The Moghul Read online

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  East along the Tapti River valley the land was a verdantparadise, a patchwork of mango and pipal groves and freshly turned darkearth. By mid-October the fields of cotton, corn, and sugarcane were inharvest; and in the lowlands paired buffalo strained to turn thecrusted mud to readiness for broadcast sowing the grain crops ofautumn: millet, wheat, and barley. The monsoon-washed roads had againgrown passable, and now they were a continual procession, as mile-longcaravans of corn-laden bullock carts inched ponderously west toward theshipping port of Surat.

  The distance from Surat to Burhanpur was one hundred and fifty _kos_,and in dry weather it could be traversed in just over a fortnight.Vasant Rao had hired fifty carts to transport the sealed bundles--whichhe said were lead--to Burhanpur, swelling his entourage of forty Raputhorsemen by fifty low-caste drivers and bullock teams. He had alsohired five additional carts to carry provisions.

  Brian Hawksworth had contracted for his own cart and driver,negotiating a price of twenty rupees for cartage of his belongings allthe way from Surat to Agra. He was amused to reflect that the chestcontaining King James's gifts for the Moghul of India traveled lashedto the bed of a ramshackle, wooden-wheeled cart originally intended forhay.

  The caravan had been scheduled to depart early on a Saturday morning,but the drivers had suddenly refused to budge until the following day.Hawksworth had confronted his driver, Nayka, a dark-skinned low-casteman with the spindly limbs of the underfed, and demanded to know why.Nayka had twisted his head deferentially, riveting his eyes on theground, and explained in halting Turki.

  "Today is Saturday, Captain Sahib. Saturdays and

  Tuesdays are sacred to the goddess Devi, the Divine Mother. Journeysbegun on those days always meet disaster. Bandits, tigers, washed-outroads. A Mussalman once made my cousin bring a cart of indigo to Suratfrom a village down the river on a Tuesday, and a bridge broke underhis load. Both of his bullocks were drowned."

  It was mid-afternoon on Sunday when the caravan finally pulled out fromthe water tank at Surat's Abidjan Gate. By nightfall they had traveledthree _kos_, reaching the outskirts of the village of Cossaria. Thenext day they made twelve _kos_ east-northeast to reach the town ofKarod, a strategic fort on the Tapti, dominated by a hilltop castlethat garrisoned two hundred Rajput soldiers. The next three days theircamp stages had been the towns of Viara, Corka, and the large garrisoncity of Narayanpur.

  On the insistence of Mirza Nuruddin, Hawksworth had carried only aminimal amount of money with him. Instead he had adopted the practiceof Indian merchants, leaving a chest of silver in Surat and receiving aletter of credit, which could be debited for cash at major stops alongthe road to Agra. Moneylenders received negotiable notes against thesilver deposit, which would be paid in Surat at 7 percent surcharge,thereby allowing travelers along the bandit-infested roads to carrycheques instead of cash.

  Hawksworth found himself annoyed that Vasant Rao never allowed thecaravan to stop inside the towns, where traditional Indian guesthouses--a stone floor and a roof-- were available free for travelers.Instead they camped each evening on the outskirts, while a few Rajputsrode in to the town bazaar to buy fresh vegetables, bricks of cow dungfor cooking, and betel leaves for the drivers.

  The evening they reached Narayanpur, the governor of the garrison,Partab Shah, had paid a surprise visit to their camp, bringing his owntroup of _nautch_ women. While the women entertained the Rajputs withan evening of dance and low-priced intimacy, Partab Shah whisperedwarnings to Hawksworth that the road farther east was no longer safenow that civil rule in the Deccan was teetering. The governor hadoffered to provide additional troops to escort the English ambassadorand his gifts for the Moghul safely through the district. To thegovernor's--and Hawksworth's--dismay, Vasant Rao had politely declined.

  It had been well after midnight when the governor and his aides rose toreturn to Narayanpur. Vasant Rao had insisted that the women be sentwith him. Then he convened the Rajputs and drivers and announced thatthey would assemble the caravan two hours before sunup the followingmorning, an hour earlier than usual. They would try to reach and fordthe Tapti before nightfall, then veer northeast for Burhanpur.Hawksworth thought he detected a trace of worry in Vasant Rao's voicefor the first time.

