors he had brought. The barber quickly snipped away the growth of the voyage, leaving the hair moderately cropped, in the Moghul fashion.Hawksworth examined the mirror again.Damn if I wouldn't make a proper Cheapside dandy. Right in style. And I hate being in style.Then the turbaned man produced a heavy lead comb and began to work it repeatedly through Hawksworth's hair. Hawksworth watched the mirror in confusion.What's he doing? It's already been combed. And it's so short there's no point anyway.Then he noticed the slight traces of gray around the sides beginning to darken, taking on the color of the lead."Please open your mouth." The turbaned man stood above him holding a dark piece of wood, frayed at the end and crooked. "And I will scrape your teeth withnimroot.""But that's insane. Teeth are cleaned with a piece of cloth and a toothpick. Or rubbed with a bit of sugar and salt ash . . ."
He plunged back into the dishes. He had never eaten like this before, even in England. He suddenly recalled with a smile an episode six months into the voyage. After Zanzibar, when he had become so weary of stale salt pork and biscuit he thought he could not bear to see it again, he had locked the door of the Great Cabin and composed a full English banquet in his mind—roast capon, next a pigeon pie larded in bacon fat, then a dripping red side of roast mutton, followed by oysters on the shell spiced with grilled eel, and finally a thick goose pudding on honeyed ham. And to wash it down, a bottle of sack to begin and a sweet muscadel, mulled even sweeter with sugar, to end. But this! No luscious pork fat, and not nearly cloying enough for a true Englishman. Yet it worked poetry. Symmes was right. This was heaven.
With both hands he ripped the leg off a huge bird that had been basted to a glistening red and, to the visible horror of the server, dipped it directly into one of the silver bowls of saffron sauce meant for pigeon eggs. Hawksworth looked up in time to catch the server's look.
Does he think I don't like the food?
To demonstrate appreciation, he hoisted a goblet of wine to toast the server, while he stretched for a piece of lamb with his other hand. But instead of acknowledging the compliment, the server went pale.
"It's customary, Ambassador, to use only one's right hand when eating." Mukarrab Khan forced a polite smile. "The left is normally reserved for . . . attending to other functions."
Hawksworth then noticed how Mukarrab Khan was dining. He, too, ate with his fingers, just as you would in England, but somehow he managed to lift his food gracefully with balls of rice, the sauce never soiling his fingertips.
A breeze lightly touched Hawksworth's cheek, and he turned to see a servant standing behind him, banishing the occasional fly with a large whisk fashioned from stiff horsehair attached to a long stick. Another servant stood opposite, politely but unnecessarily cooling him with a large fan made of red leather stretched over a frame.
"As I said, Ambassador, your requests present a number of difficulties." Mukarrab Khan looked up and took a goblet of fruit nectar from a waiting servant. "You ask certain things from me, things not entirely in my power to grant, while there are others who make entirely different requests."
"You mean the Portugals."
"Yes, the Portuguese Viceroy, who maintains you have acted illegally, in violation of his law and ours, and should be brought to account."
"And I accuse them of acting illegally. As I told you, there's been a Spanish ambassador in London ever since the war ended, and when we return I assure you the East India Company will . . ."
"This is India, Captain Hawksworth, not London. Please understand I must consider Portuguese demands. But we are pragmatic. I urge you to tell me a bit more about your king's intentions. Your king's letter. Surely you must know what it contains."
Mukarrab Khan paused to dip a fried mango into a shimmering orange sauce, asking himself what he should do. He had, of course, posted pigeons to Agra at sunrise, but he suspected already what the reply would be. He had received a full account of the battle, and the attack on the river, before the early, pre-sun Ramadan meal. And it was only shortly afterward that Father Manoel Pinheiro had appeared, frantic and bathed in sweat. Was it a sign of Portuguese contempt, he often wondered, that they would assign such an incompetent to India? Throughout their entire Society of Jesus, could there possibly be any priest more ill-bred? The Jesuit had repeated facts already known throughout the palace, and Mukarrab Khan had listened politely, masking his amusement. How often did a smug Portuguese find himself explaining a naval disaster? Four Portuguese warships, galleons with two gundecks, humiliated by two small English frigates. How, Mukarrab Khan had wondered aloud, could this have happened?
"There were reasons, Excellency. We have learned the English captain fired langrel into our infantry, shredded metal, a most flagrant violation of the unwritten ethics of warfare."
"Are there really supposed to be ethics in warfare? Then I suppose you should have sent only two of your warships against him. Instead you sent four, and still he prevailed. Today he has no need for excuses. And tell me again what happened when your infantry assaulted the English traders on the river?" Mukarrab Khan had monitored the Jesuit's eyes in secret glee, watching him mentally writhe in humiliation. "Am I to understand you could not even capture a pinnace?"
"No one knows, Excellency. The men sent apparently disappeared without a trace. Perhaps the English had set a trap." Father Pinheiro had swabbed his greasy brow with the sleeve of his cassock. His dark eyes showed none of the haughty disdain he usually brought to their meetings. "I would ask you not to speak of it outside the palace. It was, after all, a special mission."
"You would prefer the court in Agra not know?"
"There is no reason to trouble the Moghul, Excellency." The Jesuit paused carefully. "Or Her Majesty, the queen. This really concerns the Viceroy alone." The Jesuit's Persian was grammatically flawless, if heavily accented, and he awkwardly tried to leaven it with the polite complexities he had been taught in Goa. "Still less is there any need for Prince Jadar to know."
