Hawksworth stood speechless as Father Sarmento crossed himself."What did you say his name was?""Miguel Vaijantes. He was in Goa as a young captain, and now he has returned as Viceroy. We must endure him for three more years. The Antichrist himself could not have made our cup more bitter, could not have given us a greater test of our Christian love. Do you understand now why I beg you in God's name to halt this war between us?"Hawksworth felt suddenly numb. He stumbled past the aged priest and blindly stared into the torchlit courtyard, trying to remember precisely what Roger Symmes had said that day so many years ago in the offices of the Levant Company. One of the few things he had never forgotten from Symmes's monologue of hallucinations and dreams was the name Miguel Vaijantes.Hawksworth slowly turned to face Father Sarmento and switched to English."I will promise you this, Father. If I reach Agra, I willnever speak of popery unless asked. It honestly doesn't interest me. I'm here on a mission, not a crusade. And in return I would ask one favor of you. I would like you to send a message to Miguel Vaijantes. Tell him that twenty years ago in Goa he once ordered the death of an English captain named Hawksworth on thestrappado. Tell him . . ."The crash of shattering glass from the hallway of the palace severed the air between them. Then the heavy bronze door swung wide and Shirin emerged, grasping the broken base of a Chinese vase. Her eyes blazed and her disheveled hair streamed out behind her. Hawksworth thought he saw a stain on one cheek where a tear had trailed, but now that trail was dry. She strode directly to Mukarrab Khan and dashed the remainder of the vase at his feet, where it shattered to powder on the marble tiles of the veranda."That is my gift to the queen. You may send it with a message in your next dispatch. Tell her that I too am Persian, that I too know the name of my father's father, of his father's father, of his father's father, for ten generations. But unlike her, I was born in India. And it is in India that I will stay. She can banish me to the remotest village of the Punjab, but she will never send me to Goa. To live among unwashed Portuguese. Never. She does not have the power. And if you were a man, you would divorce me. Here. Tonight. For all to see. And I will return to my father, or go where I wish. Or you may kill me, as you have already tried to do. But you must decide."Mukarrab Khan's face was lost in shock. The courtyard stood lifeless, caught in a silence more powerful than any Hawksworth had ever known. He looked in confusion at Father Sarmento, and the old Jesuit quietly whispered a translation of the Persian, his own eyes wide in disbelief. Never before had he seen a Muslim woman defy her husband publicly. The humiliation was unthinkable. Mukarrab Khan had no power to order her death. He had no choice but to divorce her as she demanded. But everyone knew why she was his wife. What would a divorce mean?"You will proceed to Goa as my wife, or you will spend the rest of your days, and what little remains of your fading beauty, as anautchgirl at the port. Your price will be one copperpice. I will order it in the morning.""His Majesty will know of it within a week. I have friends enough in Agra.""As do I. And mine have the power to act.""Then divorce me."Mukarrab Khan paused painfully, then glanced down and absently whisked a fleck of lint from his brocade sleeve. "Which form do you wish?"An audible gasp passed through the servants, and not one breathed as they waited for the answer. There were three forms of divorce for Muslims. The first, called a revocable divorce, was performed when a man said "I have divorced you" only once. He had three months to reconsider and reconcile before it became final. The second form, called irrevocable, required the phrase be repeated twice, after which she could only become his wife again through a second marriage ceremony. The third, absolute, required three repetitions of the phrase and became effective the day her next reproductive cycle ended. There could be no remarriage unless she had, in the interim, been married to another."Absolute.""Do you 'insist’?""I do.""Then by law you must return the entire marriage settlement.""You took it from me and squandered it long ago onaffionand pretty boys. What is left to return?""Then it is done."Hawksworth watched in disbelief as Mukarrab Khan repeated three times the Arabic phrase from the Quran that cast her out. The two Jesuits also stood silently, their faces horrified.Shirin listened impassively as his voice echoed across the stunned courtyard. Then without a word she ripped the strands of pearls from her neck and threw them at his feet. Before Mukarrab Khan could speak again, she had turned and disappeared through the doorway of the palace."In the eyes of God, Excellency, you will always be man and wife," Father Sarmento broke the silence. "What He has joined, man cannot rend."A look of great weariness seemed to flood Mukarrab Khan's face as he groped to find the facade of calm that protected him. Then, with an almost visible act of will, it came again."Perhaps you understand now, Father, why the Prophet's laws grant us more than one wife. Allah allows for certain . . . mistakes." He forced a smile, then whirled on a wide-eyed eunuch. "Will the packing be finished by morning?""As ordered, Khan Sahib." The eunuch snapped to formality."Then see dinner is served my guests, or put my kitchenwallahsto the lash." He turned back to Hawksworth. "I'm told you met her once, Ambassador. I trust she was more pleasant then.""Merely by accident, Excellency. While I was at the . . . in the garden.""She does very little by accident. You should mark her well.""Your counsel is always welcome, Excellency." Hawksworth felt his pulse surge. "What will she do now?""I think she will have all her wishes granted." He turned wearily toward the marble columns of the veranda. "You will forgive me if I must leave you now for a while. You understand I have further dispatches to prepare."He turned and was gone. After a moment's pause, the despairing Jesuits trailed after.And suddenly the courtyard seemed empty.The waves curled gently against the shore, breaking iridescent over the staves of a half-buried keg. Before him the sea spread wide and empty. Only a single sail broke the horizon. His mare pawed impatiently, but Hawksworth could not bring himself to turn her back toward the road. Not yet. Only when the sail's white had blended with the sea did he rein her around and, with one last glance at the empty blue, give her the spur.He rode briskly past the nodding palms along the shore, then turned inland toward Surat, through villages of thatch- roofed houses on low stilts. Women watched from the wide porches, sewing, nursing infants. After a time he no longer saw them, no longer urged the mare. His thoughts were filled with images from the tumultuous evening past.He had paced the vacant rooms of the palace till the early hours of morning, his mind in turmoil. Sleep was never a possibility. When the courtyard at last grew still, he had slipped back into the garden, wanting its openness, the feel of its order. In the moonlight it lay deserted, and as he strolled alongside the bubbling fountain, he felt himself even more lost in this alien place, this alien land. The pilot Karim had been right. India had already unsettled him more than he thought he could bear.In time he found himself wandering once more through the orchard, amid the wistful calls of night birds. The trees formed a roof of leafy shadows, cold and joyless as the moon above. Even then, all he could see was Shirin, poised defiant in the stark torchlight, taunting the queen. She had offered herself up to almost certain death, for reasons he scarcely comprehended.Before he fully realized where he was, he looked up and saw the observatory. A tiny blinking owl perched atop the staircase, studying him critically as he approached. Around him the marble instruments glistened like silver, while ahead stood the stone hut, forlorn now, more ramshackle than he had ever remembered, more abandoned. He reflected sadly that it probably would soon be forgotten entirely. Who would ever come here again?The door of the hut was sealed tightly and for a time he stood simply looking at it, trying to recall all that had passed inside. Finally he reached with a determined hand and pulled it wide.Shirin stared up from the table in shock, grabbing the lamp as though to extinguish it. Then she recognized him in the flickering light."Why . . . why are you here?"Before he could answer, she moved in front of the table, masking it from his view. "You should not have come. If you're seen . . ."As his own surprise passed, he felt himself suddenly wanting to take her in his arms. "What does it matter now? You're divorced." The words filled him with momentary exhilaration, till he remembered the rest. "You're also in danger, whether I'm seen or not.""That's my concern.""What are you planning to do?""Leave. But I still have friends."He reached out and took the lamp from her, to feel the touch of her hand. It was soft and warm. "Will I ever see you again?""Who knows what will happen now?" The wildness in her eyes was beginning to gentle. She moved back from the table and dropped into a chair. He realized it was the same chair she had sat in when telling him about the queen. On the table before her were piles of papers, tied into small, neat bundles. She examined him for a few moments in silence, then reached to brush the hair back from her eyes. "Did you come here just to see me?""Not really . . ." He stopped, then laughed. "I think maybe I did. I think I somehow knew you would be here, without realizing I knew. I've been thinking about you all night.""Why?" Her voice quickened just enough for him to notice."I'm not sure. I do know I'm very worried about what may happen to you.""No one else seems to be. No one will talk to me now, not even the servants. Suddenly I don't exist." Her eyes softened. "Thank you. Thank you for coming. It means you're not afraid. I'm glad.""Why do you care whether I came or not?" He asked almost before realizing what he was saying.She hesitated, and unconsciously ran her glance down his frame. "To see you one more time." He thought he saw something enter her eyes, rising up unbidden. "Don't you realize you've become very special for me?""Tell me." He studied her eyes in the lamplight, watching them soften even more."You're not like anyone I've ever known. You're part of something that's very strange to me. I sometimes find myself dreaming of you. You're . . . you're very powerful. Something about you." She caught herself, then laughed. "But maybe it's not really you I dream about at all. Maybe it's what you are.""What do you mean?""You're a man, from the West. There's a strength about you I can't fully understand." He watched her holding herself in check."Go on.""Maybe it's partly the way you touch and master the things around you." She looked at him directly. "Let me try to explain what I mean. For most people in India, the world that matters most is the world within. We explore the seas inside our own mind. And so we wait, we wait for the world outside to be brought to us. But for you the inner world seems secondary." She laughed again, and now her voice was controlled and even. "Perhaps I'm not explaining it well. Let me try again. Do you remember the first thing you did on your very first morning in the palace?""I walked out here, to the observatory.""But why did you?""Because I'm a seaman, and I thought . . .""No, that's only partly the reason." She smiled. "I think you came to see it because it belongs to the world of things. Like a good European, you felt you must first and always be the master of things. Of ships, of guns, even of the stars. Maybe that's why I find you so strong." She paused, then reached out and touched his hand. The gesture had been impulsive, and when she realized what she'd done, she moved to pull it back, then stopped herself.He looked at her in the lamplight, then gently placed his other hand over hers and held it firm. "Then let me tell you something. I find you just as hard to understand. I find myself drawn to something about you, and it troubles me.""Why should it trouble you?""Because I don't know who you are. What you are. Even what you're doing, or why. You've risked everything for principles that