  They were well underway by sunup the next day, and as he fought offsleep in the rising heat, Hawksworth reflected on what he had seenalong the road. It was clear the larger towns were collection depotsfor the Surat region, centers where grain, cotton, indigo, and hempwere assembled for delivery to the port. As their caravan rumbledthrough town after town, Hawksworth began to find them merely aprovincial version of Surat, equally frenetic and self-absorbed. Theirbazaars bustled with haggling brokers and an air of commercetriumphant. After a time he began to find them more wearisome thanexotic.

  But between these towns lived the other India, one of villagesunchanged for centuries. To a Londoner and seaman they were anotherworld, and Hawksworth understood almost nothing of what he saw. Severaltimes he had started to ask Vasant Rao some question about a village,but the time never seemed right. The Rajput was constantly occupiedwith the progress of the caravan and never spoke unless he was givingan order. The long silence of the road had gathered between them untilit was almost an invisible wall.

  For no apparent reason this changed suddenly on the afternoon afterNarayanpur, as the caravan rumbled into the small village of Nimgul andbegan working its way along the single road through the town. VasantRao drew his mount alongside Hawksworth's and pointed to a whiteplaster building up ahead that dominated the center of the village.

  "I grew to manhood in a village such as this, Captain, in a house muchlike that one there."

  Hawksworth examined the well-kept house, and then the village aroundit. Spreading away on all sides were tumbledown thatch-roofed homes ofsticks and clay, many raised on foot-high stilts to keep them above theseasonal mud. Gaunt, naked children swarmed about the few remainingtrees, their voices piping shrilly at play, while elderly men loungedon the porches smoking hookahs. Most of the able-bodied men seemed tobe in the fields, leaving their women--unsmiling laborers in drab body-length wraps, a large marriage ring dangling from one nostril--to toilin the midday sun combing seeds from large stacks of cotton, shellingpiles of small-eared corn, and boiling a dense brown liquid in wideiron pans.

  Vasant Rao drew up his horse in front of the pans and spoke rapidlywith one of the sad-eyed women. There was a tinkle of her heavy silverbracelets as she bowed to him, then turned to ask a turbaned overseerto offer them two clay cups of the liquid. Vasant Rao threw the man asmall coin, a copper _pice_, and passed one of the cups to Hawksworth.It was viscous and sweeter than anything he had ever tasted. Vasant Raosavored a mouthful, then discarded the cup into the road.

  "They're boiling cane juice to make _gur_, those brown blocks of sugaryou see in the bazaars, for the Brahmin landholders to sell. She's aCamar, a low caste, and she works from sunup to dusk for a day's supplyof _chapattis_, fried wheat cakes, for her household. Wages haven'trisen in the villages since I was a boy."

  "Why did she ask the overseer to bring you the cup?"

  "Because I'm a Rajput." Vasant Rao seemed startled by the question. "Iwould pollute my caste if I took a cup from the hand of a Camar. If aRajput or a Brahmin eats food that's been handled by a member of thelow castes, he may be obligated to undergo ritual purification. If youare born to a high caste, Captain, you must honor its obligations."

  Hawksworth studied him, wondering why he had finally decided to talk.

  Security had been unaccountably tight for a shipment of lead. VasantRao had insisted that all carts be kept within the perimeter of thecamp, inside the circle of guards. No one, neither drivers nor guards,had been allowed to touch the contents of the carts: sealed packagesindividually wrapped and lashed in bricks.

  "Did you grow up around here?" Hawksworth tried to widen the opening.

  "No, of course not." He laughed sharply. "Only a _feringhi_ would askthat. I w
as born in the foothills of the Himalayas, hundreds of _kos_north of Agra. In a Rajput village. The villages in the Surat districtare ruled by Brahmins."

  "Are Rajput villages like this?"

  "All villages are more or less the same, Captain. How could it beotherwise? They're all Hindu. This is the real India, my friend.Muslims and Moghuls, and now Christians, come and go. This stays thesame. These villages will endure long after the marble cities of theMoghuls are dust. That's why I feel peace here. Knowing this cannot bedestroyed, no matter who rules in Agra."

  Hawksworth looked about the village. It seemed to be ruled by cattle.They roamed freely, arrogantly, secure in the centuries-old instinctthat they were sacred and inviolable. Naked children had begun to swarmafter the carts, and a few young women paused to cast discreet glancesat the handsome Rajput horsemen. But the main work pressed monotonouslyforward. It was a place untouched by the world beyond its horizons.

  "You said this was a Brahmin village. Are all the men here priests?"

