THE FLAME-GATHERERSCHAPTER ITHE CONQUEROR
THE FLAME-GATHERERS
The sun was setting over the Narmáda plain. In the midst of long stretches of sunburnt farm land the waters of the great river rolled and flashed with light. The barren millet-fields were illumined with long streaks of yellow sunshine that ran to the base of Mandu, an immense plateau, rising sheer from the lowlands to a height of some three or four hundred feet. Between it and the nearest of the Vindhyas is a deep chasm, a quarter of a mile or more in width, bridged over by a miracle of man, a stone causeway, many centuries old even on the day of September 6, in the year of the Christian Lord 1205, and of the Hejira 601.
This causeway, a vast, stone bridge, supported on piers built up from the rocks below, balustraded to a height of five feet, and finished on each corner by watch-towers in which lookouts were always stationed, made the single approach to the otherwise impregnable plateau which formed in itself the entire principality of Mandu. Remarkable among Indian ruins to-day arethose that crown the deserted height of this unique spot: temples, houses, and vast palaces of the most ancient times; and at the period of which we speak, the opening years of the thirteenth century, Mandu was in the heyday of its Indian glory, renowned throughout the West for its wealth, its power, and the righteousness of its rulers.
The rice harvest was just beginning, and the inhabitants of Mandu—Brahman, Vaisya, Sudra, and Pariah alike—were busily engaged in this toil of peace. The Kshatriyas, or warrior part of the population, were not in the minds of their fellows to-day; for at the end of the rains they had marched to the north on an expedition against an army of Mohammedans by whom their neighbors of Dhár were beset.
The great causeway was deserted save for its lookouts and a fakir who had chosen to light a harvest Ishti on the stones near the southwest tower. As the sun neared the horizon, however, the silence was broken by a sudden screaming of birds and monkeys in the wooded mountain gorge beyond the bridge. Two of the guards stretched themselves and looked out along the pass—looked, and were transfixed. Shrill trumpet-notes and the faint beating of hoofs along a rocky road became suddenly audible. The glint of spear-heads shone among the trees. Lastly came the tapping of the tiny saddle-drums. Two of the soldiers shouted together: “Avalu! They are coming!” and, leaping down to the bridge, started at breakneck pace toward the fields, crying as they ran: “The army! The soldiers!Lord Rajah! They are here! They have returned!”
The other two guards made no move to leave their advantageous posts. The Brahman, also, abandoning his invocation to Agni, mounted the nearest tower, to watch the arrival of his earthly ruler. He had scarcely taken up his position when the vanguard of returning warriors rode out upon the bridge, a glittering company, headed by the stateliest of figures, at whose approach the guards all but knelt in salute to their ruler, Rai-Khizar-Pál, Rajah of Mandu in the country of Malwa, a brave and noble king. Slightly behind him rode two other richly dressed men, mounted on beautiful horses, each of whom came in for some share of the acknowledgments of the guards,—Puran, captain of the troops, and Ragunáth, confidential adviser of the Rajah. Slowly, for the horses were fagged with long marching, the three passed over the bridge, followed by a lengthening train of officers and men, horse and foot, over whose robes of crimson and white and green played the last beams of the setting sun, sending off a dazzle of light from the rubies that fastened a long spray of white feathers to the turban of the Rajah.
