We're too exposed. Half the guard will be in the river while we cross. And there'll be no way to group the carts if we need to.He paused a moment, then retrieved his sword from the cart and buckled it on. Next he checked the prime on the two matchlock pocket pistols he carried, one in each boot.Five mounted Rajputs holding torches led as the convoy started across the sandy alluvium toward the river. Hawksworth's cart was the first to move, and as he drew his mare alongside, Nayka threw him a grateful smile through the flickering light of the torch strapped against one of the cart's poles."You've saved us all. Captain Sahib. When the river grows angry, nothing can appease her."The bullocks nosed warily at the water, but Nayka gave them the lash and they waded in without protest. The bed was gravel, smoothed by the long action of the stream, and the water was still shallow, allowing the large wheels of the carts to roll easily. Hawksworth pulled his mount close to the cart and let its enormous wheel splash coolness against his horse's flank.The current grew swifter as they reached the center of the stream, but the bullocks plodded along evenly, almost as though they were on dry ground. Then the current eased again, and Hawksworth noticed that the Rajputs riding ahead had already reined in their mounts, signifying they had gained the far shore. Their five torches merged with the three of the Rajputs already waiting, and together they lined the water's edge.Hawksworth twisted in the saddle and looked back at the line of carts. They traveled abreast in pairs, a torchman riding between, and the caravan had become an eerie procession of waving lights and shadows against the dark water. The last carts were in the river now, and Vasant Rao was riding rapidly toward him, carrying a torch.Looks like I was wrong again, Hawksworth thought, and he turned to rein his horse as it stumbled against a submerged rock.The torches along the shore were gone.He stared in disbelief for a moment, and then he saw them sputtering in the water's edge. Lightning flashed in the east, revealing the silhouettes of the Rajputs' mounts, stumbling along the shore, their saddles empty. He whirled to check the caravan behind him, and at that moment an arrow ricocheted off the pole of the cart and ripped cleanly through the side of his jerkin. He suddenly realized the torch lashed to the side of the cart illuminated him brilliantly, and he drew his sword and swung at its base, slicing it in half. As it fell, sputtering, he saw a second arrow catch Nayka squarely in the throat and he watched the driver spin and slump wordlessly into the water.Godforsaken luckless Hindu. Now you can be reborn a Brahmin. Only sooner than you thought.A shout of alarm erupted from behind, and he looked to see the remaining Rajputs charging in formation, bows already drawn. The water churned around him as they dashed by, advancing on the shore. The Rajputs' horn bows hissed in rapid succession as they sent volleys of bamboo arrows into the darkness. But the returning rain of arrows was dense and deadly. He saw the Rajput nearest him suddenly pivot backward in the saddle, an arrow lodged in his groin, below his leather chest guard. Hawksworth watched incredulously as the man clung to his saddle horn for a long last moment, pulling himself erect and releasing a final arrow before tumbling into the water.Again lightning flared across the sky, and in the sudden illumination Hawksworth could see shapes along the shore, an army of mounted horsemen, well over a hundred. Theywere drawn in tight formation, calmly firing into the approaching Rajputs. The lightning flashed once more, a broad sheet of fire across the sky, and at that moment Hawksworth saw Vasant Rao gain the shore, where he was instantly surrounded by a menacing wall of shields and pikes.Then more of the Rajputs gained the shore, and he could hear their chant of "Ram Ram," their famous battle cry. The horsemen were moving on the caravan now, and when the lightning blazed again Hawksworth realized he had been surrounded.The dark figure in the lead seized Hawksworth's right arm from behind and began to grapple for his sword. As he struggled to draw it away, the butt end of a pike came down hard on his forearm. A shot of pain pierced through to his mind, clearing away the last haze of the brandy."You bastard." Hawksworth realized he was shouting in English. "Get ready to die."He twisted forward and with his free hand stretched for the pistol in his boot. Slowly his grip closed about the cool horn of the handle, and with a single motion he drew it upward, still grasping the sword.As he raised himself erect he caught the outline of a dark object swinging above him in the air. Then the lightning flashed again, glinting off the three large silver knobs. They were being swung by the man who held his sword arm.My God, it's agurz, the three-headed club some of the Rajputs carry on their saddle. It's a killer.He heard it arc above him, singing through the dark. Unlike the Rajputs, he had no leather helmet, no padded armor. There was no time to avoid the blow, but he had the pistol now, and he shoved it into the man's gut and squeezed.There was a sudden blinding flash of light. It started at his hand, but then it seemed to explode inside his skull. The world had grown white, like the marble walls of Mukarrab Khan's music room, and for a moment he thought he heard again the echo of drumbeats. The cycle swelled sensuously, then suddenly reached its culmination, when all pent-up emotion dissolved. In the silence that followed, there was only the face of Mukarrab Khan, surrounded by his eunuchs, his smile slowly fading into black.CHAPTER FOURTEENThe light of a single flame tip burned through the haze of his vision, and then he heard words around him, in a terse language as ancient as time. He tried to move, and an aching soreness shot through his shoulders and into his groin. His head seemed afire.I must be dead. Why is there still pain?He forced his swollen eyelids wider, and a room slowly began to take form. It was a cell, with heavy bamboo slats over the windows and an ancient wooden latch on the door. The floor was earth and the walls gray mud with occasional inscriptions in red. Next to him was a silhouette, the outline of a man squatting before an oil lamp and slowly repeating a sharp, toneless verse. He puzzled at the words as he studied the figure.It's the language of the priest at the wedding. It must be Sanskrit. But who . . . ?He pulled himself upward on an elbow and turned toward the figure, which seemed to flicker in the undulating shadows. Then he recognized the profile of Vasant Rao. The verses stopped abruptly and the Rajput turned to examine him."So you're not dead? That could be a mistake you'll regret." Vasant Rao's face sagged and his once-haughty moustache was an unkempt tangle. He stared at Hawksworth a moment more, then turned back to the lamp. The Sanskrit verses resumed."Where the hell are we?"Vasant Rao paused, and then slowly revolved toward Hawksworth."In the fortress village of Bhandu, tenkosnorthwest of thetown of Chopda. It's the mountain stronghold of the Chandella dynasty of Rajputs.""And who the hell are they?""They claim direct descent from the ancient solar race of Rajputs described in the Puranas. Who knows, but that's what they believe. What we all do know is they've defended these hills for all of time.""Did they take the caravan?"A bolt of humiliation and pain swept through Vasant Rao's eyes for a moment and then his reserve returned. "Yes, it was taken.""So your mighty 'solar race' is really a breed of God- cursed common bandits.""Bandits, they are. They always have been. Common, no. They're professionals, honorable men of high caste.""High-caste thieves. Like some of the merchants I've met." Hawksworth paused and tried to find his tongue. His mouth was like cotton. "How long've we been here?""This is the morning of our second day. We arrived yesterday, after traveling all night.""I feel like I've been keelhauled for a week." Hawksworth gingerly touched his forehead and there was a pulse of pain.Vasant Rao listened with a puzzled expression. "You were tied over your horse. Some of the clan wanted to kill you and leave you there, but then they decided that would give you too much honor.""What the hell are you talking about? I remember I gave them a fight.""You used a pistol. You killed a man, the head of this dynasty, with a pistol."The words seemed to cut through the shadows of the room. The pain returned and ached through Hawksworth's body.More deaths. The two men who died on theDiscovery. I saw Nayka die with an arrow in his throat. And how many of the Rajput guards died? Why am I always in the middle of fighting and death?"The bastards killed my driver.""The driver was nothing. A low caste." He shrugged it away. "You are an importantferinghi. You would not have been harmed. You should never have drawn a pistol. And then you allowed yourself to be captured. It was an act beneath honor. The women spat on you and your horse when you were brought through the streets. I have no doubt they'll kill us both now.""Who's left alive?""No one. My men died like Rajputs." A trace of pride flashed through his eyes before they dimmed again with sadness. "When they knew they could not win, that they had failed the prince, they vowed to die fighting. And all did.""But you're still alive."The words seemed almost like a knife in the Rajput's heart."They would not kill me. Or let me die honorably." He paused and stared at Hawksworth. "There was a reason, but it doesn't concern you.""So all the men died? But why did they kill the drivers?""The drivers weren't killed." Vasant Rao looked surprised. "I never said that."I keep forgetting, Hawksworth told himself, that only high castes count as men in this God-forsaken land."This whole damned country is mad." The absurdity overwhelmed him. "Low castes, your own people, handled like slaves, and high castes who kill each other in the name of honor. A pox on Rajputs and their fornicating honor.""Honor is very important. Without honor what is left? We may as well be without caste. The warrior caste lives by a code set down in the Laws of Manu many thousands of years ago." He saw Hawksworth's impatience and smiled sadly. "Do you understand what's meant bydharma?”"It sounds like another damned Hindu invention. Another excuse to take life.""Dharmais something, Captain Hawksworth, without which life no longer matters. No Christian, or Muslim, has ever been able to understanddharma, since it is the order that defines our castes—and those born outside India are doomed to live forever without a caste.Dharmadefines who we are and what we must do if we are to maintain our caste. Warfare is thedharmaof the Kshatriya, the warrior caste.""And I say a pox on caste. What's so honorable about Rajputs slaughtering each