  "Of course not." Vasant Rao grunted a laugh and gestured toward thefields beyond. "Who would do the work? There must be the other castes,or the Brahmins would starve. Brahmins and Rajputs are forbidden by thelaws of caste from working the land. I meant this village is ruled byBrahmins, although I'd guess no more than one family in ten is highcaste. The brick and plaster homes there in the center of the villageprobably belong to Brahmins. The villages of India, Captain Hawksworth,are not ruled by the Moghuls.They're ruled by the high castes. Here,the Brahmins, in other villages, the Rajputs. These, together with somemerchants called Banias, make up the high-caste Hindus, the wearers ofthe sacred thread of the twice born, the real owners and rules ofIndia. All the other castes exist to serve them."

  "I thought there were only four castes."

  Hawksworth remembered that Mukarrab Khan had once described the castesystem of the Hindus with obvious Muslim disgust. There are fourcastes, he had explained, each striving to exploit those below. Thegreatest exploiters called themselves Brahmin, probably Aryan invaderswho had arrived thousands of years past and now proclaimed themselves"preservers of tradition." That tradition, which they invented, wasmainly subjugation of all the others. Next came the Kshatriya, thewarrior caste, which had been claimed by Rajput tribes who also hadinvaded India, probably well after the Brahmins. The third caste, also"high," was called Vaisya, and was supposed to be made up of society'sproducers of foods and goods. Now it was the caste claimed by rich,grasping Hindu merchants. Below all these were the Sudra, who were ineffect the servants and laborers for the powerful "high" castes. Buteven the Sudra had someone to exploit, for beneath them were theUntouchables, those unfortunates in whose veins probably ran the bloodof the original inhabitants of India. The Untouchables had no caste.The part that annoyed Mukarrab Khan the most was that high-caste Hindusregarded all Muslims as part of the mass of Untouchables.

  "The four main castes are those prescribed in the order of the _varna_,the ancient Aryan scriptures. But the world of the village has littleto do with the _varna_. Today there are many castes," Vasant Raocontinued, reflecting to himself how he loathed most Brahmins, who tookevery opportunity to claim caste superiority over Rajputs. "Forexample, the Brahmins here probably have two subcastes--one for thepriests, who think up ceremonies as an excuse to collect money, and theother for the landowners, most of whom are also moneylenders. "There"--he pointed--"that man is a Brahmin."

  Hawksworth saw a shirtless man standing by one of the white plasterhomes. He wore a dingy loincloth beneath his enormous belly, and asHawksworth examined him he noticed a strand of thread that circledaround his neck and under his left arm.

  "Why is he wearing a cord around his shoulder?"

  "That's the sacred thread of the high castes. I wear one myself."Vasant Rao opened his shirt to reveal a strand of three coloredthreads, woven together. "It's consecrated and given to boys around ageten at a very important ceremony. Before the thread ceremony a boy hasno caste. An orthodox Brahmin won't even eat with his son until afterthe boy's thread ceremony."

  Hawksworth examined the thread. It was the first time he'd noticed it.

  "What about the men who don't wear a thread?"

  "They're the middle castes, the ones who do the work in a village.Carpenters, potters, weavers, barbers. They serve the high castes andeach other. The barber shaves the potter; the potter makes his vessels.The Brahmins here probably won't sell them any land, so they'll alwaysbe poor. That's why the middle castes live in houses of mud and thatchinstead of brick. And below them are the unclean castes. Sweepers,servants, shoemakers."

  And below them are the non-Hindus, Hawksworth thought. Me.

  "What the hell's the reason for all this? It's worse than the classsystem in England. I'll drink with any man, high or low. I have. And Iusually prefer to drink with the low."

  "That may explain why most _feringhis_ seem so confused and unhappy.Caste is the most important thing in life." Vasant Rao glanced over hisshoulder at the receding village. "It's the reason India's civilizationhas lasted for thousands of years. I pity your misfortune, CaptainHawksworth, not to have been born a Hindu. Perhaps you were once, andwill be again in some future life. I think you'll someday be reborn aKshatriya, a member of the warrior caste. Then you'll know who you are,what you must do. Unlike the Moghuls and the other Muslims, who have nocaste and never know their purpose in life, a Rajput always knows."

  As they rode on through the countryside Hawksworth tried to understandthe purpose of castes. Its absurdity annoyed him.

  Mukarrab khan was right for once. It's just a class system, devised bythe highborn to keep the others in submission. But why do they all seemto believe in it? Why don't the so-called lower castes just tell theothers to go to hell?