are completely outside me." He looked into her eyes, trying to find words. "And regardless of what you say, I think you somehow know everything there is to know about me. I don't even have to tell you.""Things pass between a man and woman that go beyond words. Not everything has to be said." She shifted her gaze away. "You've had great sadness in your life. And I think it's killed some part of you. You no longer allow yourself to trust or to love.""I've had some bad experiences with trust.""But don't let it die." Her eyes met his. "It's the thing most worthwhile."He looked at her a long moment, feeling the tenderness beneath her strength, and he knew he wanted her more than anything. Before he thought, he had slipped his arm around her waist and drawn her up to him. He later remembered his amazement at her softness, her warmth as he pulled her body against his own. Before she could speak, he had kissed her, bringing her mouth full to his lips. He had thought for an instant she would resist, and he meant to draw her closer. Only then did he realize it was she who had come to him, pressing her body against his. They clung together in the lamplight, neither wanting the moment to end. At last, with an act of will, she pulled herself away."No." Her breath was coming almost faster than his own. "It's impossible.""Nothing's impossible." He suddenly knew, with an absolute certainty, that he had to make her his own. "Come with me to Agra. Together . . .""Don't say it." She stopped his lips with her finger. "Not yet." She glanced at the papers on the table, then reached for his hand, bringing it to her moist cheek. "Not yet.""You're leaving. So am I. We'll leave together.""I can't." She was slipping from him. He felt it. "I'll think of you when you're in Agra. And when we're ready, we'll find each other, I promise it."Before he knew, she had turned and gathered the bundles. When she reached for the lamp, suddenly her hand stopped."Let's leave it." She looked toward him. "Still burning." Then she reached out and brushed his lips with her fingertips one last time. He watched in dismay as she passed on through the doorway. In moments she was lost among the shadows of the orchard.BOOK THREETHE ROADCHAPTER THIRTEENEast along the Tapti River valley the land was a verdant paradise, a patchwork of mango and pipal groves and freshly turned dark earth. By mid-October the fields of cotton, corn, and sugarcane were in harvest; and in the lowlands paired buffalo strained to turn the crusted mud to readiness for broadcast sowing the grain crops of autumn: millet, wheat, and barley. The monsoon-washed roads had again grown passable, and now they were a continual procession, as mile-long caravans of corn-laden bullock carts inched ponderously west toward the shipping port of Surat.The distance from Surat to Burhanpur was one hundred and fiftykos, and in dry weather it could be traversed in just over a fortnight. Vasant Rao had hired fifty carts to transport the sealed bundles—which he said were lead—to Burhanpur, swelling his entourage of forty Raput horsemen by fifty low-caste drivers and bullock teams. He had also hired five additional carts to carry provisions.Brian Hawksworth had contracted for his own cart and driver, negotiating a price of twenty rupees for cartage of his belongings all the way from Surat to Agra. He was amused to reflect that the chest containing King James's gifts for the Moghul of India traveled lashed to the bed of a ramshackle, wooden-wheeled cart originally intended for hay.The caravan had been scheduled to depart early on a Saturday morning, but the drivers had suddenly refused to budge until the following day. Hawksworth had confronted his driver, Nayka, a dark-skinned low-caste man with the spindly limbs of the underfed, and demanded to know why. Nayka had twisted his head deferentially, riveting his eyes on the ground, and explained in halting Turki."Today is Saturday, Captain Sahib. Saturdays andTuesdays are sacred to the goddess Devi, the Divine Mother. Journeys begun on those days always meet disaster. Bandits, tigers, washed-out roads. A Mussalman once made my cousin bring a cart of indigo to Surat from a village down the river on a Tuesday, and a bridge broke under his load. Both of his bullocks were drowned."It was mid-afternoon on Sunday when the caravan finally pulled out from the water tank at Surat's Abidjan Gate. By nightfall they had traveled threekos, reaching the outskirts of the village of Cossaria. The next day they made twelvekoseast-northeast to reach the town of Karod, a strategic fort on the Tapti, dominated by a hilltop castle that garrisoned two hundred Rajput soldiers. The next three days their camp stages had been the towns of Viara, Corka, and the large garrison city of Narayanpur.On the insistence of Mirza Nuruddin, Hawksworth had carried only a minimal amount of money with him. Instead he had adopted the practice of Indian merchants, leaving a chest of silver in Surat and receiving a letter of credit, which could be debited for cash at major stops along the road to Agra. Moneylenders received negotiable notes against the silver deposit, which would be paid in Surat at 7 percent surcharge, thereby allowing travelers along the bandit-infested roads to carry cheques instead of cash.Hawksworth found himself annoyed that Vasant Rao never allowed the caravan to stop inside the towns, where traditional Indian guest houses—a stone floor and a roof— were available free for travelers. Instead they camped each evening on the outskirts, while a few Rajputs rode in to the town bazaar to buy fresh vegetables, bricks of cow dung for cooking, and betel leaves for the drivers.The evening they reached Narayanpur, the governor of the garrison, Partab Shah, had paid a surprise visit to their camp, bringing his own troup ofnautchwomen. While the women entertained the Rajputs with an evening of dance and low-priced intimacy, Partab Shah whispered warnings to Hawksworth that the road farther east was no longer safe now that civil rule in the Deccan was teetering. The governor had offered to provide additional troops to escort the English ambassador and his gifts for the Moghul safely through the district. To the governor's—and Hawksworth's—dismay, Vasant Rao had politely declined.It had been well after midnight when the governor and his aides rose to return to Narayanpur. Vasant Rao had insisted that the women be sent with him. Then he convened the Rajputs and drivers and announced that they would assemble the caravan two hours before sunup the following morning, an hour earlier than usual. They would try to reach and ford the Tapti before nightfall, then veer northeast for Burhanpur. Hawksworth thought he detected a trace of worry in Vasant Rao's voice for the first time.They were well underway by sunup the next day, and as he fought off sleep in the rising heat, Hawksworth reflected on what he had seen along the road. It was clear the larger towns were collection depots for the Surat region, centers where grain, cotton, indigo, and hemp were assembled for delivery to the port. As their caravan rumbled through town after town, Hawksworth began to find them merely a provincial version of Surat, equally frenetic and self-absorbed. Their bazaars bustled with haggling brokers and an air of commerce triumphant. After a time he began to find them more wearisome than exotic.But between these towns lived the other India, one of villages unchanged for centuries. To a Londoner and seaman they were another world, and Hawksworth understood almost nothing of what he saw. Several times he had started to ask Vasant Rao some question about a village, but the time never seemed right. The Rajput was constantly occupied with the progress of the caravan and never spoke unless he was giving an order. The long silence of the road had gathered between them until it was almost an invisible wall.For no apparent reason this changed suddenly on the afternoon after Narayanpur, as the caravan rumbled into the small village of Nimgul and began working its way along the single road through the town. Vasant Rao drew his mount alongside Hawksworth's and pointed to a white plaster building up ahead that dominated the center of the village."I grew to manhood in a village such as this, Captain, in a house much like that one there."Hawksworth examined the well-kept house, and then the village around it. Spreading away on all sides were tumbledown thatch-roofed homes of sticks and clay, many raised on foot-high stilts to keep them above the seasonal mud. Gaunt, naked children swarmed about the few remaining trees, their voices piping shrilly at play, while elderly men lounged on the porches smoking hookahs. Most of the able-bodied men seemed to be in the fields, leaving their women—unsmiling laborers in drab body-length wraps, a large marriage ring dangling from one nostril—to toil in the midday sun combing seeds from large stacks of cotton, shelling piles of small-eared corn, and boiling a dense brown liquid in wide iron pans.Vasant Rao drew up his horse in front of the pans and spoke rapidly with one of the sad-eyed women. There was a tinkle of her heavy silver bracelets as she bowed to him, then turned to ask a turbaned overseer to offer them two clay cups of the liquid. Vasant Rao threw the man a small coin, a copperpice, and passed one of the cups to Hawksworth. It was viscous and sweeter than anything he had ever tasted. Vasant Rao savored a mouthful, then discarded the cup into the road."They're boiling cane juice to makegur, those brown blocks of sugar you see in the bazaars, for the Brahmin landholders to sell. She's a Camar, a low caste, and she works from sunup to dusk for a day's supply ofchapattis, fried wheat cakes, for her household. Wages haven't risen in the villages since I was a boy.""Why did she ask the overseer to bring you the cup?""Because I'm a Rajput." Vasant Rao seemed startled by the question. "I would pollute my caste if I took a cup from the hand of a Camar. If a Rajput or a Brahmin eats food that's been handled by a member of the low castes, he may be obligated to undergo ritual purification. If you are born to a high caste, Captain, you must honor its obligations."Hawksworth studied him, wondering why he had finally decided to talk.Security had been unaccountably tight for a shipment of lead. Vasant Rao had insisted that all carts be kept within the perimeter of the camp, inside the circle of guards. No one, neither drivers nor guards, had been allowed to touch the contents of the carts: sealed packages individually wrapped and lashed in bricks."Did you grow up around here?" Hawksworth tried to widen the opening."No, of course not." He laughed sharply. "Only aferinghiwould ask that. I was born in the foothills of the Himalayas, hundreds ofkosnorth of Agra. In a Rajput village. The villages in the Surat district are ruled by Brahmins.""Are Rajput villages like this?""All villages are more or less the same, Captain. How could it be otherwise? They're all Hindu. This is the real India, my friend. Muslims and Moghuls, and now Christians, come and go. This stays the same. These villages will endure long after the marble cities of the Moghuls are dust. That's why I feel peace here. Knowing this cannot be destroyed, no matter who rules in Agra."Hawksworth looked about the village. It seemed to be ruled by cattle. They roamed freely, arrogantly, secure in the centuries-old instinct that they were sacred and inviolable. Naked children had begun to swarm after the carts, and a few young women paused to cast discreet glances at the handsome Rajput horsemen. But the main work pressed monotonously forward. It was a place untouched by the world beyond its horizons."You said this was a Brahmin village. Are all the men here priests?""Of course not." Vasant Rao grunted a laugh and gestured toward the fields beyond. "Who would do the work? There must be the other castes, or the Brahmins would starve. Brahmins and Rajputs are forbidden by the laws of caste from working the land. I meant this village is ruled by Brahmins, although I'd guess no more than one family in ten is high caste. The brick and plaster homes there in the center of the village probably belong to Brahmins. The villages of India, Captain Hawksworth, are not ruled by the Moghuls.They're ruled by the high castes. Here, the Brahmins, in other villages, the Rajputs. These, together with some merchants called Banias, make up the