By the time the first of the cavalcade had entered the broad road leading straight across the plateau to the palaces at its eastern end, throngs of field-workers and people of the town had begun to line the edges of the route; for the news of the army’s return had spread from one end of the plateau to the other, and men and women left their work and, stained and disorderedwith toil, rushed to the road to greet their ruler and their defenders. A well-built lot of people they were, by far the greater number of the men invested with the cord of the twice-born. And their king’s popularity was very evident from the welcome they were giving him. Men of the Brahman caste lifted their hands to him, Vaisyas fell upon their knees, and Sudras and Pariahs prostrated themselves upon the earth till he had passed. Then all stood gazing eagerly at the slow-moving file of troops. Jests, salutations, and words of welcome passed between the onlookers and the returning warriors; and the general spirit of joy was redoubled when it was found that the campaign, short as it had been, was also a victorious one. Evidences of victory presently became visible; for, at the end of the lines of foot-soldiers, came a long string of captives, many on foot, a few mounted upon mules, these last with their feet bound together by thongs passed round the animals, their arms tied behind them with ropes of hide, and the beasts themselves fastened together in a long chain. Beside this mounted company, who represented captives of station, rode a soldier armed with a triple-lashed whip, which he used with no great degree of compassion upon the backs of his charges.
These captives were greeted by the onlookers with shouts of triumph, but with no insults or even unfriendly remarks. The followers of the Prophet were still rather mythical enemies to these dwellers of the Dekhan. Mahmoud of Ghazni was a name they recognized;but Aybek, the great slave, who had just mounted the throne of Delhi, was as unreal to them as their own kings who had died three thousand years ago, in the first conquest of India. These captives now among them were tangible enough, but they presented too abject an appearance to give any idea of their force in battle. The chagrin of captivity, the many days of riding and walking, the intolerable suffering occasioned by their bonds, had broken the spirit of all save one, who rode at the head of the pitiable procession. He was young, this man, good to look on even in his unkempt state, and his clothes, through the stains of war and woe, showed their richness. He sat straight on his unsaddled mule, and his head was not bent down. He seemed to notice nothing of what passed around him, but kept his eyes fixed far ahead on the long, curving range of blackened mountains, lighted by the glow of the sunset sky that blazed behind them. His dignity and his unconsciousness made him a continual object of interest to the crowd, and the slave-master was under a running fire of questions which he was not slow to answer.
“He is a prince, a son of the enemy’s leader. He will bring a great ransom,” he repeated again and again, proudly.
Cheers never failed to follow the explanation; and, after some twenty minutes of this trial, the Arab’s head for the first time drooped, and a deep sigh broke from him.
“Let not my lord grieve,” whispered the personriding next behind him, a boy, scarcely more than fifteen years in age. “My lord will be ransomed.”
But the Mohammedan sighed again, making no answer; and the slave-master, overhearing the whisper, cut off the conversation with a quick stroke of his whip on the back of the boy, who bore it, as he bore all things for his Prince, without a sound.
By this time the road, which had hitherto run through grain-fields, approached a building set, as was the custom with many Indian temples and palaces, in the midst of a square pool of water. The structure was built of white stone, in the usual massive and grotesque Indian style, and seemed only approachable by a narrow path between two glassy sheets of water, which reflected in their mirror-depths the clumps of wild cotton trees, graceful bamboos, and feathery tamarinds by which they were surrounded. The eyes of the captives, turned from this structure only when it lay behind them, were instantly fixed upon another, infinitely greater, which a new bend in the road disclosed a few hundred yards beyond. The entrance to this new building was filled with a bustling throng, for here the soldiers were dismounting. It was the dwelling of the rulers of Mandu; and in five minutes more the captives themselves had halted in the huge, unpaved courtyard round which the palace was built.
The sun had now set and the brief twilight sunk into darkness. A bonfire burned already in the centre of the courtyard, and its fitful, wavering light accentuated the activity of the scene. The Rajah and a fewof the officials had disappeared into the palace; but it seemed as if all the rest of the little army, together with a hundred attendants, were crowded into the courtyard:—soldiers, slaves, eunuchs, page-boys, villagers, and women,—women unveiled, unabashed, openly interested in their fellow-creatures. Finally, in the portal of the north wing, quiet, calm, betraying no sign of weariness, stood Ragunáth, the right hand of the Rajah, that small, slender, well-favored man, with the eyes of the lynx, an intellect keen as a steel blade, and a constitution that was superior to time and disease. He was still clad in his crimson riding-costume. The turban had not been lifted from his head; but he carried in his hand a thin, ebony staff. He was engaged in directing the dismount and disposal of the captives. Already those that had come on foot had been led away by guards into the south wing; and now, under his low-voiced commands, two men were lifting the riders from their mules and, as soon as they could stand, sending them after the others. One of these, only, made any resistance to this plan. He was the boy who had ridden second in the line, behind his leader. Spent as he was, this child struggled violently against separation from his master, at whose commands only he finally consented to be led away. And now this master remained alone, upon his mule, his face turned to Ragunáth, and in his eyes the faintest expression of dislike.