  As they neared the next village, he decided to try to guess who was inwhich caste. But the central road in the village was deserted. Insteadall the villagers, men and women, were clustered around a tall,brightly painted pole that had been erected near one of the dingythatch homes. Vasant Rao's face brightened when he saw the pole.

  "There must be a wedding here today. Have you ever seen one?"

  "No. Not in India."

  "This is a powerful moment, Captain, when you feel the force of_prahna_, the life spirit."

  Vasant Rao pointed toward a pavilion that had been erected next to themarriage pole. From horseback Hawksworth could just make out the brideand groom, both dressed in red wraps trimmed in silver. The groom worea high turban, on top of which were ceremonial decorations, and thebride was so encrusted with precious metals she might have been a life-size ornament: her hands, wrists, feet, ankles, and her head were alladorned with elaborately worked silver rings, bracelets, medallions.Her necklace was a string of large gold coins.

  "Where'd she get all the silver and gold?"

  "Her father is probably a big landowner. Those ornaments are hersavings and part of her dowry. Look, all the women wear thick braceletsof silver on their ankles. There's much gold and silver in India,Captain."

  As Hawksworth watched, a Brahmin priest, his forehead streaked withwhite clay, finished lighting a fire in a central brazier and thenbegan to recite.

  "The priest is reciting from the Vedas, Sanskrit scriptures thousandsof years old," Vasant Rao continued as they watched. "This is a ritualgoing back to the dawn of time."

  The couple began repeating the priest's verses, their faces intent andsolemn.

  "They're taking the marriage vows now. There are seven. The mostimportant is the wife's vow of complete obedience to her husband. Seethe silver knife he carries? That's to symbolize his dominion over her.But really, she will belong to his entire family when she finally comesto live at his house."

  "What do you mean by 'finally'?"

  "These things take time. To begin with, a marriage proposal must comefrom the family of the girl. As she approaches womenhood, her fatherwill hire a marriage broker, probably the village barber, to go tosurrounding villages to look for a suitable match. I re
member when Iwas young and they used to come to my village." Vasant Rao's faceassumed a faraway expression. "I didn't want to marry and I dreadedseeing them, but unfortunately I was a good catch. My subcaste is high,and I had many sisters, which meant more women to share the work in ourhouse. Then one day my father ordered the priest to cast my horoscopeand I knew I was lost. A broker had brought an inquiry from a girl whohad a compatible horoscope. Soon after, the engagement ceremony washeld in our house. The girl was not there, of course; I didn't see heruntil three years later. When we finally had the ceremony you seehere."

  The bride and groom were standing together now, and they began tocircle the fire while the women standing nearby sang a monotonous,repetitive song. Hawksworth counted seven turns of the fire. Then theyseated themselves and the priest placed a red dot on the forehead ofman and wife.

  "They'll feast tonight, and then the groom will return to his village."Vasant Rao spurred his mount to catch up with the caravan. "Later sheand her family will go there for more ceremonies. After that the groommay not see her again for several years, until the day her fatherdecides she's ready for the _gauna_, the consummation of the marriage.I didn't see my bride again for two years."

  "What happened then?"

  "She came to my village for a few days and stayed in the women'squarters--the men and women sleep apart in these villages--and I had togo there and try to find her cot. After that she went back home and itwas several months later before I saw her again. Then she came back,for a longer time. Finally she moved to my village, but by then I wasnineteen and soon after I left on a campaign. She stayed with myyounger brother while I was gone, and when I returned, she was withchild. Who can say whether it was mine or his? But none of it matters,for she died in childbirth." He spurred his horse past the line ofcarts. "Let's try to make the river before sundown."

  Hawksworth couldn't believe what he had heard, and he whipped his mountto catch up.

  "Your brother kept your wife while you were away?"

  "Of course. I don't know how it is here, but in the part of India whereI was born, brothers normally share each other's wives. I used to go tomy older brother's house when he was gone and visit his wife. Sheexpected it and would have been upset if I hadn't come to her." VasantRao was puzzled by Hawksworth's surprise. "Don't brothers share oneanother's wives in England?"

  "Well, not. . . usually. I mean . . . no. Hell no. It's damned close toincest. The truth is a husband would have grounds to call out a man hecaught with his wife. And especially a brother."

  "'Call him out,' Captain? What does that mean?"

  "A duel. With swords. Or maybe pistols."

  Vasant Rao was incredulous.

