CHAPTER IITHE INCEPTION OF A FLAME
Fidá slept that night on a divan in an antechamber of the Rajah’s suite, instead of in his lawful place, the house of slaves behind the palace. This breach of duty came about simply enough. After the tumultuous breaking-up of the party in the theatre, the slaves in attendance on the Rajah and his officials seized the opportunity for retiring, and disappeared with such quiet zeal that, three minutes after Ahalya’s departure from the stage, Fidá found himself alone on the daïs in the empty room. Rai-Khizar had rushed away to his delinquent wife; and the officials, tired out, lost no time in betaking themselves to their own apartments. Fidá was perfectly well aware of the situation of the house of slaves. He had dressed there in the early evening. But the Asra had no intention of passing the night in that uninviting spot if it could be helped. After a moment’s consideration, therefore, he left the theatre and wandered through the tangled web of little rooms constituting the royal suite, till he came upon one room which promised comparative safety for the night. It was unlighted. He believed it to be out of the way of the more inhabited part. And all round it ran a divanwell covered with cushions. So, without stopping to consider consequences, Fidá lay down upon the pleasant couch, buried his tired head in a pillow, and in five minutes was sleeping the sleep of the slave.
He woke by degrees. First there was the consciousness of light; secondly of a weight upon his heart; thirdly it was extraordinarily still. Evidently he was not in camp. Was it Delhi—the palace? He opened his eyes to see—and he saw. Memory brought a groan to his lips; but he stifled it, half-uttered, and lay still to consider his situation. The first thing that occurred to him was that it must be past the hour of morning prayer. Rising, then, he turned his back to the sunlight that streamed in through a half-screened window, and, having gone through the form of ablution permitted when water is not at hand, he began theNiyyat, speaking in Arabic. The syllables fell lovingly from his lips, and his heart swelled with the comfort of his religion. Except the moment at Ragunáth’s door on the previous evening, this was the first solitude that had been his since the day of battle in which he had been taken captive by the Rajah. During the succeeding days he had stumbled through his prayers as he lay bound in tents, or rode, strapped to the mule, along rough paths through the hills. At last he was alone, unhampered, free to take the attitudes of prayer, free also to whisper the words of his own tongue, which of late years he had seldom used in ordinary intercourse with men.
Yet Fidá was not to end his devotions as he hadbegun them. He was standing with eyes cast down, repeating theSubhán:
“Holiness to thee, O God!And praise be to thee!Great is thy name,Great is thy greatness;There is no deity but thee!”
“Holiness to thee, O God!And praise be to thee!Great is thy name,Great is thy greatness;There is no deity but thee!”
“Holiness to thee, O God!And praise be to thee!Great is thy name,Great is thy greatness;There is no deity but thee!”
“Holiness to thee, O God!
And praise be to thee!
Great is thy name,
Great is thy greatness;
There is no deity but thee!”
when a figure suddenly appeared in the doorway, and the captive’s words were stopped short as he met the eyes of Rai-Khizar-Pál, his conqueror.
So amazed was he that Fidá forgot to kneel or to give any sign of abasement. Thus they stood, gazing each at the other. Perhaps some mute message was carried from the slave to the master; for the Rajah’s expression little by little softened, till at length he asked quietly:
“What is it thou doest here, Asra?”
Fidá bent his head. “Mighty lord, I prayed.”
The Rajah smiled slightly, lifted one of his hands to the curtain beside him, grasped it, and settled into an easier position. “Thou art not a good servant, Asra,” he observed at last.
“It has not hitherto been my place to serve, O King.”
There was another pause, while the Rajah’s eyes travelled around the room. “Thou hast slept here?”
“Yes.”
“And why? Knowest thou not the house of slaves?”
For a second Fidá hesitated. Then he answered, “Too well I knew it, Lord Rajah.”
“What sayest thou?”
“Thou, O King—wouldst thou lie among the base born?”
“I!—I am Kshatriya! Among you there is no caste.”
“There is pride.”
Rai-Khizar laughed. “Thou’st a tongue, slave. It were my duty to have thee whipped. But this day is a day devoted to the gods. Begone, then. Get thee a morning meal and wait for a message from me. Yet remember this, my Asra: here there is no prince but me. If thou anger me, I shall have thee killed.”