“What is thy name, captive?” demanded the Indian, in a flat, low tone.
“Fidá Ibn-Mahmud Ibn-Hassan el-Asra,” returned the captive.
“The son of the Mohammedan leader?”
“His brother’s son.”
“Ah! then you are not a prince?”
“I am the head of our race. My father is dead.”
“Ah!—Partha, let him be taken down and brought to my apartment. Then go tell the Lord Rajah that the work is done.” And, turning upon his heel, the minister disappeared into the corridor behind him.
Immediately the two men beside him cut the thongs that bound Fidá’s feet to the mule; and they also unfastened his arms. He was lifted from the animal, and set upon his feet, at the same time supported on either side. It was some moments before his numb and stiffened limbs would bear him; but at length he straightened, and followed his guides into the palace. They proceeded for some distance down a hall hung at regular distances with finely wrought lamps, and at length turned into a narrower passage that ended, Fidá could see, in another courtyard. Before this was reached, however, they halted at a doorway closed by a hanging; and here Fidá was bidden to enter and pass through into the farthest room. Then he was left alone.
The captive gave a sigh of relief. After the long strain, just ended, silence and semi-darkness seemed to him unspeakable boons. He longed to lie down here upon the ground and sleep. That being impossible, however, he took the only practicable advantage of therespite. Facing toward what he believed to be the west,—and Mecca,—he threw himself into the devout attitude and repeated the sunset prayers. Then, relieved in mind and heart, he pushed aside the hanging, and entered the apartment of Ragunáth. The first room was empty, illumined by a single lamp, the light of which gave some indication of the richness of the furnishings. Through this and another room Fidá passed, and then halted on the threshold of the third, the living-room of a fortunate man.
Here, reclining on a great pile of cushions, was the adviser and confidant of the Rajah. Beside him, on a low stand, were a dish of rice and a chased goblet containing wine. Two attendants were bathing his feet with perfumed water; and at the opposite side of the room, under a hideous image of Krishna, a Brahman was making the evening sacrifice of meal and ghee, over two or three sticks of burning wood. Fidá forgot himself in gazing at this scene, till Ragunáth, opening his eyes, which were shut under the soothing influence of rest and quiet, cried out, rather harshly:
“Come! Enter, slave! To thy knees!”
Fidá walked slowly forward, made a respectful salutation to the master of the room, and then stood upright again. Ragunáth shrugged his shoulders, but did not attempt to enforce his command, which was, indeed, contrary to the etiquette of captivity, he being in no way Fidá’s overlord. It was some moments before he would speak; and, during the interval, the Brahman, his task over, turned to him, announcing:“The evening Agnihotra is accomplished. Krishna and the gods are appeased. I will depart,” and forthwith left the room. Then Ragunáth, once more master of his tones, said smoothly:
“You are here, Asra, to choose the life of your captivity. Will you wait imprisoned and guarded till there come members of your race to treat for ransom; or will you take the clothing of the Rajah’s household and become the servant of our lord, his cup-bearer, till the time of your freedom?”
“Will not Rai-Khizar-Pál send messengers to treat with Omar for my ransom?” cried Fidá, in amazement.
“The way is long and difficult. We are but just returned from a dangerous campaign. The Rajah is satisfied with his victories.”