  "But what if a man goes away on a campaign? His wife will growfrustrated. Hindus believe a woman has seven times the sexual energy ofa man. She would start meeting other men in the village if a man didn'thave a brother to keep her satisfied. In the village where I grew up,if a man and woman met together by chance in the forest, and they hadthe same caste, we all assumed they would make the most of theopportunity. So it's better for the honor of the family if yourbrothers care for your wife. It's an important duty for brothers. Andbesides, as long as a woman attends to her own husband's needs, whatdoes it matter if his brother enjoys her also?"

  Hawksworth found himself astonished.

  "How does . . . I mean, what about this brother's own wife? What doesshe think about all this?"

  "If her husband wants to visit his brothers' wives, what should shecare? It's normal. She'll also find ways to meet her husband's brothersfor the same purpose. Women married to brothers often try to send eachother away on errands, in order to enjoy the other's husband. So wiveshave no reason to complain. In fact, if a woman returns to her ownvillage for a visit, she will probably seek out some of the men sheknew when she was young and enjoy them, since her husband is not aroundand no one in her own village would tell him. Hindus in the villagesdon't lock away their women the way the Muslims do, Captain Hawksworth.And because they're free to enjoy whoever they wish, they aren'tfrustrated and unhappy the way Muslim women are. Surely your England isan advanced country where women have the same freedom."

  Hawksworth puzzled for a minute before trying to answer. The truth isthere's a big difference between what's said and what's done. Withchastity praised from the pulpits and whores the length of London. Andhighborn ladies thronging the playhouses, ready to cuckold theirhusbands with any cavalier who'll give them a look. How can I explainit?

  "I guess you'd say upper-class women have the most freedom to takelovers. Usually young gallants or soldiers. And no one is surprised ifher husband makes full use of his serving wench."

  "Are these soldiers and serving women from a lower caste?"

  "Well, we don't exactly have . . ." Hawksworth paused for a moment."Actually I guess you could say they're a lower 'caste,' in a way."

  Vasant reined in his mount and inspected Hawksworth for a moment indisgust.

  "Please excuse me if I say yours must be a very immoral country.Captain. Such a thing would never happen in India. No Rajput wouldtouch the body of a low caste. It would be pollution."

  "You don't care what your women do? All that matters is who they do itwith?" Hawksworth suddenly realized he found it all too absurd tobelieve. It sounds like another tale of the Indies. Concocted toentertain credulous seamen. "All right, then, what about your own wife?Did she have other men besides your brothers?"

  "How would I know?" Vasant Rao waved his hand, dismissing the questionas insignificant. "I suppose it's possible. But after she died Idecided I'd had enough of wives and women. I took a vow of chastity.There's the legend of a god named Hanumanji, who took on the flesh of amonkey and who gained insuperable strength by retaining his semen. Itmade him invulnerable." Vasant Rao smiled. "So far it's worked for meas well. But to protect the charm, I eat no meat and drink a glass ofopium each day."

  The Rajput suddenly spurred his mount toward the head of the caravan.The sun had disappeared behind a heavy bank of storm clouds in thewest, and the road had already begun to darken. The river was probablystill another hour away, perhaps two hours.

  Hawksworth studied Vasant Rao's tall, commanding form, sitting erectand easy in the saddle.

  Sweet Jesus, he thinks he's invulnerable because he avoids women anddrinks opium. Rajputs are even madder than the damned Turks. And hethinks the high castes rule by the will of God. I wonder what the lowcastes think?

  Hawksworth puzzled through the Rajput's words and half-dozed in thesaddle until he realized they were finally approaching the river.Ahead, past groves of mango trees, lay a sandy expanse leading downtoward the water's edge. As they approached, Vasant Rao sent some ofhis horsemen to scout along the riverbank in both directions to find ashallow spot for crossing. The caravan followed the stream for half a_kos_, then halted on a sandy plain that sloped gradually down towardthe wide stream. The water rippled slightly all the way across,signifying there were no lurking depths to swallow a cart.

  The sun was dying, washing a veneer of gold over the high dark cloudsthreatening in the east. The smell of rain hinted in the evening air.Vasant Rao peered across the water's darkening surface for a time,while the drivers waited patiently for orders to begin crossing, thenhe turned to the waiting Rajputs.

  "The light is too far gone." He stroked the mane of his gray stallionand again studied the clouds building where the sun had been. "It'ssafer to camp here and cross in the morning."

  He signaled the head driver and pointed the Rajputs toward a sandyexpanse close to the water's edge. In moments the drivers were urgingtheir teams toward the spot, circling them in preparation for thenight.