"As you wish." Mukarrab Khan had nodded gravely, knowing the news had already reached half of India, and most certainly Prince Jadar. "How, then, may I assist?"
"The English pirate and his merchants must be delayed here at least four weeks. Until the fleet of galleons now unlading in Goa, those of the spring voyage just arrived from Lisbon, can be outfitted to meet him."
"But surely he and his merchants will sail when they choose. And sooner if we deny them trade. Do you suggest that I approve this trade?"
"You must act as you see fit, Excellency. You know the Viceroy has always been of service to Queen Janahara." Pinheiro had paused slyly. "Just as you have been."
The cynicism of Pinheiro's flaunting his knowledge had galled Mukarrab Khan most of all. If this Jesuit knew, who else must know? That the governor of Surat was bound inescapably to the queen. That on any matter involving Portuguese trade he must always send a formal message to the Moghul and a secret one to the queen, and then wait while she dictated the ruling Arangbar would give. Did this Jesuit know also why Mukarrab Khan had been exiled from Agra? To the wilderness of provincial Surat? That it was on orders of the queen, to marry and take with him a woman becoming dangerous, thezenanafavorite of the Moghul, before the woman's influence outweighed that even of Janahara. And now this female viper was in his palace forever, could not be removed or divorced, because she was still a favorite of the Moghul’s.
"So you tell me I must make them rich before you can destroy them. That seems to be Christian wisdom at its most incisive." Mukarrab Khan had summoned a tray of rolled betel leaves, signifying that the interview was ended. "It is always a pleasure to see you, Father. You will have my reply when Allah wills."
The Jesuit had departed as awkwardly as he had come, and it was then that Mukarrab Khan decided to meet the Englishman for himself. While there was still time. How long, he wondered, before the Shahbandar realized the obvious? And the prince?"
In the banquet room the air was now dense with the aroma of spice. Hawksworth realized he had so gorged he could scarcely breathe. And he was having increasing difficulty deflecting Mukarrab Khan's probing questions. The governor was skillfully angling for information he properly did not need, and he did not seem a man given to aimless curiosity.
"What do you mean when you ask about the 'intentions' of England?"
"If the Moghul should approve a trade agreement with your East India Company, what volume of goods would you bring through our port here in Surat?" Mukarrab Khan smiled disarmingly. "Is the Company's fleet extensive?"
"That's a matter better addressed to the merchants of the Company." Hawksworth monitored Mukarrab Khan's expression, searching for a clue to his thoughts. "Right now the Company merely wishes to trade the goods in our two merchantmen. English wool for Indian cotton."
"Yes, I am aware that was the first of your two requests." Mukarrab Khan motioned away the silver trays. "Incidentally, I hope you are fond of lamb."
The bronzed doors opened again and a single large tray was borne in by the dark-skinned, unsmiling servants. It supported a huge cooking vessel, still steaming from the oven. The lid was decorated with lifelike silver castings of various birds and animals. After two eunuchs examined it, the servants delivered it to the center of the linen serving cloth.
"Tonight to signify the end of Ramadan I instructed my cooks to prepare my special biryani. I hope you will not be disappointed. My kitchen here is scandalous by Agra standards, but I've succeeded in teaching them a few things."
The lid was lifted from the pot and a bouquet of saffron burst over the room. Inside, covering a flawless white crust, was a second menagerie of birds and animals, wrought from silver the thinness of paper. The server spooned impossible portions from the pot onto silver plates, one for Hawksworth and one for Mukarrab Khan. The silver-foil menagerie was distributed around the sides of each plate.
"Actually I once bribed a cook in the Moghul’s own kitchen to give me this recipe. You will taste nothing like it here in Surat."
Hawksworth watched as he assembled a ball of the rice-and-meat melange with his fingers and reverently popped it into his mouth.
"Please try it, Ambassador. I think you'll find it remarkable. It requires the preparation of two sauces, and seems to occupy half my incompetent kitchen staff." The governor smiled appreciatively. Hawksworth watched dumbfounded as he next chewed up and swallowed one of the silver-foil animals.
Hawksworth tried to construct a ball of the mixture but finally despaired and simply scooped up a handful. It was rich but light, and seemed to hint of every spice in the Indies.
"There are times," Mukarrab Khan continued, "when I positively yearn for the so-called deprivation of Ramadan. When the appetite is whetted day long, the nightly indulgence is all the more gratifying."
Hawksworth took another mouthful of the savory mixture. After the many long months of salt meat and biscuit, he found his taste confused and overwhelmed by its complexity. Its spices were all assertive, yet he could not specifically identify a single one. They had been blended, it seemed, to enhance one another, to create a pattern from many parts, much as the marble inlays of the floor, in which there were many colors, yet the overall effect was that of a single design, not its components.
"I've never tasted anything quite like this, even in the Levant. Could you prepare instructions for our ship's cook?"
"It would be my pleasure, Ambassador, but I doubt very much aferinghicook could reproduce this dish. It's far too complex. First my kitchen prepares a masala, a blend of nuts and spices such as almonds, turmeric, and ginger. The bits of lamb are cooked in this and in ghee, which we make by boiling and clarifying butter. Next a second sauce is prepared, this a lighter mixture—curds seasoned with mint, clove, and many other spices I'm sure you know nothing of. This is blended with the lamb, and then layered in the pot you see there together with rice cooked in milk and saffron. Finally it's covered with a crust of wheat flour and baked in a special clay oven. Is this really something a ship's cook could do?"
Hawksworth smiled resignedly and took another mouthful.