other?""Warriors are bound by theirdharmato join in battle against other warriors. A warrior who fails in his duty sins against thedharmaof his caste." Vasant Rao paused. "But why am I bothering to tell you this? I sound like Krishna, lecturing Arjuna on his duty as a warrior.""Who's Krishna? Another Rajput?""He's a god, Captain Hawksworth, sacred to all Rajputs. He teaches us that a warrior must always honor hisdharma."Vasant Rao's eyes seemed to burn through the shadows of the cell. From outside Hawksworth heard the distant chantings of some village ceremony."If you'll listen,feringhicaptain, I'll tell you something about a warrior'sdharma. There's a legend, many thousands of years old, of a great battle joined between two branches of a powerful dynasty in ancient India. Two kings were brothers, and they shared a kingdom, but their sons could not live in peace. One branch wished to destroy the other. Eventually a battle was joined, a battle to the death. As they waited on the field for the sound of the conch shell, to summon the forces, the leader of those sons who had been wronged suddenly declared that he could not bring himself to kill his own kinsmen. But the god Krishna, who was charioteer for this son, reminded him he must follow hisdharma. That there is no greater good for a warrior than to join battle for what is right. It's wrong only if he is attached to the fruits of battle, if he does it for gain. It's told in the Bhagavad-Gita, a Sanskrit scripture sacred to all warriors. I was reciting a verse from Chapter Twelve when you woke.""What did this god Krishna say?""He declared that all who live must die, and all who die will be reborn. The spirit within us all, theatman, cannot be destroyed. It travels through us on its journey from birth to rebirth. But it's not correct to say merely that it exists. It is existence. It is the only reality. It is present in everything because it is everything. Therefore there's no need to mourn for death. There is no death. The body is merely an appearance, by which theatmanreveals itself. The body is only its guardian. But a warrior who turns away from the duty of his caste sins against his honor and hisdharma. Krishna warned that this loss of honor could one day lead to the mixture of castes, and then the dharma of the universe, its necessary order, would be destroyed. It's not wrong for a Rajput to kill a worthy foe, Captain Hawksworth, it's his duty. Just as it's also his duty to die a worthy death.""Why all this killing in the name of 'honor' and 'duty"?""Non-Hindus always want to know 'why.' To 'understand.' You always seem to believe that words somehow contain all truth. But dharma simply is. It is the air we breathe, the changeless order around us. We're part of it. Does the earth ask why the monsoons come? Does the seed ask why the sun shines each day? No. It'sdharma. The dharma of the seed is to bear fruit. The dharma of the warrior caste is to do battle. Onlyferinghi, who live outside our dharma, ask 'why.' Truth is not something you 'understand.' It's something you're part of. It's something you feel with your being. And when you try to catch it with words, it's gone. Can the eagle tell you how he flies, Captain Hawksworth, or 'why"? If he could, he would no longer be an eagle. This is the great wisdom of India. We've learned it's wasted onferinghi, Captain, as I fear it's now wasted on you."The talk left Hawksworth feeling strangely insecure, his mind wrestling with ideas that defied rationality."I know there are things you understand with your gut, not with your head.""Then there may be hope for you, Captain Hawksworth. Now we will see if you can die like a Rajput. If you can, perhaps you will be reborn one of us.""Then I might even learn to be a bandit.""All Rajputs are not the same, Captain. There are many tribes, descended from different dynasties. Each has its own tradition and genealogy. I'm from the north. From the races descended from the moon. This tribe claims descent from the solar dynasty, which also began in the north. I think their genealogy goes back to the god Indra, who they claim brought them into being with the aid of the sun."Vasant Rao turned and continued reciting in Sanskrit. His face again became a mask.Hawksworth rubbed his head in confusion and suddenly felt a hard lump where the club had dropped. The fear began to well up in his stomach as he remembered the stony-faced riders who had surrounded him in the river. But he pushed aside thoughts of death.Dharmabe damned. What did he mean, they're members of a clan descended from the "solar dynasty"? They're killers, looking for an excuse to plunder.I'm not planning to die like a Rajput just yet. Or be reborn as one. Life is too sweet just as it is. I'm beginning to feel alive here, for the first time ever. Shirin is free. I've got a feeling I'll be seeing her again. Whatever happens, I don't care to die in this piss hole, with empty talk about honor. Think.He remembered the river again, and quickly felt in his boot. The other pistol was still there.We'll find a way to get out. Somehow. We may just lose a few days' time, that's all. We made good time so far. Six days. We left on Sunday, and we've been here two days. So today is probably Monday.He suddenly froze."Where are the carts?""At the south end of the village. Where they have thechans, the cattle sheds. The drivers are there too.""Is my chest there?""No. It's right there. Behind you." Vasant Rao pointed into the dark. "I told them it belonged to the Moghul, and they brought it here. I guess the Moghul still counts for something here. Maybe they're superstitious about him."Hawksworth pulled himself up and reached behind him. The chest was there. He fingered the cool metal of the lock and his mind began to clear even more. Quickly he began to search his jerkin for the key. Its pockets were empty.Of course. If I was tied over a horse it.. .Then he remembered. For safety he had transferred it to the pocket of his breeches the second day out. He felt down his leg, fighting the ache in his arm.Miraculously the key was still there.He tried to hold his excitement as he twisted it into the lock on the chest. Once, twice, and it clicked.He quickly checked the contents. Lute on top. Letter, still wrapped. Clothes. Then he felt deeper and touched the metal. Slowly he drew it out, holding his breath. It was still intact.The light from the lamp glanced off the burnished brass of the Persian astrolabe from the observatory. It had been Mukarrab Khan's parting gift.He carried it to the slatted window and carefully twisted each slat until the sun began to stream through.Thank God it's late in the year, when the sun's already lower at midday.He took a quick reading of the sun's elevation. It had not yet reached its zenith. He made a mental note of the reading and began to wait. Five minutes passed—they seemed hours—and he checked the elevation again. The sun was still climbing, but he knew it would soon reach its highest point.Vasant Rao continued to chant verses from the Bhagavad- Gita in terse, toneless Sanskrit.He probably thinks I'm praying too, Hawksworth smiled to himself.The reading increased, then stayed the same, then began to decrease. The sun had passed its zenith, and he had the exact reading of its elevation.He mentally recorded the reading, then began to rummage in the bottom of the chest for the seaman's book he always carried with him.We left Surat on October twenty-fourth. So October twenty-fifth was Karod, the twenty-sixth was Viara, the twenty-seventh was Corka, the twenty-eighth was Narayanpur, the twenty-ninth was the river. Today has to be October thirty-first.The book was there, its pages still musty from the moist air at sea. He reached the page he wanted and ran his finger down a column of figures until he reached the one he had read off the astrolabe.From the reading the latitude here is 21 degrees and 20minutes north.Then he began to search the chest for a sheaf of papers and finally his fingers closed around them, buried beneath his spare jerkin. He squinted in the half light as he went through the pages, the handwriting hurried from hasty work in the observatory. Finally he found what he wanted. He had copied it directly from the old Samarkand astronomer's calculations. The numerals were as bold as the day he had written them. The latitude was there, and the date.With a tight smile that pained his aching face he carefully wrapped the astrolabe and returned it to the bottom of the chest, together with the books. He snapped the lock in place just as the door of the cell swung open.He looked up to see the face of the man who had swung the club.Good Jesus, I thought he was dead. And he looks even younger. . . .Then Hawksworth realized it had to be his son. But the heavy brow, the dark beard, the narrow eyes, were all the same, almost as though his father's blood had flowed directly into his veins. He wore no helmet or breastplate now, only a simple robe, entirely white.The man spoke curtly to Vasant Rao in a language Hawksworth did not understand."He has ordered us to come with him. It's time for the ceremony. He says you must watch how the man you killed is honored."Vasant Rao rose easily and pinched out the oil lamp. In the darkened silence Hawksworth heard the lowing of cattle, as well as the distant drone of a chant. Outside the guards were waiting. He noted they carried sheathed swords. And they too were dressed in white.In the midday sunshine he quickly tried to survey the terrain. Jagged rock outcrops seemed to ring the village, with a gorge providing an easily protected entrance.He was right. It's a fortress. And probably impregnable.The road was wide, with rows of mud-brick homes on either side, and ahead was an open square, where a crowd had gathered. Facing the square, at the far end, was an immense house of baked brick, the largest in the fortress village, with a wide front and a high porch.As they approached the square, Hawksworth realized a deep pit had been newly excavated directly in the center. Mourners clustered nearby, silently waiting, while a group of women—five in all—held hands and moved slowly around the pit intoning a dirge.As they reached the side of the opening he saw the Rajput's body, lying face up on a fragrant bier of sandalwood andneembranches. His head and beard had been shaved and his body bound in a silk winding sheet. He was surrounded by garlands of flowers. The wood in the pit smelled ofgheeand rose-scented coconut oil. Nearby, Brahmin priests recited in Sanskrit."His body will be cremated with the full honor of a Rajput warrior." Vasant Rao stood alongside. "It's clear the Brahmins have been paid enough."Hawksworth looked around at the square and the nearby houses, their shutters all sealed in mourning. Chanting priests in ceremonial robes had stationed themselves near the large house, and an Arabian mare, all white and