Mackintosh began to bark commands for reloading."Half-cock your muskets. Wipe your pans. Handle your primers. Cast about to charge . . ."But time had run out. Two more longboats bracketed each side of the bow. And now Portuguese were piling aboard."Damn the muskets," Hawksworth yelled. "Take your swords."The night air came alive with the sound of steel against steel, while each side taunted the other with unintelligible obscenities. The English were outnumbered many to one, and slowly they found themselves being driven to the stern of the pinnace. Still more Portuguese poured aboard now, as the pinnace groaned against the sand.Hawksworth kept to the front of his men, matching the poorly trained Portuguese infantry easily. Thank God there's no more foot room, he thought, we can almost stand them man for man . . .At that moment two Portuguese pinned Hawksworth's sword against the mast, allowing a third to gain footing and lunge. As Hawksworth swerved to avoid the thrust, his foot crashed through the thin planking covering the keel, bringing him down. Mackintosh yelled a warning and leaped forward, slashing the first soldier through the waist and sending him to the bottom of the pinnace, moaning. Then the quartermaster seized the other man by the throat and, lunging like a bull, whipped him against the mast, snapping his neck.Hawksworth groped blindly for his sword and watched as the third soldier poised for a mortal sweep. Where is it?Good God, he'll cut me in half.Suddenly he felt a cold metal object pressed against his hand, and above the din he caught Humphrey Spencer's high-pitched voice, urging. It was a pocket pistol.Did he prime it? Does he know how?As the Portuguese soldier began his swing, Hawksworth raised the pistol and squeezed. There was a dull snap, a hiss, and then a blaze that melted the soldier's face into red.He flung the pistol aside and seized the dying Portuguese's sword. He was armed again, but there was little advantage left. Slowly the English were crowded into a huddle of the stern. Cornered, abaft the mast, they no longer had room to parry. Hawksworth watched in horror as a burly Portuguese, his silver helmet askew, braced himself against the mast and drew back his sword to send a swath through the English. Hawksworth tried to set a parry, but his arms were pinned.He'll kill half the men. The bastard will . . .A bemused expression unexpectedly illuminated the soldier's face, a smile with no mirth. In an instant it transmuted to disbelief, while his raised sword clattered to the planking. As Hawksworth watched, the Portuguese's hand began to work mechanically at his chest. Then his helmet tumbled away, and he slumped forward, motionless but still erect. He stood limp, head cocked sideways, as though distracted during prayer.Why doesn't he move? Was this all some bizarre, senseless jest?Then Hawksworth saw the arrows. A neat row of thin bamboo shafts had pierced the soldier's Portuguese armor, riveting him to the mast.A low-pitched hum swallowed the sudden silence, as volleys of bamboo arrows sang from the darkness of the shore. Measured, deadly. Hawksworth watched in disbelief as one by one the Portuguese soldiers around them crumpled, a few firing wildly into the night. In what seemed only moments it was over, the air a cacophony of screams and moaning death.Hawksworth turned to Karim, noting fright in the pilot's eyes for the very first time."The arrows." He finally found his voice. "Whose are they?""I can probably tell you." The pilot stepped forward and deftly broke away the feathered tip on one of the shafts still holding the Portuguese to the mast. As he did so, the other arrows snapped and the Portuguese slumped against the gunwale, then slipped over the side and into the dark water. Karim watched him disappear, then raised the arrow to the moonlight. For an instant Hawksworth thought he saw a quizzical look enter the pilot's eyes.Before he could speak, lines of fire shot across the surface of the water, as fire arrows came, slamming into the longboats as they drifted away on the tide. Streak after streak found the hulls and in moments they were torches. In the flickering light, Hawksworth could make out what seemed to be grapples, flashing from the shore, pulling the floating bodies of the dead and dying to anonymity. He watched spellbound for a moment, then turned again toward the stern."Karim, I asked whose arrows . . ."The pilot was gone. Only the English seamen remained, dazed and uncomprehending.Then the night fell suddenly silent once more, save for the slap of the running tide against the hull.BOOK TWOSURAT— THE THRESHOLDCHAPTER FIVEThe room was musty and close, as though the rainy season had not passed, and the floor was hard mud. Through crude wooden shutters they could glimpse the early sun stoking anew for the day's inferno, but now it merely washed the earthen walls in stripes of golden light.Hawksworth stood by the window examining the grassy square that spanned out toward the river. The porters, in whose lodge they were confined, milled about the open area, chanting and sweating as they unloaded large bales of cotton from the two-wheeled bullock carts that continually rolled into the square. He steadied himself against the heavy wooden frame of the window and wondered if his land legs would return before the day was out."God curse all Moors." Mackintosh stooped over the tray resting on the grease-smudged center carpet and pulled a lid from one of the earthen bowls. He stared critically at the dense, milky liquid inside, then gingerly dipped in a finger and took a portion to his lips. He tested the substance—tangy curds smelling faintly of spice—and his face hardened."Tis damned spoilt milk." He spat fiercely onto the carpet and seized a piece of fried bread to purge the taste. "Fitter for swine than men.""What'd they do with the samples?" Elkington sprawled heavily in the corner, his eyes bloodshot from the all-night vigil upriver. "With no guards the heathens'll be thievin' the lot." He squinted toward the window, but made no effort to move. His exhaustion and despair were total."The goods are still where they unloaded them." Hawksworth revolved toward the room. "They say nothing happens till the Shahbandar arrives.""What'd they say about him?" Elkington slowly drew himself to his feet."They said he arrives at mid morning, verifies his seal on the customs house door, and then orders it opened. They also said that all traders must be searched personally by his officers. He imposes duty on everything, right down to the shillings in your pocket.""Damn'd if I'll pay duty. Not for samples.""That's what I said. And they ignored me. It seems to be law." Hawksworth noticed that the gold was dissolving from the dawn sky, surrendering to a brilliant azure. He turned, scooped a portion of curds onto a piece of fried bread, and silently chewed as he puzzled over the morning. And the night before.Who had saved them? And why? Did someone in India hate the Portuguese so much they would defend the English before even knowing who they were? No one in India could know about King James's letter, about the East India Company's plans. No one. Even George Elkington did not know everything. Yet someone in India already wanted the English alive. He had wrestled with the question for the rest of the trip upriver, and he could think of no answers. They had been saved for a reason, a reason he did not know, and that worried him even more than the Portuguese.Without a pilot they had had to probe upriver slowly, sounding for sandbars with an oar. Finally, when they were near exhaustion, the river suddenly curved and widened. Then, in the first dim light of morning, they caught the unmistakable outlines of a harbor. It had to be Surat. The river lay north-south now, with the main city sprawled along its eastern shore. The tide began to fall back, depleted, and he realized they had timed its flow perfectly.As they waited for dawn, the port slowly revealed itself in the eastern glow. Long stone steps emerged directly from the Tapti River and broadened into a wide, airy square flanked on three sides by massive stone buildings. The structure on the downriver side was obviously a fortress, built square with a large turret at each corner, and along the top of walls Hawksworth could see the muzzles of cannon—they looked to be eight-inchers—trained directly on the water. And in the waning dark he spotted tiny points of light, spaced regularly along the top of the fortress walls. That could only mean one thing."Mackintosh, ship the oars and drop anchor. We can't dock until daylight.""Aye, Cap'n, but why not take her in now? We can see to make a landin'.""And they can see us well enough to position their cannon. Look carefully along there." Hawksworth directed his gaze toward the top of the fortress. "They've lighted linstocks for the guns.""Mother of God! Do they think we're goin' to storm their bleedin' harbor with a pinnace?""Probably a standard precaution. But if we hold here, at least we'll keep at the edge of their range. And we'd better put all weapons out of sight. I want them to see a pinnace of friendly traders at sunup."The dawn opened quickly, and as they watched, the square blossomed to life. Large two-wheeled carts appeared through the half-dark, drawn by muscular black oxen, some of whose horns had been tipped in silver. One by one the oxen lumbered into the square, urged forward by the shouts and beatings of turbaned drivers who wore folded white skirts instead of breeches. Small fires were kindled by some of the men, and the unmistakable scent of glowing dung chips savored the dark clouds of smoke that drifted out across the river's surface.Then Hawksworth first noticed the bathers that had appeared along the shore on either side of the stone steps: brown men stripped to loincloths and women in brilliantly colored head-to-toe wraps were easing themselves ceremoniously into the chilled, mud-colored water, some bowing repeatedly in the direction of the rising sun. Only the waters fronting the stairway remained unobstructed.When the dawn sky had lightened to a muted red, Hawksworth decided to start their move. He surveyed the men crowded in the pinnace one last time, and read in some faces expectation and in others fear. But in all there was bone-deep fatigue. Only Elkington seemed fully absorbed in the vision that lay before them.Even from their distance the Chief Merchant was already assessing the goods being unloaded from the carts: rolls of brown cloth, bundles of indigo, and bales of combed cotton fiber. He would point, then turn and gesture excitedly as he lectured Spencer.The young clerk was now a bedraggled remnant of fashion in the powder-smudged remains of his new doublet. The plumed hat he had worn as they cast off had been lost in the attack downriver, and now he crouched in the bottom of the pinnace, humiliated and morose, his eyes vacant."Mackintosh, weigh anchor. We'll row to the steps. Slowly."The men bobbed alert as they hoisted the chain into the prow of the pinnace. Oars were slipped noisily into their rowlocks and Mackintosh signaled to get underway.As they approached the stairway, alarmed cries suddenly arose from the sentinels stationed on stone platforms flanking either side of the steps. In moments a crowd collected along the river, with turbaned men shouting in a language Hawksworth could not place and gesturing the pinnace away from the dock. What could they want, he asked himself? Who are they? They're not armed. They don't look hostile. Just upset."Permission to land." Hawksworth shouted to them in Turkish, his voice slicing through the din and throwing a sudden silence over the crowd."The customs house does not open until two hours before midday," a tall, bearded man shouted back. Then he squinted toward the pinnace. "Who are you? Portuguese?""No, we're English." So that's it, Hawksworth thought. They assumed we were Portugals with a boatload of booty. Here for a bit of private trade.The man examined the pinnace in confusion. Then he shouted again over the waters."You are not Portuguese?""I told you we're English.""Only Portuguesetopiwallahsare allowed to trade." The