For some moments Fidá stared hopelessly at Ragunáth’s impenetrable face. Then he bent his head beneath the tumultuous wave of bitterness that overswept him. Finally, controlling himself, as all Arabs are taught to do, he looked up again, and answered in an unnatural voice: “I will enter the household of the Rajah. I will serve him as his cup-bearer.”
Ragunáth nodded, and touched a gong beside his couch. After a moment’s waiting a slave ran into the room, knelt before his master, and bent his head to the floor.
“Radai, take this man to the house of slaves, and let him be clothed in the fashion of the Rajah’s servants. He will serve to-night, at the feast, as cup-bearer to the Lord Rai-Khizar-Pál. Go!”
The slave rose, took Fidá by the hand, and turned to leave the room, when they perceived that a newcomer was standing in the doorway: a eunuch of high office. Ragunáth, seeing him, gave an exclamation.
“Kasya! Enter! enter!”
“My lord summoned me?” The man did not move from the doorway, and Fidá and his companion stood aside.
“Yes, yes, I summoned thee. How goes thy office? Enter, Kasya. All thy work is well?”
“The Lady Ahalya—is well.”
The answer was made in such a tone as brought Fidá’s eyes to the face of the man that uttered it. Kasya’s eyes were bright, Kasya’s lip was curled, and Fidá perceived that the sarcasm, the almost insult, in the eunuch’s tone had been fully intentional. In another moment Fidá was drawn from the room, but not before he heard Ragunáth utter a smothered oath, and had perceived a light of satisfaction in the eunuch’s eyes. It was an incident unusual enough to impress itself on the mind of the new-made slave; for he was sometimes a student of men. But there seemed no adequate reason why one word, the name that Kasya had spoken, should so have fixed itself in Fidá’s brain that, for the next hour or two, it beat upon him with a constant rhythm, “Ahalya—Ahalya—Ahalya,” till it seemed fuller of import than the great battle-cry the syllables of which so much resembled it. And, in the end, Fidá accepted it as an omen of all that afterward came upon him in this new land.
In the meantime the whole palace, and especially the great central portion of it, had been humming with life. Manava, the regent-minister, and all his staff of servants, were preparing an unexpected welcome for the return of the Rajah and his victorious troops. By half-past eight in the evening, the vast audience-hall presented a gala appearance; and shortly after that hour Rai-Khizar-Pál, with Purán on his right hand, Ragunáth on his left, and a great company bringing up the rear, entered and was received at the foot of the daïs by Manava, who, with this act of reception, discharged himself of his three months’ regency.
The hall, which was the largest in the palace, and opened immediately from the central courtyard, was a remarkable example of the massive, clumsy, and inartistic architecture of uninvaded India. Stone pillars, of unequal size and design, supported the roof. The walls were covered with multicolored hangings, and furthermore were to-night covered with ropes of flowers. A hundred lamps of wrought bronze and silver hung from the ceiling, and torches were fastened to the pillars. At the head of the room, opposite the entrance, was the daïs, on which stood a broad divan overhung with a canopy. This was the judgment seat of Mandu, to be used to-night in a lighter cause. As the Rajah laid himself in his place, the three high officials squatted on cushions near the royal couch, each with a low, round stand before him. Below, in the hall, stood three long, low tables, raisednot more than eight inches from the floor, beside which were rows of woven mats, on which the feasters squatted in customary fashion. In three minutes every seat was taken, and immediately a throng of slaves came hurrying in, each bearing his burden of food or wine or metal bowls filled with water for the washing of hands. Among these ministers of the feast was Fidá, who came halting along in the rear, side by side with the young Ahmed, now perfectly content by reason of the nearness of his lord. Fidá was dressed in a loose white cotton vestment that hung to his ankles, and was confined about his waist with a broad, red scarf. The sleeves were wide and short, and the tunic opened loosely in the front, disclosing his bare, bronzed chest. His feet were unshod; but his head was bound round with a brass circlet, the sign of slavery. In his hands he carried a jar of the liquor forbidden to his creed. As he neared the royal divan many eyes were turned to him, and he was pointed out, here and there, as a prince of the enemy; and if the feasters gazed at him once for his station, they looked a second time at his beauty, for Fidá was worthy of his birth. Taller in stature, better shaped as to limb, cleaner-cut in feature than any Indian, he gave ample evidence of the higher civilization and keener intellect of his race. For at this time the men of Arabia were at the zenith of their power; and were bearing the religion of their Prophet at the point of their swords into every nation of the known world.