bedecked with flowers, was tied at the entrance. Suddenly the tones of mournful, discordant music sounded around him.As Hawksworth watched, the heavy wooden doors of the great house opened slowly and a woman stepped into the midday sunshine. Even from their distance he could see that she was resplendent—in an immaculate white wrap that sparkled with gold ornaments—and her movements regal as she descended the steps and was helped onto the horse. As she rode slowly in the direction of the pit, she was supported on each side by Brahmin priests, long-haired men with stripes of white clay painted down their forehead."She is his wife." Vasant Rao had also turned to watch. "Now you'll see a woman of the warrior caste follow herdharma."As the woman rode slowly by, Hawksworth sensed she was only barely conscious of her surroundings, as though she had been drugged. She circled the pit three times, then stopped near where Hawksworth and Vasant Rao were standing. As the priests helped her down from the mare, one urged her to drink again from a cup of dense liquid he carried. Her silk robe was fragrant with scented oil, and Hawksworth saw that decorations of saffron and sandalwood had been applied to her arms and forehead.It's a curious form of mourning. She's dressed and perfumed as though for a banquet, not a funeral. And what's she drinking? From the way she moves I'd guess it's some opium concoction.She paused at the edge of the pit and seemed to glare for an instant at the five women who moved around her. Then she drank again from the cup, and calmly began removing her jewels, handing them to the priest, until her only ornament was a necklace of dark seeds. Next the Brahmins sprinkled her head with water from a pot and, as a bell began to toll, started helping her into the pit. Hawksworth watched in disbelief as she knelt next to her husband's body and lovingly cradled his head against her lap. Her eyes were lifeless but serene.The realization of what was happening struck Hawksworth like a blow in the chest. But how could it be true? It was unthinkable.Then the man who had brought them, the son, held out his hand and one of the Brahmins bowed and handed him a burning torch. It flared brilliantly against the dark pile of earth at the front of the pit.God Almighty! No! Hawksworth instinctively started to reach for his pistol.A deafening chorus of wails burst from the waiting women as the young man flung the torch directly by the head of the bier. Next the priests threw more lighted torches alongside the corpse, followed by more oil. The flames licked tentatively around the edges of the wood, then burst across the top of the pyre. The fire swirled around the woman, and in an instant her oil-soaked robes flared, enveloping her body and igniting her hair. Hawksworth saw her open her mouth and say something, words he did not understand, and then the pain overcame her and she screamed and tried frantically to move toward the edge of the pit. As she reached the edge she saw the hovering priests, waiting with long poles to push her away, and she stumbled backward. Her last screams were drowned by the chorus of wailing women as she collapsed across the body of her husband, a human torch.Hawksworth stepped back in horror and whirled on Vasant Rao, who stood watching impassively."This is murder! Is this more of your Rajput 'tradition"?""It is what we callsati, when a brave woman joins her husband in death. Did you hear what she said? She pronounced the words 'five, two' as the life-spirit left her. At the moment of death we sometimes have the gift of prophecy. She was saying this is the fifth time she has burned herself with the same husband, and that only two times more are required to release her from the cycle of birth and death, to render her a perfect being.""I can't believe she burned herself willingly.""Of course she did. Rajput women are noble. It was the way she honored her husband, and her caste. It was herdharma."Hawksworth stared again at the pit. Priests were throwing more oil on the raging flames, which already had enveloped the two bodies and now licked around the edges, almost at Hawksworth's feet. The five women seemed crazed with grief, as they held hands and moved along the edge in a delirious dance. The heat had become intense, and Hawksworth instinctively stepped back as tongues of fire licked over the edge of the pit. The mourning women appeared heedless of their own danger as they continued to circle, their light cloth robes now only inches from the flame. The air was filled with the smell of death and burning flesh.They must be mad with grief. They'll catch their clothes . . .At that instant the hem of one of the women's robes ignited. She examined the whipping flame with a wild, empty gaze, almost as though not seeing it. Then she turned on the other women, terror and confusion in her eyes.Hawksworth was already peeling off his jerkin. He'd seenenough fires on the gun deck to know the man whose clothes caught always panicked.If I can reach her in time I can smother the robe before she's burned and maimed. Her legs . . .Before he could move, the woman suddenly turned and poised herself at the edge of the roaring pit. She emitted one long intense wail, then threw herself directly into the fire. At that moment the robes of a second woman caught, and she too turned and plunged head-first into the flames.Merciful God! What are they doing!The three remaining women paused for a moment. Then they clasped hands, and, as though on a private signal, plunged over the edge into the inferno, their hair and robes igniting like dry tinder in a furnace. The women all clung together as the flames enveloped them.Hawksworth tried to look again into the pit, but turned away in revulsion."What in hell is happening?"Vasant Rao's eyes were flooded with disbelief."They must have been his concubines. Or his other wives. Only his first wife was allowed to have the place of honor beside his body. I've. . ." The Rajput struggled for composure. "I've never seen so many women die in asati. It's . . ." He seemed unable to find words. "It's almost too much.""How did such a murderous custom begin?" Hawksworth's eyes were seared now from the smoke and the smell of burning flesh. "It's unworthy of humanity.""We believe aristocratic Rajput women have always wished to do it. To honor their brave warriors. The Moghul has tried to stop it, however. He claims it began only a few centuries ago, when a Rajput raja suspected the women in his palace were trying to poison him and his ministers. Some believe the raja decreed that custom as protection for his own life, and then others followed. But I don't think that's true. I believe women in India have always done it, from ancient times. But what does it matter when it began. Now all rani, the wives of rajas, follow their husbands in death, and consider it a great honor. Today it seems his other women also insisted on joining her. I think it was against her wishes. She did not want to share her moment of glory.Satiis a noble custom, Captain Hawksworth, part of that Rajput strength of character wanting in other races."A hand seized Hawksworth's arm roughly and jerked him back through the crowd, a sea of eyes burning with contempt. Amid the drifting smoke he caught a glimpse of the bullock carts of the caravan, lined along the far end of the road leading into the fortress. The drivers were nowhere to be seen, but near the carts were cattle sheds for the bullocks.If they can send innocent women to their death, life means nothing here. They'll kill us for sure.He turned to Vasant Rao, whose face showed no trace of fear. The Rajput seemed oblivious to the smell of death as smoke from the fire engulfed the palms that lined the village roads. They were approaching the porch of the great house where the head of the dynasty had lived.Two guards shoved Hawksworth roughly to his knees. He looked up to see, standing on the porch of the house, the young man who had tossed the torch into the pit. He began speaking to them, in the tones of an announcement."He's the son of the man you killed. He has claimed leadership of the dynasty, and calls himself Raj Singh." Vasant Rao translated rapidly, as the man continued speaking. "He says that tomorrow there will be an eclipse of the sun here. It is predicted in the Panjika, the Hindu manual of astrology. His father, the leader of this dynasty of the sun, has died, and tomorrow the sun will die also for a time. The Brahmins have said it is fitting that you die with it. For high castes in India the death of the sun is an evil time, a time when the two great powers of the sky are in conflict. On the day of an eclipse no fires are lit in our homes. Food is discarded and all open earthenware pots are smashed. No one who wears the sacred thread of the twice-born can be out of doors during an eclipse. The Brahmin astrologers have judged it is the proper time for you to pay for your cowardly act. You will be left on a pike to die in the center of the square."Hawksworth drew himself up, his eyes still smarting fromthe smoke, and tried to fix the man's eyes. Then he spoke, in a voice he hoped would carry to all the waiting crowd."Tell him his Brahmin astrologers know not the truth, neither past nor future." Hawksworth forced himself to still the tremble in his voice. "There will be no eclipse tomorrow. His Brahmins, who cannot foretell the great events in the heavens, should have no right to work their will on earth.""Have you gone mad?" Vasant Rao turned and glared at him as he spat the words in disgust. "Why not try to die with dignity.""Tell him."Vasant Rao stared at Hawksworth in dumb amazement. "Do you think we're all fools. The eclipse is foretold in the Panjika. It is the sacred book of the Brahmins. It's used to pick auspicious days for ceremonies, for weddings, for planting crops. Eclipses are predicted many years ahead in the Panjika. They have been forecast in India for centuries. Don't Europeans know an eclipse is a meeting of the sun and moon? Nothing can change that.""Tell him what I said. Exactly."Vasant Rao hesitated for a few moments and then reluctantly translated. The Rajput chieftain's face did not change and his reply was curt.Vasant Rao turned to Hawksworth. "He says you are a fool as well as an Untouchable.""Tell him that if I am to die with the sun, he must kill me now. I spit on his Brahmins and their Panjika. I say the eclipse will be this very day. In less than three hours.""In onepahar?"Yes.""No god, and certainly no man, can control such things. Why tell him this invention?" Vasant Rao's voice rose with his anger. "When this thing does not happen, you will die in even greater dishonor.""Tell him."Vasant Rao again translated, his voice hesitant. Raj Singh examined Hawksworth skeptically. Then he turned and spoke to one of the tall Rajputs standing nearby, who walked to the end of the porch and