Whoever thought there could be so many uses for spice. We use spice in England, to be sure—clove, cinnamon, pepper, even ginger and cardamom—but they're intended mainly to disguise the taste of meat past its prime. But here spices are essential ingredients.
"Let us return to your requests, Captain Hawksworth. I'm afraid neither of these is entirely within my power to bestow. In the matter of trading privileges for your cargo, I'll see what can be done. Yours is an unusual request, in the sense that no Europeans have ever come here to war with the Portuguese, then asked to compete with them in trade."
"It seems simple enough. We merely exchange our goods for some of the cotton cloth I saw arriving at the customs house this morning. The Shahbandar stated you have the power to authorize this trade."
"Yes, I enjoy some modest influence. And I really don't expect that Prince Jadar would object."
"He's the Moghul’s son?"
"Correct. He has full authority over this province, but he's frequently on campaign and difficult to reach. His other duties include responsibility for military conscription here, and maintaining order. These are somewhat uneasy times, especially in the Deccan, southeast of here."
"When will we learn your decision, or his decision? There are other markets for our goods."
"You will learn his decision when it is decided." Mukarrab Khan shoved aside his plate and a servant whisked it from the carpet. "Concerning your second request, that I petition Agra to authorize your travel there, I will see what can be done. But it will require time."
"I would ask the request be sent immediately."
"Naturally." Mukarrab Khan watched absently as more brimming trays were brought in, these piled with candied
fruits and sweetmeats. A hookah water pipe appeared and was placed beside Hawksworth.
"Do you enjoy the newferinghicustom of smoking tobacco, Captain Hawksworth? It was introduced recently, and already it's become fashionable. So much so the Moghul just issued a decree denouncing it."
"King James has denounced it too, claiming it destroys health. But it's also the fashion in London. Personally, I think it ruins the taste of brandy, and wine."
"Overall I'm inclined to agree. But tell me now, what's your opinion of the wine you're drinking? It's Persian."
"Better than the French. Though frankly it could be sweeter."
Mukarrab Khan laughed. "A common complaint fromtopiwallahs. Some actually add sugar to our wine. Abominable." He paused. "So I gather then you only use spirits?"
"What do you mean?"
"There are many subtle pleasures in the world, Ambassador. Liquors admittedly enhance one's dining, but they do little for one's appreciation of art."
As Hawksworth watched him, puzzling, he turned and spoke quietly to one of the eunuchs hovering behind him. Moments later a small golden cabinet, encrusted with jewels, was placed between them. Mukarrab Khan opened a tiny drawer on the side of the box and extraced a small brown ball.
"May I suggest a ball ofghola? He offered it to Hawksworth. It carried a strange, alien fragrance.
"What'sghola?”
"A preparation of opium and spice, Ambassador. I think it might help you better experience this evening's entertainment." He nodded lightly in the direction of the rear wall.
The snap of a drum exploded behind Hawksworth, and he whirled to see the two musicians begin tuning to perform. The drummer sat before two foot-high drums, each nestled in a circular roll of fabric. Next to him was a wizened old man in a black Muslim skullcap tuning a large six-stringed instrument made of two hollowed-out gourds, both lacquered and polished, connected by a long teakwood fingerboard. About a dozen curved brass frets were tied to the fingerboard with silk cords, and as Hawksworth watched, the player began shifting the location of two frets, sliding them an inch or so along the neck to create a new musical scale. Then he began adjusting the tension on a row of fine wires that lay directly against the teakwood fingerboard, sympathetic strings that passed beneath those to be plucked. These he seemed to be tuning to match the notes in the new scale he had created by moving the frets.
When the sitarist had completed his tuning, he settled back and the room fell totally silent. He paused a moment, as though in meditation, then struck the first note of a somber melody Hawksworth at first found almost totally rootless. Using a wire plectrum attached to his right forefinger, he seemed to be waving sounds from the air above the fingerboard. A note would shimmer into existence from some undefined starting point, then glide through the scale via a subtle arabesque as he stretched the playing string diagonally against a fret, manipulating its tension. Finally the sound would dissolve meltingly into its own silence. Each note of the alien melody, if melody it could be called, was first lovingly explored for its own character, approached from both above and below as though a glistening prize on display. Only after the note was suitably embroidered was it allowed to enter the melody—as though the song were a necklace that had to be strung one pearl at a time, and only after each pearl had been carefully polished. The tension of some vague melodic quest began to grow, with no hint of a resolution. In the emotional intensity of his haunting search, the passage of time had suddenly ceased to exist.
Finally, as though satisifed with his chosen scale, he returned to the very first note he had started from and actually began a song, deftly tying together the musical strands he had so painstakingly evolved. The sought-for resolution had never come, only the sense that the first note was the one he had been looking for the entire time.
This must be the mystical music Symmes spoke of, Hawksworth thought, and he was right. It's unlike anything I've ever heard. Where's the harmony, the chords of thirds and fifths? Whatever's going on, I don't think opium is going to help me understand it.
Hawksworth turned, still puzzling, back to Mukarrab Khan and waved away the brown ball—which the governor immediately washed down himself with fruit nectar.
"Is our music a bit difficult for you to grasp, Ambassador?" Mukarrab Khan leaned back on his bolster with an easy smile. "Pity, for there's truly little else in this backwater port worth the bother. The cuisine is abominable, the classical dancers despicable. In desperation I've even had to train my own musicians, although I did manage to steal one Ustad, a grand master, away from Agra." He impulsively reached for the water pipe and absorbed a deep draw, his eyes misting.
"I confess I do find it hard to follow." Hawksworth took a draft of wine from the fresh cup that had been placed beside him on the carpet.