high-caste Hindus, the wearers of the sacred thread of the twice born, the real owners and rules of India. All the other castes exist to serve them.""I thought there were only four castes."Hawksworth remembered that Mukarrab Khan had once described the caste system of the Hindus with obvious Muslim disgust. There are four castes, he had explained, each striving to exploit those below. The greatest exploiters called themselves Brahmin, probably Aryan invaders who had arrived thousands of years past and now proclaimed themselves "preservers of tradition." That tradition, which they invented, was mainly subjugation of all the others. Next came the Kshatriya, the warrior caste, which had been claimed by Rajput tribes who also had invaded India, probably well after the Brahmins. The third caste, also "high," was called Vaisya, and was supposed to be made up of society's producers of foods and goods. Now it was the caste claimed by rich, grasping Hindu merchants. Below all these were the Sudra, who were in effect the servants and laborers for the powerful "high" castes. But even the Sudra had someone to exploit, for beneath them were the Untouchables, those unfortunates in whose veins probably ran the blood of the original inhabitants of India. The Untouchables had no caste. The part that annoyed Mukarrab Khan the most was that high-caste Hindus regarded all Muslims as part of the mass of Untouchables."The four main castes are those prescribed in the order of thevarna, the ancient Aryan scriptures. But the world of the village has little to do with thevarna. Today there are many castes," Vasant Rao continued, reflecting to himself how he loathed most Brahmins, who took every opportunity to claim caste superiority over Rajputs. "For example, the Brahmins here probably have two subcastes—one for the priests, who think up ceremonies as an excuse to collect money, and the other for the landowners, most of whom are also moneylenders. "There"—he pointed—"that man is a Brahmin."Hawksworth saw a shirtless man standing by one of the white plaster homes. He wore a dingy loincloth beneath his enormous belly, and as Hawksworth examined him he noticed a strand of thread that circled around his neck and under his left arm."Why is he wearing a cord around his shoulder?""That's the sacred thread of the high castes. I wear one myself." Vasant Rao opened his shirt to reveal a strand of three colored threads, woven together. "It's consecrated and given to boys around age ten at a very important ceremony. Before the thread ceremony a boy has no caste. An orthodox Brahmin won't even eat with his son until after the boy's thread ceremony."Hawksworth examined the thread. It was the first time he'd noticed it."What about the men who don't wear a thread?""They're the middle castes, the ones who do the work in a village. Carpenters, potters, weavers, barbers. They serve the high castes and each other. The barber shaves the potter; the potter makes his vessels. The Brahmins here probably won't sell them any land, so they'll always be poor. That's why the middle castes live in houses of mud and thatch instead of brick. And below them are the unclean castes. Sweepers, servants, shoemakers."And below them are the non-Hindus, Hawksworth thought. Me."What the hell's the reason for all this? It's worse than the class system in England. I'll drink with any man, high or low. I have. And I usually prefer to drink with the low.""That may explain why mostferinghisseem so confused and unhappy. Caste is the most important thing in life." Vasant Rao glanced over his shoulder at the receding village. "It's the reason India's civilization has lasted for thousands of years. I pity your misfortune, Captain Hawksworth, not to have been born a Hindu. Perhaps you were once, and will be again in some future life. I think you'll someday be reborn a Kshatriya, a member of the warrior caste. Then you'll know who you are, what you must do. Unlike the Moghuls and the other Muslims, who have no caste and never know their purpose in life, a Rajput always knows."As they rode on through the countryside Hawksworth tried to understand the purpose of castes. Its absurdity annoyed him.Mukarrab khan was right for once. It's just a class system, devised by the highborn to keep the others in submission. But why do they all seem to believe in it? Why don't the so-called lower castes just tell the others to go to hell?As they neared the next village, he decided to try to guess who was in which caste. But the central road in the village was deserted. Instead all the villagers, men and women, were clustered around a tall, brightly painted pole that had been erected near one of the dingy thatch homes. Vasant Rao's face brightened when he saw the pole."There must be a wedding here today. Have you ever seen one?""No. Not in India.""This is a powerful moment, Captain, when you feel the force ofprahna, the life spirit."Vasant Rao pointed toward a pavilion that had been erected next to the marriage pole. From horseback Hawksworth could just make out the bride and groom, both dressed in red wraps trimmed in silver. The groom wore a high turban, on top of which were ceremonial decorations, and the bride was so encrusted with precious metals she might have been a life-size ornament: her hands, wrists, feet, ankles, and her head were all adorned with elaborately worked silver rings, bracelets, medallions. Her necklace was a string of large gold coins."Where'd she get all the silver and gold?""Her father is probably a big landowner. Those ornaments are her savings and part of her dowry. Look, all the women wear thick bracelets of silver on their ankles. There's much gold and silver in India, Captain."As Hawksworth watched, a Brahmin priest, his forehead streaked with white clay, finished lighting a fire in a central brazier and then began to recite."The priest is reciting from the Vedas, Sanskrit scriptures thousands of years old," Vasant Rao continued as they watched. "This is a ritual going back to the dawn of time."The couple began repeating the priest's verses, their faces intent and solemn."They're taking the marriage vows now. There are seven. The most important is the wife's vow of complete obedience to her husband. See the silver knife he carries? That's to symbolize his dominion over her. But really, she will belong to his entire family when she finally comes to live at his house.""What do you mean by 'finally'?""These things take time. To begin with, a marriage proposal must come from the family of the girl. As she approaches womenhood, her father will hire a marriage broker, probably the village barber, to go to surrounding villages to look for a suitable match. I remember when I was young and they used to come to my village." Vasant Rao's face assumed a faraway expression. "I didn't want to marry and I dreaded seeing them, but unfortunately I was a good catch. My subcaste is high, and I had many sisters, which meant more women to share the work in our house. Then one day my father ordered the priest to cast my horoscope and I knew I was lost. A broker had brought an inquiry from a girl who had a compatible horoscope. Soon after, the engagement ceremony was held in our house. The girl was not there, of course; I didn't see her until three years later. When we finally had the ceremony you see here."The bride and groom were standing together now, and they began to circle the fire while the women standing nearby sang a monotonous, repetitive song. Hawksworth counted seven turns of the fire. Then they seated themselves and the priest placed a red dot on the forehead of man and wife."They'll feast tonight, and then the groom will return to his village." Vasant Rao spurred his mount to catch up with the caravan. "Later she and her family will go there for more ceremonies. After that the groom may not see her again for several years, until the day her father decides she's ready for thegauna, the consummation of the marriage. I didn't see my bride again for two years.""What happened then?""She came to my village for a few days and stayed in the women's quarters—the men and women sleep apart in these villages—and I had to go there and try to find her cot. After that she went back home and it was several months later before I saw her again. Then she came back, for a longer time. Finally she moved to my village, but by then I was nineteen and soon after I left on a campaign. She stayed with my younger brother while I was gone, and when I returned, she was with child. Who can say whether it was mine or his? But none of it matters, for she died in childbirth." He spurred his horse past the line of carts. "Let's try to make the river before sundown."Hawksworth couldn't believe what he had heard, and he whipped his mount to catch up."Your brother kept your wife while you were away?""Of course. I don't know how it is here, but in the part of India where I was born, brothers normally share each other's wives. I used to go to my older brother's house when he was gone and visit his wife. She expected it and would have been upset if I hadn't come to her." Vasant Rao was puzzled by Hawksworth's surprise. "Don't brothers share one another's wives in England?""Well, not. . . usually. I mean . . . no. Hell no. It's damned close to incest. The truth is a husband would have grounds to call out a man he caught with his wife. And especially a brother.""'Call him out,' Captain? What does that mean?""A duel. With swords. Or maybe pistols."Vasant Rao was incredulous."But what if a man goes away on a campaign? His wife will grow frustrated. Hindus believe a woman has seven times the sexual energy of a man. She would start meeting other men in the village if a man didn't have a brother to keep her satisfied. In the village where I grew up, if a man and woman met together by chance in the forest, and they had the same caste, we all assumed they would make the most of the opportunity. So it's better for the honor of the family if your brothers care for your wife. It's an important duty for brothers. And besides, as long as a woman attends to her own husband's needs, what does it matter if his brother enjoys her also?"Hawksworth found himself astonished."How does . . . I mean, what about this brother's own wife? What does she think about all this?""If her husband wants to visit his brothers' wives, what should she care? It's normal. She'll also find ways to meet her husband's brothers for the same purpose. Women married to brothers often try to send each other away on errands, in order to enjoy the other's husband. So wives have no reason to complain. In fact, if a woman returns to her own village for a visit, she will probably seek out some of the men she knew when she was young and enjoy them, since her husband is not around and no one in her own village would tell him. Hindus in the villages don't lock away their women the way the Muslims do, Captain Hawksworth. And because they're free to enjoy whoever they wish, they aren't frustrated and unhappy the way Muslim women are. Surely your England is an advanced country where women have the same freedom."Hawksworth puzzled for a minute before trying to answer. The truth is there's a big difference between what's said and what's done. With chastity praised from the pulpits and whores the length of London. And highborn ladies thronging the playhouses, ready to cuckold their husbands with any cavalier who'll give them a look. How can I explain it?"I guess you'd say upper-class women have the most freedom to take lovers. Usually young gallants or soldiers. And no one is surprised if her husband makes full use of his serving wench.""Are these soldiers and serving women from a lower caste?""Well, we don't exactly have . . ." Hawksworth paused for a moment. "Actually I guess you could say they're a lower 'caste,' in a way."Vasant reined in his mount and inspected Hawksworth for a moment in disgust."Please excuse me if I say yours must be a very immoral country. Captain. Such a thing would never happen in India. No Rajput would touch the body of a low caste. It would be pollution.""You don't care what your women do? All that matters is who they do it with?" Hawksworth suddenly realized he found it all too absurd to believe. It sounds like another tale of the Indies. Concocted to entertain credulous seamen. "All right, then, what about your own wife? Did she have other men besides your brothers?""How would I know?" Vasant Rao waved his