man was now scrutinizing the pinnace in open perplexity."We've no goods for trade. Only samples." Hawksworth tried to think of a way to confound the bureaucratic mind. "We only want food and drink.""You cannot land at this hour.""In name of Allah, the Merciful." Hawksworth stretched for his final ploy, invocation of that hospitality underlying all Islamic life. Demands can be ignored. A traveler's need, never. "Food and drink for my men."Miraculously, it seemed to work. The bearded man stopped short and examined them again closely. Then he turned and dictated rapidly to the group of waiting porters. In moments the men had plunged into the chilled morning water, calling for the mooring line of the pinnace. As they towed the pinnace into the shallows near the steps, other porters swarmed about the boat and gestured to indicate the English should climb over the gunwales and be carried ashore.They caught hold of George Elkington first. He clung futilely to the gunwales as he was dragged cursing from the bobbing pinnace and hoisted on the backs of two small Indian men. Arms flailing, he toppled himself from their grasp and splashed backward into the muddy Tapti. After he floated to the surface, sputtering, he was dragged bodily from the water and up the steps. Then the others were carried ashore, and only Mackintosh tried to protest.The last to leave the pinnace, Hawksworth hoisted himself off the prow and onto the back of a wiry Indian whose thin limbs belied their strength. The man's turban smelled faintly of sweat, but his well-worn shirt was spotless. His dark eyes assessed Hawksworth with a practiced sidelong glance, evaluating his attire, his importance, and the approximate cash value of his sword in a single sweep.Only after the porters had deposited them on the stone steps did Hawksworth finally realize that India's best port had no wharf, that human backs served as the loading platform for all men and goods. As he looked around, he also noticed they had been surrounded by a crowd of men, not identified by turbans as were the porters but uniformed more expensively and wielding long, heavy canes. Wordlessly, automatically, the men aligned themselves in two rows to create a protected pathway leading up the steps and into the square. Hawksworth watched as they beat back the gathering crowd of onlookers with their canes, and he suddenly understood this was how the port prevented traders from passing valuables to an accomplice in the crowd and circumventing customs.Then the tall bearded man approached Hawksworth, smiled professionally, and bowed in the manner of Karim, hands together at the brow. "You are welcome in the name of the Shahbandar, as a guest only, not as a trader."Without further greeting he directed them across the open square toward a small stone building. "You will wait in the porters' lodge until the customs house opens." As he ordered the heavy wooden door opened, he curtly added, "The Shahbandar will rule whether your presence here is permitted."He had watched them enter, and then he was gone. Shortly after, the food had appeared.Hawksworth examined the room once more, its close air still damp with the chill of dawn. The walls were squared, and the ceiling high and arched. In a back corner a niche had been created, and in it rested a small round stone pillar, presumably a religious object but one Hawksworth did not recognize. Who would venerate a column of stone, he mused, particularly one which seems almost like a man's organ? It can't be the Muslims. They worship their own organs like no other race, but they generally honor their law against icons. So it must be for the gentiles, the Hindus. Which means that the porters are Hindus and their overseers Moors. That's the privilege of conquerors. Just like every other land the Moors have seized by the sword.He glanced again at the tray and noted that the food had been completely devoured, consumed by ravenous seamen who would have scorned to touch milk curds six months before. After a moment's consideration, Hawksworth turned and seated himself on the edge of the carpet. There's nothing to be done. We may as well rest while we have the chance.George Elkington had rolled himself in a corner of thecarpet and now he dozed fitfully. Humphrey Spencer fought sleep as he worked vainly to brush away the powder smudges from his doublet. Mackintosh had finished whetting his seaman's knife and now sat absorbed in searching his hair for lice. Bosun's mate John Garway lounged against a side wall, idly scratching his codpiece and dreaming of the women he would soon have, his toothless smile fixed in sleepy anticipation. The master's mate, Thomas Davies, dozed in a heap by the door, his narrow face depleted and aged with scurvy. In a back corner dice and a pile of coins had miraculously appeared, and the other seamen sprawled about them on the floor, bloodshot eyes focused on the chance numbers that would spell the longest splurge in port. Hawksworth stretched his wounded leg once more, leaned stiffly against the front wall, and forced his mind to drift again into needed rest.Hawksworth was suddenly alert, his senses troubled. The sun had reached midmorning now, and it washed the mud floor in brilliant yellow light. He sensed that a heavy shadow had passed through its beam. He had not specifically seen it, but somehow, intuitively, he knew. Without a word he edged to the side of the heavy wooden door, his hand close to his sword handle. All the others except Mackintosh were by now asleep. Only the quartermaster had noticed it. He quickly moved to the side of the door opposite Hawksworth and casually drew his heavy, bone-handled knife.Without warning the door swung outward.Facing them was the same bearded man who had invited them ashore. The square behind him was bright now with the glare of late morning, and in the light Hawksworth realized he was wearing an immaculate white turban, a long blue skirt over tightly fitting white breeches, and ornate leather shoes, turned up at the toe in a curved point. This time, however, he no longer bore welcome."Where have you anchored your ships?" The Turki was accented and abrupt.News travels fast, Hawksworth thought, as he tried to shove the haze from his mind. "Where is the Shahbandar?""Your merchantmen were not in the bay this morning. Where are they now?" The man seemed to ignore Hawksworth's question."I demand to see the Shahbandar. And I'll answer no questions till I do.""You do not demand of the Shahbandar." The man's black beard worked nervously, even when he paused. "You and all your men are to be brought to the customs house, together with your goods.""Where is he now?""He is here.""Where?"The Indian turned and gestured quickly across the maidan, the square, toward the large windowless stone building that sat on the water's edge opposite the fortress. Hawksworth looked at the cluster of armed guards and realized this must be the mint. This was the building, he now remembered Karim telling him, where foreign money was "exchanged." All foreign coins, even Spanish rials of eight, were required to be melted down and reminted into rupees before they could be used for purchase. Supposedly a protection against counterfeit or base coin, this requirement produced months of delay. The Shahbandar gave only one alternative to traders in a hurry: borrow ready-made rupees at exorbitant interest."After he has authorized the beginning of today's work at the mint, he will verify the seal on the door of the customs house"—he pointed to the squat building adjoining their lodge—"and open it for today. All goods must be taxed and receive hischappor seal before they can enter or leave India."The men had begun to stir, and Hawksworth turned to translate. The English assembled warily, and the air came alive with an almost palpable apprehension as Hawksworth led them into the bustling square."We must wait." The tall Indian suddenly paused near the center of the maidan, just as a group of guards emerged from the mint. Each wore a heavy sword, and they were escorting a large closed palanquin carried on the shoulders of four bearers dressed only in white skirts folded about their waist. The guards cleared a path through the crowd of merchants, and made their way slowly to the door of the customs house. The crowd surged in behind them, blocking the view, but moments later the tall doors of the customs house were seen to swing open, and the crowd funneled in, behind the palanquin and the guards. Then the Indian motioned for them to follow.The interior of the customs house smelled of sweat, mingled with spice and the dusty fragrance of indigo. As oil lamps were lighted and attached to the side walls, the milling crowd grew visible. Through the semi-dark porters were already bearing the English goods in from themaidanand piling them in one of the allotted stalls.The tall guide turned to Hawksworth. "You and all your men must now be searched, here in the counting room.""I'll not allow it." Hawksworth motioned the English back. "I told you I demand to see the Shahbandar.""He'll receive you when he will. He has not granted an audience.""Then we'll not be searched. Tell him that. Now."The Indian paused for a moment, then reluctantly turned and made his way toward a door at the rear of the large room. Elkington pressed forward, his face strained."Tell the bleedin' heathen we're English. We'll not be treated like this rabble." He motioned around the room, a bedlam of Arab, Persian, and Indian traders who eyed the English warily as they shouted for the attention of customs inspectors and competed to bribe porters."Just hold quiet. I think they know exactly who we are. And they know about the ships."As they waited, Hawksworth wondered what he should tell the Shahbandar, and he again puzzled over the words of Karim. Think. What can you tell him that he hasn't already heard? I'll wager he knows full well we were attacked by Portugals in the bay. That we burned and sank two galleons. Will he now hold us responsible for warfare in Indian waters? I'll even wager he knows we were attacked on the river. And who saved us.The large Indian was returning, striding through the center aisle accompanied by four of the Shahbandar's guards. He motioned for Hawksworth to follow, alone.The door of the rear chamber was sheathed in bronze, with heavy ornate hinges and an immense hasp. It seemed to swing open of itself as they approached.And they were in the chamber of the Shahbandar.As he entered, Hawksworth was momentarily blinded by the blaze of oil lamps that lined the walls of the room. Unlike the simple plaster walls and pillars of the outer receiving area, this inner chamber was forbiddingly ornate, with gilded ceilings almost thirty feet high. The room was already bustling with clerks straightening piles of account books and readying themselves for the day's affairs.The room fell silent and a way suddenly cleared through the center, as the Hindu clerks fell back along the walls. They all wore tight, neat headdresses and formal cotton top shirts, and Hawksworth felt a sudden consciousness of his own clothes—muddy boots and powder-smeared jerkin and breeches. For the first time since they arrived he found himself in a room with no other Europeans. The isolation felt sudden and complete.Then he saw the Shahbandar.On a raised dais at the rear of the room, beneath a canopy of gold-embroidered cloth, sat the chief port official of India. He rested stiffly on a four-legged couch strewn with cushions, and he wore a turban of blue silk, narrow- patterned trousers, and an embroidered tan robe that crossed to the right over his plump belly and was secured with a row of what appeared to be rubies. He seemed oblivious to Hawksworth as he cursed and drew on the end of a tube being held to his mouth by an attending clerk. The clerk's other hand worked a burning taper over the open top of a long-necked clay pot. The tube being held to the Shahbandar's mouth was attached to a spout on the side. Suddenly Hawksworth heard a gurgle from the pot and saw the Shahbandar inhale a mouthful of dark smoke."Tobacco is the only thing thetopiwallahsever brought to India that she did not