“You dare not!” rose to Fidá’s lips, but he checked the words; for it was indeed time that he learned his place. And he stood with lowered head as the Rajah turned away and left him.
This encounter strongly affected Fidá’s state of mind. Reconsidering the conversation, he perceived that he stood the debtor of the man whose slave he had become—an infidel dog, a worshipper of images and Jinn. It could not be denied that Rai-Khizar’s toleration was greater than that of any Arab chief; and Fidá felt bitterly the humiliation of his leniency. Yet in all the Rajah’s mildness there had been a dignity that inspired in the Mohammedan an unwilling admiration and respect.
Perfunctorily, Fidá finished his prayers, and then acted upon the first of the two commands of his master:—he left the palace in search of food. It was some time, however, before he found it, and then only in thehouse of slaves, where a number of his fellows were beginning the morning meal. Among them was Ahmed, who sat a little apart from the chattering herd, apparently watching for some one. At sight of Fidá he rose eagerly and ran forward, greeting him with marks of respect which the Asra reproved. Then the boy led the way into the interior of the dirty, barren house, in the centre of which was a wood fire, overhung by a large iron pot filled with a bubbling mass of millet. Near by, on a stand, was an immense bowl of clarified butter, or “ghee”, which, mixed with the meal, formed the staple as well as the sacrificial food of the low-caste Hindoo throughout India. Fidá waited in silence while Ahmed handily procured him a dish of the none too appetizing mess. And then, eager to escape the vile and smoky air of the interior, the two hurried out into the shaded veranda, while the other slaves were eating.
It was now a not unpleasant scene that the captives looked upon. The day was hot, gay with sunshine and the chatter of birds, sweet with the perfume of the jessamine vines, which were still covered with flowers. The slave-house faced the angle of the palace formed by the juncture of the central building and the south wing. Directly opposite them was a long, wooden-pillared arcade called the veranda, running the length of the wing. It was covered with flowering vines, and furnished like a great room, with cushions and stands and hangings in place of more customary frescoes. In the end that faced the central courtyard, invisible from without, was a temple room, the priests of which seemedto spend the greater part of their lives lounging on mats in the fragrant veranda. In this same side of the palace lodged Manava’s suite and Purán’s; and at the end of all was a wooden barracks, where the soldiers were now just waking from the sleep induced by last night’s festivity. A group of these hung about the well, which stood between the house of slaves and their domicile, waiting their turn for water. There was a general splashing and shouting, little laughter, but also no swearing, for the Hindoo is always clean-mouthed.
From their vantage-point, Ahmed and Fidá, observing this life, found themselves entertained; for all the human nature of the palace found vent here. The two captives lingered over their meal, talking generally; and presently Fidá remarked on the number of slaves who had been passing and repassing near them. Ahmed answered him at once:
“There are more than three hundred employed here—including eunuchs, who do not sleep in this house. I have been made a sweeper. This morning the slave-master, Kanava, roused me at dawn, gave me a broom of dried kusa grass and sent me, with nine others, to sweep the corridors of the north wing.”
“Then thou hast had little enough sleep. Go, therefore, lie down and rest while I sit here. By my life, I would I knew what my duties are to be. No one orders me about. I am given no instructions. I have not even seen this Kanava.”
“Ah, dear lord, to think that thou must serve! He—Look. There is a stir opposite.”
Two slaves had entered the veranda of the south wing, and went running down it, shouting, as they went, some unintelligible words. At the sound, men came pouring out of the interior rooms, and turned in the direction of the courtyard, whither, in a moment or two, there moved a long procession of priests, soldiers, and petty officials. The last of these had not yet disappeared when every rear doorway and opening in the main building near by began to let forth slaves, who came toward their particular house in a straggling group of almost two hundred.
“It is a big sacrifice,” observed Fidá, who was familiar enough with Indian customs to know that no Sudra can participate in the service of the gods.
“Yes, early this morning there stood erected in the courtyard a great altar, to which many men were bringing fagots and flowers. It will be an animal sacrifice also; for a dozen sacred cows were tethered in an enclosure there when I passed through.”
“The animal sacrifice is not common. I have never seen one. It must be in honor of victory.”