hand, dismissing the question as insignificant. "I suppose it's possible. But after she died I decided I'd had enough of wives and women. I took a vow of chastity. There's the legend of a god named Hanumanji, who took on the flesh of a monkey and who gained insuperable strength by retaining his semen. It made him invulnerable." Vasant Rao smiled. "So far it's worked for me as well. But to protect the charm, I eat no meat and drink a glass of opium each day."The Rajput suddenly spurred his mount toward the head of the caravan. The sun had disappeared behind a heavy bank of storm clouds in the west, and the road had already begun to darken. The river was probably still another hour away, perhaps two hours.Hawksworth studied Vasant Rao's tall, commanding form, sitting erect and easy in the saddle.Sweet Jesus, he thinks he's invulnerable because he avoids women and drinks opium. Rajputs are even madder than the damned Turks. And he thinks the high castes rule by the will of God. I wonder what the low castes think?Hawksworth puzzled through the Rajput's words and half-dozed in the saddle until he realized they were finally approaching the river. Ahead, past groves of mango trees, lay a sandy expanse leading down toward the water's edge. As they approached, Vasant Rao sent some of his horsemen to scout along the riverbank in both directions to find a shallow spot for crossing. The caravan followed the stream for half akos, then halted on a sandy plain that sloped gradually down toward the wide stream. The water rippled slightly all the way across, signifying there were no lurking depths to swallow a cart.The sun was dying, washing a veneer of gold over the high dark clouds threatening in the east. The smell of rain hinted in the evening air. Vasant Rao peered across the water's darkening surface for a time, while the drivers waited patiently for orders to begin crossing, then he turned to the waiting Rajputs."The light is too far gone." He stroked the mane of his gray stallion and again studied the clouds building where the sun had been. "It's safer to camp here and cross in the morning."He signaled the head driver and pointed the Rajputs toward a sandy expanse close to the water's edge. In moments the drivers were urging their teams toward the spot, circling them in preparation for the night."The carts will go on the riverside, and we'll camp here." He specified areas for the Rajputs and the drivers, and then he turned to Hawksworth and pointed out a large mango tree. "Your tent can go there."Hawksworth had been required by the Rajputs to keep a separate area for his campfire and cooking. Vasant Rao had explained the reasons the first evening of the journey."Food is merely an external part of the body, Captain, so naturally it must be kept from pollution. Food is transformed into blood, and the blood eventually turns to flesh, the flesh to fat, and the fat to marrow. The marrow turns to semen, the life-force. Since you have no caste, a Rajput would become polluted if he allowed you to touch his food, or even the pots in which he cooked."Hawksworth's driver, being a low caste, had no objection to cooking and eating with the English ambassador. Their diet on the trip had been simple. The Rajputs lived mainly on game they killed as they rode, though some occasionally ate fish. A few seemed to subsist on rice, wheat cakes, and boiled lentils. That night, as an experiment, Hawksworth ordered his driver, Nayka, to prepare a dinner of whatever he himself was having. Then he reclined against his saddle, poured himself a tankard of brandy, and watched the preparations.Nayka struck up a fire of twigs, to ignite the chips of driedcow dung used for the real cooking, and then he began to heat a curved pan containingghee, butter that had been boiled and strained to prevent rancidity. Although the Rajputs cooked in vegetable oil, Nayka had insisted from the first that a personage as important as the Englishferinghishould eat only clarified butter. The smoldering chips of dung took a long time to heat, but finally the ghee seemed ready. Nayka had ground spices as he waited, and he began to throw them into the hot fat to sputter. Then he chopped vegetables and dropped them in to fry. In a separate pot he was already boiling lentils, together with a yellow spice he called turmeric. As the meal neared readiness, he began to frychappatis, thin patties of unleavened wheat flour mixed with water and ghee. Then Hawksworth watched in shock as Nayka discreetly dropped a coal of burning cow dung into the pot of cooking lentils."What the hell was that?""Flavoring, Captain Sahib." Nayka's Turkish had been learned through procuring women for Turkish seamen, and it was heavily accented and abrupt. "It's the secret of the flavor of our lentils.""Is that 'high-caste' practice?""I think it is the same for all." Nayka examined him for a moment, twisting his head deferentially. "Does the Sahib know about caste?""I know it's a damnable practice.""The Sahib says what the Sahib says, but caste is a very good thing.""How do you figure that?""Because I will be reborn a Brahmin. I went to a soothsayer who told me. My next life will be marvelous.""But what about this life?""My present birth was due to a very grave mistake. The soothsayer explained it. He said that in my last life I was a Rajput. Once I ordered my cook to prepare a gift for some Brahmins, to bake bread for them, and inside the bread I had put gold. It was an act of great merit. But the faithless cook betrayed me. He stole the gold and put stones in its place. The Brahmins were very insulted, but no one ever told me why. Because I had insulted Brahmins, I was reborn as I am. But my next life will be different. I will be rich and have many women. Like a Brahmin or a Rajput." Nayka's eyes gleamed in anticipation."The improvement in money I can understand." Hawksworth examined Nayka's ragged dhoti. "But what does it matter when it comes to women? There seems to be plenty of randy women to go around, in all castes.""That's true if you are a Rajput or a Brahmin. Then no woman of any caste can refuse you. But if you are a low caste, and you are caught with a high-caste woman, you'll probably be beaten to death by the Rajputs. They would say you were polluting her caste.""Wait a minute. I thought Rajputs would have nothing to do with a low-caste woman." Hawksworth remembered Vasant Rao's stern denial."Who told you that?" Nayka smiled at Hawksworth's naivete. "I would guess a Rajput. They always deny it to strangers, so you won't form unfavorable ideas about the high castes. Let me tell you that it is a lie, Captain Sahib. They take our women all the time, and there is nothing we can say. But a low-caste man with a high-caste woman is another matter.""But what about their 'ritual pollution'? They're not supposed to touch the low castes.""It's very simple. A Rajput can take one of our women if he chooses, and then just take a bath afterward and he is clean again.""But can't a high-caste woman do the same, if she's been with a low-caste man?""No, Captain Sahib. Because they say her pollution is internal. She has the polluting emissions of the low-caste man within her. So there is no way she can be purified. It's the way the high castes control their women. But if you're a man, you can have any woman you please, and there's nothing anyone can say." Again Nayka's eyes brightened. "It will be wonderful the day I am reborn. Caste is a wonderful thing."Hawksworth studied the half-starved, almost toothlessman who stood before him barefoot, grinning happily.Well, enjoy your dreams, you poor miserable son-of-a- bitch. I'll not be the one to tell you this life is all you get.He took a slug of brandy and returned to his dung-flavored lentils. Taken with some of the charcoal-flavored bread they were actually better than he'd expected.Vasant Rao had already summoned the Rajputs and made assignments for the evening guard duty. Guards were to be doubled. Hawksworth remained astounded by the Rajput concept of security. A large kettledrum was set up at the head of the camp and continually beaten from dusk to dawn. A detail of Rajputs would march around the perimeter of the camp throughout the night, and on the quarter hour a shout of "khabardar," meaning "take heed," would circle the camp. The first night Hawksworth had found it impossible to sleep for the noise, but the second night and thereafter his weariness overtook him.He poured himself another brandy and watched as Nayka scrubbed out the cooking pans with ashes and sand. Then the driver rolled a betel leaf for Hawksworth and another for himself and set to work erecting the tent, which was nothing more than four poles with a canopy. After this he unloaded Hawksworth's cot, a foot-high wooden frame strung with hemp. None of the Rajputs used cots; they preferred a thin pallet on the ground.Nayka seemed to work more slowly as he started unrolling the bedding onto the hemp strings of the cot, and he began to glance nervously at the sky. Suddenly he stopped and slipped quietly to where the other drivers were encamped, seated on their haunches around a fire, passing the mouthpiece of a hookah. A long discussion followed, with much pointing at the sky. Then Nayka returned and approached Hawksworth, twisting his head in the deferential bow all Indians seemed to use to superiors. He stood for a moment in hesitation, and then summoned the courage to speak."It is not well tonight. Sahib. We have traveled this road many times." He pointed east into the dark, where new lightning played across the hovering bank of clouds. "There has been rain near Chopda, farther east where the river forks. In twopaharstime, six of your hours, the river will begin to rise here.""How much will it rise?""Only the gods can tell. But the river will spread beyond its banks and reach this camp. I have seen it. And it will remain impassable for three days.""How can you be sure?""I have seen it before, Sahib. The drivers all know and they are becoming afraid. We know the treachery of this river very well. But the other bank is near high ground. If we crossed tonight we would be safe." Again he shifted his head deferentially. "Will you please tell the raja?"To the drivers, Vasant Rao could only be a raja, a hereditary prince. All important Rajputs were automatically called rajas."Tell him yourself.""We would rather you tell him, Captain Sahib. He is a high caste. It would not be right for us to tell a raja what to do."Hawksworth watched for a moment as the Rajput guards began taking their placearound the perimeter of the camp, and then he looked sadly at his waiting cot.Damn. Crossing in the dark could be a needless risk. Why didn't the drivers say something while we still had light? God curse them and their castes.Then with a shrug of resignation he rose and made his way to Vasant Rao's tent.The Rajput leader had already removed his helmet, but after listening to Hawksworth he reluctantly strapped it back on and called for his second in command. Together they examined the clouds and then walked down to the river.In the dark no one could tell if it had begun to rise. Vasant Rao ordered three Rajputs to ride across carrying torches, to test the depth and mark out a path. The river was wide, but it still was no more than a foot or two deep. When the third Rajput finally reached the far shore, over a hundred yards away, Vasant Rao issued orders to assemble the convoy.The drivers moved quickly to harness their bullocks, which had been tethered to stakes near bundles of hay. The weary cattle tossed their heads and sniffed suspiciously at the moist air as they were whipped into harness. Meanwhile the Rajput guards began saddling their horses.Hawksworth saddled his own mare and watched as his cot and tent were rolled and strapped into the cart alongside his chest. He stared again into the darkness that enveloped the river. Nothing could be seen except the three torches on the distant shore. Suddenly he seemed to hear a warning bell in the back of his mind.
Hawksworth stood speechless as Father Sarmento crossed himself.
"What did you say his name was?"
"Miguel Vaijantes. He was in Goa as a young captain, and now he has returned as Viceroy. We must endure him for three more years. The Antichrist himself could not have made our cup more bitter, could not have given us a greater test of our Christian love. Do you understand now why I beg you in God's name to halt this war between us?"