Fidá went up and bent the knee before his master;and Rai-Khizar-Pál turned upon him a gentle and kindly glance. “Come up, young man. Let me behold thee. So. Thou art named master of my drink. Fill, then, this cup, and Indra grant it may be full forever!”
Fidá obeying this command, the Rajah lifted the golden vessel to his lips, and instantly all those in the room sprang to their feet. He drank deeply, replaced the cup on the stand before him, waved one hand to his people, and the feast was opened.
To Fidá, tired, dreary, and, above all, famishing with hunger, the meal seemed endless. It was not, indeed, a refined sight to one suffering as he suffered. Flagon after flagon of wine he poured into the Rajah’s bowl, dish after dish of the richest food was presented at the royal stand, mountain after mountain of meat, river on river of drink, disappeared under the attacks of the feasters below; and still there was no end. One man alone, of all the number, displayed some fastidiousness in his taste. Ragunáth, after a moderate meal, ceased to eat, and sat cross-legged on his cushion, silent, motionless, oblivious, seemingly, of the sights and sounds around him: untempted by any viand or wine to exceed his capacity. In spite of this fact Fidá could not regard the man with admiration or even with respect. For to the prejudiced eyes of the slave, delicacy in Ragunáth only assumed a guise of affectation.
Time went on, hours apparently had passed, and still Fidá’s ministrations as cup-bearer showed no signof diminishing. Finally, however, relief came from an unexpected source. Kasya, the head eunuch, whom Fidá had already seen, glided into the room through a small door to the right of the daïs, connecting the audience hall with the Rajah’s private apartments. Kasya knelt before Rai-Khizar and murmured a few words which brought the royal master to his feet, exclaiming to those near him:
“Come, my friends, let us go. There is to be dancing.”
Purán and Manava rose at once from their cushions, Ragunáth emerged from his spell, and the three of them, with Kasya and one or two slaves, followed the Rajah from the room, unnoticed by the rabble below.
Fidá, to his infinite relief, found himself left behind. He realized, indeed, that he was at the end of his endurance; and this fact made him bold. Going to Ragunáth’s place, he sat down and set to work upon the untouched food left there. Never had slave been so daring before; but, also, never before had a meal been so direfully needed. As he ate, he regarded the crowd below apprehensively; for he did not know what discovery might bring. But the great feast was nearly at an end. Half the company had gone straggling off to their beds. Of those that remained, few were in condition to observe anything; and, to his reassurance, Fidá presently perceived that slaves and servitors had begun to slip into empty places, and to begin their part of the meal. Among this number was Ahmed; and when presently the eyes of the two met, Fidá noddedslightly, and the other came running to the daïs, and stood before his master.
“Sit here by me, and eat, Ahmed,” commanded the young man.
“My lord! It is not fitting—”
“Sit here. Am I not a slave also? There! Here is lamb roasted with cinnamon and stuffed with raisins and sugar. Excellent! Eat of it. And this is deer flesh. And here is sesame, and rice, and a duck fried in oil. They do not starve in Mandu; but I have seen no water in this room.”
“I will fetch it!” and Ahmed darted away, to return presently with the prescribed liquid in a large, porous bottle.