summoned several Brahmin priests. After a conference marked by much angry shouting and gesturing, one of the Brahmins turned and left. Moments later he reappeared carrying a book."They have consulted the Panjika again." Vasant Rao pointed toward the book as one of the Brahmins directed a stream of language at Raj Singh. "He says there is no mistaking the date of the eclipse, and the time. It is in the lunar month of Asvina, which is your September-October. Here in the Deccan the month begins and ends with the full moon. Thetithior lunar day of the eclipse begins tomorrow."As Hawksworth listened, he felt his heart begin to race.The calculations at the observatory had a lot to say about your Panjika's lunar calendar. And they showed how unwieldy it is compared to the solar calendar the Arabs and Europeans use. A cycle of the moon doesn't divide evenly into the days in a year. So your astrologers have to keep adding and subtracting days and months to keep years the same length. It's almost impossible to relate a lunar calendar accurately to a solar year. Jamshid Beg, the astronomer from Samarkand, loved to check out the predictions in the Hindu Panjika.If I deciphered his calculations right, this is one eclipse the Panjika called wrong. The astrologer must have miscopied his calculations. Or maybe he just bungled one of the main rules of lunar bookkeeping. Solar days begin at sunrise, but lunar days are different. The moon can rise at any time of day. According to the system, the lunar day current at sunrise is supposed to be the day that's counted. But if the moon rises just after sunrise, and sets before sunrise the next day, then that whole lunar "day" has to be dropped from the count.Today was one of those days. It should have been dropped from the lunar calendar, but it wasn't. So the prediction in the Panjika is a day off.According to Jamshid Beg's calculations, at least. God help me if he was wrong."Tell him his Panjika is false. If I'm to be killed the day of the eclipse, he must kill me now, today."Raj Singh listened with increasing disquiet as Vasant Rao translated. He glanced nervously at the Brahmins and then replied in a low voice.Vasant Rao turned to Hawksworth. "He asks what proof you have of your forecast?"Hawksworth looked around. What proof could there be of an impending eclipse?"My word is my word."Another exchange followed."He is most doubtful you are wiser than the Panjika." Vasant Rao paused for a moment, then continued. "I am doubtful as well. He says that if you have invented a lie you are very foolish. And we will all soon know.""Tell him he can believe as he chooses. The eclipse will be today."Again there was an exchange. Then Vasant Rao turned to Hawksworth, a mystified expression on his face."He says if what you say is true, then you are anavatar, the incarnation of a god. If the eclipse is today, as you say, then the village must begin to prepare immediately. People must all move indoors. Once more, is what you say true?""It's true." Hawksworth strained to keep his voice confident, and his eyes on the Rajput chieftain as he spoke. "It doesn't matter whether he believes or not."Raj Singh consulted again with the Brahmin priests, who had now gathered around. They shifted nervously, and several spat to emphasize their skepticism. Then the Rajput leader returned and spoke again to Vasant Rao."He says that he will take the precaution of ordering the high castes indoors. If what you say comes to pass, then you have saved the village from a great harm."Hawksworth started to speak but Vasant Rao silenced him with a gesture."He also says that if what you say is a lie, he will not wait until tomorrow to kill you. You will be buried alive at sunset today, up to the throat. Then you will be stoned to death by the women and children of the village. It is the death of criminal Untouchables."As the smoke from the funeral pyre continued to drift through the village, the high-caste men and women entered their homes and sealed their doors. Women took their babies in their laps and began their prayers. Only low castes and children too young to wear the sacred thread remained outside. Even Vasant Rao was allowed to return to the room where they had been held prisoner. Hawksworth suddenly found himself without guards, and he wandered back to the square to look once more at the pit where the funeral pyre had been. All that remained of the bodies were charred skeletons.An hour ago there was life. Now there's death. The difference is the will to live.And luck. The turn of chance.Was Jamshid Beg right? If not, God help me . . .He knelt down beside the pit. To look at death and to wait.CHAPTER FIFTEENPrince Jadar passed the signal to the waiting guards as he strode briskly down the stone-floored hallway and they nodded imperceptibly in acknowledgment. There was no sound in the torch-lit corridor save the pad of his leather-soled riding slippers.It was the beginning of the thirdpahar, midday, and he had come directly from the hunt when the runner brought word that Mumtaz had entered labor. It would have been unseemly to have gone to her side, so he had spoken briefly with thedai, midwife. He had overruled the Hindu woman's suggestion that Mumtaz be made to give birth squatting by a bed, so that a broom could be pressed against her abdomen as the midwife rubbed her back. It was, he knew, the barbarous practice of unbelievers, and he cursed himself for taking on the woman in the first place. It had been a symbolic gesture for the Hindu troops, to quell concern that all the important details attending the birth would be Muslim. Jadar had insisted that Mumtaz be moved to a velvet mat on the floor of her room and carefully positioned with her head north and her feet south. In case she should die in childbirth—and he fervently prayed she would not—this was the position in which she would be buried, her face directed toward Mecca. He had ordered all cannon of the fort primed with powder, to be fired in the traditional Muslim salute if a male child was the issue.Preparations also were underway for the naming ceremony. He had prayed for many days that this time a son would be named. There were two daughters already, and yet another would merely mean one more intriguing woman to be locked away forever, for he knew he could never allow a daughter to marry. The complications of yet another aspiring family in the palace circle were inconceivable. The scheming Persian Shi'ites, like the queen and her family, who had descended on Agra would like nothing better than another opportunity to use marriage to dilute the influence of Sunni Muslims at court.Allah, this time it has to be a son. Hasn't everything possible been done? And if Akman was right, that a change of residence during the term ensures a male heir, then I'll have a son twelve times over from this birthing. She's been in a dozen cities. And camps. I even tested the augury of the Hindus and had a household snake killed and tossed in the air by one of their Brahmin unbelievers, to see how it would land. And it landed on its back, which they say augurs a boy. Also, the milk squeezed from her breasts three days ago was thin, which the Hindus believe foretells a son.Still, the omens have been mixed.The eclipse. Why did it come a day earlier than the Hindu astrologers had predicted? Now I realize it was exactly seven days before the birth. No one can recall when they failed to compute an eclipse correctly.What did it mean? That my line will die out? Or that a son will be born here who will one day overshadow me?Who can know the future? What Allah wills must be.And, he told himself, the meeting set for the thirdpaharmust still take place, regardless of the birth. Unless he did what he had planned, the birth would be meaningless. All the years of planning now could be forfeited in this single campaign.If I fail now, what will happen to the legacy of Akman, his great work to unify India? Will India return to warring fiefdoms, neighbor pitted against neighbor, or fall to the Shi'ites? The very air around me hints of treachery.With that thought he momentarily inspected the placement of his personal crest on the thick wooden door of the fortress reception hall and pushed it wide. A phalanx of guards trailed behind him into the room, which he had claimed as his command post for the duration of his stay in Burhanpur. The immense central carpet had been freshly garlanded around the edges with flowers.The fortress, the only secure post remaining in the city, had been commandeered by Jadar and his hand-picked guard. His officers had taken accommodations in the town, and the troops had erected an enormous tent complex along the road leading into the city from the north. Their women now swarmed over the bazaar, accumulating stores for the march south. Bullock carts of fresh produce glutted the roads leading into the city, for word had reached the surrounding villages that Burhanpur was host to the retinue of the prince and his soldiers from the north—buyers accustomed to high northern prices. The villagers also knew from long experience that a wise man would strip his fields and gardens and orchards now and sell, before an army on the march simply took what it wanted.Rumors had already reached the city that the army of Malik Ambar, Abyssinian leader of the Deccanis, was marching north toward Burhanpur with eighty thousand infantry and horsemen. An advance contingent was already encamped no more than tenkossouth of the city.Jadar inspected the reception room until he was certainit was secure, with every doorway under command of his men. Then he signaled the leader of the Rajput guard, who relayed a message to a courier waiting outside. Finally he settled himself against an immense velvet bolster, relishing this moment of quiet to clear his mind.The Deccan, the central plains of India. Will they ever be ours? How many more campaigns must there be?He recalled with chagrin all the humiliations dealt Arangbar by the Deccanis.When Arangbar took the throne at Akman's death, he had announced he would continue his father's policy of military control of the Deccan. A general named Ghulam Adl had requested, and received, confirmation of his existing post of Khan Khanan, "Khan of Khans," the supreme commander of the Moghul armies in the south. To subdue the Deccan once and for all, Arangbar had sent an additional twelve thousand cavalry south and had given Ghulam Adl a million rupees to refurbish his army. But in spite of these forces, the Abyssinian Malik Ambar soon had set up a rebel capital at Ahmadnagar and declared himself prime minister.
We're too exposed. Half the guard will be in the river while we cross. And there'll be no way to group the carts if we need to.
He paused a moment, then retrieved his sword from the cart and buckled it on. Next he checked the prime on the two matchlock pocket pistols he carried, one in each boot.