already have. Even then we still had todevise the hookah to smoke it properly." He inhaled appreciatively. "It is forbidden during this month of Ramadan, but no man was made to fast during daylight and also forgo tobacco. The morning sun still rose in the east, and thus it is written the gate of repentance remains open to God's servants."The Shahbandar examined Hawksworth with curiosity. His face recalled hard desert nomad blood, but now it was softened with ease, plump and moustachioed. He wore gold earrings, and he was barefoot."Favor me by coming closer. I must see thisferinghicaptain who brings such turmoil to our waters." He turned and cursed the servant as the hookah continued to gurgle inconclusively. Then a roll of smoke burst through the tube and the Shahbandar's eyes mellowed as he drew it deeply into his lungs. He held the smoke for a moment while he gazed quizzically at Hawksworth, squinting as though the air between them were opaque."They tell me you are English. May I have the pleasure to know your name?""I'm Brian Hawksworth, captain of the frigateDiscovery. May I also have the privilege of an introduction.""I will stand before Allah as Mirza Nuruddin." He again drew deeply on the hookah. "But here I am the Shahbandar." He exhaled a cloud and examined Hawksworth. "Your ship and another were in our bay yesterday. I am told they weighed anchor at nightfall. Do English vessels customarily sail without their captain?""When they have reason to do so." Hawksworth fixed him squarely, wondering if he was really almost blind or if he merely wanted to appear so."And what, Captain . . . Hawksworth, brings you and your contentious warships to our port? It is not often our friends the Portuguese permit their fellow Christians to visit us.""Our ships are traders of England's East India Company.""Do not squander my time telling me what I already know." The Shahbandar suddenly seemed to erupt. "They have never before come to India. Why are you here now?"Hawksworth sensed suddenly that the Shahbandar had been merely toying with him. That he knew full well why they had come and had already decided what to do. He recalled the words of Karim, declaring the Shahbandar had his own private system of spies."We are here for the same reason we have visited the islands. To trade the goods of Europe.""But we already do trade with Europeans. The Portuguese. Who also protect our seas.""Have you found profit in it?""Enough. But it is not your placeto question me, Captain Hawksworth.""Then you may wish to profit through English trade as well.""And your merchants, I assume, also expect to profit here.""That's the normal basis of trade." Hawksworth shifted, easing his leg.The Shahbandar glanced downward, but without removing his lips from the tube of the hookah. "I notice you have a wound, Captain Hawksworth. Yours would seem a perilous profession.""It's sometimes even more perilous for our enemies.""I presume you mean the Portuguese." The Shahbandar cursed the servant anew and called for a new taper to fire the hookah. "But their perils are over. Yours have only begun. Surely you do not expect they will allow you to trade here.""Trade here is a matter between England and India. It does not involve the Portugals."The Shahbandar smiled. "But we have a trade agreement with the Portuguese, afirmansigned by His Majesty, the Moghul of India, allowing them free access to our ports. We have no such agreement with England.""Then we were mistaken. We believed the port of Surat belonged to India, not to the Portugals." Hawksworth felt his palms moisten at the growing game of nerves. "India, you would say, has no ports of her own. No authority to trade with whom she will.""You come to our door with warfare and insolence, Captain Hawksworth. Perhaps I would have been surprised if you had done otherwise." The Shahbandar paused to draw thoughtfully on the smoking mouthpiece. "Why should I expect this? Although you would not ask, let me assume you have. The reputation of English sea dogs is not unknown in the Indies.""And I can easily guess who brought you these libelous reports of England. Perhaps you should examine their motives.""We have received guidance in our judgment from those we have trusted for many years." The Shahbandar waved aside the hookah and fixed Hawksworth with a hard gaze.Hawksworth returned the unblinking stare for a moment while an idea formed in his mind. "I believe it once was written, 'There are those who purchase error at the price of guidance, so their commerce does not prosper. Neither are they guided.'"A sudden hush enveloped the room as the Shahbandar examined Hawksworth with uncharacteristic surprise. For a moment his eyes seemed lost in concentration, then they quickly regained their focus. "The Holy Quran—Surah II, if I have not lost the lessons of my youth." He stopped and smiled in disbelief. "It's impossible atopiwallahshould know the words of the Merciful Prophet, on whom be peace. You are a man of curious parts, English captain." Again he paused. "And you dissemble with all the guile of amullah.""I merely speak the truth.""Then speak the truth to me now, Captain Hawksworth. Is it not true the English are a notorious nation of pirates? That your merchants live off the commerce of others, pillaging where they see fit. Should I not inquire, therefore, whether you intrude into our waters for the same purpose?""England has warred in years past on her rightful enemies. But our wars are over. The East India Company was founded for peaceful trade. And the Company is here for no purpose but to trade peacefully with merchants in Surat." Hawksworth dutifully pressed forward. "Our two merchantmen bring a rich store of English goods—woolens, ironwork, lead . . .""While you war with the Portuguese, in sight of our very shores. Will you next make war on our own merchants? I'm told it is your historic livelihood."As he studied Hawksworth, the Shahbandar found himself reflecting on the previous evening. The sun had set and the Ramadan meal was already underway when Father Manoel Pinheiro, the second-ranked Portuguese Jesuit in India, had appeared at his gates demanding an audience.For two tiresome hours he had endured the Jesuit's pained excuses for Portugal's latest humiliation at sea. And his boasts that the English would never survive a trip upriver. And for the first time Mirza Nuruddin could remember, he had smelled fear.Mirza Nuruddin had sensed no fear in the Portuguese eight years before, when an English captain named Lancaster had attacked and pillaged a Portuguese galleon in the seas off Java. Then the Viceroy of Goa brayed he would know retribution, although nothing was ever done. And a mere five years ago the Viceroy himself led a fleet of twelve warships to Malacca boasting to burn the eleven Dutch merchantmen lading there. And the Dutch sank almost his entire fleet. Now the pirates of Malabar daily harassed Indian shipping the length of the western coast and the Portuguese patrols seemed powerless to control them. In one short decade, he told himself, the Portuguese have shown themselves unable to stop the growing Dutch spice trade in the islands, unable to rid India's coasts of pirates, and now . . . now unable to keep other Europeans from India's own doorstep.He studied Hawksworth again and asked himself why the English had come. And why the two small English vessels had challenged four armed galleons, instead of turning and making for open sea? To trade a cargo of wool? No cargo was worth the risk they had taken. There had to be another reason. And that reason, or whatever lay behind it, terrified the Portuguese. For the first time ever."We defend ourselves when attacked. That's all." Hawksworth found himself wanting to end the questions, to escape the smoky room and the Shahbandar's intense gaze. "That has no bearing on our request to trade in this port.""I will take your request under advisement. In the meantime you and your men will be searched and your goods taxed, in keeping with our law.""You may search the men if you wish. But I am here as representative of the king of England. And as his representative I will not allow my personal chest to be searched, no more than His Majesty, King James of England, would submit to such an indignity." Hawksworth decided to reach for all the authority his ragged appearance would allow."Allferinghi, except ambassadors, must be searched. Do you claim that immunity?""I am an ambassador, and I will be traveling to Agra to represent my king.""Permission forferinghito travel in India must come from the Moghul himself." The Shahbandar's face remained impassive but his mind raced. The stakes of the English game were not wool, he suddenly realized, but India. The English king was challenging Portugal for the trade of India. Their audacity as astonishing. "A request can be sent to Agra by the governor of this province.""Then I must see him to ask that a message be sent to Agra. For now, I demand that my personal effects be released from the customs house. And that no duty be levied on our goods, which are samples and not for sale.""If your goods are not taxed, they will remain in the customs house. That is the law. Because you claim to represent your king, I will forgo my obligation to search your person. All of your men, however, will be searched down to their boots, and any goods or coin they bring through this port will be taxed according to the prevailing rate. Two and one-half percent of value.""Our Chief Merchant wishes to display his samples to your traders.""I have told you I will consider your request for trade.There are many considerations." He signaled for the hookah to be lighted again. The interview seemed to be ended.Hawksworth bowed with what formality he could muster and turned toward the counting-room door."Captain Hawksworth. You will not be returning to your men. I have made other arrangements for your lodging."Hawksworth revolved to see four porters waiting by an open door at the Shahbandar's left.I must be tired. I hadn't noticed the door until now.Then he realized it had been concealed in the decorations on the wall. When he did not move, the porters surrounded him.No, they're not porters. They're the guards who held back the crowds from the steps. And they're armed now."I think you will find your lodgings suitable." The Shahbandar watched Hawksworth's body tense. "My men will escort you. Your chest will remain here under my care."The Shahbandar returned again to his gurgling hookah."My chest will not be subject to search. If it is to be searched, I will return now to my ship." Hawksworth still did not move. "Your officials will respect my king, and his honor.""It is in my care." The Shahbandar waved Hawksworth toward the door. He did not look up from his pipe.As Hawksworth passed into the midday sunshine, he saw the Shahbandar's own palanquin waiting by the door. Directly ahead spread the city's teeming horse and cattle bazaar, while on his right, under a dense banyan tree, a dark-eyed beggar sat on a pallet, clothed only in a white loincloth and wearing ashes in his braided hair and curious white and red marks on his forehead. His eyes were burning and intense, and he inspected the newferinghias though he'd just seen the person of the devil.Why should I travel hidden from view, Hawksworth puzzled?But there was no time to ponder an answer. The cloth covering was lifted and he found himself urged into the cramped conveyance, made even more comfortless and hot by its heavy carpet lining and bolster seat. In moments the street had disappeared into jolting darkness.CHAPTER SIXHe felt the palanquin drop roughly onto a hard surface, and when the curtains were pulled aside he looked down to see the stone mosaic of a garden courtyard. They had traveled uphill at least part of the time, with what seemed many unnecessary turns and windings, and now they were hidden from the streets by the high walls of a garden enclosure. Tall slender palms lined the inside of the garden's white plaster wall, and denser trees shaded a central two-story building, decorated around its entry with raised Arabic lettering in ornate plasterwork. The guards motioned him through the large