Ahmed did not answer. His eyes were fixed on a man who had come out of the palace alone and was running toward the slave-house. “That is Kanava,” he whispered, as the man drew near. Fidá beheld a cruel face, marked with lines of habitual ill-temper and impatience, and rendered doubly unpleasant by the deep pock-marks which pitted it everywhere. His dress was that of the common slaves; but the band about his head was of beaten silver. At his appearancethe clamor in the slave-house suddenly ceased. Ahmed jumped to his feet, but Fidá remained seated, his empty bowl in his lap. Kanava scowled at the breach of respect, and shouted:
“Up, slave! Up! You are summoned. Come!”
Fidá rose obediently, went to the first opening in the trellis, and stepped to Kanava’s side. Together they started toward the palace, and the groups left behind looked after Fidá, with new respect; for, though he had been rash, Kanava had neither struck nor abused him, and was now, moreover, walking not in front of him, but at his side.
As they neared the palace, Fidá’s curiosity as to their errand rose. But he would ask no questions, and Kanava did not offer information. So in silence they entered the palace, walked down long corridors to the audience hall, now cleared of every trace of last night’s festivity, and finally to the threshold of the outer door, where, without a word, Kanava turned and left the Asra standing stock-still before a remarkable scene.
He had but an instant’s view of the thing in its entirety:—a vast, close-packed sea of people, garlanded, decked, nay robed, in the brightest flowers; in the centre of the living mass a high, square altar, piled with firewood; and surrounding the altar, ranged in symmetrical order, twelve sacred cows, twelve accompanying priests, and twelve huge, earthen jars. All this Fidá took in at one, swift glance. The next instant a universal shout arose, and he was seized and drawn through the crowd, which opened for him, by twoyoung Brahmans, naked except for loin-cloths and the sacred cord. In a moment Fidá was beside the altar, where stood the Rajah, flaming with jewels, and Ragunáth, scarcely less magnificent. Here, without a moment’s delay, the bewildered captive was taken in hand by two snatakas, and bound, hand and foot, with ropes. Then, as at some signal, the twelve priests began to chant those verses of the Rig-Veda that are designed for the great Srahda sacrifice. The crowd was silent now. There was not a whisper; there was scarcely a movement among them all. The twelve gray cows stood, as if long accustomed to such sights, mildly surveying the people. Fidá felt himself like them. He was stunned into perfect tranquillity. His eyes wandered aimlessly; he listened without interest to the words of the chant. He counted the number of flowers in the garland round the neck of the nearest cow. And all the time his mind was really circling about one idea, too horrible to be faced. For he had no doubt that he was to be the first offering in that triumphal sacrifice. This was the reason for Ragunáth’s evasion about his ransom. This was the explanation of Rai-Khizar’s mildness. Fidá looked toward the Rajah, whose eyes were fixed reverently on the ground. The next instant, however, he had caught Ragunáth’s glance, and the minister was smiling at him—a small, cruel, white-toothed smile, a smile like a grimace, that sent a sudden bolt through Fidá’s heart. Ragunáth could smile upon him in his death-hour! In that moment hatred was born in the Arab:—a hatredfor this man, which, through all their future intercourse, never lessened and was never still.
At length the chant came to an end. Fidá felt a breath of relief; for self-control was becoming difficult. Now, at last, he was seized by the stalwart young Brahmans and lifted, like a log of wood, up and up till he was laid on his back on top of the great heap of unlit firewood. A hoarse shout went up from the people gathered below. Fidá’s heart throbbed to suffocation. His hair was literally rising on his head; but he made no movement, nor did he utter any sound. Even in his horror he remembered the behavior of women enduring the suttee, and the memory shamed him into stillness. Under the fierce rays of the sun, now in mid-sky, he closed his eyes and waited—waited for the first crackling flame to leap upon his flesh. Evidently the time for this had not yet come. Again the priests were praying those endless, senseless, Vedic prayers, to Indra, to Vishnu, to Agni—Agni, the fire-god. How long he lay upon the pyre Fidá did not know. It was at once a century and a second. Then the voices of the priests were still. Once more he was seized by the head and the feet and lifted to the ground. There his ropes were cut. He was free again. Trembling and faint, he found himself facing the King’s minister, who was smiling at him still.
“The captive did not know,” he murmured, “that our sacrifices are bloodless.”