Hawksworth felt suddenly numb. He stumbled past the aged priest and blindly stared into the torchlit courtyard, trying to remember precisely what Roger Symmes had said that day so many years ago in the offices of the Levant Company. One of the few things he had never forgotten from Symmes's monologue of hallucinations and dreams was the name Miguel Vaijantes.
Hawksworth slowly turned to face Father Sarmento and switched to English.
"I will promise you this, Father. If I reach Agra, I will
never speak of popery unless asked. It honestly doesn't interest me. I'm here on a mission, not a crusade. And in return I would ask one favor of you. I would like you to send a message to Miguel Vaijantes. Tell him that twenty years ago in Goa he once ordered the death of an English captain named Hawksworth on thestrappado. Tell him . . ."
The crash of shattering glass from the hallway of the palace severed the air between them. Then the heavy bronze door swung wide and Shirin emerged, grasping the broken base of a Chinese vase. Her eyes blazed and her disheveled hair streamed out behind her. Hawksworth thought he saw a stain on one cheek where a tear had trailed, but now that trail was dry. She strode directly to Mukarrab Khan and dashed the remainder of the vase at his feet, where it shattered to powder on the marble tiles of the veranda.
"That is my gift to the queen. You may send it with a message in your next dispatch. Tell her that I too am Persian, that I too know the name of my father's father, of his father's father, of his father's father, for ten generations. But unlike her, I was born in India. And it is in India that I will stay. She can banish me to the remotest village of the Punjab, but she will never send me to Goa. To live among unwashed Portuguese. Never. She does not have the power. And if you were a man, you would divorce me. Here. Tonight. For all to see. And I will return to my father, or go where I wish. Or you may kill me, as you have already tried to do. But you must decide."
Mukarrab Khan's face was lost in shock. The courtyard stood lifeless, caught in a silence more powerful than any Hawksworth had ever known. He looked in confusion at Father Sarmento, and the old Jesuit quietly whispered a translation of the Persian, his own eyes wide in disbelief. Never before had he seen a Muslim woman defy her husband publicly. The humiliation was unthinkable. Mukarrab Khan had no power to order her death. He had no choice but to divorce her as she demanded. But everyone knew why she was his wife. What would a divorce mean?
"You will proceed to Goa as my wife, or you will spend the rest of your days, and what little remains of your fading beauty, as anautchgirl at the port. Your price will be one copperpice. I will order it in the morning."
"His Majesty will know of it within a week. I have friends enough in Agra."
"As do I. And mine have the power to act."
"Then divorce me."
Mukarrab Khan paused painfully, then glanced down and absently whisked a fleck of lint from his brocade sleeve. "Which form do you wish?"
An audible gasp passed through the servants, and not one breathed as they waited for the answer. There were three forms of divorce for Muslims. The first, called a revocable divorce, was performed when a man said "I have divorced you" only once. He had three months to reconsider and reconcile before it became final. The second form, called irrevocable, required the phrase be repeated twice, after which she could only become his wife again through a second marriage ceremony. The third, absolute, required three repetitions of the phrase and became effective the day her next reproductive cycle ended. There could be no remarriage unless she had, in the interim, been married to another.
"Absolute."
"Do you 'insist’?"
"I do."
"Then by law you must return the entire marriage settlement."
"You took it from me and squandered it long ago onaffionand pretty boys. What is left to return?"
"Then it is done."
Hawksworth watched in disbelief as Mukarrab Khan repeated three times the Arabic phrase from the Quran that cast her out. The two Jesuits also stood silently, their faces horrified.
Shirin listened impassively as his voice echoed across the stunned courtyard. Then without a word she ripped the strands of pearls from her neck and threw them at his feet. Before Mukarrab Khan could speak again, she had turned and disappeared through the doorway of the palace.
"In the eyes of God, Excellency, you will always be man and wife," Father Sarmento broke the silence. "What He has joined, man cannot rend."
A look of great weariness seemed to flood Mukarrab Khan's face as he groped to find the facade of calm that protected him. Then, with an almost visible act of will, it came again.
"Perhaps you understand now, Father, why the Prophet's laws grant us more than one wife. Allah allows for certain . . . mistakes." He forced a smile, then whirled on a wide-eyed eunuch. "Will the packing be finished by morning?"
"As ordered, Khan Sahib." The eunuch snapped to formality.
"Then see dinner is served my guests, or put my kitchenwallahsto the lash." He turned back to Hawksworth. "I'm told you met her once, Ambassador. I trust she was more pleasant then."
"Merely by accident, Excellency. While I was at the . . . in the garden."
"She does very little by accident. You should mark her well."
"Your counsel is always welcome, Excellency." Hawksworth felt his pulse surge. "What will she do now?"
"I think she will have all her wishes granted." He turned wearily toward the marble columns of the veranda. "You will forgive me if I must leave you now for a while. You understand I have further dispatches to prepare."
He turned and was gone. After a moment's pause, the despairing Jesuits trailed after.
And suddenly the courtyard seemed empty.
The waves curled gently against the shore, breaking iridescent over the staves of a half-buried keg. Before him the sea spread wide and empty. Only a single sail broke the horizon. His mare pawed impatiently, but Hawksworth could not bring himself to turn her back toward the road. Not yet. Only when the sail's white had blended with the sea did he rein her around and, with one last glance at the empty blue, give her the spur.
He rode briskly past the nodding palms along the shore, then turned inland toward Surat, through villages of thatch- roofed houses on low stilts. Women watched from the wide porches, sewing, nursing infants. After a time he no longer saw them, no longer urged the mare. His thoughts were filled with images from the tumultuous evening past.
He had paced the vacant rooms of the palace till the early hours of morning, his mind in turmoil. Sleep was never a possibility. When the courtyard at last grew still, he had slipped back into the garden, wanting its openness, the feel of its order. In the moonlight it lay deserted, and as he strolled alongside the bubbling fountain, he felt himself even more lost in this alien place, this alien land. The pilot Karim had been right. India had already unsettled him more than he thought he could bear.
In time he found himself wandering once more through the orchard, amid the wistful calls of night birds. The trees formed a roof of leafy shadows, cold and joyless as the moon above. Even then, all he could see was Shirin, poised defiant in the stark torchlight, taunting the queen. She had offered herself up to almost certain death, for reasons he scarcely comprehended.
Before he fully realized where he was, he looked up and saw the observatory. A tiny blinking owl perched atop the staircase, studying him critically as he approached. Around him the marble instruments glistened like silver, while ahead stood the stone hut, forlorn now, more ramshackle than he had ever remembered, more abandoned. He reflected sadly that it probably would soon be forgotten entirely. Who would ever come here again?
The door of the hut was sealed tightly and for a time he stood simply looking at it, trying to recall all that had passed inside. Finally he reached with a determined hand and pulled it wide.
Shirin stared up from the table in shock, grabbing the lamp as though to extinguish it. Then she recognized him in the flickering light.
"Why . . . why are you here?"
Before he could answer, she moved in front of the table, masking it from his view. "You should not have come. If you're seen . . ."
As his own surprise passed, he felt himself suddenly wanting to take her in his arms. "What does it matter now? You're divorced." The words filled him with momentary exhilaration, till he remembered the rest. "You're also in danger, whether I'm seen or not."
"That's my concern."
"What are you planning to do?"
"Leave. But I still have friends."
He reached out and took the lamp from her, to feel the touch of her hand. It was soft and warm. "Will I ever see you again?"
"Who knows what will happen now?" The wildness in her eyes was beginning to gentle. She moved back from the table and dropped into a chair. He realized it was the same chair she had sat in when telling him about the queen. On the table before her were piles of papers, tied into small, neat bundles. She examined him for a few moments in silence, then reached to brush the hair back from her eyes. "Did you come here just to see me?"
"Not really . . ." He stopped, then laughed. "I think maybe I did. I think I somehow knew you would be here, without realizing I knew. I've been thinking about you all night."
"Why?" Her voice quickened just enough for him to notice.
"I'm not sure. I do know I'm very worried about what may happen to you."
"No one else seems to be. No one will talk to me now, not even the servants. Suddenly I don't exist." Her eyes softened. "Thank you. Thank you for coming. It means you're not afraid. I'm glad."
"Why do you care whether I came or not?" He asked almost before realizing what he was saying.
She hesitated, and unconsciously ran her glance down his frame. "To see you one more time." He thought he saw something enter her eyes, rising up unbidden. "Don't you realize you've become very special for me?"
"Tell me." He studied her eyes in the lamplight, watching them soften even more.
"You're not like anyone I've ever known. You're part of something that's very strange to me. I sometimes find myself dreaming of you. You're . . . you're very powerful. Something about you." She caught herself, then laughed. "But maybe it's not really you I dream about at all. Maybe it's what you are."
"What do you mean?"
"You're a man, from the West. There's a strength about you I can't fully understand." He watched her holding herself in check.
"Go on."
"Maybe it's partly the way you touch and master the things around you." She looked at him directly. "Let me try to explain what I mean. For most people in India, the world that matters most is the world within. We explore the seas inside our own mind. And so we wait, we wait for the world outside to be brought to us. But for you the inner world seems secondary." She laughed again, and now her voice was controlled and even. "Perhaps I'm not explaining it well. Let me try again. Do you remember the first thing you did on your very first morning in the palace?"
"I walked out here, to the observatory."
"But why did you?"
"Because I'm a seaman, and I thought . . ."
"No, that's only partly the reason." She smiled. "I think you came to see it because it belongs to the world of things. Like a good European, you felt you must first and always be the master of things. Of ships, of guns, even of the stars. Maybe that's why I find you so strong." She paused, then reached out and touched his hand. The gesture had been impulsive, and when she realized what she'd done, she moved to pull it back, then stopped herself.
He looked at her in the lamplight, then gently placed his other hand over hers and held it firm. "Then let me tell you something. I find you just as hard to understand. I find myself drawn to something about you, and it troubles me."
"Why should it trouble you?"
"Because I don't know who you are. What you are. Even what you're doing, or why. You've risked everything for principles that are completely outside me." He looked into her eyes, trying to find words. "And regardless of what you say, I think you somehow know everything there is to know about me. I don't even have to tell you."
"Things pass between a man and woman that go beyond words. Not everything has to be said." She shifted her gaze away. "You've had great sadness in your life. And I think it's killed some part of you. You no longer allow yourself to trust or to love."