"It demands a connoisseur's taste, Ambassador, not unlike an appreciation of fine wine."
The room grew ominously still for a moment, and then the drums suddenly exploded in a torrent of rhythm, wild and exciting yet unmistakably disciplined by some rigorous underlying structure. The rhythm soared in a cycle, returning again and again, after each elaborate interlocking of time and its divisions, back to a forceful crescendo.
Hawksworth watched Mukarrab Khan in fascination as he leaned back and closed his eyes in wistful anticipation. And at that moment the instrumentalist began a lightning-fast ascent of the scale, quavering each note in erotic suggestiveness for the fraction of a second it was fingered. The governor seemed absorbed in some intuitive communication with the sound, a reaction to music Hawksworth had never before witnessed. His entire body would perceptibly tense as the drummer began a cycle, then it would pulse and relax the instant the cycle thudded to a resolution. Hawksworth was struck by the sensuality inherent in the music, the almost sexual sense of tension and release.
Then he noticed two eunuchs leading a young boy into the room. The youth appeared to be hovering at the age of puberty, with still no trace of a beard. He wore a small but elaborately tied pastel turban, pearl earrings, and a large sapphire on a chain around his pale throat. His elaborate ensemble included a transparent blouse through which his delicate skin glistened in the lamplight, a long quilted sash at his waist, and tight-fitting trousers beneath light gauze pajamas that clung to his thighs as he moved. His lips were lightly red, and his perfume a mixture of flowers and musk. The boy reached for a ball of spiced opium and settled back against a quilted gold bolster next to Mukarrab Khan. The governor studied him momentarily and then returned to the music. And his thoughts.
He reflected again on Abul Hasan's blundering "accident" on thechauganfield, and what it must signify. If it were true theqazihad been bought by the Shahbandar, as some whispered, then it meant Mirza Nuruddin must be alarmed to the point of imprudence. Fearful of what could happen if the English were detained long enough for the Portuguese warships to prepare. Which meant that somewhere behind it all lay the hand of Prince Jadar.
He examined Hawksworth again, wondering how this English captain could have savaged the Viceroy's fleet with such embarrassing ease. What, he asked himself again, will the queen order done?
"I'm sorry you don't find our music more congenial. Ambassador. Perhaps I too would be wiser if I loved it less. The passion for classical music has cost many a great warrior his kingdom in India over the last centuries. For example, when the great Moghul patriarch Akman conquered Baz Bahadur, once the proud ruler of Malwa, it was because that prince was a better patron of music than of the arts of war." He smiled reflectively. "Admittedly, the great Akman himself also flooded his court with musicians, but then he had the wit to study arms as well. Regrettably, I find myself lacking his strength of character."
He paused to take a sip of nectar, then shrugged. "But enough. Tell me now what you really think of my Ustad, my master sitarist. There are those in Agra who will never forgive me for stealing him away."
"I'm not sure what I think. I've never heard a composition quite like the one he's playing."
"What do you mean by 'composition'?" Mukarrab Khan's tone was puzzled.
"That's how a piece of music is written out."
Mukarrab Khan paused and examined him skeptically for a long moment. "Written out? You write down your music? But whatever for? Does that mean your musicians play the same song again and again, precisely the same way?"
"If they're good they do. A composer writes a piece of music and musicians try to play it."
"How utterly tiresome." Mukarrab Khan sighed and leaned back on his bolster. "Music is a living art, Ambassador. It's meant to illuminate the emotions of the one who gives it life. How can written music have any feeling? My Ustad would never play a raga the same way twice. Indeed, I doubt he would be physically capable of such a boorish feat."
"You mean he creates a new composition each time he plays?"
"Not precisely. But his handling of the specific notes of a raga must speak to his mood, mv mood. These vary, why not his art?"
"But what is a raga then, if not a song?"
"That's always difficult to explain. At some rudimentary level you might say it's simply a melody form, a fixed series of notes around which a musician improvises. But although a raga has a rigorously prescribed ascending and descending note sequence and specific melodic motifs, it also has its own mood, 'flavor.' What we call itsrasa. How could one possibly write down a mood?"
"I guess I see your point. But it's still confusing." Hawksworth took another sip of wine. "How many ragas are there?"
"There are seventy-two primary scales on which ragas are based. But some scales have more than one raga. There are ragas for morning, for evening, for late at night. My Ustad is playing a late evening raga now. Although he uses only the notes and motifs peculiar to this raga, what he does with them is entirely governed by his feeling tonight."
"But why is there no harmony?"
"I don't understand what you mean by 'harmony.'"
"Striking several notes together, so they blend to produce a chord."
Mukarrab Khan studied him, uncomprehending, and Hawksworth continued.
"If I had my lute I'd show you how harmony and chords are used in an English song." Hawksworth thought again of his instrument, and of the difficulty he'd had protecting it during the voyage. He knew all along it was foolish to bring it, but he often told himself every man had the right to one folly.
"Then by all means." The governor's curiosity seemed to arouse him instantly from the opium. "Would you believe I've never met aferinghiwho could play an instrument, any instrument?"
"But my lute was detained, along with all my belongings, at the customs house. I was going to retrieve my chest from the Shahbandar when you intercepted his men."
"Ambassador, please believe I had good reason. But I thought I told you arrangements have been made." He turned and dictated rapidly to one of the eunuchs. There was an expressionless bow, and the man left the room. Moments later he returned through the bronze entry doors, followed by two dark-skinned servants carrying Hawksworth's chest, one at each end.