Five mounted Rajputs holding torches led as the convoy started across the sandy alluvium toward the river. Hawksworth's cart was the first to move, and as he drew his mare alongside, Nayka threw him a grateful smile through the flickering light of the torch strapped against one of the cart's poles.
"You've saved us all. Captain Sahib. When the river grows angry, nothing can appease her."
The bullocks nosed warily at the water, but Nayka gave them the lash and they waded in without protest. The bed was gravel, smoothed by the long action of the stream, and the water was still shallow, allowing the large wheels of the carts to roll easily. Hawksworth pulled his mount close to the cart and let its enormous wheel splash coolness against his horse's flank.
The current grew swifter as they reached the center of the stream, but the bullocks plodded along evenly, almost as though they were on dry ground. Then the current eased again, and Hawksworth noticed that the Rajputs riding ahead had already reined in their mounts, signifying they had gained the far shore. Their five torches merged with the three of the Rajputs already waiting, and together they lined the water's edge.
Hawksworth twisted in the saddle and looked back at the line of carts. They traveled abreast in pairs, a torchman riding between, and the caravan had become an eerie procession of waving lights and shadows against the dark water. The last carts were in the river now, and Vasant Rao was riding rapidly toward him, carrying a torch.
Looks like I was wrong again, Hawksworth thought, and he turned to rein his horse as it stumbled against a submerged rock.
The torches along the shore were gone.
He stared in disbelief for a moment, and then he saw them sputtering in the water's edge. Lightning flashed in the east, revealing the silhouettes of the Rajputs' mounts, stumbling along the shore, their saddles empty. He whirled to check the caravan behind him, and at that moment an arrow ricocheted off the pole of the cart and ripped cleanly through the side of his jerkin. He suddenly realized the torch lashed to the side of the cart illuminated him brilliantly, and he drew his sword and swung at its base, slicing it in half. As it fell, sputtering, he saw a second arrow catch Nayka squarely in the throat and he watched the driver spin and slump wordlessly into the water.
Godforsaken luckless Hindu. Now you can be reborn a Brahmin. Only sooner than you thought.
A shout of alarm erupted from behind, and he looked to see the remaining Rajputs charging in formation, bows already drawn. The water churned around him as they dashed by, advancing on the shore. The Rajputs' horn bows hissed in rapid succession as they sent volleys of bamboo arrows into the darkness. But the returning rain of arrows was dense and deadly. He saw the Rajput nearest him suddenly pivot backward in the saddle, an arrow lodged in his groin, below his leather chest guard. Hawksworth watched incredulously as the man clung to his saddle horn for a long last moment, pulling himself erect and releasing a final arrow before tumbling into the water.
Again lightning flared across the sky, and in the sudden illumination Hawksworth could see shapes along the shore, an army of mounted horsemen, well over a hundred. They
were drawn in tight formation, calmly firing into the approaching Rajputs. The lightning flashed once more, a broad sheet of fire across the sky, and at that moment Hawksworth saw Vasant Rao gain the shore, where he was instantly surrounded by a menacing wall of shields and pikes.
Then more of the Rajputs gained the shore, and he could hear their chant of "Ram Ram," their famous battle cry. The horsemen were moving on the caravan now, and when the lightning blazed again Hawksworth realized he had been surrounded.
The dark figure in the lead seized Hawksworth's right arm from behind and began to grapple for his sword. As he struggled to draw it away, the butt end of a pike came down hard on his forearm. A shot of pain pierced through to his mind, clearing away the last haze of the brandy.
"You bastard." Hawksworth realized he was shouting in English. "Get ready to die."
He twisted forward and with his free hand stretched for the pistol in his boot. Slowly his grip closed about the cool horn of the handle, and with a single motion he drew it upward, still grasping the sword.
As he raised himself erect he caught the outline of a dark object swinging above him in the air. Then the lightning flashed again, glinting off the three large silver knobs. They were being swung by the man who held his sword arm.
My God, it's agurz, the three-headed club some of the Rajputs carry on their saddle. It's a killer.
He heard it arc above him, singing through the dark. Unlike the Rajputs, he had no leather helmet, no padded armor. There was no time to avoid the blow, but he had the pistol now, and he shoved it into the man's gut and squeezed.
There was a sudden blinding flash of light. It started at his hand, but then it seemed to explode inside his skull. The world had grown white, like the marble walls of Mukarrab Khan's music room, and for a moment he thought he heard again the echo of drumbeats. The cycle swelled sensuously, then suddenly reached its culmination, when all pent-up emotion dissolved. In the silence that followed, there was only the face of Mukarrab Khan, surrounded by his eunuchs, his smile slowly fading into black.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
The light of a single flame tip burned through the haze of his vision, and then he heard words around him, in a terse language as ancient as time. He tried to move, and an aching soreness shot through his shoulders and into his groin. His head seemed afire.
I must be dead. Why is there still pain?
He forced his swollen eyelids wider, and a room slowly began to take form. It was a cell, with heavy bamboo slats over the windows and an ancient wooden latch on the door. The floor was earth and the walls gray mud with occasional inscriptions in red. Next to him was a silhouette, the outline of a man squatting before an oil lamp and slowly repeating a sharp, toneless verse. He puzzled at the words as he studied the figure.
It's the language of the priest at the wedding. It must be Sanskrit. But who . . . ?
He pulled himself upward on an elbow and turned toward the figure, which seemed to flicker in the undulating shadows. Then he recognized the profile of Vasant Rao. The verses stopped abruptly and the Rajput turned to examine him.
"So you're not dead? That could be a mistake you'll regret." Vasant Rao's face sagged and his once-haughty moustache was an unkempt tangle. He stared at Hawksworth a moment more, then turned back to the lamp. The Sanskrit verses resumed.
"Where the hell are we?"
Vasant Rao paused, and then slowly revolved toward Hawksworth.
"In the fortress village of Bhandu, tenkosnorthwest of the
town of Chopda. It's the mountain stronghold of the Chandella dynasty of Rajputs."
"And who the hell are they?"
"They claim direct descent from the ancient solar race of Rajputs described in the Puranas. Who knows, but that's what they believe. What we all do know is they've defended these hills for all of time."
"Did they take the caravan?"
A bolt of humiliation and pain swept through Vasant Rao's eyes for a moment and then his reserve returned. "Yes, it was taken."
"So your mighty 'solar race' is really a breed of God- cursed common bandits."
"Bandits, they are. They always have been. Common, no. They're professionals, honorable men of high caste."
"High-caste thieves. Like some of the merchants I've met." Hawksworth paused and tried to find his tongue. His mouth was like cotton. "How long've we been here?"
"This is the morning of our second day. We arrived yesterday, after traveling all night."
"I feel like I've been keelhauled for a week." Hawksworth gingerly touched his forehead and there was a pulse of pain.
Vasant Rao listened with a puzzled expression. "You were tied over your horse. Some of the clan wanted to kill you and leave you there, but then they decided that would give you too much honor."
"What the hell are you talking about? I remember I gave them a fight."
"You used a pistol. You killed a man, the head of this dynasty, with a pistol."
The words seemed to cut through the shadows of the room. The pain returned and ached through Hawksworth's body.
More deaths. The two men who died on theDiscovery. I saw Nayka die with an arrow in his throat. And how many of the Rajput guards died? Why am I always in the middle of fighting and death?
"The bastards killed my driver."
"The driver was nothing. A low caste." He shrugged it away. "You are an importantferinghi. You would not have been harmed. You should never have drawn a pistol. And then you allowed yourself to be captured. It was an act beneath honor. The women spat on you and your horse when you were brought through the streets. I have no doubt they'll kill us both now."
"Who's left alive?"
"No one. My men died like Rajputs." A trace of pride flashed through his eyes before they dimmed again with sadness. "When they knew they could not win, that they had failed the prince, they vowed to die fighting. And all did."
"But you're still alive."
The words seemed almost like a knife in the Rajput's heart.
"They would not kill me. Or let me die honorably." He paused and stared at Hawksworth. "There was a reason, but it doesn't concern you."
"So all the men died? But why did they kill the drivers?"
"The drivers weren't killed." Vasant Rao looked surprised. "I never said that."
I keep forgetting, Hawksworth told himself, that only high castes count as men in this God-forsaken land.
"This whole damned country is mad." The absurdity overwhelmed him. "Low castes, your own people, handled like slaves, and high castes who kill each other in the name of honor. A pox on Rajputs and their fornicating honor."
"Honor is very important. Without honor what is left? We may as well be without caste. The warrior caste lives by a code set down in the Laws of Manu many thousands of years ago." He saw Hawksworth's impatience and smiled sadly. "Do you understand what's meant bydharma?”
"It sounds like another damned Hindu invention. Another excuse to take life."
"Dharmais something, Captain Hawksworth, without which life no longer matters. No Christian, or Muslim, has ever been able to understanddharma, since it is the order that defines our castes—and those born outside India are doomed to live forever without a caste.Dharmadefines who we are and what we must do if we are to maintain our caste. Warfare is thedharmaof the Kshatriya, the warrior caste."
"And I say a pox on caste. What's so honorable about Rajputs slaughtering each other?"