  "The carts will go on the riverside, and we'll camp here." He specifiedareas for the Rajputs and the drivers, and then he turned to Hawksworthand pointed out a large mango tree. "Your tent can go there."

  Hawksworth had been required by the Rajputs to keep a separate area forhis campfire and cooking. Vasant Rao had explained the reasons th
efirst evening of the journey.

  "Food is merely an external part of the body, Captain, so naturally itmust be kept from pollution. Food is transformed into blood, and theblood eventually turns to flesh, the flesh to fat, and the fat tomarrow. The marrow turns to semen, the life-force. Since you have nocaste, a Rajput would become polluted if he allowed you to touch hisfood, or even the pots in which he cooked."

  Hawksworth's driver, being a low caste, had no objection to cooking andeating with the English ambassador. Their diet on the trip had beensimple. The Rajputs lived mainly on game they killed as they rode,though some occasionally ate fish. A few seemed to subsist on rice,wheat cakes, and boiled lentils. That night, as an experiment,Hawksworth ordered his driver, Nayka, to prepare a dinner of whateverhe himself was having. Then he reclined against his saddle, pouredhimself a tankard of brandy, and watched the preparations.

  Nayka struck up a fire of twigs, to ignite the chips of dried

  cow dung used for the real cooking, and then he began to heat a curvedpan containing _ghee_, butter that had been boiled and strained toprevent rancidity. Although the Rajputs cooked in vegetable oil, Naykahad insisted from the first that a personage as important as theEnglish _feringhi_ should eat only clarified butter. The smolderingchips of dung took a long time to heat, but finally the ghee seemedready. Nayka had ground spices as he waited, and he began to throw theminto the hot fat to sputter. Then he chopped vegetables and droppedthem in to fry. In a separate pot he was already boiling lentils,together with a yellow spice he called turmeric. As the meal nearedreadiness, he began to fry _chappatis_, thin patties of unleavenedwheat flour mixed with water and ghee. Then Hawksworth watched in shockas Nayka discreetly dropped a coal of burning cow dung into the pot ofcooking lentils.

  "What the hell was that?"

  "Flavoring, Captain Sahib." Nayka's Turkish had been learned throughprocuring women for Turkish seamen, and it was heavily accented andabrupt. "It's the secret of the flavor of our lentils."

  "Is that 'high-caste' practice?"

  "I think it is the same for all." Nayka examined him for a moment,twisting his head deferentially. "Does the Sahib know about caste?"

  "I know it's a damnable practice."

  "The Sahib says what the Sahib says, but caste is a very good thing."

  "How do you figure that?"

  "Because I will be reborn a Brahmin. I went to a soothsayer who toldme. My next life will be marvelous."

  "But what about this life?"

  "My present birth was due to a very grave mistake. The soothsayerexplained it. He said that in my last life I was a Rajput. Once Iordered my cook to prepare a gift for some Brahmins, to bake bread forthem, and inside the bread I had put gold. It was an act of greatmerit. But the faithless cook betrayed me. He stole the gold and putstones in its place. The Brahmins were very insulted, but no one evertold me why. Because I had insulted Brahmins, I was reborn as I am. Butmy next life will be different. I will be rich and have many women.Like a Brahmin or a Rajput." Nayka's eyes gleamed in anticipation.

  "The improvement in money I can understand." Hawksworth examinedNayka's ragged dhoti. "But what does it matter when it comes to women?There seems to be plenty of randy women to go around, in all castes."

  "That's true if you are a Rajput or a Brahmin. Then no woman of anycaste can refuse you. But if you are a low caste, and you are caughtwith a high-caste woman, you'll probably be beaten to death by theRajputs. They would say you were polluting her caste."

  "Wait a minute. I thought Rajputs would have nothing to do with a low-caste woman." Hawksworth remembered Vasant Rao's stern denial.

  "Who told you that?" Nayka smiled at Hawksworth's naivete. "I wouldguess a Rajput. They always deny it to strangers, so you won't formunfavorable ideas about the high castes. Let me tell you that it is alie, Captain Sahib. They take our women all the time, and there isnothing we can say. But a low-caste man with a high-caste woman isanother matter."

  "But what about their 'ritual pollution'? They're not supposed to touchthe low castes."

  "It's very simple. A Rajput can take one of our women if he chooses,and then just take a bath afterward and he is clean again."

  "But can't a high-caste woman do the same, if she's been with a low-caste man?"