Fidá felt himself redden, and the next instant metthe eyes of the Rajah, who was staring at him in amazement: “Knew you not? told they you not? Didst fear such a death? It was a needless fear. Human blood stains not the altars of our gods. You, the foremost of our captives, were laid upon the altar of Indra as a sign that we attribute all our victories to him. That ceremony is over. You are free to depart from the sacrifice.” And, with a friendly gesture, the Rajah turned away again, and Fidá knew himself dismissed.
It was not now so easy a task to force his way through the dense crowd; for this time they did not voluntarily make way for him. He was fiercely possessed with the desire, however, to escape from this mob who had been unconscious witnesses of what he felt to be his cowardice. And, after a persistent pushing and edging, he found himself beyond the people and in front of that doorway where he had dismounted the night before. Here Ragunáth had stood and watched him, but had not then read his soul; or, if he had, had found there nothing of which an Asra might be ashamed. Now!—Coward or not, that Asra was leaning up against the palace wall, gone very faint, even his knees trembling with the reaction of a strain that had been greater than he realized.
He remained standing here for a long time, regaining command of himself, and, afterward, attracted by the spectacle before him. The wood on the altar had been lighted, and a hot, wavering flame leaped high in the centre of the garland-strewn multitude. Intothis fire went the contents of the jars that had stood at the base of the altar:—four of fine, ground meal, four of ghee, and four of strained honey. From this sacrificial mess arose a thick smoke; but the odor that came from it was, surprisingly enough, decidedly agreeable; for the meal and butter had been so skilfully treated with aromatics that the natural smell of burning vegetable and grease had been overcome. The sacrifice was of course accompanied by a continuous high and musical chant from the priests. Chapter after chapter of the Vedas they repeated without halt or break. Prayers were sent up to every Vedic god: to Vishvakarma, the all-maker, to Varuna and Mitra, to Agni, to Surya, to Yama, to the Ashvins, brothers of dawn and twilight, to Rudra, the storm-god, and Vivasat, the father of death. The sacred cattle were offered to Prishni, the holy cow of heaven; and, their spirits being accepted by a sign in the flame, they were led away to resume their duties in the great temple at the other end of the plateau. Finally, at the conclusion of the ceremony, the last god was introduced: he who, for many centuries, had played the great rôle in this ceremonial: Soma, lord of the moon, and lord of drunkennesses, whose name is that of the plant from which the powerful, sacred liquor is distilled. And at the first pronouncing of this name, the sacrifice was interrupted by the arrival of fifty slaves, who made their appearance from the great hall, bearing on their heads jars of the liquid to be quaffed to the great ones above. They were greeted by a long, loudmurmur of anticipatory joy, such as no lavish display of meal or cattle could ever call forth from the crowd. And now at last Fidá, too well aware of what was to follow, turned from the courtyard down the corridor through which he had passed on the previous night, on his way to Ragunáth’s rooms.
He walked slowly along the cool, dim hall, the silence of which was refreshing. Evidently there was not a single soul in this part of the palace; and for an instant there rose in the mind of the captive a wild idea of escape. He was here, alone, unseen—and hundreds of miles away from his uncle’s army, hundreds of miles from any possible safety. Sanity returned as quickly as it had left him, but bringing a new heaviness on his spirit. He came presently to the passage that led to Ragunáth’s rooms; and, looking down it, perceived that it ended in a bright patch of sunlight, marking an inner court. Instinctively he turned thither, finding himself presently on the edge of a charming little three-cornered courtyard, shut in on every side by vine-clad walls. Opposite the passage ran a veranda, overrun with passion-flowers; and in a corner near by rose a group of small tamarinds. The courtyard was unpaved, but in the centre of it stood a little fountain of clear, bubbling spring-water. This place, like the corridor, was without a sign of life; but, pleased with its homelike, pleasant air, Fidá entered it, suddenly seized with a sense of unfamiliar delight.