"I've had some bad experiences with trust."
"But don't let it die." Her eyes met his. "It's the thing most worthwhile."
He looked at her a long moment, feeling the tenderness beneath her strength, and he knew he wanted her more than anything. Before he thought, he had slipped his arm around her waist and drawn her up to him. He later remembered his amazement at her softness, her warmth as he pulled her body against his own. Before she could speak, he had kissed her, bringing her mouth full to his lips. He had thought for an instant she would resist, and he meant to draw her closer. Only then did he realize it was she who had come to him, pressing her body against his. They clung together in the lamplight, neither wanting the moment to end. At last, with an act of will, she pulled herself away.
"No." Her breath was coming almost faster than his own. "It's impossible."
"Nothing's impossible." He suddenly knew, with an absolute certainty, that he had to make her his own. "Come with me to Agra. Together . . ."
"Don't say it." She stopped his lips with her finger. "Not yet." She glanced at the papers on the table, then reached for his hand, bringing it to her moist cheek. "Not yet."
"You're leaving. So am I. We'll leave together."
"I can't." She was slipping from him. He felt it. "I'll think of you when you're in Agra. And when we're ready, we'll find each other, I promise it."
Before he knew, she had turned and gathered the bundles. When she reached for the lamp, suddenly her hand stopped.
"Let's leave it." She looked toward him. "Still burning." Then she reached out and brushed his lips with her fingertips one last time. He watched in dismay as she passed on through the doorway. In moments she was lost among the shadows of the orchard.
BOOK THREE
THE ROAD
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
East along the Tapti River valley the land was a verdant paradise, a patchwork of mango and pipal groves and freshly turned dark earth. By mid-October the fields of cotton, corn, and sugarcane were in harvest; and in the lowlands paired buffalo strained to turn the crusted mud to readiness for broadcast sowing the grain crops of autumn: millet, wheat, and barley. The monsoon-washed roads had again grown passable, and now they were a continual procession, as mile-long caravans of corn-laden bullock carts inched ponderously west toward the shipping port of Surat.
The distance from Surat to Burhanpur was one hundred and fiftykos, and in dry weather it could be traversed in just over a fortnight. Vasant Rao had hired fifty carts to transport the sealed bundles—which he said were lead—to Burhanpur, swelling his entourage of forty Raput horsemen by fifty low-caste drivers and bullock teams. He had also hired five additional carts to carry provisions.
Brian Hawksworth had contracted for his own cart and driver, negotiating a price of twenty rupees for cartage of his belongings all the way from Surat to Agra. He was amused to reflect that the chest containing King James's gifts for the Moghul of India traveled lashed to the bed of a ramshackle, wooden-wheeled cart originally intended for hay.
The caravan had been scheduled to depart early on a Saturday morning, but the drivers had suddenly refused to budge until the following day. Hawksworth had confronted his driver, Nayka, a dark-skinned low-caste man with the spindly limbs of the underfed, and demanded to know why. Nayka had twisted his head deferentially, riveting his eyes on the ground, and explained in halting Turki.
"Today is Saturday, Captain Sahib. Saturdays and
Tuesdays are sacred to the goddess Devi, the Divine Mother. Journeys begun on those days always meet disaster. Bandits, tigers, washed-out roads. A Mussalman once made my cousin bring a cart of indigo to Surat from a village down the river on a Tuesday, and a bridge broke under his load. Both of his bullocks were drowned."
It was mid-afternoon on Sunday when the caravan finally pulled out from the water tank at Surat's Abidjan Gate. By nightfall they had traveled threekos, reaching the outskirts of the village of Cossaria. The next day they made twelvekoseast-northeast to reach the town of Karod, a strategic fort on the Tapti, dominated by a hilltop castle that garrisoned two hundred Rajput soldiers. The next three days their camp stages had been the towns of Viara, Corka, and the large garrison city of Narayanpur.
On the insistence of Mirza Nuruddin, Hawksworth had carried only a minimal amount of money with him. Instead he had adopted the practice of Indian merchants, leaving a chest of silver in Surat and receiving a letter of credit, which could be debited for cash at major stops along the road to Agra. Moneylenders received negotiable notes against the silver deposit, which would be paid in Surat at 7 percent surcharge, thereby allowing travelers along the bandit-infested roads to carry cheques instead of cash.
Hawksworth found himself annoyed that Vasant Rao never allowed the caravan to stop inside the towns, where traditional Indian guest houses—a stone floor and a roof— were available free for travelers. Instead they camped each evening on the outskirts, while a few Rajputs rode in to the town bazaar to buy fresh vegetables, bricks of cow dung for cooking, and betel leaves for the drivers.
The evening they reached Narayanpur, the governor of the garrison, Partab Shah, had paid a surprise visit to their camp, bringing his own troup ofnautchwomen. While the women entertained the Rajputs with an evening of dance and low-priced intimacy, Partab Shah whispered warnings to Hawksworth that the road farther east was no longer safe now that civil rule in the Deccan was teetering. The governor had offered to provide additional troops to escort the English ambassador and his gifts for the Moghul safely through the district. To the governor's—and Hawksworth's—dismay, Vasant Rao had politely declined.
It had been well after midnight when the governor and his aides rose to return to Narayanpur. Vasant Rao had insisted that the women be sent with him. Then he convened the Rajputs and drivers and announced that they would assemble the caravan two hours before sunup the following morning, an hour earlier than usual. They would try to reach and ford the Tapti before nightfall, then veer northeast for Burhanpur. Hawksworth thought he detected a trace of worry in Vasant Rao's voice for the first time.
They were well underway by sunup the next day, and as he fought off sleep in the rising heat, Hawksworth reflected on what he had seen along the road. It was clear the larger towns were collection depots for the Surat region, centers where grain, cotton, indigo, and hemp were assembled for delivery to the port. As their caravan rumbled through town after town, Hawksworth began to find them merely a provincial version of Surat, equally frenetic and self-absorbed. Their bazaars bustled with haggling brokers and an air of commerce triumphant. After a time he began to find them more wearisome than exotic.
But between these towns lived the other India, one of villages unchanged for centuries. To a Londoner and seaman they were another world, and Hawksworth understood almost nothing of what he saw. Several times he had started to ask Vasant Rao some question about a village, but the time never seemed right. The Rajput was constantly occupied with the progress of the caravan and never spoke unless he was giving an order. The long silence of the road had gathered between them until it was almost an invisible wall.
For no apparent reason this changed suddenly on the afternoon after Narayanpur, as the caravan rumbled into the small village of Nimgul and began working its way along the single road through the town. Vasant Rao drew his mount alongside Hawksworth's and pointed to a white plaster building up ahead that dominated the center of the village.
"I grew to manhood in a village such as this, Captain, in a house much like that one there."
Hawksworth examined the well-kept house, and then the village around it. Spreading away on all sides were tumbledown thatch-roofed homes of sticks and clay, many raised on foot-high stilts to keep them above the seasonal mud. Gaunt, naked children swarmed about the few remaining trees, their voices piping shrilly at play, while elderly men lounged on the porches smoking hookahs. Most of the able-bodied men seemed to be in the fields, leaving their women—unsmiling laborers in drab body-length wraps, a large marriage ring dangling from one nostril—to toil in the midday sun combing seeds from large stacks of cotton, shelling piles of small-eared corn, and boiling a dense brown liquid in wide iron pans.
Vasant Rao drew up his horse in front of the pans and spoke rapidly with one of the sad-eyed women. There was a tinkle of her heavy silver bracelets as she bowed to him, then turned to ask a turbaned overseer to offer them two clay cups of the liquid. Vasant Rao threw the man a small coin, a copperpice, and passed one of the cups to Hawksworth. It was viscous and sweeter than anything he had ever tasted. Vasant Rao savored a mouthful, then discarded the cup into the road.
"They're boiling cane juice to makegur, those brown blocks of sugar you see in the bazaars, for the Brahmin landholders to sell. She's a Camar, a low caste, and she works from sunup to dusk for a day's supply ofchapattis, fried wheat cakes, for her household. Wages haven't risen in the villages since I was a boy."
"Why did she ask the overseer to bring you the cup?"
"Because I'm a Rajput." Vasant Rao seemed startled by the question. "I would pollute my caste if I took a cup from the hand of a Camar. If a Rajput or a Brahmin eats food that's been handled by a member of the low castes, he may be obligated to undergo ritual purification. If you are born to a high caste, Captain, you must honor its obligations."
Hawksworth studied him, wondering why he had finally decided to talk.
Security had been unaccountably tight for a shipment of lead. Vasant Rao had insisted that all carts be kept within the perimeter of the camp, inside the circle of guards. No one, neither drivers nor guards, had been allowed to touch the contents of the carts: sealed packages individually wrapped and lashed in bricks.
"Did you grow up around here?" Hawksworth tried to widen the opening.
"No, of course not." He laughed sharply. "Only aferinghiwould ask that. I was born in the foothills of the Himalayas, hundreds ofkosnorth of Agra. In a Rajput village. The villages in the Surat district are ruled by Brahmins."
"Are Rajput villages like this?"
"All villages are more or less the same, Captain. How could it be otherwise? They're all Hindu. This is the real India, my friend. Muslims and Moghuls, and now Christians, come and go. This stays the same. These villages will endure long after the marble cities of the Moghuls are dust. That's why I feel peace here. Knowing this cannot be destroyed, no matter who rules in Agra."
Hawksworth looked about the village. It seemed to be ruled by cattle. They roamed freely, arrogantly, secure in the centuries-old instinct that they were sacred and inviolable. Naked children had begun to swarm after the carts, and a few young women paused to cast discreet glances at the handsome Rajput horsemen. But the main work pressed monotonously forward. It was a place untouched by the world beyond its horizons.
"You said this was a Brahmin village. Are all the men here priests?"
"Of course not." Vasant Rao grunted a laugh and gestured toward the fields beyond. "Who would do the work? There must be the other castes, or the Brahmins would starve. Brahmins and Rajputs are forbidden by the laws of caste from working the land. I meant this village is ruled by Brahmins, although I'd guess no more than one family in ten is high caste. The brick and plaster homes there in the center of the village probably belong to Brahmins. The villages of India, Captain Hawksworth, are not ruled by the Moghuls.They're ruled by the high castes. Here, the Brahmins, in other villages, the Rajputs. These, together with some merchants called Banias, make up the high-caste Hindus, the wearers of the sacred thread of the twice born, the real owners and rules of India. All the other castes exist to serve them."