Fidá drank gratefully, and then the two ate in silence, while below them, minute by minute, the great hall grew quieter. The meal was almost finished, and Fidá was smiling at the contentment of his devoted little servitor, when suddenly a eunuch came running through the Rajah’s door, and, seeing Fidá seated tranquilly on the daïs, gave him a violent cuff on the head, crying out:
“Dog! Leave thy gluttony and come to the King. He calls for his ‘cup-bearer’.—Faithful cup-bearer thou! Come!”
At the blow, both Mohammedans leaped to their feet; and the Asra stared upon the eunuch, his face flaming with anger. Ahmed, indeed, would have thrown himself upon the man, but that Fidá fortunately regained his temper, and, restraining the lad’s arm,bent his head before the messenger, and with a slight smile at Ahmed’s outraged expression, followed his guide from the room.
They passed through a hallway more richly furnished than any Fidá himself had ever seen; and then, crossing a corridor, turned down a narrow passage into the open doorway of the “theatre”—a large, irregular room, with a slightly elevated platform at one end, and the usual daïs at the other.
The place was brilliantly lighted. Rai-Khizar-Pál lay upon a divan; and disposed about him were his usual companions, together with one or two new officials, and a dozen or more slaves, who crouched back in the shadow of the hangings. In one corner of the room, below the stage, sat three musicians, playing, upon their strange-shaped instruments, a rhythmical minor air. The stage was occupied by six nautch-dancers, gayly and scantily clad, of their type good-looking, perhaps. They were performing a dance with which Fidá was familiar enough, having seen it many times at Delhi. It was called the “serpent”, and appeared to be highly acceptable to the spectators. The Rajah was laughing and talking genially, and even Ragunáth’s face wore a smile. At the entrance of Fidá, Rai-Khizar called him to the couch and good-naturedly abused him for deserting his post. The Arab offered no excuse, and was finally ordered to his task of pouring wine. Cups and jar stood close at hand; and from time to time the whole company drank a toast to some favorite performer. Fidá, refreshed by foodand encouraged by the leniency of his master, watched the stage with some interest. In the course of an hour many dancers came and went. There were sometimes six, again two, occasionally one, on the stage; and all the time the low, droning, monotonous music never ceased.
In time the audience began to grow drowsy under the effects of light, wine, and unceasing sound. Rai-Khizar had nodded on his pillows, and Ragunáth yawned openly. By and by all the dancers left the stage, and the musicians’ tune died away. The Rajah started up, demanding to know why the dance stopped without his command. But, while he spoke, the music began again, this time with a different air, a swinging, graceful melody, new to its hearers. A little murmur of approval came from Manava and Purán. The rest waited. Then Fidá, his curiosity awakened, saw a woman run on to the stage:—a woman fair-skinned, dark-eyed, with a wreath of poppies woven into her hair, and garments of scarlet gauze flying about her slender, beautifully shaped figure. For an instant he shut his eyes; and, before he could open them again, there burst from two throats the same hoarse cry:
“Ahalya!”
Rai-Khizar-Pál and Ragunáth together had started to their feet; but she who danced only smiled and half lowered the lids of her dark and lustrous eyes.
“Ahalya!” shouted the Rajah, in a frenzy of excitement. “Ahalya! Get thee from this room! How darest thou appear—in this place? Kasya—take her away!”
As the enormity of his wife’s offence grew upon him, Rai-Khizar’s wrath waxed hotter till he stood panting with emotion as Kasya dashed upon the stage. Ragunáth, entirely forgetting himself, stood still, gazing upon the charming figure of the young woman, with a light in his eyes that was all too easy to read. Of the rest, slaves and officials alike watched the scene with impartial interest, all but Fidá, who, even after Ahalya, rebellious and laughing at her escapade, had left the room, still crouched in the shadow of the canopy, the blood pounding at his temples, his heart literally standing still, his brilliant eyes staring as at the vision of the wonderful red and white beauty of Ahalya, youngest wife of Rai-Khizar-Pál of Mandu in Malwa.