  "No, Captain Sahib. Because they say her pollution is internal. She hasthe polluting emissions of the low-caste man within her. So there is noway she can be purified. It's the way the high castes control theirwomen. But if you're a man, you can have any woman you please, andthere's nothing anyone can say." Again Nayka's eyes brightened. "Itwill be wonderful the day I am reborn. Caste is a wonderful thing."

  Hawksworth studied the half-starved, almost toothless

  man who stood before him barefoot, grinning happily.

  Well, enjoy your dreams, you poor miserable son-of-a- bitch. I'll notbe the one to tell you this life is all you get.

  He took a slug of brandy and returned to his dung-flavored lentils.Taken with some of the charcoal-flavored bread they were actuallybetter than he'd expected.

  Vasant Rao had already summoned the Rajputs and made assignments forthe evening guard duty. Guards were to be doubled. Hawksworth remainedastounded by the Rajput concept of security. A large kettledrum was setup at the head of the camp and continually beaten from dusk to dawn. Adetail of Rajputs would march around the perimeter of the campthroughout the night, and on the quarter hour a shout of "khabardar,"meaning "take heed," would circle the camp. The first night Hawksworthhad found it impossible to sleep for the noise, but the second nightand thereafter his weariness overtook him.

  He poured himself another brandy and watched as Nayka scrubbed out thecooking pans with ashes and sand. Then the driver rolled a betel leaffor Hawksworth and another for himself and set to work erecting thetent, which was nothing more than four poles with a canopy. After thishe unloaded Hawksworth's cot, a foot-high wooden frame strung withhemp. None of the Rajputs used cots; they preferred a thin pallet onthe ground.

  Nayka seemed to work more slowly as he started unrolling the beddingonto the hemp strings of the cot, and he began to glance nervously atthe sky. Suddenly he stopped and slipped quietly to where the otherdrivers were encamped, seated on their haunches around a fire, passingthe mouthpiece of a hookah. A long discussion followed, with muchpointing at the sky. Then Nayka returned and approached Hawksworth,twisting his head in the deferential bow all Indians seemed to use tosuperiors. He stood for a moment in hesitation, and then summoned thecourage to speak.

  "It is not well tonight. Sahib. We have traveled this road many times."He pointed east into the dark, where new lightning played across thehovering bank of clouds. "There has been rain near Chopda, farther eastwhere the river forks. In two _pahars_ time, six of your hours, theriver will begin to rise here."

  "How much will it rise?"

  "Only the gods can tell. But the river will spread beyond its banks andreach this camp. I have seen it. And it will remain impassable forthree days."

  "How can you be sure?"

  "I have seen it before, Sahib. The drivers all know and they arebecoming afraid. We know the treachery of this river very well. But theother bank is near high ground. If we crossed tonight we would besafe." Again he shifted his head deferentially. "Will you please tellthe raja?"

  To the drivers, Vasant Rao could only be a raja, a hereditary prince.All important Rajputs were automatically called rajas.

  "Tell him yourself."

  "We would rather you tell him, Captain Sahib. He is a high caste. Itwould not be right for us to tell a raja what to do."

  Hawksworth watched for a moment as the Rajput guards began taking theirplace around the perimeter of the camp, and then he looked sadly at hiswaiting cot.

  Damn. Crossing in the dark could be a needless risk. Why didn't thedrivers say something while we still had light? God curse them andtheir castes.

  Then with a shrug of resignation he rose and made his way to VasantRao's tent.

  The Rajput leader ha
d already removed his helmet, but after listeningto Hawksworth he reluctantly strapped it back on and called for hissecond in command. Together they examined the clouds and then walkeddown to the river.

  In the dark no one could tell if it had begun to rise. Vasant Raoordered three Rajputs to ride across carrying torches, to test thedepth and mark out a path. The river was wide, but it still was no morethan a foot or two deep. When the third Rajput finally reached the farshore, over a hundred yards away, Vasant Rao issued orders to assemblethe convoy.

  The drivers moved quickly to harness their bullocks, which had beentethered to stakes near bundles of hay. The weary cattle tossed theirheads and sniffed suspiciously at the moist air as they were whippedinto harness. Meanwhile the Rajput guards began saddling their horses.

  Hawksworth saddled his own mare and watched as his cot and tent wererolled and strapped into the cart alongside his chest. He stared againinto the darkness that enveloped the river. Nothing could be seenexcept the three torches on the distant shore. Suddenly he seemed tohear a warning bell in the back of his mind.