"Warriors are bound by theirdharmato join in battle against other warriors. A warrior who fails in his duty sins against thedharmaof his caste." Vasant Rao paused. "But why am I bothering to tell you this? I sound like Krishna, lecturing Arjuna on his duty as a warrior."
"Who's Krishna? Another Rajput?"
"He's a god, Captain Hawksworth, sacred to all Rajputs. He teaches us that a warrior must always honor hisdharma."
Vasant Rao's eyes seemed to burn through the shadows of the cell. From outside Hawksworth heard the distant chantings of some village ceremony.
"If you'll listen,feringhicaptain, I'll tell you something about a warrior'sdharma. There's a legend, many thousands of years old, of a great battle joined between two branches of a powerful dynasty in ancient India. Two kings were brothers, and they shared a kingdom, but their sons could not live in peace. One branch wished to destroy the other. Eventually a battle was joined, a battle to the death. As they waited on the field for the sound of the conch shell, to summon the forces, the leader of those sons who had been wronged suddenly declared that he could not bring himself to kill his own kinsmen. But the god Krishna, who was charioteer for this son, reminded him he must follow hisdharma. That there is no greater good for a warrior than to join battle for what is right. It's wrong only if he is attached to the fruits of battle, if he does it for gain. It's told in the Bhagavad-Gita, a Sanskrit scripture sacred to all warriors. I was reciting a verse from Chapter Twelve when you woke."
"What did this god Krishna say?"
"He declared that all who live must die, and all who die will be reborn. The spirit within us all, theatman, cannot be destroyed. It travels through us on its journey from birth to rebirth. But it's not correct to say merely that it exists. It is existence. It is the only reality. It is present in everything because it is everything. Therefore there's no need to mourn for death. There is no death. The body is merely an appearance, by which theatmanreveals itself. The body is only its guardian. But a warrior who turns away from the duty of his caste sins against his honor and hisdharma. Krishna warned that this loss of honor could one day lead to the mixture of castes, and then the dharma of the universe, its necessary order, would be destroyed. It's not wrong for a Rajput to kill a worthy foe, Captain Hawksworth, it's his duty. Just as it's also his duty to die a worthy death."
"Why all this killing in the name of 'honor' and 'duty"?"
"Non-Hindus always want to know 'why.' To 'understand.' You always seem to believe that words somehow contain all truth. But dharma simply is. It is the air we breathe, the changeless order around us. We're part of it. Does the earth ask why the monsoons come? Does the seed ask why the sun shines each day? No. It'sdharma. The dharma of the seed is to bear fruit. The dharma of the warrior caste is to do battle. Onlyferinghi, who live outside our dharma, ask 'why.' Truth is not something you 'understand.' It's something you're part of. It's something you feel with your being. And when you try to catch it with words, it's gone. Can the eagle tell you how he flies, Captain Hawksworth, or 'why"? If he could, he would no longer be an eagle. This is the great wisdom of India. We've learned it's wasted onferinghi, Captain, as I fear it's now wasted on you."
The talk left Hawksworth feeling strangely insecure, his mind wrestling with ideas that defied rationality.
"I know there are things you understand with your gut, not with your head."
"Then there may be hope for you, Captain Hawksworth. Now we will see if you can die like a Rajput. If you can, perhaps you will be reborn one of us."
"Then I might even learn to be a bandit."
"All Rajputs are not the same, Captain. There are many tribes, descended from different dynasties. Each has its own tradition and genealogy. I'm from the north. From the races descended from the moon. This tribe claims descent from the solar dynasty, which also began in the north. I think their genealogy goes back to the god Indra, who they claim brought them into being with the aid of the sun."
Vasant Rao turned and continued reciting in Sanskrit. His face again became a mask.
Hawksworth rubbed his head in confusion and suddenly felt a hard lump where the club had dropped. The fear began to well up in his stomach as he remembered the stony-faced riders who had surrounded him in the river. But he pushed aside thoughts of death.
Dharmabe damned. What did he mean, they're members of a clan descended from the "solar dynasty"? They're killers, looking for an excuse to plunder.
I'm not planning to die like a Rajput just yet. Or be reborn as one. Life is too sweet just as it is. I'm beginning to feel alive here, for the first time ever. Shirin is free. I've got a feeling I'll be seeing her again. Whatever happens, I don't care to die in this piss hole, with empty talk about honor. Think.
He remembered the river again, and quickly felt in his boot. The other pistol was still there.
We'll find a way to get out. Somehow. We may just lose a few days' time, that's all. We made good time so far. Six days. We left on Sunday, and we've been here two days. So today is probably Monday.
He suddenly froze.
"Where are the carts?"
"At the south end of the village. Where they have thechans, the cattle sheds. The drivers are there too."
"Is my chest there?"
"No. It's right there. Behind you." Vasant Rao pointed into the dark. "I told them it belonged to the Moghul, and they brought it here. I guess the Moghul still counts for something here. Maybe they're superstitious about him."
Hawksworth pulled himself up and reached behind him. The chest was there. He fingered the cool metal of the lock and his mind began to clear even more. Quickly he began to search his jerkin for the key. Its pockets were empty.
Of course. If I was tied over a horse it.. .
Then he remembered. For safety he had transferred it to the pocket of his breeches the second day out. He felt down his leg, fighting the ache in his arm.
Miraculously the key was still there.
He tried to hold his excitement as he twisted it into the lock on the chest. Once, twice, and it clicked.
He quickly checked the contents. Lute on top. Letter, still wrapped. Clothes. Then he felt deeper and touched the metal. Slowly he drew it out, holding his breath. It was still intact.
The light from the lamp glanced off the burnished brass of the Persian astrolabe from the observatory. It had been Mukarrab Khan's parting gift.
He carried it to the slatted window and carefully twisted each slat until the sun began to stream through.
Thank God it's late in the year, when the sun's already lower at midday.
He took a quick reading of the sun's elevation. It had not yet reached its zenith. He made a mental note of the reading and began to wait. Five minutes passed—they seemed hours—and he checked the elevation again. The sun was still climbing, but he knew it would soon reach its highest point.
Vasant Rao continued to chant verses from the Bhagavad- Gita in terse, toneless Sanskrit.
He probably thinks I'm praying too, Hawksworth smiled to himself.
The reading increased, then stayed the same, then began to decrease. The sun had passed its zenith, and he had the exact reading of its elevation.
He mentally recorded the reading, then began to rummage in the bottom of the chest for the seaman's book he always carried with him.
We left Surat on October twenty-fourth. So October twenty-fifth was Karod, the twenty-sixth was Viara, the twenty-seventh was Corka, the twenty-eighth was Narayanpur, the twenty-ninth was the river. Today has to be October thirty-first.
The book was there, its pages still musty from the moist air at sea. He reached the page he wanted and ran his finger down a column of figures until he reached the one he had read off the astrolabe.
From the reading the latitude here is 21 degrees and 20
minutes north.
Then he began to search the chest for a sheaf of papers and finally his fingers closed around them, buried beneath his spare jerkin. He squinted in the half light as he went through the pages, the handwriting hurried from hasty work in the observatory. Finally he found what he wanted. He had copied it directly from the old Samarkand astronomer's calculations. The numerals were as bold as the day he had written them. The latitude was there, and the date.
With a tight smile that pained his aching face he carefully wrapped the astrolabe and returned it to the bottom of the chest, together with the books. He snapped the lock in place just as the door of the cell swung open.
He looked up to see the face of the man who had swung the club.
Good Jesus, I thought he was dead. And he looks even younger. . . .
Then Hawksworth realized it had to be his son. But the heavy brow, the dark beard, the narrow eyes, were all the same, almost as though his father's blood had flowed directly into his veins. He wore no helmet or breastplate now, only a simple robe, entirely white.
The man spoke curtly to Vasant Rao in a language Hawksworth did not understand.
"He has ordered us to come with him. It's time for the ceremony. He says you must watch how the man you killed is honored."
Vasant Rao rose easily and pinched out the oil lamp. In the darkened silence Hawksworth heard the lowing of cattle, as well as the distant drone of a chant. Outside the guards were waiting. He noted they carried sheathed swords. And they too were dressed in white.
In the midday sunshine he quickly tried to survey the terrain. Jagged rock outcrops seemed to ring the village, with a gorge providing an easily protected entrance.
He was right. It's a fortress. And probably impregnable.
The road was wide, with rows of mud-brick homes on either side, and ahead was an open square, where a crowd had gathered. Facing the square, at the far end, was an immense house of baked brick, the largest in the fortress village, with a wide front and a high porch.
As they approached the square, Hawksworth realized a deep pit had been newly excavated directly in the center. Mourners clustered nearby, silently waiting, while a group of women—five in all—held hands and moved slowly around the pit intoning a dirge.
As they reached the side of the opening he saw the Rajput's body, lying face up on a fragrant bier of sandalwood andneembranches. His head and beard had been shaved and his body bound in a silk winding sheet. He was surrounded by garlands of flowers. The wood in the pit smelled ofgheeand rose-scented coconut oil. Nearby, Brahmin priests recited in Sanskrit.