"I ordered your belongings sent from the customs house this afternoon. You would honor me by staying here as my guest." Mukarrab Khan smiled warmly. "And now I would hear you play this English instrument."
Hawksworth was momentarily startled, wondering why his safety was suddenly of such great interest to Mukarrab Khan. But he pushed aside the question and turned to examine the large brass lock on his chest. Although it had been newly polished to a high sheen, as had the entire chest, there was no visible evidence it had been opened. He extracted the key from his doublet, slipped it into the lock, and turned it twice. It revolved smoothly, opening with a soft click.
The lute rested precisely where he had left it. Its body was shaped like a huge pear cut in half lengthwise, with the back a glistening melon of curved cedar staves and the face a polished cherry. The neck was broad, and the head, where the strings were wound to their pegs, angled sharply back. He admired it for a moment, already eager for the touch of its dark frets. During the voyage it had been wrapped in heavy cloth, sealed in oilskins, and stored deep in his cabin chest. Not till landfall at Zanzibar had he dared expose it to the sea air.
Of all English music, he still loved the galliards of Dowland best. He was only a boy when Dowland's first book of galliards was published, but he had been made to learn them all by heart, because his exacting tutor had despised popular ballads and street songs.
Mukarrab Khan called for the instrument and slowly turned it in the lamplight, its polished cedar shining like a great jewel. He then passed it to his two musicians, and a brief discussion in Persian ensued, as brows were wrinkled and grave points adjudicated. After its appearance was agreed upon, the instrumentalist gingerly plucked a gut string with the wire plectrum attached to his forefinger and studied its sound with a distant expression. The torrent of Persian began anew, as each string was plucked in turn and its particular quality debated. Then the governor revolved to Hawksworth.
"I congratulate your wisdom, Ambassador, in not hazarding a truly fine instrument on a sea voyage. It would have been a waste of real workmanship."
Hawksworth stared at him dumbfounded.
"There's not a finer lute in London." He seized it back. "I had it specially crafted several years ago by a master, a man once lute-maker to the queen. It's one of the last he made."
"You must pardon me then, but why no embellishment? No ivory inlay, no carved decoration? Compare, if you will, Ustad Qasim's sitar. It's a work of fine art. A full year was spent on its decoration. Note the head has been carved as the body of a swan, the neck and pegs inlaid with finest ivory, the face decorated with mother-of-pearl andlapis lazuli. Your lute has absolutely no decoration whatsoever."
"The beauty of an instrument is in its tone."
"Yes, that's a separate point. But perhaps we should hear it played by one skilled in its use. I must confess we are all curious what can be done with so simple an instrument." Mukarrab Khan shifted on his bolster, while the young man next to him toyed with a jewel, not troubling to disguise his boredom.
Hawksworth tuned the strings quickly and meticulously. Then he settled himself on the carpet and took a deep breath. His fingers were stiff, his mind groggy with wine, but he would play a song he knew well. A galliard Dowland had written when Queen Elizabeth was still alive, in honor of a Cornwall sea captain named Piper, whom she'd given a letter of marque to attack the Spanish, but who instead turned an uncontrollable pirate, pillaging the shipping of any flag convenient. He'd become an official outlaw but a genuine English folk hero, and Dowland had honored his memory with a rousing composition—"Piper's Galliard."
A full chord, followed by a run of crisp notes, cut the close air. The theme was somber, a plaintive query in a minor mode followed by a melodic but defiant reply. Just the answer Piper would have given to the charges, Hawksworth thought.
The servants had all gathered to listen, and the eunuchs had stopped gossiping. Then Hawksworth glanced toward the musicians, who had shifted themselves onto the carpet to watch. Both the sitarist and his drummer still eyed the instrument skeptically, no hint of appreciation in their look.
Hawksworth had expected it.
Wait till they hear this.
He crouched over the lute and attacked the strings with all four fingers, producing a dense toccata, with three melodic lines advancing at once, two in the treble and one in the base. His hand flew over the frets until it seemed every fingertip commanded a string, each embellishing a theme another had begun. Then he brought the galliard to a rousing crescendo with a flourish that spanned two entire octaves.
A polite silence seemed to grip the room. Mukarrab Khan sipped thoughtfully from his cup for a moment, his jeweled rings refracting the lamplight, then summoned a eunuch and whispered briefly in his ear. As the eunuch passed the order to a hovering servant, Mukarrab Khan turned to Hawksworth.
"Your English music is interesting, Ambassador, if somewhat simple." He cleared his throat as an excuse to pause. "But frankly I must tell you it touched only my mind. Not my heart. Although I heard it, I did not feel it. Do you understand the difference? I sensed nothing of its rasa, the emotion and desire one should taste at a moment like this, the merging of sound and spirit. Your English music seems to stand aloof, unapproachable." Mukarrab Khan searched for words. "It inhabits its own world admirably, but it did not enter mine."
Servants suddenly appeared bearing two silver trays, on which were crystal cups of green, frothy liquid. As the servant placed Hawksworth's tray on the patterned carpet, he bowed, beaming. Mukarrab Khan ignored his own tray and instead summoned the sitarist, Bahram Qasim, to whisper brief instructions in his ear. Then the governor turned to Hawksworth.
"Perhaps I can show you what I mean. This may be difficult for you, so first I would urge you try a cup ofbhang. It has the remarkable effect of opening one's heart."
Hawksworth tested the beverage warily. Its underlying bitterness had been obscured with sweet yogurt and potent spices. It was actually very palatable. He drank again, this time thirstily.
"What did you call this?Bhang?”