As if in answer to his appearance, a door across from him was opened, and out upon the veranda, and thenceinto the court, came a young woman, unveiled, dressed in pale, flowing silk, her hips bound with a striped sash, of the broad Indian fashion, her dark hair twined with purple clematis. She was humming to herself a little tune; and as she hummed, she swayed her lithe body from side to side and stepped as a dancer does. Fidá drew a sharp breath. She was the woman who had danced the night before. She was Ahalya, youngest wife of Rai-Khizar-Pál. She was—the fairest creature that Fidá’s eyes had ever looked upon. As he drew quickly back into the shadow of the doorway, he knew, as one knows things in dreams and visions, that it was her spirit filling this place that had made it dear to him. Oblivious of himself, he stood gazing at her while she came to the fountain, sat down upon its brim, and dabbled her hands in the cool water, smiling to herself the while, reminiscently.
Presently, lifting her eyes, she looked full upon Fidá, and, startled out of her composure, jumped to her feet, and then stood still again, uncertain whether she wished to run or not. Fidá advanced matters by walking forward into the courtyard again and performing a deep salaam before her. She saw the metal circlet on his head, knew him for a slave, and yet lifted up her voice and spoke to him. What manner of woman could she be!
“Who art thou? What is thy name?” she asked, surprising herself by her unpremeditated boldness. The beauty of her voice, however, made the slave’s senses swim anew.
“My name is Fidá. I come from Yemen. And my race is the race of Asra—” he looked into her eyes, and his voice sank to a whisper, as he added involuntarily, “who must die if they cherish love!”
The girl started slightly; but she did not move while he looked at her, her white face, her deep, heavy-lidded eyes with their long, black fringes, and the slender white throat left uncovered by her dress. Presently she spoke again, more timidly: “Thou’rt a captive—brought home from war by my lord?”
“I am a captive. I am the slave of thy lord. May Allah pity me!” And this last was drawn from him not by the thought of his captivity, but by the sight of her surpassing loveliness.
Ahalya’s expression softened and grew wistful. “I am a captive too,” she said. “I was born in Iran.”
“The land of roses! I have been in Iran. We passed through it on our long march from Yemen. And we rested in Teheran, where our people have made treaties with the Shah.”
He hoped to see her eyes brighten when he spoke of her country. But she only gazed dreamily beyond him and answered: “I do not remember it—Teheran. I was a baby when my mother brought me into this land. She was in the house of the King of Dhár, and from there I was married to the King of Mandu.—But thou must go, Asra! Thou’lt be—killed if they find thee here.”
“Nay, lady!” Fidá suddenly fell upon one knee. “Let me stay but another moment. Thou—thou hast made captivity so fair to me!”
“Hush, Asra! Go quickly. Indeed, indeed, I would not have thee harmed.”
She drew back from him, and he, coming suddenly to his senses, rose and turned away. Yet before he reached the doorway he had twice looked back at her, and each time found her facing him, her great eyes shining, a half smile trembling round her lips.
Fidá reached the corridor on fire. It was as if he had been drinking Soma. His blood raced in his veins. His heart pounded. His hands were cold. Yet he was not too much distraught to hear the sound of some one approaching in the corridor; and, with a quick sense of self-protection, he slipped into the nearest doorway, and concealed himself behind the hangings of Ragunáth’s antechamber.
The newcomer had come down the passage; and Fidá, peering cautiously out, perceived, with a start, that it was Ragunáth who was approaching—Ragunáth, the mild, the temperate, who had left the Soma sacrifice and come hither alone, to seek—quiet? To Fidá’s surprise and momentary relief, he passed his own doorway, and went on toward the little courtyard. And now the slave, suddenly forgetting himself in his interest in the movements of the man he hated, stepped full into the passage and watched. In the courtyard Ahalya was still seated beside the fountain; but at sight of Ragunáth she rose hastily.
“She was here to watch for him!” thought Fidá; and he clenched his hands at the thought.
Ragunáth went up to the princess and bowed beforeher as profoundly as Fidá himself had bowed. Evidently, at the same time, he spoke. Ahalya, however, began at once to move backward, away from him, he following her by degrees, till they had proceeded clear across the court. And then, suddenly, at the veranda step, the young woman turned around, and literally ran into the women’s apartments, whither none could follow her.
Ragunáth would be coming back now, and Fidá perceived the necessity for a quick escape. In a moment or two he was back in the broad corridor; and, looking round the angle into the passage, saw Ragunáth come slowly in from the court and enter his own rooms. From the man’s walk Fidá read enough to satisfy him. “She was not waiting,” he thought; and at the idea his spirits rose dizzily. Yet, after all, in this last pleasant surmise he was wrong.