"His body will be cremated with the full honor of a Rajput warrior." Vasant Rao stood alongside. "It's clear the Brahmins have been paid enough."
Hawksworth looked around at the square and the nearby houses, their shutters all sealed in mourning. Chanting priests in ceremonial robes had stationed themselves near the large house, and an Arabian mare, all white and bedecked with flowers, was tied at the entrance. Suddenly the tones of mournful, discordant music sounded around him.
As Hawksworth watched, the heavy wooden doors of the great house opened slowly and a woman stepped into the midday sunshine. Even from their distance he could see that she was resplendent—in an immaculate white wrap that sparkled with gold ornaments—and her movements regal as she descended the steps and was helped onto the horse. As she rode slowly in the direction of the pit, she was supported on each side by Brahmin priests, long-haired men with stripes of white clay painted down their forehead.
"She is his wife." Vasant Rao had also turned to watch. "Now you'll see a woman of the warrior caste follow herdharma."
As the woman rode slowly by, Hawksworth sensed she was only barely conscious of her surroundings, as though she had been drugged. She circled the pit three times, then stopped near where Hawksworth and Vasant Rao were standing. As the priests helped her down from the mare, one urged her to drink again from a cup of dense liquid he carried. Her silk robe was fragrant with scented oil, and Hawksworth saw that decorations of saffron and sandalwood had been applied to her arms and forehead.
It's a curious form of mourning. She's dressed and perfumed as though for a banquet, not a funeral. And what's she drinking? From the way she moves I'd guess it's some opium concoction.
She paused at the edge of the pit and seemed to glare for an instant at the five women who moved around her. Then she drank again from the cup, and calmly began removing her jewels, handing them to the priest, until her only ornament was a necklace of dark seeds. Next the Brahmins sprinkled her head with water from a pot and, as a bell began to toll, started helping her into the pit. Hawksworth watched in disbelief as she knelt next to her husband's body and lovingly cradled his head against her lap. Her eyes were lifeless but serene.
The realization of what was happening struck Hawksworth like a blow in the chest. But how could it be true? It was unthinkable.
Then the man who had brought them, the son, held out his hand and one of the Brahmins bowed and handed him a burning torch. It flared brilliantly against the dark pile of earth at the front of the pit.
God Almighty! No! Hawksworth instinctively started to reach for his pistol.
A deafening chorus of wails burst from the waiting women as the young man flung the torch directly by the head of the bier. Next the priests threw more lighted torches alongside the corpse, followed by more oil. The flames licked tentatively around the edges of the wood, then burst across the top of the pyre. The fire swirled around the woman, and in an instant her oil-soaked robes flared, enveloping her body and igniting her hair. Hawksworth saw her open her mouth and say something, words he did not understand, and then the pain overcame her and she screamed and tried frantically to move toward the edge of the pit. As she reached the edge she saw the hovering priests, waiting with long poles to push her away, and she stumbled backward. Her last screams were drowned by the chorus of wailing women as she collapsed across the body of her husband, a human torch.
Hawksworth stepped back in horror and whirled on Vasant Rao, who stood watching impassively.
"This is murder! Is this more of your Rajput 'tradition"?"
"It is what we callsati, when a brave woman joins her husband in death. Did you hear what she said? She pronounced the words 'five, two' as the life-spirit left her. At the moment of death we sometimes have the gift of prophecy. She was saying this is the fifth time she has burned herself with the same husband, and that only two times more are required to release her from the cycle of birth and death, to render her a perfect being."
"I can't believe she burned herself willingly."
"Of course she did. Rajput women are noble. It was the way she honored her husband, and her caste. It was herdharma."
Hawksworth stared again at the pit. Priests were throwing more oil on the raging flames, which already had enveloped the two bodies and now licked around the edges, almost at Hawksworth's feet. The five women seemed crazed with grief, as they held hands and moved along the edge in a delirious dance. The heat had become intense, and Hawksworth instinctively stepped back as tongues of fire licked over the edge of the pit. The mourning women appeared heedless of their own danger as they continued to circle, their light cloth robes now only inches from the flame. The air was filled with the smell of death and burning flesh.
They must be mad with grief. They'll catch their clothes . . .
At that instant the hem of one of the women's robes ignited. She examined the whipping flame with a wild, empty gaze, almost as though not seeing it. Then she turned on the other women, terror and confusion in her eyes.
Hawksworth was already peeling off his jerkin. He'd seen
enough fires on the gun deck to know the man whose clothes caught always panicked.
If I can reach her in time I can smother the robe before she's burned and maimed. Her legs . . .
Before he could move, the woman suddenly turned and poised herself at the edge of the roaring pit. She emitted one long intense wail, then threw herself directly into the fire. At that moment the robes of a second woman caught, and she too turned and plunged head-first into the flames.
Merciful God! What are they doing!
The three remaining women paused for a moment. Then they clasped hands, and, as though on a private signal, plunged over the edge into the inferno, their hair and robes igniting like dry tinder in a furnace. The women all clung together as the flames enveloped them.
Hawksworth tried to look again into the pit, but turned away in revulsion.
"What in hell is happening?"
Vasant Rao's eyes were flooded with disbelief.
"They must have been his concubines. Or his other wives. Only his first wife was allowed to have the place of honor beside his body. I've. . ." The Rajput struggled for composure. "I've never seen so many women die in asati. It's . . ." He seemed unable to find words. "It's almost too much."
"How did such a murderous custom begin?" Hawksworth's eyes were seared now from the smoke and the smell of burning flesh. "It's unworthy of humanity."
"We believe aristocratic Rajput women have always wished to do it. To honor their brave warriors. The Moghul has tried to stop it, however. He claims it began only a few centuries ago, when a Rajput raja suspected the women in his palace were trying to poison him and his ministers. Some believe the raja decreed that custom as protection for his own life, and then others followed. But I don't think that's true. I believe women in India have always done it, from ancient times. But what does it matter when it began. Now all rani, the wives of rajas, follow their husbands in death, and consider it a great honor. Today it seems his other women also insisted on joining her. I think it was against her wishes. She did not want to share her moment of glory.Satiis a noble custom, Captain Hawksworth, part of that Rajput strength of character wanting in other races."
A hand seized Hawksworth's arm roughly and jerked him back through the crowd, a sea of eyes burning with contempt. Amid the drifting smoke he caught a glimpse of the bullock carts of the caravan, lined along the far end of the road leading into the fortress. The drivers were nowhere to be seen, but near the carts were cattle sheds for the bullocks.
If they can send innocent women to their death, life means nothing here. They'll kill us for sure.
He turned to Vasant Rao, whose face showed no trace of fear. The Rajput seemed oblivious to the smell of death as smoke from the fire engulfed the palms that lined the village roads. They were approaching the porch of the great house where the head of the dynasty had lived.
Two guards shoved Hawksworth roughly to his knees. He looked up to see, standing on the porch of the house, the young man who had tossed the torch into the pit. He began speaking to them, in the tones of an announcement.
"He's the son of the man you killed. He has claimed leadership of the dynasty, and calls himself Raj Singh." Vasant Rao translated rapidly, as the man continued speaking. "He says that tomorrow there will be an eclipse of the sun here. It is predicted in the Panjika, the Hindu manual of astrology. His father, the leader of this dynasty of the sun, has died, and tomorrow the sun will die also for a time. The Brahmins have said it is fitting that you die with it. For high castes in India the death of the sun is an evil time, a time when the two great powers of the sky are in conflict. On the day of an eclipse no fires are lit in our homes. Food is discarded and all open earthenware pots are smashed. No one who wears the sacred thread of the twice-born can be out of doors during an eclipse. The Brahmin astrologers have judged it is the proper time for you to pay for your cowardly act. You will be left on a pike to die in the center of the square."
Hawksworth drew himself up, his eyes still smarting from
the smoke, and tried to fix the man's eyes. Then he spoke, in a voice he hoped would carry to all the waiting crowd.
"Tell him his Brahmin astrologers know not the truth, neither past nor future." Hawksworth forced himself to still the tremble in his voice. "There will be no eclipse tomorrow. His Brahmins, who cannot foretell the great events in the heavens, should have no right to work their will on earth."
"Have you gone mad?" Vasant Rao turned and glared at him as he spat the words in disgust. "Why not try to die with dignity."
"Tell him."
Vasant Rao stared at Hawksworth in dumb amazement. "Do you think we're all fools. The eclipse is foretold in the Panjika. It is the sacred book of the Brahmins. It's used to pick auspicious days for ceremonies, for weddings, for planting crops. Eclipses are predicted many years ahead in the Panjika. They have been forecast in India for centuries. Don't Europeans know an eclipse is a meeting of the sun and moon? Nothing can change that."
"Tell him what I said. Exactly."
Vasant Rao hesitated for a few moments and then reluctantly translated. The Rajput chieftain's face did not change and his reply was curt.
Vasant Rao turned to Hawksworth. "He says you are a fool as well as an Untouchable."
"Tell him that if I am to die with the sun, he must kill me now. I spit on his Brahmins and their Panjika. I say the eclipse will be this very day. In less than three hours."
"In onepahar?
"Yes."