"Yes, it's made from the leaves of hemp. Unlike wine, which only dulls the spirit,bhanghones the senses. Now I've arranged a demonstration for you."
He signaled the sitarist, and Bahram Qasim began the unmistakable theme of "Piper's Galliard." The song was drawn out slowly, languorously, as each individual note was introduced, lovingly explored for its own pure sound, and then framed with microtone embellishment and a sensual vibrato. The clear, simple notes of the lute were transmuted into an almost orchestral richness by an undertone of harmonic density from the sitar's sympathetic strings, the second row of wires beneath those being plucked, tuned to match the notes of the song and respond without being touched. Dowland's harmonies were absent, but now the entire room resonated with a single majestic chord underlying each note. Gradually the sitarist accelerated the tempo, while also beginning to insert his own melodic variations over the original notes of the theme.
Hawksworth took another sip ofbhangand suddenly noticed the notes seemed to be weaving a tapestry in his mind, evolving an elaborate pattern that enveloped the room with shapes as colored as the geometries of the Persian carpet.
Next the drummer casually introduced a rhythmic underpinning, his lithe fingers touring easily over and around the taut drumheads as he dissected, then restructured the simple meter of Dowland's music. He seemed to regard the original meter as merely a frame, a skeleton on which the real artistry had yet to be applied. He knowingly subdivided Dowland's meter into minuscule elements of time, and with these devised elaborate new interlockings of sound and silence. Yet each new structure alwaysResolved to its perfect culmination at the close of a musical phrase. Then as he punctuated his transient edifice with a thud of the larger drum—much as an artist might sign a painting with an elaborate flourish—he would catch Hawksworth's incredulous gaze and wink, his eyes twinkling in triumph.
Meanwhile, the sitarist structured Dowland's spirited theme to the drummer's frame, adding microtones Dowland had never imagined, and matching the ornate tempo of the drum as they blended together to become a single racing heartbeat.
Hawksworth realized suddenly that he was no longer merely hearing the music, that instead he seemed to be absorbing it.
How curious . . .
The music soared on to a final crescendo, a simultaneous
climax of sitar and drum, and then the English song seemed to dissolve slowly into the incense around them. After only a moment's pause, the musicians immediately took up a sensuous late evening raga.
Hawksworth looked about and noticed for the first time that the lamps in the room had been lowered, settling a semi- darkness about the musicians and the moving figures around him. He felt for his glass ofbhangand saw that it was dry, and that another had been placed beside it. He drank again to clear his mind.
What's going on? Damned if I'll stay here. My God, it's impossible to think. I'm tired. No, not tired. It's just . . . just that my mind is . . . like I'd swilled a cask of ale. But I'm still in perfect control. And where's Mukarrab Khan? Now there are screens where he was sitting. Covered with peacocks that strut obscenely from one screen to the other. And the eunuchs are all watching. Bastards. I'll take back my sword. Jesus, where is it? I've never felt so adrift. But I'm not staying. I'll take the chest and damn his eunuchs. And his guards. He can't hold me here. Not even on charges. There are no charges. I'm leaving. I'll find the men . . .
He pulled himself defiantly to his feet. And collapsed.
The dream was more vivid than reality, intensely colored and astir with vague forms that drifted through his mind's ken, appearing then fading. The room seemed airless, a musk-filled cell of gilded blue panels and gold brocade. Guarded faces hovered around and above, their eyes intense yet unseeing, distant as stained-glass masks of cathedral sinner and saint.
A fingertip brushed his cheek, and with its touch the room gloried in a powerful fragrance of saffron. Then a hand, floating unattached, gently removed his doublet; another slid away his mud-smeared breeches.
He was naked.
He looked down as though from afar at the texture of chest and thigh, and he wondered dimly if they were his own. Then other hands . . . and suddenly he was immersed in a sea whose shores were white marble, whose surface sheened with oil of the rose. Translucent petals drifted randomly atop the crests. Hands toured his frame, discovering every tightened nerve, while powdered sandalwood enveloped his hair and beard until he seemed lost in a fragrant forest.
As suddenly as the sea had come it drew away, but now there were steaming wraps tingling with astringent orange and clove, and he drifted through a land of aloe balm and amber.
The room dissolved into semi-darkness, until at last only a single face remained, a woman with eyes round and moist and coldly dark. Her lips were the deep red of betel, while her hair was coal and braided in a skein of jeweled tresses. A faceted stone sparkled on her left nostril, and heavy gold rings swung gently from each ear. Henna-red nipples pressed erect against her diaphanous blouse, and between her breasts clung a garland of pearls. The heavy bracelets on her wrists and her upper arms glistened gold in the flickering candlelight.
As he studied her eyes, they seemed locked into his own, and betrayed no notice of his body. He sent his voice through the dream's carpeted chambers, but his words were swallowed in dark air that drew out their sound and washed it to thin silence. In a final, awkward futility he struggled to free himself from the velvet bolster.
But gently she pressed him back.
"What would you have, my love? Sweetbhangfrom my hand?"
A cup found his lips, and before he knew he had taken more of the incendiary green confection. Its warmth grew slowly into a pale light that shimmered off the gilded panels and then coalesced into the rainbow now pivoting pendulum-like above him, a glistening fan of peacock feathers swayed by a faceless, amber-skinned woman.
His gaze returned to the eyes, and again he searched for sound. Then came a voice he recognized as his own.
"Who are you?"