wooden portico of the house, which he began to suspect might be the residence of a wealthy merchant. After a long hallway, they entered a spacious room with clean white walls and a thick center carpet over a floor of patterned marble inlay. Large pillows lay strewn about the carpet, and the air hung heavy with the stale scent of spice.It's the house of a rich merchant or official, all right. What else can it be? The decorated panels on the doors and the large brass knobs all indicate wealth. But what's the room for? For guests? No. It's too empty. There's almost no furniture. No bed. No . . .Then suddenly he understood. A banquet room.He realized he had never seen a more sumptuous private dining hall, even among the aristocracy in London. The guards closed the heavy wooden doors, but there was no sound of their footsteps retreating.Who are they protecting me from?A servant, with skin the color of ebony and a white turban that seemed to enclose a large part of his braided and folded-up beard, pushed open an interior door to deposit a silver tray. More fried bread and a bowl of curds."Where am I? Whose house . . . ?"The man bowed, made hand signs pleading incomprehension, and retreated without a word.As Hawksworth started to reach for a piece of the bread, the outer door opened, and one of the guards stepped briskly to the tray and stopped his hand. He said nothing, merely signaled to wait. Moments later another guard also entered, and with him was a woman. She was unveiled, with dark skin and heavy gold bangles about her ankles. She stared at Hawksworth with frightened eyes. Brisk words passed in an alien language, and then the woman pointed to Hawksworth and raised her voice as she replied to the guard. He said nothing, but simply lifted a long, sheathed knife from his waist and pointed it toward the tray, his gesture signifying all. After a moment's pause, the woman edged forward and gingerly sampled the curds with her fingers, first sniffing and then reluctantly tasting. More words passed, after which the guards bowed to Hawksworth almost imperceptibly and escorted the woman from the room, closing the door.Hawksworth watched in dismay and then turned again to examine the dishes.If they're that worried, food can wait. Who was she? Probably a slave. Of the Shahbandar?He removed his boots, tossed them in the corner, and eased himself onto the bolsters piled at one end of the central carpet. The wound in his leg had become a dull ache.Jesus help me, I'm tired. What does the Shahbandar really want? Why was Karim so fearful of him? And what's the role of the governor in all this? Will all these requests and permissions and permits end up delaying us so long the Portugals will find our anchorage? And what will the governor want out of me?He tried to focus his mind on the governor, on a figure he sculpted in his imagination. A fat, repugnant, pompous bureaucrat. But the figure slowly began to transform, and in time it became the Turk who had imprisoned him in Tunis, with a braided fez and a jeweled dagger at his waist. The fat Turk was not listening, he was issuing a decree. You will stay. Only then will I have what I want. What I must have. Next a veiled woman entered the room, and her eyes were like Maggie's. She seized his hand and guided him toward the women's apartments, past the frowning guards, who raised large scimitars in interdiction until she waved them aside. Then she led him to the center of a brilliantly lighted room, until they stood before a large stone pillar, a pillar like the one in the porters' lodge except it was immense, taller than his head. You belong to me now, her eyes seemed to say, and she began to bind him to the pillar with silken cords. He struggled to free himself, but the grasp on his wrists only became stronger. In panic he struck out and yelled through the haze of incense."Let . . . !""I'm only trying to wake you, Captain." A voice cut through the nightmare. "His Eminence, the Shahbandar, has requested that I attend your wound."Hawksworth startled awake and was reaching for his sword before he saw the swarthy little man, incongruous in a white swath of a skirt and a Portuguese doublet, nervously shaking his arm. The man pulled back in momentary surprise, then dropped his cloth medicine bag on the floor and began to carefully fold a large red umbrella. Hawksworth noted he wore no shoes on his dusty feet."Allow me to introduce myself." He bowed ceremoniously. "My name is Mukarjee. It is my honor to attend the celebrated newferinghi." His Turki was halting and strongly accented.He knelt and deftly cut away the wrapping on Hawksworth's leg. "And who applied this?" With transparent disdain he began uncoiling the muddy bandage. "The Christiantopiwallahsconstantly astound me. Even though my daughter is married to one." One eyebrow twitched nervously as he worked.Hawksworth stared at him through a groggy haze, marveling at the dexterity of his chestnut-brown hands. Then he glanced nervously at the vials of colored liquid and jars of paste the man was methodically extracting from his cloth bag."It was our ship's physician. He swathed this after attending a dozen men with like wounds or worse.""No explanations are necessary.Feringhimethods are always unmistakable. In Goa, where I lived for many years after leaving Bengal, I once served in a hospital built by Christian priests.""You worked in a Jesuit hospital?""I did indeed." He began to scrape away the oily powder residue from the wound. Hawksworth's leg jerked involuntarily from the flash of pain. "Please do not move. Yes, I served there until I could abide it no more. It was a very exclusive hospital. Onlyferinghiwere allowed to go there to be bled."He began to wash the wound, superficial but already festering, with a solution from one of the vials. "Yes, we Indians were denied that almost certain entry into Christian paradise represented by its portals. But it was usually the first stop for arriving Portuguese, after the brothels.""But why do so many Portuguese sicken after they reach Goa?" Hawksworth watched Mukarjee begin to knead a paste that smelled strongly of sandalwood spice."It's well that you ask, Captain Hawksworth." Mukarjee tested the consistency of the sandalwood paste with his finger and then placed it aside, apparently to thicken. "You appear to be a strong man, but after many months at sea you may not be as virile as you assume."He absently extracted a large, dark green leaf from the pocket of his doublet and dabbed it in a paste he kept in a crumpled paper. Then he rolled it around the cracked pieces of a small brown nut, popped it into his mouth, and began to chew. Suddenly remembering himself, he stopped and produced another leaf from his pocket."Would you care to try betel, what they call pan here in Surat? It's very healthy for the teeth. And the digestion.""What is it?""A delicious leaf. I find I cannot live without it, so perhaps it's a true addiction. It's slightly bitter by itself, but if you roll it around an areca nut and dip it in a bit of lime—which we make from mollusk shells—it is perfectly exquisite."Hawksworth shook his head in wary dissent, whereupon Mukarjee continued, settling himself on his haunches and sucking contentedly on the rolled leaf as he spoke. "You ask why I question your well-being, Captain? Because a large number of theferinghiswho come to Goa, and India, are doomed to die.""You already said that. From what? Poison in their food?"Mukarjee examined him quizzically for a moment as he concentrated on the rolled leaf, savoring the taste, and Hawksworth noticed a red trickle emerge from the corner of his mouth and slide slowly off his chin. He turned and discharged a mouthful of juice into a small brass container, clearing his mouth to speak."The most common illness for Europeans here is called the bloody flux." Mukarjee tested the paste again with his finger, and then began to stir it vigorously with a wooden spatula. "For four or five days the body burns with intense heat, and then either it is gone or you are dead.""Are there no medicines?" Hawksworth watched as he began to spread the paste over the wound."Of course there are medicines." Mukarjee chuckled resignedly. "But the Portuguese scorn to use them.""Probably wisely," Hawksworth reflected. "It's said the flux is caused by an excess of humors in the blood. Bleeding is the only real remedy.""I see." Mukarjee began to apply the paste and then to bind Hawksworth's leg with a swath of white cloth. "Yes, my friend, that is what the Portuguese do—you must hold still—and I have personally observed how effective it is in terminating illness.""The damned Jesuits are the best physicians in Europe.""So I have often been told. Most frequently at funerals." Mukarjee quickly tied a knot in the binding and spat another mouthful of red juice. "Your wound is really nothing more than a scratch. But you would have been dead in a fortnight. By this, if not by exertion.""What do you mean?" Hawksworth rose and tested his leg, amazed that the pain seemed to have vanished."The greatest scourge of all for newly arrived Europeanshere seems to be our women. It is inevitable, and my greatest source of amusement." He spat the exhausted betel leaf toward the corner of the room and paused dramatically while he prepared another."Explain what you mean about the women.""Let me give you an example from Goa." Mukarjee squatted again. "The Portuguese soldiers arriving from Lisbon each year tumble from their ships more dead than alive, weak from months at sea and the inevitable scurvy. They are in need of proper food, but they pay no attention to this, for they are even more starved for the company of women. . . . By the way, how is your wound?" Mukarjee made no attempt to suppress a smile at Hawksworth's astonished testing of his leg."The pain seems to be gone." He tried squatted in Indian style, like Mukarjee, and found that this posture, too, brought no discomfort."Well, these scurvy-weakened soldiers immediately avail themselves of Goa's many well-staffed brothels—which, I note, Christians seem to frequent with greater devotion than their fine churches. What uneven test of skill and vigor transpires I would not speculate, but many of theseferinghissoon find the only beds suited for them are in the Jesuit's Kings Hospital, where few ever leave. I watched some five hundred Portuguese a year tread this path of folly." Mukarjee's lips were now the hue of the rose."And what happens to those who do live?""They eventually wed one of our women, or one of their own, and embrace the life of sensuality that marks the Portuguese in Goa. With twenty, sometimes even thirty slaves to supply their wants and pleasure. And after a time they develop stones in the kidney, or gout, or some other affliction of excess.""What do their wives die of? The same thing?""Some, yes, but I have also seen many charged with adultery by their fat Portuguese husbands—a suspicion rarely without grounds, for they really have nothing more to do on hot afternoons than chew betel and intrigue with the lusty young soldiers—and executed. The women are said to deem it an honorable martyrdom, vowing they die for love."Mukarjee rose and began meticulously replacing the vials in his cloth bag. "I may be allowed to visit you again if you wish, but I think there's no need. Only forgo the company of our women for a time, my friend. Practice prudence before pleasure."A shaft of light from the hallway cut across the room, as the door opened without warning. A guard stood in the passageway, wearing a uniform Hawksworth had not seen before."I must be leaving now." Mukarjee's voice rose to public volume as he nervously scooped up his umbrella and his bag, without pausing to secure the knot at its top. Then he bent toward Hawksworth with a quick whisper. "Captain, the Shahbandar has sent his Rajputs. You must take care."
Mackintosh began to bark commands for reloading.
"Half-cock your muskets. Wipe your pans. Handle your primers. Cast about to charge . . ."
But time had run out. Two more longboats bracketed each side of the bow. And now Portuguese were piling aboard.
"Damn the muskets," Hawksworth yelled. "Take your swords."