  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 buckledit on. Next he checked the prime on the two matchlock pocket pistols hecarried, one in each boot.

  Five mounted Rajputs holding torches led as the convoy started acrossthe sandy alluvium toward the river. Hawksworth's cart was the first tomove, and as he drew his mare alongside, Nayka threw him a gratefulsmile through the flickering light of the torch strapped against one ofthe 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 lashand they waded in without protest. The bed was gravel, smoothed by thelong action of the stream, and the water was still shallow, allowingthe large wheels of the carts to roll easily. Hawksworth pulled hismount close to the cart and let its enormous wheel splash coolnessagainst his horse's flank.

  The current grew swifter as they reached the center of the stream, butthe bullocks plodded along evenly, almost as though they were on dryground. Then the current eased again, and Hawksworth noticed that theRajputs riding ahead had already reined in their mounts, signifyingthey had gained the far shore. Their five torches merged with the threeof the Rajputs already waiting, and together they lined the water'sedge.

  Hawksworth twisted in the saddle and looked back at the line of carts.They traveled abreast in pairs, a torchman riding between, and thecaravan had become an eerie procession of waving lights and shadowsagainst the dark water. The last carts were in the river now, andVasant Rao was riding rapidly toward him, carrying a torch.

  Looks like I was wrong again, Hawksworth thought, and he turned to reinhis 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 inthe water's edge. Lightning flashed in the east, revealing thesilhouettes of the Rajputs' mounts, stumbling along the shore, theirsaddles empty. He whirled to check the caravan behind him, and at thatmoment an arrow ricocheted off the pole of the cart and ripped cleanlythrough the side of his jerkin. He suddenly realized the torch lashedto the side of the cart illuminated him brilliantly, and he drew hissword and swung at its base, slicing it in half. As it fell,sputtering, he saw a second arrow catch Nayka squarely in the throatand he watched the driver spin and slump wordlessly into the water.

  Godforsaken luckless Hindu. Now you can be reborn a Brahmin. Onlysooner than you thought.

  A shout of alarm erupted from behind, and he looked to see theremaining Rajputs charging in formation, bows already drawn. The waterchurned around him as they dashed by, advancing on the shore. TheRajputs' horn bows hissed in rapid succession as they sent volleys ofbamboo arrows into the darkness. But the returning rain of arrows wasdense and deadly. He saw the Rajput nearest him suddenly pivot backwardin the saddle, an arrow lodged in his groin, below his leather chestguard. Hawksworth watched incredulously as the man clung to his saddlehorn for a long last moment, pulling himself erect and releasing afinal arrow before tumbling into the water.

  Again lightning flared across the sky, and in the sudden illuminationHawksworth could see shapes along the shore, an army of mountedhorsemen, well over a hundred. They

  were drawn in tight formation, calmly firing into the approachingRajputs. The lightning flashed once more, a broad sheet of fire acrossthe sky, and at that moment Hawksworth saw Vasant Rao gain the shore,where he was instantly surrounded by a menacing wall of shields andpikes.

  Then more of the Rajputs gained the shore, and he could hear theirchant of "Ram Ram," their famous battle cry. The horsemen were movingon the caravan now, and when the lightning blazed again Hawksworthrealized he had been surrounded.

  The dark figure in the lead seized Hawksworth's right arm from behindand 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 painpierced through to his mind, clearing away the last haze of the brandy.

  "You bastard." Hawksworth realized he was shouting in English. "Getready to die."

  He twisted forward and with his free hand stretched for the pistol inhis boot. Slowly his grip closed about the cool horn of the handle, andwith a single motion he drew it upward, still grasping the sword.

  As he raised himself erect he caught the outline of a dark objectswinging above him in the air. Then the lightning flashed again,glinting off the three large silver knobs. They were being swung by theman who held his sword arm.

  My God, it's a _gurz_, the three-headed club some of the Rajputs carryon their saddle. It's a killer.

  He heard it arc above him, singing through the dark. Unlike theRajputs, he had no leather helmet, no padded armor. There was no timeto avoid the blow, but he had the pistol now, and he shoved it into theman's gut and squeezed.

  There was a sudden blinding flash of light. It started at his hand, butthen 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 momenthe thought he heard again the echo of drumbeats. The cycle swelledsensuously, then suddenly reached its culmination, when all pent-upemotion dissolved. In the silence that followed, there was only theface of Mukarrab Khan, surrounded by his eunuchs, his smile slowlyfading into black.