"I thought there were only four castes."
Hawksworth remembered that Mukarrab Khan had once described the caste system of the Hindus with obvious Muslim disgust. There are four castes, he had explained, each striving to exploit those below. The greatest exploiters called themselves Brahmin, probably Aryan invaders who had arrived thousands of years past and now proclaimed themselves "preservers of tradition." That tradition, which they invented, was mainly subjugation of all the others. Next came the Kshatriya, the warrior caste, which had been claimed by Rajput tribes who also had invaded India, probably well after the Brahmins. The third caste, also "high," was called Vaisya, and was supposed to be made up of society's producers of foods and goods. Now it was the caste claimed by rich, grasping Hindu merchants. Below all these were the Sudra, who were in effect the servants and laborers for the powerful "high" castes. But even the Sudra had someone to exploit, for beneath them were the Untouchables, those unfortunates in whose veins probably ran the blood of the original inhabitants of India. The Untouchables had no caste. The part that annoyed Mukarrab Khan the most was that high-caste Hindus regarded all Muslims as part of the mass of Untouchables.
"The four main castes are those prescribed in the order of thevarna, the ancient Aryan scriptures. But the world of the village has little to do with thevarna. Today there are many castes," Vasant Rao continued, reflecting to himself how he loathed most Brahmins, who took every opportunity to claim caste superiority over Rajputs. "For example, the Brahmins here probably have two subcastes—one for the priests, who think up ceremonies as an excuse to collect money, and the other for the landowners, most of whom are also moneylenders. "There"—he pointed—"that man is a Brahmin."
Hawksworth saw a shirtless man standing by one of the white plaster homes. He wore a dingy loincloth beneath his enormous belly, and as Hawksworth examined him he noticed a strand of thread that circled around his neck and under his left arm.
"Why is he wearing a cord around his shoulder?"
"That's the sacred thread of the high castes. I wear one myself." Vasant Rao opened his shirt to reveal a strand of three colored threads, woven together. "It's consecrated and given to boys around age ten at a very important ceremony. Before the thread ceremony a boy has no caste. An orthodox Brahmin won't even eat with his son until after the boy's thread ceremony."
Hawksworth examined the thread. It was the first time he'd noticed it.
"What about the men who don't wear a thread?"
"They're the middle castes, the ones who do the work in a village. Carpenters, potters, weavers, barbers. They serve the high castes and each other. The barber shaves the potter; the potter makes his vessels. The Brahmins here probably won't sell them any land, so they'll always be poor. That's why the middle castes live in houses of mud and thatch instead of brick. And below them are the unclean castes. Sweepers, servants, shoemakers."
And below them are the non-Hindus, Hawksworth thought. Me.
"What the hell's the reason for all this? It's worse than the class system in England. I'll drink with any man, high or low. I have. And I usually prefer to drink with the low."
"That may explain why mostferinghisseem so confused and unhappy. Caste is the most important thing in life." Vasant Rao glanced over his shoulder at the receding village. "It's the reason India's civilization has lasted for thousands of years. I pity your misfortune, Captain Hawksworth, not to have been born a Hindu. Perhaps you were once, and will be again in some future life. I think you'll someday be reborn a Kshatriya, a member of the warrior caste. Then you'll know who you are, what you must do. Unlike the Moghuls and the other Muslims, who have no caste and never know their purpose in life, a Rajput always knows."
As they rode on through the countryside Hawksworth tried to understand the purpose of castes. Its absurdity annoyed him.
Mukarrab khan was right for once. It's just a class system, devised by the highborn to keep the others in submission. But why do they all seem to believe in it? Why don't the so-called lower castes just tell the others to go to hell?
As they neared the next village, he decided to try to guess who was in which caste. But the central road in the village was deserted. Instead all the villagers, men and women, were clustered around a tall, brightly painted pole that had been erected near one of the dingy thatch homes. Vasant Rao's face brightened when he saw the pole.
"There must be a wedding here today. Have you ever seen one?"
"No. Not in India."
"This is a powerful moment, Captain, when you feel the force ofprahna, the life spirit."
Vasant Rao pointed toward a pavilion that had been erected next to the marriage pole. From horseback Hawksworth could just make out the bride and groom, both dressed in red wraps trimmed in silver. The groom wore a high turban, on top of which were ceremonial decorations, and the bride was so encrusted with precious metals she might have been a life-size ornament: her hands, wrists, feet, ankles, and her head were all adorned with elaborately worked silver rings, bracelets, medallions. Her necklace was a string of large gold coins.
"Where'd she get all the silver and gold?"
"Her father is probably a big landowner. Those ornaments are her savings and part of her dowry. Look, all the women wear thick bracelets of silver on their ankles. There's much gold and silver in India, Captain."
As Hawksworth watched, a Brahmin priest, his forehead streaked with white clay, finished lighting a fire in a central brazier and then began to recite.
"The priest is reciting from the Vedas, Sanskrit scriptures thousands of years old," Vasant Rao continued as they watched. "This is a ritual going back to the dawn of time."
The couple began repeating the priest's verses, their faces intent and solemn.
"They're taking the marriage vows now. There are seven. The most important is the wife's vow of complete obedience to her husband. See the silver knife he carries? That's to symbolize his dominion over her. But really, she will belong to his entire family when she finally comes to live at his house."
"What do you mean by 'finally'?"
"These things take time. To begin with, a marriage proposal must come from the family of the girl. As she approaches womenhood, her father will hire a marriage broker, probably the village barber, to go to surrounding villages to look for a suitable match. I remember when I was young and they used to come to my village." Vasant Rao's face assumed a faraway expression. "I didn't want to marry and I dreaded seeing them, but unfortunately I was a good catch. My subcaste is high, and I had many sisters, which meant more women to share the work in our house. Then one day my father ordered the priest to cast my horoscope and I knew I was lost. A broker had brought an inquiry from a girl who had a compatible horoscope. Soon after, the engagement ceremony was held in our house. The girl was not there, of course; I didn't see her until three years later. When we finally had the ceremony you see here."
The bride and groom were standing together now, and they began to circle the fire while the women standing nearby sang a monotonous, repetitive song. Hawksworth counted seven turns of the fire. Then they seated themselves and the priest placed a red dot on the forehead of man and wife.
"They'll feast tonight, and then the groom will return to his village." Vasant Rao spurred his mount to catch up with the caravan. "Later she and her family will go there for more ceremonies. After that the groom may not see her again for several years, until the day her father decides she's ready for thegauna, the consummation of the marriage. I didn't see my bride again for two years."
"What happened then?"
"She came to my village for a few days and stayed in the women's quarters—the men and women sleep apart in these villages—and I had to go there and try to find her cot. After that she went back home and it was several months later before I saw her again. Then she came back, for a longer time. Finally she moved to my village, but by then I was nineteen and soon after I left on a campaign. She stayed with my younger brother while I was gone, and when I returned, she was with child. Who can say whether it was mine or his? But none of it matters, for she died in childbirth." He spurred his horse past the line of carts. "Let's try to make the river before sundown."
Hawksworth couldn't believe what he had heard, and he whipped his mount to catch up.
"Your brother kept your wife while you were away?"
"Of course. I don't know how it is here, but in the part of India where I was born, brothers normally share each other's wives. I used to go to my older brother's house when he was gone and visit his wife. She expected it and would have been upset if I hadn't come to her." Vasant Rao was puzzled by Hawksworth's surprise. "Don't brothers share one another's wives in England?"
"Well, not. . . usually. I mean . . . no. Hell no. It's damned close to incest. The truth is a husband would have grounds to call out a man he caught with his wife. And especially a brother."
"'Call him out,' Captain? What does that mean?"
"A duel. With swords. Or maybe pistols."
Vasant Rao was incredulous.
"But what if a man goes away on a campaign? His wife will grow frustrated. Hindus believe a woman has seven times the sexual energy of a man. She would start meeting other men in the village if a man didn't have a brother to keep her satisfied. In the village where I grew up, if a man and woman met together by chance in the forest, and they had the same caste, we all assumed they would make the most of the opportunity. So it's better for the honor of the family if your brothers care for your wife. It's an important duty for brothers. And besides, as long as a woman attends to her own husband's needs, what does it matter if his brother enjoys her also?"
Hawksworth found himself astonished.
"How does . . . I mean, what about this brother's own wife? What does she think about all this?"
"If her husband wants to visit his brothers' wives, what should she care? It's normal. She'll also find ways to meet her husband's brothers for the same purpose. Women married to brothers often try to send each other away on errands, in order to enjoy the other's husband. So wives have no reason to complain. In fact, if a woman returns to her own village for a visit, she will probably seek out some of the men she knew when she was young and enjoy them, since her husband is not around and no one in her own village would tell him. Hindus in the villages don't lock away their women the way the Muslims do, Captain Hawksworth. And because they're free to enjoy whoever they wish, they aren't frustrated and unhappy the way Muslim women are. Surely your England is an advanced country where women have the same freedom."
Hawksworth puzzled for a minute before trying to answer. The truth is there's a big difference between what's said and what's done. With chastity praised from the pulpits and whores the length of London. And highborn ladies thronging the playhouses, ready to cuckold their husbands with any cavalier who'll give them a look. How can I explain it?
"I guess you'd say upper-class women have the most freedom to take lovers. Usually young gallants or soldiers. And no one is surprised if her husband makes full use of his serving wench."
"Are these soldiers and serving women from a lower caste?"
"Well, we don't exactly have . . ." Hawksworth paused for a moment. "Actually I guess you could say they're a lower 'caste,' in a way."
Vasant reined in his mount and inspected Hawksworth for a moment in disgust.
"Please excuse me if I say yours must be a very immoral country. Captain. Such a thing would never happen in India. No Rajput would touch the body of a low caste. It would be pollution."
"You don't care what your women do? All that matters is who they do it with?" Hawksworth suddenly realized he found it all too absurd to believe. It sounds like another tale of the Indies. Concocted to entertain credulous seamen. "All right, then, what about your own wife? Did she have other men besides your brothers?"