The night air came alive with the sound of steel against steel, while each side taunted the other with unintelligible obscenities. The English were outnumbered many to one, and slowly they found themselves being driven to the stern of the pinnace. Still more Portuguese poured aboard now, as the pinnace groaned against the sand.
Hawksworth kept to the front of his men, matching the poorly trained Portuguese infantry easily. Thank God there's no more foot room, he thought, we can almost stand them man for man . . .
At that moment two Portuguese pinned Hawksworth's sword against the mast, allowing a third to gain footing and lunge. As Hawksworth swerved to avoid the thrust, his foot crashed through the thin planking covering the keel, bringing him down. Mackintosh yelled a warning and leaped forward, slashing the first soldier through the waist and sending him to the bottom of the pinnace, moaning. Then the quartermaster seized the other man by the throat and, lunging like a bull, whipped him against the mast, snapping his neck.
Hawksworth groped blindly for his sword and watched as the third soldier poised for a mortal sweep. Where is it?
Good God, he'll cut me in half.
Suddenly he felt a cold metal object pressed against his hand, and above the din he caught Humphrey Spencer's high-pitched voice, urging. It was a pocket pistol.
Did he prime it? Does he know how?
As the Portuguese soldier began his swing, Hawksworth raised the pistol and squeezed. There was a dull snap, a hiss, and then a blaze that melted the soldier's face into red.
He flung the pistol aside and seized the dying Portuguese's sword. He was armed again, but there was little advantage left. Slowly the English were crowded into a huddle of the stern. Cornered, abaft the mast, they no longer had room to parry. Hawksworth watched in horror as a burly Portuguese, his silver helmet askew, braced himself against the mast and drew back his sword to send a swath through the English. Hawksworth tried to set a parry, but his arms were pinned.
He'll kill half the men. The bastard will . . .
A bemused expression unexpectedly illuminated the soldier's face, a smile with no mirth. In an instant it transmuted to disbelief, while his raised sword clattered to the planking. As Hawksworth watched, the Portuguese's hand began to work mechanically at his chest. Then his helmet tumbled away, and he slumped forward, motionless but still erect. He stood limp, head cocked sideways, as though distracted during prayer.
Why doesn't he move? Was this all some bizarre, senseless jest?
Then Hawksworth saw the arrows. A neat row of thin bamboo shafts had pierced the soldier's Portuguese armor, riveting him to the mast.
A low-pitched hum swallowed the sudden silence, as volleys of bamboo arrows sang from the darkness of the shore. Measured, deadly. Hawksworth watched in disbelief as one by one the Portuguese soldiers around them crumpled, a few firing wildly into the night. In what seemed only moments it was over, the air a cacophony of screams and moaning death.
Hawksworth turned to Karim, noting fright in the pilot's eyes for the very first time.
"The arrows." He finally found his voice. "Whose are they?"
"I can probably tell you." The pilot stepped forward and deftly broke away the feathered tip on one of the shafts still holding the Portuguese to the mast. As he did so, the other arrows snapped and the Portuguese slumped against the gunwale, then slipped over the side and into the dark water. Karim watched him disappear, then raised the arrow to the moonlight. For an instant Hawksworth thought he saw a quizzical look enter the pilot's eyes.
Before he could speak, lines of fire shot across the surface of the water, as fire arrows came, slamming into the longboats as they drifted away on the tide. Streak after streak found the hulls and in moments they were torches. In the flickering light, Hawksworth could make out what seemed to be grapples, flashing from the shore, pulling the floating bodies of the dead and dying to anonymity. He watched spellbound for a moment, then turned again toward the stern.
"Karim, I asked whose arrows . . ."
The pilot was gone. Only the English seamen remained, dazed and uncomprehending.
Then the night fell suddenly silent once more, save for the slap of the running tide against the hull.
BOOK TWO
SURAT— THE THRESHOLD
The room was musty and close, as though the rainy season had not passed, and the floor was hard mud. Through crude wooden shutters they could glimpse the early sun stoking anew for the day's inferno, but now it merely washed the earthen walls in stripes of golden light.
Hawksworth stood by the window examining the grassy square that spanned out toward the river. The porters, in whose lodge they were confined, milled about the open area, chanting and sweating as they unloaded large bales of cotton from the two-wheeled bullock carts that continually rolled into the square. He steadied himself against the heavy wooden frame of the window and wondered if his land legs would return before the day was out.
"God curse all Moors." Mackintosh stooped over the tray resting on the grease-smudged center carpet and pulled a lid from one of the earthen bowls. He stared critically at the dense, milky liquid inside, then gingerly dipped in a finger and took a portion to his lips. He tested the substance—tangy curds smelling faintly of spice—and his face hardened.
"Tis damned spoilt milk." He spat fiercely onto the carpet and seized a piece of fried bread to purge the taste. "Fitter for swine than men."
"What'd they do with the samples?" Elkington sprawled heavily in the corner, his eyes bloodshot from the all-night vigil upriver. "With no guards the heathens'll be thievin' the lot." He squinted toward the window, but made no effort to move. His exhaustion and despair were total.
"The goods are still where they unloaded them." Hawksworth revolved toward the room. "They say nothing happens till the Shahbandar arrives."
"What'd they say about him?" Elkington slowly drew himself to his feet.
"They said he arrives at mid morning, verifies his seal on the customs house door, and then orders it opened. They also said that all traders must be searched personally by his officers. He imposes duty on everything, right down to the shillings in your pocket."
"Damn'd if I'll pay duty. Not for samples."
"That's what I said. And they ignored me. It seems to be law." Hawksworth noticed that the gold was dissolving from the dawn sky, surrendering to a brilliant azure. He turned, scooped a portion of curds onto a piece of fried bread, and silently chewed as he puzzled over the morning. And the night before.
Who had saved them? And why? Did someone in India hate the Portuguese so much they would defend the English before even knowing who they were? No one in India could know about King James's letter, about the East India Company's plans. No one. Even George Elkington did not know everything. Yet someone in India already wanted the English alive. He had wrestled with the question for the rest of the trip upriver, and he could think of no answers. They had been saved for a reason, a reason he did not know, and that worried him even more than the Portuguese.
Without a pilot they had had to probe upriver slowly, sounding for sandbars with an oar. Finally, when they were near exhaustion, the river suddenly curved and widened. Then, in the first dim light of morning, they caught the unmistakable outlines of a harbor. It had to be Surat. The river lay north-south now, with the main city sprawled along its eastern shore. The tide began to fall back, depleted, and he realized they had timed its flow perfectly.
As they waited for dawn, the port slowly revealed itself in the eastern glow. Long stone steps emerged directly from the Tapti River and broadened into a wide, airy square flanked on three sides by massive stone buildings. The structure on the downriver side was obviously a fortress, built square with a large turret at each corner, and along the top of walls Hawksworth could see the muzzles of cannon—they looked to be eight-inchers—trained directly on the water. And in the waning dark he spotted tiny points of light, spaced regularly along the top of the fortress walls. That could only mean one thing.
"Mackintosh, ship the oars and drop anchor. We can't dock until daylight."
"Aye, Cap'n, but why not take her in now? We can see to make a landin'."
"And they can see us well enough to position their cannon. Look carefully along there." Hawksworth directed his gaze toward the top of the fortress. "They've lighted linstocks for the guns."
"Mother of God! Do they think we're goin' to storm their bleedin' harbor with a pinnace?"
"Probably a standard precaution. But if we hold here, at least we'll keep at the edge of their range. And we'd better put all weapons out of sight. I want them to see a pinnace of friendly traders at sunup."
The dawn opened quickly, and as they watched, the square blossomed to life. Large two-wheeled carts appeared through the half-dark, drawn by muscular black oxen, some of whose horns had been tipped in silver. One by one the oxen lumbered into the square, urged forward by the shouts and beatings of turbaned drivers who wore folded white skirts instead of breeches. Small fires were kindled by some of the men, and the unmistakable scent of glowing dung chips savored the dark clouds of smoke that drifted out across the river's surface.
Then Hawksworth first noticed the bathers that had appeared along the shore on either side of the stone steps: brown men stripped to loincloths and women in brilliantly colored head-to-toe wraps were easing themselves ceremoniously into the chilled, mud-colored water, some bowing repeatedly in the direction of the rising sun. Only the waters fronting the stairway remained unobstructed.
When the dawn sky had lightened to a muted red, Hawksworth decided to start their move. He surveyed the men crowded in the pinnace one last time, and read in some faces expectation and in others fear. But in all there was bone-deep fatigue. Only Elkington seemed fully absorbed in the vision that lay before them.
Even from their distance the Chief Merchant was already assessing the goods being unloaded from the carts: rolls of brown cloth, bundles of indigo, and bales of combed cotton fiber. He would point, then turn and gesture excitedly as he lectured Spencer.
The young clerk was now a bedraggled remnant of fashion in the powder-smudged remains of his new doublet. The plumed hat he had worn as they cast off had been lost in the attack downriver, and now he crouched in the bottom of the pinnace, humiliated and morose, his eyes vacant.
"Mackintosh, weigh anchor. We'll row to the steps. Slowly."
The men bobbed alert as they hoisted the chain into the prow of the pinnace. Oars were slipped noisily into their rowlocks and Mackintosh signaled to get underway.
As they approached the stairway, alarmed cries suddenly arose from the sentinels stationed on stone platforms flanking either side of the steps. In moments a crowd collected along the river, with turbaned men shouting in a language Hawksworth could not place and gesturing the pinnace away from the dock. What could they want, he asked himself? Who are they? They're not armed. They don't look hostile. Just upset.
"Permission to land." Hawksworth shouted to them in Turkish, his voice slicing through the din and throwing a sudden silence over the crowd.
"The customs house does not open until two hours before midday," a tall, bearded man shouted back. Then he squinted toward the pinnace. "Who are you? Portuguese?"
"No, we're English." So that's it, Hawksworth thought. They assumed we were Portugals with a boatload of booty. Here for a bit of private trade.
The man examined the pinnace in confusion. Then he shouted again over the waters.
"You are not Portuguese?"
"I told you we're English."
"Only Portuguesetopiwallahsare allowed to trade." The man was now scrutinizing the pinnace in open perplexity.