"You may call me Kali. Others do. It's a name you would not understand. But can you understand that love is surrender?" The words coiled about his head, coruscating and empty of meaning. He shook them away and watched as she brushed a strand of hair from his face. With that simple motion, her nipples traced twin heliotrope arcs across the gossamer screen of her blouse. He examined her in disbelief, unable to find words.
"When my lover lies silent, I do as I choose."
Deftly she uncoiled the white silk sash from around her waist and in a single practiced motion bound it over his eyes. The room vanished. In the dream's sudden night he grew intensely aware of touch and smell.
Commands came in an alien tongue, and he felt his breast and thighs brushed lightly by a new, pungent fragrance.
"We have cloaked you in petals of spikenard, to banish the sight of your unshaven body. Aferinghiknows so little of what pleases a woman."
He felt a light brush across his parted lips, and then her eyelashes, stiffened dark with antimony, trilled a path downward over his skin, to his nipples. The hardened lashes stroked each nipple in turn with rapid flutters, until the skin tightened almost to bursting. An excruciating sensitivity burned through him, but still the lashes fluttered, determinedly, almost unendurably, until his aroused tips touched the aching portals of pain. Then he sensed a tongue circle each nipple in turn, searching out the one most ripe.
He felt her kneel above him, surrounding him with open thighs that clasped his chest. The room fell expectantly silent. Then, as an unknown syllable sounded somewhere above him, he felt the nipple of his right breast seized in the lock of a warm, moist grasp. The surrounding thighs rocked gently at first, but slowly increased their rhythm in time with the sound of breath. Suddenly he felt her body twist lightly and another tip, hardened as that on his chest, began to trace the nipple's swollen point. Her thighs were smooth and moist as she pressed in with spiraling, ever more rapid intensity. He found himself deeply conscious of her rhythms and the hard cadence of breath. He reached for the strength to rip the silk from his eyes, to end the dream's tantalizing dark. But strength was not there. Or time.
Before he could stir, he sensed the hardened tip shudder. Again a grasp took his nipple and worked it with measured spasms, until the room's austere silence was cut by her sharp intake of breath, timed to match a single insistent contraction that seemed to envelope the whole of his breast. He felt her seize his hands in her own, and although he could see nothing, in his mind there grew a vision of her eyes at that moment. Then there came a sound, partially stifled in her throat, but not before it had found the gilded walls and returned, annealed to a glassy relic of release.
He felt her slowly withdraw, but then her mouth took his breast, till it had drawn away the musk. At last, perhaps to signify repletion, she lightly brushed his lips with the tip of her tongue.
"You have pleased me." Her voice was quiet now, almost a whisper. "Now we will please each other."
A hand worked at his loins, methodically applying a viscous, harshly scented oil.
"Would you could see with my eyes. Thelingamof the fabled Shiva was never garlanded such as this, or anointed so lovingly."
Then her voice turned harsh as she spoke short staccato commands in an unknown tongue. Bangles sounded and silk rustled as the room emptied. Now he caught a new scent, the harsh smell he remembered from the box the governor had offered.
"I will tell you my secret." She whispered close to his ear. "There is no more exciting way to experience the ecstasy of love than withaffion, the essence of the poppy. But I have a way to receive it no one else knows. It is like the burst of a lightning stroke. Its power envelopes the senses."
He felt her smooth a thick paste along the sides of his phallus, and sensed a tingle as she clasped it carefully with both hands. Again she moved above him, but curiously there was no touch of her body. Only the presence of her scent.
A tight ring seemed to circle his flesh, and he felt the weight of her rounded buttocks slide down onto his thighs.
He startled upward in shock and disbelief. Never will I . . .
"You must lie still, my love. In your surrender, only I may have my will."
She began at once to move above his thighs, and again muted sounds struggled stillborn in her throat. With deliberate regularity her rhythm mounted, while an overwhelming sensation spread upward through his body. Slowly he felt his newResolveslipping from him.
The convulsions started in his lower thighs, as muscles tightened involuntarily. And then the precipice grew near and he was at its edge and he was falling. He felt the surge, as though drawn out by the twist of her buttocks. Then again and again, each spasm matched by her own as she worked to envelop him completely. He was scarcely aware of her nails fixed in his breasts. At that instant he seemed to drift apart from his body and observe mutely as it was consumed by its own sensations. Until numbness washed over him, stilling his sense.
As he lay in exhaustion his mind sorted through her words, and in the dream's darkness he vowed to take her again. The next time, it's you who'll surrender, woman called Kali. To my will. And you'll find out the meaning of surrender.
But his thoughts were lost among the gilded panels as she pulled the silk from his eyes and quietly whispered something he did not understand. In that instant he thought he saw where a tear had stained a path across one cheek. She looked at him longingly, then touched his lips with her own for a long moment before slipping quietly into the dark.
The dream dissolved in sleep. And she was gone. . . .
Hawksworth was suddenly awake. The chill of early dawn penetrated his face and hands, and his hair sparkled with light jewels of dew. His leather couch was moist and glistening, while the pale sky above was blocked by a tapestried canopy. Only in the east, above the white railing of the rooftop, could he see the glitter of a waning Venus, her brief reign soon to dissolve in the red wash of early sun. He looked about his white brick enclosure and saw only a light wooden door leading into a second-floor apartment.
He had no sooner drawn himself up to inhale the flower- scented dawn than two smiling men were standing over him, bowing. Both wore turbans, pastel-colored jackets, and a white wrap about their lower torso. Squinting into their eyes, Hawksworth remembered them from the evening before. They had brought the basin of water in which he had first washed.
As he pulled the embroidered coverlet closer about him he noticed a strange numbness in his body. And his mind ached as he tried to remember what precisely had happened.