"How would I know?" Vasant Rao waved his hand, dismissing the question as insignificant. "I suppose it's possible. But after she died I decided I'd had enough of wives and women. I took a vow of chastity. There's the legend of a god named Hanumanji, who took on the flesh of a monkey and who gained insuperable strength by retaining his semen. It made him invulnerable." Vasant Rao smiled. "So far it's worked for me as well. But to protect the charm, I eat no meat and drink a glass of opium each day."
The Rajput suddenly spurred his mount toward the head of the caravan. The sun had disappeared behind a heavy bank of storm clouds in the west, and the road had already begun to darken. The river was probably still another hour away, perhaps two hours.
Hawksworth studied Vasant Rao's tall, commanding form, sitting erect and easy in the saddle.
Sweet Jesus, he thinks he's invulnerable because he avoids women and drinks opium. Rajputs are even madder than the damned Turks. And he thinks the high castes rule by the will of God. I wonder what the low castes think?
Hawksworth puzzled through the Rajput's words and half-dozed in the saddle until he realized they were finally approaching the river. Ahead, past groves of mango trees, lay a sandy expanse leading down toward the water's edge. As they approached, Vasant Rao sent some of his horsemen to scout along the riverbank in both directions to find a shallow spot for crossing. The caravan followed the stream for half akos, then halted on a sandy plain that sloped gradually down toward the wide stream. The water rippled slightly all the way across, signifying there were no lurking depths to swallow a cart.
The sun was dying, washing a veneer of gold over the high dark clouds threatening in the east. The smell of rain hinted in the evening air. Vasant Rao peered across the water's darkening surface for a time, while the drivers waited patiently for orders to begin crossing, then he turned to the waiting Rajputs.
"The light is too far gone." He stroked the mane of his gray stallion and again studied the clouds building where the sun had been. "It's safer to camp here and cross in the morning."
He signaled the head driver and pointed the Rajputs toward a sandy expanse close to the water's edge. In moments the drivers were urging their teams toward the spot, circling them in preparation for the night.
"The carts will go on the riverside, and we'll camp here." He specified areas for the Rajputs and the drivers, and then he turned to Hawksworth and pointed out a large mango tree. "Your tent can go there."
Hawksworth had been required by the Rajputs to keep a separate area for his campfire and cooking. Vasant Rao had explained the reasons the first evening of the journey.
"Food is merely an external part of the body, Captain, so naturally it must be kept from pollution. Food is transformed into blood, and the blood eventually turns to flesh, the flesh to fat, and the fat to marrow. The marrow turns to semen, the life-force. Since you have no caste, a Rajput would become polluted if he allowed you to touch his food, or even the pots in which he cooked."
Hawksworth's driver, being a low caste, had no objection to cooking and eating with the English ambassador. Their diet on the trip had been simple. The Rajputs lived mainly on game they killed as they rode, though some occasionally ate fish. A few seemed to subsist on rice, wheat cakes, and boiled lentils. That night, as an experiment, Hawksworth ordered his driver, Nayka, to prepare a dinner of whatever he himself was having. Then he reclined against his saddle, poured himself a tankard of brandy, and watched the preparations.
Nayka struck up a fire of twigs, to ignite the chips of dried
cow dung used for the real cooking, and then he began to heat a curved pan containingghee, butter that had been boiled and strained to prevent rancidity. Although the Rajputs cooked in vegetable oil, Nayka had insisted from the first that a personage as important as the Englishferinghishould eat only clarified butter. The smoldering chips of dung took a long time to heat, but finally the ghee seemed ready. Nayka had ground spices as he waited, and he began to throw them into the hot fat to sputter. Then he chopped vegetables and dropped them in to fry. In a separate pot he was already boiling lentils, together with a yellow spice he called turmeric. As the meal neared readiness, he began to frychappatis, thin patties of unleavened wheat flour mixed with water and ghee. Then Hawksworth watched in shock as Nayka discreetly dropped a coal of burning cow dung into the pot of cooking lentils.
"What the hell was that?"
"Flavoring, Captain Sahib." Nayka's Turkish had been learned through procuring women for Turkish seamen, and it was heavily accented and abrupt. "It's the secret of the flavor of our lentils."
"Is that 'high-caste' practice?"
"I think it is the same for all." Nayka examined him for a moment, twisting his head deferentially. "Does the Sahib know about caste?"
"I know it's a damnable practice."
"The Sahib says what the Sahib says, but caste is a very good thing."
"How do you figure that?"
"Because I will be reborn a Brahmin. I went to a soothsayer who told me. My next life will be marvelous."
"But what about this life?"
"My present birth was due to a very grave mistake. The soothsayer explained it. He said that in my last life I was a Rajput. Once I ordered my cook to prepare a gift for some Brahmins, to bake bread for them, and inside the bread I had put gold. It was an act of great merit. But the faithless cook betrayed me. He stole the gold and put stones in its place. The Brahmins were very insulted, but no one ever told me why. Because I had insulted Brahmins, I was reborn as I am. But my next life will be different. I will be rich and have many women. Like a Brahmin or a Rajput." Nayka's eyes gleamed in anticipation.
"The improvement in money I can understand." Hawksworth examined Nayka's ragged dhoti. "But what does it matter when it comes to women? There seems to be plenty of randy women to go around, in all castes."
"That's true if you are a Rajput or a Brahmin. Then no woman of any caste can refuse you. But if you are a low caste, and you are caught with a high-caste woman, you'll probably be beaten to death by the Rajputs. They would say you were polluting her caste."
"Wait a minute. I thought Rajputs would have nothing to do with a low-caste woman." Hawksworth remembered Vasant Rao's stern denial.
"Who told you that?" Nayka smiled at Hawksworth's naivete. "I would guess a Rajput. They always deny it to strangers, so you won't form unfavorable ideas about the high castes. Let me tell you that it is a lie, Captain Sahib. They take our women all the time, and there is nothing we can say. But a low-caste man with a high-caste woman is another matter."
"But what about their 'ritual pollution'? They're not supposed to touch the low castes."
"It's very simple. A Rajput can take one of our women if he chooses, and then just take a bath afterward and he is clean again."
"But can't a high-caste woman do the same, if she's been with a low-caste man?"
"No, Captain Sahib. Because they say her pollution is internal. She has the polluting emissions of the low-caste man within her. So there is no way she can be purified. It's the way the high castes control their women. But if you're a man, you can have any woman you please, and there's nothing anyone can say." Again Nayka's eyes brightened. "It will be wonderful the day I am reborn. Caste is a wonderful thing."
Hawksworth studied the half-starved, almost toothless
man who stood before him barefoot, grinning happily.
Well, enjoy your dreams, you poor miserable son-of-a- bitch. I'll not be the one to tell you this life is all you get.
He took a slug of brandy and returned to his dung-flavored lentils. Taken with some of the charcoal-flavored bread they were actually better than he'd expected.
Vasant Rao had already summoned the Rajputs and made assignments for the evening guard duty. Guards were to be doubled. Hawksworth remained astounded by the Rajput concept of security. A large kettledrum was set up at the head of the camp and continually beaten from dusk to dawn. A detail of Rajputs would march around the perimeter of the camp throughout the night, and on the quarter hour a shout of "khabardar," meaning "take heed," would circle the camp. The first night Hawksworth had found it impossible to sleep for the noise, but the second night and thereafter his weariness overtook him.
He poured himself another brandy and watched as Nayka scrubbed out the cooking pans with ashes and sand. Then the driver rolled a betel leaf for Hawksworth and another for himself and set to work erecting the tent, which was nothing more than four poles with a canopy. After this he unloaded Hawksworth's cot, a foot-high wooden frame strung with hemp. None of the Rajputs used cots; they preferred a thin pallet on the ground.
Nayka seemed to work more slowly as he started unrolling the bedding onto the hemp strings of the cot, and he began to glance nervously at the sky. Suddenly he stopped and slipped quietly to where the other drivers were encamped, seated on their haunches around a fire, passing the mouthpiece of a hookah. A long discussion followed, with much pointing at the sky. Then Nayka returned and approached Hawksworth, twisting his head in the deferential bow all Indians seemed to use to superiors. He stood for a moment in hesitation, and then summoned the courage to speak.
"It is not well tonight. Sahib. We have traveled this road many times." He pointed east into the dark, where new lightning played across the hovering bank of clouds. "There has been rain near Chopda, farther east where the river forks. In twopaharstime, six of your hours, the river will begin to rise here."
"How much will it rise?"
"Only the gods can tell. But the river will spread beyond its banks and reach this camp. I have seen it. And it will remain impassable for three days."
"How can you be sure?"
"I have seen it before, Sahib. The drivers all know and they are becoming afraid. We know the treachery of this river very well. But the other bank is near high ground. If we crossed tonight we would be safe." Again he shifted his head deferentially. "Will you please tell the raja?"
To the drivers, Vasant Rao could only be a raja, a hereditary prince. All important Rajputs were automatically called rajas.
"Tell him yourself."
"We would rather you tell him, Captain Sahib. He is a high caste. It would not be right for us to tell a raja what to do."
Hawksworth watched for a moment as the Rajput guards began taking their placearound the perimeter of the camp, and then he looked sadly at his waiting cot.
Damn. Crossing in the dark could be a needless risk. Why didn't the drivers say something while we still had light? God curse them and their castes.
Then with a shrug of resignation he rose and made his way to Vasant Rao's tent.
The Rajput leader had already removed his helmet, but after listening to Hawksworth he reluctantly strapped it back on and called for his second in command. Together they examined the clouds and then walked down to the river.
In the dark no one could tell if it had begun to rise. Vasant Rao ordered three Rajputs to ride across carrying torches, to test the depth and mark out a path. The river was wide, but it still was no more than a foot or two deep. When the third Rajput finally reached the far shore, over a hundred yards away, Vasant Rao issued orders to assemble the convoy.
The drivers moved quickly to harness their bullocks, which had been tethered to stakes near bundles of hay. The weary cattle tossed their heads and sniffed suspiciously at the moist air as they were whipped into harness. Meanwhile the Rajput guards began saddling their horses.
Hawksworth saddled his own mare and watched as his cot and tent were rolled and strapped into the cart alongside his chest. He stared again into the darkness that enveloped the river. Nothing could be seen except the three torches on the distant shore. Suddenly he seemed to hear a warning bell in the back of his mind.