"We've no goods for trade. Only samples." Hawksworth tried to think of a way to confound the bureaucratic mind. "We only want food and drink."
"You cannot land at this hour."
"In name of Allah, the Merciful." Hawksworth stretched for his final ploy, invocation of that hospitality underlying all Islamic life. Demands can be ignored. A traveler's need, never. "Food and drink for my men."
Miraculously, it seemed to work. The bearded man stopped short and examined them again closely. Then he turned and dictated rapidly to the group of waiting porters. In moments the men had plunged into the chilled morning water, calling for the mooring line of the pinnace. As they towed the pinnace into the shallows near the steps, other porters swarmed about the boat and gestured to indicate the English should climb over the gunwales and be carried ashore.
They caught hold of George Elkington first. He clung futilely to the gunwales as he was dragged cursing from the bobbing pinnace and hoisted on the backs of two small Indian men. Arms flailing, he toppled himself from their grasp and splashed backward into the muddy Tapti. After he floated to the surface, sputtering, he was dragged bodily from the water and up the steps. Then the others were carried ashore, and only Mackintosh tried to protest.
The last to leave the pinnace, Hawksworth hoisted himself off the prow and onto the back of a wiry Indian whose thin limbs belied their strength. The man's turban smelled faintly of sweat, but his well-worn shirt was spotless. His dark eyes assessed Hawksworth with a practiced sidelong glance, evaluating his attire, his importance, and the approximate cash value of his sword in a single sweep.
Only after the porters had deposited them on the stone steps did Hawksworth finally realize that India's best port had no wharf, that human backs served as the loading platform for all men and goods. As he looked around, he also noticed they had been surrounded by a crowd of men, not identified by turbans as were the porters but uniformed more expensively and wielding long, heavy canes. Wordlessly, automatically, the men aligned themselves in two rows to create a protected pathway leading up the steps and into the square. Hawksworth watched as they beat back the gathering crowd of onlookers with their canes, and he suddenly understood this was how the port prevented traders from passing valuables to an accomplice in the crowd and circumventing customs.
Then the tall bearded man approached Hawksworth, smiled professionally, and bowed in the manner of Karim, hands together at the brow. "You are welcome in the name of the Shahbandar, as a guest only, not as a trader."
Without further greeting he directed them across the open square toward a small stone building. "You will wait in the porters' lodge until the customs house opens." As he ordered the heavy wooden door opened, he curtly added, "The Shahbandar will rule whether your presence here is permitted."
He had watched them enter, and then he was gone. Shortly after, the food had appeared.
Hawksworth examined the room once more, its close air still damp with the chill of dawn. The walls were squared, and the ceiling high and arched. In a back corner a niche had been created, and in it rested a small round stone pillar, presumably a religious object but one Hawksworth did not recognize. Who would venerate a column of stone, he mused, particularly one which seems almost like a man's organ? It can't be the Muslims. They worship their own organs like no other race, but they generally honor their law against icons. So it must be for the gentiles, the Hindus. Which means that the porters are Hindus and their overseers Moors. That's the privilege of conquerors. Just like every other land the Moors have seized by the sword.
He glanced again at the tray and noted that the food had been completely devoured, consumed by ravenous seamen who would have scorned to touch milk curds six months before. After a moment's consideration, Hawksworth turned and seated himself on the edge of the carpet. There's nothing to be done. We may as well rest while we have the chance.
George Elkington had rolled himself in a corner of the
carpet and now he dozed fitfully. Humphrey Spencer fought sleep as he worked vainly to brush away the powder smudges from his doublet. Mackintosh had finished whetting his seaman's knife and now sat absorbed in searching his hair for lice. Bosun's mate John Garway lounged against a side wall, idly scratching his codpiece and dreaming of the women he would soon have, his toothless smile fixed in sleepy anticipation. The master's mate, Thomas Davies, dozed in a heap by the door, his narrow face depleted and aged with scurvy. In a back corner dice and a pile of coins had miraculously appeared, and the other seamen sprawled about them on the floor, bloodshot eyes focused on the chance numbers that would spell the longest splurge in port. Hawksworth stretched his wounded leg once more, leaned stiffly against the front wall, and forced his mind to drift again into needed rest.
Hawksworth was suddenly alert, his senses troubled. The sun had reached midmorning now, and it washed the mud floor in brilliant yellow light. He sensed that a heavy shadow had passed through its beam. He had not specifically seen it, but somehow, intuitively, he knew. Without a word he edged to the side of the heavy wooden door, his hand close to his sword handle. All the others except Mackintosh were by now asleep. Only the quartermaster had noticed it. He quickly moved to the side of the door opposite Hawksworth and casually drew his heavy, bone-handled knife.
Without warning the door swung outward.
Facing them was the same bearded man who had invited them ashore. The square behind him was bright now with the glare of late morning, and in the light Hawksworth realized he was wearing an immaculate white turban, a long blue skirt over tightly fitting white breeches, and ornate leather shoes, turned up at the toe in a curved point. This time, however, he no longer bore welcome.
"Where have you anchored your ships?" The Turki was accented and abrupt.
News travels fast, Hawksworth thought, as he tried to shove the haze from his mind. "Where is the Shahbandar?"
"Your merchantmen were not in the bay this morning. Where are they now?" The man seemed to ignore Hawksworth's question.
"I demand to see the Shahbandar. And I'll answer no questions till I do."
"You do not demand of the Shahbandar." The man's black beard worked nervously, even when he paused. "You and all your men are to be brought to the customs house, together with your goods."
"Where is he now?"
"He is here."
"Where?"
The Indian turned and gestured quickly across the maidan, the square, toward the large windowless stone building that sat on the water's edge opposite the fortress. Hawksworth looked at the cluster of armed guards and realized this must be the mint. This was the building, he now remembered Karim telling him, where foreign money was "exchanged." All foreign coins, even Spanish rials of eight, were required to be melted down and reminted into rupees before they could be used for purchase. Supposedly a protection against counterfeit or base coin, this requirement produced months of delay. The Shahbandar gave only one alternative to traders in a hurry: borrow ready-made rupees at exorbitant interest.
"After he has authorized the beginning of today's work at the mint, he will verify the seal on the door of the customs house"—he pointed to the squat building adjoining their lodge—"and open it for today. All goods must be taxed and receive hischappor seal before they can enter or leave India."
The men had begun to stir, and Hawksworth turned to translate. The English assembled warily, and the air came alive with an almost palpable apprehension as Hawksworth led them into the bustling square.
"We must wait." The tall Indian suddenly paused near the center of the maidan, just as a group of guards emerged from the mint. Each wore a heavy sword, and they were escorting a large closed palanquin carried on the shoulders of four bearers dressed only in white skirts folded about their waist. The guards cleared a path through the crowd of merchants, and made their way slowly to the door of the customs house. The crowd surged in behind them, blocking the view, but moments later the tall doors of the customs house were seen to swing open, and the crowd funneled in, behind the palanquin and the guards. Then the Indian motioned for them to follow.
The interior of the customs house smelled of sweat, mingled with spice and the dusty fragrance of indigo. As oil lamps were lighted and attached to the side walls, the milling crowd grew visible. Through the semi-dark porters were already bearing the English goods in from themaidanand piling them in one of the allotted stalls.
The tall guide turned to Hawksworth. "You and all your men must now be searched, here in the counting room."
"I'll not allow it." Hawksworth motioned the English back. "I told you I demand to see the Shahbandar."
"He'll receive you when he will. He has not granted an audience."
"Then we'll not be searched. Tell him that. Now."
The Indian paused for a moment, then reluctantly turned and made his way toward a door at the rear of the large room. Elkington pressed forward, his face strained.
"Tell the bleedin' heathen we're English. We'll not be treated like this rabble." He motioned around the room, a bedlam of Arab, Persian, and Indian traders who eyed the English warily as they shouted for the attention of customs inspectors and competed to bribe porters.
"Just hold quiet. I think they know exactly who we are. And they know about the ships."
As they waited, Hawksworth wondered what he should tell the Shahbandar, and he again puzzled over the words of Karim. Think. What can you tell him that he hasn't already heard? I'll wager he knows full well we were attacked by Portugals in the bay. That we burned and sank two galleons. Will he now hold us responsible for warfare in Indian waters? I'll even wager he knows we were attacked on the river. And who saved us.
The large Indian was returning, striding through the center aisle accompanied by four of the Shahbandar's guards. He motioned for Hawksworth to follow, alone.
The door of the rear chamber was sheathed in bronze, with heavy ornate hinges and an immense hasp. It seemed to swing open of itself as they approached.
And they were in the chamber of the Shahbandar.
As he entered, Hawksworth was momentarily blinded by the blaze of oil lamps that lined the walls of the room. Unlike the simple plaster walls and pillars of the outer receiving area, this inner chamber was forbiddingly ornate, with gilded ceilings almost thirty feet high. The room was already bustling with clerks straightening piles of account books and readying themselves for the day's affairs.
The room fell silent and a way suddenly cleared through the center, as the Hindu clerks fell back along the walls. They all wore tight, neat headdresses and formal cotton top shirts, and Hawksworth felt a sudden consciousness of his own clothes—muddy boots and powder-smeared jerkin and breeches. For the first time since they arrived he found himself in a room with no other Europeans. The isolation felt sudden and complete.
Then he saw the Shahbandar.
On a raised dais at the rear of the room, beneath a canopy of gold-embroidered cloth, sat the chief port official of India. He rested stiffly on a four-legged couch strewn with cushions, and he wore a turban of blue silk, narrow- patterned trousers, and an embroidered tan robe that crossed to the right over his plump belly and was secured with a row of what appeared to be rubies. He seemed oblivious to Hawksworth as he cursed and drew on the end of a tube being held to his mouth by an attending clerk. The clerk's other hand worked a burning taper over the open top of a long-necked clay pot. The tube being held to the Shahbandar's mouth was attached to a spout on the side. Suddenly Hawksworth heard a gurgle from the pot and saw the Shahbandar inhale a mouthful of dark smoke.