"No god, and certainly no man, can control such things. Why tell him this invention?" Vasant Rao's voice rose with his anger. "When this thing does not happen, you will die in even greater dishonor."
"Tell him."
Vasant Rao again translated, his voice hesitant. Raj Singh examined Hawksworth skeptically. Then he turned and spoke to one of the tall Rajputs standing nearby, who walked to the end of the porch and summoned several Brahmin priests. After a conference marked by much angry shouting and gesturing, one of the Brahmins turned and left. Moments later he reappeared carrying a book.
"They have consulted the Panjika again." Vasant Rao pointed toward the book as one of the Brahmins directed a stream of language at Raj Singh. "He says there is no mistaking the date of the eclipse, and the time. It is in the lunar month of Asvina, which is your September-October. Here in the Deccan the month begins and ends with the full moon. Thetithior lunar day of the eclipse begins tomorrow."
As Hawksworth listened, he felt his heart begin to race.
The calculations at the observatory had a lot to say about your Panjika's lunar calendar. And they showed how unwieldy it is compared to the solar calendar the Arabs and Europeans use. A cycle of the moon doesn't divide evenly into the days in a year. So your astrologers have to keep adding and subtracting days and months to keep years the same length. It's almost impossible to relate a lunar calendar accurately to a solar year. Jamshid Beg, the astronomer from Samarkand, loved to check out the predictions in the Hindu Panjika.
If I deciphered his calculations right, this is one eclipse the Panjika called wrong. The astrologer must have miscopied his calculations. Or maybe he just bungled one of the main rules of lunar bookkeeping. Solar days begin at sunrise, but lunar days are different. The moon can rise at any time of day. According to the system, the lunar day current at sunrise is supposed to be the day that's counted. But if the moon rises just after sunrise, and sets before sunrise the next day, then that whole lunar "day" has to be dropped from the count.
Today was one of those days. It should have been dropped from the lunar calendar, but it wasn't. So the prediction in the Panjika is a day off.
According to Jamshid Beg's calculations, at least. God help me if he was wrong.
"Tell him his Panjika is false. If I'm to be killed the day of the eclipse, he must kill me now, today."
Raj Singh listened with increasing disquiet as Vasant Rao translated. He glanced nervously at the Brahmins and then replied in a low voice.
Vasant Rao turned to Hawksworth. "He asks what proof you have of your forecast?"
Hawksworth looked around. What proof could there be of an impending eclipse?
"My word is my word."
Another exchange followed.
"He is most doubtful you are wiser than the Panjika." Vasant Rao paused for a moment, then continued. "I am doubtful as well. He says that if you have invented a lie you are very foolish. And we will all soon know."
"Tell him he can believe as he chooses. The eclipse will be today."
Again there was an exchange. Then Vasant Rao turned to Hawksworth, a mystified expression on his face.
"He says if what you say is true, then you are anavatar, the incarnation of a god. If the eclipse is today, as you say, then the village must begin to prepare immediately. People must all move indoors. Once more, is what you say true?"
"It's true." Hawksworth strained to keep his voice confident, and his eyes on the Rajput chieftain as he spoke. "It doesn't matter whether he believes or not."
Raj Singh consulted again with the Brahmin priests, who had now gathered around. They shifted nervously, and several spat to emphasize their skepticism. Then the Rajput leader returned and spoke again to Vasant Rao.
"He says that he will take the precaution of ordering the high castes indoors. If what you say comes to pass, then you have saved the village from a great harm."
Hawksworth started to speak but Vasant Rao silenced him with a gesture.
"He also says that if what you say is a lie, he will not wait until tomorrow to kill you. You will be buried alive at sunset today, up to the throat. Then you will be stoned to death by the women and children of the village. It is the death of criminal Untouchables."
As the smoke from the funeral pyre continued to drift through the village, the high-caste men and women entered their homes and sealed their doors. Women took their babies in their laps and began their prayers. Only low castes and children too young to wear the sacred thread remained outside. Even Vasant Rao was allowed to return to the room where they had been held prisoner. Hawksworth suddenly found himself without guards, and he wandered back to the square to look once more at the pit where the funeral pyre had been. All that remained of the bodies were charred skeletons.
An hour ago there was life. Now there's death. The difference is the will to live.
And luck. The turn of chance.
Was Jamshid Beg right? If not, God help me . . .
He knelt down beside the pit. To look at death and to wait.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Prince Jadar passed the signal to the waiting guards as he strode briskly down the stone-floored hallway and they nodded imperceptibly in acknowledgment. There was no sound in the torch-lit corridor save the pad of his leather-soled riding slippers.
It was the beginning of the thirdpahar, midday, and he had come directly from the hunt when the runner brought word that Mumtaz had entered labor. It would have been unseemly to have gone to her side, so he had spoken briefly with thedai, midwife. He had overruled the Hindu woman's suggestion that Mumtaz be made to give birth squatting by a bed, so that a broom could be pressed against her abdomen as the midwife rubbed her back. It was, he knew, the barbarous practice of unbelievers, and he cursed himself for taking on the woman in the first place. It had been a symbolic gesture for the Hindu troops, to quell concern that all the important details attending the birth would be Muslim. Jadar had insisted that Mumtaz be moved to a velvet mat on the floor of her room and carefully positioned with her head north and her feet south. In case she should die in childbirth—and he fervently prayed she would not—this was the position in which she would be buried, her face directed toward Mecca. He had ordered all cannon of the fort primed with powder, to be fired in the traditional Muslim salute if a male child was the issue.
Preparations also were underway for the naming ceremony. He had prayed for many days that this time a son would be named. There were two daughters already, and yet another would merely mean one more intriguing woman to be locked away forever, for he knew he could never allow a daughter to marry. The complications of yet another aspiring family in the palace circle were inconceivable. The scheming Persian Shi'ites, like the queen and her family, who had descended on Agra would like nothing better than another opportunity to use marriage to dilute the influence of Sunni Muslims at court.
Allah, this time it has to be a son. Hasn't everything possible been done? And if Akman was right, that a change of residence during the term ensures a male heir, then I'll have a son twelve times over from this birthing. She's been in a dozen cities. And camps. I even tested the augury of the Hindus and had a household snake killed and tossed in the air by one of their Brahmin unbelievers, to see how it would land. And it landed on its back, which they say augurs a boy. Also, the milk squeezed from her breasts three days ago was thin, which the Hindus believe foretells a son.
Still, the omens have been mixed.The eclipse. Why did it come a day earlier than the Hindu astrologers had predicted? Now I realize it was exactly seven days before the birth. No one can recall when they failed to compute an eclipse correctly.
What did it mean? That my line will die out? Or that a son will be born here who will one day overshadow me?
Who can know the future? What Allah wills must be.
And, he told himself, the meeting set for the thirdpaharmust still take place, regardless of the birth. Unless he did what he had planned, the birth would be meaningless. All the years of planning now could be forfeited in this single campaign.
If I fail now, what will happen to the legacy of Akman, his great work to unify India? Will India return to warring fiefdoms, neighbor pitted against neighbor, or fall to the Shi'ites? The very air around me hints of treachery.
With that thought he momentarily inspected the placement of his personal crest on the thick wooden door of the fortress reception hall and pushed it wide. A phalanx of guards trailed behind him into the room, which he had claimed as his command post for the duration of his stay in Burhanpur. The immense central carpet had been freshly garlanded around the edges with flowers.
The fortress, the only secure post remaining in the city, had been commandeered by Jadar and his hand-picked guard. His officers had taken accommodations in the town, and the troops had erected an enormous tent complex along the road leading into the city from the north. Their women now swarmed over the bazaar, accumulating stores for the march south. Bullock carts of fresh produce glutted the roads leading into the city, for word had reached the surrounding villages that Burhanpur was host to the retinue of the prince and his soldiers from the north—buyers accustomed to high northern prices. The villagers also knew from long experience that a wise man would strip his fields and gardens and orchards now and sell, before an army on the march simply took what it wanted.
Rumors had already reached the city that the army of Malik Ambar, Abyssinian leader of the Deccanis, was marching north toward Burhanpur with eighty thousand infantry and horsemen. An advance contingent was already encamped no more than tenkossouth of the city.
Jadar inspected the reception room until he was certain
it was secure, with every doorway under command of his men. Then he signaled the leader of the Rajput guard, who relayed a message to a courier waiting outside. Finally he settled himself against an immense velvet bolster, relishing this moment of quiet to clear his mind.
The Deccan, the central plains of India. Will they ever be ours? How many more campaigns must there be?
He recalled with chagrin all the humiliations dealt Arangbar by the Deccanis.
When Arangbar took the throne at Akman's death, he had announced he would continue his father's policy of military control of the Deccan. A general named Ghulam Adl had requested, and received, confirmation of his existing post of Khan Khanan, "Khan of Khans," the supreme commander of the Moghul armies in the south. To subdue the Deccan once and for all, Arangbar had sent an additional twelve thousand cavalry south and had given Ghulam Adl a million rupees to refurbish his army. But in spite of these forces, the Abyssinian Malik Ambar soon had set up a rebel capital at Ahmadnagar and declared himself prime minister.