There was a game on horseback with the governor, and then a banquet, with an argument in which Mukarrab Khan threatened to betray us to the Portugals, a curious evening of music. And then dreams . . .
Pulling himself up off the couch, he started unsteadily across the hard flat tile of the roof. Immediately a servant was beside him, producing a heavy silk wrap and swathing it around his shoulders and waist. Then the man bowed again and spoke in accented Turki.
"May Allah prosper you today, Sahib. May your fortunes answer the prayers of the poor." The man's expression softened to match his own compliment. "Should it please the Sahib, his morning bath is waiting."
Without thinking, without even hearing the words, he allowed himself to be led through the doorway into the second-floor apartment. There, in the center of the room, was his chest, its lock intact. He examined it with a quick glance, then followed the servants down a set of stone stairs to the ground-floor veranda—where a steaming marble tub waited.
Good Jesus, not again! How can I make them understand? Bathing weakens a man.
He started to turn, but suddenly two eunuchs appeared out of nowhere and were guiding him up the two marble steps to a stone platform, where they seated him on a filigreed wooden stool. Silently the servants stripped away his light wrap and began to knead his body and his hair with a fragrant powder, a blend of wood bark and some astringent fruit. The scent was mild, pleasant, and as their hands traveled over him he felt the pores of his skin open to divulge their residual rankness.
This is better, he thought. Cleaning without water. With only some sort of powder. I feel refreshed already.
His muscles loosened as the men vigorously worked the mixture into his skin and then carefully cleansed it away with bulky cotton towels. Next they turned to his hair, combing and massaging more of the powder through it strand by strand. At last they signaled for him to rise and enter the tub. Its surface glistened with a perfumed oil, and the rising steam smelled faintly of clove. Before he could protest, the eunuchs guided him down the marble steps.
As he settled into the steam again he was surrounded by waiting servants, who sprinkled more oil over the water and massaged the emulsion into his hair and skin.
I'm being bathed in oil, he smiled, marveling. It's absurd, yet here it seems perfectly right.
The men worked devotedly, as though he were an inanimate utensil whose purity was their lifelong obligation. His body now glistened with a reddish tint of the oil, matching the early glow of the sun that penetrated the half- shuttered windows. As they motioned for him to leave the bath, he discovered to his amazement that he would have been perfectly content to stay. Forever. But again hands were there, guiding him, this time toward a low wooden bench covered with thick woven tapestries.
What now? What else can they do? I'm cleaner than the day I was born. What more . . .
He was prostrate on the couch. A rough haircloth worked against his legs and torso, sending the blood surging. At the same time, a piece of porous sandstone in the practiced hands of another servant stripped away the loosened calluses and scales from his boot-roughened feet. A third man massaged still more perfumed oil, hinting of aloe and orange, into his back and along his sides and shoulders. His body had become an invigorated, pliant reed.
They motioned for him to sit up and, as he watched, one of the men produced a mirror and razor. Next he opened a bottle of fragrant liquid and began to apply it to Hawksworth's beard and chest. And then also to his legs and crotch.
"What's the purpose of that razor?"
"We have orders to shave you, Sahib, in our manner." The turbaned man who had greeted him that morning bowed slightly as he signaled the barber to begin. "You are to be shaved completely, as is our custom."
"Trim my beard if you like. But no more. Damn you if you'll shave me like some catamite." Hawksworth started to rise from his stool, but the barber was already over him, the blade flying across his face with a menacing deftness.
"It has been ordered, Sahib." The turbaned man bowed again, and without pausing for a reply produced a short, curved metal device and began to probe Hawksworth's ears, his face intent in concentration as he carefully extracted an enormous ball of gray mud and encrusted sea salt. He scraped the other ear with the same deft twist. Then he flipped the same instrument and began to trim Hawksworth's ragged fingernails.
Hawksworth turned to the mirror to discover that his beard had already disappeared, leaving him clean-faced.
At least I'll be in fashion back home, he thought, if I ever get back. Beards are passing from style.
But what's he doing now? By heaven, no . . .
The razor swept cleanly across Hawksworth's chest, leaving a swath of soft skin in its wake. It came down again, barely missing a nipple as he moved to rise.
"You must be still, Sahib. You will harm yourself."
"I told you I'll not have it." Hawksworth pushed the razor away.
"But it is our custom." The man seemed to plead. "Khan Sahib ordered that you be groomed as an honored guest."
"Well, damn your customs. Enough."
There was a moment of silence. Then the turbaned man bowed, his face despondent.
"As the Sahib desires."
He signaled the barber to rub a light coat of saffron-scented oil on Hawksworth's face and then to begin trimming Hawksworth's hair with the pair of silver scissors he had brought. The barber quickly snipped away the growth of the voyage, leaving the hair moderately cropped, in the Moghul fashion.
Hawksworth examined the mirror again.
Damn if I wouldn't make a proper Cheapside dandy. Right in style. And I hate being in style.
Then the turbaned man produced a heavy lead comb and began to work it repeatedly through Hawksworth's hair. Hawksworth watched the mirror in confusion.
What's he doing? It's already been combed. And it's so short there's no point anyway.
Then he noticed the slight traces of gray around the sides beginning to darken, taking on the color of the lead.
"Please open your mouth." The turbaned man stood above him holding a dark piece of wood, frayed at the end and crooked. "And I will scrape your teeth withnimroot."
"But that's insane. Teeth are cleaned with a piece of cloth and a toothpick. Or rubbed with a bit of sugar and salt ash . . ."