"Tobacco is the only thing thetopiwallahsever brought to India that she did not already have. Even then we still had to
devise the hookah to smoke it properly." He inhaled appreciatively. "It is forbidden during this month of Ramadan, but no man was made to fast during daylight and also forgo tobacco. The morning sun still rose in the east, and thus it is written the gate of repentance remains open to God's servants."
The Shahbandar examined Hawksworth with curiosity. His face recalled hard desert nomad blood, but now it was softened with ease, plump and moustachioed. He wore gold earrings, and he was barefoot.
"Favor me by coming closer. I must see thisferinghicaptain who brings such turmoil to our waters." He turned and cursed the servant as the hookah continued to gurgle inconclusively. Then a roll of smoke burst through the tube and the Shahbandar's eyes mellowed as he drew it deeply into his lungs. He held the smoke for a moment while he gazed quizzically at Hawksworth, squinting as though the air between them were opaque.
"They tell me you are English. May I have the pleasure to know your name?"
"I'm Brian Hawksworth, captain of the frigateDiscovery. May I also have the privilege of an introduction."
"I will stand before Allah as Mirza Nuruddin." He again drew deeply on the hookah. "But here I am the Shahbandar." He exhaled a cloud and examined Hawksworth. "Your ship and another were in our bay yesterday. I am told they weighed anchor at nightfall. Do English vessels customarily sail without their captain?"
"When they have reason to do so." Hawksworth fixed him squarely, wondering if he was really almost blind or if he merely wanted to appear so.
"And what, Captain . . . Hawksworth, brings you and your contentious warships to our port? It is not often our friends the Portuguese permit their fellow Christians to visit us."
"Our ships are traders of England's East India Company."
"Do not squander my time telling me what I already know." The Shahbandar suddenly seemed to erupt. "They have never before come to India. Why are you here now?"
Hawksworth sensed suddenly that the Shahbandar had been merely toying with him. That he knew full well why they had come and had already decided what to do. He recalled the words of Karim, declaring the Shahbandar had his own private system of spies.
"We are here for the same reason we have visited the islands. To trade the goods of Europe."
"But we already do trade with Europeans. The Portuguese. Who also protect our seas."
"Have you found profit in it?"
"Enough. But it is not your placeto question me, Captain Hawksworth."
"Then you may wish to profit through English trade as well."
"And your merchants, I assume, also expect to profit here."
"That's the normal basis of trade." Hawksworth shifted, easing his leg.
The Shahbandar glanced downward, but without removing his lips from the tube of the hookah. "I notice you have a wound, Captain Hawksworth. Yours would seem a perilous profession."
"It's sometimes even more perilous for our enemies."
"I presume you mean the Portuguese." The Shahbandar cursed the servant anew and called for a new taper to fire the hookah. "But their perils are over. Yours have only begun. Surely you do not expect they will allow you to trade here."
"Trade here is a matter between England and India. It does not involve the Portugals."
The Shahbandar smiled. "But we have a trade agreement with the Portuguese, afirmansigned by His Majesty, the Moghul of India, allowing them free access to our ports. We have no such agreement with England."
"Then we were mistaken. We believed the port of Surat belonged to India, not to the Portugals." Hawksworth felt his palms moisten at the growing game of nerves. "India, you would say, has no ports of her own. No authority to trade with whom she will."
"You come to our door with warfare and insolence, Captain Hawksworth. Perhaps I would have been surprised if you had done otherwise." The Shahbandar paused to draw thoughtfully on the smoking mouthpiece. "Why should I expect this? Although you would not ask, let me assume you have. The reputation of English sea dogs is not unknown in the Indies."
"And I can easily guess who brought you these libelous reports of England. Perhaps you should examine their motives."
"We have received guidance in our judgment from those we have trusted for many years." The Shahbandar waved aside the hookah and fixed Hawksworth with a hard gaze.
Hawksworth returned the unblinking stare for a moment while an idea formed in his mind. "I believe it once was written, 'There are those who purchase error at the price of guidance, so their commerce does not prosper. Neither are they guided.'"
A sudden hush enveloped the room as the Shahbandar examined Hawksworth with uncharacteristic surprise. For a moment his eyes seemed lost in concentration, then they quickly regained their focus. "The Holy Quran—Surah II, if I have not lost the lessons of my youth." He stopped and smiled in disbelief. "It's impossible atopiwallahshould know the words of the Merciful Prophet, on whom be peace. You are a man of curious parts, English captain." Again he paused. "And you dissemble with all the guile of amullah."
"I merely speak the truth."
"Then speak the truth to me now, Captain Hawksworth. Is it not true the English are a notorious nation of pirates? That your merchants live off the commerce of others, pillaging where they see fit. Should I not inquire, therefore, whether you intrude into our waters for the same purpose?"
"England has warred in years past on her rightful enemies. But our wars are over. The East India Company was founded for peaceful trade. And the Company is here for no purpose but to trade peacefully with merchants in Surat." Hawksworth dutifully pressed forward. "Our two merchantmen bring a rich store of English goods—woolens, ironwork, lead . . ."
"While you war with the Portuguese, in sight of our very shores. Will you next make war on our own merchants? I'm told it is your historic livelihood."
As he studied Hawksworth, the Shahbandar found himself reflecting on the previous evening. The sun had set and the Ramadan meal was already underway when Father Manoel Pinheiro, the second-ranked Portuguese Jesuit in India, had appeared at his gates demanding an audience.
For two tiresome hours he had endured the Jesuit's pained excuses for Portugal's latest humiliation at sea. And his boasts that the English would never survive a trip upriver. And for the first time Mirza Nuruddin could remember, he had smelled fear.
Mirza Nuruddin had sensed no fear in the Portuguese eight years before, when an English captain named Lancaster had attacked and pillaged a Portuguese galleon in the seas off Java. Then the Viceroy of Goa brayed he would know retribution, although nothing was ever done. And a mere five years ago the Viceroy himself led a fleet of twelve warships to Malacca boasting to burn the eleven Dutch merchantmen lading there. And the Dutch sank almost his entire fleet. Now the pirates of Malabar daily harassed Indian shipping the length of the western coast and the Portuguese patrols seemed powerless to control them. In one short decade, he told himself, the Portuguese have shown themselves unable to stop the growing Dutch spice trade in the islands, unable to rid India's coasts of pirates, and now . . . now unable to keep other Europeans from India's own doorstep.
He studied Hawksworth again and asked himself why the English had come. And why the two small English vessels had challenged four armed galleons, instead of turning and making for open sea? To trade a cargo of wool? No cargo was worth the risk they had taken. There had to be another reason. And that reason, or whatever lay behind it, terrified the Portuguese. For the first time ever.
"We defend ourselves when attacked. That's all." Hawksworth found himself wanting to end the questions, to escape the smoky room and the Shahbandar's intense gaze. "That has no bearing on our request to trade in this port."
"I will take your request under advisement. In the meantime you and your men will be searched and your goods taxed, in keeping with our law."
"You may search the men if you wish. But I am here as representative of the king of England. And as his representative I will not allow my personal chest to be searched, no more than His Majesty, King James of England, would submit to such an indignity." Hawksworth decided to reach for all the authority his ragged appearance would allow.
"Allferinghi, except ambassadors, must be searched. Do you claim that immunity?"
"I am an ambassador, and I will be traveling to Agra to represent my king."
"Permission forferinghito travel in India must come from the Moghul himself." The Shahbandar's face remained impassive but his mind raced. The stakes of the English game were not wool, he suddenly realized, but India. The English king was challenging Portugal for the trade of India. Their audacity as astonishing. "A request can be sent to Agra by the governor of this province."
"Then I must see him to ask that a message be sent to Agra. For now, I demand that my personal effects be released from the customs house. And that no duty be levied on our goods, which are samples and not for sale."
"If your goods are not taxed, they will remain in the customs house. That is the law. Because you claim to represent your king, I will forgo my obligation to search your person. All of your men, however, will be searched down to their boots, and any goods or coin they bring through this port will be taxed according to the prevailing rate. Two and one-half percent of value."
"Our Chief Merchant wishes to display his samples to your traders."
"I have told you I will consider your request for trade.
There are many considerations." He signaled for the hookah to be lighted again. The interview seemed to be ended.
Hawksworth bowed with what formality he could muster and turned toward the counting-room door.
"Captain Hawksworth. You will not be returning to your men. I have made other arrangements for your lodging."
Hawksworth revolved to see four porters waiting by an open door at the Shahbandar's left.
I must be tired. I hadn't noticed the door until now.
Then he realized it had been concealed in the decorations on the wall. When he did not move, the porters surrounded him.
No, they're not porters. They're the guards who held back the crowds from the steps. And they're armed now.
"I think you will find your lodgings suitable." The Shahbandar watched Hawksworth's body tense. "My men will escort you. Your chest will remain here under my care."
The Shahbandar returned again to his gurgling hookah.
"My chest will not be subject to search. If it is to be searched, I will return now to my ship." Hawksworth still did not move. "Your officials will respect my king, and his honor."
"It is in my care." The Shahbandar waved Hawksworth toward the door. He did not look up from his pipe.
As Hawksworth passed into the midday sunshine, he saw the Shahbandar's own palanquin waiting by the door. Directly ahead spread the city's teeming horse and cattle bazaar, while on his right, under a dense banyan tree, a dark-eyed beggar sat on a pallet, clothed only in a white loincloth and wearing ashes in his braided hair and curious white and red marks on his forehead. His eyes were burning and intense, and he inspected the newferinghias though he'd just seen the person of the devil.
Why should I travel hidden from view, Hawksworth puzzled?
But there was no time to ponder an answer. The cloth covering was lifted and he found himself urged into the cramped conveyance, made even more comfortless and hot by its heavy carpet lining and bolster seat. In moments the street had disappeared into jolting darkness.
He felt the palanquin drop roughly onto a hard surface, and when the curtains were pulled aside he looked down to see the stone mosaic of a garden courtyard. They had traveled uphill at least part of the time, with what seemed many unnecessary turns and windings, and now they were hidden from the streets by the high walls of a garden enclosure. Tall slender palms lined the inside of the garden's white plaster wall, and denser trees shaded a central two-story building, decorated around its entry with raised Arabic lettering in ornate plasterwork. The guards motioned him through the large wooden portico of the house, which he began to suspect might be the residence of a wealthy merchant. After a long hallway, they entered a spacious room with clean white walls and a thick center carpet over a floor of patterned marble inlay. Large pillows lay strewn about the carpet, and the air hung heavy with the stale scent of spice.
It's the house of a rich merchant or official, all right. What else can it be? The decorated panels on the doors and the large brass knobs all indicate wealth. But what's the room for? For guests? No. It's too empty. There's almost no furniture. No bed. No . . .
Then suddenly he understood. A banquet room.
He realized he had never seen a more sumptuous private dining hall, even among the aristocracy in London. The guards closed the heavy wooden doors, but there was no sound of their footsteps retreating.
Who are they protecting me from?
A servant, with skin the color of ebony and a white turban that seemed to enclose a large part of his braided and folded-up beard, pushed open an interior door to deposit a silver tray. More fried bread and a bowl of curds.
"Where am I? Whose house . . . ?"
The man bowed, made hand signs pleading incomprehension, and retreated without a word.
As Hawksworth started to reach for a piece of the bread, the outer door opened, and one of the guards stepped briskly to the tray and stopped his hand. He said nothing, merely signaled to wait. Moments later another guard also entered, and with him was a woman. She was unveiled, with dark skin and heavy gold bangles about her ankles. She stared at Hawksworth with frightened eyes. Brisk words passed in an alien language, and then the woman pointed to Hawksworth and raised her voice as she replied to the guard. He said nothing, but simply lifted a long, sheathed knife from his waist and pointed it toward the tray, his gesture signifying all. After a moment's pause, the woman edged forward and gingerly sampled the curds with her fingers, first sniffing and then reluctantly tasting. More words passed, after which the guards bowed to Hawksworth almost imperceptibly and escorted the woman from the room, closing the door.
Hawksworth watched in dismay and then turned again to examine the dishes.
If they're that worried, food can wait. Who was she? Probably a slave. Of the Shahbandar?
He removed his boots, tossed them in the corner, and eased himself onto the bolsters piled at one end of the central carpet. The wound in his leg had become a dull ache.
Jesus help me, I'm tired. What does the Shahbandar really want? Why was Karim so fearful of him? And what's the role of the governor in all this? Will all these requests and permissions and permits end up delaying us so long the Portugals will find our anchorage? And what will the governor want out of me?
He tried to focus his mind on the governor, on a figure he sculpted in his imagination. A fat, repugnant, pompous bureaucrat. But the figure slowly began to transform, and in time it became the Turk who had imprisoned him in Tunis, with a braided fez and a jeweled dagger at his waist. The fat Turk was not listening, he was issuing a decree. You will stay. Only then will I have what I want. What I must have. Next a veiled woman entered the room, and her eyes were like Maggie's. She seized his hand and guided him toward the women's apartments, past the frowning guards, who raised large scimitars in interdiction until she waved them aside. Then she led him to the center of a brilliantly lighted room, until they stood before a large stone pillar, a pillar like the one in the porters' lodge except it was immense, taller than his head. You belong to me now, her eyes seemed to say, and she began to bind him to the pillar with silken cords. He struggled to free himself, but the grasp on his wrists only became stronger. In panic he struck out and yelled through the haze of incense.
"Let . . . !"
"I'm only trying to wake you, Captain." A voice cut through the nightmare. "His Eminence, the Shahbandar, has requested that I attend your wound."
Hawksworth startled awake and was reaching for his sword before he saw the swarthy little man, incongruous in a white swath of a skirt and a Portuguese doublet, nervously shaking his arm. The man pulled back in momentary surprise, then dropped his cloth medicine bag on the floor and began to carefully fold a large red umbrella. Hawksworth noted he wore no shoes on his dusty feet.
"Allow me to introduce myself." He bowed ceremoniously. "My name is Mukarjee. It is my honor to attend the celebrated newferinghi." His Turki was halting and strongly accented.
He knelt and deftly cut away the wrapping on Hawksworth's leg. "And who applied this?" With transparent disdain he began uncoiling the muddy bandage. "The Christiantopiwallahsconstantly astound me. Even though my daughter is married to one." One eyebrow twitched nervously as he worked.
Hawksworth stared at him through a groggy haze, marveling at the dexterity of his chestnut-brown hands. Then he glanced nervously at the vials of colored liquid and jars of paste the man was methodically extracting from his cloth bag.
"It was our ship's physician. He swathed this after attending a dozen men with like wounds or worse."
"No explanations are necessary.Feringhimethods are always unmistakable. In Goa, where I lived for many years after leaving Bengal, I once served in a hospital built by Christian priests."
"You worked in a Jesuit hospital?"
"I did indeed." He began to scrape away the oily powder residue from the wound. Hawksworth's leg jerked involuntarily from the flash of pain. "Please do not move. Yes, I served there until I could abide it no more. It was a very exclusive hospital. Onlyferinghiwere allowed to go there to be bled."
He began to wash the wound, superficial but already festering, with a solution from one of the vials. "Yes, we Indians were denied that almost certain entry into Christian paradise represented by its portals. But it was usually the first stop for arriving Portuguese, after the brothels."
"But why do so many Portuguese sicken after they reach Goa?" Hawksworth watched Mukarjee begin to knead a paste that smelled strongly of sandalwood spice.
"It's well that you ask, Captain Hawksworth." Mukarjee tested the consistency of the sandalwood paste with his finger and then placed it aside, apparently to thicken. "You appear to be a strong man, but after many months at sea you may not be as virile as you assume."
He absently extracted a large, dark green leaf from the pocket of his doublet and dabbed it in a paste he kept in a crumpled paper. Then he rolled it around the cracked pieces of a small brown nut, popped it into his mouth, and began to chew. Suddenly remembering himself, he stopped and produced another leaf from his pocket.
"Would you care to try betel, what they call pan here in Surat? It's very healthy for the teeth. And the digestion."
"What is it?"
"A delicious leaf. I find I cannot live without it, so perhaps it's a true addiction. It's slightly bitter by itself, but if you roll it around an areca nut and dip it in a bit of lime—which we make from mollusk shells—it is perfectly exquisite."
Hawksworth shook his head in wary dissent, whereupon Mukarjee continued, settling himself on his haunches and sucking contentedly on the rolled leaf as he spoke. "You ask why I question your well-being, Captain? Because a large number of theferinghiswho come to Goa, and India, are doomed to die."
"You already said that. From what? Poison in their food?"
Mukarjee examined him quizzically for a moment as he concentrated on the rolled leaf, savoring the taste, and Hawksworth noticed a red trickle emerge from the corner of his mouth and slide slowly off his chin. He turned and discharged a mouthful of juice into a small brass container, clearing his mouth to speak.
"The most common illness for Europeans here is called the bloody flux." Mukarjee tested the paste again with his finger, and then began to stir it vigorously with a wooden spatula. "For four or five days the body burns with intense heat, and then either it is gone or you are dead."
"Are there no medicines?" Hawksworth watched as he began to spread the paste over the wound.
"Of course there are medicines." Mukarjee chuckled resignedly. "But the Portuguese scorn to use them."
"Probably wisely," Hawksworth reflected. "It's said the flux is caused by an excess of humors in the blood. Bleeding is the only real remedy."
"I see." Mukarjee began to apply the paste and then to bind Hawksworth's leg with a swath of white cloth. "Yes, my friend, that is what the Portuguese do—you must hold still—and I have personally observed how effective it is in terminating illness."
"The damned Jesuits are the best physicians in Europe."
"So I have often been told. Most frequently at funerals." Mukarjee quickly tied a knot in the binding and spat another mouthful of red juice. "Your wound is really nothing more than a scratch. But you would have been dead in a fortnight. By this, if not by exertion."
"What do you mean?" Hawksworth rose and tested his leg, amazed that the pain seemed to have vanished.
"The greatest scourge of all for newly arrived Europeans
here seems to be our women. It is inevitable, and my greatest source of amusement." He spat the exhausted betel leaf toward the corner of the room and paused dramatically while he prepared another.
"Explain what you mean about the women."
"Let me give you an example from Goa." Mukarjee squatted again. "The Portuguese soldiers arriving from Lisbon each year tumble from their ships more dead than alive, weak from months at sea and the inevitable scurvy. They are in need of proper food, but they pay no attention to this, for they are even more starved for the company of women. . . . By the way, how is your wound?" Mukarjee made no attempt to suppress a smile at Hawksworth's astonished testing of his leg.
"The pain seems to be gone." He tried squatted in Indian style, like Mukarjee, and found that this posture, too, brought no discomfort.
"Well, these scurvy-weakened soldiers immediately avail themselves of Goa's many well-staffed brothels—which, I note, Christians seem to frequent with greater devotion than their fine churches. What uneven test of skill and vigor transpires I would not speculate, but many of theseferinghissoon find the only beds suited for them are in the Jesuit's Kings Hospital, where few ever leave. I watched some five hundred Portuguese a year tread this path of folly." Mukarjee's lips were now the hue of the rose.
"And what happens to those who do live?"
"They eventually wed one of our women, or one of their own, and embrace the life of sensuality that marks the Portuguese in Goa. With twenty, sometimes even thirty slaves to supply their wants and pleasure. And after a time they develop stones in the kidney, or gout, or some other affliction of excess."
"What do their wives die of? The same thing?"
"Some, yes, but I have also seen many charged with adultery by their fat Portuguese husbands—a suspicion rarely without grounds, for they really have nothing more to do on hot afternoons than chew betel and intrigue with the lusty young soldiers—and executed. The women are said to deem it an honorable martyrdom, vowing they die for love."
Mukarjee rose and began meticulously replacing the vials in his cloth bag. "I may be allowed to visit you again if you wish, but I think there's no need. Only forgo the company of our women for a time, my friend. Practice prudence before pleasure."
A shaft of light from the hallway cut across the room, as the door opened without warning. A guard stood in the passageway, wearing a uniform Hawksworth had not seen before.
"I must be leaving now." Mukarjee's voice rose to public volume as he nervously scooped up his umbrella and his bag, without pausing to secure the knot at its top. Then he bent toward Hawksworth with a quick whisper. "Captain, the Shahbandar has sent his Rajputs. You must take care."